I have gone back to a dark brunette.

This decision has been met with rejoicing by a few and grumbling by many. Most people like it lighter. Preferably reddish.

Everyone has felt the need to share their unwanted opinions with me.

I was cool with it all until the (upteenth) creepy old man stopped by and said "Girl! What the hell did you do to your hair?!" His voice clearly communicated his preferance in my grooming and styling.

I dyed it, McFucker. What are you going to do about it? In fact. I LIKE IT BETTER, because you don't like it.

Suck on that.

I {heart} my family.

We so rock.

We're all so different, but so alike. We enjoy poking fun at ourselves and others. We are irreverant and undignified. Every situation is humorous in some way or another. Hanging out with us is, well, an experience that will not quickly be forgotten.

So, when I was asked out for drinks tonight and had to turn it down because "I'm hanging out with my little brother and dying is hair" the guy laughed in my face. I know he thought I was making up an excuse like "I'm cleaning the hair out of my drain" or "My grandmother is beeping in" but really, I'd rather spend the rest of my life in the company of my brother than him.

I know, at the rate I'm going, I very well might have to. But you know what? That's ok. Because I can actually stand my family. And the thought of having them around the rest of my life makes me smile.

But it really should be 9-9 or 9-12.

I'm still here.

Nine to five, all takin' and no givin'

Beneath the huge boobs and bad hair, she was on to something.

There was a time when every day was blog worthy. There was drama! There was intrigue! Broken heels! Boys sending flowers! There were co-workers to scorn, boyfriends of friends to terrorize and many more exciting tidbits of my life. (Said with tounge firmly in cheek.) (I'm actually quite sure I could find a relating pathetic story to every word of this post, but I'll just save the most mispelled, poorly written and generally horrendous highlights. Or lowlights, as it were.)

Back in the days of carefully crafted blog posts, today would have been a veritable goldmine for story fodder. I ran out of gas, disasterously dyed my hair and locked my car keys in work. Paticularly disasterous since I was the only one left. Ah. I remember the days when I would have used all the aforementioned events for policemen snagging, plentiful tears and huge dramatic breakdowns. (I won't even bother linking to that. We'd be here all night with the links I could provide.)

I don't know if this is an exercise to remind myself how downright irritating I can be. Or if it's just a pathetic excuse for a blog post. But I laughed today because during all three situations where I would have worked myself in a tightly wadded bunch of panties, I just laughed and rolled my eyes.

Eh. That's life. You move on. You'll survive.

(Word on the street has it that I'm a bit easier to live with. Imagine that. Me easy to live wi--Wait. She said easier, not easy. Ah.)

In conclusion: I need something bigger, shinier and more exciting for good stories. Keep reading for Porkchop: Bounty Hunter stories.

(I'm kidding. Sort of. Not really.)

Not the sickly little white pellets you purchase in the store.

But the sticky squares of goodness I used to make with my sister. They were delicious. Rolled in toasted coconut they were addictive. We would tint them pink, because we were silly like that and liked everything in pink.

Everyone thought we were odd for making our marshmallows. All that trouble. The beating and beating and beating to make them perfectly fluffy. Finally, when we were finished they would eat one, if only to prove us wrong for our fiendish love. You would watch their eyes widen with delight as the homemade addiction would melt in their mouth.

I miss marshmallows. I miss my sister who would make them with me.

I wish she'd come home. I'll promise to make her marshmallows if she will.

Place: our parts warehouse

Customer: "Yo! Mah niggah! Yu gots dem rims or what, yo? Ah been waitin' a week now, yo! Ah'm lozing sum respeck in da hood cuz mah ride ain't trippin. Ah need me some bling-bling, if ya know what ah'm sayin'.'"

Parts Clerk: "Yes, sir. What rims did you order, sir?"

Customer: "Ahdunno. Like, whutever goes wit mah ride, yo."

Parts Clerk: "Your car was gold, correct?"

Customer: *scoffs* "Yo. It ain't gold. It's freakin' Autumn Gold Linen, yo! AND DON'T YOU FREAKIN' FORGIT IT!"

Porkchop: "I really need to find a different word to say than fuck. But it's just such a good word. It expresses frustration. Anger. Rage. Irritation. A range of emotions, mostly having to do with my intense dislike of people, but a variety nonetheless."

Friend Who Pretends She Is A Lady And Would Not Let Me Reveal Her Name: "You just need to learn how to swear in a foreign language. Spanish? El fucko! Japenense? Fuckasian! French? Le Fuck! Irish? McFucker!"

Porkchop: "Doesn't have quite the same effect as inserting fuck into the appropriate words. Like my favorite. Absofuckinglutely."

FWPSIALAWNLMRHN: "But I think a good McFucker never hurt anyone."

I realize that you have--how do I say this--an arrangement with your wife. Wherein you both drag home Bar Rats and have wild monkey sex. Which explain the variety of cars lining the street parking space within two blocks of your house at any given hour of the day.

I acknowledge this. While I do not agree with this I am not here to preach you a sermon against herpes and the likelihood of you having them. The problem I have is much simpler. You don't even need a shot of penicillin to cure it. The aforementioned Bar Rats apparently have no idea that parking in front of YELLOW CURBS and entrances to PARKING LOTS and DRIVEWAYS is illegal. If they want to park in front of your driveway, thus blocking in the vehicles of the other Bar Rats and forcing ya'll to have one big Vermin Orgy, fine. But when they park in front of the entrance to MY parking lot, I start having issues.

At first, it wasn't so bad. I'm guessing it was the vehicle of your Favorite Bar Rat, because it was there for four days straight. She didn't park ALL the way in front of the parking lot entrance, just sort of halfway. Fine. Whatever. I used the other entrance.

Now please understand. The other entrance is much more harmful to my tires. When I use the OTHER entrance my tires have a tendency to be soft in the morning. This forces me to drive ten minutes out of my way to go fill them up and check the pressure. I usually have to end up filling them up after work as well. An awful lot of trouble, if you ask me, just so your Bar Vermin can park illegally where they please.

But hey, you have needs, and I'd much rather you be having Vermin Orgy's than peeking through our windows like the 1% sex offender population that resides in our fair town. So. You know. I dealt with it.

Last night, however, was the straw that broke the camel's back. Or in a illustration you might be able to understand a little better, the trap has SNAPPED on the snout of the rat. (Or do rat's have noses? I can't remember. SINCE I DON'T HAVE RATS LIVING IN MY HOUSE.)

I come home after a paticularly long day at work. I was tired. I was hungry. I was irritated after spending twelve hours dealing with people like you. I was ready to let children feed their fingers into my shredder. Because, let's face it, if the parents are too stupid to watch them, they probably deserve fingerless children. I realize that last sentence has nothing to do with you, but I just want to paint you a vivid picture of how FREAKING PISSED OFF I WAS. Ahem.

I turn to pull into my parking lot eagerly anticipating the hot cup of tea I will drink once I finally reach my home. But wait! I cannot turn into the parking lot because the vehicle of your Bar Rat blocks it. Mildly irritated, I pull up to the second entrance. Wait! Yet other vehicle of another ill mannered Bar Rat.

All the frustration came raining down upon me at once. I wanted to immediately jump from my car, pull out my handy pocket-sized numchucks and beat the car senseless. I wanted to key the paint and then pour tar over the hood. I wanted to rip the heads of baby dolls and scatter them throughout the interior. I then wanted to leave a sweet gilt note under the windshield "Next time, learn how to PARK YOUR EFFING CAR."

But I didn't. I contained my rage and DROVE OVER MY GRASS to get to my parking spot. All because you needed a good vermin orgy. And I didn't do it because I love you. I did it because everything I wanted to do was illegal. That being said, if the air starts mysteriously leaking out of the tires of the aforementioned cars, it wasn't me.

All my love,

Porkchop.

PS. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood! (Please don't be mine!)

PSS. I have nobally avoided making jokes--for the moment--that your given Christian name is "Woody". But this doesn't mean I haven't spent much time laughing about it.

He was short and round like a barrel with a head shaped like a shovel and lips oddly wormy, like playdoh rolled into strips and squished to his face. "Mount me!" he cried, ostensibly to teach "anti-rape" measures. He tucked his too-small tshirts into his underwear, not caring the band of his Joe Boxers rode above his too-small jeans that gave a terrible view of camel-toe, coming and going. I never knew it was possible for men to be afflicted so until I met this fellow. Apparently, it causes more than a little discomfort as he was continually adjusting himself until I wanted to slap his hand away and tell him to buy looser pants.

It's been several weeks since she so much as listened to a pleading voicemail, yet he invited her on a mini-vacation to the Bahamas. She's declined, scarred at the mere idea of him in the inevitable too-small swim trunks, or worse, speedo.

I understand her subsequent hesitation at encouraging the advances of other men, convinced that once she gets to know them, she'll discover their vaguely freakish idiosyncrasies, like a penchant for fishnets...not on her. One can really only handle so much.

This guest post brought to you by a person who wishes to remain anonymous.

My first day of real school I was sixteen years old and it was also my first day of college. It was Psychology 101 and was taught by a frizzy haired woman named Patty whose last name I could never pronounce or remember.

At first I liked school. Sort of. I got to sit there with my notebook and scribble copious notes. Then I realized this was a waste of time and attention. She gave us handouts with all the notes neatly typed. It got easier. Before all our big exams she would give us all the questions so we could "study". In all fairness she did give us three extra credit questions which she wouldn't reveal before the test.

I hated school pretty quickly.

I decided I was a "hands-on" learner and the whole school thing wasn't for me. Yeah. I was too cool for school! My mind was not to be sullied by the conventional halls of learning. I was going to go out and get a job! Climb my way to the top with my skillz and hardwork.

My father in all his infinate wisdom did not force me to stay in school. He didn't wring his hands and weep. He didn't roll his eyes and say "we'll see how long you last". He told me if that was what I wanted, he would support me in it.

Three and a half years later, I've learned alot. I've tried a variety of things. I've written a slew of stories. I've gained more perspective than I could hope.

I used to think that my early entrance into college was my "edge". I was ahead of my peers and it made me seem like some sort of child genius. Now that I have effectively removed that head-start with my years of dawdling I can simply concentrate on being average.

But I'm excited. I feel like the world is mine to conquer again. Dreams are mine to achieve. Direction is mine to take.

When I told my Dad this, a slow and wise smile spread across his face "and that's what the whole point was".

I feel hope. I feel alive. I've found better days.

"Nothing like stepping out of bed onto a cold fake boob."

--Textbook Whore/Study Bitch

He comes from a long line of people who blow things up. Professionally. Like legally.

I'm not really interested in him for his good looks on winsome charm. I'm all about the fact he has access to government caches of C-4. Perhaps we could arrange a small demonstration for the first date. Nothing ostentatious or over the top. Just a shed. Or a few small animals. Small, tasteful, elegant.

Maybe I'll just keep the whole my-little-brother-wants-to-take-over-the-world thing under my hat for now.

Such great expectations are set for me. As we sit watching Will & Grace my siblings remind me of all the people who say I look and sound just like her. They sheepishly admit they have thought the same thing since the moment they laid eyes on her.

I've had complete strangers tell me the same thing. And while I'm flattered because clearly she is someone to aspire to be like, I'm a little terrified. Do my boobs meld into my waist? Is my laugh that nasal? Do I make small children cry?

I clearly need to marry money to make my evil ways justifiable.

But it still leaves me with such a feeling of inadiquacy. Karen Walker. The mythical queen of bitchy snark. I can't even begin to touch such greatness. And here I've been wasting my potential by trying to be nice? What the hell am I thinking?

"The best part of the party was telling the kids that the balloons were made of candy."

Tonight as I picked up new sleek new piece of wireless machinary courtesy of the kind lady in Verizon customer service the salesman asked me point blank

"Are you a school teacher?"

Um. No. And I'm kind of insulted that you asked. I left off the last part. Seriously, a school teacher? I've been asked if I was a bitch. I've been asked if I was a stripper. But a school teacher, a first for sure.

No. I will not rap you with my ruler, you naughty boy.

Because when I call even the customer service lady is confused. She has to call me back! Call me back!

It isn't that she's stupid. In fact, she was quite friendly and helpful. Their policies are that damned stupid and senseless.

And I'm supposed to be happy with my experience, how?

My friend the police dispatcher: "Yeah. The most interesting call of the day was the old lady who killed herself by falling asleep with a bag over her head."

*Immediately conjure a mental image of a blue haired old lady falling asleep on her couch with a paper sack on her head with careful little eyeholes cut out KKK style. Childhood thoughts of putting plastic bags over my siblings heads crop up. I quickly think about the complexities of falling asleep with a bag on your head.*

Porkchop: "Heh. That's kinda funny."

MFTPD: "Your sick and twisted. That isn't funny, it's sad!"

Porkchop: "Clearly anyone who does that meant to bring a little laughter to my day. Besides, you shouldn't have told me, you knew I would laugh."

MFTPD: "I'm having you arrested."

Porkchop: "Save my family the trouble. Please do."

Some days I feel like I should have the title "babysitter" on my business card instead of finance manager.

Some days I don't care that threatening lynching could be offensive to some.

Some days I cry at my desk.

Some days just don't end.

Some days I just wish I could wither and die.

And then I realize. I am withering and dying. That's what today is.

Every female has that certain genre of men that is attracted to her. Occasionally there are deviations, but they can normally be pegged pretty well.

Barbie: The stoic boring professional man. Those who fantasize about, well, Barbie dolls. It's the blonde hair, blue eyes and the tight little body.

QOS: Preps. They love her. The preppy dorks are attracted to her because of her exotic beauty.

Me? Either scrawny teenage boys or old men. The teenage boys because my voluptious curves are the stuff of their MTV dreams. Yeah. Ghetto curves. When I say old men I mean 40+. They have normally been through a couple wives, have a couple kids and possible grandkids. They always try to set me up with their offspring when I gently repell their advances.

Basically. I draw from two extremes. Why can't I settle happily in the middle?

Because that mean I would have to be normal. And we all know Porkchop doesn't do normal well. At all.

For the first time in my life I thought I had everything figured out. I had a plan. It wasn't a huge plan, but it was a direction. I was excited. I was confident. I was sure.

And then I get thrown for a loop. Should I stay? Suddenly, I'm good at my job! Does this mean I could be passing by a good thing?

The direction I was going to take was one I was interested in, but not necessarily passionate. I'm confused. I don't understand. And now I'm beating my head against the wall even more.

This doesn't make sense to me or you. I don't know if it ever will. And that's what scares me.

Be an ambulance driver. How much fun would that be? Saving lives and driving fast. You have every excuse to run people over and flick them off.

This occured to me today while nearly getting into a accident with an ambulance.

Today four people were fired.

I was not one of them.

Our internet was down for three hours. Thus leaving me with little I could work on and no recreational outlets.

So my mind is currently a bowl of mush. I do have much to write about, but no brain power to reformulate. I will be providing you with interesting tidbits, I promise.

You all get to find out a full twelve hours ahead of everyone else I work with. My idiot boss? The one to whom I delivered a swift kick behind the knees. The one who has left me crying at his sheer stupidity. The one whose ears stick out more than I thought humanly possible The one who doesn't understand what sticking it to the man means.

He's getting stuck. By the man. And not in a good way.

He'll be gone tomorrow morning.


*This does mean I'll have more work to do, but I actually like that. You nkow, instead of sitting at my desk for twelve hours doing nothing.

For those baby seals.

This morning as I walked out the door I asked my sister if I looked alright. It's more complicated than looking nice. I have to look alluring and hip for the younger customers, professional and smart for the older customers and non-threatening and informative for the middle-aged.

I guess it worked. Today was a good day.

However. I feel like I'm the main character in a mafia movie. The sweet innocent girl slowly becoming corrupt, like the proverbial boiled frog.

Heh! Who are we kidding here?!

My boss walked into my office right before I left "nice work on the slaughter of all those baby mammals." I also happened to make the comparison of my boss to a pimp. I'm selling my smile and myself and he whores me out.

Today I was charming, I was beautiful, I was sucessful. I sold, I slaughtered, I skinned. I flirted, I finagled, I financed. Ok. I'll stop with the corny alliteration now. My point being, I did my job and I did it well. I impressed my managers and suprised myself.

And you know what? It wasn't bad at all.

I used to do it loudly and with pride. Now I have to be a bit more subtle. Like letting my vintage orange and brown argyle socks peek out from my the edge of my trousers.

My boss noticed. I told him I was sticking it to the man. He didn't know what that meant.

If you don't know who the man is, you must be the man? I think not. That just means your an idiot. Used and abused by the man.

Or just an idiot.

Ah. That title speaks of intrigue, clock and dagger antics and meeting down at Mystery Creek with Nancy Drew. Does it not?

It's nothing as glamorous as that. It's the simple realization that every mixer which has perished from this earth has been at my cruel and unrelenting hands.

Standup Sunbeam Mixer. I was eight years old and I was making a huge batch of butterscotch chip cookies. I died a terrible and acridly smoky death. I have hated butterscotch ever since.

Various cheap handheld mixers.

Kitchen Aid Commercial Mixer. Making, what else? Cookies! Does anyone realize how indestructible those things are?! The fact that I killed one is a bit freakish, if not impressive.

Various not-so-cheap handheld mixers.

For awhile, I gave up on mixers. I mixed everything by hand. Like some sort of pygmied Amazon woman. (I still actually mix most of my cookies by hand because it's simply easier.)

However. Now that I am a adult and have a job it means that my muscles have atrophied into flabby bits of skin. So I have resorted to using a mixer when in a hurry. Or when I'm lazy. Which, between the two, is most of the time.

Friday night I killed our handheld mixer in the middle of making a batch of icing for a cake. I made a run at 11:30 at night to Wal Mart. I know, not the best quality mixers, but it should hold up for a bit. Right?

I quickly fell in love with my new mixer and its powerful speeds. It demolished anything I put its way. It was lovely! It was speedy! It was my mixer!

Until it died last night. Halfway through my second batch of icing. Dead. Died. New mixer is now the dead mixer.

This doesn't bode to well for my abilities to sustain children or pets. You know?

"Yeah. I have no doubts that Porkchop has no fear of pain. You could rip her legs off and she'd laugh in your face and beat you with them."

--Darth Fredd

We live in a small town. We've always lived in a small town or rural area. We leave our doors unlocked and our keys in our cars. And, in a act of generosity, we even leave the blinds off our windows. (I kid. Sort of. Some of our windows STILL don't have shades.) That's just what we do.

Er, I should say did.

In her spare time my sister has started persuing the sex offender list for her reading pleasure. She has calculated that our tiny town consists of 1% perverted creeps. Well. There's probably more, but those are the ones that have been convicted and registered.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing.

This morning on my way out to work I discovered the door was locked. I glared over to my sister. Her reasoning? "Well! You don't want to be RAPED IN YOUR SLEEP, DO YOU?!"

The curtains need to be drawn. "Our neighbors could be child molesters who enjoy watching us!" (Because, clearly, we are children and would thus be the subject of their delights.)

I accidentally left her key in her car. "For the rapist to use as a getaway car! YOU'RE IN CAHOOTS! AREN'T YOU?!"

I know, I know, she'll be the one laughing when I'm lying naked and violated on the ground. But, hey, it's still fun to creep into her bed in the middle of the night and whisper in her ear.

Friend: "You're barely into your 20's, act like it!"

Porkchop: "I can't be irresponsible! It makes me feel guilty!"

Friend: "I didn't say anything about being irresponisble. You can have alot of fun while being mature."

Porkchop: "Like?"

Friend: "Drinking on the street corner from a paper bag. Cheap and effective."

Porkchop: "I now know what Queen Of Slackers and I will do when she comes to town..."

It's not you, it's me. I hate breaking up, it's painful and messy, but also necessary. I'm sorry. I just can't do it anymore.

You don't ask much. You only want to be with me at least fifty hours a week. You simply want me to be able to change my schedule at the very last minute. You want me to lie, cheat and steal, all for you. That isn't asking much. Right? All in the name of love.

But let's face it. I'm selfish. I want to be able to make plans more than forty-eight hours in advance. I want to be able to spend the weekend with my sister when she comes in town. I again never want to cry because you took my one free weekend away from me. I want to take pride in all I say and do. I don't want to cringe when I see a friend for fear I might have been used against them.

Darling. Be true to yourself. Never change who you are. Always remember there are plenty of people clamoring for my position. To constantly be at your side. To take the blame for your mistakes, faults and quirky idiosyncrasies.

I think I may be developing a co-dependent relationship. I find myself becoming regularly more frustrated and depressed. You whispering sweet nothings about not going to school and perusing my goals. I know, I know, you want me to be here for you! But sometime your just going to have to get by on your own.

Please don't take this harshly. I love you darling. I love you in my own warped and twisted way. I have shown this by draining all my personality, verve and energy just to better you. I know it isn't enough, because you keep asking for more. But I'm a weak person and I have nothing left to give.

So this is goodbye. I will always remember our times fondly. How could I do anything but?!

All my love--

Your employee. Porkchop.

*I didn't really hand this in. But I want to. Oh! How I want to!

I have been cursed with the (occasional) desire to know what people think. Not always. Not all subjects. But paticularly with issues as shallow as my looks. Most specifically, my haircolor.

There are two schools of thought. Well, two main schools of thought. The blondes versus the brunettes.

Those who lobby for my childhood color contend that it makes me look thinner. As well as sweeter and younger. Those who campaign for the brunette argue that it makes my eyes stand out and that I look gorgeous.

There are drawback to both. As a blond, I am instantly stereotyped. Blond hair, check! Big boobs, check! IQ below 40, check! As a brunette, I am thought to be more intelligent, but alloof.

What angers me most is the fact that I care! Why can't I just pick a haircolor and GO with it?! I've been brunette for the past few years and I thought it might be nice to go blonde for awhile. As we know, that hasn't started out well. That and the staunch brunette defenders are making me question the entire process.

Why can't I be secure enough in myself to not care? Why can't I just grow a backbone and pick a damn color and be happy with it? WHY DO I TAKE THIS SO PERSONALLY?

I think I'll shave my head. And wear wigs. Then everyone can be happy.