I wasn't really mugged. But I THOUGHT I was going to get mugged. So that's almost as good, right?

I was walking out of the grocery store, struggling with my bags and listening to my iPod. A young thugish looking chap walked up to me and started talking. Because of my earbud obstructions, I didn't understand what he was saying. All I saw was him trying to stop me and the waving of his arms.

After I ran through a hundred different attack scenarios, I managed to pull the earbuds out and hear him offer me a rap cd from a local artist. It was, you know, gangsta thug. After I politely refused the music, he offered a morsel of praise "You've got that whole baby face thing going on. I totally dig it." What does this teach us children? Even if you hate your baby face, it might keep you from getting mugged.

Hooray chubby cheeks!

How I hate thee and your stupid doltish ways.

Why do I watch thee? I know not. But I do know you chose the wrong girl. And because you did all your children will have awful Tennesse accents and wretched fashion sense.

May they be cursed with the wretched laugh of their mother.

An old ex with whom I remain on friendly terms (isn't that a shocker) called me and was joyfully telling me of his newfound love. We chatted awhile of various couples we knew. He talked of his congratulations, I placed specific bets on their breakup dates. He will forever be the romantic and, according to him, I will always be the fatalist.

I laughed at his childish ways of thinking that "everything will work out". He scoffed at my inability to believe that "everything will work out".

"It's no wonder we didn't last. You were counting down the days until we broke up!"

"At least I wasn't surprised!"

Today is my day off. As of late, I have been trying to do productive things on my day off. Run errands, shop, visit things I've always wanted to see. But, today, I'm just being lazy and it feels absolutely lovely.

I have the apartment all to myself this weekend. As the sister is gone up north, spending her days strapped to thin pieces of wood hurtling down mountains. Ah. Such fun.

She normally feels quite guilty if I clean by myself on my day off so she insists I go do something fun. But the funk has started to build up. The dirty clothes heap is growing higher. Everything looking a little dingier. I slept until noon, ate cold pizza for breakfast and the started rumbling about in my pajamas. I've cleaned furiously. Scrubbing, bleaching, straightening, sorting, tossing. I love it. An occasional day to remind myself I still know how to clean and I still enjoy it.

I am by no means finished. I'm pulling out all my neurotic cleaning idiosyncrasies I thought I had long banished. (I once actually waxed the front of the microwave to make it shine more.) To really kick that whole memory lane experience into high gear, I pulled out a few old mixed CD's.
Sweet memories.

Even though I have to work tomorrow, this feels like vacation. A vacation where I can remind myself how much fun work can be. I forget this sometimes. Too busy skinning babies and clubbing seals, you know.

"Do you have a preoccupation with death? In the past twenty minutes of conversation you have mentioned dying a total of four times. Is there something I should know about you?"

Instead of warm fuzzy feelings, you get to openly point out six weak spots. Must more my speed, if I do say so myself. In fact, when filling out the warm fuzzy for myself, I was thinking "this would be so much better if it said mean things about me". However, upon selecting my mean traits, it wouldn't let me select more than six. SIX! I had, like, eleven picked out.

heh.

Please do it. I find these sort of things fascinating.

p.s. a huge thanks to those who filled out warm fuzzy. I appreciate it much.

I'm the oddball. A bit of a misfit.

Our whole family is passionate. Each of us about--something.

However, I've gotten snippets and smatterings of everyone. Leaving me to be a wild conglomeration of the leftover misfits of our family. I have the cheeky steak of my father, without the tempering charm. The grand aspirations of my sister without the gritty determination. The lazy dreams and vision of my other sister, without the ability to believe in them. The cantakerous vinegar of my brother without the razor sharp intelligence to justify it all. The rare lucky streak of charm from my other sister, without the ability to make it a regularly scheduled occurrence.

I'm not complaining, by any means. Because, I carry a piece of my family with me wherever I go. I have snippets of their love and words of wisdom.

They have each taught me valuable life skills. Just enough to leave someone wondering "where the hell did THAT come from?!"

*Examples and illustrations to follow.

Porkchop amuses herself. Porkchop took a helpful little test that told her she very possibly has moderate ADHD.

The reason this makes Porkchop laugh is because she is quite possibly one of the calmer family members. Everyone else is neurotically smart and equally hyper.

Interesting factoid: Porkchop was recently informed that referring to oneself in the the third person is a sign that they are "unhinged".

Interesting factoid II: Porkchop not only adores third person conversations, they make her laugh uncontrollably.

Interesting conclusion: Porkchop is unhinged and unfocused.

Yesterday, in a fit of inspiration, mostly encouraged by the warm weather, I decided to go get my highlights done.

Oooh. Highlights. Lovelyness. Blondeness.

I arrived at the salon and asked how long of a wait it would be. Immediately a surly woman, possibly wearing birkenstocks, swept me away and plunked me in a chair. I explained that I would like to go lighter gradually, no huge streaks and nothing punkish and scary. She sort of seemed to be listening. However, she didn't ask any sort of questions or examine the past coloring of my hair, she simply rushed to the backroom and mixed up a rather strong bleach solution.

As she start to foil my hair I reminded her I wanted natural looking highlights. She halfway nodded. If she needed my head to move, she would pull my hair. She splattered bleach everywhere (managing to get a spot on the back leg of my jeans and the toes of my shoes).

I tried to loosen her up by asking engaging questions about herself, but she remained surly and tightlipped. All I know is that she is from Colorado, she once dated a stalker and she is the sister of the salon owner.

Since I'm a glutton for punishment I asked her to trim my hair, specifying that she take off no more than a quarter of a inch. Four inches and fourty shades of blonde later I looked in the mirror and almost screamed.

I have a modified lady mullet. And she made my blonde highlights so fine that I seriously look like I am greying. I've had two people ask me thus far if I truly am going grey.

There was a time when I would have wept, sobbed and paid a small fortune to have it fixed. But with age, comes maturity. So now I'm just taking advantave of it by wearing belly shirts, eating as many twinkies as I can get my hands on and calling people "honey".

I kid, I kid.

Sort of.

She's 5'8". Has legs that last forever. Glossy dark hair. Large innocent blue eyes. Wide and easy smile. Classic good looks.

She's the one that should have gone into modeling rather than the sisters with the stubby legs. She didn't. She married a preacher and made him very, very happy. And simultaniously made him the envy of every other red blooded male in the United States. However there is someone whose heart was shattering was more personal than that of another bombshell swept away.

His name was Vino. He was in love with her. He begged for only a scrap of her time. She demurred. He persisted. She held firm.

The sisters ran into the friends of Vino while out to dinner. We randomly ran into them and once they made the connection through our resemblance, their eyes widened and they all crowed in unison "YOUR the sisters of Princess". They went on to tell us how a couple of them had roomed with Vino during is time of tragic rejection and all they heard, every night was "Princess, Princess, Princess".

She must have made quite the impression, considering the fact she barely spoke to the guy. She's married to the luckiest man in the world and in the process trampled the hearts of a few not-so-lucky.

And she's a preacher's wife. Hah! I can't quite get over saying that. Preacher's wife. Preacher's wife. Preacher's wife. It makes me giggle.

Preacher's wife.

Back in the day when I was young and still had my health--

Let me start over.

Back in the day when I was young and stupid, I would happily work from eight to five, run home and change and then work another six hours or so. It wasn't infrequent that I would work until one in the morning. I would pull all-nighters, sometimes back to back. Was this over important projects? Sometimes. More often than not, just because I felt like it. Because I prided myself in being a workaholic. Because I thought it was fun!

My general state of being was caffeinated, slighty bloated and always a little tired. I forgot what life was like before dark circles, elastic waistlines and fresh air. I did--on occasion, sleep at my desk.

Yeah. I was a loser/idiot.

It did pay off. But I'll never be able to live up to that again.

I find myself working twelve hour days, barely able to keep my eyes open. The puffiness, caffeination and lack of sleep are all here. The tendancy to drift off in the middle of my sentances is becoming more and more common. I have started working easily rememberable and charming phrases into every conversation with every customer. Easier than trying to actually think and come up with something new. Even though I'm working hard and finially getting some affirmation, the joy just isn't there. The absolute delight I would have after finishing a ninety hour work week.

Part of it is because our family no longer places such high value on being a workaholic. Part of it is because I feel like a used tool. Part of it is because I have seen life without being a workaholic and know it's possible to work and enjoy life.

So many days where I only catch snippets of fresh air to and from my car. Glorious days like today where the only blue sky I see is through my office door and through the showroom windows--filtered twice by thick glass. It's enough to make me want to move to Wyoming and be a rancher's wife--seriously.

What I find most amusing about all of this is how weak I have become. Not physically, but towards long hours. Fifty hours a week and I am whining like a baby! Where's the love of work? The foaming desire to be the biggest, best and brightest workaholic?

Probably gone with my general desire to live long enough to see the sky be blue again.

It was fine. Nothing earthshattering. I didn't meet the love of my life, but I didn't have to fake injury of family members to get out of it, nor did I catch pneumonia.

While I did not ever let on that I didn't know his name (he eventually referenced himself in the third person) I did keep a running joke about him chopping me up into a thousand tiny pieces.

I thought it was funny.

The thing that excited me most was the fact he has administrative access to military databases and offered to look up every military guy that has ever slighted me. He's going to be quite busy for awhile.

The only reason I'm going on a second date with him is because I need to get my scarf back, which I left at the restaurant. It wasn't Freudian, trust me. It's because I was so tired I was practically falling asleep while he talked.

Another Valentine's Day past in a vaguely amusing fashion.

The longer I'm alive the more I find a vast disparity between how I think I portray myself and how other perceive me. Yet, I'm mystified as to how everyone does perceive me. If you take a couple minutes and just fill this in for me, It'll help greatly.

(This was not my own original idea. Many thanks to The Sister Who Posts Links Like It's Nobody's Business.)

Last year I went to Valetines Day dinner on a blind date with a guy that had a girlfriend.

This year I'm going to Valetines Day dinner with a guy who I met last week and I cannot remember his name.

Next year, who knows?

But in three to four years I fully expect to speed dating on Valentines Day.

One of the flighty tarts from a different part of the dealership has taken a certain liking to one of my managers. She comes and visits often. She speaks in a nasal twang. She has large slightly permed blonde hair with an abundance of roots. She has overly tanned skin. She rims her dark eyeliner fiercely around her eyes. In short--she's Barbie Gone To Seed.

The only thing I cannot get over is her fingernails. Well, they aren't really hers persay. They were the property of the nearest Chinese nail salon until 4:00 p.m. this past Thursday. At that time, she waltzed in, plunked her much admired hiney down and paid a pretty sum to have perfectly shaped acrylic ovals attached to the tips of her fingers and painted a garish shade of coral/red/pink that doesn't really match anything.

They're so awful. They fascinate me! All I can think is how her hand looks precisely like that of the token slut who was incinerated in the climax of a poorly made action movie. And all that was left to identify her was the tanned and seared hand. With the charred little ovals--still intact.

My job is to charm the customers into comfort. Instantly become their friend. Lure them to a false sense of safety. Smile and nod my way into their hearts. Once they have firmly established me as credible and trustworthy, I am then supposed to pounce.

Shred them. Pack their payments full of products that are debatable as to their needs and quality. Soothe them into a higher payment. Maintain eye contact and help them remain calm. Assure them this is the best decision for them.

For me every day is a moral conflict.

Used to, I felt like a liar because I would watch customers walk into payments that were higher than they could honestly afford. I see their income, their outgoing and their debt. I can easily see what is too much. When I asked my manager if he ever felt slight twinges of guilt for encouraging customers into unwise financial decisions, he shrugged and told me "if they don't buy here. They'll buy elsewhere. We're not the ones who are MAKING them buy it. If they can't afford it, the shouldn't be here."

That helped me--for awhile.

I watched as a woman was encouraged not to call her fiance regarding this major purchase. "It's your money, you earn it, why are you calling him?" They goaded her and tried to tug at the deeply rooted feminist mantras to which she must surely relate. She sat across from me at my desk. Confused. Should she? Shouldn't she? What if it wasn't here? What if she bought a lemon?

I didn't say a word. They tag teamed her. Peppering her with reasons why she should buy now. In my mind I screamed "SWEET MOTHER OF MARY! Leave the poor woman alone! DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT THE WORD NO MEANS?!"

She stood resolute. She said they were a couple, they were going to make decisions as a couple. They were building a life together, she wanted to consult him. When she couldn't reach him on the phone, despite their fervent reasonings, beggings and pleadings, she walked out and said if she really wanted it, she would come back.

They were furious. I was silently cheering her on. Go you! My sales closing skills were berated. I refrained from comment. However, I did cite a rule of sales as my defense. Shouldn't the salesperson have made sure all the decision makers were present before getting this far along in the process? I satiated them--temporarily. If only because she did come back. If she hadn't? Who knows what would have happened.

I know. This is sales. This is what we do. (I only share in the we because I have to.)

Yesterday I saw a couple with troubled credit. They had gotten themselves in over their heads before. When they saw their high payment, they balked. I reasoned. They backpedaled. I explained. They asked if this was a wise decision. I avoided answering the question by re-explaining the rules of credit establishment. The husband said to me several times "I just want to make a wise decision. I don't want get in over my head. I want to do the right thing."

I ached. Watching someone who so desperately wanted to make a decision for the better and the only external wisdom he had guiding him was a fast-talking salesman. When I got to the point where I couldn't splice words any longer, I called another manager to reason with them. They were given the song and dance. The pony and cart was trotted out for them. The white rabbit. The whole nine yards.

In a lull in the little show, when the magicians had gone out for their nip at the bottle and restock themselves with shiny trinkets and baubles, the customer looked me in the eye and said "As a professional, do you honestly think this is a wise decision?"

A moment of panic washed over me. I did not want to lie to this man, but, if I didn't, I could very easily be out of a job. Every time a customer walks out of my office without purchasing the vehicle, it is a huge black mark against me. Whether or not it was my fault. I had to think quickly. Ah. There was my out--as a professional. "Sir. I am not a professional credit advisor. I have explained the rules of credit re-establishment and what you can do. I am not in a professional compacity to advise you in that decision."

What am I going to say when they ask me--as another consumer? As a person? What happens when someone words a question in such a manner that I can't wiggle out?

Who told me empathy was a good thing?

You may be thinking "Yo! CRAZY WOMAN! Your making a killing. You have a job that most people twice your age would kill for. YOU SCREWING YOURSELF OVER WITH YOUR GUILT." This isn't unreasonable, I tell you. Most people in this business admit it's shady, but they have gotten addicted to the money, which is why they stay in.

Money has always been a odd subject for me. Growing up, money was tight. I have a father who has pulled himself up by his bootstraps and become incredibly sucessful. But he did that because he made wise decisions. He didn't spend money if we didn't have it. To my mother who was raised in a affluent home, this was sometimes embarassing and irritating. Even though she could stretch a dollar father than anyone else I know (she fed a family of 7 on $50 a week for years) she and my father often fought about money. How it should be spent, how much we didn't have and how she wanted more.

It was probably a self-imposed childhood embrassament. But, I always felt like we were compensating. Covering up. Distracting from it. I see that shift in the chair, the break of eye contact and the quick lowering of the head when I start pressing for more funds or a higher payment. Imperceptible to some. The cost of business to others. A painful point of empathy for me. I see them calculating in their heads. Sacrifice now? Splurge now? Walk away? Admit me don't have enough? Bite back on pride?

I see the spouse who steels themself in anger when they think they won't be getting what they've been coveting. I see the tired and beaten look in the eyes of the spouse who feels they can't afford it and it denying the other what they want. I acutely feel the tension between them. I can envision the long nights of screaming and throwing things as they volley the blame of a financial decision of this magnitude between each other.

Some of the customers don't even realize they are headed down that road to financial ruin. I can forsee the signs of what will be pretty quickly. They eagerly sign the papers. They came in on a whim and are now buying. They're getting what they want--instantly. I see they are in over there heads. They don't. It isn't my job to tell them. The saving and budgeting that was drilled into me is now leaping to my lips, begging to fall.

I don't tell them what will be. I can't tell them I empathize. It isn't my place. Never will be my place.

I don't think every person who buys a car is unwise. Far from it. But the tangles of childhood, work, guilt, money and life all culminate on my desk--daily.

People wonder why I hate my job. That's why.

Our new manager is a bit--overwhelming. He's all arms and mouth. He waves them wildly while talking loud enough to match his actions. Seriously. It's a bit unnerving. You can normally hear him in every office on the first floor, even though we have music piped in.

In true car business fashion, he's a bit of a hustler. When you add that and the arm waving, well, let's just say it's rather unnerving. Last night, e whirlwinded a couple into buying a vehicle. He sweeps them into my office and they run to the chairs hunkering down into the seats and clutching at the arms for safety. He leaves.

They sit there for a moment. Stunned. As if they had just witnessed the birth of a two-headed cat by their Grandma. You could almost say they look disheveled.

I give them a bit to come back to their senses. They timidly ask "Is he always like that?" I nod.

They lean across the desk and whisper conspiratorially

"I think he escaped from the circus. Or maybe he just missed his life calling as a clown."

Right now it feels like someone has taken to chiseling at the back of my head and right behing my brow bone. My eyes burn. My sinuses ache.

The funny thing is--I'm not even sick. This is what happens when I work too much and get too little sleep.

I feel awful for neglecting the few people I actually come in contact with outside of work--ya'll.

I realize how incredibly silly that statement sounded, but it's true.

I promise I'll have vaguely funny bits for you later.

Sunday night and all of Monday I was clutching the cold porcelain after every meal. My stomach clenching and throat tightening, tears streaming from my eyes from the sheer force of the sickness and the feeling of helplessness that slides over you when you can't keep a mere cracker down.

Thanks barbecued beef that was apparently left out on the counter overnight.

I hate it. But it reminds me of when I loved it.

I loved the feeling of hunger, the scratching at my throat, the acidic scrape of my teeth, the sting of tears and mascara as it ran into my eyes and the furvative trips to the bathroom.

Yesterday, as I huddled pathetically on the floor, I remembered I used to live for this. For the emptiness. For the pain. For the putrid reassurance I was doing something about the fat on my thighs.

Last night, I saw myself in the mirror. My cheeks are fuller--perhaps too much so. My tummy is rounder that I would like it to be. My body isn't nearly as thin as I would like. Yet, it will never be fat enough to do that again.

Lowering yourself to cowering like an animal in the hidden corner of the bathroom.

As a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool to his folly.

Barbecued beef doesn't taste quite the same coming up. Nor does tea and crackers.

I have thoroughly sanitized myself, again. But I can still smell the lingerings of vomit.

I wouldn't say I have a sensitive stomach, but when I get food poisoning, I get food poisoning.

My boss isn't in this week. Which means, I am here even more.

I hope we don't have a policy against vomit buckets under the desk.

My office is in the depths of our dealership. And by depths I mean, I cannot see outside. Well, I take that back. If I carefully cram myself into the corner of my desk, throw myself across said desk and stretch my neck, I can see a scrap of outside through the showroom windows.

Even with all the sky-line gloriousness I am completely unaffected by the weather. Of course, walking to and from my car is the obvious exception. But within my office, it doesn't matter how dismal or bright it is outside, my office remains the same. A little climate controlled grey prison.

Today it is paticularly binding and wretched because it is so GLORIOUS outside. I want to be out there! Dancing among the rainbows! Skipping with the unicorns! Feeding lollipops to the Care Bears!

But I am not. I am here. Longing. Unfulfilled. Trapped. (cue corny Creed music about prisons)

See? That's what being optomistic does for you. DASHES YOUR HAPPY LITTLE DREAMS TO THE ROCKS.

Today while enjoying my oversized burger at lunch, I also enjoyed fermented berverages with our general manager.

All my bitching and moaning about the lack of accountability and standards in this business. All my hate of tackiness, seediness and under-handed business. All my complaints are squelched--temporarily.

After chastising Barbie for not cleaning up after herself and ever-so-righteously doing it for her, Barbie looks at me and says

"You would make a great Catholic. You love suffering. The more pain you feel, THE BETTER! You could crawl on your knees to Rome and feel very redeemed."

I was momentarily wounded, but I hadn't forgotten the conversation we had about her and her freakin' perfection.

"Well, you would be a great JEW. You would make a perfect PHARISEE. YOU COULD LOOK DOWN YOUR NOSE AT EVERYONE ELSE, WHICH IS WHAT YOUR GOOD AT!"

Um. Yeah. So we don't stereotype or anything.


This is not meant to offend. I have friends of both religions who would find this conversation quite funny.

Cookies For Troops now has a home all it's own. It still has a little tweaking left. I need to finish frequently asked questions and a few other things, but it's almost done.

Peruse and pass on the link as you please!

Remeber when I talked about me dating the chicken farming king? Remember the story of the green and yellow lawn mower testicles?

Yes. Well. I found one of the few pictures of the two of us. And I just couldn't spare myself from the agony. I have to show you so you can cover your eyes, hug your knees and keen in pure pity.



The voices in your head are probably screaming "SWEET JESUS! WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?! Or rather, WAS SHE THINKING AT ALL?!" Well. Since you asked Jesus, I'll leave it to him to answer those questions. Since I'm a little iffy on both answers.

But. IT GETS WORSE. Remember that this fine young chunk of farming manliness is getting married? Well. His father and MY father happen to see each other quite frequently. For some reason, my father STILL finds the thought of me marrying this lad quite endearing. Even though I would be locked away to a life of farming and child-bearing. As soon as he saw this picture, he snatched it from my fingers and chortled with glee, dancing about in his socks. He informed me that he recently saw the father of Chicken Lover Boy and he is salivating at the thought of having grandbabies popped out left and right.

I am petrified. Terrified that he will mail it to his child lusting partner in crime and label it something like;

"Just think, this COULD have been the mother of your grand children."

"Fire up the baby ovens! It's going to be a HOT season."

"Do you realize the breeding stock that you lost?"


Yes. My father has no qualms in comparing me to a farm animal or a baby factory.

I've been here eleven hours. My fuzzy sweater is starting to make me itch. My hair is irritating me. I am only surviving because I can sniff my perfume of the neck of the sweater. It's very calming and lovely.

I finally bind my hair up. Quickly. Unprofessionally. Loosely. Who are we kidding? No more customers are coming.

The moment I do so, someone pops their head into my door "Why'd you put yer hair up?"

BECAUSE I FREAKING WANT TO, THAT'S WHY!

Sometimes I accidentally stumble on just the right combination. I wake up late, cold and uncreative. So I curl my hair, throw in a fuzzy sweater and simple skirt. Two things I have learned while working in a all-male business:

Men love softness and curls.

Whenever I curl my hair, I get more than my fair share of unwanted attention. I deal with this by ignoring anyone I work with who gives me this attention and simply exploiting the customers who find me attractive. However. Today there was this gentleman from Turkey.

You have to understand, my Mother lived in Turkey for awhile and has warned us of the lechorios tendancies of Turkish men. Well, of all men from the Middle East in general.

It wasn't the greatest combination to begin with. The salesman that hits on me the most and a Turkish man? They walk past my office and the Turk visably leers. The salesman offer to introduce me. He does, as our "beautifully randiant business manager". Wow. Quite the introduciton. (This is, after all, the salesman who mentioned to me this morning that my hair looked SO much better down, rather than harshly pulled back.) I go to shake the Turk's hand, but he clasps mine and starts pulling it towards his lips...

I firmly snatch away. I make polite conversation. Mention my mother lived in Turkey. He nods, smiles hugely and begins chattering away. I cannot really understand what the guy is saying, but nod and smile. I continue mindlessly nodding and smiling, even though he is blatently leering at me, until I here the words "so, you come to Turkey with me? Yes? YES? SHE NODDED, YES!"

Eh. It appears I'll be going to Turkey or I'll be shot for lying.