This afternoon as Barbie and I were running errands she offhandedly remarked that the person referred to in this comment is someone I happen to know. Someone who apparently keeps my picture as his computer wallpaper. Someone who was recently spotted discussing my, er, assets.

I know, really, I should be flattered. But if you ever met this fellow, you would know exactly what I am talking about when I say that I curled up into the fetal position IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE CAR and began wimpering.


Perhaps life was a little bit safer and more innocent before the dawn of internet love.

Today I started off strong. I had an all-white outfit and was ready to kick some butt.

You have to understand the signifigance behind all-white outfits. They are classy and get you attention without being slutty. They make you stand out without being blatent. Besides, it just makes you look so feminine and pretty.

The minute I pass through the gates of work, my grande carmel machiatto flips itself in it's scalding entirity into my lap. Pain. Agony.

I tried to mop the spot. I thought about trying to swallow my pride and maybe I could mop it off and be ok. WHO WAS I KIDDING?! I get out of my car and I see that half my leg it swallowed up in a giant coffee stain. I run home, quickly grab a white linen skirt, find some hose (since I now am exposing leg) iron the frickin' skirt and run back to work. Only twenty minutes late.

The. minute. I. step. out. of. my. car. it. begins. pouring.

I sit at my desk. Late, slightly soaked and generally irritated at the fact it seems I cannot get anything right. No matter how hard I try. As you can imagine, the fact that I had a white shirt, skirt and sweater on did not go uncommented. Oh. No. There were those commenting non-chalantly, those who tried to be kind and then those that were just blatent.

But, I sucked it up and bit the bullet. I "charmed" my way into the wiles of the younger, albiet more perverted, co-workers and was finially able to get somewhere. I was finially able to get answers to my questions, I followed people around and took copious amounts of notes, I pretty much got my way. And lots of promises to help me out as much as possible. While this is not my preferred mode of operation, it works for now, until I see fit to show them all up and kick their butts.



Now that's what I call teamwork.

You smell good. I know you mean that in the nicest way possible, but, when you make those audible sniffing noises, it really freaks me out. K? And, really, why are you that close to me that you can smell me?

Your adorable. I know this line must get you TONS of chicks, but you only call puppies and babies adorable. And that cute smile I was demonstrating is also known as my patient i.e. fake smile.

Will You Marry Me? Even though you are the person people were putting money on I would go out with, I find the fact you spent a year in the "big house" rather unattractive. I do not want to bear your children.

You have a really strong handshake, that's hot. The fact that I can crush your pathetic grip really worries me. But it does indicate if you try anything I will most assuredly be able to kick your ass.

Perhaps I should just give you the end at the beginning. I went home and cried. And cried some more. And then cried for good measure.

It was not good.

I am used to my first day on a new job going swimmingly. You know, everyone loving me. I get lots of work which I plow through at a amazing rate. I am happy. I am excited to return the next day. Yeah. Well. Now that I am Porkchop, everything of course has to be outlandishly ridiculous.

So. I come in, bright and early, nice and chipper, with my Starbucks, all ready to go. Yay! Give me work! I will do anything! I AM SO HAPPY TO BE HERE! My new boss tells me that my project for today is to test drive all the vehicles and familiarize myself with all the features. OH BOY! I LOVE MY JOB.

I drove a few SUV's having much fun plowing down the highway in tank-like vehicles terrifying the little old ladies that I was going to mow their rear bumpers right off. Ohh. This is fun. Some pretty sweet stereo systems. Lots of shiny buttons. And then I get to drive the sports car. OH! I LOVE MY JOB. I was like a raccoon in a tinfoil factory. You know, LOVIN' IT.

Until. Yes. THE BIG UNTIL.

Until, I was driving a certain SUV in rush hour traffic at one of the busiest lights in town and it CUT OFF. IN THE MIDDLE OF GODDAMN TRAFFIC.

Dammit!

The gas gauge had been low, so I am mentally kicking myself in the butt. I hadn't been worried because the gas light hadn't come on, but, apparently the dummy light wasn't working right or, or, I am not really sure what.

I don't have my cell phone. I don't have my wallet. All I have is a set of tear filled eyes and some boobs.

Dumbfounded, I sit in my vehicle for a few minutes (with my hazards on) trying to configure a plan. I really don't know what the dealerships policy is on abandoning vehicles that have cut out in the middle of flying traffic, so I am loathe to just lock it and walk to the nearest gas station. NORMALLY, in rush hour it is CRAWLING with cops. TEAMING with them. Like roaches at a cheap motel! No. Not the day Porkchop breaks down and needs help..

I sit for a few minutes. Nothing. No cop. No one stopped to help. DAMMIT! I hike across roughly six lanes of flowing traffic in the SCORCHING heat. (I am in my FULL office dress.) Yeah. And I rip the three inch heel of my shoes while loping across the grass that surrounds the gas station. I run up to the counter, breathless and simultaneously hyperventalating, and beg the poor woman to let me get gas and I will bring her back money. I PROMISE!

She was terribly helpful. Thankfully. If she hadn't have been, I probably would have thrown myself prostrate on the floor and begged. Seriously. Unfortunately, being helpful she informed me that they had NO CONTAINERS for gas, but she would call the dealership and let them know they needed to send someone down.

I lope back to the vehicle trying to protect it from the flowing traffic. I contemplate sprawling my body of the rear of it, just to be sure that no one nicks it. But gathering from some of these looks, that wouldn't have done any good. I am working myself into a frenzy because this is, after all, my first day. Don't they fire people for these sort of things?!

After being stranded for roughly twenty minutes in the middle of rush hour traffic while hyperventalating I see flashing lights. YES! POLICE HAVE ARRIVED! I LOVE YOU! YOU CAN NOW DIRECT TRAFFIC...

The Animal Control Police Arrived. Yup. But at this point, I wasn't going to be hugely choosy over whose flashing lights I used to redirect the flying traffic around the rather expensive vehicle I was driving. At this point, I was envisioning giving up my first born child to the dealership if anything happened. So I explained to Mr. Animal Control Officer what happened, that the lady had called the dealership some time ago... He suggests he guard the vehicle while I trot back to the gas station.

To say that my clothes were soaked with sweat at this point would be a gross understatement. Did I mention I was wearing black?! I run/hobble back to the gas station. The lady informs me she couldn't get through to the dealership, but her manager found a portable gas container and was on his way over to rescue me. I run/hobble back to the vehicle. He has the gas! Relief is slowly washing over my body, the end is in sight! No one from the dealership will have to know.

The gas station manager then askes me to open the gas tank. Er, what? Gas tank switch... I hunt. He hunts. Mr Animal Control Officer hunts. I am supposed to sell this vehicle but cannot open the frickin' gas tank door? I SUCK! HARDCORE! I press on the gas tank door, doesn't open. I start the hyperventalate again. Will this never end?! Finally, someone figures out on this vehicle that has a button for everything, apparently, the only button missing is the gas tank button. You had to manually open the gas tank door. I apparently hadn't tried hard enough.

He fills the gas tank.

The engine will not even turn over.

I fight back tears and swear words.

I profusely thank the gas station manager and tell him I will bring him cookies this weekend. Mr. Animal Control Officer suggests that the dealership has a towing company they regularly use, shouldn't I call them? My mind kicks into overdrive. Not only did my car break down on the first day, BUT I HAD TO GET TOWED! I start spluttering protests. I am, at this point, smiling grimly while trying to hold back a ocean of tears. Mr. Animal Control Officer wisely senses that he is about to have a full-fledged breakdown on his hands, so he quickly formulates a plan. He thrusts his cell phone in my hands and tells me to call the dealership.

I don't even know their number. IT IS MY FIRST DAY, GODDAMMIT!

I call *411. While I am waiting for a INFERNAL amount of time, he produces a phone book from his truck (must have been a Boy Scout) and finds the number for the dealership. I dial them. I am put on hold. Someone finally picks up. I manage to cheerfully and calmly ask for my boss rather than shouting hysterically. I hold.

I hold.

I am told he is in a meeting, can they take a message?

NO! YOU CANNOT TAKE A MESSAGE, I HAVE BEEN STRANDED AT THIS LIGHT FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES NOW, BEYOTCH! NO MESSAGES! GET ME SOME HELP! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I DID NOT ASK FOR THIS, TO NOT PATRONIZE ME!

I again adopt my forcedly cheerful voice. I explain that the vehicle cut out here at the light, I have been here for a short forty-five minutes, could they please find someone to run down here and just get me. Please? Only if it will be no trouble!

The person on the phone was rather dumbfounded to hear this come with such cheerful tones.

I hold.

Again.

They pick back up. And ask me a few questions:

Is it in park? YES, GODDAMIT!

And it isn't starting? YES, IT STARTS, I JUST THOUGHT I WOULD SIT IN THE BROILING SUN FOR AN HOUR FOR THE FUN OF IT!

And your SURE it's in park? Yes. I am pretty goddamned sure.

I hold.

He picks back up. Sure, they will be there post haste with a troubleshooter.

I hand Mr. Animal Control Officer his phone back. Think about kissing him in thanks, but note the wedding ring, so I simply gush appropriately for his kindness.

I pace up and down the side of the highway rubbing the ever deepening crease in my brow. Mr. Animal Control Officer finally gets a little worried I might fall over from heatstroke. He tells me to sit in his air conditioned truck. As I climb in I again fight the urge to use his upholstry as a tissue and being firing off questions about him and his family.

Did I ever mention when I get nervous and hysterical my mind runs twenty times faster? I probably sounded like the grand inquisition.

He is married, with two kids. His wife is a private school teacher. His children are three years old and nine months. He was born in Florida, but grew up around here. He went to a local college. Has a degree in criminal justice. Dispatched for nine years, which is a civilian job. He is now a animal control officer and likes his job. They cannot arrest people, however, some SPCA can. He talks about the police department and the dynamics of his job...

TWENTY MINUTES LATER someone finially arrives. Mid-sentance I leap from the cab of his truck and hurry over to my stranded vehicle and my now heroic savior.

He jump starts the battery. I thank Mr. Animal Control Officer. I zoom into the distance.

The first words out of someone's mouth when I get back to the dealership (even though my savior arrived AFTER me) rather than inquiring as to my general state of mind, is "So, I hear you were in the cab of the truck with a man when you were rescued was he cu..."

Before they can finish I throw them the dirtiest of looks and state flatly:

"Married, two kids, three years and nine months. A ANIMAL CONTROL OFFICER, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!"

You had a pretty close brush with death there, Bucko. That person who swerved while going eighty miles an hour was me. The person refraining from thrusting a middle finger your way, was also me. I know, I thought the thrusting of the entire splayed hand out the window infinately classier that the lone finger. If you think about it, I was kind of flicking you off five times over.

I digress. Back to the topic at hand, which would be you driving a piece of slow moving lawn manicuring equipment out onto the highway. Instead of taking the obvious route of You-Will-Probably-Get-Run-Over-And-If-You-Don't-Suffer-Life-Ending-Injuries-
Your-Face-Might-Get-Disfigured Lecture, I will just give you a quick How-Could-You-Endanger-The-Hood-Of-My-Car Peptalk. Because really, those geese I ran over awhile back, did enough damage. I don't need your excess belly fat gumming up my undercarriage. Or even worse, I would hate to smell burning human flesh. Please! Think a little here!

That's it. No scathing words or swear words directed to your obviously slightly deranged self. Just the quick note from the neighbor who would appreciate the machinery driving be saved for times when she isn't on the highway.

That's all! Cheers!

--Porkchop

P.S. I hope all your cars are ruined by flying wombats, you fat careless bastard.

For the first time, in a very, very long time, I can say I am happy with my life. I am content. I feel blessed beyond measure. For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I am completely content single. I haven't won the lottery. I haven't been awarded a book deal. I know that my new job will be just as frustrating as my old. I know that school is going to be allot of work.

Nothing has really changed but my attitude.

Amazing what those prayers for a peace that passes understanding will do to you.



*Please note: I still reserve the right to bitch, whine and moan. For this is, after all, my blog. I realize I will still have bad days and wretched weeks. And I promise I will still be a tiny bit cynical. But life is still good no matter what I say. Because I realize I have been blessed beyond measure and I am living the American dream. How can I not be grateful?

"Yes, I could see you adopting children. And then maybe solving world hunger."

--A coworker

They were all discussing what they could see me doing in the future. Debating the merits of me having children, getting married and what I should do with my life.

The cake was actually quite yummy.

If you would stop loudly sighing everytime I try to explain something to you. I would appreciate it. If you would stop jumping up to get something to drink everytime I explain something, you might actually learn something. If you would stop blaming me everytime you make a mistake, you might get somewhere.



This is unbelievably torturious. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I WANT TO KILL YOU.

When they aren't mine. My replacement recieved some vile looking red roses yesterday and they are smelling up my whole office. It smells like dead people. DEAD PEOPLE.

DEAD PEOPLE ROSES.



When I recieve flowers they NEVER smell this bad.

I was trying to explain a defining influence in my life. The name Susanna Wesley did not ring a bell. Charles Wesley? Silence. JOHN WESLEY? More silence. Until someone piped up:

"I think they are at the Severna Park job..."

Yeah. That's what I meant. My life was influenced by three temps who are related.


For those of you who don't know, look here.

Valuable advice which I should be selling her. Even though she annoys me and gets on my nerves, I am kindly advising her on the ins and outs of survival here.

1. Hide your food from the VP. As demonstrated (again!) this morning, she will steal your food and then thank you for letting her have some.

2. Tell everyone the answer is no, and then have them ask the question. That way there is always the option of being nice, but it isn't expected.

3. The Grumpy Old Bitch will tell you your wrong, but your not. Agree with her, then ignore her and continue doing as you were doing. This will save you hours of therapy instead of learning it the hard way, like I did.

4. Use markers and highlighters to make notes on incorrect work, place prominently on other people's desks so there mistakes greet them when the walk in the door.

5. You are no one's bitch. Contrary to popular belief.

6. It is much easier to be hated in this job, than liked. If you are liked, you will not do any work but exhuast yourself my talking amongst the gremlins. If you are hated, you will have much more time to work. But everyone will have to eventually answer to you since you are doing there work in the first place.

7. Avoid the stairs in high-heels at all costs.

8. Threaten to quit every quarter so you will get a raise.

9. Your on your own.

This is why you have not heard from me, I am dangling out my office window, trying to jump.

When I first started training my replacement, I was more than a little worried that she wouldn't be able to hack it. She called out sick her second day and her fourth day she had to be gone for half of it to take her son to the doctor. It was as everyone was assuring her that was more than ok, that I realized she will fit right in. Snug as a bug in a rug.

She has the look, she has the attitude, she is super great material for this company. Her learning curve is right about where they need it. I mean this in all sincerity.

She wears plaid capri's, white sandals and a pink shirt. Her hair is amazingly flat but miraculously wider, through the wonders of frizz, than it is tall. She continually makes exasperated noises as she doesn't catch on quickly AT ALL and belittles my teaching skills. I will be the first to admit I am not the greatest teacher, patience has never been my strong suit, but when you have a pigheaded student IT DOESN'T HELP, GODDAMIT. She rolls her eyes and makes me repeat things. Several. Times.

I. Am. At. The. End. Of. My. Rope.

As usual, wherever QOS is present the good times and grease flow. Eating every half hour is what keeps us busy and happy. We stupidly forgot to eat before church, so we sat near the back, eating visitors pumpkin bread with our fingers.

But, the night before there was a food extravaganza. The fair! Oh, how happy she was. How happy we all were to see her so happy! We suited up in our best trailer trash looks possible. She in her lace-up-the-side jeans and I in my trashy cleavage flashing halter top. We. Were. Ready. Of course, the added touch of my nephew attached to our hip/hand/back definitely cemented our image as trailer queens. There were fried twinkies, corndogs, lemonade, funnel cakes and caramel apple sundaes. The next day was slightly less saturated, but not necessarily less frequent. I would like to say I don't need to eat for a week, but I woke up this morning ravenously hungry.


When I offered her breakfast as she walked out the door, she graciously declined and simply said "I have to stop for coffee, I'll just pick myself up a half dozen doughnuts."

"There is a grease shaped hole in the heart of every person that needs to be filled with funnel cake and corndogs."

--Queen of Slackers

"I didn't expect her to marry such a... Fabio-esq character. Well, maybe not Fabio, but, well, what do you call them? Boy-toys? I know! A pool boy! He looks like a pool boy!"

--A certain someone whose anonymity we will protect, but the were referring to Princess's man, who will now forever be referred to as Fabio.

I like to think I am not an easily scared, but fear is starting to set in regarding the new job. It started with random people telling me how hard the new field is that I am getting into. It escalated with specific nightmares regarding my new job. But I have tried to be logical and talk myself through it.

Today, it was capped off with someone from a branch office walking into my office and flatly informing me I should NOT get into this new field because I will just be spinning my tires. I will never get out, I will become a captive to my job. I should do something more well suited to myself like:

Modeling

It was also liberally drenched with perfume, and the back was sporting such cute things as frowning hearts with a message of "'Cuz ur gone!" frownie lipstick kisses "I miss my boy", "I (heart) Fredd" and "BABALICIOUS!"

Over my late lunch break I had to trot over to the social security office to acquire some useless piece of paper for my new job. I pulled my little number and waited. I chatted with the security guard, and waited. I viewed some of the dregs of humanity that populated the chairs beside me, and waited. I started watching the women in the windows who were supposedly helping the slow moving line, well, move and noticed one paticularly unpleasant lady. She was rather mean, and evil and rather harried looking. I knew that with the luck of Porkchop, it would be she that had to help me. Sure enough, she called my number.

I trot up to her window, trying to be nice and sweet (you never know when it will help!) but was immediately suspicious when she askes me "Are you Russian?"

Given my slightly caffeine addled state, my mind kicked into overdrive and I completely ignored the fact I have been asked this several times before. I immediately get suspicious. Does she hate Russians? Are Russians not allowed to get this paperwork? Then a bit more paranoid. Do I reek of vodka? Did my fur-lined purse give me away? Are there caviar crumbs clinging to my lapels? Was it my ankle length black overcoat in the middle of summer?

I ponder, but only for a quick moment. As I run through the symptoms that could have brought her to this question and mentally acquit myself, I finally manage to answer with a soft "No." But I cowered in front of her desk and braced myself for her next overly intrusive question. Perhaps in the fashion of my mother grilling prospective dates she will next blurt out "Are you a virgin?" But, she doesn't, instead my hostilely knitted unabrow relaxes when she explains her odd question:

"Well, it's just that with all the Russian girls that come in here who are models, you look just like them. I could have sworn you were from Russia, all the girls are beautiful. You definitely look like a Russian model, minus the accent and the lack of shaving, of course."


At least I have good hygiene going for me.

As you well know, I definitely believe in being forthright and blunt. However, when the occasion calls, I can actually be sweet, if not saccharine. Thank you notes, is no exception.

I am of the school of thought that thank you notes are terribly classy and should be issued immediately for all appropriate occasions. Including the moving on to a new job. Unbelievably, I do not believe in burning bridges and actually fostering a little goodwill before I leave.

So, the thank you notes are being dutifully written. Some of them are quite heartfelt, and they don't include the words "DIE BITCH!" but others are a little more, shall we say, exaggerated? I mean, unless I was printing in three inch high letters, there is no way I would even be able to fill up the card. Some of the more memorable excerpts may seem like flagrent lies, but if you read between the lines, they are quite truthful.

I do believe I will be able to look back upon working with you as a turning point in my life.
It was at this point I became a cynical bitch and began hating everyone I met.

Thank you, thank you for everything! The support, laughter, encouragement and love.
Thank you for eating those hershey kisses, you have no idea how much that made my time here worthwhile!

I will never forget you, nor what you have done for me.
You live long and hard in my nightmares! Playing the classical role of blood sucking maggot!

You have inspired me more than you will ever know.
Because of you, I have taken a vow of never working again. I would hate to inflict on other innocent mortals the kind of pain and scarring you doled out to my once innocent soul.


The really sad thing about these cards is not the fabrication, but the fact they will easily believe them and probably shed a few tears.

For the next week, I am reserving the right of very boring posts. I am quite busy training my replacement to do all those wonderful things I do when I work.

*news flash* The replacement will not be in today, her child is sick. Her second day of work, and she isn't coming in. How interesting.

Back to our regularly scheduled program. So, as I was saying, combined with that, and the recent lack of excitement in my life, the next week or so may be rather dull.

Just warning you!

To say the piano was heavy would be a major understatement. To say the piano was a monolith, would still not give you the desired picture. To say that we could use it for a bomb shelter, is beginning to touch on the enormity of it. To say that even though I am not fully satisfied with the piano, but there is no way in the free world I am going to round up all those people and try and move it back, pretty much sums it up.

There were four men, an amazon sister and a rather weak Porkchop with all the professional piano moving equiment and people were STILL cursing me under their breath. I know owe people first born children, cookies, a few hours of research and a assortment of other things.

After the dust settled, and I really got a chance to look at the piano, I wasn't exactly happy. But, let me assure you, that baby elephant is going NO WHERE. It is staying RIGHT there. It works. While it may not be perfect, it works. And if we ever sell this house, it just might come with it.



Thank you to everyone who helped, even though I know you now hate me and will never speak to me again...

I wrongfully thought that my last two weeks at work would go alright. Not perfectly, but maybe alright. How very, very innocent of me.

Since they have discovered I am leaving, it is even more reason to take advantage of me. And since I have absolutely no leverage since I am leaving I, for the most part, put up with it and count the minutes/hours/nano-seconds until I leave.

But, this afternoon, right before lunch, someone ticked me off beyond belief. I proceeded to slam shut my doors, blare turn up my music and pound feverishly at my keyboard. Everyone knows I am mad when they hear the sound of typing keys THROUGH the door and THROUGH the music.

After I calmed myself down, I devised a lovely plan for a silent, but deadly revenge on all those who cross me. Since I work in a office of PMSing cows, I knew this would be far better than yelling at them or making them eat carrot sticks for a week.

My boss had a bag of double chocolate kisses on her desk and was kindly offering them to anyone who would eat them. They are milk chocolate on top, with cute little dark chocolate bottoms. (I happen to loathe milk chocolate.) I confiscated the bag, bit off all the dark chocolate bottoms, rewrapped the kisses and them oh-so-charitably passed them from desk to desk.

It took them awhile to catch on, until one person either:

a. noticed the slight tooth marks (though I carefully licked the bottoms to work those out)

or

b. noticed the lack of dark chocolate on these double chocolate kisses.

Either way. The looks on their faces when I told them I cannot stand to eat milk chocolate but I would hate to have wasted the rest of that chocolate was more priceless than a MasterCard ad.



As you can imagine, they are the ones now counting the nanoseconds until I leave.

My step-brother is a rather quiet fellow, whenever we visit, it is a rather silent experience. Lots of nodding of the head and non-smiling. He thinks I am a little vapid, girly and generally not worth actually having a conversation with. I vainly try to prove him wrong, while thinking he is quiet, non-talkative and needs to make a BIT MORE GODDAMNED EFFORT! He does not listen to any modern music, only classic rock bands. He has literally never heard of them. And I know very few classic rock bands.

But, we do share in common the fact we love horror movies. After discussing upcoming horror movies as much as we could, conversation drifted to a halt. I complimented him on his very cool vintage rock tee which had some vague face on it. So, I was all "Fab Bob Marley shirt!"



"Um, Porkchop, this is Jimi Hendrix."

To move a baby grand piano. (Anyone notice the trend in me only wanting men when something needs to be done?!)

Seriously though. Anyone want to show off their strength by trying to help me move a rather large, yet delicate piece of furniture? An application is not needed, simply show up on my doorstep tomorrow after work. I promise I will feed you.


And return you to your respective girlfriends.

What time did you get up this morning? Which time? I kept waking up all morning/evening long, which is horrible because I was so incredibly tired yesterday, but I finially dragged my hiney out of bed at 7:45, utterly exhausted.
Diamonds or pearls? Depends on the situation. Pearls make anything and everything look classier, but diamonds if the situation demands.
What was the last film you saw at a Cinema? Bewitched. I know, I know, a chick flick, but it had Will Ferrell in it, that is slightly redemptive. Right?!
What is your favorite TV show? I only watch TV when I am doing something else and I want the background noise. But I find CSI fascinating. Or any show involving surgery, gore and blood.
What did you have for breakfast this morning? Half of a leftover sandwich from yesterday. I am not the pickiest eater in the world.
Biggest Fear? Failure to live up to my potential, things being thrown at my head and becoming a three hundred pound woman with cats.
What is your middle name? Elizabeth. I realize the boringness of it. Thank you.
What is your favorite cuisine? Seafood. Especially in independant restaurants that are creative with their cooking.
What foods do you dislike? Growing up with a mother who made us eat tofu and peanut butter, nothing really seems that bad, but I really do not enjoy cantaloupe, collard greens or pineapple.
Your favorite potato chip? I don't eat potatoe chips. Doritoes if we are going to generalize on chips.
What kind of car do you drive? Honda Accord.
What is your favorite CD at the moment? Foo Fighters- In Your Honor
Favorite sandwich? Grilled cheese made by my little brother. Paticularly if it accompanied by watching some stupid show on TV and listening to him mercilessly mock it.
What characteristics do you despise? Narcicssim, laziness and lack of respect for elders.
Favorite item of clothing? White linen pants
If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? Italy, with my Mum, since she can speak fluent italian and manages to get invited everywhere.
What color is your bathroom? Shiny white.
Favorite clothing store? Where to begin? Bananna Republic, White & Black, J. Crew and Ralph Lauren
Where would you like to retire to? Annapolis. Right on the water.
Favorite time of day? Right about seven in the evening. When the air is still fresh, the light is changing and everything just seems beautiful. Even in the winter.
Where were you born? Laurel. Which, in essence, much to my chagrin, makes me a "local" girl.
Favorite sport? Growing up our father wasn't really into sports, so I don't really understand any of them. But, watching most any sport live, rather than on TV, is really quite interesting.
What laundry detergent do you use? Tide.
Coke or Pepsi? Coke. Coke. Coke. Can I say Coke? If I go to a restaurant that serves Pepsi I will drink water.
Are you a morning or a night owl? Night. Most definately. I am SO not a morning person. Whatsoever.
What size shoe do you wear? 8 1/2. I totally wish I wore a 6 or so, because shoes look so much better in tiny sizes.
Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I'm pregnant! I am going to runaway and going the circus.
What did you want to be when you were little? A Mum, nurse, author, doctor, dentist, missionary, wife of a soldier, first female president, astronaut, Genevieve the dog from the Madaline books, anyone but myself...
Favorite candy bar? Not really into candy bars...
What is your best childhood memory? Making a mud thanksgiving dinner for my Dad when I was three.
What are the different jobs you have had in your life? Camp Counselor, Event Planner, Administrative Assistant, Model, Writer, Payroll Associate, Fast Food Employee, Waitress, Cashier, Door-To-Door Easter Egg Saleswoman, Barber...
Nicknames? Say, Porkchop, Porky, Piggy, Barbie
Piercing? Ears
Eye color? Green. Pond. Scum. Green.
Ever been to Africa? No.
Ever been toilet papering? No. Nor cow tipping.
Love someone so much it made you cry?As in, out of happiness? No. Out of sorrow? Yes.
Been in a car accident? Er, yes. On my suspended license, I might add.
Favorite restaurant? I don't really have a favorite.
Favorite flower? I adore calla lilies and tulips.
Favorite ice cream? Dave Matthews Band Magic Brownie.
Disney or Warner Brothers? Neither?
Favorite fast food restaurant? Sonic! I mean, how could you not love it?! Corndogs rock!
How many times did you fail your driver's test? Zero. I am an overachiever... I was devestated that I got a 91 on my final test. A 91! The lowest in the history of our family! (We all had the same instructor.) However, I am happy to report that my final grade was a 95.
Before this one, from whom did you get your last e-mail? USO. Regarding volunteering for greeting troops just back from overseas.
Which store would you max out your credit card at? DSW, White & Black, Sephora
What do you do when you're bored? Sleep.
Bedtime? Around 11.
Who did you go to dinner with last? Sushi with Joy and Iva.
What are you listening to right now? Foo Fighters
What is your favorite color? For clothing? For walls? For underwear? For shoes? Be more specific!
Lake, Ocean or river? Ocean. Though I am pretty happy on just about any body of water bigger than a mud puddle.

This is courtesy of Elisabeth. I will not pass it on, because I do not believe in sharing punishment, pain and general unpleasentness.

I will be the first to admit, a little fluttering of the eyelashes and a bit of southern accent (thanks QOS) goes a long way. Paticularly when it comes to getting your drink made properly (the first time!) at Starbucks or having someone be a little more helpful at Home Depot. And USED TO at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Used to.

Yeah. It works great if the person who is helping you isn't a TWO HUNDRED POUND WOMAN WITH PLASTIC HAIR that needs to melt off her head across her squinty demon eyes and down to her botoxed lips, hopefully sealing her blathering mouth shut.

As I am sure I have mentioned, I am legally blind in my left eye. Now, before you start sending sympathy cards and flowers (wait! bring on the flowers anyway) or trying to sell me your ugly mutt dog as my companion, let me explain, legally blind means that you can see, just not read out of that eye. I actually managed to scrape by as non-legally blind last time I took the eye test for the Air Force. When I was five years old, they told me I would never get my driver's license and even then I was determined to prove them wrong.

Yes. Here I am today, a danger to all who roam the streets.

When I origonally got my license, I did cheat a tiny bit. But the nice gentleman at the DMV didn't seem to notice that I made up all the letters when he tested my left eye. And, whenever you renew your license they do not recheck your eyes. Well. In Delaware, that is. Since I am trying to get my license transferred to Maryland (after technically living here two years). Maryland, since they pretend to be so efficent, are far more stringent. And the lady with the plastic hair was ensuring that I understood this.

After waiting FOR AN HOUR. I stumbled through my eye exam, pretending I had no idea I could not read any of the letters with my left eye. This left Her Plastic Highness thoroughly confused. She tested me one way, then another. Wasn't sure her equipment was working properly and after she was thoroughly stumpted. She decided to charitably inform me (while she loudly smacked her gum) "Hunny, yuv got a purty bad prollum in that ahe of urs and yuv got to go to the ahe doctah". (As long as he signs off on my vision I am good to go.)



So, this evening it is off to the eye doctor with a few extra coats of mascara.

Last night, the first words out of my globe trotting father's mouth, who I haven't seen in quite some time, are:

"Who the hell visited from Iowa?"

Come again?!

I don't know anyone from Iowa! WHO THE HELL LIVES IN IOWA?! I communicated as much. He informed me that earlier that day someone pulled into is driveway and sat staring at the house for awhile. When he walked outside, they turned around and pulled out of the driveway. They had plates from Iowa.

And? (Obviously a psyco who sits in our driveway staring at our house is most definately my fault.)

"Well, I thought it was one of your internet friend/stalkers who found our house, and I wanted to know why the hell you gave out MY address!"

I pondered for a moment. Considered telling him I swore off internet dating awhile ago and that any disturbances from here on he would get to blame on my sisters. Instead, looked at him and innocently said:


"I figured if he saw you streaking through the yard, he would never stalk me again."

My bosses little girls were in here this morning. They happen to like me (suprise, suprise!) so they crowd around my desk, steal my pens, ask me questions and gaze in wonderment at "The Lady In White".

However, this morning, as they crowded round one of them looked at me and asked suspiciously "What is wrong with you face?!?!"

I thought about telling her I have allergies, or that I am really, really tired. But I did a very horrible thing, I leaned over to her and whispered:

"I was run over by a truck on my way to work". She laughed openly at me. So I tried again:

"I was mauled by a bear" She rolled her eyes. I tried one last time:


"Your Mommy hit me."

Remember that wedding?

Well, we have a special treat for you, the bride of this wedding has now started blogging since she is no longer the bride. Yes. It seems weddings are rather indicitive of the future of the couple. And this one was no exception. Read about the aftermath.

Last night I was up until about 1:45 and I had to get up around 6 this morning. So, as you can imagine, I am looking pretty rough. I managed to pick out a matching outfit and have a semblance of professionalism, but the dark circles under my eyes and the constant yawning are starting to give it away.

To make matter worse, since I work with a bunch of post-menopausal women, the air conditioning is turned up HIGH. And I mean HIGH. Desperate to keep myself warm, I dug into the winter closet and pulled out this hideous cartigan that looks like something that would be in the bargain bin of the thrift store. Blue, grey, teal and BRIGHT blue eighties patchwork style that has no buttons. So I am in this knee length quasi-quilt wrap, barefoot. Barefoot because, well, my feet hurt really bad. (Being pregn--, fat, does that to you, you know, makes your feet swell.)

I had to creep out to the front and make a few copies. No one of importance was around, so I continued forth in my bag lady attire. However, the temps were eyeing me a little oddly. Knowing it would probably make their day, I struck up a loud conversation with the receptionist:

"I know, I know, I totally look like a bum in this sweater, and it is only worsened by my bare feet".

The receptionist agrees and inquires regarding the bare feet.

"Well, you know, my feet hurt SO BAD, being up until one in the morning in really high heels does that to you."

I sigh.


"But, you know, that's the life of a stripper. Barefoot and pregnant in the morning."

That is what the Sheriff at the DMV chortled. Yes. I. Am. The. Voice.

I haven't seen this paticular Sheriff friend of mine in quite some time. He didn't recognize me at first, but then as look of recognition crept over his face, so did the evident delight that he was speaking to "The Voice".

This is the same voice my sisters refer to as "sacchrine", "retarded" and "annoying".



Too bad he is married, because otherwise wouldn't that just be a match made in heaven?

That is what I told the supervisor who sobbed as I handed in my two weeks notice. I suck at quitting. I really do. Despite the fact I was looking forward to it SO MUCH, I forgot that these people like me and that they will (supposedly) miss me. I am terrible at quitting. I always feel like such a terrible heel and a BAD person.

As for the new job, as you can guess, I did get it. Despite the fact I was wearing opened toed shoes and had a swollen allergy eye. It was quite alright, since the interviewer informed me I could where whatever I wanted to work, except shorts. I informed him I do not even own a pair of shorts, probably because I have been scarred by the pale tourist legs which sprout from such articles of clothing. As for the allergy eye, he was hacking and wheezing through the interview, I relayed my sympathies and commiseration. This availed me the opportunity to the inform him that my swollen eye was because of my allergies, not because I was retarded.

However, with this new job, I will not be able to blog about people I work with. Mainly because it is a bigger company and they are smart enough to know about such things as firing me because of what I have written. Besides, apparently half of the people there already read it.

Not to worry, my blogging days are not over yet. I simply have to think of new ventures out of which I can get blogging fodder. Being a volunteer firefighter is floating at the top of the list. Shortly following are stripper, toll booth operator and sign turner on the highway.


Perhaps today's life goal lesson is: act in such a way, for the next two weeks, that will ensure them not missing me Maybe I am not as mean as I thought I was.

I was up all night long sneezing, hacking and generally being miserable. In the process of this, the inner lining of my eye swelled up so badly that it started irritating the rest of my eye. Thus, leaving me looking like a slightly retarted freak. (This is my one good eye that I can see out of.)

I feel like I have pulled an all nighter, minus the caffeine and accomplished work. Can we say I look like... something that crawled out of a very slimy rock. Not crawled out from under, mind you, but crawled out OF the rock. When people ask me what happened to my eye, rather than giving them explicit mucus-y details, I vaguely mention being mauled by a bear last night in a attempt to defend my the dogs who kept me up with their whining inbetween allergy attacks.


I have a job interview in a hour and a half.

My day has only gotten worse.

Here I was, trying to brightly kickstart my way into a new week, and things have gotten ugly.

I am now too desperately pathetic to even cry. Barring my car tire being flat when I walk out from work, me getting stopped on the way home from work and a account overdrawn notice being in the mail, I don't believe my day could get ANY EFFING WORSE.

If you never hear from me again I have thrown myself into the path of a oncoming semi-truck.

I call my insurance company. After giving all the necessary information and waiting on hold for twenty-thousand years, she tells me they are out of my phone.

Fine. Whatever. Wasn't paticularly attached to this model. She asks me if there are any features I absolutely must have. Thinking that most cell phones have the basic things I need, I informed her the only thing I would desire would be something of similar size (my phone was tiny) with a longer battery life.

I hold.

She comes back saying the phone is identical to mine, except it has no outside screen. I didn't even know they still made phones with no outside screen! That is a VERY important feature. I like to screen calls and know who I am talking to. She goes back to look again.

I hold.

She finially picks back up and gives me another model. Saying it is half an inch longer than my old phone with a longer battery life. I look it up, skim it quickly and assume she knows what she is talking about. While thinking it looks a little bit chintzy and cheap, I say something to the effect of "since it appears I have no other options, I guess it will do". She confirms that my options were running out. I finially finish the call.

As soon as she hangs up, I realize the piece of cheap plastic they will be sending me has a talking battery life of one hour less! AN HOUR LESS!
I am very angry.

I think the only other way to get my old phone model back would be to purposely smash this new one, once I get it, and take it back to the Verizon store where they should replace it under the "damaged" clause.

Now that I think of it, I should have just run over my old phone and taken it back. I don't think they would have noticed the liquid damage. I weep for you, old phone. I will miss your better battery life and sleek lines. It just goes to show, you don't realize what you have until you lose it.


Like, my sanity, for instance.

After standing in line for an HOUR at the cell phone shop, I was told that they could not fix my phone since there was liquid damage, as evidenced by the gravy corroded charging jack and the gravy droplets dripping along my liquid crystal display. Now, mind you, before I took it in there for the inevitable wait of an hour with people who are trying to force you into a early death, I had carefully checked the liquid damage indicator sticker located on the back of my phone. It was untouched. A sweet little virgin sticker. How lovely! This means they should replace it post haste!

So. There I waited in line, with a gentleman twice my age who was trying to impress me by informing me he spends his summers at the beach while maintaining his businesses via is blackberry and a nagging woman who wore camouflaged shorts and talked for an HOUR about how her husband loathes his cell phone. So, together the gentleman and the lady quarreled about turning cell phones off as opposed to simply not answering. And then they had to discuss the "old days" before there were cell phones. And before TV, how they sat around and listened to the radio! Oh! The good old days!

An. Hour.

An hour of living torture to simply be told that I have to call my insurance company.

AGAIN! CALL THEM AGAIN! THIS PHONE IS TWO MONTHS OLD, EXACTLY, TODAY!I DON'T EVEN LIKE THIS PHONE! AND I AM STARTING TO HATE MY USE OF EXCLAMATION POINTS AS WELL!

On my way out, a bevy of mexicans swarmed me and informed me I was a "fiiiiiiiiine and pretty damn good looking broad".

Now. Please bear in mind what I had just been through. The trauma of the hour was far more than my little mind could bear, I snapped. I turned to the mexicans and informed them:

"I appreciate the compliment, however disgustingly intentioned it was. But. Unless you are referring to the width of my girth, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from referring to me as a "broad"." And with that, I turned on my little heel and trotted out the door.



I think I will retreat into my office with a large bottle of Jack. There is already an open can of Coke on my desk.

This morning started out well. You know those good omens like: quickly finding a professional outfit, having time to eat breakfast and having time to get your lunch packed away into your tote bag. I arrived at work early, and diligently began working on all the projects which had gotten neglected while I was out Friday.

I felt so virtious. I was sure I was emitting a halo. Our internet was down, so there was nothing for me to do but work hard. Busily typing, adjusting my glasses, printing reports, finishing piles of paperwork and answering my cell pho-- Wait. I had to find it first. So I start digging around in my tote bag which also housed my lunch.

MY LUNCH. My lunch, which included quite a bit of delicious gravy I made the night before, ALL OVER MY TOTE BAG. I start ripping things out of my tote. Keys, lipsticks, paperwork, files, sunglasses and cell phone (which was replaced only a few months ago).

I forgot everything else and started laying papertowels across my desk, laying out my belongings oh so carefully and lovingly! My cell phone screen wasn't blank! And then it shut down--I wiped off all the gravy and booted it back up--and it booted back down.

Hmm. I decide that I will visit the cell phone shop over lunch.

I finish wiping off my belongings and start wiping out my tote. There are PUDDLES of gravy in the corners. While this is quite disturbing in and of itself, I find it quite interesting that my tote seems to be tight enough to hold gravy. No sooner did I think this thought, than one end of my tote starts leaking gravy all over my dry-clean only outfit, concentrating heavily on my light colored pants.

I start laying papertowels over my lap and finish the tiring process of wiping down my belongings and my tote with instant handsanitizer. Once this is finished, I carefully disassemble my phone as much as possible and ruefully eye it. Hoping it can survive for an hour until I can scurry into the cell phone shop to get it repaired.

And then, much to my dismay and amusement, smoke starts emitting from my cell phone. SMOKE! IT IS OFF! WHY IS SMOKE COMING FROM THIS EXPENSIVE PIECE OF EQUIMENT I JUST REPLACED?!?!

Calamity frickin' Jane is my name.



All I ask is that I make it down the stairs safely to my car on my way to the cell phone shop.

For most of my life, I was known as the responsible articulate one, wherever I went. I had a plan, I was focused and I made it sound like I had my shit together. Having a highly competative childhood helped, of course, but there was never any excuse for being average. I was always looking excitedly ahead to my next project, my next plan and my next pursuit.

Until now.

I really have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life. I don't know what I am good at, other than following orders and shredding people with my words. I know that I hate many things, but I no longer know what excites me. I no longer have a plan. I no longer have my shit together. Not only is this highly disconcerting for me, because I loathe not knowing what my next step will be, but it is rather irritating to answer the oft asked question of "What are you going to do with your life?!?" with a "I have no effing clue".

Where I use to scoff at the mediocre people and those who had no passion and zeal for life, I realize I have become one of them. One of the mortals in a hoard of apathy. Perhaps this is a cruel twist of fate. Perhaps this is me reaching an all time low and there is only up to go from here. I really don't think it is the latter, because I am acutely aware of my many, many blessings, however I am not excited about life. There is nothing I get fired up about.

I find myself morphing into a person I don't even know. I cry at the drop of a hat, paticularly anything patriotic. I am highly apathetic and answer most questions with "I don't care". And most of all, I have very few goals.

I think that part of my problem is the lack of role models I find in my life. The lack of like minded people. Other than Barbie (aka Joy) I have no other females I associate with who challenge me. Whose aspirations are something other than snagging a husband and cranking out a couple of tricycle motors. And while there is nothing intrinsically wrong with that, that isn't all I want in life. I want something more. I want to be able to look back on my life satisfied that I not only made a difference for the better in the lives of others, but lived a full and rich life.

Maybe I am asking too much? Maybe I am stuck in a funk. Maybe I simply need to go run around the house three times naked. But in any event, I know that above all I need to seek first the peace that passes all understanding.

There you have it. My thoughts, unabridged and unedited. Long and rambling like my old blog posts that I cringe to read. But for the first time in a long time, it was not written for an audience and it completely exposed what I was genuinely thinking.

While I occasionally bash Marines and guys I have dated/been engaged to, I do deeply appreciate the fact they are serving our country.

I just found out that someone I loved dearly for quite some time was injured, badly, in Iraq. Apparently, he fell from the back of a humvee, was caught under the wheels and dragged face down for quite some time.

Ironically, I talked with him just two days ago where he, as usual, was glib about death and the dangers he faces while he humorously relayed a story of almost being killed by an RPG.

Miraculously, no bones were broken. However, he has third degree burns on his face and body. At this point, there is no way of contacting him to my knowledge. All I ask for is your prayers for him and his family.


There are not words to even fathom the pain they and him are dealing with.

Eating salad with chopsticks is almost as difficult as eating steak. While it might not sound that difficult, I challenge you to pick up a shred of beet with your chopsticks.


*While answering the phone with your mouth full.



*I am actually a expert a packing huge amounts of food in my mouth and simultaniously answering the phone without sounding like I just bit off an entire continent.

There is ONE person filling out an application. Can someone please explain to me where there are THREE children in my waiting room, ONE obsese adult and TWO screaming babies?

I am all for a sense of community, family and all that jazz, but when the children are running up and down the halls, yanking the bathroom door open and unplugging the coffee pot, I simply must protest. DOWN WITH GAPING PIEHOLES! DOWN with the horrifying sounds that omit from these pieholes! DOWN with the parents who are apparently too deaf to stuff the pieholes!



DOWN WITH PIEHOLES!

I believe in braking for pedestrians. Mainly because if I do not, I will be thrown in jail, so you might want to say a quick thanks to the civil government for saving you fat arse.

In any event, I was not going to maliciously run over you, even though you saw fit to start jiggling across the crosswalk after MY light turned green and YOUR little crosswalk light was red. As if that were not bad enough, you had to stop RIGHT in front of my car and peer into my windshield. Um, hello, the car would appreciate it if you would respect it's personal space.

You can be very grateful I wasn't driving MY car this morning, because it would have been a very painful day for your jiggling arse.

Most sincerly,

The Nissan Driver Who Did Not Run Over You aka Porkchop

Licking all the plastic spoons and putting them back in the bag. Well, not all, but a few, so it will be a very random Spoon Roulette. As disgusting as this is, the people this is being inflicted on is the people I work with. Enough said. Childish, but it works as a very secret sort of revenge.


Only regret: I don't have AIDS.

The other day I walked in my bathroom to find the lids removed from three of my beauty products. Strange. I then find a pair of my tweezers twisted in half. Not broken in half, but twisted in half. The next day, their was another mutilated pair of tweezers laying on my counter.

My good tweezers are now hidden in my car, but really, who destroys tweezers?! Upon pondering this with the other occupants of the house, someone suggested that it could be the hired hand who roams the property. Coming into my bathroom and destroying things while I am gone, what fun! Anyone for a rousing round of plucking the bristles out of my brush?!

In any event, I am highly disconcerted. What if he comes in when I am sleeping in my underwear?! What if he does something to my room when I am gone?! What if...

I really must keep my imagination under control, or I will be reverting to my childhood and guarding my bed with a gun.



Yes. That is another very long story.

I have a reputation for dressing much nicer than anyone else I work with, and today is no exception. In short, I look fabulous. But, when I walked in the door and someone asked me if I "was all dressed up for them" all I could manage to incredulously stutter out was a


"HELL NO! Why else would I get dressed up? Job interview!"

To keep my silverware from being stolen, I have taken to eating with chopsticks. Not only can no one else use them, but they are handy for the occasional poking of someone in the eye.


I have yet to master steak with them, though.

This morning I am blasting The Killers with my door shut. Being suitably depressed and wishing I had brought that last bottle of IBC Root Beer for breakfast so I could have convinced everyone I was being very bad, again.

But I didn't. Instead, I am being properly depressed and morbid regarding my station in life. Except everyone feels the need to inquire regarding my lack of cheerfulness and instructs me to turn the corners of my mouth upwards.



Was I ever happy that they feel the need to compare my behavior to something like that?

We I stared death in the face and went bridge jumping. Barbie would have been shortly following, but the cops came a little too soon.

However, I was well hidden so when the cop said "If you jump off that bridge, you will die" he had no idea what was so funny.



So, your pretty much hearing from a ghost right now.

In response to all of the hating we have been spewing, we have now decided to bare our love for mankind to all. It is visible at Lovin' La Vita. I really have no idea why it has that name, paticularly since it started out as West Virinia Lovin', and that was the whole POINT of the blog, to show how backwards we are that we have to start a blog just to let everyone know that we love things. The designer killed the tagline when designing the template, so, really, the address makes no sense whatsoever now, just so you aren't confused and all.

You may wonder why we have started yet ANOTHER blog. Well, we really will need something to keep us busy once Fredd comes home and sees what we have done to his blog and refuses to ever let us post there again.

You may see a few changes in the next few days, but we were so excited, we just HAD to share the love.

Much thanks for the incredibly cool design by Princess.