Barbie: older sister. the frugal one. the one who feels guilty spending a dollar
Porkhop: younger sister. the one who pays the heat bill. who is learning to be frugal.

Scene: apartment. two women bundled in sweatshirts, sweatpants and scarves. a cold wind whistles through the hallway. Barbie is opening mail, Porkchop typing on her computer.

Barbie: (excitedly) Congratulations! All our freezing paid off! Our heat bill is $25 cheaper this month!

Porkchop: Yay!

they go back to their respective tasks. Porkchop fingers start to get a little stiff from the cold. Barbie layers on a blanket and hunkers down with a textbook.

Barbie: (cautiously) I know you pay the heat bill and all... but, is the heat even ON?

Porkchop: (pauses) eh. no. after that warm weather bit a few days ago, I turned the heat off and opened my window. it's supposed to be warm Thursday. I don't want to re-heat the WHOLE apartment, just to turn it off and open the windows again.

Barbie: (frozen silence) er, right.

Porkchop: just layer on a few more blankets! here, I'll even give you your slippers back. this living room is starting to feel quite cozy, compared to the rest of the apartment, almost womb like!

Barbie: why don't we just LAYER SOME PLASTIC OVER THE WINDOWS AND CALL IT A NIGHT?!

Porkchop: stop being dramatic. we survived much worse when we were children.

Barbie: WAIT! Did you say you HAD YOUR WINDOW OPEN until a few minutes ago?

Porkchop: eh. mebbe?

Barbie: (snaps textbook shut and holds her hand near the lightbulb to warm them) you top even ME!


If we never post again, look for us cold and frozen on our living room floor.

Today was my first review. I found out that I am doing a good job. I found out that I am getting a raise. And I also found out that I am now expected to work 50+ hours a week. This does not make me happy. At all.

There was a time in my life where I loved being a workaholic, but when forced into it? I rebel. Besides, now I am old and wise and realize there is more to life than money. (Really!)This has given me much displease. I stew in my anger.

CoolBlackShoes: hi! i am a person forced into involunatiry workaholicism
CoolBlackShoes: you know, being a workaholic is fun when you WANT to be one
jjoyful00: sniffle
jjoyful00: well, you WILL be making twice as much money
CoolBlackShoes: super
jjoyful00: so, an increase in 10 hours for double the pay isn't that bad
CoolBlackShoes: i'll be making twice as much money
CoolBlackShoes: selling my soul
CoolBlackShoes: hating every minute
CoolBlackShoes: wishing i could be home reading and drinking tea
CoolBlackShoes: WITH YOU
CoolBlackShoes: i love the way they tell me:you are fully entitled to one weekend a month
CoolBlackShoes: like I'm some underpriviledged child who gets to see the sunlight once a year. LIKE A WORM WHO NEVER SEES THE SUN.
CoolBlackShoes: a WHOLE WEEKEND!!!!!
jjoyful00: wimper
jjoyful00: i will miss thee
CoolBlackShoes: i love how they prattle
CoolBlackShoes: "yes, your definately going places in 3-5 years i can see you running your own department"
CoolBlackShoes: well, super!
CoolBlackShoes: paticularly because finance departments aren't normally over THREE PEOPLE
CoolBlackShoes: so let me sell my health and youth for some BENJAMINS
CoolBlackShoes: let me never take more than three holidays a year
CoolBlackShoes: FOR THE NEXT FIVE YEARS
jjoyful00: rofl
CoolBlackShoes: let me smack my own mother over the head JUST TO MAKE MONEY
CoolBlackShoes: let me make my mother wish she had never brought such a money grubbing sucker into the world
CoolBlackShoes: LET ME WISH DEATH UPON MYSELF
CoolBlackShoes: for the next five years
CoolBlackShoes: 24! big friggity deal
CoolBlackShoes: a finance director at 24!!
CoolBlackShoes: whoooohooOO!
CoolBlackShoes: STOP THE PRESSES
CoolBlackShoes: i'm feeling very bitter
CoolBlackShoes: and angry
CoolBlackShoes: AND PISSED OFF RIGHT NOW
CoolBlackShoes: though, i'm not sure why
CoolBlackShoes: considering i just got a raise
CoolBlackShoes: perhaps there is something very, very wrong with me?
jjoyful00: rofl
jjoyful00: well, there is something very, veyr funny about you
CoolBlackShoes: lol
CoolBlackShoes: i'm glad you find it funny
CoolBlackShoes: considering you will PROBABLY NEVER SEE ME AGAIN
CoolBlackShoes: and if you do, it will be a pathetic quaking skelton, huddled in her bed, trying to catch a few precious hours of sleep before she heads back to AUZWITCH
CoolBlackShoes: (i know i didn't spell that correctly)
CoolBlackShoes: because i will barely have time to SLEEP inbetween the slaughtering of the INNOCENT. CHOPPING UP CHILDREN TO FEED TO THE LIONS.

Also, in my review I was informed by my boss that in the last three months he had been "giving me way too much work. [he] was trying to see if you would break. You didn't! Congratulations!"

What I find so amusing about this is that I am normally quite bored at work. So, now I will have much more free time on my hands AND they just installed a firewall, so almost everything, but blogger, is inacessable. All my sisters blogs. My blog. My email. EVERYTHING.

I'm pretty psyced about all this, because, if I do decide to go jump off a cliff NO ONE WILL MISS ME SINCE I AM NEVER HOME.

it could be because my glucose is horrifyingly low. it could be because I just finished my 90 day review. it could be because I hate disappointing people. I hate saying no.

I feel as blue as the Norah Jones playing through my speakers. I feel tired. I feel old. I feel worn out.

I want to crawl into my shell and never come out.

The beautiful thing about The Brother In Law is that he drools over cars WITH me. We can prattle on all day about paddle shifting, tiptronic shifting and manuel shifting. I can gloat about the supiority of the import and the rapidly diminishing inferiority of the domestic. I can blather about front versus real wheel drive.

In short--my closet motor head can come out.

My sisters are very patient when I get excited about cars, but after two seconds, their eyes glaze over and they begin visibly twitching. To say they simply put up with it is a understatement. However, The Brother In Law not only enthusiastically joins in, debating, comparing and commenting, but he can quickly put me in my place.

I probably only enjoy this so very much because I never had older brothers with which to do this, so I'm sure your a little baffled as to my great delight. To sum it up: he is a great sport. Even if he does enjoy driving and staring at trees for hours on end. I won't hold it against him.

Maybe.

I forget how much I miss my sister and I am actually starting to miss her husband as well.

The past weekend was spent driving many hours, laughing lots, shopping and generally creating mischief. More shall be posted. But, in my abscence, the work has piled up and priorities demand attention.

I tend to make decisions quickly and sometimes hastily. I often base liking someone off a first impression. I hate having long, drawn-out decisions. I like for it to be quick, like band-aid removal. While my debating may be short-lived, I normally am stubbornly enthusastic about my decisions, even if they turn out to be less than optimal. I don't normally look back on decisions, I just move on.

As I have matured, I try to debate a little longer and admit I was wrong a little faster and perhaps, gasp!, learn from past faulty decisions. Most of them do not trouble me, live and learn, I tried my hardest, next!

When it comes to the age old question of: what do I want to do with my life? I fret a bit more. I am preparing to go back (ugh!) to college. What do I want to do? What excites me? What will I be good at? What will challenge me? I want a challenge. I want excitement. I want to constantly be growing.

Thus far, I have pondered the question through the process of elimination. Mentally listing all the occupations/courses I have tried and haven't liked or haven't been good at. I can say that I have done my best at everything. So, if I was failing, that means it wasn't for me--or does it?

Let me explain my garbled train of thought.

Once upon a time, there was a nursing student. A very, very young nursing student. A nursing student who was engaged to a Marine and planned to travel the world with him. However, the nursing student was young and had her priorities confused. She found nursing to be very difficult, paticularly because her basic education in the sciences was rather weak. She was discouraged by setbacks, terrified by the competatity of the nursing program and distracted by the Marine. So she made quite a few good excuses and quit at the end of the year.

Since then, the (former) nursing student has been seeking what she would be good at and what she would love to do. There isn't a day that goes by where the nursing student wonders if she gave 110% or if she was just lazy. Secretely, the nursing student knows thinks she knows the answer.

The former nursing student is afraid that if she doesn't try medicine again, she will never know the real answer. But she is also afraid that if she DOES try and fail, she will have, well--failed. And wasted how much of her life?

The former nursing student is learning to live by the grace of God and doesn't need to see 1, 436 steps ahead of herself. She doesn't need to know if she is going to be a doctor or a nurse. But she unsure. And scared.

The different thoughts that are rattling around in her head are something like this:

Because I would have to work extra hard, does this mean I am not as bright? That it doesn't come naturually to me? That I am not cut out to do this? Or does it mean I just have to apply myself a little more? Give myself a bit more of a challenge.

How far am I really willing to put myself out there?

I realize this makes sense to absolutely no one but myself. Perhaps the sister I discussed this with. But really, I just needed to put in down somewhere to help me ponder. You may excuse my insane ramblings and chalk it up to hairspray fumes.

They made "I'm sorry I flicked you off" cards for your boss.

Eh. Who am I kidding? Now I have an excuse for no apology.

This is a tale of two women who quickly became old ladies. You don't even have to ask them about it. All you have to do is go look at their apartment after a evening home.

There are books piled high beside the comfortable reading chairs and a crumpled cozy blanket lying beside it. Textbooks are shoved off to the side. Teacups scattered through the apartment and a lone teapot which is long empty and cold. A plate sits on the counter with a few scattered crumbs and smears of marmalade. The desk housing the computer has a stack of paid taxes and bills. Soft jazz still comes from--somewhere.

This is my boring little life. And I couldn't love it more.

We have a little tradition at our apartment on Monday nights. It doesn't matter whose over, we must gather round and watch The Bachelor and provide amusing commentary. We mock the girls and their desperateness. We mock their poems. We mock them throwing themselves at the very hunky doctor. We mock and we mock. Mocking is my specialty.

However, I can't keep myself from wondering if I'm belittling their beauty only because I feel inadequate. All my life I have been raised to be the best. The most beautiful, the brightest, the best. Not because I was told this, but because nothing less was expected of me. It comes naturally to a certain extent, the standards of beauty are high in our family. My mother was a model and has aged fantastically. My sister is a beauty queen. My one sister could have been a model if she had chosen not to marry a pastor. My other sister is thirty yet is constantly asked if she is younger than me. They all beat men off with a stick. I have been conscious to gauge my attractiveness since I was quite young. I remember thinking I needed to diet when I was eight years old. I tried to wear makeup at ten. I was anorexic at thirteen. Bulemic at fifteen. I realize the stakes for beauty are high.

I have gotten past the point where I hyperventilate at the thought of second place, but thinking about being mediocre for the rest of my life sets my soul to gnawing.

Let's be frank. What woman doesn't want to be the most beautiful woman in the world? In the eyes of one or many. Success you can work at, but you can't really work at beauty. I don't know what it is that scares me. The thought of not being the best? The thought of not being the most beautiful? The thought of not HAVING someone who I consider my everything? And I, theirs? Perhaps I simply want the knowledge of knowing there could be love.

Though I do wonder, why is it that seeing perfectly goodlooking couples only unsettles me and not average looking ones?

When does the line between holding out for the best and being too demanding, drawn itself? Is it the best thing or the best for right now? What if I hold out for something great, but am not great enough myself? There are so many questions I ask myself. But the more I ask myself, the faster I drive myself into questioning circles.

This is not a marriage hungry post. Far, far from it. After two years of proposals, nothing sends me scuttering back to my cup of tea and stack of books faster than the premature talk of marriage. It's much more the psychotic and crazed ramblings of a woman who has watched reality television a little too long.

I think, stew, pontificate and worry. And then--I realize it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if there is someone out there for me. It doesn't matter if I am the best, the most beautiful, the most successful or the dazzling wonder woman that every man wants to marry.

It does matter that I remember daily I am crucified with Christ. There is no love more complete and perfect. This is the love that makes me beautiful.

That's what Dad used to say before he would pile us all into the car and drive us off to some unknown destination. Sometimes we would go and get ice cream. Sometimes we would go visit stodgy great aunts and uncles. Sometimes he would take us to a job site and show us oversized sewage systems.

When he said we were going on a adventure, he meant just that. We never knew what was coming. For some reason, I was the one most taken with these adventures. My older siblings went along because they had to and my often overly serious little brother wasn't terribly amused. But I, being the easily pleased and distracted child that I was, LOVED adventures. (I am similar to a raccoon in that respect, show me a shiny trinket and I'm ALL OVER IT!)Perhaps it's because I am the most like my father that I loved these adventures so, but no matter, we both had fun on these things.

Saturday morning I was awoken typical father style, by the thudding of his steps up the stairs to our apartment and the gleeful cries of my name. "Porkchop! Come see!" I rolled off the couch at a rather ungodly (I mean that in a ungodly lazy sort of way, as in, it was about 11:00 a.m.) hour in my pajama pants and sweatshirt, circles of mascara under my eyes, a tangle of unwashed hair and a film of sleep lightly coating my eyes and impairing my vision.

"Porkchop, come SEE! And come drive my new car!" I found a pair of non-matching flip-flops, stumble down the rather steep stairs of our apartment and admire his beautiful new automobile. Now, please understand, that a mere three days ago he had gotten a new car, but he had spent more on his brand new lawnmower than his car. My sister and I were having a grand time ribbing him about this. I mean, really, WHO SPENDS MORE ON A LAWNMOWER THAN THEIR CAR?! (It was Kabota, three cylinder, diesel, 72 inch cutting path, five acres an hour, 29 horsepower grass eating machine. For those of you that wanted to know all that.)

Furthermore, I thought it was pretty ironic that he had not one, but TWO daughters who work in the car business and he had come to see neither of us. (This is because my Dad is The Man and has The Hookup and can actually get cars cheaper than I can get them at my dealership.)

He thought about his lawnmower/car situation for a few days and decided to go spend exactly one dollar more on his new car than on his lawnmower. He hands me the keys and tells me to take it down the road with him. As we drive, he shows me a few of the features he understands, namely the heated seats and air-conditioning. I then show him how to work the semi-automatic transmission, heated headlights, complicated dash gauges and all the other geeky car gadgets that make me a closet motor head and car lover. He chuckles at my clever and instant knowledge of the car and mentally notes it's a pretty good thing he has a daughter in the car business or he would be lost.

We drive a little farther and come to the flea-market which has just been remodeled. Yes. A remodeled flea-market. You may be asking WHO remodels fleamarkets?! We do. I remember going to the fleamarket with my Dad when I was really little and eating the freshly made doughnuts that were coated in sugar. It was $2 for ten of those grease soaked delights. They were hot and you would burn your fingers if you weren't careful. But the best part is you could watch them make your doughnuts right in front of your very eyes. I thought this was fantastic.

This remodeled fleamarket has no doughnut stand anymore, but it is furnished like a miniature grand ole' opry. The outdoor look, inside? The food court, which only sells pizza, has a balcony which a country duo perches upon on Saturday and Sunday for the entertainment of the shoppers. Something deliciously hickified like Bonnie and Bubba, though I can't exactly remember his name, just hers.

We perused the booths for awhile, but we didn't need $5 manicures, cheap jewelry, handcrafted candles in fifty different scents, used paperbacks, knock-off handbags or custom made cowboy boots. Instead, we stopped at the race-car track. $3 a person for fifteen minutes.

Now, you have to understand, my Dad is the BIGGEST kid at heart. Besides the fact he LOVES to go fast. He had the opportunity to be a fighter pilot, had he taken the offer, he would have been a damn good one. My brother maintains that he should have been a NASCAR driver. Either way, he has a love of speed and a sense of perfect timing.

These were little racecars that were on a magnetic track. We controlled their speed by shooting our little guns at them. The harder you pulled the trigger, the faster they went. As soon as the attendant said "Go!" we opened them up all the way. However, if you went around the curves of the track to fast, your car would spin out and slide off it's magnetic track. Not only did this put you farther behind in the race, it would provoke the attendant woman to wrath and she would deliver a very long lecture about how it's VERY BAD FOR THE CARS. Right. Next loop around, we both spun out. Not only is spinning out VERY BAD FOR THE CARS, but she threatens to adjust our cars so we can't go as fast.

Of course, neither of us listen and we go around the track several more times, spin out several more times and cause the lady to get her knickers into a sizable knot and start uttering all sorts of threats. Finally, she puts a petulant sneer on her face, adjusts his car so he cannot go nearly as fast and settles on her fat hiney to watch the ensuing fallout. Dad doesn't get angry with her, instead he bellows, as we race along, how she is sexist, prejudiced and not fun, at all. She sees this as her once in a lifetime chance to be a teacher and waggles her finger at him while prattling on the dangers of destroying race cars.

Riiiight.

We finished our fifteen minutes with Dad bellowing and me creeping around the turns slowly, as to not provoke the woman to wrath. As we walked out of the fleamarket I commented that despite my bedraggled appearance, if I had been anymore dressed up, I would have been overdressed.

We took a indirect route home and talked of life, purpose, God and our relationship with Him. He walked me back up to my apartment and asked "this was a fun adventure, wasn't it?"

Yes, Daddy dear, it was. It is memories like these that I will cherish forever and tell my children. And to think, not only do my children get a mother like ME, but the get a Grandfather like YOU.

Sometimes, life isn't fair, but it pays you back in ways that are completely unexpected.

This year you are treated to the delightful commentary of a washed up beauty queen and a professional pageant attendant, not to mention a expert on boobs. Having a much-commented-upon set of my own. (I would like to point out I am only a professional thanks to the washed up beauty queen. I do not attend pageants on my own accord.)

We were stocked with food and liquor. We were relying heavily on the effects of the liquor knowing we were going to NEED it. You think men are the only ones who use beer goggles? Think again.

We watched all fifty-two contestants introduce themselves and try to scream in a ladylike manner over the crowd, trying their best to introduce themselves to the cheering fans. I don’t know if they were cheering so much as chanting--Gladiator style. We boo and throw popcorn at Miss Delaware knowing this is the only time we are going to see her for the rest of the competition.

James Denton, our lovely host for the evening, announces the top ten and after allowing the girls to minimally weep and hate each other, informs us we get to see the most anticipated part of the Miss America Pageant next. The swimsuit competition! Did we all hear! Gather ‘round children. This is what makes America, America. We can all watch females parade across the stage in scraps of fabric and harshly judge them. We can compare thighs, butts and best of all--boobies! All this and it isn’t even pay-per-view. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

All the contestants come out on stage and start waving their togas/sarongs/diapers which had been previously tied around their waists like carefree vacationing Florida grandmas. I’m a little confused. Wasn’t this the part where they were supposed to strut about and show us their hard work of the past six months? Instead their doing what looks like a carefully choreographed bath towel tango. And people WONDER why I drink?! FINALLY, the top ten separate themselves out and showcase their self-perceived strong points.

Miss Washington DC looks like she should be committed to rehab for tanorexia. Darling, you are from DC for crying out loud! You’re allowed to be a little pale. It’s the land of political hacks and notoriously ugly women! Be proud, be strong, be free! SHOW YOUR STATE COLORS! Wait, you don’t have a state. I realize this might be the reason you seem to be having such an identity crisis on national television, but really, PULL IT TOGETHER WOMAN and remember your ROOTS!

Miss South Carolina proudly flaunts her concave stomach and her full set of ribs as she stumbles down the runway. Sweetheart, you are supposed to drink during halftime. None of this pre-gaming business. You’re supposed to put your best foot forward. I understand that you come from a state where everyone parties all the time, but if you’re going to drink, at least know how to hold your liquor!

Miss Oklahoma flaps her arms like a bird as she flies/stumbles/walks down the runway. We know this is painful for you, but you need to keep your feet firmly planted on the stage. Levitation does not make you walk any better, mkay?

Miss Virginia clearly has fake boobs. It looks as if oranges, nay tangerines, have been inserted under her skin ever-so-carefully as to give her a clear inch between her boobies when forming cleavage. With careful practice she might be able to hold a microphone or even a bouquet of flowers there.

Miss Georgia seems a bit confused. Perhaps because she is half Asian/half blond? She seems to be having a mid-stage crisis whether to portray herself as smart or pretty. Decisions, decisions. Damn thee! No matter what you decide dear, we do give you kudos for real boobs even if we were distracted from your boobs by your striking blue and silver eye shadow. But please decide what you are going to be before you walk off the runway…

Miss Texas has a killer body and shows us her girly bits. Apparently down south they don’t ascribe to the school of thought as they do in pageants up here, which is: always cross over your legs when walking. This eliminates any awkward gaping moments from being caught on camera. No worries here! Miss Texas is bright, confident and FLASHING IT ALL and stomping like a ranch hand. May I remind you, THIS ISN’T EVEN PAY PER VIEW and we get to see her girly bits!

Miss Arkansas has boobs that jiggle, no, make that giggle. Not because they looked like particularly happy boobs, but because they have taken on a whole life and personality of their own. And they are CLEARLY break dancing while she is marching down that runway. Freestylin’ it, yo! One word when you look at her: rack.

Miss Pennsylvania must be a fan of percussion instruments. If not, she needs to become a fan. Because any half-witted music minor could play a complete symphony on her xylophone ribs. Her boobs are fake, but I am so distracted trying to count her ribs and make sure she had twelve and not eleven. You know, to make sure she isn’t a man and all.

Miss Alabama has some serious lopsided and sagging boobage AND a blotchy mystic tan. But we will forgive her since she looks like she is about twelve years old and playing dress-up. Hell! In that case, we might even forgive the bright pink lipstick and clip-on rhinestone earrings. But what is absolutely unforgivable and distracting, something I keep screaming at and drawing attention to every time she walks on screen, is the amazing fact she seems to have disappearing eyebrows. They just sort of dissipate into her face like a vapor… I see your strategy! KEEP US COMING BACK FOR MORE, EH? Eh, no.

Miss Florida 2006? I think not. Miss Skin Cancer 2005 would be more appropriate. I want to beep when she comes onto the screen. BEEP!BEEP!BEEP! Skin cancer alert! Most likely to be old and wrinkly by 27! DING!DING!DING! The chicken’s done! Let’s pull ‘er out of the ole rotisserie. That some good eatin’, that right thar.

Now they line up. Oooh! Goody! We are being encouraged to compare them all. Let’s see… Miss Texas seems to be the only one that has the official pageant girl look DOWN PAT. The get-out-of-my-way-bitches-I-have-this-one-WRAPPED-UP. The rest of the girls are kind of stand there pathetically. Pick me! Pick me! Because I am sweet and pathetic looking, please?

Commercial Break: The Dell commercials…were they assuming smart people were watching or was it a vague tribute to the incredible resumes of the participants? Maybe they were just strapped for sponsors.

We’re back!

In the attempt to make the show “interesting” and “clever” they have field reporters in all sorts of uninteresting places to report to us what’s going on. First off is… Maine. A pageant party in Maine. Um, kay. HOLY SHIT! Men wearing crowns and sashes. We see a fat Miss Potato Queen and several women past their prime showing cleavage. Why are we in Maine? She didn’t even make it to the top ten? Of what relevance is this? Why am I being forced to see fat women fall out of their sparkly tops? We’re done here. We go back to our hunky host.

And we suddenly really like James Denton that much more as he humorously points out that the special Maine Pageant Party Field Report was incredibly unhelpful and irrelevant. You tell ’em James!

We get to see Miss Outstanding Teen 2005 who has a hideous dress on. Half flesh colored sparkles and half satin sack. Gofugyourself.com would have a heydey here. Oooh the delicious snarky possibilities. I could gorge myself endlessly on all this tackiness. Mmm.

We now see clips of the Miss America Girls strutting their stuff in Vegas and pretending to cutely stuff their faces. Erg. Yeah. We ALL believe that. After we saw your ribs three seconds ago. Come on, don’t we get to see the clips of them THROWING IT ALL UP? I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOING TO BE INTERESTING!

We like James Denton again when he assures us the girls are judged on how they carry themselves and how they wear the dress. That they are not judged on the beauty of the dress. Ugly dresses will not be marked down. Why is this? So all the poor girls will be able to wear their $10 Salvation Army dresses and not feel bad about it? I know! It’s so all the blind/deaf/mute girls who could not pick out/hear advice/ask for help will not feel bad for their ugly dresses or their apparent inability to select something tasteful.

We are also told that the contestant will be escorted by someone special in their life--is this for the illegitimate bastard children who have no father to speak of? Or is this for those who want to be good children of Gloria Steinem and have their mothers walk them out onstage? This way they can be quietly compared to their mothers and everyone could say THEY LOOK SO MUCH BETTER THAN THEIR MOTHERS. GIVE THEM MORE POINTS! Eh, not really sure where this is going, but I think it could be fun.

Yeah. No evident disabilities here. Except in the tasteful clothing and makeup department. I would advice most contestants to claim a disability of the Am Color Blind and Taste Impaired variety.

Miss Washington DC cannot walk. She sort of half waddles, like she has a diaper on. A dirty one at that. As for the material of her dress, I’m not really sure what it is. Is it leopard? Is it zebra? It’s beaded! Wait! I know! I learned about it in Synthetic Fabrics and Tacky Taste class! IT’S MISS AMERICAN ANIMAL SKIN, THAT’S WHAT IT IS. I acknowledge the killer body in the dress and reject the tacky sham of a dress itself..

Miss South Carolina has a beautiful mother of the bridge dress. I give her definite points for classiness, but I don’t really know how classy it is to be able to see ribs THROUGH her dress. If you’re going to have a eating disorder, at least HIDE it. God! What do they teach these girls these days?!

Miss Oklahoma has a beautiful multi-purpose dress on. It could be bridal, it could be Vegas, it could be pageants! Or it could be a pageant girl getting married in Vegas! Class, what do we learn from this? What do all these things have in common? BEADS AND GLITTER! And tacky gay men! Once she gets to the edge of the runway, she waves her arms like a distressed child at sea. Help me! I have saggy boobs! Help me! I cannot lead with my hips! Help me! I lead with my boobs! Help me!

Miss Virginia has a rather fierce dress. Her boobs are rather, well, pointy. Like evil
mammaries. Like warring breasts. Like sharpened womanhood. It’s all very fierce and dreadful. Perhaps this is the second-base version of chastity belt. Boobs that will pierce your hands when you try and touch them?! It’s very disconcerting. On that train of thought, her whole dress has a rather disturbing medieval torturous feel to it. I’m guessing she wasn’t the most popular highschooler.

Miss Georgia is wearing a sparkling and festive curtain/cake creation. If a drapery shop and a bakery imploded and THEN had love child, her dress would be born. It’s sweet and frilly, yet upholstered and awful, ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

Miss Texas looks like the picture of smug pageant perfection, all the way. There is not a unbeaded or unglittered square in on her dress. A shimmering Barbie.

Miss Arkansas has viewable woman bits. We know that she is a woman,. Not a girl, not a boy, not a man, but a woman. Yes. I think myself and a few other million Americans can certify this. We all stare, entranced at the raw display of… I hate to say femininity, but womanliness? Of uteri and ovaries? Surprisingly enough, we are drawn away from this spectacle to view the dueling boobies. Ladies and gentlemen, new word that comes to mind when viewing her: BOOBS.

Miss Pennsylvania looks as if she is wearing a beautiful pale green valiance. Ah! I hate to be harsh. A beautiful pale green shower curtain. Her boobs point oddly, unnaturally. Like wayward lazy eyes. You just want to give her a good clout upside the boob/head and tell her to straighten out her eyesight/underwire. But, ever the clever keystatestonian she quickly sticks her leg out to distract from the ugly dress and the wayward flowers of womanhood. Here! See me waving my distended appendage. I am woman! See me wave!

Miss Alabama looks a little lost on the stage. She wanders in circles like a lost puppy. Thankfully, she finally hears the dinner bell and sniffs her way back home.

Miss Florida has not a sequin in sight! We are aghast at such classiness! At a pageant!. What is this? THE SECOND COMING? Has hell frozen over? Is someone doing triple lutzes down below? NO! Wait! We are mollified! There are stress lines across her stomach to assure us the dress is too tight. That celery binge she had is NOW SHOWING. THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR EATING, BEYOTCH!

*whew*

We’re finished for the moment. We pour some more liquor and replenished our drunkenness. We are adequately prepared for the top five and the latter half of the pageant.

They are getting ready to announce Miss Congeniality! IT’S FIFTH GRADE ALL OVER AGAIN. James Denton blathers something about these girls forming “friendships that will last a lifetime!” This is not summer camp, James Denton. I don’t know who your kidding but living with fifty beautiful women for a week does not leave you wanting to build friendships. It’s leaves you wanting to learn the finer arts of poisoning, karate and death aerobics.


Why are we holding hands for MISS CONGENIALITY?! This isn’t important! This isn’t a crisis! WHY ARE WE CLUTCHING ONE ANOTHER? And why are we hugging? Miss Congeniality is Miss Hawaii. (Who has a freakishly weird way of saying the word “Hawaii“. Perhaps she is just trying to show off to everyone since she is a enunciation major.) James asks her to “tell us something we don’t know about [herself]” She takes the easy road out and completely ignores him. Instead going for the ever original “I’m speechless right now, I just want to say I love everybody!” Imagine that! A SPEECH MAJOR, SPEECHLESS! I wonder if she thought about the irony of THAT one?! I wonder if this makes her a failure as a college student? We can’t dwell on this to long, because we flash to…

Maine, again. James Denton almost rolls his eyes while they flash back. The field reporter has a look of resignation. Resignation to death. MY CAREER IS OVER! IF I CAN GET OUT OF THIS MIRE OF FAT WOMEN ALIVE, I WILL NEVER DRNINK AGAIN. I WILL NEVER SWEAR AGAIN AND I MOST CERTAINLY WILL NEVER CHEAT ON MY WIFE AGAIN. It’s pretty ugly. Chain-smoking old women wearing crowns and sashes, declaring their undying love for the Miss America pageant. Not to mention more fat and wrinkled cleavage falling out of their tops. Miss Potato Queen looks at us seductively. Not a pretty thing when coming from a 250lb+ woman.

We come back. The top five will be announced! Of course, they clutch hands and look scared together. After all, there is nothing better than going through this experience with fifty of your closest friends. Who would be more than happy to stab you in the back and watch you bleed.

Top Five Announced:

Miss Virginia doesn‘t look at all surprised. AT LEAST PRETEND, BITCH!

Miss Oklahoma feigns tearfulness and clasps her hands under her chin. She runs to Miss Virginia. They hug and weep on each others necks. YEAH! Getting a little girl on girl action, ON THE MISS AMERICA STAGE. Way to bring up those family friendly ratings, CMT!

Miss Washington DC I think would look surprised if she could. But it helps to actually be able to process and original thought. I don‘t really think that is her strong suit.

Miss Georgia the confused Asian is in the top ten! Much to her AND our surprise.

Miss Alabama gives hope to ugly girls with no eyebrows--everywhere!

Miss Texas looks like she is ready to kick somebody’s ass. Or at least have a little pistol dueling shoot-off, or SOMETHING.

The remaining five line up and are given some pretty serious questions, though they are assured they will NOT be judged on their answers.

What smell do you love? Miss Alabama looks a bit confused. Smell? Who thinks about smells when there are so many more interesting thinks to think about! LIKE MURDER, FIFTY-ONE DIFFERENT WAYS. But, she laughs prettily, like all southern girls should and assures us that in these last grueling months, she treasures nothing more than the smells of the food. Including ice cream sundaes. Who knew? ICE CREAM SMELLS! Leave it up to a starved Barbie to clue you in on the little jollies of life like scented ice cream.

What sound do you love? Miss Georgia tries to be the quick and clever crowd pleaser. Laughter, of course! Come on now! Everyone laugh. Silence. She gives a halfhearted fake girly goat laugh which could be misconstrued as a chuckle. It’s pretty pathetic and no one thinks it’s cute. We understand, she had a smart Asian moment followed by a blond one.

What TV show do you love? Miss Washington DC decides to play hardball and politely tells James that it ISN’T Desperate Housewives. We quickly see that this is a cover-up and she really DOES want to be JUST LIKE Gabriella, but we pretend we are fooled by her ruse. She says that her favorite show is CSI: Las Vegas. WAY TO BE AN APPLAUSE WHORE. She smiles smugly to herself and mentally gives herself an extra two calories as her reward.

What is the first thing you will do after the pageant, win or lose? Miss Oklahoma reminds us all why Oklahoma is a flyover state. Because apparently the best thing they have to eat there is french fries dipped in ranch dressing! She’s been craving them for months, like a pregnant woman. Besides the fact this is the SECOND time food has been unnecessarily mentioned in a onstage question. We begin to get a bit worried, we knew these girls were starved, but must we be constantly reminded? If they’re going to get fat, it had better be more than frickin French fries with SALAD DRESSING.

What are your pet peeves? Miss Virginia tells us that she doesn’t like to listen people who like to hear themselves talk. Which is why she proceeds to give a very long-winded response that didn’t really make sense and makes us all want to take up knife-throwing in hopes we could penetrate our television screens and somehow kill the blathering broad.

At this point, anyone could win. They’re all stupid! All slutty! And all ready to give some randy judges a little action! It’s anyone’s game and we are more than happy to watch them scratch their eyes out to get there.

Commercial break. Funnily enough, it’s another alcohol ad! I wonder if anyone else besides us finds this ironic. It seems every commercial break they are talking up some kind of booze. It’s no wonder. Since we are reverting to the original Miss America format of stupid girls in slutty dresses, I personally need all the liquid courage I can get. Why do I not find this as entrancing as some? Well, I’m not a horny hairy men, bi girls OR a lesbian. That leaves my enjoyment limited to ths snaky commentary category and we all know that gets better when loosed with a little liquor.

The washed up beauty queen sucks down another crown and coke. Laughing wryly and a little bitterly at the jokes I make.

We’re back! AND READY FOR ACTION.

Unfortunately, the first thing we see is the ugly backstage announcer lady. We get to see the five losers with their handlers, everyone looks a bit disappointed, but only Miss Texas was crying.

Talent!!! Dance, dance, DANCE revolution.

Miss Virginia howls out In His Eyes from Jekyll and Hyde. All my memories of this song have to do with a fat pageant queen giving up her title and singing it thirty thousand times. As gorgeous as Miss Virginia is, her voice sucks. At first, we thought it was a sound fluke. We‘re trying here. If this girl made it to the top five, she has to have something, right?! And then we realize she just sucks. Personally, I have heard better talent at the Miss Delaware level or actually, at the local high school talent show. Remember Drop Dead Gorgeous with Denise Richards? Yeah. We give her extra effort for the contortion of the eyebrows on the high notes, but really, it doesn’t distract from the fact we are now hurling popcorn at the TV screen for her sucking so bad. I’m having trouble understanding how she won at state level much less how she survived sound checks without all the other girls bludgeoning her to death with their nail files as retribution for their eardrums.

Miss Oklahoma twitters about the stage in a ballet number. She likes to flutter her fingers. and occasionally kick her legs in the air. They try to do close camera shots of her feet so we can be impressed with her fancy footwork, but unfortunately she is on the flat of her foot more often than the toe. Twirl, twirl, twirl tiny dancer, cause that sure is hell all your doing onstage. At this point, she has formed one huge twirling circle on the stage. She tires to engage us with a large Oklahoma smile. But, on behalf of our ballet friends everywhere, we cringe and throw MORE popcorn at the screen. You suck, tangerine boobs!

Miss Washington DC valiantly tries to tap her way into our heart. However, she succeeds in stomping her way out of our graces. We thought the whole POINT of tap was to tap in time WITH the music. Hmm. We feel as if she should be peddling us minty freshness or perhaps a strawberry flavored lollipop. Her dress, her tapping and her music all take on separate lives of their own creating a confusing onstage cacophony. When I look at my television, I feel very confused. I want to like her, really! She smiles very endearingly and is trying very, very hard. But she leaps confusingly about the stage and I can’t help but want to pat her head and hand her a metronome.

The announcer says there is more talent to come, but I ask, when does the talent BEGIN?! At this point, we have been treated to a elementary school talent show with girls in shiny dresses and large FAKE boobies.

We see a large concert piano onstage and have much hope. We have further hope knowing that the perfectionist Asian side of Miss Georgia is sure to be shown. Knowing a bit about piano, we are impressed with the fact that her piece is Chopin. Unfortunately, she has a dinosaur like zipper up her spine which completely distracts us from her opening arpeggios. (The washed up beauty queen came very close to performing this very piece for Miss Delaware, but her gay handler /trainer/voiceofdoom suggested a more “showy” and “well-known” piece.) True to the form of most piano performers, Miss Georgia has a ugly half dress/half pant suit on. For those of you who are completely unfamiliar with these atrocities, be ye glad, for your eyes have not been burned nor your fashion sense grossly offended. It’s like a peacock dress with pants. Yes, pants, with a skirt fluffing out behind. Very disturbing, I once wore something similar to an eighties prom. While we are impressed by her technical abilities, she does not engage the crowd. For those of you who are not very well-versed in piano and cannot appreciate the impressive yet dull performance, we do not blame you if you have quickly grown bored and try to set her train/tail on fire. We’d be right there with you if we didn’t think our piano teacher might hunt us down and torture us.

Miss Alabama…yeah, she sucks. If I were her ballet teacher, I might contemplate suicide at this point. Thirteen years (I’m roughly guessing) of ballet lessons and the girl can barely get on her toes. There is no variety. I feel like I am watching the same five second clip on repeat for two minutes. At one point, she actually twirls, flat on her feet. What is this?! Eh, I think the ballet teacher should not just consider suicide, but a murder suicide might be more productive and popular.

James Denton sort of commands/pleads with us not to go away, right after this commecial break we will be back with more boobies and BIGGER ones at that. I had high hopes for this pageant! And the only reason I am staying is so I can mock these bitches. (Dell quickly comes on screen to remind us they are sponsoring. After all, they are the ones who are providing the SIM chips for these Stepford Wives-to-be.)

They’re back! In evening dresses. You know, just so we can remind ourselves how much we hate them AND their dresses. We view their hair and remind ourselves that they have personally contributed to the hole in the ozone layer more than anyone else we know.

They eliminate two of the weakest links. Only three left. Let’s hold hands!

God help us if Miss Alabama wins. The longer I look at her, the more I think she looks like trailer trash spectacular. I did comment on her ugliness in the opening number, so don't think I have waited this long to be getting all prejudiced against her. While Miss Oklahoma actually looks like a beauty queen, she seems a little stupid. Who are we kidding here?A LITTLE stupid? Smarts have nothing to do with this, though it would be nice if it did, since they are getting thousands of dollars worth of scholarships. While we don’t openly hate Miss Georgia, she is kinda getting on our nerves. It’s a good thing the decision isn’t up to us, we might just throw them all offstage and draw new contestants from the audience.

Now we get to ask the aforementioned stupid girls questions. Wheee! Let’s all watch their brains fall out of their mouths while they speak. Wait. That means they would need to have brains. AHAHAHA! Now THAT'S a laugh!

The two contestants who are not answering questions are forced to put on headphones . Headphones! How… Star Trek! I was hoping they would plug their ears with their fingers and hum. Or perhaps go into a soundproof box where we would PRETEND to listen to the contestant answer questions, but in reality we would listen to the snaky commentary they were making from inside. Alas. We have headphones. James Denton tells us they will be listening to music while their competitor answers the question. Then he says a little something about forced country music being akin to torture and we all remember why we are all here. BECAUSE WE LOVE AMERICA AND COUNTRY MUSIC AND APPLE PIE! Er, right.

The question?

Describe a significant experience in your childhood and how it shaped your character.

Miss Alabama rambles about how dancing shaped her character. No mention of a ballet teacher suicide, however. I’m pretty upset about this. The woman calls herself a teacher and she is still living?! Why can’t we live in the U.S.S.R?! These sort of people are not allowed to survive and Miss Alabama would probably not live to see another day. But alas, I remind myself if this was the U.S.S.R, there would be no boobies for me to watch on TV. Nor would there be TV. So, I temporarily pretend I understand. (I was close, Miss Alabama has been dancing for SEVENTEEN years!)

Miss Oklahoma tells a heart rending tail of childhood. Surprise, surprise, she was an ugly duckling. Aww, we feel so sorry for you. You can relate to us, the common people, the ugly people, the people you were once a part of. She rambles about self acceptance, blah blah blah. Yeah. Which is why you now battle a eating disorder, right?! YOU GO, SELF ACCEPTANCE SPEECHES. Must be pretty hard when your Miss Frickin’ Oklahoma.

Miss Georgia decides to play the every popular RACE CARD and starts rambling about demanding asian parents beating her when she brought home bad report cards, which is why she is now a overachieving perfectionist. Ahaha! Just kidding. But you believed me for a second, didn’t you? She DOES ramble something about being half Asian, half American, something we ALREADY saw in her taped intro. We really don’t care, darlin’. Oh wait! She says when she was young she “knew there was something different” about herself. Was it the slanty eyes or the PARENTS WHO BEAT YOU? Don’t worry, if you hadn’t realized you were different, we would have realized it for you. You and your piano playing are the full of Asian American stereotypes, as are all your canned speeches.*

They all march offstage looking pleased with themselves.

We flash backstage and ask the three remaining girls a few questions which makes us hate them even more. They give sycophant answers and firmly establish in our minds that they are conceited. The interviewer reminds them that TWO of them aren’t going to win. But, hey! Have fun girls! Because, even though you just poured several grand into a couple of years worth of contests that are now culminated into this pointless broadcast, HAVE FUN EVEN IF YOU LOSE! Because it’s all about fun, right? Aren’t you having fun? HASN’T THIS BEEN FUN? GODDAMIT, SAY YOU’VE HAD FUN OR WE’RE KICKING YOU OFF THIS STAGE RIGHT NOW! EVEN THOUGH YOU JUST SPENT YOUR LIFE SAVINGS ON A WORTHLESS CAUSE, SAY YOUR HAVING FUN OR ALL THOSE LITTLE GIRLS WILL NEVER COMPETE AND THEN WE’RE SUING YOUR CRACKER ASSES. Suck on that, losers. Crownless, losers.

Another liquor ad. We drink up. (Particularly because I get three phone calls in quick succession from someone I did NOT want to hear from. Someone who makes me want to throw my phone out the window and move to the other side of the world. You know who you are.)

They all, and I mean ALL FIFTY-TWO OF THEM convene onstage . Unfortunately, Miss Alabama. missed the white dress memo. Everyone is wearing white, but her. She is wearing a tan sparkly dress. Perhaps she failed colors in kindergarten?

It’s time for Miss America’s farewell. She is in a dreadful shower curtain sparkly number that looks like something straight out of a department store. She keeps her farewell short, sweet and to the point. She seems like she is READY to get RID of that crown and go to medical school. (I don’t blame her, she has been the longest reigning Miss America. About a year and five months.)

We find out that Miss Alabama is second runner up! Thank GOD! I didn’t like her OR her disappearing eyebrows. They made me quite nervous, like she was doing magic tricks onstage and before we knew it, her CLOTHES were going to be disappearing.

James Denton reminds us that only IF Miss America completes her duties does she get to keep the money. Perhaps he was having flashbacks to Vanessa Williams, quite possibly the most-known Miss America, if only because of the scandal.

AND IT IS… DRUMROLL PLEASE…

Miss Oklahoma.

We feel bad for Miss Georgia because she is actually talented. And this is just another life lesson for her that the pretty dumb girls always win.

As Miss Oklahoma is crowned, we notice she looks a lot like Deidre (the Miss America crowning her) you know, that generic tanned sort of beauty queen beauty. Of course, she cries. They then announce to her “Miss America, the runway is yours”. She sort of flits, galumphs and stumbles in crazed circles. Apparently, the crown does not carry any special sort of magic, because she STILL can’t walk. Her parents magically appear to give their galumphing daughter their congratulations. She is then swarmed by all the losers who pretend they are SO happy for her when we all really know they are secretly sharpening their nail files and wishing her much death and destruction.

At least that’s what WE ‘RE wishing her. (And we didn’t even have to live with her for a week.)




*I have Asian friends. I do not hate Asian people. I realize Jesus loves everyone, as do I. Well, almost everyone. And the Asian friends approve of this message, so please spare the bloody hate mail.

In my line of work building rapport with the banks is vital for being good at my job.

Loosely translated?

I have to flirt with the bank representatives so I can get loans bought at the bank. This means I am required to go out to lunch with them at cheesy Italian restaurants and make them laugh and love me. (Please note: I said love me, not my boobies.)

My job is considerably easier since I have a gorgeous sister who the banks already love. Which means we go out to lunch with them together and dazzle them with our beauty. She dazzles with her worldy-wise wisdom and I with my (seemingly) innocent face and demure looks.

I purposely wore a high necked top today because the last thing I want is the legend of my boobies preceding before me. You know exactly what I mean. Someone meets you and says delightedly "Oh, YOU'RE the one who..." and then trails off. Never finishing their sentence because you BOTH realize what they were going to say. This is where my brother would insert a wry:

"awkward moment"

That's the thing. There must be no awkward moments. No gazing off into the distance or your soup. Must maintain direct eye contact and keep them peppered with interesting questions. The flattery of having two intelligent and beautiful women keep their undivided attention glued on you must certainly be worth the price of the lunch. I say this because these bankers make a habit of repeating this little scenario several times a year.

After lunch, he sits in front of my desk and makes conversation while I typed busily--but by no means uninterestedly--while he amuses himself and supposedly me. He offers to teach me how to play golf. Golf? How clever! I would love to learn!

I tapping away at my computer. Every moment must be gentle and sweet. Every answer demure.

He peruses the pictures arranged on my credenza. Comments on the beauty of my other sisters, the cute nephew and the one black and white picture remaining from my modeling days. Erg. I hate to start that whole conversation. Yes, it's me. Yes, I was blond. Yes... I was a model for a bit.

Admitting you were once a model can work as a double edged sword. The last impression I want to give is that I was a loose tramp whose muffin shop was open to anyone who asked for a baked good. But, it also can be an intriguing bit of trivia that helps them find me more glamorous and mysterious. Today I admit it, but downplay it.

We chat for a bit longer. A loan comes across my desk after a short examination, he quickly approves it and then settles back in his chair and remarks "...you really are a beautiful woman."

Yes. My work here is done.

This morning I decided to lug all the packages to our friendly local post office. They know me by name there and are normally quite helpful.

It was a bit crowed this morning. Lots of little old ladies picking up their mail, people standing in line for two cent stamps and a few college students in line with questions about mailboxes. I trotted in and out, bringing in my packages and stacking them up against the wall. A friendly lad with a ARMY shirt on continually kept the door open for me and made the whole ordeal a little easier.

I deposited all my boxes in a rather large pile against the wall and waited in line. Everytime I was about to go up to the counter a wee old lady would come in who just needed a stamp or someone with a very simple problem. I really didn't want to keep them waiting through the mailing of eight whole packages, so I let them in front of me. As I waited, I chatted amiably. People asked, of course, what the packages were, where they were going. I let the lad in the ARMY shirt know once he got out of boot camp (he was leaving in two weeks) to send me his address and I would happily mail him cookies.

I finally was able to start weighing the packages when the postmaster stopped me cold. When addressing the packages, I had mistakenly thought that they could put postage anywhere on the packages. It also happened that the most convenient spot to address the packages was the upper right hand corner. Who was the woefully ignorant one now?! That's right. The homeschooled one standing balefully in front of the counter. So I had to readdress all of the packages in the lower righthand corner. Now, please understand this is the very same post office that allowed my sweet blue-eyed and blonde-haired sister to mail a snickers bar AND a coconut. ARE THERE EVEN UPPER RIGHT HAND CORNERS ON COCONUTS?! How dare he reject my packages! But I meekly comply.

This gave the audience of patrons and the postmaster much time to inspect the artwork of my little brother who had attacked the cookie boxes with a sharpie. To put it lightly, his sense of humor is a wee tad dark and twisted. The proclamations on the sides of the boxes included:

Guns are cool

Violence IS the answer

The south may rise again but we'll be sure to wait for ya'll to get back and party

Tips for befriending Christian infantrymen. 1. Do not say 666 is your lucky number. 2. Avoid tattooing genitalia with pentagrams and swastikas (pictures included). 3. Avoid referring to yamalukes as "Jew hats".


That was just a sampling of his handiwork. As I scrawled out addresses, they LOUDLY read them off the sides of the boxes. I scrawled faster.

"That's really not funny."

"Yes, sir. I know. But you see, my little brother got ahold of it..."

"Ahem. I see."

I receive various gun control arguments from the patrons of the lobby.

I finally finish readdressing and THEN he hands me the customs forms. My hand is a blur at this point and my writing beyond illedgible. I finish everything and meekly wait for my total.

OH WAIT! One of the boxes is too big. WTF?! HELLO! THIS IS THE POST OFFICE! WHERE WE MAIL THINGS! BUNCH OF COOKIES NAZI'S.

I pay and collect my rejected oversized package and try to leave as unobtrusively as possible. No more questions regarding decorations please! Let me just send my cookies in peace! I realize my brother is a little crazy, but I like him that way! HOW ABOUT YOU JUST SHUT YOUR WORD-HOLES AND STOP CONDEMNING ME! Next time YOU send cookies you can feel FREE to lecture me then.

As I left, an elderly gentleman touched my elbow and winked. "I wouldn't have minded cookies from a pretty thing like you when I was over there. Wouldn't have cared what the box said or how crazy the little brother was. As long as he wouldn't have shot me when I came back to properly thank you and take you out to dinner."

This afternoon I slipped out of work to deliver the several boxes that are filling the backseat of my car to the post office.

I need to stop by the bank--of course since they are asinine bank employees and have the most marvelous hours possible, they were closed.

I dropped by one of the smaller post offices at 4:20. After standing in line for five minutes, I was told by the overweight and very unhappy man behind the counter that he would not process my order since I had eight packages. You know, because he closed at 4:30. I wanted to say

"NO, I do NOT know. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT IS LIKE TO GET HOLIDAYS OFF AND HAVE FANTASTIC HOURS. Furthermore, do you have any frickin idea what the phrase 'customer service' means?! NO, I DIDN'T THINK SO! And do you have ANY IDEA WHAT YOUR REFUSING HERE?! Cookies! FOR TROOPS. Troops fighting to keep your fat ass employed. THAT'S WHAT! I hope you sleep well tonight knowing that you got home to your big screen TV a full ten minutes faster and deprived troops of cookies for godknowshowmuch longer. FYI- If YOU were to come buy a car for me, I would probably have to stay a HOUR late, since you were too lazy to come in on time. HAVE FUN WASHING YOUR UGLY UNIFORM!"

But I didn't. I simply said "thank you" and walked out. Oh yes. Somehow I managed to work in a apology. I'm not sure what I was apologizing for. Asking him to stay late? Cluttering his air space with my presence? Offering to contribute to the TRADE AND ECONOMY OF THE UNITED STATES?! I did politely ask directions to the nearest post office that might be open a little later. He directed me to another quite a bit out of my way.

I left, simmering. (That's right Mr. Overweight Postal Worker, if you discover poisoned cookies on your doorstep, don't be surprised if their LACED WITH ARSENIC. Ah! Just saying that makes me feel better. I wonder how much better I would feel if I DID it?!)

I went to the next post office, pulled my eight boxes in with me and stood in line for another ten minutes waiting for three surly women to deem me acceptable to service my shipping needs. Unfortunately, that day never arrived. I waited. Waited. Watched them go on the lunch/dinner/pieholestuffing breaks and even sprouted a few grey hairs. I finally dragged myself and my packages out of the post office. Angry that I had wasted an hour. Angry that I had accomplished nothing. Angry that apparently no one knows what customer service is.

Now I have eight very large boxes of cookies sitting in the back of my car. I am quite afraid I will be jumped for the eatables. I came quite close while getting lost on the way back to work in the sketchy section of town behind the post office where vanfuls of "handicapped" people creep along and stop up traffic.

I really think the Unabomber was on to something.

Not to long ago, if someone had said that to me, I would have recoiled. Or at least taken umbridge. I would have resolutely taken a bottle of vodka and swigged the whole thing down--just to prove them wrong. Because, I was just hardcore like that. Or I was just an alcoholic like that. Take your pick.

This past weekend was a birthday party for a coworker. As I have mentioned, Twiglett and I work together. Because I have worked here a total of THREE WHOLE MONTHS and Twiglett a whole ELEVEN months, they took the liberty of anylizing our lives, personalities and simlitarities. Their conclusions?

her: thin, European and rich looking
me: curvy, slavic and... curvy looking

her: wears fantastic shoes all the time
me: gave up wearing fantastic shoes to work, since I was ruining them all the time

her: is the wild, fun one she would "wear her underwear on TV"
me: rolled my eyes at the very suggestion

her: wears lots of shiny clothes and never wears the same outfit twice in a month
me: buys everything in black so it matches. plus, it's slimming

her: parties like a rockstar. weekend plans? was going out at the beach
me: parties like a granny. weekend plans? baking cookies. oh yes, and church

her: politics? nah! doesn't bother. who votes these days anyway?!
me: politics? will probably be baking cookies for the next campaign rally.

summary-her: fun. wild. hot. sexy. the girl you want to take out.
summar-me: conservative. demure. mature. the kind of girl you want to get to know (not in the Biblical sense) if only to get cookies.

What truly amused me about the entire situation is that I used to take great pride in being the "wild" one. Not compared to Twiglett, but to Preacher Wifey. I took such delight in helping educate her in the ways of the world. And now here I am, being the conservative, mature sister. (When told there is a ten year age difference between Twiglett and I people ALWAYS think I am older.)

Being old is kind of fun. Besides, it gives you liberty to entertain guests at parties with denture tricks.

In regards to whether I will age with grace and dignity and become a sexy mature woman or a fat middle aged troll.

"You, my dear, will never go over the hill like that. You might stand stubbornly at the edge and stare over, but you will never actually go."

My seven year old nephew decided to pop by my office and visit me. After the preliminary two second chit-chat about school, pets and life--he decided he was bored.

I supplied him with a stack of paper and a stapler and told him to have at it.

He sat behind me whacking away at the stapler.

*whack*

*whack*

*whack*

I was expecting it to occasionally be punctuated by a scream of bloody murder and perhaps a fountain of blood.

*whack*

*whack*

*whack*

I only stopped him because I was tired of the whacking, not because I was concerned for his digits. Why should I be concerned? After all, I purposely stapled myself in the palm of my hand when I was little and I survived.

I will also use this disclaimer when my children try to: jump off the roof, eat worms, swan dive onto the brick floor off of high chairs, have who-can-knock-the-most-bark-off-the-tree-my-swinging-into-it-on-the-rope-swing-contests-and-ensure-the-most-bodily-harm (person with the most injuries wins!), pull a tendon and refuse to see the doctor, be dumped from the buckets of tractors and generally do stupid things that most parents gasp at the mere mention of.

Oh, that's right. I'm not getting married and having children. That's right. No need to call child services yet. Though, you might want to go ahead, so they can put a restraining order on me getting pregnant. (Yes. I realize this means I would have to be pleasant enough to be in the same sleeping quarters as a male for 2.3 seconds.)

Considering that, I wouldn't worry.

In short, I am exhausted.

Actually, I am not ready to say "I wish to never see another cookie again!" I simply wish for a better back and shoes that wouldn't leave my feet swollen. (And yes, I was wearing sensible shoes. I did not feel the need to be someone's fantasy and bake a thousand cookies in my high heels and underwear.)

All in all, I spent about 30+ hours gathering supplies and baking this weekend. Tonight, I go back for another round of baking and boxing them up.

I'm not complaining! I'm just very tired. Very, very tired. I am having trouble stringing together coherent sentances. I sort of drift off in the middle of asking questions. "Did you, um, ever... find..." And then I forget what I was saying.

I feel like a Keebler Elf who was run over by the cookie truck.

This morning I overslept and was running a little late. Well, VERY late. I was still dressing and putting on makeup as I walked out the door. Trying to shave off a few minutes of my drive I took some back roads to work.

Bad idea.

Schoolbus/Minivan/Littlekidville.

The lumbering school buses that STOP quickly, but can never GO quickly. The neurotic minivan drivers who try to make up for their lack of good parenting by driving slowly. As if this will announce to the neighboorhood "HELLO! I AM A GOOD PARENT! I DRIVE SLOWLY OVER SPEEDBUMPS! PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE!"* And then there are the unsupervised little children jetting across the street, zipping down the sides of the road and general causing terror to all the phobic and rabid parents who are driving the aforementioned Child Deathtrap Minivans.

Driving in this kind of enviroment is hazardous enough. Much less when you are flustered from being late, trying to apply makeup AND eat your breakfast. But, I kept a careful eye on the road and managed to avoid mowing down small bodies. However, there WAS a school bus stopped on the road. It LOOKED like it was done picking up children. Then it started flashing yellow lights. Wait. What do yellow lights mean? Doesn't that mean it's about to GO?!

No, that means it's about to flip out the little red sign and flash it's red lights and stop traffic for infernal amounts of time. However, by the time I realized this, it was too late to stop. I did, hit my brakes for a squealing effect. You know, so all the suburban mothers would know I at least CONSIDERED not plowing over their children. (I could tell some of them were psycic and knew I had no qualms about killing living things. Or was it the goosefeathers still stuck in my grill? To my credit, I DID try driving like a mother--once. However, all this prompted me to do were to mutter about mother's in general under my breath. Yes. THOSE kinds of mothers.)

So I flew past the schoolbus, sort of accidentally, with it's little stop sign flipped out, it's lights flashing, the little children blanching in terror at the side of the road, the mothers flipping me off in their minivans (way to set a example there Moms! THAT'S THE SPIRIT! Make sure they stop for schoolbuses AND flick people off! WAY TO KEEP THOSE KIDS BALANCED!) and everyone who bows to the idealism of suburbia, honking at me.

I have to confess: I did laugh--aloud. It cracked me up to anger those Riddilin needy mothers so much. But I did feel badly. Because I know I could have harmed a small child if I wasn't careful. (Anyone out there wanting to send me hatemail regarding that, feel free. But, if your going to imply that I am a horrible person who has no feelings (very possibly true!) and no small people to care for (very not true!) save your typing muscles. I have a very dear nephew who goes to school (though he happens to have a mother who TAKES him to school rather than letting him ride the yellow death shuttles) and I also happen to know someone who accidentally ran over a child. Just wanted you to know that so you can spare yourself the mounting of the moral high horse to look down your ill-figured nose at me.)

I wanted to point out to these angry mothers that if there weren't people like me to complain about, they would be stuck complaining about child molesters and sex in elementary school.

I'm just helping them to live. The better life.






*It is my personal belief parenting skills are shown in direct proportion to how "bad" of a driver you are. My sister, who is also a excellent mother, terrorizes the rest of suburbia in her BMW. Plowing over any suspicious people who will not get out of her way. My father used to speed like a demon, taught us how to talk ourselves out of speeding tickets, drives over medians and curbs and regularly drives on the shoulder.

Barbie and Porkchop reminsce about a paticularly bleak time where Porkchop lived far away and was depressed by The Man.

Porkchop: "Well, I did tell you that I tried to commit suicide with diet pills, right?"

Barbie: "No!"

Porkchop: "Well. I did. If you take too many, your heart is supposed to explode or something."

*silence*

Barbie: (slightly impatient tone) "Well?!?"

Porkchop: "Well what?!"

Barbie: "Did it work?!"

Porkchop: "Clearly. It did. WHICH IS WHY I AM SITTING HERE TELLING YOU I TRIED TO COMMIT SUICIDE!"

*silence*

Porkchop: "Perhaps I need to clarify what I meant by SUICIDE."

A few months back, I was going through a paticularly desolate single slump and I thought "What better way to confirm my hate of dating and lose faith in the gender of men than ONLINE DATING!" So I signed up for a couple of sites.

Didn't really hear back from anyone. I wasn't too suprised or upset by this, I have grown acustomed to less attention since I am no longer blond. Blech. Whatever. I had enough bad dates, wasn't like I need MORE stories. (I am convinced that is the ONLY reason online dating exists, to give you the unforgettable bad date stories. That is ALL it ever produces, for me, anyway.)

Today, I went to clean out my spam folder. The spam count was reaching into the mid hundreds. As I opened the folder, I began to laugh hysterically. EVERY SINGLE ONLINE DATING EMAIL HAD BEEN FILTERED INTO SPAM. Was God trying to tell me something or was Gmail trying to tell me something? Either way, it worked, for had had no desire to sift through the hundreds of emails and find the best potential worst dates.

Moral of the story?

If you stop bleaching your hair, your IQ doesn't get any higher.

I just got the hiccups after eating a entire head of celery.

WHO AM I?! AND WHAT DID THEY DO WITH THRE REAL PORKCHOP?!

I used to think that I hated my job.

But I realize how good I had it. I would try to get fired and it wouldn't work.

I have, thus far, survived at my job because I ignore the fact that I hate it. But I can't ignore it anymore. The annoyance of my old job seems trivial compared to the things I put up with now.

Last night, I laid on the couch and cried. Because I hate my job that much. And I am very angry with myself for doing that. I identified the sad loathing of my spirit. I finially labeled it. I can't avoid it any longer.

But it doesn't help.

I've properly identified my emotions and now I feel like properly flinging myself over a sharp stick. Or properly jumping off a cliff.

I haven't felt this kind of sadness or loathing in awhile. Why couldn't it have just stayed buried?

I am not happy.

I am angry.

I want to go home.

(This personally brings the mental image to mind of dissecting lab animals and peeling back the fat that surrounds the intestines. But, that's just me. And I'm weird. And I like dissecting animals. And I like blood and guts and gore. And I am fascinated by infections. Anyway.)

Yes. The harsh realities of post-holiday insulating fat layer has sunk in. Roughly translated: I am fat from the holidays (though I was no bean pole before) and have vowed to eat celery and cottage cheese for a month and workout like a fiend.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was actually a size four. Yes. You read correctly A SIZE FOUR! With the occasional two. YES, TWO! Even though that was a long time ago I have purposed to take a walk down THAT memory lane.

Besides, how much easier can life get when you know your meal choices are chicken, celery, cottage cheese or canned tuna? Not much.

I realize this will forever cement my tombstone epithet as: PATHETIC.

At least I'll have a skinny sized coffin and not a fat one.

Occasionally, I like to enjoy a good bath. I enjoy the ritual of cleansing my body--daily, but I also enjoy the ritual of sitting in a tub of steaming hot water, surrounded by candles, a cup of tea in hand, Ray Charles crooning in the background and a good book in front of me.

Please notice this list started with: a tub of steaming hot water.

About three weeks ago, I had a lovely evening of nothing stretched before me, so I decided to enjoy it with an evening of pruning my skin. I lit the candles, made the tea, started the music, collected the books and started running the bath water.

First problem I encountered was the simple fact our tub has no little plug. I creatively covered it with a saucer. It leaked. I rummaged about and found a cup. It sort of worked. Whatever.

I sat happily in the bath waiting for it to finish filling. Halfway through filling it turns a very icy cold. Terrific. So. There I sit, in roughly five inches of now tepid water, trying, oh-so-valiently, to get the most out of my icy bath. After ten minutes of this icy soak bit, I rose from the veritable ashes of my dream bath and puttered about the house covered in soam scum and heavenknowswhatelse. I couldn't shower until the next morning since the hot water was gone.

I told this story to my flatmate who assured me that this was most definately out of the ordinary. Her old flatmate took bathes all the time.

Tonight. I tried again.

The same routine, except THIS time I started running the bathwater FIRST. It semed hot enough AND halfway full! Candles, tea, book, Norah Jones and soaking followed ensuit. Except, three quarters full, it turned icy again. I didn't think this would be much of a problem since my bath was full-ish.

I was able to soak for a full fifteen minutes. Until there wasn't enough water left in the tun to cover my body.

I lay there. Shivering. Covered in soap scum. Cold. Wet. Unshaven. Unbathed.

I got up. Frozen. Found TWO housecoats instead of the normal one, because I am very, very cold. I now have dried ON soap scum AND I am unbathed. I make myself another cup of tea and linger by the hot burner trying to warm my icy soapy hands.

My flatmate tells me I look like a fat housewife. Waddling about in two housecoats and unmatching slippers.

These are the single nights I prefer to forget about when giving myself those little pep talks about living alone. I think being smelly and cold is better alone than with someone. That isn't really a theroy I am willing to try out.


But I'll go out on a limb and say--it is.

One thing I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am good at, is baking cookies. Massive amounts of cookies. We're talking well over a thousand at a time. Out of a non-commercial kitchen. For some strange reason, I enjoy handmixing huge vats of cookie dough and then obsessively forming thousands of perfectly rounded little cookie dough balls. (You may ask why I do not recruit younger sibling slavery, two words--cookie testicles.)

The time has come for me to again bake thousands of cookies and package them up to send overseas. If you know anyone overseas, or have a neighbor who has a friend who has a nephew whose bosses son or daughter is serving over there... email their address to me. Or leave it in the comment box. I will be more than happy to send them some homemade happiness. However, be warned, when I send cookies, I send cookies. One friend of mine I sent so many cookies he ended up handing them out to the villagers who worked on base.

This isn't difficult. I am not asking you to donate money, bake cookies or do a chicken dance. I am simply asking you to send addresses of troops you know who would enjoy cookies made by the one and only Porkchop.

While I am a excellent cook, if, on the off chance they eat my cookies and die. I am most certainly not responsible. Or if they choke on them and die. Or if someone uses the cookies as weapons and manages to use them to kill... whoever.

I'm not talking about lewd men or vocal construction workers. I'm talking about women. You know, the women who are obviously trying to get on your good side, so the prattle on endlessly with a stream of compliments that are quite clearly insincere.

I am paticularly referring to one of the new salespeople who has done nothing but get on my nerves since she started. She is older, has short lesbian like hair and NEVER SHUTS UP. You need something? Tell me, I'll get it to you as soon as humanly possible. Yet, she stands in front of my desk, waiting, brightly chattering and looking like a graying squirrel (WITH A FLUFFY TALE) .

She compliments me on my hair, my beauty, my eyes, my office, my... you get the idea. Nothing goes unnoticed. As she continues to spew her stream of pseudo-positive verbiage I can quickly ascertain she is not only annoying and chatty, she is NOSY. PLEASE STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS! I do not feel the need to justify my single status to you. Or my lack of children. Or pets. Or my LACK OF INTEREST IN TALKING TO YOU AND DELVING YOU THE INTIMATE DETAILS OF MY LIFE.

She needs to fax something. GOOD GOD! IS THIS WOMAN NEVER GOING TO LEAVE. Of course, she can't just use my fax machine, now she needs a coversheet. And, of course, she is too stupid to actually operate the thing, so I have to go send the fax for her. Which puts me in closer proximity to her, which gives her more compliment fodder.

Here, let's just sear my eyes with hot pokers. That sounds like FUN!

My love for thee is greater than my love for most. It stretches beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. It is infinate. It is great. It is true.

It was you I ran to during my hard day of work. It was your earbuds I stuffed in my ears. It was your sweet and soothing tunes that I blasted myself out of conciousness with.

It was your sleekness and shinyness that I saw my reflection and saw who I truly am--fat and overfed. A little piggy moon face.

It was you who gave me truth and comfort. It was you who made me block out the sound of managers and salespeople alike. It was you who who gave me focus and enough energy to get through the two hours and seventeen minutes left in my work day.

I love thee.

I hope your love for me is as great. Thank you for prolonging your battery life and not deserting me in such a dreadful day as today. Thank you for reminding me that life does not end in the office, the depression of mine follows me like the scent of bad cabbage and you will be with me all the way.

Sweet iPod, I am forever yours--

Porkchop

My little brother and I are the two last remaining grandchildren that have any inheritance left from our Grandmother who died about fourteen years ago. Actually, for the past nine years, my siblings and I have been the only grandchildren left with any inheritance coming to them.

The trustees are my uncles, and even though I trust them--in theory, I sent my uncle a polite little email asking if my brother and I could receive copies of the statements. (We have asked that our father be the trustee, but they refused. There is no accountability whatsoever for the money. Except between the two of them.)

In reply, I received this:

Dear Porkchop:

Thanks for the well-wishes. We have had a good Christmas and New Years.

I thank God for "global warming" because think how cold it would be if we didn't have it.

As for the statements; they are being sent to me and your Uncle Dick. That is the obligation of the broker since we are the trustees of the account. They have no obligation to send statements to anyone else and normally don't do so.

I don't think it is necessary that you receive statements on a regular basis or any basis. That would just add an unnecessary extra charge to the account. Dick and I are the trustees and we think we are quite capable of making sure you get what's coming to you.

I arranged for your Mom to get some statements on a "one shot deal," one time. But that has ended. If you need to know the present balance at any time, I can e-mail that to you. Otherwise, it's just sitting there earning whatever it earns. We'll let you know if anything changes.

You and Fredd might do some serious thinking about what you plan to do with your money when you get it. That'll be quite a sum.

I have attached an article that I wrote for a newspaper about money and inflation. It might help you a little if you read it.

It is in both Corel Word Perfect and MSWord.

Love,

Uncle Dave

My imaginary reply:

Dear Uncle Dave:

I realize that you think I am completely ignorant and uneducated since I did not turn out like your daughters. As in--married several times, children by several different men and all chain smokers. I also realize, that, like your children, I have not finished college, so this makes me completely and totally inadequate to make daily decisions like what should I wear today? Should I wear the baby blue eyeshadow or the teal? Should I buy the double or the singlewide? Is it legal to sell foodstamps? Ah. Yes. The problems that life proffers us daily. Perhaps we could start emailing more often so you could help me out with that. Furthermore, let me assure you, my inferior education has allowed me to completely avoid understanding subtleties like condescension and arrogance.

As for the whole "money" thing. Don't worry. I have it ALL figured out. I am going to INVEST it all in crack cocaine. After all, that stuff never loses it's value, right?! Furthermore, if it does lose it's value, I'll just use it. Then I'll become all skinny and shit and can be like a famous gorgeous person! (If I can't use the crack to become super skinny, I'll chain smoke myself into the single body fat digits, similar to your lovely wife who seems to be dying of some sort of smoke induced disease.)

God bless you for your advice! You know, even though my father is a financial planner, he has never offered pearls of wisdom this valuable to me!

Love always,

Little Niecey Porkchop


***Disclaimer*** My uncle is actually a very intelligent person. However, his child rearing skills are debatable. And my Mom's family is dysfunctional at best. And they all think we children are weird because we were homeschooled. And they hate my Dad.

As luck would have it as soon as I took my computer into The Store Full Of Slowness and Stupidity aka Best Buy aka The Store That Has Quite Possibly The Worst Service Plan Known To Man aka The Store That Makes Me Wish I Could Go Back In Time And Buy A Mac aka You Get The Idea aka I Don't Remember What I Am Talking About Anymore.

Back to my story.

As soon as my computer decided to become demonic and be sent in for three weeks of sorcery, my iPod became available. Thus, giving me a sleek music producing device with no computer to sync it to.

So, this gives me three weeks to contemplate a name for my deliciously sleek and sexy little iPod. It is black. With a very large color screen.

What think ye?

I was thinking something along the lines of:

The Anti-Christ

My technological equipment always gives me a frightful amount of trouble. Case in point, I just found out yesterday that insurance was dropped on my phone because I have had it replaced I so many times. WHY GOD, WHY!?! I have a sister who has had her iPod replaced FIVE TIMES, yet I cannot get insurance on a measly phone.

Or perhaps I should name it Crumpet. Highly symbolic of the fact I have become incredibly boring as of late. West Wing reruns, knitting and tea. Lots of tea.

Perhaps I should name it Baby Porkchop because I am convinced this is the closest I will ever come to having children. That would be so fitting! It's black, like the devil and decietfully shiny.

Yes.

Or I could just come right out and call it: The Spawn of Satan.

I am too embarassed to post my goals here. They are so silly and small compared to the aspirations I used to have. And while this doesn't bother me too badly. I won't post them for the sake of my family.

The overachievers that they are, they might find it a little more than disturbing.

Par for the course around this time of year, I was discussing the high points of this past year with a group of friends. When it came to me I grew quiet, because I realized every single thing I will remember from this year, every single "high point", every single lesson learned was from the low points.

Yes. The points where I was crying, screaming and at my lowest. The points where I thought life would never be bright again. The point where I realized I was nothing and my life without Christ would be nothing. The points where I was humiliated and humbled.

You have no idea how loathe I am to write this. I used to mentally mock my sisters for writing things like this. Labeling them "pretentious", "overly-spiritual" and "goodytoeshoes". But, I don't care.

This year, I have learned much about myself. I have learned limit and boundries. I have learned weaknesses and strengths. I have found out a little more of who I really am. I have shed pretenions. I understand that it doesn't matter what my job is, who I date or what my goals are. If I am not content with who I am and not fufilled in Christ, there will always be a nagging emptiness.

Even though I am taught a lesson once, I seem to go running back at least two more times to make sure I have thoroughly learned it. I am hardheaded like that.

This year has been good. It has been full. I have been blessed. I have nothing to show for myself, persay. But I have gained so much. So many lessons learned.

A year worth remembering.