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Fat Cat.

Prior to the procurement of my cat I determined that I would not become one of those “crazy cat ladies”. Most people don’t like cats. In fact I would tend to think that most people would agree that having a cat is not cool or sexy in the slightest and I feared that by getting a cat, it was most likely resigning to the fact that I would be alone for all eternity. Instead of deciding against the feline, I opted to be the new vision of cat owners. I would be the cool cat lady.

I planned never to post pictures of him online, or buy him novelty toys, or talk about him incessantly. Instead he would be a chic accessory to my newly acquired studio. He would be the clever sidekick in my newest chapter of life. He would be coyly aloof or fun and spunky, but never lame. Of course if I had closely examined the patterns of my personality or been even remotely realistic, I would have known immediately that none of this would be possible at all.

It was inevitable that I would become the most over the top cat owner in the history of time; buying him costumes for every national holiday, photographing, and videoing him incessantly. He is on Youtube, Facebook and the subject of numerous chain e-mails. I am that chick in bars that pulls out cell phone pics and shares them in their entirety with strangers (if that girl exists other than me, which is improbable). It was in one such instance that I recently discovered my baby is fat.

A new colleague had fallen prey to a barrage of photo sharing in the office last week when he commented on my little angel’s size. It was the third comment that week that indicated little Beauty Jr. might be slightly overweight. At first I denied this possibility with the explanation that he is perfect in every way. After my initial refusal, another colleague and I decided to do some side-by-side comparisons of his photos over time. That motivated me to call the vet and get a professional opinion. The jury is back and my cat is fat. 6 months with Mama Brady and my poor cat is obese. Poor little guy. Our diet ensues.

What is the deal guys?

There is nothing more annoying than precipitation in New York City. It is not because of the damp cold temperatures. It is not because of the puddle filled streets or the inadvertent splashing from passing cars. It isn’t even because the influence on my hair to be even more of a frizzy mess than its’ standard sloppy appearance. The overriding reason that rainy days are so exceedingly infuriating, is because of men.

For some elusive reason men feel the need to have the most gigantic umbrellas in the entire world. This effectively causes it to be nearly impossible to navigate the streets in order to get anywhere. Seriously- is it considered emasculating to have a normal sized umbrella? Are you on your way to shelter an entire homeless population? Is it some kind of a status thing? Is it flashy for a dude to have a giant umbrella? Or perhaps the elemental shield equivalent of a motorcycle? Do guys just melt upon contact with drops of rain?

I am not sure what the answer is, but I ask one thing of all men, not that any read this blog other than my Dad, who is not flooding the streets of NYC with gigantic beach umbrellas but alas. Please consider a more modest protective layer. Now I know I have a tendency to be unreasonable, so just consider it, I would be curious to see the impact it would have on morning commuters and street walkers citywide.

Too loud.

It has recently been brought to my attention that I am somewhat loud. It happened quite abruptly, while at the gym when a be speckled man provoked a near fistfight by chastising my companion and me about a week ago. This individual was experiencing difficulty focusing on his book due to our excessive volume and decided to alert us to this fact in an extremely flippant manner, incongruous to his meager appearance.

Due to the petulant nature in which tiny gym Nazi delivered his message, I determined him to be just that and t the volume of our conversation was not the issue to be amended, but rather this horrible elf be removed. It wasn’t until yesterday when I was with the aforementioned gym buddy and we were aggressively “Shushed” by a precious little elderly woman, that I had cause to reconsider. This shush spawned a montage of similar scenarios in which I have been asked to lower the volume of my voice in the past.

At this point in my life I have been asked if I am hard of hearing, compared to a screeching owl, a pack of rambunctious teenagers, and of course aggressively shushed and nearly involved in several brawls. Since it isn’t statistically likely that all of these people have been in the wrong I guess I need to take it down a notch or two. I am very excitable, so this will be a challenge ,but I am committed to at least give it a try. Alternatively, for the next 7 days (or however long I last) don’t take my subdued demeanor as a lack of enthusiasm about your thoughts, ideas, or comments. I care very deeply, however I need to figure out how to express this without also getting knifed at the gym. Besos!

cupidless.

Historically, Valentine’s Day has been one of my favorite holidays. My love stems from its excessive use of pastels, champagne, and adorable heart shaped treats. Not to mention the bevy of prixe fixe menus involving lobster, oysters, and chocolate. Up until this point in my life, Valentine’s Day to me is equivalent to heart shaped Jell-O shots, chocolate covered strawberries, and over consumption of sparkling wine.

Perhaps it is the fact that this is my 25th consecutive Valentine-less Valentine’s Day, but this year I didn’t feel the same convivial spirit around the day of St. Valentine. I skipped my annual Valentine craft night and breezed past the pink construction paper, glitter glue, and doilies in Duane Reade. I avoided the heart shaped gummies, once a famous addition to my cherry Valentine Jell-O shots, and didn’t bake a single heart shaped angel food cake.

I effectively played the part of the grinch that stole Valentine’s Day. I haven’t even yet raided the half off conversation hearts, currently discarded in pharmacy aisles nationwide. It is not that I begrudge couples their undying affection and celebrations, however this year I needed to sit Valentine’s Day out. No themed libations, outfits, baked goods, or crafts were in sight. My anti-Valentine weekend ended anticlimactically with a Roseanne marathon and me receiving a jury summons. I am glad that I enjoyed a traditional bitter single female Valentine’s Day this year, however I feel a bit unfulfilled.

So next year, it is back in full force. I will have it all. Pink beer, streamers, roses, and a heart shaped piñata. I will be baking my heart shaped whoopee pies, making aphrodisiac champagne cocktails, and rolling fresh made heart shaped pasta, while reciting love inspired haikus, and sporting heart shaped potholders. The cat is getting a bedazzled heart covered sweater vest and no one in site will be without one of my handmade Valentine’s Day cards. I am sorry I missed you this year, but I’ll see you in 2011 V-Day!

slow. down.

A timeless New York cliché is that everyone is constantly in a hurry. Frantic residents scurry around manically knocking over the elderly, elbowing tourists, and leaving the blind in the dust. I maintain a tortoise inspired speed based on my heat regulation issues, so I had yet to notice this as a truism until the past week. I typically get from point a to point b while tucked away in an ipod induced reverie and slower pace, however it seems to be true that all other New Yorkers have one of three things that I don’t.

a) more important places to be
b) the ability to remain a normal temperature
c) a death wish

Not only do people legitimately sprint along avenues as if there is some type of pot of gold or all you can eat pizza buffet at the end, but they gallivant in front of speeding vehicles as if they magically do not have the ability to hit them. In the rare occasion that I am not lost I do enjoy the feeling of walking boldly into the road so confident in my route that I must display to all around me. Each time I tempt the traffic gods with a brassy step, there is another that must step a little further until there launches a veritable Russian roulette hokey pokey hybrid.

Maybe this is why I am eternally 10 minutes late, but I refuse to rush or risk my life to get where I am going. Based purely on my own perception of reality and timing, I would say the average red light is about 1 minute and 30 seconds. Additionally, a 6 train comes every 45 seconds, so a sprint isn’t warranted for the daily subway catching endeavor either. I won’t claim to be right about everything, however I am fairly certain street sprinters worldwide could benefit from slowing down and giving up the 5 minutes saved daily by rushing and tempting traffic odds. Or alternatively, maybe I could benefit by hurrying up and starting to be a little bit timelier. Who knows?

Come on Phil

It used to upset me greatly when people would bail on plans due to unfavorable weather. “I see no reason why we should be cooped up all winter long crying in our soup.” I would shout, fists in the air. I for one was not to be put out of a good time based on a few snowflakes or gusts of wind. Perhaps this school of thought stemmed from my heat disorder and the idea that one can bundle for the cold by appropriately layering, however it was always a disappointment when people would hid themselves away for the winter months, leaving me to frolic by my lonesome.

It wasn’t until this weekend as I lay on the couch for the 8th hour of syndicated television, refusing to even exit the apartment for a brief breath of fresh air or to see a single fellow human being that I realized things had changed. In true comic book form, a tiny light bulb illuminated above my head and I suddenly realized I am depressed. I no longer enjoy activities that I once did, all I want to do is sleep, and I the thought of venturing into the outside world overwhelms me excessively. The cold dark days of winter have zapped every ounce of joy from my life.

Just as I resign myself to a life of solitude and gloom, with plans only to play the saxophone on fog infested street corners and to pour out my soul to price gauging therapists, I experience a faint hallucination/daydream in which I am skipping through a field of blooming wild flowers with a basket of puppies, basking in the warm glow of sunshine. And it hits me. I don’t need a therapist at all. I need one of those little heat lamps that trick your body into thinking life isn’t awful.

That is right folks, I am SAD. I am lethargic and craving carbohydrates, which the official website indicate as signals of SADness. Apparently I can either get the lamp, some antidepressants, or explore talk therapy, however I would prefer to take the route of the hibernator. So like our friends, the bear, bat, and some types of squirrel I will be stocking up on snacks and burrowing myself away for the remainder of this insufferable tundra known as winter. I will see you in 6 weeks.

Become Your Dream

I am basically in love with this crafty little UES graffiti artist. I am not sure if his “Become Your Dream” theme is a promotion for a local coffee shop or maybe gang speak for murder or something, but I am all about him (or her). He also loves to draw little fish that are either kissing or smoking cigarettes in chalk on the sidewalk, but I prefer the furniture messages. I love finding an abandoned medicine cabinet, coffee table, or mattress and wondering if I will see my favorite inspirational message painted across it.

It is definitely the little things in life, and pretty much every day in which I drag along to work and my eye catches a stray chair or bookcase I have noticed that I walk a little faster, with a little extra purpose, and the full intent to become my dream.

Picture of Health.

After hearing that a friend has lost 8 pounds in 5 days after seeing a nutritionist, I briefly toyed with the idea of visiting one myself! Even though I may have previously claimed to not need specific guidelines in order to accomplish goals, I clearly do, especially when it comes to being healthy. I wondered what secrets this elusive nutritionist could uncover for me, which lifestyle choices she would she would recommend.

Then I thought for a brief moment and realized that I don’t need a nutritionist at all. Mostly I just need to stop eating so much pizza. And stop drinking so much beer. I don’t know how it really happened, but sometime in the past year I have somehow morphed from an adult woman into a College boy. It’s not that I am inactive or sluggish. I am pretty much a gym fanatic; it’s just that I consume pretty much everything in site. And these things happen to be an even blend of carbohydrates and dairy.

I however, do not have the metabolism of a college boy, so I need to start thinking about this from a more reasonable perspective. I have broken it down into a 3-step program, which will lead me to fitness acme. This is clearly a fitness breakthrough worthy of a book deal of some sort or at least an article in Woman’s Day or some equivalent publication.

Step 1. Less Beer
Step 2. Less Pizza
Step 3. Fewer Bagels

Now that I am on a health kick I might be a little irritable so just let me be for a few days. Once all the cheesy, beery, carby goodness is out of my system I am sure I will soon forget how delicious it once was and turn to kale, and quinoa, and fish oil in its stead. I will keep you posted.

In case you don’t know…

Anyone that has met me or been near me knows that I have a small issue when it comes to the way of temperature regulation. And when I say small issue you know that I mean pretty much a life debilitating handicap. Not to say that this has entirely impeded my day-to-day existence, however I have been forced to develope some coping techniques and employ several tactics in order to coexist peacefully with other normally temperate people.

First of all, I primarily wear dresses. This wardrobe decision not only allows for more freedom and flexibility, but also provides me with consistent airflow and breathability. Additionally, I have several purse sized water spritzers ready to provide a cooling mist, whenever needed. These are mostly useful for overheated bar or concert situations, where a quick spritz can ease the discomfort of crowd induced humidity. As an added bonus I have filled each with mineral water to provide my skin with the glow of youth as I sizzle the night away. Where my work colleagues have space heaters, I have a tiny fan. Sleeping, for me, is most comfortable when within my self-crafted wind tunnel clocking in at about 55 degrees of bliss.

One might ask, “ Is all of this really necessary?” My response might be that until I am that person wearing shorts 365 days of the year, I think so. I have been many different sizes, completed a wide range of physical activities from light walking to triathloning, and lived in a diverse collection of climates. One thing remains constant, which is my extreme warmth. So if I ever seem unnecessarily flustered, averse to physical attention, or overly aggressive, please know that it is not you. It is most likely due to the fact that I am about 9 million degrees. And if you ever see a neon red person requesting ice cubes in a bar prior to an actual cocktail, it is most likely me or another fellow heat victim. So try not to judge and enjoy the fact that you are temperature appropriate.