I used to buy fake Pop-Tarts, just trying to save a little money (besides, the generics come without frosting, and I am not always keen on frosted poptarts). The no-names were a bit flimsier and tended to crumble. I just used a pair of chopsticks to ease those puppies out of the toaster once they were heated through, and cleaned up the mess so Riss' wouldn't be upset.

So one rainy spring morning I set the pastries to heat and walked across the kitchen. Just as I thought they should be ready, I realized that they smelled a bit more than done. That's when I turned around to see flames leaping out of my toaster. Yes, six-inch blue and green flames shooting up from the toaster slots were consuming my breakfast treat and threatening my kitchen cabinets. The cheap crumbly poptart had fallen apart enough to ignite upon heating!

I did what any intelligent human being would do. I ran to the toaster, grabbed the power cord, and yanked it out of the wall. That done, I waited for the flames to die down. No, really. I'd cut off the electric supply, why was it still burning?

Hmm. The cabinets were still threatened, and the neon-colored flames were getting higher. I didn't have any baking soda, and I knew you should not throw water on an electrical fire (never mind that I unplugged the damned thing already). I carefully picked up the flaming appliance, put it on the middle of the kitchen floor, and stepped back. The toaster continued to burn, and I realized staring at it like it had turned into a rattlesnake was not going to help. This called for genuinely logical thinking.

The kitchen had a door to the outside, and it opened out to a 3-foot wide concrete porch and my neighbor's side yard. I dashed to the door and opened it up, then ran back to the technicolor conflagration occuring on my kitchen floor. Once again, I gingerly lifted the toaster from its resting place, and carried it to the door. Since I wasn't sure that flipping it out onto the porch would be safe enough, I braced the toaster against my right shoulder and *shot-put* it out the back door.

I still clearly remember, as if in slow motion, the sight of the burning toaster, trailing bits of flaming Pop-tart, flying through the rain to land in my neighbor's lawn.

"You can just lie there and effing SOAK!" Spurred by an adrenaline rush, I shouted at the sputtering carcass. Not satisfied that the flight and the rain had rendered the appliance harmless, I filled our lobster pot and walked out into the rain to pour the water onto the toaster.

An hour later I was explaining to my neighbor why there was a toaster lying in his lawn. And wishing I had a Pop-Tart. A real one.

And that's the true story behind the First Annual Irwin, PA Toaster Burn and Shot-Put. I marked it on the calendar, but it hasn't happened again....

...yet.

...scratched in the box at 01:20 a.m. on Sunday, March 16, 2003

Changeling

Oi, Rissicat... now that all your midterms are over, I have maaaaaaanga for you! X D {{{Hugs!}}}

...maybe that will help make up for **PANG**ness.

...scratched in the box at 07:26 p.m. on Friday, March 14, 2003

Rissicat

Frightening thoughts to get you through the day

you and you and all your darned "Steiner-isms" have given my brain a whole new take on the phrase "pangs of conscience".

>_< Ow, ow, ow, ow, owwwwww....

...scratched in the box at 04:22 p.m. on Friday, March 14, 2003

Gryphoncat

Held hostage by characters....

Since I said it was almost done, somebody would not let me post again until I finished this for you, Luny!

Pushy egomaniac characters. ...But I like 'em so much. ^_^;;

Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em...there's only one answer. Write 'em into wild fics!

The author grins evilly in the direction of her characters' hangout...
Hey, why'd everybody runaway??? XD

...scratched in the box at 03:07 p.m. on Friday, March 14, 2003

Rissicat

Heh. As many characters as you have, it's a complete wonder that your brain isn't easily mistaken for haggis, at this point.

...scratched in the box at 08:08 a.m. on Monday, March 10, 2003

Changeling: How To Tell When You're *Too Tired* to Keep Writing Character Summaries:

"Kiani meets Max, blah blah blah, get rid of his unicorn by finding her a mate, blah blah potato, wild sex, blah blah, got scared because things were getting serious, so she ran away.

"When she got back, he was boffing the prettyboy cleric on a regular basis. She was a little jealous, Tieh got all insecure and started backing away when *he* realized she used to be Max's lover, poor Max was just a wreck, and eventually they figured out that the only way to handle this entire cluster-fuck situation was to play it threesies.

...there's more, but I figure this will hurt your brains badly enough. >_<

...scratched in the box at 11:25 p.m. on Sunday, March 9, 2003

Rissicat

Random passing thought: I really, reeeally like Flidget's dancing chubby things. I want one for Malibuki, my car.

Among the other things I want: I want to stop stalling on the getting this paper written. It's only 5 pages, but my brain is powered by sunlight, and I may have lost my last chance by spending today with the roommates. Everytime I sit down at the keyboard, my brain goes, "Guhhhhhhhhhh..." I want to have next week's two midterms over with. Especially I want to stop whining.

I want to get a bottle of cheap wine, and get stinking drunk and hope the you have your wicked way with me.... You know who you are. Purrrrrr.

I'm going to spoil myself sick doing nothing more thought-provoking than work for one week.... Maybe surf the fanfic sites and give my sensibilites a good scare.

...scratched in the box at 09:48 p.m. on Saturday, March 8, 2003

Changeling, elf snippet

A corps of particularly sadistic dwarves had started digging a tunnel through his skull.

It seemed the most logical explanation, at least at first, for the pounding pain that echoed through his head as Ruadhan strugged up into some semblance of awareness. Another long and uncomfortable minute dragged by before he decided that at some point during the night, a small creature had crawled into his mouth to die. He let out an almost inaudible groan, and felt the slight sound reverberate through his brain like hell's bells.

Even his hair seemed to hurt.

Fabric rustled nearby; then came words uttered in the gentlest of murmurs - no louder than a whisper, but less sibilant: "Would you like some water? It will help."

Ruadhan's stomach rebelled at the thought of even water, but as he belatedly recognized the symptoms of a truly vile hangover, he allowed the barest of nods in reply. The soft slither of cloth repeated itself, followed by bare feet padding lightly over carpets. Spread, he would guess, on a floor of either hardwoods or stone. He didn't dare even to attempt to open his eyes to learn which.

He'd once amused himself by applying forest tracking skills while guesting within that lavishly decorated manse, and discovered that one could indeed identify size and direction of footprints in the deep plush of some of the rugs. He had memorized the sounds of the household's treads over the many and varied floor-coverings. By the end of the days-long celebration, he and his companions had a running challenge as to who - with eyes closed, in any of the home's many rooms - could most accurately identify a pedestrian passing by: what member of the lord's family, or which among the veritable army of servants?

As to why he should be hearing such sounds now….

Another faint sound escaped him as Ruadhan rubbed gingerly at his temples trying to remember where he was and why, in the names of all the planes, he had gotten quite so drunk as to rate this severe a morning-after. The only other time in his entire life he remembered feeling quite so miserable was twenty years before, when he'd foolishly tried to drink away his grief over -

He froze as memory engaged.

Grief over his sister's death. Only Sharina - was not entirely gone.

(...and just when is it going to occur to him to wonder about the other person in the room...?)

...scratched in the box at 01:40 a.m. on Saturday, March 8, 2003

Gryphoncat

...And it only took two and a half hours and two phone calls to get the Newspaper Gods to deliver a replacement. ^_^;;

I broke the shovel on an insight

I helped Changeling disentomb her car today. After she left for work, I ran inside, got the digital camera, and dashed back out into the snow-covered backyard. Yes! Cat pawprints trailed around the yard, so I took many pics and I hope some of them came out. (I want to use them for a future template.) I had fun tracking the kitty’s travels around the property. The cat had the last laugh, though. When I returned to my starting place, there were some neat new paw marks – directly over my sneaker prints! I have to wonder who was really tracking whom.

Then I shoveled the driveway. I had to scrape up some of those neat pawprint trails, and I mentally apologized to the cat as I erased the only proof I had of its existence. It had been so fun to follow those prints, and now...who could tell but me that the kitty wasn’t a figment of my imagination?

So you who write, and you who art, and you (you know who you are) who cook, and you who share cool thoughts, and those of you who do more than one of these things, keep doing ‘em. Because I love to follow your pawprints, and I couldn’t make up such fun figments if I tried.

Oh, and I have something to say to you, but it’s not quite ready. Soon. Very soon. Fu fu fu....

...scratched in the box at 03:38 p.m. on Friday, March 7, 2003

Rissicat

What velocity is your garbage can?

I thought it was going to be a Sephiroth sort of morning - white, beautiful, hard, and deadly, since we got snow and then an ice storm over top of it. However, once I extricated the car from the glacier, the roads were pretty good.

But our newspaper was sacrificed to the Ice Gods, which is probably why the roads were passable. I saw it at the end of the driveway, out in the middle of the road, exploded out of it's protective green plastic wrapper like it had been brutally gutted, shredded and soggy. Bleh. Not stopping for that.

This weekend's nifty school trick: 5 pages on what I think is the definition of good and evil, and the origin of evil. So far, based on all this snow, I'm 90% sure that the origin of evil is Ohio... or that 90% of all evil originates from Ohio.

Cool thing count = 2. Roommate waved me off to work, always nice, that. And a friend that I recommended for a job a month ago is actually going to get an interview. In Ohio, the poor guy.

...scratched in the box at 11:03 a.m. on Thursday, March 6, 2003

Rissicat

I'll be burning rubber, they'll be kissin' my ass.

Okay, now I remember why I'm killing myself going to school. 90 minutes of the most effing useless meeting I've had to endure for quite a while. In theory we were working on team building and job satisfaction. In reality, we were listening to Kathy tell us the world according to her opinion. Gah. And when one of the other attendees tried to talk about the problems created by management (this is supposed to be an open session) she was effectively told to sit down and shut up. I think I'm still grinding my teeth. More dental work for me.

*Snoopy dance* On the other hand, my secret plans for world domination continue apace! As I was walking out to go to school, I heard one of the other managers using a phrase in her conference call that I coined about a year ago: "administrivia" (administration-trivia). I created it in protest of the excessive amounts of documentation we have to process for simple, everyday transactions. I will undermine them using the English language and have my wicked way with them! Bwa-ha-haaaa.....

...scratched in the box at 05:23 p.m. on Wednesday, March 5, 2003

Rissicat

Mood: Bittersweet and Stressed

Spending a lot of time lately thinking about my little brother, Karl, who passed away of cancer four years ago Monday, and trying NOT to think about mid-terms next week. I worry that this'll be too hard in the long run, but I love it anyway - except for the terror that is research papers, that I've not written in many, many (many!) years.

Vel, it's not often that I get praised for being a smart-ass. Thankyouverymuch! (I would have linked you, but my coding reference sheet is on Changeling's desk. Oops....) [muahaha - that's what "edit entry" is for! ~ C ~]

Suggestions bound to get you killed by your family: When asked what you're giving up for Lent, answer "Religion".

...scratched in the box at 01:38 p.m. on Wednesday, March 5, 2003

Changeling

Oro... apparently, our group-blog title is also the name of a feline rescue society in the Memphis, TN area. Hope they don't think we're stepping on any paws, or anything....

...scratched in the box at 05:02 p.m. on Tuesday, March 4, 2003

Rissicat

"Lord, Love a Duck" Department

Stayed a little late at work, stopped off to pick up some groceries we needed.... Got home to find their lunch still on the counter. Dang. They're halfway through work now, and if the mail volume is low, could be booted out the door at any minute, which means we would likely pass each other in the dark. And the building is secured, which means I cannot get near it. I wish they could call me and tell me if I should run it out there....

When in doubt, cook like crazy.... Jambalaya, tonight. Might bake something to boot, if I can't settle down. I am so indecisive. Bleh.

...scratched in the box at 08:44 p.m. on Monday, March 3, 2003

Rissicat

Heh. Now doesn't that give a whole new meaning to the "Slash All" materia? XD

...scratched in the box at 05:46 p.m. on Monday, March 3, 2003

Changeling, random insanity

So earlier this afternoon, G-Cat and I were discussing the verb "to fic" and how rude it sounded.

G-Cat: "...Oh yeah? Well -- fic you!"
Me: "I'm gonna fic you into next week!"
(at this point, the figments start looking nervous)
G-Cat: "...fic you stupid."
(Certain GW figments snicker; the braided one blushes) [it's a "Maxwell's Demon" thang]
Me: "...fic you sooooo hard..."
G-Cat: "Mother fic'er."
(G-Cat swears that's the one which set a certain white-haired psycho General to twitching)
Me: "...Well, fic you and the horse you rode in on!"

...at which point all the poor figments ran screaming.

...scratched in the box at 01:03 a.m. on Monday, March 3, 2003

Rissicat

Have conquered ethics, have conquered business mgmt, have mostly conquered Psych. I started it, but am stalled on ficbit while I check out a couple details that have grown vague and fuzzy from time and distance. Gah. Off to gamefaqs with me.

Yesterday was tough... I think the world won that round, though it did have some wonderful high points. Thanks to you, and you. I may yet snap and spend insane amounts of cash on manga.

Gaming with friends today. Nice stress relief.

...scratched in the box at 11:00 a.m. on Sunday, March 2, 2003

Changeling, FF7 fic snippet/teaser

There's a voice in his head.

Given what he's been told - about the past, and Jenova, and Meteor - its presence sparks terror at first, that history is about to repeat itself.

Over the weeks of his recuperation, Sephiroth has had a few random flashes of what might be memory, strange and foreign as they seem to him now. One of those episodes involved what could only have been Jenova's influence in his mind, and it is that which makes him fear for his sanity now.

And yet….

The echoes of that voice from the past are alien in the extreme; Jenova's whispers as sibilant as the scales of a thousand snakes moving across sand, cold and sterile as the space between the stars and, somehow, leaving the impression of smelling faintly of snow on frigid winter air.

The voice which murmurs to him now is warm, gentle. It is clear blue skies and grass between the toes of bare feet, the feeling of drawing in deep breaths of clean air, far away from Midgar's pollution. It is a sense of comfort and relaxation that he has known so seldom in his life… and he finds it all the more frightening for that oh-so-tempting warmth.

If this new voice leaves behind any 'scent' in his mind, it is of….

…flowers?!

And his heart stutters in its beating, for just a moment, as he realizes who speaks to him this time.

The Ancient, the true last child of the Cetra.

The girl he'd murdered, in the ruins of her ancestors' city.

Aerith….

...scratched in the box at 02:47 p.m. on Saturday, March 1, 2003

Rissicat:

Ummm.... Hi. (sweatdrop) Doing homework and wishing I was reading manga, instead. Bad me.

Please ignore the mood... I've got a ficlet stewing in my brain and it wants out on paper so bad, and I've got to keep it on the "short leash." Thus said, my brain is doing the grumpy dance. It will get written this weekend though, I can feel the pressure building to blort it all onto paper. And then, Cloud has got to leave my head alone for a little while.... It's crowded enough, as is.

...scratched in the box at 10:15 p.m. on Friday, February 28, 2003

Gryphoncat

Uggh.... Every so often you have to scoop the emotional litterbox. If you don't, all sorts of crud builds up under the sand where nobody looks. And even if you do bend to the unpleasant task and scoop it, if you miss some stuff, it starts to go bad and the NEXT time you scoop...look out! This seems to be most important when there's more than one mew living in the house. And the litterbox smells much better. *Whew*

Weird Hobbies Dept.
I make yarn from my cats' fur. I've been doing it for years, finger-spinning the clean bunches of undercoat fur from a good brushing. I keep threatening to knit a kitten...or cross-stitch one. Every so often, a character appears to watch this odd ritual of mine.

Eiko: Whatcha doin'?
Me: Spinning yarn from cat fur.
Eiko: Weird. (Giggles and runs off)
Moments later, there's a ghod-awful sound -- a cat-and-monkey-combined kind of shriek.
Me: What was *that*!?!
Eiko (offstage): Noooothing.
I'm half done with my current project when Kuja dashes in, closely followed by Eiko.
Eiko (with a truly evil grin): Aw, c'mon! Zidane's fur is too short to spin! Your tail is nice and fluffy! It'll make great yarn! Lemme get some fur from you!
Kuja (panicked): NOT with an Epilady!!!!
Eiko makes a swipe for the long-furred appendage with the offending weapon, but Kuja teleports out of the room first. Eiko summons Madeen to follow him. The room is left empty but for me and my yarn.
Me: ...
...
...
...poor Zidane.

That's it, all of you! I think Choco would show up to save the poor mog before anything happened to him. After all, that's his moogle. ...and whatever happens between summons is their own business, right?

*Pang!*
Wark!!!

...scratched in the box at 12:57 p.m. on Friday, February 28, 2003

Changeling:

BOOYAH! Got this bad blog up and running. Must celebrate with a rousing game of "Who *Pang*ed Steiner's Armor This Time?" X D

...scratched in the box at 10:08 p.m. on Thursday, February 27, 2003

Gryphoncat

...Prrrrrrrt?*

(* - Translation: "testing, testing")

...scratched in the box at 07:26 p.m. on Thursday, February 27, 2003