Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Thankyou Dr. Sadistic

Today I had a chunk of my toe ripped out from me while a sadistic little man cackled. I bled like a stuck pig.

No, I was not a participant of some deviant S&M act, nor was I captured and tortured.

I had an ingrown toenail.

Let's start with a little backstory, shall we?

A little over a year ago, in the wonderland that is my house, I slammed my foot into a wall. No, I didn't trip over anything, nor was I pushed into it. I just simply managed to hurl my foot into a wall like I was kicking a football.

I never claimed to be graceful.

So, after muttering a few choice words and rocking back and forth on the floor holding my poor abused foot and whispering 'it'll be alright' a few hundred dozen times, I picked myself up and went to work. Sure, my foot throbbed all day.

But hey, it was just a broken toe. I figured I could deal with it.

But that broken toe left me a little present. Yep, that's right - it's the gift that keeps on giving - an ingrown toenail.

At first it was just an itch. A minor inconvenience. And then that itch grew into a small pain.

And guess what world? I refused to go to the doctor for it. Absolutely refused. I didn't need to see a doctor. I could just clip it myself!

Er...wrong. So very wrong. And painful. I went on for a little over a year like that, performing little "mini-surguries" in the bathroom late at night lest the other occupants of my house hear my muffled screams of pain.

And every night I did that, I'd swear that I was going to call the doctor. And every morning after, I intentionally ignored my pleas from the night before and adamantly pushed forward in my work, week after week and month after month.

Which leads me to now. I finally couldn't take it any more and (with a little prodding from Pookie...with a cattle prod called "mother") decided to go and see the podiatrist.

I went into his office, fully expecting a little old man who had a shiny bald spot, greying hair, and maybe even a bit of an accent - german, perhaps? The waiting room only furthered my stereotype - magazines such as National Geographic, Better Homes and Gardens, Time - they all lined the walls and every available flat surface. Elevator music played in the background.

I was led from the waiting room to a small (and frighteningly sterile) room with two chairs - the patient's, and the doctor's. His assistant recoiled slightly when I showed her my now-infected and horribly disfigured toe. She gave me a grimace, and said the doctor would be right in. After several games of Bejeweled on my phone, he walked in.

Oh was I ever wrong. World, he was a hunk. He looked like he could have just walked off the set of Baywatch, or better yet, some sort of soap opera.

My mouth may have dropped open a bit. The Hoff had nothing on him. His pecs were somehow clearly outlined, even beneath his labcoat jacket. Wavy thick black hair was ever-so-perfectly styled, and I swear World, even the way he clicked the pen would have made you salivate (Author's Note: You're still number one, Pookie. He has nothing on you).

He glanced at my toe, nodded his head, and said "Yep. It's an ingrown toenail." Well. No shit. His next words halted my mental criticism.

"Well, just give me a sec to grab the needle for the shot - I'm going to have to stick you twice to numb you. Then I'll fix it." Er. WHAT?

No second visit? I had been under the impression that this was simply a consultation! Oh no, Mr. Achiever had decided to just yoink the troublesome nail right out.

Well. I'm nothing if not flexible, so I shakily nodded my agreement. Dr. Sadistic came back in with what was a ridiculously oversized needle for a toe - maybe he was compensating?

He stuck me. Twice. I got that part - he had to block the nerve. That's not what my problem was.

My problem came about thirty minutes later - when I was supposedly "numb." Halfway through when he was cutting away at the one side of my nail (because hey, I can't have a normal ingrown toenail - both sides were ingrown! Fun for all!), I felt a pressure.

And then the pain-fest began. I said to Dr. Sadistic "OW!?" and he stopped. And was all "Oh, so sorry, guess you're not totally numb yet! I'll massage it and that should take care of it."

It didn't. But I didn't have time to tell him that before he took his torture instrument pliers delicately-shaped tweezers to my nail and yanked. Hard. There was some twisting involved too.

Next thing I know, he was holding up about half an inch of bloody nail. With a nice big hunk of flesh still attached. Yum.

And then he repeated the process with the other side - that one wound up being about a quarter-inch.

He smiled, and gave me some instructions - keep it clean, soak it twice daily, etc.

He walked out, and I struggled to put my shoe back on.

As I sat at the counter and listened to the receptionist blather on (why can't they ever just get to the point?), I began to notice that my vision was darkening around the edges.

Oh joy. I decided to put my foot down (pun intended) and refuse to pass out. So I sat outside in the crisp autumn breeze, and called Pookie up and chatted with him until I felt better. He was (understandably) freaked out and was about to hop in his car and pick me up - but to hell with that. I drove myself there, I can damn well get myself home. No stupid toenail was going to get the best of me.

Getting home occured without incident, and I was suitably pampered.

Which leads me to now. I'm soaking my foot in a bowl of once-warm and now-cold bloody water that's got epsom salt in it, contemplating.

I should have just gone to the damn doctor that fateful day when I slammed my foot into the wall.

Ah. Ce la vie.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Picture Monday (on crack)

So, for the second installment of Picture Monday, I decided to let ya'll in on what me and Pookie do on our date nights.

Keep in mind - at no point during the events depicted was alcohol consumed.

We were bored, so we decided to take a drive down to slower lower Delaware. Mind you, in Delaware-speak, this means below the canal. Pookie stole my camera and decided to take pictures of the clouds.

I find the below picture kind of amusing. For those of you who can't see, that sign says Wilmington. We have a yield, then a do not enter, then a sign depicting a U-turn to Wilmington. At the time it was funny.

Woohoo. There's less traffic fatalities this year. Go us? Y'know, this sign wasn't very encouraging to me.

Pookie decided to take more cloudy pictures. His sense of composition is not all there. (author's note: I love you anyways hun.)

We figured gas might be important. After a brief struggle at the pump over who would pay (it's my car, damnit, I can pay for it!) we gassed up and hit the road again.

Only to arrive at THE! RICHEST! WALMART! EVER!. Yep.

Their $5 DVD collection....

Was actually organized.

Although, it was obviously still a Walmart. I'm sure there's some huntsman-like people out there who think I'm weird for finding humor in the below picture. We also found gems such as "Buck Lickers" and "Acorn Rage." I want that job. Naming these products, that is.

When we got back home we decided to unleash our inner ten year olds and play with legos. I made a robot.

And a kick-ass car.

Pookie made a little crematory home thing.

Which my kick-ass robot destroyed.

But it all worked out in the end.
And no, Pookie didn't want me to destroy the lego masterpieces. Gotta tell ya hun...they've been dismembered so they could fit back in their box. Sorry.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Freaky Friday

So, m'dear fellow blogger Dara Laine has started a thing called Freaky Friday on her blog.

I'm thinking I may start that here. On this blog. For shits and giggles.

Dara's is primarily job-focused, but I figure that I'm going to turn mine into a sort of "whatever amuses Nyx" blog.

Today's Freaky Friday (can we insert some sort of dramatic music here? How about Enter Sandman?)is concerning a few job listings that I found quite...amusing.

Thanks for the idea Dara!

Job 1:
"We Are Seeking a Dating Coach" - they call me Dr. Love......I don't even think I have to explain why this one is weird.

We are a new service company looking for ONE very special person to head this new program.

We are looking for a woman who is sexy, smart, classy and entrepreneurial in sprit.

Someone who can read men and women alike and understand the psychology of interpersonal relationships and communications when it comes to the “dating game”.

Your job will be to work with our clients, one on one and take them from what they currently show to as close to a 10 on the dating scale as possible by listening, learning, observing and then guiding and coaching them to success in finding their perfect match.

This is a new program for our firm, so we are looking for an idea person and someone who will lead and take this pilot program to a viable business unit which ALSO serves a need in a market which is too focused on numbers and not enough on success.

This will start out as a part time position and then with success, turn into a 6 figure income for the right woman.

Serious inquiries only please.

Ok, it wouldn't be that bad if only they told us WHO THEY WERE. What person in their right mind puts up that type of job listing and doesn't say who they are? Another thing that bothers me is that they say it's for a "firm." ...What exactly does this firm do, if they're seeking a dating coach? Usually people who hire dating experts are magazines or websites or something like that - not a firm. And I find it hard to believe that there's no job requirements - anyone can call themselves a "dating expert."

Hm. I'm getting a flashback to the movie Hitch...and strong feelings of a scam.

Thousands of salespeople working with us around the world in over 30 countries!
Join us!
Call for more info
404 207-5091

Yea. Right. I'm going for the phone right now.

Job 3: Crabby Dick's
part time positions available for kitchen manager, line, expo and dish .must be over 18 years of age .
also hiring for serving must have abc card and be at least 19 years of age. the abc card may be obtained by contacting the delaware liquor control board.
also hiring marketing /events planner/administrative assistant
please contact

Ok, this one isn't so weird. My dirty mind just couldn't get over the words "crabby dick's"

Job 4: Rewritters

I'm thinking this one takes the cake.

I am looking to hire 2-3 re-writers. I am looking to start someone as early as tomorrow. I pay $1 per 400-600 word article. With proven reliability and quality work, pay is increased after first month of employment. You will be paid once per week, within 24 hours of when you have completed your weekly project. If you would like more details about this position send me an email.

Wow! A WHOLE ONE DOLLAR! Man, sign me up. Right now. Get out the contract, I am all over it.


Today was crappy. Nothing in particular was horrifying wretched - it was just a bad day. An aweful, lousy, and overwhelmingly pathetic day.

Ever had one of those? When you wake up and are just one miserable SOB? For me, that was today. I tried to rush into Newark to grab football tickets for the homecoming game, then realized that I was going to be late to work. Somehow that transformed into me being a failure at life, and I had a bit of a mini-breakdown. In my car.

So, as I was sniffling and wiping the snot traveling downwards from my nose, I turned the car around and headed towards work.

On my way, something happened. I saw a group of doves flying over Kirkwood Highway - pure white doves. I'm thinking that somebody was married today or there was some sort of ceremony.

However, in the middle of those doves was a black bird. A pigeon, I realized, as I squinted at the flock. He certainly wasn't supposed to be there.

But, the flock moved as one - pigeon and all. They twisted and turned in the air, riding the currents like they were just so thrilled to be alive. Almost acrobatic in their flight, I watched as they circled overhead with no real purpose.

And they didn't care one bit that they had a pigeon among them. Because do you know what another name for a pigeon is?

Rock dove.

It occurs to me that I may be able to learn something from this brave little pigeon.

There he was, surrounded by the beautiful white plumage of his relatives, and y'know what?

He didn't give a shit. He was just happy to fly.

Sometimes it's the simple things in life. Lately I've been so consumed with just the daily grind that I forgot. I forgot to look around and appreciate the simple things.

Life is what you make of it, right? If I can make the concious decision to have a positive day, then what's to stop me from having one? I forgot this. I forgot that I am a fully-fuctioning and capable human being. I haven't had any great tragedies happen to me. I'm just an ordinary human, just like the billions of others out there, trying to make her way in the world.

Thankyou, little pigeon, for reminding me of this.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Blog Action Day

So world, I've signed up for blog action day.

This year's theme is climate change.

Expect my post on Oct. 15th about this topic. I think that it's great that there's an organization that's doing this - trying to get people involved.

We need more people to get involved with what ails the world. Too many have become apathetic, and it's a disease that's spreading rampantly.

The link is provided below if you wanted to participate, or you can always click on the nifty little badge I have over in the right column. Go on. Click it. You know you want to.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


This is what I did today world.

Today was my day off, so I didn't bother waking up until noon. I'd like to rationalize this by stating that I didn't go to sleep until six. In the AM.

Don't judge me.

After waking up, I decided to lounge around in bed some (after taking care of all the animals, of course). I decided to look for a job. Three very depressed minutes later I started reading blogs.

Procrastination and I are good buddies. One might even call us the best of friends.

So, after getting off my lazy ass doing my morning reading in an effort to improve my vocabulary, I cleaned. The fish tank, to be more precise. Again. Because there's too many fish in there, but hey, Mr. Neighbor didn't care about that when he gave me his fish. Nope, he said to either take them or he was flushing them, because he was moving and hadn't made proper arrangements for them.

Damn my bleeding heart.

So after cleaning the tank, I decided to try the job searching thing again.

I am apparently qualified for custodial work. Which, FYI, pays less than what I make now.

Woo. Hoo.

I then attempted to make myself a grilled cheese (as I hadn't eaten yet). Three very burned sandwiches later, I decided to settle for Lucky Charms.

Rusty began whining pitifully, so I took him out. He hobbled galloped around the yard, and made sure to protect me from the vicious moth that was heading towards me. He's my knight in shining armor.

Oh, and it's not snowing here. I just don't have any recent pictures of him on my laptop (I use a different computer for photo editing), and I'm too lazy to boot that one up so that I can grab some of those pictures. So this is what you get world. Take it or leave it.

I called Pookie, found out he was having a shitty day. Decided to try to make him feel better by surprising him at work.

Except I was running late, so by the time I managed to fight my way through 5 o'clock traffic (and when did 5 o'clock traffic start at 4?), he had already gotten home.

Opps. Oh well. I got there just in time to watch the ending of a Bond movie.

We went out with our friend Whitey - who, for your information, is about three shades of awesomeness. Pookie spent too much money on sushi - but I'll forgive him for it, because it's sushi. And I haven't had it in over half a year. Because I'm poor. So yay. Sushi. A rare treat indeed.

We then went to Main St. and had a drink. We also may or may not have made some fun at the expense of a few fraternity pledges. And the drunken college kids.

Oh, the drunken college kids. I wish I could see their faces when they leave school and realize that they can't stay in their precious little collegiate bubble.

Ok, that was mean and bitter of me. I'm trying to find it in me to care.

Dropped Pookie off at his place. Drove home. And here I am. Sipping a cup of tea and wondering what my place is in this world.

Ah. There's nothing quite like wasting a whole day. It leaves me with a penchant for introspection. I think it's healthy to sometimes have a day to decompress. I think I'd be out of my mind if I didn't take a day every once in a while and do this.

Tomorrow I go back to the grind. I can't tell you how excited I am for it.

Oh, and some updates (for those of you who were curious):

We wound up naming the bird Tuck. Because one of the birds at the store is named Robin Hood. So...Friar Tuck is my bird's new name.

Nikki? Yea. She's a "he." You'd think that after working at a petstore for as long as I have been, I'd know. But no. He's neutered, and up to date on his shots. My neighbor (think crazy cat lady) forgot that she took care of all that last January. So that was a nice surprise. Guess I'm going to have to spell it Nicky (or just plain Nick) now. No girly spelling for my boy.

Rusty's got a lot of energy - he's fighting the cancer pretty well. My biggest concern with him is his breathing - because the tumor is so big (you can't see it in the above photo, since it's an old one), he snores. LOUDLY. And has a tendancy to drip snot from his nose. Gotta tell's just lovely.

Job front still sucks. I have some ideas, so I'll keep ya'll posted (cuz I know that you're just on the edge of your seats waiting in anticipation).

Holy crap I almost have 700 views. I love ya'll. I really do.

Have a lovely day! (or night, or afternoon, or morning, or whatever the hell it is wherever you are).

Monday, September 21, 2009

Picture Monday

So world, I'm going to do something a little different for today's blog.

That's right. PHOTOS!

From Ireland and Scotland.

This one is from the Guinness Storehouse. That's right...we started off our trip with alcohol.

The view from the Guinness Storehouse's Gravity Bar - complete with a complimentary pint.

Dublin traffic? Yea, it's insane. I don't know if it's a UK thing or what, but JEEESSUS I thought we were gunna die.

Beautiful sunset photo, courtesy of mother nature and the river Liffey

Saw these sitting on the outside of the Temple Bar. Thought they were pretty.

Trinity College - far prettier than anything we got around here.

St. Stephen's Green was pretty spiffy too.

Unreasonably pretty.

We managed to find the only American license plate in Ireland - at a Coyote Ugly themed bar. And's even a Delaware one! :) REPRESENT.
Oh Edinburgh are one dramatic SOB.
We, of course, had to visit the Queen's boat (HMY Britania)
Seriously long flight of steps...
But the view was SO worth it. (Cliffs of Moher)
Oh..why did Cromwell have to tear the roofs off everything? Him and his damn fetishes.
Oh, come didn't think the alcohol ended with the Guinness Storehouse, did you? (Jameson Distillery)

Oh Jim Larkin. I hear he helped out with some little tiff the industries were having in 1913
So yea. I think I might do this every Monday - post up pictures, that is. What do you think? Good idea, bad idea? I'm kind of playing around with different things for the blog. :) Have a good day!

Friday, September 18, 2009


"Nothing happens in a vacuum, and everything leads to something else."

My high-school history teacher used to tell us this. He also taught us that humans were the only beings on this planet who routinely came up with bigger and better ways to destroy ourselves.

I adored him.

He was the most monotone person I've ever met - I'm pretty sure the man could give Ben Stein a run for his money. He never smiled. He assigned monsterous amounts of reading for homework, and half his lecture was usually missed because I was asleep.

Because of all of this, I absolutely abhorred History class. Regardless, I loved him. He was my loveable old man professor who was one part absent-mindedness and three parts absolute brilliance.

As the leaves start turning and dropping and the air gets crisper, I'm reminded of my high-school days.

Granted, I hated high-school. One of these days I'll have to let you all in on the hilarity of it. I'm sure there's humor in being known as "that girl who fell down the steps again," among other things.

But that's not why I'm writing this blog tonight.

The truth is, world, I feel old.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "She's only 24, she doesn't know the meaning of old." Well...yea. That's true. I'm still very young, and still have a lot of my life left to live (hopefully).

But, I see high-school freshmen now and I wonder if I was ever that young. They all look so carefree and well...tiny. Them, with their braces and backpacks and acne.

Was that really only a decade ago? Can't be. I feel so distant from that little ego-hazed bubble of adolescence. I can't say I miss it, tell ya the truth. I was an impossibility in high-school.

I do, however, miss the simpleness of it all. In high-school, I felt like anything was a possibility. Now I know better.

Oh well. Not like one can stop the freight-train of growth, right?

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Stuff it.

Ok world. Here I am.

I recent read the infamous Dooce's blog. She had written about all the hate-mail she had been receiving.

Now, I'm not a huge Dooce fan. I could take it or leave it.

But what I can't seem to comprehend is why so many people seem to have an objection to her. They call her self-absorbed. A leech on society. They don't like that she makes money off her blog. They think she exploits her children. And so on and so forth.

Well, this is my message to them: GROW THE FUCK UP.

I'm sick and tired of people's pre-conceived notions as to how a blog should be used, and what is or isn't appropriate to post.

Bottom line, it's her blog. Not theirs. So the way I see it, she can put whatever the hell she wants in it. And if thousands of people read her blog (which they do) and she makes a little money off of it, who gives a fig. I mean, really. It sounds to me like they're a bunch of jealous whiny snot-nosed idiots.

Aherm. Now that I have that off my chest...I'll get to the main topic of this delightfully anger-inspired post.

What is a blog to you? To me it's a writing exercise, in and of itself. It's also a way for me to put my opinions out there, to ramble on and on about whatever insignificant little thought passes through my mind. Because, let's face it, if I ranted like I do here to any sane person in the "real world," they'd probably try to have me committed.

Granted, it does puff my ego a bit (especially when people comment...hint hint), but that's not why I created it. I'm not setting out to change the world here. I'm not trying to contribute to society.

I'm just writing.

It may not be great writing, hell, it may not even be good writing. But it's my writing, world, and if you don't like it you can just stuff it.

So, the question begs some answering. What is a blog to you?

Have a nice day! :)

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Does Not Compute

So I've been in a writer's block lately. You can read more about that here.

Sometimes it can take me days to unblock myself.

And then again, sometimes material just presents itself.

That's right world. I think you know what I'm talking about.

Kayne West.

For those of you who have been living under a rock, let me catch you up to speed. When Taylor Swift (who, in the words of Beth over at The Confused Homemaker, just reeks of all things cotton candy and unicornish) got up to give her acceptance spiel speech she was brutally robbed of it as Kayne decided to hog the spotlight and point out Beyonce (sucessfully mortifying said songbird) and the superiority of her music video.

Ok. Let's get some things straight. I am NOT a Taylor Swift fan. At all. The little strumpet makes me feel underachieved for my age, and she's prettier than I am to boot. Not to mention that she sings country. I loath country.

Petty reasons, but hey. I'm human.

Even so, I felt bad for her. She was the proverbial awkward turtle as she stood by and watched that media whore Kayne steal her moment. And well, that just doesn't sit right with me, not at all.

Granted, Beyonce allowed Taylor to have her moment later on - a true class act, if I ever saw one, and one that deserves to be recognized.

Still though, the whole fiasco has gotten me thinking. How many Kaynes do you know? I bet you can name a few. I know I can. Why is this type of behavior acceptable in our culture? I just don't understand.

I kind of feel like I should be standing on a street corner screaming "Does Not Compute!"

Since when did we get so complacent? From what I've gathered, everyone seems to be of the opinion that this is "typical" Kayne behavior. And yet the man rakes in millions of dollars per year.

Does Not Compute.

Why do we idolize such figures? Because they're off the wall? Because they're different?

Well so are criminals. We don't idolize them (usually). And no, I'm not comparing Kayne to a criminal. I'm just saying that I don't understand how someone of questionable behavior would be placed in a prestigious position.

Does Not Compute.

I guess I'm not educated enough on the social scene to understand.

To tell you the truth, world, I don't think I want to be.

Monday, September 14, 2009

new blog

No world, I am not leaving you. This blog will still be active.

Why is it that whenever someone says they're making a new blog, everyone automatically assumes that the old one is dying or dead?


I've decided to create a new blog, born out of the frustration of reading reviews from so-called "experts."

Fuck. Them.

Experts. Pft. What exactly does one have to do to become an "expert" at something? Who gets to decide what qualifies an expert? Not that there's no value in an expert review. I'm sure there is, somewhere. But I often get the feeling that experts are writing to other experts, which usually leaves out 99 percent of the population.

Hence the birth of Purchaser's Review.

I plan on doing a post every day, rain or shine.

Some might call me stupid for starting another blog when this one is so new. I don't care. It's my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I damn well want with it.

:) Have a nice day!

(Duty-free shops are a wonderful I found out at Dublin's airport. This is about half of what I bought.)

Writer's Block Sucks.

I think I'm experiencing this thing called "writer's block."

It sucks. It sucks major donkey dick.

So far I've started half a dozen posts for this thing, all of which have ended up in the digital dumpster.

I mean, it's not that hard, right? To just write a post. Step one is picking your subject matter. Step two is writing. Everything else falls into those two categories.

Apparently, this is too difficult for my brain to handle. It's a novel sensation. Anyone who knows me in "real life" (what does that make this? An "unreal" life?) will tell you I'm pretty much a chatterbox. Seriously. I have verbal diarrhea.

And yet I got nada. Jack. Nothing. Zip, zilch, and zero. My writing even sucks tonight.

I thought I'd be able to write a post about writer's block in some sort of effort to unblock myself.

I don't think it's working. But, I'll post this anyways, as a reminder to myself. Someday I'll laugh about this. Just not now.

Have a good night ya'll...hopefully I'll manage to fix myself soon.

Friday, September 11, 2009


I had another blog I've been working on to post here for today.

And then I looked at the date.


I remember where I was on this day eight years ago. I was sitting in Mrs. Jones classroom, paying attention to everything but she was telling me about algebra. I was counting the ceiling tiles. I was doodling in my notebook. I was shuffling my feet and trying to ignore the person in front of me - he had an aweful habit of farting, and had chosen that moment to let loose.

And then it happened, and I was doing exactly the opposite, trying to listen and absorb every piece of information. I was sixteen at the time, and hardly cared about worldly matters. Or any matters, really.

Sixteen year olds have a habit of being self-absorbed. I know I was. Still am, if I'm being honest with myself.

I couldn't understand what had happened. A plane had hit one of the Twin Towers? At first I didn't believe it. It had to be some sort of sick joke. Nobody would attack us like that. I looked around the classroom and saw that my classmates had much the same reaction as I did. We sat there, in our yellow classroom, perplexed. The bell rang, and we shuffled off to our next class.

And then the second plane hit.

I clearly remember everything in my mind going blank. The teacher was rumbling something about how he wasn't going to be teaching today and he wanted all of us to be quiet.

I didn't hear a word he said. His words were hardly merited - all of us were silent, eyes tranfixed on the television mounted in the corner of the classroom. At sixteen, I don't think I quite understood the magnitude of what had happened. I just knew that someone had crashed some planes into the Twin Towers, and many, many people died.

I remember watching people jump out of the building. I remember seeing the ugly black noxious plumes of smoke coming from the crashes. I remember hearing that there had been a plane that hit the Pentagon. That the south Tower had collapsed. That someone had crashed a plane into a field in Pennsylvania.

I remember it all.

I had no connection to the Twin Towers. I didn't know anyone who was killed. Hell, I didn't even know anyone who helped volunteer. And yet, there was a sadness in me, like a little tiny black hole that had eaten up all my other feelings.

School had dismissed for the day. Nobody cared.

My mother took me and my sister home. I remember switching on Cartoon Network - it was the only channel not covering the Towers. I didn't want my sister to see what had happened. She was only ten years old. I sat there, numb, watching brightly colored characters and their misadventures.

Years later, here I am. I'm twenty-four now, not sixteen. That little black hole is still there, surprisingly. Every year I think I've gotten rid of it, until this date comes and everything rushes back to me. I cannot imagine how those who actually lost loved ones feel. I cannot imagine how those who volunteered and saw first hand what malice can do feel right now.

Life's not fair. Nobody ever said it was. But what happened on this day eight years ago was an atrocity that should never have occured.

We will never forget.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Labor Day

Ah...Labor Day.

A day where everyone (except for people who work at a certain mega-million dollar petstore chain) can sit back and roast weinies on the barbeque.

I have many memories of this day.

I remember visiting my Nan's house on this day. I remember that we'd have a barbeque, with burgers and hot dogs and baked beans and potato salad. The menfolk would spend the day watching sports (any sport, so long as it featured a Philadelphia team) - until it was time to cook. Then they argued over who would man the grill, and how well the burgers should be cooked, and how much cheese to put on. They argued over whether or not it was better to serve hot dogs charred to brickette consistancy, and if they should throw on some potatoes wrapped in reynold's wrap (even though we already had potato salad). The womenfolk would putter in the kitchen, trying to get their own dishes done to perfection, if only to gloat about how easy it was to prepare later. Then they would yell at their men to come in and give them a hand, or to be a taste-tester, or to watch whatever screaming child had hurt himself/herself.

My dad's family gets things done by yelling. Loudly.

I remember sitting down with my paper plate that had too much food on it. I remember unwrapping my potato from the shiny foil surrounding it - only to eat half of it, and give the rest of it to whoever's dog happened to sniffing around.

I remember watching the birds all flock to my Nan's neighbor's birdfeeders - she had at least six feeders in her yard, along with a great many yard decorations that fluttered in the wind. Nan's neighbor was an elderly woman who seemed to get great pleasure out of giving us kids unholy amounts of candy.

It was stale candy, but hey. I was thrilled anyways.

Mrs. Fae was her name, and I thought she was entirely beautiful. In an old, wrinkly sort of way, of course. She smelled like a cross between formaldehyde and gardenias, and had the prettiest hydrangeas on the block. She said that she used to put a few nails in the ground near the bushes, and that's what made them that brilliant blue hue.

Anyways, her husband had died some years previous to my birth, so I had never met him. I'm told he was a nice man, just like I've been told my Nan's husband was nice.

Pop-pop died of colon cancer a few weeks before I was born. He was the type of man whose life story was so great it could have been published and become a best-seller.

I don't think Nan ever really recovered from his death - there was always an air of sadness about her that I never quite got until I was old enough to realize how much she loved my Pop-pop. She now has Alzheimer's disease, and often wakes up during the night looking for him.

I cannot possibly even begin to imagine her heartbreak.

All of this, of course, completely passed by me as a child. Usually a few of my cousins would get some sort of sport going (there were twenty-something of us, so it was feasible), and I'd wind up injuring myself somehow. Klutziness and projectiles apparently don't mix well.

So, I usually stayed out of the games and read a book, or talked to a few of the aunts or uncles. I watched as my cousins grew up and my aunts and uncles greyed. I watched as various pets passed away, as did Mrs. Fae. Her children now own her home, and the hydrangeas aren't nearly as pretty as they were twenty years ago.

Labor day was never about a day off of work. It wasn't about some governmental fuckup that resulted in a few deaths during the Pullman strike in 1894.

No. Labor day was always about hydrangea bushes, stale candy, noisy relatives and Philadelphia sports. It was about foil-wrapped potatoes, dogs, and getting hit in the head with a football.

That was Labor day to me. We don't get together that much anymore - Nan's in a nursing home, and so the house in Philadelphia hasn't been in use for some time now. Everyone kind of goes their own separate ways, celebrating Labor day with their own families (Nan usually spends Labor day with my uncle).

However, whenever someone mentions Labor day to me, I can still smell the hot dogs burning on the grill and hear my Uncles screaming at the television.

Happy Labor day ya'll!

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

A lesson in strikethrough

Dear annoying esteemed Customer,

We here at our mega-million dollar chain little community want you, the customer, to know that we care about your money feelings.

We are so very sorry that we had to refuse you one of our iguanas. As was explained by the overly annoyed and frustrated sales associate, iguanas need a large habitat. The shit encrusted 10 gallon aquarium terrarium that you described to our slave employee was not suitable for such a magnificent creature of this earth.

We're so very sorry that you didn't believe the overly qualified and vexed employee when she said that iguanas can grow to six feet long. If you would still like to purchase one of our animals, please don't hesitate to stop in and harass ask our employees for help in selecting the appropriate size habitat, lighting, and nutritional requirements that iguanas need.

We dread look forward to having you come visit us again for all your pet needs!


Your local mega million dollar chain pet community favorite, (insert name of petstore here)


So world, this blog has been a month in the making. If you don't want to read angsty saddish stuff, I suggest you ignore this one.

If you've read my other posts, you may have come to the conclusion that I have a bit of an animal obsession. We'll just say it's a job hazard.

Thus far, I believe I have spoken about the cat, the bird(s), and the fish.

I also have a dog.

A month ago I had two dogs.

We got our dog Rusty from a breeder. And before ya'll start harassing me about getting dogs from breeders, I know. Given the choice I wouldn't have gone to a breeder, I would have rescued. But I was only thirteen or fourteen at the time, so it's not like I had much of a choice in the matter.

He was a hyper little monster. So, we decided to get him a friend to play with.

Enter Lili. For all of Rusty's friendliness, she was opposite.

Rusty was the dog who walked up to people and whored himself out for a few pats on the head.

Lili was the one who tried to bite their fingers off.

We didn't find out until later that the breeder's son had abused Lili, hence her aggression towards those of the male persuasion.

Needless to say, we weren't happy. My father wound up suing the breeder for her breeding practices (there was no proof that Lili was abused, other that the rumor on the streets and our own personal observations, so we went after her for something we had proof of), and won. She is no longer allowed to breed. A minor victory.

The two of them became my two best friends. Lili eventually got better with her social issues, and towards the end of her life she began to learn to accept.

I find myself at a loss of what to write at this part. How am I supposed to describe a being as inherently complex and deceivingly simple as a dog? I mean, ok. I realize it's a dog. I realize that this is not a person. This is an animal. I got that.

That doesn't make the loss any easier.

We were so focused on Rusty - he has a rare form of cancer that's localized on his snoot (snout...nose...facial protrusion...whatever it's called), and he has a different type of cancer on his paw. Both of them are localized, so they aren't spreading. Much.

We're paying out the nose for his treatment, naturally.

So we've been focused on him. We never imagined that Lili would have cancer as well.

She showed no signs. We're good pet owners - obsessive about our animals' health, so she just got X-rays of her chest last year (I forget why she needed them at the moment).

Somehow between last year and now she grew over twenty tumors inside her.

Over 80% of her lung was compromised. She started throwing up, and then coughing and wheezing. Within a day we had decided to put her to sleep.

Everyone seems to wonder why I don't seem saddened by this.

I find their concern interesting. Why should I be sad? Don't get me wrong, I do miss her. I'll always miss her.

On the other hand, had she continued to live then she would have been in agony.

One way or another everything dies. It was her time. It's sometimes difficult to accept this, but hey. Nobody ever said life was easy or fair.

I love ya Lili.

Truck Day

Hey World.

So, I'm exhausted. Literally and figuratively. Today was truck day at work - those shelves don't stock themselves!

Although, why a cat needs fifty billion different flavors of Fancy Feast is beyond me. If I were up to it, I'd write a blog about that.

But we'll save that one for a later date.

So, here's a few cartoons depicting my day today (I gots the paintshop skillz).

So yea. That about sums up my day. More Nyxy fun tomorrow. :-D