Cat-astrophe

You know you're single when you analyze your cat's behavior and wonder how he feels about you. Normally, girls do this about real live men. They sit by the phone and wonder why some guy isn't calling (By calling I mean texting. No one actually calls these days, do they?). They're like, "it's been three days. He definitely doesn't like me anymore." And their friends are like, "You're too good for him." And they're like, "If I'm too good for him, then why am I not with him?" (I stole this.) I absolutely never say these kinds of things; you can ask my friends*.


Anyway, the other night Boo laid with me for like 2-3 hours. Like curled up in my arms and napped comfortably and happily. This was uncanny. Boo rarely ever shows affection. He's like a typical boy: he loves you at his own convenience. So when he spent that long of a time with me, I naturally panicked. I thought to myself, He's sick. He's going to die. My cat is ill! I felt certain that by the time I woke up the next day, he wouldn't be breathing. This is all because he liked me. My cat liked me and I automatically assumed he was dying. This does not bode well for my future.


In case you were worried, Boo is alive and well, knocking large glasses of water onto my computer and biting me if I get too close to him. All is right in the world.

He does not front.

*denotes sarcasm

Merry Reality

I watched Miracle on 34th Street the other night and it conjured up some feelings about the whole Santa concept. I've always found it weird that we lie to children for years and then break their hearts around age 8, just when they're hitting  puberty and becoming overly emotional (maybe that was just me; I developed early).  

Skeptical. 

I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I'm a mom (that is, if that day ever comes. The following words came out of my mouth last night: "I'd be delighted to find out I'm infertile"). But if I do have children, I don't know that I'll be able to pretend there is a Santa Claus (is that German?), mostly because if I'm going to spend my hard-earned money on some stupid PlayStation game, I want some fucking recognition. Santa gets all the praise while parents are literally risking their lives at Walmart for some discounted piece of shit that their kids cry about.  

Then again, I also don't want my kids to be the assholes on the playground that ruin everyone's day when they tell other children that Santa isn't real.  So, I decided that maybe I will tell my kids that there is a Santa. However, I'm putting his name on all the shitty gifts and mine on the best ones. Fuck you, Santa. I win. 






Editor's Note: Throughout this post I frequently mis-typed Santa S-A-T-A-N. Do you think that's a coincidence?

And the winner is...

So. I think you're all due a cat post.


First of all, happy Hanukkah, everyone! In honor of the holiday, Boo wore a yarmulke:

Unfortunately, due to a recent bout of bulimia, he was not allowed to eat latkes this year. 

Binge & Purge

Actually, I totally would have let him, but I cry when he gets sick and then my roommates remind that it's probably my fault since I feed him things like cupcakes and tofu. 

And finally, the moment you have all been waiting for--the winner of the 8x10 glossy is...

Happy Holidays

Kimmy V.

Congratulations, Kimmy. Your glossy will be in the mail soon. To the rest of you, I appreciate your valiant efforts. There will be more prizes in the future* so I encourage you to continue sharing.

*Future prizes include, but are not limited to, praise, name dropping, and heavy petting.

Kill a plover, feed a child.

I am absolutely terrified of pigeons. They are fucking disgusting. This morning, I literally cried on the sidewalk because a flock of them flew at my face. I looked over and noticed one of my coworkers watching me and it dawned on me that maybe I was being a little dramatic, but come on. Those things are vile; they're foul*.

I'm going to throw up.

It's not really just pigeons, though. I pretty much hate all birds (with the exception of penguins because those things are fucking adorable). But most birds are heinous, godless creatures. I blame Noah. He screwed up big time. 


Once, some kid asked me to list my top three most-hated birds**_, so here they are:


1. pigeons
2. piping plovers
3. geese


Don't even get me started on piping plovers. If you have ever been to the Cape, you probably already know how they ruin people's lives. Entire beaches are roped off because of them. I don't give a fuck about plovers. Doesn't anyone remember Darwin?


The thing about birds is that they have no compassion. They would kill you if they had the chance. Kill you.  I used to "run" at the reservoir in Brighton and the geese would chase after me with a vengeance. They had blood on their minds. Imagine being attacked and pecked to death by a goose? If you're not careful, that's a real possibility. I'm just saying, people are afraid of terrorists and these things are literally living in your back yard. 






* I love this joke and I'm going to continue making it over and over again. 
** His response to this was: "You have a very distinct personality." Still wondering what that means.

"I get this whole lane!"

I cannot stand bikers.  


I'm sorry if you are one. I'm sorry because I don't like you and a lot of other people don't either. I know that you're being environmentally friendly and healthy and whatever, but you're all assholes. That's a sweeping generalization. But also fact.

I just want to know why you and your cronies think that not one rule of the road applies to you. I want to know why I have to stop in the middle of a fucking cross-WALK for you to ride by me. Every time that happens (which is pretty much every day), I want to body check you. I want to see you fall off your bike and scrape your knee. I want to be a playground bully. 


The other day when some idiot biker decided to not stop at a cross-walk, I saw this woman run up to him and start clapping in his face. It was sort of like she was giving him applause, but angrily. Like she was congratulating him for being a dick-hole. It was an interesting tactic; I wish I thought of it myself. 


Today, I saw some woman pulling her ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD son in a cart on the back of her bike. I watched her struggle furiously up a hill.  She looked miserable. I wanted to yell at her, "Hello, he's 11. He can fucking walk or ride his own damn bike, you idiot." But I didn't. Because the last thing I want is another biker on the road. Or the sideWALK, more than likely.


Anyway, although this woman had absolutely no impact on my day whatsoever, she still annoyed me. I know that's wrong. I know that's a bad attitude to have. And I also know that most of these sentiments can be applied to walkers and drivers as well. But walkers and drivers collectively dislike bikers, so that's 2 against 1. We win. 

Single 4-L

I recently had to apply for a passport (I'm going to Spain in March!), so I had to get my birth certificate from my parents. Up til now, I've preferred that they keep any type of important documentation of mine since I'm a total fucking mess and lose everything valuable [including, but not limited to: cell phone, ipod, license (twice in a span of 5 months), credit cards, and prescription glasses]. 

Anyway, since my birth certificate is now in my possession, I decided to take a good look at it. And while doing so, I noticed something interesting:

Single 4-L

My immediate reaction to this was, "I was a fucking baby! Of course I was single."  

I was pretty offended and upset, since being single-for-life is one of my biggest fears and it was apparently predestined at birth. But then I realized that what this section is really about is whether someone's a twin or not (I'm not). 

Regardless, I started thinking about what being single-for-life would be like and actually thought of some potential benefits:

1) I'd save a bunch of money on wedding costs;

2) my husband would never rape little boys; and,

3) I'd avoid divorce.

Although, divorce was also something I was kind of looking forward to since I decided that it would be the only time in my life in which I'd allow myself to go to the Olive Garden again. Because getting divorced is really the only way I could ever justify eating 2,000 calories in one sitting. 

www.olivegarden.com/menu/nutrition

Then again, after 6 years of living with each other, my roommates and I will finally be splitting up next summer. That's sort of like getting divorced, so maybe I could go back to the Olive Garden then.

PatheticGirl43

Sometimes I put Bengay on my knees before bed. Then I drink a cup of tea and fall asleep reading. It makes me feel young.

Cat Mug

Last weekend, I went out, drank way too much, came home, (ordered cheesy bread), and then irrationally cried about everything and nothing:


Roommates: "Katie, what's wrong?"
Me (sobbing into my cheesy bread): "Everyone's just like 'I really like your blog. You love your cat!' I mean I do love my cat but..."       


Yeah, not sure. 


But I'm guessing that it had something to do with this:

Pribabtly

This is why I should never be allowed to drink hard alcohol. Or white wine, for that matter (By the way, I'm still sorry about that, Pat!).

Anyway, I woke up the next morning half-naked, spooning my Kindle. What does it mean?!

Martial "Art"

Last weekend, I went to a dance recital that a couple of my friends were performing in. Let me preface this by saying that their dances were quite good and they both did a fantastic job. However, some of the other dances were... not so good. 


In particular, one of the "dances" consisted of an older white gentleman and a middle-aged Latin American woman moving around the stage with Japanese paper fans to the sounds of Asian flautists. The woman waved her fan and did lunges while the man did martial arts. His movements were intense and violent. He kept stabbing the air with the paper fan whilst staring abrasively at the audience. It was not only terrifying, but also one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen.

Like this, but whiter.

While they were on stage, I exhibited the most self-control I have ever had in my entire life. It took everything in me not to laugh. I tried thinking about things like grandparents dying, taxes, cancerous plastic, etc.. I successfully made it through the entire performance without an outburst; but, unfortunately, during another performance I started laughing uncontrollably after one of my friends farted and permeated the entire theater. Literally, the whole thing. It was actually kind of impressive.

You need this.

Group Text

On Thanksgiving, I got a text from a number that I didn't recognize that said, "I love you! You're my best friend in the whole world!!!" I felt pretty bad since this person considered me their best friend in the whole world and I didn't even know who the hell they were. I decided not to respond back "Who is this?" because what if your best friend in the whole world didn't know who you were?!  That would make you feel sad. And, more importantly, that would make me feel like an asshole. 

This is mostly irrelevant.

I found out later that one of my roommates received the same text, and after we did some thinking, we realized that this message was a response to one of the many "Happy Thanksgiving" mass texts. So we weren't assholes. Nor were we anyone's best friend in the whole world :(.  And this is precisely why everyone needs to turn off group messaging on their phones.  I don't want all of your friends' numbers nor do I want them to have mine (unless they're male and single, in which case tell them to call me right away!!!).


My rage about group text really came to the forefront this weekend when some of my friends started a group text thread. In a matter of 10 minutes I got over 100 texts, many of which were just emoticons. I don't know why this bothered me so much but it did and it almost destroyed friendships (Glad we got through that, guys). 


But seriously, iPhone users, do this now:


Settings > Messages > Group Messaging > OFF


Thanks.

Hearts & Stars

P.S. The contest for the coveted AUTOGRAPHED GLOSSY PHOTO of me and Boo is still going on, so keep on sharing my blog for more chances to win!

Holiday Giveaway

I came up with this brilliant, conceited, and self-serving idea last night:


I'm going to host a holiday contest. The winner of which will win a one-of-a-kind 8x10 head shot of me and Boo. Glossy. AUTOGRAPHED.


You know you want it. 


So how do you win? You share my blog. Now, really the only way I can track that (because I'm technologically inept and also use Google Analytics which is free and doesn't really tell me anything) is if you share my posts on Facebook. Use the share button. And every time you do, I will write down your name and later enter you in a drawing for the GLOSSY AUTOGRAPHED 8x10 PHOTO. 


It's going to take a lot of work and a lot of luck, but trust me, it's worth it. 

Crank Yankers
Holiday Hadassah
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Subliminal Messages

I've been tracking my food and exercise on myfitnesspal.com lately. Every time I log in, a message pops up. And every time I log in, I think it's warning me, "Don't die alone!"


Really it says, "Don't diet alone," but that T is really easy to miss when you glance at it quickly.


Also, in case you were worried, I'm not on a diet. I still eat a box of Cheez-Its every Sunday. Alone. Don't die alone.