So, I haven't introduced all of you bloggers to my rock yet.
My fuzzy wuzzy Pookie-bear.
He'd probably flip a shit if I ever actually called him that in public, but hey...just because I don't say it doesn't mean I'm not thinking it.
This is as close to a sappy post as any of you will ever get from me. Well, romantically speaking, of course. Barring any future anniversaries...no promises on those particular dates. I promise that there won't be any sappy postings on Val's day. Valentine's day is akin to roasting in hell. Or being squished in the middle of a mosh pit surrounded by sweaty teenagers screaming at the top of their lungs to an obscure rock band - I have experianced this before, and have no inclination of repeating it.
I suppose I should let ya'll know about my dating habits.
I have none.
That is, I rarely date. I've only had three boyfriends - two ex's and my current. Unless you count little Timmy from first grade, who so cheekily kissed me under the slide during recess.
I may have provoked it.
There were two boys before I met Pookie, and let's just say that they left me a wee bit...bitter.
So after purging them from my system (I kind of detoxed on a trip to Ireland with my then-friend and now-current Pookie), I realized something.
I didn't need to pander to other people's ideas of 'attractive.' Nor did I need to limit my intelligence so I could fit in. Nope, as sappy as it sounds, I figured out that I was just fine the way I am.
Lifetime, if you're reading this and decide to make a movie out of it...I will sue your asses for every stinking man-hating feministic penny that you're worth.
I started to go out with my friend more and more, and everyone we knew insisted that we date. We kept denying that we dug each other, and with every friend that tried to convince us to give it a try, our conviction seemed to lessen more and more. Until we snapped.
So now I'm on boy number three. For some reason, he seems to like me.
Even though I'm pretty sure he could live without me palpating all his bones and naming them. I'm afraid I have a bit of a bone fetish - the result of taking an intensive Human Osteology class one semester in college.
They gave me the keys to the lab, yo.
*snicker* dumbasses trusted me...ah...back to topic....
I'm not easy to date. I'm tempermental, moody, and I've got security issues. I need constant reassurances, and I like the weirdest things (skeletal systems...hockey...gummy bears). I'm not some flirty blonde with double D's and a zero waist, and I don't tolerate idiocy. I'm more manly than most men that I know, and I'm hell with power-tools.
And yet, my Pookie not only dates me in spite of all this, but he accepts it.
Yea, I thought he was crazy too.
That's ok. I never claimed to like the sane ones. I accept his lack of sanity the same way he accepts that I have a bit of a road rage problem.
I guess sometimes it's not about finding someone to love and be loved by. Sometimes, it's right under your nose, and it's just about accepting it. Come hell or high-water. Or insane stepmothers, dog-obsessed parents, narcessistic sisters, shitty jobs, and angry phones.
He makes my heart go pitty-pat. He smiles (ok...grimaces) when I suggest a shopping trip (which will, more than likely, end in naught but a few frustrated sighs), he holds me when I'm moody as hell and angry as a horde of rabid squirrels, and he consistantly reminds me that he doesn't give a damn that my legs look like tree trunks.
That's my Pookie.
:-] I like him so much that I even used an emoticon.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Typical Tuesday Night
Humanity cracks me up.
I work at a pet-store. It's one of those mega-chains that completely takes over an area and decimates the mom and pop shops. I think I'm ok with that, because really, who gives a damn about the mom and pop shops anymore? Nobody's going to spend their hard-earned money on sentiment. Not with the economy going the way it has been.
Some would call those statements harsh. As my younger sister (who shall henceforth be referred to as 'Leech') pointed out to me when I said that to her, it's a bit misanthropic. However, this lost sentimentality was proved to me yet again today.
Leech told me I was a glass-half-empty type of gal. Personally, I don't really think it matters what the hell is in the glass so long as its drinkable.
Anyways, I was manning the register because it's donation time. Apparently I'm well-liked among our customers (something that I will soon have to rectify), so in some sort of devil-inspired bout of brilliance my store manager decided to make me the cashier-bitch in a desperate attempt to one-up his fellow store managers at the other stores.
So there I was, generally hating life and contemplating my future job opportunities as Mrs. Dooney brought up her 157 cans of Fancy Feast for her loveable and a bit more than slightly obese cat Peebles.
Peebles loves him some Fancy Feast.
I patiently rang up each and every can of Fancy Feast (because the evil and repugnant people who run corporate did away with our quantity keys, which means we can no longer just hit a button for say...28 cans of tuna florentine), and I even did it with a smile plastered on my face.
Secretly, I was wondering how many cans of gasoline it would take to light the place up like my neurotic Aunt Lorraine's Christmas tree.
So, I finish ringing up Mrs. Dooney's 157 cans of Fancy Feast, along with the seven (that's right...seven) bags of treats that Peebles just had to have because he was a very good kitty when he visited the groomers the other day (I know the groomers - Peebles was most definately not a good boy. I figured I'd let Mrs. Dooney have her illusions and not inform her that Eileen was now sporting several very nice, long gashes on her arms courtesy of Peebles). At the end of the purchase, I asked her if she would like to make a donation to (insert favorite animal-related charity here).
It was then that I found myself on the recieving end of "The Look." You know the one I'm talking about. You may have received "The Look" if you have either a.) been caught having sex in the last pew in Church by the pastor, b.) wore your new chinchilla-fur shawl to a PETA gala, or c.) dared to impugn the Flyers anywhere within my hearing range.
Ah...nothing quite like being on the recieving end of offended sensibilities. Hooray for customer service.
Mrs. Dooney informed me that times are rough, and how on earth could someone such as I dare to assume that someone such as she would have money to throw away on some charity? She has better things to do with her money. Insert dignified sniff and a condescending look or two here.
Right. My bad.
I don't care that she didn't round up her 52 cents to donate to a good cause. It's her money to do with what she wants. Nope. What's got my knickers in a twist (figuratively speaking) is that she decided to sit there and take her frustrations out on me. Not only that, but she assumed that just because I work in a less than glamorous position, that she could treat me as an imbecile. Gr. Maybe I should bring a copy of my degree to work, just so I can whip it out whenever a situation like this arises....
So here I am, blogging for the sake of cashiers everywhere. This is dedicated to you, underpaid and unappreciated customer-service representatives far and wide. I might also have been ranting slightly, but that's ok, because I think I've just about decided that I'm entitled to it.
Oh, and for the Mrs. Dooneys of the world - please don't take your crappy lives out on us. We didn't jam that stick up your ass. You did when you enrolled in the "Elitism for Dummies" course.
I work at a pet-store. It's one of those mega-chains that completely takes over an area and decimates the mom and pop shops. I think I'm ok with that, because really, who gives a damn about the mom and pop shops anymore? Nobody's going to spend their hard-earned money on sentiment. Not with the economy going the way it has been.
Some would call those statements harsh. As my younger sister (who shall henceforth be referred to as 'Leech') pointed out to me when I said that to her, it's a bit misanthropic. However, this lost sentimentality was proved to me yet again today.
Leech told me I was a glass-half-empty type of gal. Personally, I don't really think it matters what the hell is in the glass so long as its drinkable.
Anyways, I was manning the register because it's donation time. Apparently I'm well-liked among our customers (something that I will soon have to rectify), so in some sort of devil-inspired bout of brilliance my store manager decided to make me the cashier-bitch in a desperate attempt to one-up his fellow store managers at the other stores.
So there I was, generally hating life and contemplating my future job opportunities as Mrs. Dooney brought up her 157 cans of Fancy Feast for her loveable and a bit more than slightly obese cat Peebles.
Peebles loves him some Fancy Feast.
I patiently rang up each and every can of Fancy Feast (because the evil and repugnant people who run corporate did away with our quantity keys, which means we can no longer just hit a button for say...28 cans of tuna florentine), and I even did it with a smile plastered on my face.
Secretly, I was wondering how many cans of gasoline it would take to light the place up like my neurotic Aunt Lorraine's Christmas tree.
So, I finish ringing up Mrs. Dooney's 157 cans of Fancy Feast, along with the seven (that's right...seven) bags of treats that Peebles just had to have because he was a very good kitty when he visited the groomers the other day (I know the groomers - Peebles was most definately not a good boy. I figured I'd let Mrs. Dooney have her illusions and not inform her that Eileen was now sporting several very nice, long gashes on her arms courtesy of Peebles). At the end of the purchase, I asked her if she would like to make a donation to (insert favorite animal-related charity here).
It was then that I found myself on the recieving end of "The Look." You know the one I'm talking about. You may have received "The Look" if you have either a.) been caught having sex in the last pew in Church by the pastor, b.) wore your new chinchilla-fur shawl to a PETA gala, or c.) dared to impugn the Flyers anywhere within my hearing range.
Ah...nothing quite like being on the recieving end of offended sensibilities. Hooray for customer service.
Mrs. Dooney informed me that times are rough, and how on earth could someone such as I dare to assume that someone such as she would have money to throw away on some charity? She has better things to do with her money. Insert dignified sniff and a condescending look or two here.
Right. My bad.
I don't care that she didn't round up her 52 cents to donate to a good cause. It's her money to do with what she wants. Nope. What's got my knickers in a twist (figuratively speaking) is that she decided to sit there and take her frustrations out on me. Not only that, but she assumed that just because I work in a less than glamorous position, that she could treat me as an imbecile. Gr. Maybe I should bring a copy of my degree to work, just so I can whip it out whenever a situation like this arises....
So here I am, blogging for the sake of cashiers everywhere. This is dedicated to you, underpaid and unappreciated customer-service representatives far and wide. I might also have been ranting slightly, but that's ok, because I think I've just about decided that I'm entitled to it.
Oh, and for the Mrs. Dooneys of the world - please don't take your crappy lives out on us. We didn't jam that stick up your ass. You did when you enrolled in the "Elitism for Dummies" course.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Intro
Notion: n. an opinion, view, or belief; vague or imperfect conception or idea of something; a fanciful or foolish idea.
Hi there.
Have you ever had an urge? An urge that worms its way into your brain and bulldozes any and all of your other thoughts until they cry out for mercy in some sort of desperate attempt to matter?
This blog is that urge for me. I have no reason to think that any of the writing contained within it will hold any sort of significance towards anyone out there in the blogosphere. After all, I hold no qualifications. You have no reason to believe me, other than I consider myself to be an honest person. Well, honest where it matters.
Mostly, I figure that I'll let this blog take me where it wants to. Sometimes, it's not about whether or not you have a subject you want to write about - sometimes it's more about what words drag themselves out.
-Nyx
Hi there.
Have you ever had an urge? An urge that worms its way into your brain and bulldozes any and all of your other thoughts until they cry out for mercy in some sort of desperate attempt to matter?
This blog is that urge for me. I have no reason to think that any of the writing contained within it will hold any sort of significance towards anyone out there in the blogosphere. After all, I hold no qualifications. You have no reason to believe me, other than I consider myself to be an honest person. Well, honest where it matters.
Mostly, I figure that I'll let this blog take me where it wants to. Sometimes, it's not about whether or not you have a subject you want to write about - sometimes it's more about what words drag themselves out.
-Nyx
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