My name is Olga, and I am a Water Buffalo...

Hey guys, so first off, I recently wrote a guest post, which is pretty exciting. It was featured on Caroline Clemmon's blog, and you can check it out Here. My New Year's Resolutions need some work. I can live with that, though, and still not make any revisions to them. I'm quite content with mediocrity, thank you very much.

I hate when I say something stupid and make everything uncomfortable. Don't make me seem weird; you know you've done it, too. Everyone does, except maybe unicorns, because they don't talk, but if they did, I'm fairly sure they would never say anything that wasn't one hundred and ten percent relevant, or ingenious, or hysterically funny. Here's my favorite awkward situation to create:
Me: Oh God, you know what name I hate? Olga; it's horrid. It sounds like warthogs molesting chimpanzees in a construction zone.
Other Person: Olga was my great aunt's dead cat's name. She was an orphan and my great aunt adopted her. Her hind legs got run over by a doughnut truck when she was living in the projects, and now she uses a motorized power scooter to get around, and my great aunt brings her to kitty therapy to get over her fear of doughnuts, too.
Me: Oh, well it's a delightful name for a cat... I just meant that it's a terrible name for people.
Other Person: It's my middle name, too...
Me: Did I say people? I meant water buffaloes... So, uhh, I'll talk to you later...

And this is how I unintentionally offend people. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this... Anyone? Well, in case you do, here's one possible way to get out of it:

Maybe they won't notice?

Birthdays Come And Go Too Fast For Me To Post On Time

I am aware that my birthday was all the way back on November ninth, and this is very delayed. You should be aware of the fact that I have nearly crippling ADD, especially if I don't take my meds, so shit does not get done. Sorry about that, guys. Now that we're all squared away with the facts, let's get this post going...

I got a Rubik's cube on a chain for my birthday. Hell yes, it's snazzy. The only thing I could wear around my neck that could possibly be any better than that is a unicorn egg (and don't tell me unicorns can't lay eggs just because they're mammals. Unicorns can do anything). I also got some other awesome stuff, and a lot of "Happy Birthdays." Now, don't get me wrong; I always appreciate a birthday wish of any kind. However, there's always four different types of Happy Birthdays. I'll give you a rundown.



1. The "It's Your Birthday?"
Thanks. You put a lot of thought into what to do for my birthday, didn't you? You're too kind. Really, though, I don't expect for everyone who's ever learned my name to know my birthday. I find this particular scenario amusing, though. You've all seen it, or done it before. One person says "Happy Birthday!" This is the Happy Birthday Wisher, or the HBW. The person whose birthday it is is the Happy Birthday Reciever, or the HBR. The HBR thanks them, graciously, and immediately after, the person next to them, the "It's Your Birthday?" Person (the IYBP) notices the exchange that just occured between the HBW and the HBR. Then, the IYBP speaks up, and says, "It's your birthday?" (Who would've guess it, right?) The HBR nods, and waits a few milliseconds before hearing the famous, "Oh... Happy Birthday!" Then, the HBR puts on a happy face and thanks the IYBP, who is still pretending to slightly care that it is their birthday. This "thanks" that is said to the IYBP is not a genuine "Thank you for caring about my birthday even though it does not affect you in the slightest way!" It sounds like it, but really, it's a "Thanks for only saying Happy Birthday to me because it is the polite thing to do and you don't want to look like a jackass!"
2. The "Facebook Told Me It's Your Birthday!"
This is a small step up from the "It's Your Birthday?" You know that they at least took the three and a half milliseconds to the read the birthday section on their Facebook homepage, so that counts for something. Maybe. Although wording it "Facebook told me it's your birthday," is not the best choice. At least for me, it really rubs me the wrong way. It's like, "Really? Facebook personally came to you and told me it's my birthday? I didn't even know! Thank goodness Facebook is here to tell us all this crap!" Hey, next time my birthday rolls around, congratulate me on the big one-eight without mentioning Facebook in the same line, okay? Thanks a bunch.
3. The "Happy Birthday! I Remembered!"
These people like to make sure you know that they remembered your birthday all on their own... about fifteen times. I will admit, I feel pretty special when I'm greeted with a "Happy Birthday, Sara!" with no mention of Facebook. After about five more Happy Birthdays from the same person, though, I feel more like a trophy displaying their extreme consideration and remarkable memory for birthdays. It's okay, though. They're proud of their competence; let them think that remembering your birthday make them some sort of winner, because deep down inside, they are one. Maybe.
4. The "I'm More Excited For Your Birthday Than YOU!"
I love these people; kind of. I like getting a text at 6:00 AM that says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU BIRTHDAY PERSON OF HAPPY BIRTHDAY-NESS! I LOVE YOUR BIRTHDAY, AND YOU, AND GLITTER, AND FROSTED MINI WHEATS, AND ALSO YOUR BIRTHDAY!" It's fun, and kind of creepy knowing that someone is more excited about your birthday than you. The only way this could get any better is if they were to give me a unicorn, too, but I'll take the "Happy Birthday" in caps lock, anyways. There's also that one person who tackles you at 7:30 AM and practically punches you in the face with their enthusiasm for your birthday, and makes you open their "super awesome amazing present that you're just going to LOVE!" in fifteen seconds flat. Good times...

Thanks everyone, for all the Happy Birthdays, whether Facebook told you, or the person sitting next to you, or your neighbor, or second cousin twice removed, even though I'm fairly sure they don't care about my birthday. If you knew it all by yourself, congrats. There should be a medal for that.

Toilet-Swimmer and Freddy Krueger Cat: The Bane of My Existence.

Cats are some of the most interesting creatures on the planet; defeated only by unicorns... and velociraptors. There's always two kinds of cat owners. There's the ones who say, "Oh my GAWSHH, my cat is SOOO adorable and cute and fuzzy and he sleeps in my lap every day!" On the other hand, there's the people who say "MY CAT IS THE SPAWN OF SATAN. GOD, TAKE HIM AWAY," but secretly, they still love the holy bejeezus out of their cat, and would hurt anyone who tried to take their precious death kitty.

Growing up, I had two cats. There was the Alley Cat that my mother decided would be a great cat to tame. So we had a twenty something pound cat with a smashed in looking face and a meow that sounded like the equivalent to a chain smoker's voice living in our house. Great idea, mom. But hey, I can't complain. He was alright; he let me drag him around the house by his head without hurting me. (I was three, don't judge me.)

So we had Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat, and this moody, PMS-y princess cat who liked to scratch me whenever she didn't get her way. Gosh, can't an innocent three year old little girl pull her pissy little cat's tail without it giving her a permanent scar right down the middle of her nose? True story... even though you can't really see the scar anymore... Whatever. The difference between Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness, is that Butch Cat would actually let me drag him by his head. PMS Kitty made this big fuss over everything, just because I might have tried to give her a haircut one or twelve times. Calm yourself, cat, I was just trying to make you beautiful. Don't get me wrong, though, I loved Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness with all of my little three year old heart. I loved chasing them around and pulling their fuzzy little tails. It was especially fun making them cards and running after the little fluffballs, reading their cards to them, because deep down, I know they truly cared what I had to say.

Don't laugh at me. I was eight or something, there, with my morbidly obese dog, and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness. PMS Kitty loved me that day.

So moving on from my early childhood fluffballs, I'm now going to tell you about my two homicidal muffins on legs just in case you haven't given up on me yet, and you're actually still reading because you and I both know you're loving this entire run-down about all of my cats.

So because of the fact that I was deprived of a fun, playful cat when I was a child (our cats pretty much just slept a lot and then ate food and went back to sleep), I decided I wanted a super fun kitten of playfulness and adorableness and maybe glitter or something. Instead I got Satan kitty. I kid you not, this cat is Freddy Krueger in feline form. Granted, while he was a kitten, he did play a lot. He also destroyed my hands, which ended up looking like they'd gotten stuck in a sinister, diabolical paper shredder. He used his looks to reel me in, and then use his claws and teeth of death to destroy me. I'm now firmly convinced that he's trying to kill me. Just to give you an idea of how big this cat is, I've been told multiple times that Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness looks like a wolf. He sits under the chair in my room every night and watches me go to sleep. Is that creepy enough for you? If that's not good enough for you, we decided one hell-blazing cat wasn't enough. So we adopted this kitten who likes running into walls, and eating the branches of our Christmas tree when we're not looking. I spent about forty-five minutes one day trying to teach her her name; no success. She stills responds to "refrigerator" and "pickle jar" better than her actual name. So as I was reading Allie Brosh's post "Dog" at Hyperbole and a Half, where she discusses how her dog is most likely mentally retarded, I began to wonder "Is my cat mentally retarded, too?" The answer is yes. I Googled, "How to tell if your cat is retarded," as suggested by Allie Brosh, as well, and looked at some of the possible signs of mental retardation in cats. She shows all of them.

She not only runs into walls, but she also chases her own tail about six hours a day, total, and falls into the toilet. She sleeps on the back of the couch and falls off about five times a day, and trips over her own feet. For a dog, this would all be fairly average behavior, but cats are expected to be more coordinated and behave more intelligently than this. So I have come to the conclusion that my cat is, in fact, at least slightly retarded. I feel bad for her when she runs into the mirror twelve times and then turns around and realizes I'm watching and laughing at her, though, so I humor her and try to make her feel intelligent.

So as the holiday season approaches, we've been decorating our house for Christmas. We have two Christmas trees (don't laugh. I love Christmas more than a five year old does. Maybe) that the cats thoroughly enjoy destroying. We discovered two years ago with Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness that a tree stand isn't enough to keep our Christmas trees standing. No, instead, we've been forced to use heavy duty rope to tie our trees to the nearest windowsill, or desk, or whatever other sturdy object is readily available for tying rope to. This year, not only do we have to worry about Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness destroying everything that is good and holy and of baby Jesus and his birthday and all that. We also have Low-IQ-Toilet-Swimming-Tail-Chasing Feline to look out for.

Together, Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness and Low-IQ-Toilet-Swimming-Tail-Chasing Feline have formed an evil duo whose main goal is to tear apart our Christmas trees in any way possible. Toilet-Swimmer sits on the floor and attempts to eat branches off of the Christmas tree until I chase after her, telling her to stop. Freddy Krueger Cat tries to reach the ornaments that are much higher up on the tree (preferably the extremely fragile ones), and pulls them off so that him and Toilet-Swimmer can chase them around the house until they all end up hidden under the radiators and bookshelves so we have no idea where they are. I swear, I decorated the bottom half of my Christmas tree, too. The cats took it all off...

Somehow, I still love these cats to no end. Why? Because no matter how satanic and irritating and ridiculously stupid they get at some times, they still prove to me that they are far superior and much more intelligent than the majority of the human race.
You're welcome.

UPDATE: Just to clarify, I'm not a crazy cat lady in the making. I only have two cats (Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness and Low-IQ-Toilet-Swimming-Tail-Chasing Feline). Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness were my childhood cats... just to clarify.

How All of You Will Make Me Famous

I decided when I was about 11 years old that I was going to be famous. Almost every week, I would change my mind on what I would be famous for. Mostly, I changed my mind this often because I would realize that I sucked at all the skills needed to acquire my new-found goal. For example, first, I wanted to be an actress. Maybe I would be on some sort of sitcom, or even have my own show. A little while after I decided on this, I realized that I actually sort of suck at acting. Bestfriend and I were going to make a Youtube channel, and be witty and hilarious, like Nigahiga , or Charlieissocoollike. However, Bestfriend was all, “I don’t want to. I’m bored,” and I was all, “Shut the hell up. I’m acting. I’m trying to get famous here, jack ass.” And then I was like, “I wonder why Bestfriend puts up with me?” Then I remembered that it’s because I’m awesome… just not at acting.

After I had the great misfortune of watching myself back attempting to act, I gave up. My next genius idea was that I was going to be a singer. I was going to audition for American Idol and wow the judges with my fantastic-but-actually-mediocre-in-reality singing, and win the whole competition, and go on world tours and be awesome. It didn’t work out. Of course, you always sound better in your head than in reality. So while I tried to sing Mariah Carey like a champ, my dogs hid in another room to avoid my very unpleasant attempt at breaking the sound barrier. Now, let me just point out that I’m not actually a bad singer; I’m actually pretty okay at it. However, I’m pretty sure, had I tried out for American Idol, that Simon Cowell would have made a fool of me in my mediocrity.

So once I gave up on that, I decided that maybe I would be a famous dancer. Now, I’ve danced pretty much since I was born, and I think I’m pretty good at what I do, which would be tap, contemporary, and jazz. However, as an obsessed So You Think You Can Dance fan, each time I watch that show, my confidence in my own dancing shrivels up into a tiny, pathetic raisin of hopelessness (And this is the little reject raisin at the bottom of the box that you avoid touching at all costs, let alone putting it into your body and digesting it.) At first, I thought, “Hey! I’ll try out for So You Think You Can Dance! I can do it!” but I’ve pretty much given up on that goal, as well, although there’s still a tiny sliver of hope in me that says, “You can do it!” I can’t. Maybe.

So now, I’ve decided that instead of becoming a famous actress, or singer, or dancer, I’m going to be a famous blogger. Everyone is going to know what Pork on a Fork is, and I’m not talking about a piece of oily pig flesh with a four-pronged eating utensil shoved through it. I’m talking about this blog. So I googled, “How to be a successful blogger,” because Google knows everything, and also because I have no life and nothing better to do with my time because I care, and it told me that I should strongly encourage all of my readers to subscribe and tell their friends about me, but I don’t want to be an annoying blogger, so consider yourself strongly encouraged. Now you may be thinking, “Hey, Sara, what’s in this for me?” and my answer is, “Nothing.” Just kidding. See what I just did there? You got kind of angry there for a second, right? Well don’t worry, my friends. You will make me famous, and we will all reap the benefits of said fame. Here’s what you’ll get out of this nifty plan o’ mine:
-The satisfaction that you made me famous
-My extreme gratitude for you making me famous
-A unicorn
Just kidding. You don’t get a unicorn. But if you all subscribe, I’ll know you like me, and I’ll continue trying way too hard to make you laugh. Oh, and I'll definitely mention you in my internet acceptance speech.



P.S.- I was bored and decided to type my name into Urban Dictionary...

What the hell is that?! That is NOT cool.
Apology not accepted.

Do you know what you need? Cupcakes...

Writing letters to inanimate objects is really fun and sort of makes me feel like wack-job, but I enjoy doing it anyways, and I always thought, "Hey, you should do whatever makes you happy, even if it does land you in a padded room." I've actually never had that thought until this moment, but it sounds sort of smart and dignified to me... or the opposite. Oh well. Here's my latest letter.

Dear Agenda Book,
I try to give you a purpose in life. I really try. You seem like a great idea in theory; sort of like communism, only more agenda-y, and book-like. Whenever I actually decide to write something in you, though, it does no good. I go through phases where I religiously write down every school assignment and reminder in you, so you won't feel unappreciated. I know it makes you overjoyed when I write my French assignment and drama club reminder in you, but I can't always keep up with this strenuous job of putting you to use. It gets to the point where I have thirty seconds left in class, so I just end up writing my Sociology assignment on my book cover, rather than opening you up and finding the right date before actually even writing down the assignment. I'm sorry that I don't appreciate your extreme willingness to help me become a more organized person.
I'd also like to apologize for all the abuse you have put up with. It must be so embarrassing being carried around everywhere with my school logo on your cover that I tried to color in with purple gel pen that smudged all over the place. I know I must have really hurt you when I etched my name into your back cover with the end of a paper clip, too; I know I wouldn't want someone to do that to me. I'm also pretty sure you're angry at me right now, because you hid from me in the bottom of my bag this morning. Probably because my friend decided it would be hilarious to draw a penis on every page of you; don't blame me. Blame him. I tried to tell him not to, I swear.
Either way, I'm sorry that you probably feel vastly unimportant and useless; you really aren't. You actually have a lot of potential, agenda book. You just need to consider a little bit of self improvement. I have a few suggestions. First off, I find that even if I take the time to write my assignments in you, I end up forgetting them, because I don't look at you once I get home. No worries, my friend; we can fix this. Here's an idea: cupcakes. I open you up to check for any assignments, you give me a cupcake. Just a thought. Maybe you could even make it better by offering me a unicorn after so many times of opening you at home. I would definitely use you more often.
You know what's funny about that previous sentence is that if when I say it to you, it sounds acceptable; if I said that to a friend, or a man, or a prostitute, or something of the sort, the reaction probably wouldn't be so great. (By putting those three categories of people into one sentence, I am neither insinuating that I associate with prostitutes, or that any of my friends are prostitutes.) Either way, I'm very sorry, agenda book. I don't deserve you, but still, you stick around and over zealously try to make me a more organized person. Thank you for the eff0rt, and please consider my cupcake/unicorn idea. It would really help.

Sincerely, Sara

UPDATE: Hey guys, I drew you a picture!
You're welcome.

UPDATE: I showed the picture to my mother. She thought it was stupid. What does she know about humor anyways...?