I was a little disappointed in the car. Yellow. YELLOW?! How can we scream any louder "I AM TRYING TO IMPRESS GIRLS WITH MY SPORTS CAR EVEN THOUGH I DIDN'T PAY FOR IT AND EVEN THOUGH I AM TOO LAME TO DRIVE A AUTOMATIC."

Barbie is SO much better than a second-class Porsche. If anyone dares say anything about beggers being choosers--I will dismember you with toothpicks.

Besides, when your sisters work at dealerships, you aren't a begger. In fact, I think we just might have a Jaguar lurking somewhere about here.

Makes me happy.

I have consumed two doubleshots already this morning and am working my way through a venti caffeine beverage. I have every intention of sending the minions out for more, once I run out.

No. I don't think this makes me appear like a overworked uber yuppy. I also do not believe it lends a air of importance to me as I sit, feebly typing at my desk, propping my eyelids open. Acting as if I pulled some sort of important all-night duty.

It just makes me happy because it keeps me alive, breathing and only two steps away from stimulant induced hysteria.

It's going to be a memorable day.


I realize that memorable is probably a very bad choice of words. "Hellish" might be more accurate. Followed closely by "nerve-wracking", "freakish" and "agodawfulnightmare". But, this is my positive face.

Did I mention that caffeine leaves me strangely illogical?! (Only when coupled with three hours of sleep and a stringe of hopelessly dreadful days preceeding the consumption of said epic proptions of stimulus.)

For all my waxing eloquent on the changes I have made in my attitudes, I find it amusing that this morning as I was motoring to work, I realized I am slipping back into my discontent.

Whenever I find myself chafing with unhappiness, I like to blame it on my job. Let's face it, we spend a good majority of our day working, shouldn't we enjoy it? Yes. But sometimes you don't have the luxery or option of changing your job. Which is precisely where I am right now. Rather than slithering back into cynical complaints, I force myself to think of things that make me happy.

Sushi. Listening to my own music in my office. My morning cup of tea. Starched shirts. Raspberry jam with seeds. Baking cookies for people. My warm slippers.

(Do we see a trend of my happiness revolving around food?)

This is me forcing myself to be cheerful, even if it kills me--via obesity.

Riding horses.

As I wait for the last thirteen minutes of my workday to slip away, I was suddenly struck with a longing to go riding. I am not sure if it is the exhilarating sport I miss, or the memories that are linked so closely with it.

I miss the smell of horses. When you bury your nose in their mane while your brushing them. I miss the fear of falling off (again!) and landing on your head (again!). I miss the adrenaline rush of clearing a jump nicely. I miss the warming flush of victory and the bitter, bitter taste of defeat.

Odd how things come flooding back to you like that and the most random times.

When my pants are the slightest bit too short the icy air is more than happy to nip at my ankles and remind me that I have committed such a henious fashion crime.

Damn you short pants and icy air. I feel insecure enough without your help.

Used to, when it came to work, I was the biggest pushover. You didn't have to ask me to work overtime, if you hinted at it, I did it. Weekends? Check! Working through lunch breaks? Check! No lunch breaks? Check! Special projects? Check! Having to skip out on family stuff because of work? Check!

I was ALL ABOUT IT. Because of this, it generally made me a pretty favored employee. It made me feel so important! You know, having to pass up on everything because I had to work. Sorry! Can't make it to Granny's funeral! Did I ask off?! NO! I don't even want to THINK about troubling the higher powers that be. THEY CANNOT BE BOTHERED WITH SUCH TRIVIAL MATTERS.

Now, I can't blame ALL of this on my own self importance. This is how we were raised. Work, was a viable emotion option. Do you love someone?! You work! Are you angry?! Work! Are you depressed?! WORK IT OFF! Work was the way we communicated. We knew how to work! We have been, and always will be, work horses. We plow through our work until we GET IT DONE. We do not stop until we GET IT DONE. There is no task to big or to small. WE WILL CONQUER.

Needless to say, employment has never been a problem for any of us. Our Dad always said "If you can't get a job, go work for someone for free. They will see how hard you can and will work and will hire you." I remember thinking how silly that was. I mean, WHO DOESN'T WORK HARD?! As I got older, I found out--alot of people. Hence internships, projects and even other jobs have always grown us a crop of other job offers. We are a family who works hard and prides ourself in our reputation.

Of course, as my father has gotten older, he has tried to temper our young zealousy with a few sage words regarding priorities and the brevitity of life. These speeches were normally met with a nod of comprehension and not much more. After all, half the time when we heard these talks, we were busily working WHILE he told us this. Hands--always in motion. Eyes--searching for a new task. Mouth--yelling out orders. Foot--tapping impatiently for the next job.

The offspring of my father is always loved by employers. Normally, we end up taking the responsibility of a couple of people. This gives us much leveraging power when negotiating with our employers. But this also makes us a tiny bit hated by our co-workers. Normally we show them up to a certain degree. After all the majority of being a "shining star" is hard work, very little of it intelligence. (I am not negating my siblings intelligence, they are all very, very smart. I am simply saying that hard work gets you--far.)

I think, I have sufficiently communicated the ingrained love of work and loyalty to employers. So when I tell you that I told my employer that no I would not work this weekend. It was monumental! This is the second time I have told my employer no. Now, don't get me wrong, it isn't like I am shouting NO! at them everytime they ask me to do something. This is me saying no when they ask me to do something outside the bounds of my contract that would interfere with me spending time with my family.

Ah! NO! (Like those Capitol One ads.) What's in YOUR wallet?

Here is to a year ahead that is balanced between work and family!

Christmas this year was most definately different. All of the family was poured into my parents new home. Without internet, without television, without... anything but alcohol and ourselves for amusement.

I felt very chic leaving our apartment with our bags packed, arriving at their sprawling house on the water with our perfectly wrapped packages. Sliding along the hardwood floors into the warm sunroom overlooking the water. Watching Dad smoke his pipe in his cozy little den. All quite adorable and sweet.

For the first four hours.

Afte that--time stretched before us like a fat lady looking at spandex leggings. Possible to fill, but brutal.

It wasn't so bad. We joyfully plied the parents with spirits. We cooked dinner and washed dishes, cooked breakfast and washed dishes, cooke... you get the idea. There was little left for us to do but eat and wash dishes. My hands are sufficiently dried out and I have sworn off food for the next week.

It was a cozy weekend of family togetherness. Yes, that shall last me quite nicely until next year.

What is it about Christmas cheer that prompts any male I might have ever dated, to call me ?! I REALLY DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU, PLEASE GO AWAY! But in the spirit of Christmas cheer I stifle all the amusing barbs and witty retorts. I do my best to sound interested. Congratulate them on the wedding/baby/job/fact-the-are-still-alive. I am sweet, warm and wishing to heaven the would hurry the hell up and shut up.

However. The last call was a bit much. This paticular ex has been written about before and truth be told, I am too lazy to go dig him up from the archives. In short--this lad is dreadful. He was loved dearly by my father and no one else. He was a redneck celebrity. He wanted to marry me and for me to be his--redneck trophy wife? (I thought that redneck trophies were limited to deer antlers.) He has called me occasionally since we broke up to give me postings of his life progress.

He let me know when he had started dating. And then he called me to let me know he had gotten engaged so "I could stop chasing him now." Er, right. (This is the boy who drunk dialed and proposed to me AFTER we broke up. And sober, the next day, repeated his offer.) Needless to say, the conversations are very one-sided. Him talking about himself and his fiancee. Occasionally, I manage to drop a impressive buzz-word that puts him properly in his place, but other than that. I mostly "mmm-hmm" my way through the conversation.

This one had so many opportunities to put his little redneck hiney in it's proper place. But I bit my tongue and smothered my laughter. However, the highlights were just too good to go unknown.

Highlight #1: He is working out again. Yes. With his fiancee. Yes. They work out together! OH! DID I MENTION HIS FIANCEE WORKS OUT WITH ME?! (I refused to work out with him while we were together. I worked out, just not with him. There is something deeply personal about sweating BY YOURSELF.)

Highlight #2: Yes. So, he is getting married. In March! Yes, HE AND HIS FIANCEE ARE GETTING MARRIED! (Did anyone miss the fact they are GETTING MARRIED?!) He is working out for the wedding.

Highlight #3: Even though he is WORKING OUT, she doesn't care if he isn't as buff as when WE WENT OUT. (He was worse than a anorexic little girl. He counted calories and worked out two hours every day. I was uncomfortable EATING in front of him. I continually pestered him to lighten up, but that was his life goal TO BE BUFF AND WORK OUT.)

Highlight #4: His Dad is bugging him for kids. Yeah. But, I don't want to have kids for three or four more years. But... who knows when we might have them because:

Highlight #5: He and his fiancee have not had sex yet. Yes. You read correctly. He not only informed me that he and his wife-to-be had not yet been intimate but that he was GREATLY LOOKING FORWARD TO IT. Don't get me wrong, I am all for waiting until you are married to have sex. But is it really necessary to GIVE ME THE GORY DETAILS!

Highlight #6: Apparently, what prompted this, was the little talk my Dad had when we first started dating. (As a rule of thumb, whenever my father meets someone I am dating, he takes them aside and assures them if they ever lay a hand on me he will "slit their sack and spill their seed upon the ground." This had a rather lasting impression on this lad and he swore, to my father, that the next time he had sex, it would be when he was married.)

Highlight #7: He spoke with my father the other day and was reminded of how much he LOVED my Dad. And how much my whole family loved him. AND HOW GREAT HE WOULD HAVE FITTED IN WITH MY FAMILY. (Did he ever consider I am part of my family and he didn't seem to fit so great with me?)

I think those were some of the more lasting highlights. This was, of course, sprinkled with lots of little barbs meant to nettle me into becoming--jealous? Insecure? Devious? Interested in breaking up his wedding? Whatever the goal was, I can't say it succeeded.

Unless his goal was for me to have the burning desire to reach through the phone, pat his head condescendingly and wish him a long life of procreation, wild monkey sex with his soon to be wife and a whole gaggle of screaming redneck children.

Darling--I wish you the best, really. Because perhaps, after your married, YOU'LL STOP CALLING because you will be preoccupied with your wife and SCREECHING FLYING MONKEYS.

To the few ex's, admirers and groupies who haven't called--Merry Christmas. I really do hope you are very sucessful, have a very hot girlfriend and that you haven't thought of me in days. Really, I do. Spare yourself the phone call. I believe you, really.

Now, go off and have a Merry Christmas with your super-hot girlfriend and leave me alone, with my cats. The fact that I am allergic to cats and don't have any is a moot point right now. Because, through much practice, I have discovered that's what it is going to take to get you off the phone.

I am alone, with cats, dying for you to say the word and take me back.

Merry Christmas, Darlings.

I am quite possibly the WORST reflector ever. When I think of reflectiong, I think of drawn shades, grey walls and cross-legged chanting. In that respect, I don't really reflect. Back when I thought I "reflected" I would find a bottle of Absolut, turn on Coldplay and sob my eyes out. Ah! Yes! The head clearing process of alcohol-soaked reflection.

Not too long ago I was incredibly depressed. I would cry at the drop of a hat. All I wanted to do was cry and sleep. Oh yes! And drink. Not just drink, but drink lots--fast. Drink, cry, sleep, rinse and repeat. Everytime I drank, I felt like I was trying to fill something, hide something and drown something. (Hello! I realize I am now officially the QUEEN of cliches.) Yet, I also felt like I was trying to let the 'real' me come out. The clamoring, insecure little girl. The sadness. The darkness that was normally veiled by biting humor. I don't know what finially made me wake up. When I did, I wrote about it.

I quit drinking. I started making a concerted effort to be kind to people. I temporarily deleted Coldplay from my computer. I made my faith a priority. I realized I was missing the most inportant thing a person could want--a real relationship with God. Not just a pact where I endured an hour of church every week or ran my eyes over scripture. But a honest quest to know God. I pretty much gave myself a slap upside the head and asked myself if the emptiness I was experiencing was something I wanted to live with for the rest of my life. While it might seem logical to say the answer was a resounding no, it would be more accurate to say the answer was a reluctant no. That meant I would have to face alot of baggage and pain I had been pushing aside. It meant I would have to (cliche alert!) get real.

To me, getting real with was not something to be done overnight. Not something that I could check off a chart or give myself a gold star once I finished. It's something that is a daily decision. To be happy. To say something positive instead of snarky. To dwell on kindness instead of bitterness. To put it lightly, these things are NOT easy for me. They do NOT come naturally to me. But everytime you make the right decision, making it again gets a tiny bit easier.

I have gone back and listened to Coldplay and asked myself why the hell I felt the need to sob at every poignant word. I drank a glass of wine and asked myself why I also felt the need to chug all alcohol that came within a eight foot radius of me. Since then, I have asked myself alot of question. Evaluated my priorties. Shed alot of pretense.

I have established to myself that certain actions are only destructive with certain attitudes. That I know. I have made myself find my limits and acknowledge what they are. But, for the first time since then, I actually desire to reflect. To pause. To be sad for a moment.

I have kept myself caught up in a warm web of kindness and busyness. When your being kind to people you really don't need to stop and reflect and be sad. Kindness is good! Don't get me wrong. But you cannot block ALL emotions with kindness. Every now and then, you just need to think. Be quiet.

And dare I say it?! Be sad. Not depressed. But sad.

Just reminding myself that life changes. Maybe it's not changing right now. Maybe it won't for awhile. But life does change. A concept I have always had trouble accepting. I am reminding myself to treasure the golden memories. Remind myself that I have so much to be grateful for. I have so many people that love me. I have an amazing family. Something I wouldn't trade for the world.

For the first time in a very long time. I cry. Not out of depression. Not out of sadness. But out of gratefulness. The tears feel good. Warm. Salty. A reminder that I am human. I think about the incredible example of my father--leadership and love. The love of both my mothers--though quirky and decidedly different, they both love me dearly. My older sisters with their unconditional love, friendship and belief in me. My darling brother who brings tears to my eyes when I think of how much HE has taught me.

I have been given so much. Asked so little.

This is grace and love. A lesson I care never to forget.

As you all well know, say just the right thing to provoke me and my hairs will stand on end and I will rip into you like a cobra who hasn't seen meat in seven weeks.

Use just the right word combinations, manipulate me just the right way, insult just the right person and I am ALL OVER YOU, like a fat kid on cake. Occasionally, people purposely do it, just to watch me fly into a amusing rage. I usually know when this is being done, but I have standards to uphold, pricinples to defend and a reputation of viciousness to protect, so I normally go along with it anyway. I don't mind being entertainment. Paticualrly when this is normally my family members on a bored Wednesday night. Plying me with insults the way you ply a dog with treats to make him roll over and play dead.

However. There are the rare instances when someone says just the right things and I decide not to bite. Why? Because they WANT me to. And heaven help us if we let someone beat us at our own mind games! Though, I'm not sure what is worse. Playing into their hands-or-suffering the internal scorching of my own rage, since I cannot let it out.

Yes. I am having one of those moments. I want to stomp, I want to scream, I want to verbally viscerate, I want to call up the forces of hell and order a good ass-kicking. I want to make their life, miserable.

But I'm not.

I'm biting my tongue. I'm ignoring. I'm wishing I had a hammer so I could smash every one of my fingers to distract myself.

All this righteousness sucks. I really wouldn't recommend it.

And I really don't know what the point of this post was. Perhaps a tiny alleviation of suffering? Perhaps a very conceited way to point out how "righteous" I am. Perhaps I am a spoiled little brat who needed to vent. But either way, it pisses me off. And this is my blog so I can talk about whatever the hell I want.

So there.

When I was thirteen I was rightfully told I was well versed in the art of bullshit. I can sound intelligent on pretty much any subject, with the exception of airplanes. As I have gotten older, I have realized the value of such a gift. I have honed my craft and it is now a joke among many as to my prowess.

Today, I was able to even impress myself.

A customer walked into my office and seated himself in front of my desk. He was a middle aged librarian type. Tweed jacket, leather elbow patches, gold rimmed glasses, polished signature, crisp in his words. Very interesting fellow. Also, highly pretentious.

Sitting behind my desk on my credenza among various family photos is a iron cast statue. I picked it up rather inexpesively the other day at Ikea. It is pretty, fits nicely with my decor and adds a occasional conversation starter.

However, with this gentleman it wasn't going to simply start a conversation, it was going to provide deep and MEANINGFUL conversation for his entire visit in my office. He started off with a barrage of questions regarding it. Name? Name of artist? Signifigance? Era? etc...

At first, I cringed. But then, I realized it was an opportunity for me to reach to the next level of my game. He wants answers?! HE'LL GET ANSWERS! Once he left, he had enough information to write a short text book blurb.

The statue "Life" is a beautifully simple portrayal of the childlike desire to embrace the moments we have and dance. It was crafted by a African child named Muesaka Zwibi whose warrior king father was killed by warring rebels. Muesaka was brought to London where he is currently studying at the Royal College of Art. He hopes to be a generational influence for peace and a advocate for the simplistic beauty and joy that art can bring to the classroom. His collection will be debuted Fall of 2007.

Now if only airplanes were so easy.

Because everyone reads it. Everyone including aunts, uncles, parents, siblings, former dates, dating potentials, co-workers and the mice on the counter who have been leaving gifts for Barbie.

This leaves me with little to blog about. Hell! My LIFE leaves me with little to blog about. (Yes. I know I just ended TWO sentances with prepositions.)

My most exciting endeavors as of late have been fattening myself up for a rather chubby Christmas. Today's contributions have been eating straight brie cheese and a entire bar of dark chocolate.

Yes. I'm trying to get all the rolls on my stomach to meet in one GIANT roll. I will be Jelly Roll Woman! HOORAY! And then I can roll everywhere instead of walk! Like the blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Hopefully with better hair and without the odd bellybutton. That girl's belly button disturbed me. As did Johnny Depp. But he disturbed me in a good way. Whereas Blueberry Girl's bellybutton was just plain disturbing. Mental note: in quest for fatness, don't eat anything blueberry flavored.

Yeah. This whole boring life business really needs some work.

For those of you who have been reading for awhile, you remember The Original Porkchop. Quick to shred, destroy or verbally annihilate anyone who got in her path. It was very amusing, but exhausting. I found myself keeping a cynical and acerbic outlook on all of life.

I have now reserved me legions of death for those who dare to insult those I love or care about. After all, I feel much more justified defending them rather then defending my own wounded pride. Besides, this allows me to continue in my quest of being a nice person but also being able to feed the inner demons who cry out for the blood of those stupid enough to cross Porkchop.

This has led to the new, slightly improved (depending on your point of view or if you have to work with me or not) Porkchop Lite.(Unfortunately, this has absolutely nothing to do with the size of my butt.)

So, this explain the inconsistencies of behavior of nice/bitchy/sweet/frothingatthemouth/etc. (Though, defending those you love falls into the nice category, yes?)

A darling friend of mine was lamenting the death of Porkchop, The Cold And Piggy Hearted. I'm sorry dear, but a new day has dawned for Porkchop Lite. (Not to be confused with lite bacon. One has absolutely nothing to do with the other. I am not rubbery, or thinly sliced.)

Hopefully, this explains my slightly strange behavior as of late. If it doesn't--get over it.

We publicly mourn the loss of our pocket sized handyman. He lived a good life. Amusing us, cooking for us, laughing at us and tucking us in. He has left us for a slightly more noble cause--fighting for our country.

We will miss him.

(and his green beans with tomato bacon salad dressing.)

Even when I was young and the rest of my siblings would eagerly talk for hours of The Chronicles of Narnia series, I would denounce it with the same enthusiasm I spoke of the falseness of Santa.

I hate fantasy. It irritates me. It isn't true! IT CANNOT HAPPEN. CANNOT! DO YOU HEAR ME?!

But, tonight, trying to turn over a new leaf, I went to watch the remade version of The Chronicles. While everyone else was musing over the intricacy of detail, the darlingness of the children and the beautiful sweeping camera work I couldn't focus.

I was wondering did the little fawn/man creature ever hear of back waxing? I was troubled that they were highly inaccurate regarding the dreadlocks of the wicked witch. Or whatever the hell her name was. Do they not realize you cannot comb dreadlocks out? You have to CUT them out? Thus, rendering her combed out hair for the battle scene, very unreal. What about the children sleeping on the dead animal? HOW DISGUSTING! If anyone has ever smelt a dead animal, even if it was only dead overnight, you know exactly of what I am referring. Furthermore, if it was warm enough for them to sleep outside, it was warm enough for the animal to start premature decomposure.

As you can see--fantasy was never my strong point.

Though, I have yet to figure out what my strong point is. Unless you count bitchiness.

It's been a long day. I am closing in on twelve hours. I am ready to go home.

The whole day has dragged by miserably. Since Monday, I have felt incredibly overwhelmed and underinformed. I want to scream and cry. Actually, come to think of it, last night, at the very thought of going to work, I sprouted tears. Not a good sign.

Lack of sleep and abundance of caffeine give me that nervously irritable edge. If that weren't bad enough, every single person seems to feel the need to anger me in such a way that every other word I think to say is an expletive.

Sample conversation in my head:

Salesperson: (whiny voice) "But I don't have to finish filling out the paperwork until YOU are finished."

Me: (snarling) "No, motherfucker, if you did your Goddamned job correctly in the first place, I would be able to do MY fucking job so you could shut your Goddamned pie hole and I would never have to listen to you spew shit again. UNFORTUNATELY, YOU DIDN'T. WHICH IS WHY I AM SHOVING THIS ENTIRE REAM OF PAPERWORK UP YOUR LAZY ASS."

My actual response is a little closer to: "Leave. It. On. My. Desk. Leave now."

Besides that, my computer has been malfunctioning all day, I am ravenously hungry and I want to leave more than anything in the world. I am supposed to leave in seven minutes. But, guess what? There is one last sale for me to close.

I'll close it. The customers will love me. I will charm them and smile. They will think I am the most darling lovable thing since--kittens.

As long as their not psychic.

I have never been a fan of obnoxious children.

I am even less of a fan of children who, our of sheer boredom, hover at the corner of my desk screaming like a teakettle. I am also not a fan of parents who allow this to happen. I really do not understand how they expect me to explain the terms of a contract over the insolent wailing of a two-year old.

I waited and strained my voice trying to talk over the tyke for about--three minutes. But, that wasn't enough. Terminator Child started running around the edge of my office, hurling papers, pens and any free moving objects his demonic hands could grasp.

After the fifth attempt to explain a certain product and the fifth interruption of a ear-piercing war cry, I scooped the child up, plunked him in my lap and proceeded to finish with the parents in relative peace.

Well. There was the bit where he pretended he was a monkey and was hanging off my neck, crushing my windpipe and inhibiting my ability to properly speak. But other than that, he was quite tame. Quite good. And quite quiet.

To say the least, his parents were flabbergasted. Amazed that their Terminator Child could actually, gasp, behave! Of course, thinking they would pay me the ultimate compliment they kindly told me:

"Your so great with kids. You will be a great mother. When are you getting married and having some of your own?!"


When the little brats come with return receipts, that's when.

Paticularly because I am completely less amusing. I am not nearly as snarky, I have no scathing commentary and I can't verbally viscerate people to save my life.

I take that back--just yesterday I shredded someone for saying my sister was looking for a "impossible to find" guy and I also threw a salesperson out of my office followed by a rain of staplers and calculators.

Maybe I'm just funnier in person now.

Because you just might find a handyman/slave.

For the weekend and a good chunk of this week we have been graced with a handyman/slave (note the conspicous absense of the boyfriend/husband/sex bit) who cooks, cleans and will dance to amuse us.

He comes in a convenient close to pocket size. He is not for sale. If he were, we would purchase him.

Since he isn't, we will have to learn how to take care of ourselves again after Thursday.

pocket sized boyfriend/handyman/sex-slave/husband.

Because, we cannot open pickled okra jars. We are fairly strong competant women. We can open jam jars, pickle jars, mayonaise jars, mustard jars and pretty much all condiment jars. However, the pickled okra jar can only be opened after both of us have strained and heaved and huffed and puffed and generally exhausted ourselves. After, of course, meekly recanting our words of the uselessness of men.

That makes TWO things that groupies are good for: shoveling sidewalks and opening jars.

Stay posted for more earth shattering discoveries.

Last night, as Pageant Barbie and Darth Fredd were traveling to church Pageant Barbie asked Darth Fredd if he had noticed that as of late, I have been unusually kind to everyone.

He had noticed and thought it quite peculiar.

Then, he had a enlightened look on his face and leaned towards Pageant Barbie and whispered in a conspiratorial tone "is she seeing someone?"

Nice calves + nice cleavage = calvage

This is what I was told by the drunk man lurching across the table last night.

Yes. It was as dreadful as it sounds.

Yesterday evening, after work, my sister, another associate and myself set off for sushi. Once we got there, we were accosted by a man who we had all worked with, at one point or another. He sort of invited himself over to our table.

This was eight-thirty. He had been drinking since 5. Needless to say, things were getting a little sloppy.

Since my sister was the one that invited him, I let her deal with his slobbering drunkenness. I engaged the other associate in conversation, trying vainly to ignore the buffoon who was intent on ruining our dinner. I forgave the loud belches, the eating of sushi with the fingers, the comments about how he wanted to "hit it" with my sister and the psycho girlfriend who accosted us at the dinner table. (We had no idea who this overly pregnant woman was. His AA sponsor?! Sister?! Concubine?!)

But what really made my skin crawl, was his indepth description of all my appreciated body parts and the reactions to said body parts. Not just his reaction, but everyone with who I used to work.

I heard about the length of my legs, the definition of my calves, the curve of my butt, the size of my breasts and the beauty of my smile. In drunken, blunt terms, no less. My scathing replies were completely lost on him. He could barely understand himself, much less process thoughts and/or words of others.

I felt so, so NAKED! I mean having my body parts described in detail while eating is more than nauseating. Much less, MY body parts.

I really think I should start keeping the Super Conductor Cattle Prod II with me at all times.

Nothing like being published to lift your spirits on a dreary snowy day. At least something now comes up when you google your name!

Usually, when I am injured, I have a fairly good story. Or at least humorous. There was the fractured leg which I refused to get examined after being nailed on the soccer field. There was twisted ankle down the stairs. There have been various other injured legs, ankles and feet. All of them with a vaguely humorous story or dramatic tale.

Why am I limping today? Because I ripped my toenail off while getting dressed. Not exactly glamorous. Not exactly interesting. Not exactly justifiable for the throbbing pain that is radiating from my shoe.

Do you have idea how lame it is to tell people you ripped your toenail off when they ask you why your limping like an idiot?!

What I wouldn't give for a good, old-fashioned Porkchop style injury.

When you have them. But when you don't have them, you are stuck digging your car out of the snow twice.

After first marching down the stairs through calf-deep snow drifts, I was then met with a very, very buried car. So. I did the logical thing. I rummaged through my car and found the first thing vaguely resembling an ice scraper. A custom burned CD some admirer sent me.

I scrape. And scrape. I clear my windshield and front windows and hop in my car. After mucking about, my shoes are now filled with snow. My coat is caked with snow. My fingers are close to frozen. As in, I cannot feel them and am having trouble wiggling them. (That's ok! You didn't need wiggly fingers, anyway!)

As I barrel in reverse towards the main road, I have a sudden realization: the low hanging branches over the parking area have now attacked my car and dumped another four inches of snow on my car. I can no longer see anything.

I stop. Get out. Re-scrape the car. Re-freeze all appendages.

I get back in car. And proceed to have a minor heart attack when I think I have gotten it stuck.

Do some fancy maneuvering that my father taught me for situations like this. Proceed to creep to work at a mere 40 mph. Mentally deliver a blistering tirade on the evils of snow. Momentarily wish that my flatmate or I had a boyfriend for situations like this.

Get to work. Slog through fifty-seven slush puddles. Soak my trousers. Fill my shoes with ice slush. Nearly fall on the ice.

I finally seat myself at my desk when some insightful male proclaims "What the hell happened to you?! You look like you just finished running a marathon through a tornado."


And that, is why neither of us have boyfriends.

And I am huddled in my cold little apartment, alone. Baking cookies for--no one special. A favored owed at work. Listening to Christmas music that is only further depressing me.

The smell of cookies. The thoughts of Christmas. The independance. All things that are supposed to make me delieriousy happy.

Yes. Well. I'm not.

Someone should really take my phone away from me before I start calling old marriage proposals of days past.

And you thought DRUNK dialing was bad. You haven't seen ANYTHING yet.

Since Starbucks was skipped this morning, I sit and deliberate between breakfast choices: raspberry or citrus mousse Pims?

Pims are a delightful French cookie with which I find myself delightfully enraptured. They are a soft sweet biscuit spread with your filling of choice and the topped with a thin layer of dark chocolate. The perfect companion for a steaming cup of tea.

Tea I have not this morning, but thanks to my sister's attentiveness in a emotional meltdown last week, two boxes of cookies I do have.

Raspberry or citrus?

I really favor the raspberry, but don't want to leave all the citrus uneaten. That really would be the worst of crimes. However, in the end, they will both be simple memories with only a light scattering of crumbs on my desk to bespeak their legacy. (That, and the extra rolls around my waist. Which, I dare say, is a bit more lasting than the crumb pattern.)

Perhaps I will shake things up a bit next week and get orange or even try the orchard pear.

If all of life's problems could simply be gaining three pounds and eating imported sweets.

I have lost my touch at being entertaining and witty. My sarcasm has taken a nose-dive. I drivel on about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

But other than that, Porkchop is back.