That moment I have secretly dreaded but denied would ever happen:

Discovery of my blog by people with whom I work.

Someone gave me a heads up, but when I delved into the history, it became quite clear someone from the work ISP had been scouring my archives.

Dammit.

Even though it has been taken down for the time being, I am paranoid beyond belief. Who has seen it? What have they seen? Are they being slightly less nice to be today? Will they ever speak to me again?

All that ground which had been slowly gained, those little victories I was savoring in the headway of getting things accomplished and the latest discovery that my manager CAN BE NICE TO ME--would those all be in vain, now that my blog had been found?

Tempted, I am, to throw back my head and proudly embrace the bitchy persona. But it's rather hard to do that when they are on the verge of telling you:

You're fired.

Our accounting department is filled with some of the most miserable wenches I have ever encoutered. Truly. They make the crones at my old job look practically sweet. To work in accounting, you have to be one hundred and ten, hate sunlight and love sucking the life out of people. You also have to be willing to gnaw the tires of any innocent soul who might be silly enough to park in your parking lot.

Today, I called over and asked an innocent question. Apparently, I asked the WRONG person that question. The person I asked the wrong question to, passed it onto the CORRECT person WITH a verbal toungue lashing.

The CORRECT person, in turn, called me and left me a very long message, detailing WHAT exactly the answer to my question was and how I do NOT need to ask it again because I am NOT the only salesperson here.

When someone else went into their office to retrieve paperwork, they were given an earful about me. "What is she? A salesperson? Or the offical compliant department?". They were also told "I am on their list. NOT the Christmas one, either."

Nice. Now that everyone in MY dealership loves me, of course I have to find some new enemies. Interesting, the only people who will OPENLY hate me are women.


Men at least ogle my boobs and silently hate me.

No worries! This is not a post for me to wax eloquent on suicide and the circumstances that prompt it. This is simply an alert that I am becoming much like my sister, Barbie, working out like an crazy woman and constantly making references to the above mentioned working out.

"Ohhh. I better not eat that, I have to go work out in a little bit."

"Don't. Hit. Me. My muscles are all sore from working out..."

Etc.

In short, I am becoming pathetic and obsessed.

I am going to go work out for the second time today.



Someone shove a twinkie up my nose.

Our manager decided that the hip-hop music that was blaring through the showroom instructing us to "shake our asses" could be termed as offensive.

Having tried to get the uneducated masses to listen to classical and finding it harshly rebuked, I had a better idea: pull out all my chick flick soundtracks. Voila! My manager is happy, and who are these mere mortals to say that they cannot listen to it?!

More music is welcome, it just so happens that all the music THEY keep in their cars is, well, ass shaking music.

It being something I am not only not good at, but something I am miserably horrible with. That would be, my job. Everyone used to tell me "no matter what you try, you will excel." Well. I have found the exception to the rule.

Once I figured out what a miserable failure I am, I started leaking tears. As I thought of every single person I am proving RIGHT in my failure to be anything great at this job, I started crying even harder.

It was bad enough that I was fighting back tears, but it was even worse when I started crying in from of the manager I hate. MUST I show signs of weakness NOW!?

I want to go home. Now. And I want to cry for three days straight.



And then I want to go find a new job. Because this one, I have proven to be a failure at.

My dearest sister, Twiglett, has a nasty habit of encouraging creepy guys to like me. Something I really do not appreciate, whatsoever.

Guy 1: Twice as old as I am, terribly creepy and doesn't hold his liquor well. He works with my sister and is in love with her, but, because she has a boyfriend, he has moved on to the next best thing, me. He is attracted to me only because I am disgustingly rude to him. One of the first times I met him, I insulted his looks, intelligence and way of dressing. Apparently, he thinks that's sexy. He asked me to dinner once and I turned him down "gracefully". But he knew all to well that I was simply lying.

HE CALLED ME AGAIN THIS AFTERNOON:

CG: Hello, Porkchop.
P: Hello
CG: I was just wondering what your plans were for Sunday night.
P: Well it depends on who is talking to me, since you were too rude to identify yourself when you called.
CG: Uh. This is Creepy Guy.
P: Oh. Um. Well, I think I am busy. (Not too subtle)
CG: What are you doing? Washing your hair? Cleaning out your drain? Sorting socks?
P: Visiting my grandfather who is dying.
CG: Oh. Well. Since I can't compete with a dying grandfather...
P: You sure as hell can't. Anything else?
CG: WhattaboutMonday?

Before I can scream out a instant NO! he continues

CG: OrTuesday?Wednesday?Thursday?Yaknow,wheneveryourfree...
P: Working.
CG: What about after work?

DOES THIS GUY NEVER GIVE UP OR GET A POINT?!

P: I really think I am quite busy until I graduate law school. Contact me then.


Guy 2:

Preface: This is the creepy guy with children who was willing to go out with my sister after I harshly rejected him. Does this say anything?

CG2: Um. Porkchop, do you have a minute?
P: Sure.
CG2: This has been bothering me for about two weeks now...
P:Ok
CG2: Can I ask you a question?
P: WHAT!? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SAY WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY BEFORE I PULL IT OUT OF YOU!
CG2: Well, I saw your older sister, Twiglett, at a restaurant a couple of weeks ago, and she said you told her to tell me hi. Is this true?
P; No.
CG2: So, you really weren't thinking about me?
P: No.
CG2: Oh. Well, I have been thin--
P: Ihavetogonow,bye.

Which may not be such a bad thing, considering I was just lamenting over my weight. But the REASON I cannot feed myself, barely get dressed or even drive to work, is I am SO FRICKIN' SORE.

As in: last night I came home from my workout and couldn't make it up the stairs. I slept on the couch.

When sitting down, I sort of flop into the chair, rather than carefully lowering myself. It takes too much muscle control to actually SIT.

My trainer missed his calling as a drill sergeant. Completely emotionless and more than willing to let me DIE. Well, I do have to give him credit, at one point, I do believe he thought I was going to a. kick him or b. burst into a string of expletives. He told me to chill the hell out, I was in no danger of dying.



I do believe, I have found someone I hate more than the people I work with.

*Because being fit requires coordination.

Something I do not posses. At all. So much so, that my trainer was laughing at me. I mean, really, while I may posses the faculties to walk in five inch heels, I cannot move four different body parts at once, breathe correctly AND COUNT!

He did try to console me when I was utterly bereft at my lack of understanding of ab exercises. He sweetly informed me that he had a 300 lb man get stuck. In the same machine I couldn't work. I asked him if this was really worse. After all, while he may have been stuck, AT LEAST HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING! The trainer informed me that no, this was not better. He didn't paticularly enjoy extracting men from the ab machine.


From this, I can logically conclude that if I continue as such, I will turn into a 300 lb man. Or fat lady with a mustache.

When the used car manager gazed into my eyes and told me:

"Wow. You are so perfectly beautiful."


Now. Please understand, I believe this guy has daughters my age. He is never scarce on the compliments, he has also told me that "there isn't anything he wouldn't do for me". And just yesterday he was expressing his belief that I could possibly make a gay man go straight.

Yesterday, I JOKINGLY threatened to cry if he did not appraise one of my customers trade-ins at a high enough value. This launched him into a ten-minute speech about how he would NEVER MAKE ME CRY.

(Our Used Car Dealership is rather infamous for under-appraising trades, thus making it more difficult to make a deal go through.)

The other female salesperson has finally noticed that I never complain about getting too little on my trades. So. Logically, she thinks I am sleeping with the used car manager and she wanted to get in on a little bit of the action. As if!

To her, I replied with a scoff:

"Sleeping your way to the top is a cheap ploy for those who are not skilled enough to get a man to do what they want with a mere glance. You, my friend, are a mere amateur. Sleep away! But, if your sex is as bad as you say it is, I will probably get more on my trades, fully clothed, than you will, completely naked."

"Mmmm... you look like a school marm. A naughty school marm! I could take a few lessons..."


Lesson 1: Keep your comments to yourself.

Even if I DID go home to lie down, I would curl up pitifully by my venti cup of Starbucks tea and dab my running nose with leftover Starbucks napkins. No one to even CARE that I feel like I am on the verge of death. Why was being sick much more fun when I was little?



Maybe one of the greyhounds would sympathetically lick my face.

Food and pictures.

For the rest of my frickin' life.

If you would like to see the results of last night's fun, check it out.

Sadly, you cannot really see my haircolor since they are in black and white. Let me advise you to NOT use your imagination, or it might become startlingly clear that I happen to have a very weird haircolor thing going on.

But, if your going through the trouble of imagining me, take off about twenty pounds and add a smile to my grimacing face.

That is what I almost called the screaming child seated two tables away from me at lunch.

For those of us who have chosen not to fill our arrow quivers, be fruitless and NOT mulitply to replensh the earth, I think we deserve a little peace and quiet while we eat our salads.

After all, we were not the ones foolish enough to think that at twenty-something we could juggle three misbehaving toddlers. Nor were we under the impression that taking the monsters to a restaurant and feeding them over-priced peanut butter and jelly would make life any better. Because, we, the wise single people, realize that children are hazardous. We understand that people who choose not to have children, have made that decision for a reason. Namely, PEACE AND QUIET AT LUNCH.

I realize that you, the Harried Housewife, think you are going to enlighten me to the blessings of children and all their precious smiles and giggles. But, you know what?! Tommy just threw creamed carrots on my wool suit. So. Even though I valiently smiled and pretended it was alright, all the while I was thinking that you really need to keep this tiger in a cage and hire a nanny.

Do I LOOK LIKE I CARE that I am missing out on eternal happiness and stretch marks? AND, JUST FOR THE RECORD, when I DO procreate, I WILL:

a. starve them into submission

b. beat them into behaving

c. dump them on a doorstep


You really might want to think twice when encouraging random strangers to reproduce.

The replies to my voicemail message have been varied and interesting.

There are those who aren't really sure I am kidding, so they clearly outline the last four times they have called me, just to make sure my blood is not on their hands. Then there are the perfect strangers who leave rather short startled messages, not really sure of what to say. But the best, are those who know me well.

Starbucks Boy's Message:

My condolances to Porkchop. Once a beautiful young lady who lived on the East Coast and used to make my day by coming into Starbucks and getting coffee from me. Has three beautiful sisters, all intelligent, one didn't know what kind of guy she wanted to date, so she always dated the worst kind. All in all, Porkchop will be missed. She is survived by lots of guys who probably wanted her and will never have her.

Queen Of Slackers:

Awww.

*pause*

Poor baby.

I'll send some plastic flowers to your grave. Mkay?

Every year, right around September/October, Princess and I do a photo shoot. And every year, at some point, I end up lamenting over just how fat I look.

What am I doing to prepare for this afternoon?

Sitting in boxers and a tank top, watching TV and eating bean burritoes.



I can clearly see this year's lamenting will be far different than years past.

Today, in the eleven hours I was at work, I taught myself how to properly fold a paper airplane and practiced writing with my left hand.

In the past week, I have taught myself the aeronautical alphabet, learned how to fold a paper airplane and practiced writing with my left hand.

I think tomorrow I will take a Latin vocabulary book and brush up on my big words.



Origami lessons, anyone?

I am sitting here debating which way to take my life on the job would be most effective. That is, if I don't die of sheer boredom.

I am truly a twisted human being:

I am about to hypervenitilate because I have nothing to do.



Isn't that a conundrum of sorts?

Vodka + Car = Crushage

Milk + Pills = O.D.

Rope + Light Fixture = Strangulation

Bad Neighoborhood + "Double Deuce" = Mutilation

Incinerator + A Friend With A Totally F---ed Up Sense Of Humor = Burningnation

Vicious Dragon + Enthusiastic Pep Talk = Being Eaten Alive

Terrorist + Anti-Islamic Attitude = Utter Destruction

Catwalk Over Electric + Bad Sense Of Balance = Frying

Makeup + Men's Prison = Anal Hemmorage

My voicemail message now listens, like this:

"You have reached what was the voicemail of Porkchop.

You may ask why I say this in the past tense instead of the present. Because, by the time you hear this message I have most likely jumped off a cliff and/or slit my wrists. You may ask, why would I jump off a cliff and/or slit my wrists?

Because:
a. I probably had a bad day at work.
b. I probably didn't sell any cars
c. I am most likely highly enraged that you have waited this long to call me and am expressing my rage in a highly melodramatic way.

So. Please leave your condolances after the tone."

Out of sheer boredom I have memorized the aeronautical alphabet and have started spelling everything aloud accordingly, much to the annoyance of my co-workers.

"Papa, Oscar, Romeo, Kilo, Charlie, Hotel, Oscar, Papa, Kilo, India, Charlie, Kilo, Sierra, Alpha, Sierra, Sierra."*




*Porkchop kicks ass

"There's a man out there for you somewhere Porkchop, but you have probably already flicked him off."

--Darth Fredd

You know, when your sister steps through the floor of the attic/the ceiling of your bedroom. Thus, yielding a giant hole complete with hanging chunks of plaster, insulation scattered throughout and that fine disgusting dust that inhabits the attic, covering everything in my room.

We have been tramping through this attic for over six years and managed to steer clear of this fiasco, but RIGHT before we move she decides to stick her cloven hoof through the my ceiling and subsiquently force me to actually clean my room, do my laundry AND make my bed. Unless I would like to spend the rest of my born days groveling in a dust pit.



And of course, she was conveniently on her way out of town.

While demonstrating a car:

"So, you like, wanna get in the backseat with me and try it out?! You know, for like, size and cabin space and softness of seats and everything. I wonder how the leather feels against your bare skin..."



*I say second worst, instead of first worst, because my father always said you should leave room for the possibility of something even more disgusting.

Every morning Barbie and I work out together. Ooh! Doesn't that sound healthy?! Do not be fooled! My working out every morning is my only concession to health, I promptly come home and eat a ham and cheese sandwich together. Anyway.

When we work out, I purposely look rather disgusting. I have no desire whatsoever to be picked up by a creepy old man or some slimy gym rat. We also work out at a rather ungodly morning hour when the only people inhabiting the gym are creepy old men trying to get their middle-aged spark back.

Barbie has had a few episodes of being hit on, but I wasn't terribly worried since we go rather early and I purposely look disgusting. Ratty sweatpants, absolutely no makeup, hair everywhere and a non-matching t-shirt.

As I trotted in, I happened to bump into a guy from work. After issuing a cheery hello, I continued trotting. Walking behind him was a fellow who greeted me with a "how YOU doing?!" I very quietly said hello, avoided eye contact and continued walking. He, however, stopped dead in his tracks and says "I said, HELLO! Aren't you going to talk to me?!" Throwing the words over my shoulder as I scurried towards the door, I informed him "it's a free country, I do not have to speak to you."

Fine. That should be pretty clear, yes?

As Barbie and I were pedeling furiously like hamsters, I relayed to story to her. She, of course, found it quite amusing. We had a good chuckle and moved on to talking about other subjects, like orgasms and the inability of men to commit.

Until, Mr. I Cannot Get A Clue, waltzes up to my pedeling self and tries to start communicating. I refuse to look at him, I am pretending he doesn't exist. But I manage to signal to Barbie just WHO this gem is. We start to sprint towards the free-weights. Only to have him give me a forlorn "Wait Babe, I want to talk to you."

I firmly inform him "I do not want to talk to you."

"Don't you want to give me your number?"

"Thanks, but no."

I start walking away.

"Don't you want MY number?"

I shout over my shoulder for the entire gym to hear as I walk away "Thanks, but I am SO NOT INTERESTED."

Harsh, yes?

While we working out our abs and ruminating over the freaks we attrack and how if we were going to have a gym stalker at least he could be BUFF or remotely attractive--guess who ambles over? At this point, I was seriously considering physical violence or threatening of castration. Thankfully, one of the trainers realized our plight and herded him away.

I am forever indebted to him. Or I could like at it like Mr. ICGAC is indebted to him, for he still has his penis, which I was considering removing with the cords of my earbuds. Sounds a little messy, but necessary.



Life lesson learned: no matter how ugly you are, there is still some freak out there who will find you attractive. True solace of the spirit for myself and Kelly Osbourne.

"...standing on a milk crate, running a cash register at eight years old, spoke volumes about you. It said that you would not be content to settle for anything less than excellence. Everytime I look at you, I am reminded of that. That spoke volumes about your determination and grit. It fortold of all in life you would demand. And it was then I knew, you, my little girl, would set the world on fire."

Without a doubt, that is my father's favorite story about me. He tells it to everyone. My dates, my employers, my friends, my enemies. Everyone. When he tells this story, his face lights up with delight as he remembers his youngest daughter demonstrating the sober determination to prove the skeptics who told her she was too young to do it.

No matter how discouraged or disillusioned I get with life, no matter how much I belittle myself or threaten to drink vodka and slit my wrists, my father repeats this story to me. And every time he tells it to me, it makes me smile and try a little harder.

This man has believed in this little girl long before she stood on a milk crate. He envisioned sucess for me when he gave me the name which means "Promised Child of God". He prayed for me when I tried to starve and vomit my way to self-acceptance. He never cursed my stubborn ways or insolent actions, he only saw the potential in me.

It's times like these, when it's rough, when I'm discouraged and when I want to quit. When tears are dripping off my chin and I just want a life of mediocrity. Dad, I will always remember you and your words. And I will know that I can set the world on fire.

Last week, on my day off, I traveled an hour in each direction for a background check for work. Unfortunately, as the fat-assed lady with the loud voice at the MVA told me, I was given the WRONG background check. Thus, I would have to spend my day off THIS week traveling to get another background check.

Travel I did. Background check, I did not get. As the lady in the background check place told me, there was only one kind. So. Right there. In the parking lot of the State Buruea of Identification, I threw it down, verbally, with the fat-assed lady at the MVA.

Sort of.

More so, she sort of sat on my and squashed my enthusiasm for getting this whole rigamarole done. As in--she suddenly had no idea what was going on and I would have to call back TOMORROW. I am sure this will generate another trip up next week.

Bitches.



All I have to show for it is a dead battery on a borrowed iPod and a sore ass.*



*Not a fat ass, as I was told this week.

Because I learned a far more efficient method: pills and milk.

Apparently, the milk coats your stomach and prevents you from throwing up before death. You should also put a plastic bag over your head once you have taken the pills. This limits oxygen and lets you pass out sooner. Thus, preventing a longer more painful death.


You never know when this might come in handy.

Saturday as we were sitting around waiting for customers to come on the lot so we could stalk them, the guys were rating any available females on a scale of 1-10. My butt was rated a 10 by a black guy.


Does this mean I have a ghetto booty? Or should just stop eating altogether?

Or at least better ways to release aggression and frustration. This evening I found myself using the toolbag frogs I work with as temporary punching bags. I momentarily thought about starting on my manager, but bypassed him for more favorable prospects. Such as, the silly boys who think the slamming of my fist to their abdomen is a sign of my affection.



At least I didn't kick them all in the groin.

The only other woman I work with the aforementioned Jersey Girl. I would link to the post, but it is unbelievably long and covers a multitude of subjects other than her. This is the very same woman my sisters like to refer to as "Huarache Girl" simply for the reason she likes to wear white huaraches with everything. Everything.

This is also the very same woman who feels the need to LOUDLY critique my outfits. She mocks the fact I like to constantly look classy at work, paticularly MY all white outfit. Classy white pants and shirt. She thinks it is HILARIOUS whenever I spill something on myself or a paticularly evil car dirties my lovely white outfit. (Of course, we are referring to the Cursed White Pants that magically bring rain whenever I wear them.)

Today was the first time I have ever seen her wear white. She was resplendent in a all-white outfit. (A very loose use of the word "resplendent".) White capri jeans, white long sleeved t-shirt and taupe colored high heels. It is rumored that I have influenced her dressing up for work. Apparently, she now wears heels more often, actually fixes her hair and applies makeup. However, I refuse to take credit for white jean capris.

As of 9:15 she was whining because her naughty little son had smeared his lunch box across the leg of her pants. (WTF?!) Instead of lecturing her on disciplining her children or something of the sort, I simply smiled nicely. But inside I was thinking: A day late and a dollar short, dear.



THAT IS WHAT YOU GET FOR WEARING WHITE AFTER LABOR DAY.

For me, cars and driving are nothing but trouble. Granted, the car I currently have is a little better than the last. But with alarming regularity, it eats my money. I am even afraid to get my oil changed, because only $350 will it return to me for my puttering about town.

Yesterday was no exception. My little demon has a leaking rear tire. I would fill it up occasionally and not really have to worry about it. Except, it began leaking more frequently. As in-- it became part of my morning routine to fill up my tire before work. Until yesterday. The morning I was excitedly awaiting becoming a titan-haired goddess. My. Tire. Will. Not. Fill. And. Stay. Full.

I was faced with a choice. Immediately take my car to the shop and skip my goddess inducing appointment. Or. Drive the farm truck which has no license plate to my hair appointment?

Oh the choices in life we are forced to make.

Of course, I chose the most selfish of the options and trundled off to my appointment. Did I mention that the truck windown doesn't work. And it is stuck ALL THE WAY OPEN? On my way there, I made an appointment at the shop. By the time I had figured out my delimma and made it to the salon, I was a wee tad late.

After I was turned into a not-so-titan-haired goddess I went back home to take my little car to the repair shop. Unfortunately, in my rush to become a titan-haired goddess, I had left my headlights on and the battery was dead. Because this is a favorite past-time of mine, I am quite skilled in the use of jumper cables. However, this poses a problem when there are NO JUMPER CABLES TO BE FOUND. After hunting through the enormous shop, I was able to find some frayed and frail looking cables. As I attached them to the batteries, I was quite sure my gravestone was going to read: Since God has a sense of humor, she died shocked. Payback for the years of shocking her father. But, all went well and a few minutes later, I was on my way.

I planted myself on the couch of the repair shop and prompty fell asleep. Now, this was supposed to be simple. When I bought my car, it came with an extra set of rims AND tires. All they needed to do was swap them out. But, you have to understand that this repair shop is a little dysfunctional. My father took his car in to get the air-conditioning repaired, $1000 later it came back. Air-conditioning still not working.

They wake me up to tell me that the rims are bent, so they cannot put them on my car. And, the tires are a different size than the current rims on my car. (I should have been suprised, I have had gads of trouble with rims in the past.) Also, the rear tire which had been leaking, had a hole in the sidewall, which means it cannot be plugged. Oh yes! My two front tires need to be replaced, they are almost bald. Would I like them to order me a whole new set of tires?



No, my friends. I WOULD LIKE A SCOOTER. Preferably powered by my own feet.

Several of us were sitting around chatting about how many cars we had out for the month, at the moment, I had the most cars out. When I expressed that I was displeased with the amount I had out a few people commented that I am too hard on myself. The perfunctory "it's still early in the month" sort of comments were made. I said that in order to meet goals you must stay AHEAD of the game.

Vodka Vinny started sputtering. He finally manages to spit out his grievance at me. "What do you think I am?! AN IDIOT! Your lecturing, a forty-eight year old man, ON HOW TO LIVE LIFE. And your just a silly little girl."

I looked at him, square in the eye and said: "No, Vinny, I am not lecturing you. I was simply commenting on how I sell cars. Actually, how I sold ten and a half cars last month, more than you have since June."



To add insult to injury for the poor inebriated fool management high-fived me for such a wise use of words.

Why must you force us to work on Monday when absolutely nothing is open including service and part? When there are no customers to be found? When there is not a thing you CAN do because:


EVERY DAMN THING IS CLOSED!

I personally don't think they have gone anywhere as in--runaway to a private island and hidden from neurotic women--more so they are just gone. As in. Do. Not. Exist.

Wait. There are two. My little brother who is kind, helpful and caring. Doing such things as helping me fill up my perpetually soft tires. The other one is The Perfect Boyfriend Of Twiglet. Both completely unavailable and, in essence, non-existent.

Starbucks Boy, I thought, was decent, if not good. But alas! Once more in life I was sadly deluded. I am back to being jaded and thinking all men are assholes waiting to rip you apart at a moments notice. Sadly, when I exist in this state I tend to be funnier and pursued by more silly boys. But I also tend to sit glowering at my desk writing long missives about the patheticness of men and life in general.

This month looks like it will be bright for all the people I work with. At least when I started selling cars I was going through a relatively optimistic/nice streak. Now, even that is gone and I am all out competitive bitch.

In short, I have concluded if there are any good men left, they will most certainly come to the rescue of my coworkers who will be soon stripped of any illusions that I was once a nice person. I would, at least, occasionally pretend that I could be sweet, innocent and charming. But, as unfair as it may seem to these poor mortals, all my bitterness at life in general will be channeled into neatly kicking their asses verbally, mentally and in car sold counts.

Wheeling and dealing men of the car business who think they have pulled a fast one on a nice girl, I have news for you:


Watch your back.

This afternoon as we were sitting on the deck, giving our lunch orders to our highly incompitent waitress, when I finially announced I would be eating salad. Barbie protested loudly about it being a holiday weekend, no healthy food allowed. Queen-Of-Slackers, Miss Notoriously Unhealthy defended me by saying:


"Well, she did eat half a can of squirty cheese on the way here, she deserves some salad."

As soon as I finished mentally murdering the stupid assholes I work with, guess who pops by but Queen-Of-Slackers with a frappicino. We chatted for a few minutes and made plans for the evening. Probably something along the lines of listening to Coldplay and being depressed.



Of course, she made all the men I work with wish they had just been seventy-three times nicer to me.

One of the "gentlemen" I work with (very loose use of the word) is a self-confessed alcoholic. Not self-confessed in the manner that he goes to AA meetings and avoids partying, but self-confessed in the fact he proudly drinks vodka on the job. And offers it to whomever else might have a hankering for alcohol.

To put it nicely, this guy is annoying. He is, after all, one of the people who tried to unsucessfully steal one of my deals. He is loud, brash and frequently voices his unwanted and uncensored opinions. There are not words to express his ignorance.

This afternoon, I had a car traded in that he was interested in so he took it out for a little test drive. He comes back, tosses me the keys and tells me how horrible it is. Two minutes later, he informs me that brake fluid is leaking from my trade. Hmm. Could it be because YOU last drove it? He also informs me that this would indicate the brake lines broke, which means I now have no brakes. And I still have to move it. Do you understand that? I HAVE TO MOVE IT.

I was already irritated at him for something else, but then to have the audacity to break my trade and then expect ME to risk life and limb moving it?! How about no. I mentioned this to him, but he didn't really seem to comprehend what I was saying to him (a wee bit too much vodka?!) and he repeated, again, that my brake lines were broken. Ha, ha. (He has quite possibly the world's most annoying laugh, rivaled only by that of my manager.) We repeat this back and forth process about fifteen times, until I cheerily offer to choke him and retreat to my desk.

At this point, I am worried. I have a car gushing brake fluid and no way to move it. I most certainly do not trust my own driving skills. Idea! I con the lot boy into moving it. I inform him of the problems and he assures me that he can safely move it.

Until my manager comes out and yells "GREAT! Now I have a seventeen year old moving a car with no brakes. Fucking terrific!"

I suppose you would rather have ME, who is far less knowledgable about cars than the aforementioned seventeen year old, move the car and possibly KILL myself?! YES! SOUNDS LIKE A GREAT IDEA!

I momentarily quavered between a full-blown diva tantrum and kicking his ass. I opted with neither, continued typing on the computer and made sure the car was safely moved.



I am now regretting not suggesting Vodka Vinny move the car himself.

Last night, as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I was actually sniffling a little at my decision to shut down my blog. Perhaps I just need a vacation? Need to revisit my blogging persona?

And then it dawned on me: in three days I will be a red-head. My spunk, my vigor and my way with drawing and quartering people shall be made whole. I will be reincarnated. I will be fine.

I think being a boring brunette had finially gotten to me. I was trying to make a wise and logical decision. Down with being logical! Down with being nice! I am quite tired of it.

I shall now resume being normal. Really. I shall. Even if it means spiking everyone's drinks. I shall be:


Porkchop

My own worst nightmare, has become my reality. My posts have become infrequent, and when I do finally post, it is boring and dull. I routinely have nothing funny or even vaguely amusing to say, instead I prattle about trivial annoying subjects.

My blog is no longer a witness to my life, or even notes of my life. It is whatever leftover thought processes I might have at the end of a long day, scraped out of the cavern I call my head. Sadly, it still MIGHT be a witness to my life, because my life has become insanely dull and tedious. As you can see, when I do write, I frequently contradict myself.

My trademark scathing humor seems to have disappeared somewhere, leaving behind a giggling little girl who cannot crack a joke to save her life. And when she does try, it is the same tired lines over and over again.

Do not think this is limited to my blog, it is me as a person. For the past month and a half.

My sister has eclipsed me in blog hits. The one thing I took pride and comfort in was the fact people were actually reading. And frankly, I don't blame them for no longer reading. For my blog can only now be taken the same way I used to eat my oatmeal: drowned in sugar and disguised.

I think it is quite safe to say now that the time has come for me to cease my online prattlings. Lay to rest the tired corpse of my blogging self.

If you will--I have drunk the vodka and slit my wrists of my blog. The life has sufficiently been drained out of it.



Rest In Peace, Sweet Porkchop.

I am hungry. And want sushi. Badly.

I called the sushi place and was placing my order when my customer called me and informed me he would be here shortly, to pick up a vehicle. Right after they come, I have another customer and then a delivery after that.

I have fifteen thousand phone calls I need to make and I cannot escape. I am currently eating stale pringles and caffeine free diet coke.

But all I can think of is sushi.

Nice. Cold. Sushi.



Where are the groupies when I actually NEED them?!

Why is it when I virtuously work out, eat breakfast and make an effort to be responsible, I survive the rest of the day by eating EVERY SINGLE THING IN SIGHT?

Apparently, the danw of the internet age has finially hit our office. But in order to support such a change, we are getting a computer and computer stand for everyone to use.

Computer stand.

One of those harmless flat little boxes that once opened is akin to pandora's box. Lots of screws, allen wrenches, flat panels and wheels that snap. And, of course, the obligitory confusing instructions that look as if they are written in greek.

Guess who was elected, in an office of thirteen men, to put the computer stand together?

Of course. Porkchop.

I really think it was an excuse to watch me kneel on the floor in a skirt and lean over in my silk shirt. Sadly, I think I can probably outweld them all with a screwdriver or allen wrench.


This is not eqaulity. This is PATHETIC.

I work 50-60 hours a week.

I sleep 50-60 hours a week.

I see my sisters 1 hour a week.

I see the rest of my family .5-1 hour a week.



I feel like drinking vodka and slitting my wrists: 24/7