Well, I officially have one month in the car business behind me.

For all it's trials and the tantrums I throw, it has helped me more than I will readily confess. It has helped me hone my skills for dealing with crisis, coming up with improvisational answers and always, always smiling.

However, my scathing wit and ascerbic commentary have suffered much. Mainly because I have been forcing myself to try and be kind. The scary thing? They are still terrified of me and think I am dreadfully evil.

So for those of you who have been missing the hilarious evil Porkchop, I must warn you, if she comes back, it might be awhile. But then again, she might return soon and with vengance of her frustration levels remain as high as they have been.



Until then--I will write frequently on free lunches and Starbucks, sure to keep my lack of faith men firmly entact.

When I buy my own Starbucks, I rarely end up drinking it.

But if someone is to BRING me coffee, it is guarenteed I will guzzle it in 2.3 seconds.

Life Lesson Learned:


Only drink free Starbucks.

After Starbucks was delivered, lunch was bought for me a few times over and I was finially sitting at my desk working someone commented "Damn, Porkchop, you have the hook-up!"

Sadly, and frankly I replied "No. I just have lots of men who want to sleep with me."* **




*Obviously this excludes The Sisters and Boyfriend of Twiglet.

** This stinging reply is often alternated with the ever-popular "Yes. That is what happens when you have people who love you."

For about the FOURTH time I have ventured to wear white pants to work it has rained.

Sometimes I really think God hates me and that I make Baby Jesus cry.

1. People love me.

Four cups of venti chai, a sushi dinner and chinese food were all proffered as gifts of love last night. Though I was practically bleeding chai by the end of the night, it nice to know that people love me that much.

2. Leftover sushi is good for breakfast.

How cool is it to sit there and eat sushi while everyone is drinking the disgusting Maxwell House coffee? Besides, it makes you look very hardcore.

3. Everday I am becoming more like Queen-Of-Slackers.

Even after my sushi I was hungry, so I ordered some fattening chipped beef on toast. Someone was foolish enough to point out the fact I had just eaten. So?! I AM STILL HUNGRY! ARE YOU SAYING I AM FAT?! ARE YOU SAYING I AM GOING TO GET FAT?! NO?! Good. Then shut the hell up.

4. Falling out of bed half an hour before you have to be at work, is not such a good idea.

That means no time for Starbucks when you desperately need it, after working roughly thirty hours in the past two days. That means leaving your linen pants slightly wrinkled. And that means being MORE grumpy than usual.

5. Throwing temper tantrums will get you your way.

Especially when it is accompanied by lots of arm waving, talking fast and injured expressions. YOU WILL GET YOUR WAY. They really aren't sure what to do with a female who DEMANDS that they do things. And secretely, they like it, a tiny bit.

6. Wherever my sisters go, people think they are hot.

I think that pretty much speaks for itself. Oh, Barbie. You need to go see Kevin in Honda, he is eagerly awaiting your visit so he can take you out to dinner, send you flowers and be the perfect gentleman. Otherwise, he knows he will have a four-inch heel in his ass.

Things That Have Made My Day Bad:

I am very, very tired.
And grumpy.
I foolishly shared my doubleshot espressos, only to have people complain "their stomach's hurt" after drinking them. Silence yourselves! I didn't FORCE you to drink them!
I am now out of doubleshot espressos.
I have on a terrible outfit.
Because I am out of clean clothes.
And I scribbled pen on my pants.
I am very, very tired.
And I haven't sold a car yet.
And I really don't care.
I missed my haircolor consultation because I was with a customer who didn't buy the damn car.
My old hairstylest has apparently become quite popular in my abscence and is very booked. Or very angry at me.

Things That Have Made My Day Better:
The Best Boyfriend In The World (BBITW--Boyfriend of Twiglet) brought me Starbucks!
The wireless was FINIALLY fixed, which is where I am posting this from.
I realized that if I ran away and became a stripper, it would simply give me more writing material. Very freeing. Am buying lucite shoes as we speak.
I scheduled my hair appointment.
And that is it.

Really, I could say "insomnia" but that sounds too much like I have a problem. It is simply one of those one night things. You know, when I realize that I have a whole seven hours of sleep ahead of me. Which means I cannot sleep at all. Instead, I stay up watching COUNTRY MUSIC TELEVISION and eating carmel corn in hopes of rotting my teeth out.

When I attempted sleep my back and feet hurt so badly that I couldn't really drift off. New plan: eat enough sugar to make my teeth scream in pain, thus alleviating the pain from my back and feet. Logical, yes?

If you had to spend your days being objectified, lusted after and fighting constanly to be treated remotely fairly, you too, might be a bit on the unlogical side. There are definate times when I feel what I imagine would be the soul errosion of a stripper, except without the wads of cash.

Come to think of it, I have the customers who openly ogle me and eye-rape me, yet REFUSE to pay any sort of price that will make me money. I AM GETTING SCREWED TWO WAYS OVER!

This is not the vodka talking. Vodka was not a wise option since I have to be at work tomorrow morning BRIGHT AND FRICKIN' EARLY. Instead, I just opted for the wrist slitting. And blog therapy. And my secret country music cure.

Confession: I called Starbucks Boy up in tears tonight after work. Mainly because he is three hours behind us, thus rendering him the only person who was awake once I got off. And, sweet Starbucks Boy, let me assure you CAR DEALERSHIPS ARE JUST AS BAD IN CALIFORNIA. LIFE IS JUST AS BAD EVERYWHERE. Bringing me back to my main point: slitting my wrists. I did, however, make it clear I would slit my wrists properly as to ensure the tendons would stay intact and I would be able to hold my vodka until the last bit of blood escaped from my tender arms.

Speaking of draining the life out of me, I restart school Monday. Which is sort of exciting other than the small fact I have no idea what the hell I am doing. And the university has a nasty habit of NOT RETURNING PHONE CALLS. And since we know it is impossible to get any sort of decent job without a college degree, it brings me back to my main point yet again: slitting of the wrists.

Does anyone else see how logical this is?!

Unfortunately, I don't think I have a sharp enough object.

P.S. In all my thinking and reading of your comments, I am seriously considering going red.

Goodnight.

But have figured out what I will do with the rest of the evening.

Drink vodka and slit my wrists.

And you think I am kidding.

When a male over the age of twelve uses the line "Can I have some fries with that shake?!"

This is not McDonalds, so that would be a definate no.

P.S. I wasn't even shaking it.

The only reason I am giving you an abbreviation is because my weekends are no longer two days, merely a piddly one day. So, Saturday night after I got off work TWO HOURS LATE, I left STRAIGHT from work and arrived five hours later after nearly running over a man and getting rather slightly lost in the godforsaken back roads of Virginia.

Unfortunately, I was not able to be privy to all the hilarity of the weekend but highlights did include:

Me running around in my underwear, and thus creating an argument between Princess and I as to whether they were mine or hers. (THEY WERE MINE!)

Queen-Of-Slackers feeding the dog more alcohol than was morally right. The dog is a lush who will drink out of people's cups on the sly.

Calling up Starbucks Boy and passing the phone around so everyone could get their two cents in.

Convincing Queen-Of-Slackers that crying to Coldplay for no reason at all was quite normal. I do it all the time.

Having Queen-Of-Slackers and Princess rip the bikini off my body and leave me shivering in bed.

Watching Barbie eat a entire bag of Fritoes and then wonder why her stomach hurt.

Clinging to Twiglet, Queen-Of-Slackers , Princess and Barbie while watching the dumbest movie ever and screaming appropriately and waving our legs in the air at all the scary parts... and the unscary parts... and every time a door was opened.

Driving home with Barbie and Princess while being stalked by Bubba whose license plate said "Baygin".

Screaming "PRAISE JESUS!" and throwing our hands into the air everytime we passed a church while driving home with Barbie and Princess.



I will miss Princess. But that doesn't mean we still can't have good times...

There are times when I really hate my job. Saturday now being one of them.

In theory, I really should have the upper hand. Who doesn’t want to buy a car from a woman who appears, soaked, through the sheets of rain and offers to be of assistance in any way possible? Apparently no one. But there are a plethora of people who are more than happy to make vulgar comments while you would like to do nothing better than shove a spike heel up their ass.

The umbrella approach doesn’t work either. Apparently, most people find it to be too labersome to actually GET OUT of their car and UNDER the umbrella and INTO the building. That is THREE WHOLE STEPS RIGHT THERE. Instead, they find it much more agreeable to go squealing through the parking lot narrowly missing all the expensive cars.

I think there was a point in time I would have been good at this job. As in, several years ago, when I was a nice person and enjoyed making conversation with people. Now I am simply a withered old shrew who simply wants to know: DO YOU WANT TO BUY A EFFING CAR?!?! For some reason, the dominant answer is a long drawn out NO. Which only comes out after the filling out of paperwork, wheedling of numbers and hour long test drive.

There is truly no balm in gilead. You would think that when I am selling no cars, I would be able to stay out of relative trouble and harassment. For me, or used to, the only time that sort of thing would happen was when I had customers piled up three deep. No longer is my misfortune limited to any certain day, calamity can strike at any moment. Today, was no exception. Since there was a lull in customers--as in NO CUSTOMERS ALL DAY-- I thought I would make a quick Starbucks run. By the time I had everyon’e order, I had more than one tray full of drinks. I wasn’t too worried, I mean how hard is it to carry drinks?!

At Starbucks, as usual, they were delighted to see me. No real problems, except for the new girl who couldn’t really keep up with the rapid fire drink ordering. I balance my trays of drinks out to the car, sit down and am putting the trays of drink on the floor when an entire venti carmel macchiato flips over into my lap and soaks it’s entire twenty-four ounces into my skirt. Thankfully, today I was wearing all black, but I STILL had to go back into Starbucks order ANOTHER. While waiting for it I tried my best to soak up the milky goodness off my lower half, but didn’t have much success. By the time the drink was done, the blended drinks were rather melted and I felt rather guilty for the delay. I hurried back. As I did a careful deep knee-bend with a swivel, my heel broke. My fabulous Bebe black retro-inspired heels. Not to be daunted, I limpted into work, doled out drinks and limped back to my car where I selected ANOTHER pair of black heels which had been rattling about in my backseat. (Thank the good Lord for living out of my car!)

After I amusedly watched everyone get hopped up on caffeine, I found a customer and trotted out to show him a truck. (I SUCK AT THE TRUCKS!) As I squeezed into the narrow space between trucks and hauled my carmel macchiato soaked butt up into the seat, I heard a familiar, but not welcome sound. The slit in the back of my knee-length black carmel macchiato soaked skirt decided to lengthen itself, oh, say, FOUR INCHES.

So now, I am not only a car salesperson who smells suspiciously strong of coffee, but I have a hoochie mama slit in the back of my skirt. Much to the delight of my fellow car salesmen.


If carmel machiattos are not of the devil, they certainly reek suspiciously of him.

The power of cookies is similar to the power of Christ, they COMPELL YOU TO DO THINGS! For instance, help a certain Porkchop when she gets in sticky situations. The grumpy old ladies in accounting to pull a file... that combined with lots of pleading and looking pitiful. But the promise of cookies ensure that I would be able to pull this stunt again if absolutely necessary.

Or a random manager who will proffer his assistance when I am completely mystified as to what WINDOW SHIELDS are. (WTF!?!?) I think the pathetic wrestling with the box might have helped as well.

When they say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach they are not kidding. Want a few marriage proposals? Bake a plate of cookies. Want to feel like you are loved and your beauty admired by all? Bake two plates of cookies. Want to fear for your life, your carnal treasure and your ability to walk out of work without being kidnapped and trucked off? Bake three plates of cookies.

People underestimate the power of baking to get things done.

But let’s just say this:

Our wireless router is being installed tomorrow.

This morning while I was sitting at my desk busily lining up pens looking incredibly cool, calm and collected a customer came in and asked for the salesperson who tried to steal half of one of my very first deals. Rather than swooping in and stealing them, I followed the protocol that was outlined in a rather pointed memo that was read loudly at the last staff meeting. I

a. went to the manager and told him that these customers were here for someone else

b. informed the manager that the desired salesperson was not in

c. followed the manager's instructions and called the salesperson on his cell phone

d. left the salesperson a nice message

e. proceeded to sell the customer the desired car

f. filled out all the paperwork

g. found the aforementioned salesperson blowing smoke out their ears when they got in

h. delightedly stood back and watched as management defended everything I did.


HOWEVER.

I did have to deliver the car about thirty miles away. Guess who got to follow me and bring me back?! The disgruntled salesperson. Of course! And of COURSE he didnt' blame me, just management. As I got to hear for the next FOURTY MINUTES. I managed to shave off a little of the whining by calling someone on my cell phone and talking for as LOUDLY AS POSSIBLE FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. As soon as I got off my phone, I got to hear IN DETAIL all his bills, his debts and how he has NO IDEA HOW HE IS GOING TO PAY FOR GAS THIS WEEK.

When I talked to management, they assured me I should NOT feel bad, because he is lazy and it is his own fault he only sold half a car this month. And guess who got the other half of that car?!


Porkchop.

The car business is not helping my emotional instability... you sell lots of cars and are happy and then YOU SELL NOTHING and are abject and depressed.

Starbucks Boy has left for California and I was actually growing quite fond of him. Ok. And the free coffee. But really, I was getting to be quite fond of him. He cracked me up. And he laughed at his card I have had for... about a year. Waiting to give it to the perfect person who would also laugh appropriately. And he did.

As for work, it has been rather slow and story-less. And if I think of anything funny, I will be sure to let you know. Until then, I just wanted to let you know I was alive.

Right now, as a friend, I suck, really badly. I have lately not answered my phone or returned text messages. I do not go out and do fun things. And when you try and have a conversation with me, my phone is normally glued to my ear or I am dozing off.

On the other hand, my friends and sisters continue to email me, call me, text message me and bring me coffee at work.

This is not how Porkchop rocks and rolls.

I suck. I suck hardcore.

I could make excuses, but instead I favor a simple but well-known universal truth:


Car salespeople suck.

I know where you live and I will kill you.

Or maybe just get you fired.

Or perhaps just secretly loathe you, your bad hair, your ugly outfits and your lack of ability to be a nice person.

Or perhaps I will simply unleash The Georgia Bitch aka Queen Of Slackers upon you when she is in town this weekend.

Suffice to say, I will quietly make your life miserable rather than procuring the desired effect of physical violence as you were hoping. But that doesn't mean QOS won't choke you. Just me.

Today, things in the Hating Porkchop Department died down a bit, save a few snide comments. So. Since things were slow and the only active thing I was doing was slowly roasting in my own juices, as usual, I managed to knock a few years off my own life and construct a FIRST for the dealership.

I went out and started chatting with a few customers who were interested in a vehicle. I demonstrated it for them, crawling in and out, flipping seats down, setting of lights and blinkers and generally making a sweat-soaked fool of myself. I had earlier trotted them inside to get a copy of their license and get the keys to the vehicle. As I slid them into the driver's seat, I remembered I had forgotten a tag and cheerfully said "Wait just a minute! And we will go on a test drive. I need to get something from inside."

When I came out, they were gone. GONE. GONE WITH NO TAG. GONE WITH A EXPENSIVE CAR. GONE WITHOUT ME.

To say the least. I freaked. But quietly. I thought, maybe they are coming back?! I QUIETLY asked someone else if this had ever happened to them. No. No it had not. They loudly told me. Actually, it was more like "NO, I HAVE NEVER HAD THAT HAPPEN TO ME AND WHAT THE FCUK WERE YOU THINKING?!"

Your right. I wanted them to drive off so I could sit here biting through my lip and scratching my knuckles raw. Fifteen minutes passed. I paced. Twenty-five minutes passed. I almost bit through my lip. Thirty-five minutes passed. I envisioned myself getting fired. Fourty-five minutes passed. One of the sales guys walks up and says "What color was the car you sent them out in? Black? Yeah. Well I saw a black car stopped down the road..." When he saw my face blanch and me falter into something similar to a faint, he said "Just kidding!" Fifty-five minutes passed. I started bargaining with God.

At this point, pretty much everyone figured out what happened, except for the manager and were having MUCH fun watching me try to play calm and cool. They cheerfully told me that this had NEVER happened to ANYONE they knew. Eventually, they started proffering helpful suggestions. Just when I though I was about to cry or faint. They drove back up.

The smile I pasted on my face was so huge but only to distract from the fact I snatched the keys out of their hands so fast it was almost sub-human. They acted like nothing happened and I had to compose myself in a friendly fashion for another hour.


AND THEY DIDN'T EVEN BUY THE CAR.

The situation which has exploded into the massive drama, is not The Pen incident. I wasn't too clear on what it was. Basically, someone stole my customer and made a fortune off of him. And management is/was defending him. The Gods That Be (Big Brother and Big Sister) are not letting me back down and basically making the life of the management who let it slide, a living hell.

I would like to say the two events are completely unrelated, but they aren't. This has already happened once, where someone tried to take my customer. It all boils down to them being chauvanist male pigs who think they are going to screw me over because I am new and inexperienced. What they didn't realize, up to this point, is that I have much bigger, meaner and scarier people standing behind me. People who want to make sure stuff like this doesn't happen anymore.

Interestingly enough, the manager who made the pen comment, went to the other guys I work with and told them I was threatening the dealership with a lawsuit because of their comments. Needless to say, the guys were upset and a little baffled. I clarified that for them pretty quickly.

For those of you who might think I am being a deal hog, I assure you, I am not. Today I split a deal that was completely unnecessary to split, simply because another sales guy had spoken to them at one point. I personally want to make a statement that it CAN be done, and it CAN be done the right way. I also told a sales guy he could have customers that were personal childhood friends of mine, since they contacted him first. While I may be known as The Bitch, at least I will be known as The Bitch Who Can Sell Cars And Is Fair To Everyone Else.

Word on the street has it that I am trouble. Your right. I am trouble. I am trouble for all the slimy managers, skeezy co-workers and the people who don't want to sell cars. And frankly, I really couldn't care less. I am working hard, selling cars and I haven't done anything right. So. BITE ME!

In the past weeks I have grown incredibly. I am learning how to roll with the punches and not be flustered. For instance:

Today I went to show a car to a customer and it's battery was dead. Hm. Ok. Terribly professional. I charge the car and the car it out of gas. Ok. We go to the gas station to get gas and the customer forgot what I HAD JUST TOLD HIM and cut the engine off. Of course, the car will not restart.

Fine.

I calmly finish filling the car and walk into the gas station. The little lady at the counter remembers me quite clearly from my first day of trauma. I tell her that I have a dead battery, does she have a battery pack? No. She doesn't. But she will be more than happy to let me use her phone. (This time I actually know the number to the dealership.)

Just then, the customer walks in, apoligizing yet again for cutting the engine off. I wave off his worries and accept the offer to use his cell phone. I call, get thorougly chastised by the receptionist (who happens to weigh three hundred pounds and resents the fact I am taking away some of the male attention from her) and she reluctantly promises to send someone down. (THE WHOLE MILE AND A HALF!)

While we wait, I notice that the hem has come out of my pants, I have lost a earring, the lining of my pants has mysteriously split and is now wedged up my ass AND my shirt is sticking to my back it is SO FRICKIN' HOT OUTSIDE. Rather than get flustered, as I would have, I laughed with the customer as I relayed the story of my first day of work. And since we were at THE SAME GAS STATION I was able to point out handy little landmarks that added to the story quite nicely.

Finially, help arrived. (I was told the only reason he came and rescued me was because he knew that he would recieve cookies.) After we finished charging the battery (again!) I told the customer to PLEASE take it out for as long as he could. He would be doing me a favor since the car would have to sit in the lot and run to charge the battery anyway.

You know what? He is coming back to buy the car Monday despite the fact the battery was dead TWICE, he had a salesperson whose pants hem fell out, had one earring, bad hair AND a sticky shirt. And he loved me. And he thinks the world of me. And HE IS GOING TO BUY THE CAR, DAMMIT!

You know what?! I don't care that everyone hates me. I don't care that everyone talks about me behind my back. I don't care that my managers speak down to me. Why? The same thing I say to everyone who askes me why I split the deal, or why I am doing nice things for them, or why I would go out of my way to let them have a customer, or why I would bake them cookies.


Because, that's just how I rock and roll.

As you all are gathering, the past week and a half has been a little rough. If you haven't picked up on that yet, let me assure you, it was. I just wanted to say a huge round of thanks to all my cheerleaders. Who have each fielded roughly fifty-seven calls from me in the past three days. The words of encouragement are listened to, read and poured over more than you will ever know.

To The Best Boyfriend of The Best Sister: I am at a loss for words when it comes to expressing gratitude to you. Not only have you been like an older brother--squashing lecherous trolls and taking up my cause--but you have kept me believing that I can do this. Even when I call you on the verge of tears. Thank you for assuring me that if I get myself fired, you will give me a job. You have no idea how well I will sleep tonight because of that. I am thinking quite seriously of naming my firstborn after you.

To The Best Sister I: Thank you for refreshing my memory in hateful things to say to people. Thank you for getting angry FOR me. It is so much more effective than ME getting angry. Thank you for answering my tear-soaked text messages. Thank you for letting me intrude on dinner/work/conversations so I could pour out my many tales of woe. Thank you for being a very protective older sister who is helping me learn to stand up for MYSELF. Thank you for reminding me that boys will always be boys (with the exception of the Best Boyfriend) and it is my job to remind them that I can squash them.

To The Best Sister II: Thank you for bringing me Starbucks at work. Thank you for sending me perky text-messages reminding me to sell more cars. Thank you for being excited about me selling cars. Thank you for reminding me that I can do it. And if I can't, I have other job offers, DAMMIT! Thank you for telling me I look like I have lost weight. Thank you for keeping my spirits high. In a very non-substance altered sort of way.

To The Patronage Who I Call My Father: Thank you for reminding me that I can do this, no matter what. Because, surely, anyone who can work in a restaurant, can sell cars. No? Thank you for giving me clever lines to say and different organizations to contact if this continues. Thank you for reminding me, I DO NOT HAVE TO WORK THERE, but since I do, you will continue to cheer me up.

To The Starbucks Barista Who Gives Me Free Coffee And Doesn't Read This So I Have No Idea Why I Am Writing This On Here: Thank you for your contribution to my addiction. Being able to walk into these confrontations on caffeine highs really helps. And thank you for asking if I was alright when I was crying in Starbucks tonight.

To Queen Of Slackers: Who sent me a fabulous card with all sorts of kind things in it. Thank you. I laughed aloud and the timing couldn't have been better. However, contrary to what the card said, today I was NOT wearing a fabulous outfit. I was wearing white pants. And it rained. And everytime I wear these pants it rains. And the bottom foot and a half of these pants were soaked. And then they turned black. And it was not pretty at all. But perhaps tomorrow I shall wear a fabulous outfit. And if not, perhaps you shall have to come shopping with me to remedy this.

To The Blog Readers Who Leave Me Comments That Are Flattering And Make Me Smile And Laugh: I know it seems trivial, but seeing the comments and encouragement from such a wide variety of people really makes a difference. It sounds really corny, I know. And I hate to tell you this, but I cannot name my second born after you all. Unless we come up with some sort of conglomerate name.

As you can see, I am blessed with an abundance of people who care. And for that and that only I should be able to have a good day and look on the bright side. Thank you for putting up with my whining, ranting and tears.


Feel The Porkchop Love.

I was called into the office and the manager spoke in rather loud abrasive tones with me. Apparently, he isn't too keen on getting calls from various important people telling him it is not acceptable to screw me over.

In his own words "a shit storm has been released" and he isn't terribly appreciative that I unleashed it. I have been told it is completely unacceptable for me to go "whining for help" because I didn't like the way he handled it. At this moment, I am easily the most hated person at the dealership. Even with my perky little boobs.

I am sure you are wondering why I am not reveling in the drama I have created. Because frankly, I am not like that. I hate the fact everyone hates me. I hate the fact I have to stand up for myself. I hate the fact that I have been there a week and a half and have created more controversy than some people will in a lifetime. I hate the fact that the post appropriate thing I can say right now is: WELCOME TO MY LIFE.

I have to face tomorrow bravely. Face it with confidence. Face it knowing I have done absolutely nothing wrong and that I have to stand up for myself. I have to keep my chin up. No being apoligetic. No dissolving into puddles of tears. I must be strong. I must speak my mind. I must be fierce. FIERCE! (I am pondering what I shall wear tomorrow that will clearly communicate FIERCENESS!)

Because I am Porkchop, I am woman, I can do this.

When it comes to confronting people about how they screwed ME over, I am rather recalcatrent. But I had serious older sister ready to come remove the heads of people I worked with, so I knew I had to do something before SHE did something. The lesser of two evils.


So. She made me a little speech, and I practiced it all weekend. And I still called her Monday morning to refresh my memory. And I repeated it over and over on my way to work. I got there early and sat at my desk giving myself a pep talk . It wasn't so much the confronting him, it was the fact I didn't want to piss him off, because if I did, I knew the cooperation would be nil from there on out, and I really need him cooperation to sell cars and make money. I finially mustered up the courage and quietly walked into his office and simply said:

"Boss, I would like to keep our relationship strictly professional. And my relationship with everyone else I work with professional. Recently, there have been comments made to my face and behind my back that were completely inappropriate and made me very uncomfortable. Specifically, the pen comment."

He apoligizes.

"I would not like to minimize those sort of comments, I would like to completely eliminate it."

He apoligizes again.

"And I would hate to the the person who, in the first two weeks, brings a sexual harassment lawsuit against you all. Ok?"

He agrees.

And I walked out.

And except for being eye-raped by a few customers and a few fellow employees, all was well. But comments have been completely eliminated. And I am totally kicking their little skeezy butts in sales.

Because I am Porkchop, and that's how I rock and roll.



Actually, it's more like: I am Porkchop and I have a legion of people looking out for me who like to kick ass.

I can put up with alot. I can good-naturedly show middle aged men sports cars all afternoon while knowing all they are doing is checking out my butt and then listen to the dealership talk about it for the rest of the afternoon.

I can pretend most innuendo wasn't directed towards me. Hey! You were probably talking to the only other woman I work with--Jersey Girl--with the big poufy eighties hair and camel toe slacks.

I act like I don't understand that the whispering, giggling, pointing and commenting is sexually related. But the fact you tell me and even closely point to every. single. spot. on my shirts is a little suspcious. Paticularly in the boob area.

I carefully choose my words at all times. Simply because ANYTHING is construed into inuendo. Simple truthful statements. Innocent statements. Statements which I had no desire to make at all sexual.

I can handle the lack of chivalry, abundant stupidity and general dickweedyness. After awhile, it begins to wear on you, but you learn to ignore it. And, after awhile, you kind of forget where the line is. The line of: I Will Ignore You Because You Should Not Be Acknowledged As A Human--Since You Are My Superior You Really Should Know Better.

Today. The line was not only trampled, generally ignored and completely erased, but it was not even acknowledged. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe I am simply Porkchop with a flair for the dramatic. But, tell me what you think:

I was standing outside in the middle of the parking lot with my arms, fingers and appendages made for holding, full of items. Screws, license plates, screwdrivers and paperwork overflowed my arms. I could not hold another thing to save my life. My boss, seeing this, decides this is the opportunity to give me back my pen, which I did need. Since I couldn't hold another possible thing I, completely unthinking of the miles of sexual fodder it will give him, ask him to "Please stick it in my mouth."

His reply?

"Ahhh! That's what I love to hear a woman ask me. To stick it in her mouth!"

I was speechless.

"Excuse me?!?!"

"I thought you would never ask, but god! It's good to hear!"

At that point, I turned and walked away. There were so many things I WANTED to say as I fled, including "Just so you know--I'm biting it." But, there were customers, YES, HE SAID THAT IN FRONT OF CUSTOMERS. And, I was honestly flabbergasted that he, my boss, would say such a thing. I could expect it out of my co-workers, but my boss?!

It really begins to wear on you afterawhile. You constantly feel like a piece of meat. And you know the sad thing is?! I am not really that attractive. I know I am not ugly, but, it isn't like I am mobbed on the street for pictures. And that is what baffles me. Not only are they pigs, but they are stupid, stupid pigs. Why risk GETTING YOUR ASSES SUED?!

Porkchop is out of witty things to say. Porkchop is tired. Porkchop, for the first time in her life, actually feels discriminated against for being a woman. Porkchop used to say that was the biggest bunch of bull she had ever heard. But Porkchop is starting to believe that maybe it could be true. Porkchop realizes that it is a gift to be a woman, and she can use it, and she should glory in her femininity, blah, blah, blah. Porkchop realizes (thanks to some super great cheerleaders) that she has what it takes to make it in this business. But Porkchop is just FED UP AND TIRED.


And for the first time in Porkchop's life, she actually wished, for a moment, that she was asexual.

This evening, I sat at my desk, eating my perfectly cooked steak and shrimp and drinking my JuicyJuice, when some jealous female walked up to my desk, rolled their eyes and inquired as to where this food offering came from. Or rather, from WHOM it came. Which admirer.

I smugly looked at them and informed them my SISTER brought it to me. HOW DARE THEY INSINUATE I WOULD USE SOMEONE FOR FOOD!

Not only was she jealous. But now all the men I work with want to date her for her apparently amazing cooking skills. Only problem being, she kind of dates the guy who could get them all fired.

You may think me absolutely insane for not loving a "job" whereby I come in for eleven hours a day and am worshipped by many. The worshipping part I can handle. The eleven hours a day, I can handle. What I cannot handle, however, is the part where I sit at my desk and twiddle my thumbs.

I like to be busy. I like to be overloaded. I like to able to come early and stay late. And then still have too much work to do. That makes me the happiest. Maybe I am a workaholic at heart. Maybe I just like the bragging rights attached with such hours, but in any event, I NEED MORE WORK.

However, that small detail aside, I thought I would update you on the adoring masses.

Starbucks Boy visited again today. This time bringing his ADORABLE cocker spaniel puppy. I properly oohed and ahhed and even I informed him I really don't like dogs, but his is the exception. Once he left, Sketchy Guy I work with walks over to my desk and ask if "the cute dog trick" really works with girls. I said not paticularly. He informed me I was acting otherwise. I had carefully pondered QOS's much thought-out advice, so I simply stated that I would do pretty much anything for free Starbucks delivery. And if that mean cooing over dogs, sobeit.

This gave him much to think about.

Minorly Sketchy Guy I work with informed me he thought of me over his morning coffee this morning. While that isn't exactly necessary, it could have been much worse. Like "I thought about you while I showered this morning". (Yes. I have heard that before.)

Sketchy Guy invited me to invited me to a concert, offered to take me out to dinner, asked shoe buying advice AND offered to teach me to dance.

Minorly Sketchy Guy invited me to this huge picnic his family is throwing, which will have lots of fat men from the dealership waterskiing. Oh. Terrific. I want to go to a picnic where I will be seen with most of the people I work with, so they can all rehash how I look in a bikini. Not a pleasant subject for me. He was also quite affronted when I paid for my lunch. QUITE.


Until I can find some real work to do, I will continue to pit them against each other to see how far we can get this to escalate.

Sitting across from my desk talking in a strange language, excitedly waving their hands and pointing at me.

I am not stupid. I am not blind. I could see you pointing at my boobs AND I SAW YOU TAKE OUT YOUR PICTURE PHONE AND TAKE A PICTURE.

I was only pretending to be very, very intensely studying on the computer.

One of my many admirers whom I work with brought me in two CD's I have been wanting. Ah. I see. Making our offerings up to the great god of beauty, taste and cute shoes.

I sold my first car tonight!

I still have no idea what I am doing, couldn't answer have of their questions and generally made a fool out of myself. But to quote the guys in the detailing shop "Damn. I would have bought a car from you anyway. Actually I would buy just about anything from you..."

It rather frustrates me that there is no clear cut training system, but whatever. I managed anyway. I so rock.

As soon as Starbucks Barista Boy walked out, four people pounced upon me. "So, is he your boy?!"

"Um, actually I don't even know his last name." I was more than happy to relate my Starbucks whoring skills and they were quite impressed. One lady was even kind enough to let me know "he liked me" in case I hadn't figured it out yet.

You might be wondering why I didn't let them think he WAS my boy. But suffice to say, I would be able to get my way much less easily if they thought I was attached.



But I have to say, a personally delivered iced chai latte with two extra shots, by a rather good-looking fellow, is definately something to be appreciated.

Really, I don't think that is an accurate title since I am not actually doing anything but showing up at Starbucks to get my free coffee. But my jealous sisters think it is the perfect title.

I think I might have mentioned him once. Him being the Starbucks Barista who happens to think I am cute and therefore makes my drinks perfectly and occasionally gives them to me. This rocketh.

Tonight, I stopped by to drink tea and read my book. How lovely. We chatted for a bit, he gave me my drink. I sat outside and read. He stopped by and chatted some more. At some point in our conversation I mentioed where I work. At the end of our conversation he told me he would bring me a drink tomorrow at work. Sweet!

Right before I left, he told me he wasn't working tomorrow, but would come in, make me my drink and THEN bring it to me. Oh. And he laughingly invited me out for coffee.

Today Barbie came and visited me at work. In all her blonde hair flouncing glory. Needless to say, the charming fellows I work with were quite impressed. After she left and they exhausted every question possible about her, I mentioned something about my other sisters. More? THERE ARE MORE OF YOU?! One of them shouted across the room:

"DID YOU HEAR THAT?! THERE ARE FOUR PORKCHOP'S TO GO AROUND!"