From: Belligerent Young Lad Who Lives Not Far From I, Who I Obviously Not Getting Any, Because His Seduction Skills Are A Little Rusty

Hey, I don't think that this picture is really you. What, did you go to the mall and get one ofthose Glamour Shots done or something? Do you havea real picture? Like you at home on your stairmaster or something? Or do you even work out? OK, stop trying to fool all of us guys, and let's see what you REALLY look like...

My Reply:

Big words coming from someone who doesn't even have a picture posted.

No. That is not a mall "glamour shot". Are those still available? For some reason, I thought those were relagated to the days of triangle perm hair and overly done rouge. However. Apparently, they are still in existance, perhaps this is from previous experience?

Yes. I workout. No. I do not have a picture of myself on my stairmaster. First off--I don't take pictures at the gym. Secondly--when I do workout, I go to workout. Not get hit on. I am not one of those people who dolls themself up to go to the gym. I believe, that too, was left for the eighties. Thirdy--I do not keep a Stairmaster in my home to daily remind myself that torture is just a stair step away. From your lack of picture, I'm guessing you don't either.

I hope that answers all your questions. And since you were so inquisitive, I think it is fair if I can ask you a quick question:

Are you always such an asshole to people you don't even know?

Another Word To The Wise


Do not eat chili while driving, when wearing a white shirt. It might be alright with darker colors, but definately not white.

Tomato stains do not come out. Not with tide pens, not with water, not with soap and water, not with anything.

Perhaps, if I curbed my greed, not only would I benefit looks-wise (i.e. waistline) but my personal orderliness factor would skyrocket.

Oh well. I am making lonliness and matted cat hairball dolls, vogue.

Slithering Down The Slippery Slope


Towards plump.

Not only am I rapidly becoming soft, fleshy and matronly. But I am ensuring that my deep, dark fears of forever being alone will come true. I am also affirming my growing realization that I am pretty, in a mousy diminutive sort of way.

Knowing the truth and it setting you free, sucks.

Because, you know what being free, in this case, means? Early, early mornings at the gym. Not eating. Taking crack/diet pills. And worrying over whether the haircolor I selected is the BEST for me.

Remind me again why I cannot be the Fat Auntie who makes cannolies and cookies, gives your warm hugs in her huge enveloping bosom and FOREVER REMAINS UNMARRIED AND LONELY?

My outlook is bright.

Word To The Wise:


Scrabbling about underneath your grand piano five minutes before you leave for work, might not be the cleverest idea. After all, didn't you, just moments before, carefully pin your hair in a delicate french twist?

This will result in your hair sliding off your head exactly thirty-two minutes after you get to work.

Collect your dignity and move on.

Wishing, But Not Really


My sister is a single mother. A single mother who, fights fiercely to give her little boy a happy childhood. She and I work together. However she, who has the child who needs to see her, has seniority. Which requires her to work longer hours than I.

Tonight. She picked up her child from school and had him come sit quietly, do his homework and wait for her to be finished work so she could go home with him and just spend a few hours with him. If everything went according to schedule, he should only have to wait about three hours. Unfortunately, as luck often has it, hours ran long. Since I wasn't required to stay, I offered to take him home and stay with him until she could escape.

My nephew is a handsome little fellow who has a rebellious streak a mile wide. Highly encouraged by his father. But, his love for my sister is so incredibly genuine and unjaded, it makes makes me wish I had a tiny bit of that.

I took him home and played in the bath with him. We talked about Mama and how much she loves him. How customers can be a real pain and cause her to stay later than she would really like. Because, really, she just wants to be home with her little boy."Yes." He nodded his soapy mohawk. "But, Mama has to have the customers. Because, she is working hard so she can be home with me. And pick me up from school."

Mama didn't get home until late. We were tucked in bed and reading stories by the time she was able to untangle herself from work. However, even though the mothering moments of single-parenthood are few and far between the unpleasant has to be addressed whenever possible. She firmly discussed the unacceptability of his swearing problem, which only seems to pop up whenever he comes back from his Father's. She wasn't harsh, she was firm.

Nevertheless, his huge brown eyes got even bigger and he began to leak tears. And then, his whole body shook and he just cried and cried. Once she finially calmed him down, he apoligized for disappointing her and, well, he was "so sorry for crying, but, Daddy always yells for little mistakes" and it scares him.

For a minute, I remembered that feeling of being little, scared, upset and lonely.

She calmed him, hugged him and told him she loved him. His little brown face lit up. Life was good again.

We finished our story. He planted his hand, which is no longer chubby but rapidly strong, on my cheek. "Auntie. I love you. Please read more for me."

I couldn't read more. I had to go. Just as well. I was crying. Because, really, that's all I want from life. Unconditional love. With a story.



The mistaking of my older sister for me. There was a time when I would roll my eyes and toss my hair whenever one more person mistook me for one of my sisters. But. I have not only grown to tolerate it, but actually view it as a compliment. All three of my sisters are fantastically gorgeous.

The sister who went to Starbucks this morning was mistaken for me. I don't know if she should be insulted, or I should be very, very complimented. After all. I am only three sizes larger than her.

Either way. I am savoring it. Greatly.

Feeling Quite Complimented


Today someone at my new job told me that I seem quite, well, British. My posture, choice of words and gesturing all seemed quite like I should be speaking with an accent.

When pondering if I should develop an accent to go with my lovely new percieved persona my sister groaned, rolled her eyes and said "NO! NOT IF IT IS ANYTHING LIKE YOUR FAKE SOUTHERN ACCENT."

There went that idea.

But. I figured, new job, new accent. Right?

I have been thoroughly cleaning my room this week, a feat in and of itself. But, while cleaning, I found a non-rhyming poem that was written by the chicken farming mogul I dated quite some time back. For those of you who do not know of whom I am speaking, be quite glad.

He wasn't a bad fellow, just a little... chicken-farmer-ish. He gave me this poem after we had gone on, maybe, two or three dates. He is getting married this March. Upon finding this poem, I thought about having it written up and framed for him, but decided against it.

Here it is. So you can laugh and let your skin crawl, with me.

This must be a dream forming an unbreakable team
It can be called fate. I am so lucky to have gotten one date.
We both are so young, I thought words could never leave my tounge
These words that come to mind were so very easy to find
When I'm with you all my worries dissappear and I have seem to lose all fear.
We go so well together, I feel light as a feather
When I first saw you my heart skipped a beat.
The sound of your voice knocked me off my feetI know my words are very, very bold. but fate has started to unfold.
The wave of your hair and shape of your face could never be erased
Your mind, body and soul so pure,
This is the work of the Lord for sure.
We fit so well together. There is no storm we cannot weather.
I hope you don't consider my words phony
The two of us together will never be lonely
I will never let you fall, and relationship never to stall
I know you have been hurt in the past
I will give you my living, making a love to last.
I promise to stand by your side
We will get over every bump on this ride.
I could write lines that go on forever.
I will end this hoping a love will grow forever.

Disturbing, Yet Fun


My father and I have a special bond. I will do all the disgusting, creepy and dangerous things that my other siblings shrink away from. I went bridge jumping (and ended up ripping... Something painful.) I worked in the chicken house (and had bionic biceps.) I eat raw oysters with him (I used to be the youngest patron at the oyster bar.)

We also have a lengthy list of things we want to do together. Jump of the Laurel-Bethel Bridge, blow up seagulls with alka-seltzer and get into more mischief and trouble than is really quite right.

After yesterday, I have one more thing I can add to my "Random Facts About Drew" list. Namely, cat castration. On my father's farm he has a healthy collection of cats to eat the mice and dead chickens. However, he recently received a new batch of kitties since his old one was wiped out by... my little brother's shotgun. (Please understand, these are not nice house kitties we are speaking of. These are mean, wild tomcats who would probably eat small children alive, if they could. These are creatures who are a menace to society.)

There were four cats. Four tomcats. Four tomcats which my father needed assistance with. I will not go into gory detail, unless asked! But. I have to admit, my geeky blood-loving science side came out and I had a ball. (Pun intended.)

Besides, how fabulous will this story be to tell to my already terrified dates? "So. What do you do for fun?"

Chop off the balls of the male specises who have nothing better to do than impregnate innocent females and leave them.

Through all my inconsistencies and changing of plans, the one thing that I have held to steadfast is that I want to have children, someday. Granted, the number of them and with whom I want to have them with has drastically changed. But the fact I still want to have them, has not wavered.

Last night while trekking through the mall with my sister she dragged me kicking and screaming into Pottery Barn Kids. Really. Who wants to go into a store with overpriced furniture for screaming little brats when you have Aldo two stores down? (Where you happened to purchase the most perfect pair of black heels and had to physically restrain youself from buying two more pairs in similar variations.)

Who? Hmm? Well. Now me.


It is paradise for little kids. I ran around the store cooing and screaming like I had lost my head. There are miniature stoves, little retro refridgerators, adorable little stuffed animals and just cute stuff. Providing that perfect little paradise that you wanted when you were young.

Truly. This is disturbing. My sister has found something else for me to spend money on that I not only DO NOT NEED, but really can't even use. And. I should keep this as a closet habit ONLY. What sounds more ridiculous than saying you just spent your life savings on a child's kitchenette?

It is quite good I didn't have my cell phone with me last night, or I would have probably started calling up possible husbands."Hey! This is Drew! This is your lucky day, I have had a change of heart and I suddenly find you attractive enough to be the father of my child."

I creep myself out sometimes.



Interviewed this morning for a position. It went well. But, after much nervousness and practicing of answers, they didn't ask me any questions. They just sort of talked at me.

Forty-five minutes later, they called me and asked me to come back for my second interview. Five more minutes of talking at me. Any questions? No. Good. I have the job.


When I walked into work to hand them my letter of resignation, they wouldn't accept it. After all the dreadful things that you have said to me/done to me, how can you not let me quit?! Expecially considering I am giving you my two weeks, not just walking out the door.

I actually had them wimpering. WIMPERING! Asking me to stay. While this is sweet, it isn't enough. At all.

I AM LEAVING! Yeah, baby.

Big Brother Is Listening


I have never been much for personal calls on my work phone. But. Occasionally, someone does call me. However. This is soon coming to an end since today I found out that they not only monitor incoming calls but record all of them.

Apparently, the stellar fellows I work with were enjoying bouts of phone sex and raunchy conversation. We. Only. Hire. The. Best. The offenders are then called into the office and the conversations are played back to them. Embarrassing, yes. Deserved, yes.

While I can't remember anything horrid I have said about management over the phone, you never know. So. When my sister called me this evening, I asked her to please call me on my cell from now on. But. It still felt odd. Almost like Natzi's were listening.

Her closing line?

"I guess I'll wait until I see you in person to tell you the most effective way for killing management."

You would never guess we were sisters, would you?

Lost Without You


I have this odd paranoia. I cannot leave the house without earrings of some kind in my ears. I can, when forced at gunpoint, leave without makeup. Or maybe even clothes! But I cannot leave without earrings.

I also have this odd habit of losing earrings. Not both. Just one. Which results in this entire One Earring Collection. I think I will donate it to the Smithsonian when I become famous. You know, like I thought was a work of art or something. One more thing to prove my mounting insanity.

Another instance of my insanity is the situation wherein I buy antique earrings that are clip-on's. I mean. I lose pierced earrings. Why wouldn't I lose a bit of metal which is precariously clinging to my ear by a failing clip?

Yes. Why wouldn't I?

So. If you happen to see a antique cameo earring lying in the middle of the road, let me know. Until then, it is partying hard with about forty-three other single earrings.

An obvious reflection of the state of their owner.

I Am A Complete And Total Loser


Because, not only do the people at Blockbuster know my name, not only do they herald me as The Queen Of Restocking Fees, but they don't even ask for my card. THEY PULL MY ACCOUNT UP BY MEMORY!

I think they have started briefing the new employees as to who I am. "There is this pathetic single girl who will come in every so often and take out the whole store. She will not return the DVD's for two months. But. No worries. Her cats didn't eat her. She will eventually bring them back. And by the time she brings them back, YOU WILL KNOW FROM MEMORY WHICH ONES ARE LATE. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your friend, she is paying for your college."

Scaring Myself


Not because I am drinking vodka and taking pills. Not because I have tried to slit my wrists. Not because I tried jumping off a bridge.

Because: I am so frickin' cheerful.

SO cheerful, in fact, my sister asked me "why the HELL are YOU so cheerful this morning?!?"

And I have no idea why.

Feeling Bad:


Because after we arrived at church half and hour late, WITH Starbucks in hand, we sat in the handicapped people section.

It was pretty empty, ok?

Besides. I consider people who find it physically impossible to get to church until it is half over, handicapped.

The smell of glass cleaner makes me gag. Why? It smells like alcohol.

Actually. Like vodka.

(Other than the fever, chills, sinus drip and shallow breathing.)

I drove past Starbucks this morning. PAST STARBUCKS! By the time I realized it, I had to park in a completely different parking lot and slog through fifty-three puddles to get my tea and croussiant.

Once I got to work, I realized I had pulled my hair back and tied it with a ribbon. A RIBBON! Like some sort of rabid schoolgirl.

If you knew me well, you would know that this is definately a sign of impending death.

CoolBlackShoes: andreeew dahling!
CoolBlackShoes: andrew?
CoolBlackShoes: dahling?
CoolBlackShoes: what is this?
CoolBlackShoes: are you a newly minted mute?
CoolBlackShoes: or have you forgotten in the handy thing called away messages?CoolBlackShoes: ah!
CoolBlackShoes: or are you suddenly bashful?
CoolBlackShoes: and your blushing right to the bottom of your pink little toes and the top of your bald little head?
CoolBlackShoes: or! you have suddenly forgotten how to talk to girls?!
CoolBlackShoes: or this isn't really andrew at all! this is the person who murdered him
CoolBlackShoes: who happens to be bored after disposing of the body
CoolBlackShoes: and is lurking to see what friends he has the he could possibly kill next
CoolBlackShoes: oh yes. i like this idea best of all
CoolBlackShoes: so, Mr. Axe Murderer, do you think you could give me lessons?
CoolBlackShoes: i have some rather pesky people at work that need to be done away with
CoolBlackShoes: is that what you say in your line of work "done away with"? Or are you more kosher and say "finished". Either way, I am sure you do not end your sentances with prepoistions
CoolBlackShoes: and you probably spell prepositions right, at that
CoolBlackShoes: or is the murder business not too picky about your english? do you simply speak in gutteral tones when "offing" people?
CoolBlackShoes: do you call it murder business? Or are you corny, and call it the people business. (furious digging in the air with your fingers to form corny air quotes)
CoolBlackShoes: add a exaggerated melodramtic wink to that
CoolBlackShoes: i imagine you cower of poor, poor little andrew's computer, actually in the event that he has passed i will ever so lovingly refer to him as 'drew
CoolBlackShoes: so
CoolBlackShoes: i imagine you cower over poor, poor little 'drew's computer waving your bloodstained fingers over the keys while trying vainly to peck out a message to the fair maiden who wishes to talk to the poor mangled drew who lies bleeding on the floor
CoolBlackShoes: you now, most certainly regret the lack of determination you so effortlessly devoted to typing class of yesteryear
CoolBlackShoes: in case you are an educated man in the people business
CoolBlackShoes: you might acknowledge that i am making little, if none at all, sense of my words CoolBlackShoes: this was in a hope that all my conflicting illustrations would make your obviously disturbed brain explode
CoolBlackShoes: in retribution for poor, poor little drew
CoolBlackShoes: however
CoolBlackShoes: in the event that our assumed murdered drew is actually away from his computer
CoolBlackShoes: simply too rude or forgetful to let the general cybersphere know
CoolBlackShoes: i wish you, dear drew, since i am now speaking directly to you
CoolBlackShoes: a happy and uneventful good night
CoolBlackShoes: i hope that no one in the people business visits you
CoolBlackShoes: actually
CoolBlackShoes: random side note
CoolBlackShoes: today, at work, they said that we, in the car business are in the people business
CoolBlackShoes: makes you wonder about the night habits of car salesmen
CoolBlackShoes: yes?
CoolBlackShoes: me too
CoolBlackShoes: sleep well, good man!
CoolBlackShoes: and remember the moral to tonight's story?
CoolBlackShoes: behind every car salesman lurks an axe murder

Andrew is a delightful friend who is bald and funny. Apparently, someone was using his screen name to harass my sister, but the same mysterious person did not have the balls, er, guts to reply to my obviously annoying taunts.

Super Bad Date Crasher


After the traumatizing training session, I picked up my phone and listened to a rather disturbing voicemail:

"Um, Drew, this is Lee. I am getting ready to go to Starbucks on a date which
will be really bad. I just know it. This guy has asked me out repeatedly. Today,
he put me on the spot, so I couldn't say know. I met him at the DMV. So, you
know, if you wouldn't mind popping by and saving me at some point, I would
appreciate it. I'm meeting him at 5:15."

I glanced at the clock, it was 5:45, which meant the poor girl had endured roughly an half hour of this guy. Far too much time for a good friend to have to spend being tortured in Starbucks.

I breezed into Starbucks in my best date-crashing form. Though, I wasn't really sure what my best date-crashing form was. Simply because I normally arm all good friends with tools to getting out of the date beforehand.

I ordered my drink and "happened" to see my friend. We, of course, pretended to be surprised to see each other. And she introduced me. I quickly sized up the guy. Pathetic does not even begin to describe it. I could easily see that she was miserable and being subtle was NOT going to work. This was going to have the be a full-blown evil bitch job. I mentally rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

Rather than politely asking if I minded he minded if I sat down and joined them, I quickly pulled up a chair plopped myself directly in front of him. Grand Inquisition-style. He looked super excited. I loudly, and rudely, announced that I was Lee's very best friend. And I was here to conduct the interview. If he ever wanted another date, it was me he had to get by. I started off easily. Blood type, pets, family, background, childhood, vehicles, you know, the boring stuff. As he was speaking, I cut him off mid-sentence and asked him if he was in the military. He said that yes, he had been, for six years.

I looked at him with a raised eyebrow and stated rather flatly "We don't like military people. Strike one."

(I honestly didn't know I had it in me to be this heinously rude to people.)

This, of course, threw him for a loop. I spent the next forty-five minutes shredding the poor guy with every question imaginable. I would like to say that he hesitated when I asked him if he would ever take drugs again (he has done acid and weed, on occasion) which was clearly strike two and three.

Then, I pulled out the big guns: religion.

Without getting into the bloody details, I will leave you with the last question I asked the poor lad before my friend finally thought up an excuse to leave.

"So. How do you feel about the immaculate conception?"

*I would just like to say that guys who take women to Starbucks for a date, suck. Badly. It simply sets you up for a long miserable evening where baristas laugh at your misfortune.

Auditory Rape


The perfect cliche ending to the perfect cliche training.

Gathering around, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, singing Lean On Me WITH taped accompaniment.

All seven hundred and thirty-three verses.

It might not have been so bad if they weren't so serious about it.

God bless my sweet little family, but they are some of the most prejudiced people I know.

Most comments are inadvertantly offensive. My darling little Grandma who loves everyone still calls darker people "spooks". However, my uncles on the other side of the family who aren't so loving have more aggresively rude comments regarding people of other races.

So. Tonight was the night I decided to have the little chat with my Dad whereby I would tell him he had to be nice to my "friend" who is coming to my sisters wedding. My "friend" happens to origonally be from Mexico. Regardless of the fact his English would indicate otherwise, I knew that if I did not nip any comments in the bud--a month ahead--I would be in serious trouble.

At first my father was rather miffed and offended that I would think he would say something offensive. When I communicated I thought it might be more unintentional than purposely hurtful, he was slightly mollfied. To demonstrate to me he had properly grasped the weight of our conversation he carefully thought out his greeting and rehearshed it for me. It went something like this:

"Hello, Hosea! How are things south of the border?! I just want you to know, I welcome a Mexican to the family. Our family is getting a little inbred. We need fresh blood."

Our little team building exercises went from bad to worse. You know that activity where you have wire stretched across a frame forming impossibly small holes that you are supposed to hoist impossibly fat people through. Without touching the wire. (If my terribly clear description was a bit confusing, you can check out details and pictures of similar challenges here. Please note: the pictures do not provide an accurate example of the size of our holes. Ours were tiny. Tiny.)

Our fearless leader did a very careful job of painting a rather vivid picture of the spider web we were passing our team members through. We were in the Amazon. If we touched the web, the giant spider would come down and eat us. (Er, excuse me, is this kindergarten all over again?!) In any event, we were to work as a team. They refused to face the fact we would rather pick a team member to sacrifice to the "spider" so we could kill it and thereby skip the exercise entirely. Realism wasn't too high on the list of priorities, apparently.

Since we had plenty of strong/fat/huge guys willing to prove their strength, all this paticular challenge required for me to do was stiffen my body and allow eight men to grab various parts of my body and pass me through the "web". As soon as the exercise was announced I shrank to the back of the group and begain furiously praying we would run out of time before it would be my turn. Ah. No such luck.

One other fellow I work with also has the same negative feelings about being touched. We were trying to give each other moral support, but kept imagining even worse scenarios for one another. He won hands down when he began pointing out that he was sure there would be no shortage of volunteers to try and tuck by perky boobs through. You know, just to be sure they didn't touch the wire. Thanks, man. THANKS FOR MAKING ME WANT TO RUN TO THE BACK OF THE ROOM AND VOMIT.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, it was my turn. I leaned back into the arms of eight sweaty men and stiffened my body. Part of being able to fit through this narrow space was the raising of my hands above my head. Do you realize just how prominently perky 34D boobs are when your body is perfectly straight AND your hands are above your head? Of course this was the day my jeans were slightly too big and this revealed the edge of my lacy underwear. There I am. Arms above my head. Defenseless. Boobs pointing skyward. Toes pointed. Body stiff. Eyes narrowed into slits of death. Mouth bitten into a firm, hateful line.

I lay in their arms dying on the inside. Absolutely dying. Envisioning the hot, hot shower I would be taking as soon as I got home. They pass me through. Let me assure you, I was liberally manhandled. Wait! NO! SOMETHING TOUCHED THE WIRE AT THE VERY END. I had to go again. This time, I must be stiff and perky, but twist and writhe to get through correctly. By the time I was properly passed through without touching, I was shaking with the sheer desire for it to be over. Once my feet were on solid ground, I slunk to the back and whimpered like a violated dog.

You think this would be plenty of touching for everyone. Lots of touching. Touch, touch, touch. Apparently not. APPARENTLY OUR COMPANY ENCOURAGES SLEEPING TOGETHER. At the end of our exercise we had to form a tight shoulder to shoulder circle whereby we all turned to the right and gave that person a backrub. A BACKRUB! Thankfully, on my one side was my cohort in personal space advocation. We gingerly tapped each others backs. But to my other side?


Luck doesn't always favor me.

The new guy who is the very personification of sketchy. Overly gummy smile. Slight receding hairline. Oily sheen on his too tan skin. Very sketchy. I was trying to give him a very vague sort of backrub. But we were having quality control inspections by leadership. Dammit! And then, when he had to rub my back, I could feel his fingers creeping downwards. SOMEONE SHOOT ME NOW.

Once it was all over and I ripped myself away from all this creepiness, he sidles up to me and tells me that the backrub I gave him was. pause, phenomenal.


Not just phenomenal, but said in the tone solely reserved for bad sitcoms after the couple has enjoyed some cheesy and experimental sex. You know, when the guy rolls over and breathlessly says, "that was phenomenal". Yeah. That tone. Not paticularly the tone I wanted to hear from the new sketchy guy.

At this point, group hugs look pretty frickin' sweet.

Corperate Approved Ass Groping


I don't have a fear of heights, I simply have a problem with my personal space being invaded.

Today and for the next two days, we are having one of those little teamwork building seminars. You know, when you sit around and talk about how to improve the company. You congratulate each other on your various strong points. You reinvent the wheel. And you also have those fun little exercises where you are supposed to learn to trust and love your co-workers.

Today, ours was jumping off a ladder into the outstretched arms of our co-workers. Mind you, most people were scared at the jumping off the ladder bit. Personally, I have no problem with heights, it was the touching and groping of my ass that I had a problem with. I am SO not a touchy-feely person. Handshakes are the extent of it. Occasionally, a super happy customer decides to hug me as a sign of their extreme gratefulness. Well. That's what I think it is. (Another co-worker posed the possibility they are simply trying to cop a feel.) In any event, I am not terribly comfortable with touching of any kind.

However. This exercise was for me to fall ass-first into the outstretched hands of my co-workers. Not to mention, I first had to stand on a ladder with my ass facing them so they could stare at it until I gathered the courage to fling myself into their outstretched palms.

For those of you who might like to argue that it was better than falling on the concrete. Don't. Because I'm not to sure about that.

I am so excited to see what tomorrow's exercises hold. Snuggling, anyone?

True Sadness


"MAMA DOESN'T LOVE ME! SHE HATES ME! SHE, SHE DOESN'T LOVE ME..." I lay on the couch half screaming, half crying, curled under a blanket in my underwear. Both my sisters sat beside me, one held my hand and the other rubbed my back. They both spoke in low soothing tones. They told me Mama loved me, they told me Daddy loved me and would die for me. And, because they were speaking to a drunk person who was quite illogical and incapable of seeing the obvious, they assured me they too loved me.

What consistently amazes me about both of my sisters is their pure unconditional love. They care about me. It hurts them to see me hurt. They say when you are drunk, your true person comes out. It turns out, as if this were any news flash, I am a very funny, but sad person. Once before I have gotten this way--that is drunk enough for me to function without any inhibitions whatsoever. The real me. Without the facades, without the emotion control and without the tough shell. I cry alot. I beg people to love me. I become like a hurt little girl, again.

I don't remember everything, or alot, for that matter. But I do remember bits and pieces. They told me more, but not all of it. I have a feeling some of it was too pathetic to recount. I remember sobbing brokenheartedly as I swore my mother didn't love me. I remember choking on sobs because I said Daddy didn't love me. I remember hyperventalating. I remember vomiting. I remember being concerned this was a indicator that I was a lightweight.

Last night, was a reality check. I realize that I cannot go through life faking it. Acting like I am alright. Life hurts. I hurt. People love me. I ignore that. You cannot hide behind humor forever. My humor masks pain and insecurity. Alcohol is a crutch. It's one more thing to distract from who I am and what I am lacking. One more excuse to not own up to my lacking relationship with Christ.

You know how parents say they have to let you make mistakes so you will learn? No matter how much it hurts them, they want you to learn for yourself? For the first time in my life, I fully realize the value and the pain of that lesson. Seeing the looks on my sisters faces when they talked about how unbelievably sad and scared they were for me. They didn't judge. They just told me they loved me. The pain and concern that was lurking in their eyes spoke volumes.

I don't want to change for them. I realize the weight of my actions, not the consiquences. But it is their love, which reflects the love of Christ. Unconditional. Unchanging. Undeserved.

If there is a way for them to completely understand the way they have lived out Christ, for me, I hope they will. Perhaps they will in heaven. Perhaps they will never know. But I will know. I will be able to look at them and remember their lives forever changed mine.

Things I Enjoy In Life:


fresh flowers


rainy days in bed

hot, hot cups of earl grey tea

leather bound notebooks

strains of classical music

shoes that make my legs look fabulous

the perfect lipstick

pens that make your handwriting look elegant

kisses on the forehead

cashmere sweaters

black. black anything.

monogrammed writing paper

feather comforters

nights on the beach

golden afternoon ligh

tsweet smelling hair


tuned pianos


clean four hundred count sheets

hello kisses


stuffed olives

french twists



I wasn't really expecting all that much for my birthday this year. After all, I am not turning a paticularly eventful age and I happen to have a birthday at the most boring time of year possible.

As if it were a gift from God, there were NO customers at work. Not one. This left me to revel in my birthday girl status quite liberally. This morning, my sisters brought me coffee and work and decorated my desk. This included streamers, confetti, party crowns, flowers and a adorable mini cake that I almost set on fire with all my candles. I was called and sung happy birthday to by friends, family, a father in Nova Scotia, ex-boyfriends and current crushes. I was given a Siamese fighting fish, adorable underwear, a diamond ring, a candle I have been coveting for a year, an iPod mini, tickets to a Switchfoot concert, two books, a calender and money. I was sung to various times and given many birthday wishes. I recieved cards from my grandparents, step-grandmother and other relatives. I was amazed at the outpouring of love from people I didn't even know liked me.

The only thing that was missing? A happy birthday wish from my mother. The woman who allowed all this to happen. The woman who chose to give birth to me instead of aborting me like the doctors advised. The person who struggled through hours of home labor to bring me into this world. The person who gave me a birthday.She doesn't believe in birthday's anymore.

Breast Awareness Month


This month for every product we sell a certain amount will be donated to some sort of breast cancer research fund. We have various signs posted telling of our generosity to all of our customers. This is also a good enough reason, or so they think, for them to walk up to you, stare at your chest and shout "OCTOBER IS BREAST AWARENESS MONTH!" As if the male population needed another reason to be cognizant of mammary glands.

But, today management decided to step up their charitable game. We were to inflate pink twelve-inch balloons which proclaimed all sorts of warm fuzzy thoughts about women supporting women. Now, if these had been seventeen or even twenty-four inch balloons, it wouldn't have been so bad. However, the entire time we were inflating and tying them about, all I could think of was swollen ovaries, turgid breasts and puffed-up uteri. (Uteri? Uterueses? Multiple child-bearing facilities?)

I did think it a bit amusing that a male dominated business was trying to attract customers and empathy by reminding the world that they too cared about the racks of women everywhere. After all, that's what community is all about. Right?

What Doesn't Kill You, Makes You Stronger


I never thought I would be in this position--dying from mortification because the people at work found my blog. Not just any people, but ALL people. Paticularly those I hated and wrote the amusing, but rather unflattering, charactures.

Because of this, I have been forced even deeper underground. I do not know if it is the compulsion to share my life with the internet, the habit of writing everything that strikes me as funny or simply the familiar comfort of typing. But, it is safe to say, I can run--and perhaps hide.

Obviously, this time I will be smarter. Cover my tracks. Not let any identifying people link to me. I know, you expect me to next say--quit blogging about work. No. Absolutely not. The ludicriousness of some of the situations I am forced into is too hilarious to keep to myself. And, after all, I need crib notes for my book.

Crisping The Other Side Of Porkchop


To my loyal readers, I would like to thank you for your patience as I recover from my narrow encounter with dooce-dom.

In my abscence, I have begun to change. I work out, chat cheerily with my trainer at an ungodly hour, drink lots of water, pretend to eat healthy and have consiquently dropped a cup size. Hence, the staring at the boobage has gotten less frequent, but not all together vanished.

I am not seeking to become entirely humorless, but I am trying to enlarge my blogging muses and subjects. However. This does not come easily to an crusty Porkchop. Bear with me. But if you stop reading altogether, I will be completely understanding. (As if you were seeking my approval for that paticular decision.)

I may, at times, become introspective, suicidal, irritatingly opinionated and generally pointless. No worries! I am not becoming a well-rounded, sweet or demure person. No matter how many times Porkchop writhes on the skillet, there will never be an outcome of candy-striper cheer. (Or stripper for that matter. CANDY STRIPPER! MY NEW STAGE NAM--. Oh. Yes. Introspection. Back to introspection.)

For my faithful readers who told me I was funny, thank you ever so much. For those of you who read me for my scathing commentary, thank you. For those of you who will stick with me through this transition, thank you as well.

Thank you all, and goodnight.

This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.


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