The Perfect (Shit)Storm

I really, really wanted to enjoy this three-day weekend. I made a small plan. I wanted to relax, have a few drinks, get some stuff accomplished. Nothing elaborate or complicated and yet, very little of that happened. I did manage to get in a morning workout all three days, and NSA and I had a very good time for about an hour Sunday morning, those were the highlights. Other than that, six calls for work-related crap that most definitely did not required my immediate attention and could have easily waited for Tuesday, one call from my mother that didn't help, and one call from NSA's pharmacy saying that the narcotic patches he was just prescribed and has been using to mixed results, have been recalled. I''l type that again, RECALLED. What the fuck?? As in, "Oops, so sorry, the delivery system might be fucked up and you could accidently die from the correct use of your prescription." Where is this shit made, China? Synthetic morphine doesn't seem like something you want to mess around with, NSA is already paranoid because there's all sorts of warnings about overdosing on the stuff and how you might overdose, and he's afraid that me or one of the cats might somehow be exposed. (Not as far-fetched a fear as it might seem, particularly since the medicine is housed in a crunchy plastic film, similar to a candy wrapper, the type Jezebel looves to chew on. And puke up. She also likes to eat tinsel, which makes the cat box very festive.) So my hopeful plan of a relaxing three-day weekend was shot to shit. A bunch of stinging little pellets that didn't kill me, but left my ass raw. Calling it a perfect storm is a bit of a stretch, but it did feel like the universe was conspiring against me when I needed the downtime the most. Oh well, at least it's a short week.