Untitled Post No. 1

As some of my peeps already know, today marked a rather unpleasant anniversary for me. The kind of anniversary that doesn't warrant a reminder, because you start experiencing weird memory sense symptoms of anxiety and nervousness days prior, along with the kind of dreams that wake you with a start at the crack of dawn, leaving behind a heavy sensation of regret and loss because it just felt so frickin' real moments ago, and yet, was all in your damnable head.

That's why being employed rocks. In addition to that nifty thing called a paycheck that buys me cool junk (and keeps the electricity on), it provides an occupation to keep me one busy little bee. So busy that I actually, dare I say it, forgot to participate in the obligatory moaning and wailing and tearing of hair to a backdrop of Mozart's Requiem on a day like today...which does cause me to harbor a biteen of guilt for not carrying on in ceremonial hysterics, but is mostly an incredibly, understandable relief. The compromise being that though the bolded numbers 2 and 5 glared back at me from my desktop calendar throughout the day, I sorta kinda maybe felt that I'll finally be ok, at least in a way that allowed me to focus on the tasks at hand and managed my work with ease. So much ease, in fact, that upon returning home I settled in for a rather pleasant evening of a little wine, a sandwich and Netflix's latest delivery of the Queer as Folk series.

Of course, it would have to be the Season 4, Episode 6 disc that I watched.

I'll spare the spoilers for the eagerly-anticipating-uninitiated, but I know at least a few of you out there know of which particular episode I speak.

*emo tear*

Curse you TV for making me feel stuff and have empathetic emotions! What happened to the schmoop, and the snark, and the hot man-on-man action?! You had to get all serious (again) now? Of all days?! Jeez! Lame melodrama lameness!

Don't worry. I'm quite all right. Nothing a little healthy cry and a toast of 12-year-old single malt Scotch couldn't cure.

But Mom, as dear as I hold you in my heart, and as much effort as I make to honor your memory, there is no way in hell I'm mixing good Scotch with water. Seriously, I can't do it...but you already knew that didn't you? :)

D'OH! And Double D'OH!

THIS KITTY LITTER COST ME $300!

I shit you not (and pardon the pun). Thanks to this litter, I am now $300 in the hole and probably lost two years off my life. Well, maybe I exaggerate, or more accurately, I can be such a horrible little asshole. Because upon discovering that I was out litter, I was too lazy to shuffle my ass to Pet-Smart and buy my usual brand of commie-pinko-patchouli stink-hippie approved brand of kitty toiletry that is Feline Pine (TM), because I'm all for saving the earth and recycling and shit, but the sole reason I buy planet friendly litter is because I have an asthmatic cat.

So in hindsight, purloining some clay litter from my current border, Punky "Punks-a-Lot" Thomas, was an exercise in stupidity. I knew it was likely to give Misao a case of the wheezes...but it was just a few days, I said. I'll go and get some new litter tomorrow, I said. Well, by Wednesday, Mimi Darling had gone from the occasional sneeze to a full blown asthma attack complete with respiratory infection and fever. And it scared the pants off me.

I am such a shitty parent. Skipping a day of work, spending $300 on vet bills and using my weekend to nurse a snotty, cranky kitty was light punishment. Hell's Bells, I learned my lesson. And I say this with my most sincere Joan Crawford voice.

"NO CLAY LITTER EVVVAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

The good news is that Little Misao is on the road to recovery and almost back to her old self, by which I mean she's gorging on food, bullying her brother, and licking the skin off my face.

Bad blogger! No soup for you!

Yes, I've fallen off the bloggin' wagon. Which draws the conclusion that either my life is one hell of a whirl-a-wind-mile-a-minute-hootin nanny-too-hung over-to-post-adventure, or that what I have to blog about has all the excitement of a late night defensive driving course. I can't entirely vouch for the former, although the hang over part is not entirely inaccurate at times... Let's just call it "technical difficulties".


Actually, I have a bad habit of chatting and posting to other blogs/forums and neglecting poor Flen Flyys. So, I'll try to cross post as often as possible in order to keep my stats in check. Here's a not-too-incriminating post from a couple of weeks ago in response to the following blog:


http://austinist.com/2007/08/28/truesday_pushin.php#comments

And my oh-so-amusing, pretentious response:


Wow. This blog brought back such wonderful nostalgia from my own Pier One days (*sigh*...many, many moons ago), when I worked at the now defunct Airport location near Highland Mall (or the Mid-Town Spa bath house, whatever is your best point of reference). We never had a super-pooper, but we did have our share of crazies, and the gold medal went to The Wanker, a middle-aged man with a horrendous Grecian-for-Men dye job, who probably would have been a fantastic serial killer had he not been such a sad underachiever. The type of man who thought it best to served his country by periodically coming into our mercantile on an idle Sunday to masturbate. And not just some cheap rub-a-nub through his polyester trousers kind of masturbate, but a full on whipping out the turtle head and shaking it angrily at the world sort of yanker. I'm still mildly curious, in a purely academic sense mind you, as to what inspires a person to waltz into a store full of overpriced furniture soldered together by the bleeding hands of third-world children and think, “Hey, this would be a great place to start pulling my pud”, because from what I could decipher, he wasn’t ogling anyone in particular. In fact, I was led to conclude that Kiln rugs and batik napkins where amongst his list of turn-ons. The worst of it, aside from catching him flagrante delicto, was that he always attempted to mask his misdeeds by touching every piece of merchandise within reach…and one of us poor unfortunates would later draw the short straw to straighten up said tainted section, praying that our hands didn’t touch something sticky. This occurred at a time when our staff was mostly female. It wasn’t until we had a few of our own Dobermans on staff that The Wanker was finally intimidated enough to sniff out new territory. Nothing like a bulky stoner standing out on the floor with arms crossed like Chief Kicks-Your-Ass to rid our little retail world of an ol’ crusty skittle-diddler.So this Bud’s for you, Oh Noble Dobermans of Pier One. You are the real American Heroes.