Cats and Fats

My roommate sent me the following e-card yesterday:

RUDE.

The only thing I took away from this was that she was calling me fat. This is probably because I'm a girl and jump to that conclusion often. On Thanksgiving, I got a text that said, "Happy Thanksgiving! Don't eat too much!" and was immediately offended. Why do you think I shouldn't eat too much? Are you saying I need to lose weight? Asshole.


After a few moments of rage, I realized that they were most likely using a generic salutation.  They were also giving good advice. I almost always feel like puking on Thanksgiving.  


Anyway, my roommate claims she misread the card and thought it meant that I was a chubby chaser (which I am. See: husky ginger). 

Hearts.

But that's not what it said, Meredith. 

You may be wondering why I wasn't offended about being called "neurotic" and a "cat lady," so I'll tell you:  I've embraced these qualities. And so have you. Why else would you be reading my stupid fucking blog in which I flip out about cancer and post pictures like this one:

Model.

On that note, get ready for my Christmas card. It's a GEM.

Death by Plastic

A couple weeks ago I had a panic attack about plastic. I've been really good about bringing my lunch to work every day ever since I took the Food Network's Brown-Bag Challenge in September (yes, I do things like that). But for the past few weeks, as I heated up my healthy lunch in its Tupperware container, all I could think about was how the plastic was seeping chemicals into my food that I would soon eat that would soon give me cancer that would soon MURDER me. Death by plastic. Hence, the panic attack. 


So, I went out and bought myself a set of glass Pyrex containers and I've been professing the good word to anyone I see eating or drinking out of plastic. For example, I watched my friend drink a bottle of water and told her, "You're going to die."  I know they appreciate my concern.


Anyway, just as I was getting over my fear of plastic, Brian tells me this:

Apparently canned goods are even worse than plastic. This news sent me into a(nother) downward spiral. I not only panicked that my soup was surreptitiously plotting my death but that my cat was sure to die soon, too. I started transferring his canned food into Pyrex containers. I eventually realized that this wasn't going to do any good. 


Realistically,  I can't eliminate canned goods from my life. A lot of my favorite things come in cans --beans, tuna, PUMPKIN. I may love baking, but I'm not fucking making my own pumpkin puree*.  I'm poor; I don't have the kind of technology needed for that in my kitchen. Actually, my roommate did recently supply us with a food processor but I don't know how put it together so I never use it.  It's like a god damn jigsaw puzzle with knives. Anyway, it's not going to happen. Ever. I will continue to make BPA-filled baked goods and kill myself and all of my friends. 


The thing is, I worry about shit like this yet continue to drink every day weekend. It's not breaking news that alcohol is linked to life-threatening diseases, but I somehow find ways to ignore that. Obviously, I use some backwards thinking. Once my mom asked me why I wouldn't drink milk. I said, "Because I refuse to drink my calories." She responded by pointing to the beer in my hand.





*I'm sure my friend Kyle is thinking this is pathetic of me. He once called me a "microwave mom." I hated him for days.

Turkey Trots

Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday, mostly because I love any day on which I'm encouraged to binge eat.  Last year, my parents came to my apartment for Thanksgiving; I did all the cooking. The night before, I made a lemon meringue pie (I know, weird choice for Thanksgiving, but whatever, it's damn good). When I pulled it out of the oven, this happened:

Baking fail.

Normally, my reaction to something like this would be to start to crying--because that's the kind of girl I am--but somehow I had the self-control to take a deep breath, clean up the mess, and make a new pie. No tears. It was a monumental moment for me, which is why I need to engrave it in this blog.

This year, I'm going to my parents' house for Thanksgiving. I'm looking forward to sitting in my pajamas and drinking Cabernet all day. That is, right after I run a 5k. Did I tell you guys I'm running a 5k? Did I also tell you that I can barely even run a mile so I probably won't actually be running a 5k? Nevertheless, I made this awesome playlist just in case:

Note: I'm waiting until Thanksgiving to start listening to holiday music.

Other things I'm looking forward to (in order of importance):

1) Cranberry sauce -- This is the most underrated side dish of all time. Why don't more people like it? Whatever haters, keep on hating; I'll take your portion.

2) Pie. -- Pie is top of the dessert food-chain (puns!). Fuck cake. That shit is WEAK.

3) Stuffing -- I love carbs. And yes, in this case, butter IS a carb.

4) Rolls -- see: carbs.

5) Squash and/or sweet potatoes. -- These are starches, which are also carbs.

Things I could do without:

1) Turkey -- There, I said it. I don't care.

2) Mashed potatoes -- Mashed potatoes are the worst! They're boring and bland. The only way I might be slightly interested in them is if they were loaded with cheese and bacon. But really I'd rather just have a plate of melted cheese and bacon. Actually, that sounds pretty good. I'm going to try that. Fuck, I love cheese...


Carbs and cheese...


Anyway, happy Thanksgiving, guys! I'm thankful for you because you read my blog and consequently boost my self-esteem.

Toast.

Is Winter Coming?

Why do people act like the weather is personally offending them? The other day, I was getting ready to leave work when I overheard someone say, "Why does it always start to rain right when I'm about to go outside?" First of all, it doesn't; that's like scientifically impossible. Second of all, we're all going outside, bitch. It's 5 o'clock and I'm getting the fuck out of here.  


For some reason, people expect sympathy for having to deal with the same weather that affects everyone else around them. It is precisely this attitude about weather which makes me dread the winter, not the weather itself. I have trained myself to tune out upon hearing someone even mention the word "snow," or "shovel." Because I truly do not give a shit about snow or its impact on your life. In fact, I happen to like the winter -- it's festive; it's fun; and I can justify wearing leg warmers. 


I personally think it's bullshit that it's been in the 60s in November. I live in New England for a reason. I want to be able to wear my fall clothes without fucking sweating my ovaries out* on the way to work. You may not know this about me, but I hate being hot. Hate. When I'm hot, you're susceptible to being verbally and possibly physically assaulted (this also happens when I'm hungry; more to come about that later).  Once, in college, my friends and I were on the way to the mall when I abruptly jumped out of the car and ran to my house without an explanation (see: praxi). One friend asked, "What's wrong with Katie?" To which another responded, "She's hot."


That is why this weather fucking sucks. I was on the bus the other morning developing a sweat-stache when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I whipped around with a scowl on my face to see who the hell was touching me only to discover that it was my boss. She asked me what was wrong. I told her I was hot and couldn't "stand anything right now," so she told me she wouldn't mind if I  put my headphones in and didn't talk to her. I said "OK," and proceeded to listen to Radiohead and silently hate everyone.


Okay, so perhaps I am a little hypocritical for complaining about other people complaining about the weather, but at least I give people the courtesy of keeping (most of) my anger about the weather to myself. I run away; I put my headphones in; I quietly brood. I don't expect sympathy, rather I prefer to be left the fuck alone. Isn't that the New England way? 

*This is an expression I developed recently when I finally came to the conclusion that saying "sweating my balls off" was unladylike.

Delicious and Nutritious?

The most serious relationship I'm in right now is with Brian Williams. Now that I go to the gym in the morning, I can come home and have dinner with him every night. And what a catch he is: he's smart; he's witty; he's a silver fox. But, best of all, he's reliable. He shows up in my living room every night at 6:30 without fail. I've never met a man like him before. 

Yum.

Last night, Brian and I talked about how fucking stupid Congress is. This week, they decided that pizza is a vegetable. I don't know how anyone could make that claim without feeling like a total asshole, but apparently they think 2 tablespoons of tomato PASTE constitutes a serving of vegetables. And that is why pizza is a healthy option for kids -- because under layers of cheese and grease is two tablespoons of tomato paste.  

Under this reasoning, I'm going to assume that jelly beans are also a vegetable. And Cheez-Its must be a good source of protein. Shit, Guinness is full of minerals, right? That must mean that beer is a nutritious meal. 


Well, this is exciting news because I've spent years trying to be healthy by eating whole grains and greens and fruit when really all I needed was some Ellio's pizza and a PBR. What's weird is that when I was eating stuff like that every day, I somehow gained 30 pounds. But I guess that doesn't happen to kids. Especially the ones eating free or reduced school lunches consisting of french fries and tomato paste. Oh wait...

Department of Health and Human Services: Childhood Obesity

Occupy University

When I was in New York last weekend, I stopped by Occupy Wall Street* to see what all the fuss was about. It was much smaller than I expected and smelled mostly like pee and/or Harvard Square on a hot day, so basically disgusting.


I know many supporters of Occupy Wall Street like the idea that there isn't really a central theme to the protests; however, I think that may be its biggest flaw. Because without a unified message, it seems to attract the wrong representation. For example, I saw a lot of homeless people asking for money or eating the from the community food tent. 

Speaking of tents, OWS was set up a lot like college orientation. There were various tents for different schools of thought, a dining hall, and even a library. I'm pretty sure there was also a broomball team. I had the brilliant idea that some of the protesters should form a singing group and call themselves "Occupella Wall Street." They would sing all different types of songs, some that make a lot of sense and others that have no meaning at all.


Now, that is not to say that I am against Occupy Wall Street. But it also is not to say that I'm  for it. I generally have mixed feelings about the whole thing. However, I will say that if I see one more person post some ignorant status update about how people need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps--just like they did right after their mom and dad paid their way through college (at which they spent most of their time drinking and screwing frat boys)--I will leave my cat's shit in their boots with the fur that likely have no straps and set them on fire. OK?

Click and read.

Anyway, in addition to OWS, I also went to MoMA last weekend. It was there that I learned that I don't really understand modern art. A lot of it looked like Google maps blown up and framed (potential business endeavor?). I did really like this one, though, mostly because it looks a lot like cheese:

Delicious.

*As of this morning, OWS protesters have been forced out of  Zuccotti Park and are on the move. 

No Sex and the City

I went to NYC this weekend to visit my very good friend, Pat. He kept trying to convince me to move there by tempting me with music venues and delicious food. For example, this Peanut Butter Cheesecake:

Fuck.

Finally, he brought out the big guns when he fed me this line: "I really don't think you'd be single here." Now, this would have been more convincing if it didn't come after the following events:


1) Very old man comes up to me at the bar, rubs my arms, and whispers in my ear, "I just really needed to touch you." -- Um, haven't we learned anything from Penn State? Just because you want to touch someone (much much younger than you) doesn't mean you're allowed to, sir.


2) Homeless man yells at Pat, "What the hell are you doing with my wife?!" -- This was simply terrifying. Since Pat and I are not married, we were initially utterly confused as to why this man was yelling at us. We actually thought he was yelling at the woman with the baby walking in front of us, which was disturbing in its own way. But ultimately, we realized he was inadvertently hitting on me. That in no way was reassuring; trust me. 


So if these are the reasons why Pat thinks I wouldn't be single in NYC, then I'm not really sure I want to not be single in NYC. Then again, recently, in a desperate (and drunken) moment, I exclaimed to my roommate that I would date "anyone, even a homeless person." So maybe I should reconsider New York?

Probably, because this also just happened:

So.

A Dream Deferred

When I was little, I aspired to be a Melody Maker. You probably don't know what a Melody Maker is. In fact, I used to tell people I wanted to be a Wailer because it was more recognizable. But I really wanted to be a Melody Maker.

I spent countless hours in my bedroom practicing to be a Melody Maker. Then, one day, I realized that, despite all my hard work, I'd never be a Melody Maker for two key reasons: 1) I'm not part of the extensive Marley family and 2) I am also not black. It was a sad realization.


I discovered last night at the Fitz and the Tantrums show that this desire hasn't really faded. I spent most of the night desperately envious of this chick:

I kept thinking to myself, "Why don't I play the tamborine?!" and "Why am I not black?!" Then again, a lot of people say I have a black girl's ass. But that means nothing to me unless I have the dance moves and vocals to back it up. 


Oh well, I guess I'm not destined to be a black back-up singer. At least I got that lucrative English degree. 

Conflict Muffins

Guess what, everyone. I'm 5'1"! Apparently I grew an inch since my last physical. I didn't even know you could grow at all at age 25. Maybe the nurse didn't know what she was doing. Whatever, I'm 5'1" now.


I'm mostly excited because this means I can weigh more. And by weigh more, I mean lose less. But still, what a treat.


On that note, I'd really like to know how people can eat a muffin in the morning and not want to kill themselves. I was out of the office at a workshop today, and about half of the people in class ate a muffin for breakfast. Do you know how many calories are in a muffin?  Like 600. And these assholes just eat them without a care in the world. Do you know what happens when I eat a muffin? I instantly gain three pounds. Three. Instantly. It's like my superpower. 

Although, according to a few of my friends, if I had a superpower, it would be the ability to conjure up a cab anywhere, anytime. This is because I have been known to disappear from social gatherings unannounced and unnoticed. They say I take a taxi away from my problems--a problem taxi--a praxi. I've also been known to take a prain. But anyway, in the event that I'm featured in a Marvel Comics film, it will be because I can make a taxi appear out of thin air. Even if I'm in Yemen. Even if I'm on the moon. The drawback? I still have to pay the fare. 

"Maybe you'll start feeling better if you stop reading WebMD"

I wish that I could get a cold without automatically thinking I have AIDS or cancer or Lupus. I once saw a billboard that said, "Could you have Lupus?" and immediately thought to myself, Could I?! And then proceeded to WebMD Lupus symptoms in order to confirm or deny my diagnosis. 


This is not normal. However, browsing someecards.com makes me feel like I'm not alone:

Currently, I'm ill with what is most likely a cold or flu virus, but I can't stop thinking that I'm nearing death. I'm popping Vitamin C like a drug addict even though that definitely won't cure the cancer I inevitably have. 

Worst of all, I'm worried this illness is going to ruin my weekend. I live for the weekend. Without the weekend, I would sink into a deep, dark depression and consequently feel suicidal (side effect of depression, confirmed via WebMD). 


Are you guys scared of me yet?

The Skanktity of Marriage

It's impossible for anyone to avoid discussion of Kim Kardashian's divorce. It's all over the internet and the "news" and, most importantly, Twitter -- which is where I get pretty much all of my information these days. 

That being said, I think it is truly disgusting how much time people waste reading/writing/talking/caring about celebrities, especially those who do absolutely nothing of value. But I hope that if something can come out of this overly-publicized divorce,  it's a surge of support for gay marriage. Because opponents of gay marriage constantly tout the "sanctity" of marriage, while straight people across the country, like Ms. Kardashian, continuously spit in its face. 

So I hope that instead of feeling bad for Kim Kardashian's "failed" marriage, you feel remorse for the institution itself and the legislation surrounding it. I hope that you think the best thing Kim could do with the 15 MILLION DOLLARS she earned from her outrageous 4-hour wedding special is donate it to the Human Rights Campaign so that everyone can have the opportunity to be married for 72 days.  I mean, that's only chump change for the girl who makes a $35 million a year partying in a crumbling economy.