Update on Boo

He's fine, just $300 poorer, if you consider him part of my family income, which you should not because he's a deadbeat who doesn't contribute shit. On that note, I'm worried about his seemingly addictive personality. He not only doesn't mind taking medicine, he actually begs me for it. He finds the bag of drugs and tries to pull out the syringes on his own. This is how it starts. MY CAT'S ADDICTED TO DRUGS, YOU GUYS.

[This is probably not a funny joke on account of the fact that opiate addiction is a seriously problem, but, hey, when has political correctness ever gotten in the way of my blog?]

Speaking of medically induced addictions (?), a doctor from my hometown was recently indicted for illegally prescribing opiates. On the same day, a school bus driver in my town was arrested for drunk driving. Cape Cod is so classy! Just the vacation getaway you've always dreamed about.

Anyway, back to Boo. You know I don't like to make judgments about one's sexual history, but I can't help but think his promiscuity has something to do with this UTI.

Then

Now

Opiate addiction. Sex addiction. This is what happens when you find your pet on the streets!

I'm sorry for this post. 

Growing Up (Is Hard to Do)

After weeks of unsuccessfully searching for a roommate (I was basically going on dates with women from Craigslist every night for the past month), I've decided to get a place on my own. I found an adorable little studio in a (very different part of town), and fell in love with the idea of living alone. For the first time in about four years, Boo and I are going to live above ground. I can (continue to) leave dishes in the sink for over 24 hours and also not wear clothes whenever I want. (My roommate and I are very comfortable with each other, apparently.) I'm pumped.

But, before I finally decided to take the studio, I did some serious thinking about how my life would change. And, after making a budget and list of pros and cons, I realized that the thing I was most anxious about was having to leave my gym. In fact, the thought of it made me literally cry. And then it hit me -- to date, my longest and most successful relationship has been that with Healthworks.

And by working out, I mean laying on a mat looking at the ceiling.

If you told me when I was younger that my biggest anxiety would be leaving a gym, I would have said, "Bitch, you cray." (I probably wouldn't have said that because I don't think 'cray' was a slang term back then). But fitness has become such a huge part of my life. Not that I'm super athletic or anything (I duck when balls come toward me*), but exercise is part of my daily routine. It makes me feel so good. And Healthworks is the most incredible place to do it.

I joined Healthworks about four years ago at the height of my dieting craze -- that time when I was eating 60 calorie lunches and having serious panic attacks when a friend would ask me to go out to dinner at a restaurant that had nothing "healthy" on the menu. I've come a long way since then. I can honestly say I've never been happier with myself or my body, which is pretty cool.

)

Ultimately, I realized my relationship with food and my body wasn't healthy and, more importantly, it was interfering with my life. I didn't want to be afraid of food anymore. Or afraid of socializing. I remember being at a Bruins game, freezing my tits off, and my friend suggesting we get some hot chocolate to warm up. All I could think about was how many calories would be in that cup. This was an enlightening moment. I looked at my friend and said, "I don't want to live in a world where I'm not allowed to have a fucking hot chocolate."  Of course, I was the only one not allowing myself hot chocolate. So I made a conscious decision to change.  And though I wouldn't say Healthworks caused this positive change, it definitely supported it.

Healthworks has a great environment -  "Girl Power" is written all over the walls, basically. And yes, it's totally expensive, but the equipment, and the towels, and the whirlpool, and the free tampons make it worthwhile. (Note: I have not bought tampons in 4 years. Don't tell anyone I said that.) This is starting to sound like an ad. The point is, I feel comfortable there. It's a place I actually enjoy going to every day. It's a place that taught me to focus on fitness over just burning calories. I can't bear the thought of leaving it for some POS gym that bribes you with free pizza on Tuesdays (which actually makes people feel worse about themselves, by the way).

So, I'm not going to. I decided I'm going to try to make a long distance relationship work, even if it's inconvenient and expensive. Because that is what love is about, you guys - sacrifice! Or something. I'm really growing up right now.

On that note, deciding to live in a studio was the biggest, most adult decision I've ever made on my own. I kept telling the realtor he was watching me "become a woman". He told me I would need to provide my new management company with a picture of my cat, and I nearly shouted, "Oh, don't worry, I have hundreds of them!" Dude must have been like, "This chick in the cat shirt with the cat pictures moving into a studio is doomed."

Seriously, though, dying alone.

*puns!

Various names I call my cat.

Babis, booba, boobas, booby, bud, buddy, nug, nugget, bug, bugaboo, cherub, puppy, monkey, Boo.

He must be going through an identity crisis.

#1 Mom.

So many babies, so little time.

You guys, why am I still talking about babies? Is this what happens when you're in your late 20s? Help. I'm scared.

Really though, I just wanted to tell you all that my friend's baby is famous:

Ellen, so.

That kid's like 6 months old and just had to sit next to a cat to get on TV. I AM ALWAYS SITTING NEXT TO CATS. Why the fuck hasn't anyone giving me a show yet?  This world is messed up.

But also, so excited for you and your baby, Linds!

Babis' Anus

For the past week or so, Boo has been "scooting" around the apartment. Scooting, for those of you who are unfamiliar, is the scientific term for dragging one's ass across the carpet. This behavior became concerning because, according to the internets, it can be a sign of a parasite or also "impacted anal glands", which I assume is like hemorrhoids for cats.  (I'm not sure how Boo would feel if he knew that I'm talking about his anus on the internet, but hey, I gotta give my readers what they want.)

Poor Babis.

Anyway, one quick anal probing later, Boo was given a diagnosis. The verdict: he is constipated and needs to add more fiber to his diet. So basically, he's American.

The vet's advice was to put him on a low-carb, high-fiber diet, which will "help with his weight, too." I lost count of the number of times she incorporated, "he's a big boy" into a sentence.  We get it, okay? Some of us don't have as fast metabolisms as others. It's genetics!

And that concludes my first and last time I ever post about anal. Most likely.

For your health.

Hey, guys. I don't really have anything to say today except that it is ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL that you watch this video.

Have a nice, long weekend.

Thank Calendar It's Friday

This week has kind of BLOWN, in my opinion. Thankfully, I got to enjoy the cinematic gold known as SharkNado, which could have been alternatively named Guns vs. Extreme Weather. It felt like propaganda, though I couldn't determine if it was a social commentary on climate change or a promo for weapons of mass destruction. Hopefully some senators will weigh in on this soon to clear things up.

Anyway, so yeah, this week, you guys. At least I woke up this morning to find this (along with a donut) waiting for me on the counter:

Thanks, Mere.

That's really all I have to say.

Oh, but also, look at how tall my cat is:

Long & Lean.

K. Bye.

POS Kind of Mother

I'm attempting to become part of a blogger community in the hopes of growing my audience, but it has been difficult since I don't really fit into the My Eating Disorder Health & Fitness or Fashion blog spheres.  I do, however, fit into the crazy cat person sphere, so that's why I'm doing this "Tall Tails" link up.

To be honest, I don't really know what a link up is, which is why I originally posted this without even mentioning it. And then I had to un-post it and delete everything on Facebook and Twitter and start over. This is probably another reason why I'm not part of a blogger community. Special thanks to Adriana for talking me through this / teaching me how to use a computer.

ANYWAY.

In typical POS kind of mother fashion, I left Boo all alone this past weekend to fend for himself. I am proud to say that he didn't throw up once while I was gone, and, when I got back, he didn't even hit me or anything. He's really growing up.

Mature AND Beautiful.

Or, as my dad said, "He's just used to his deadbeat mom leaving him all the time." 

On that note, I'm going away for the 4th of July, too. Yet another holiday spent without his mom. Someone call DSS. 

At least he hasn't lost his patriotism.

Finally, I feel like it is critical for me to mention that the above picture was taken last year before Boo started his low-carb diet. Because, not only am I a deadbeat mom, I am also a pageant mom. 

Cat Crime

Boo is strictly not allowed on the counter. It is law. But recently, he has been sneaking his way up there. Just casually sitting, giving not one single fuck.

And then yesterday, we came home to this:

Potato fury.

Seemingly in a fit of rage, he knocked a sweet potato off the counter and desperately tried to eat it. As if I don't feed that little jerk 3 times a day and at least once at 4 in the morning.

It is time for an intervention.

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween, friends!

Today also happens to be Boo's official (except not really because he was FOUND ON THE TRACKS and I have no idea when he was actually born) birthday! His name is no coincidence. Anyway, he was so excited that he was up all night running around my bedroom and jumping on my head every 30 seconds - I slept great!!!

Unfortunately, due to his recent "diagnosis," Boo will not be allowed anymore birthday treats this year. His party a couple weeks ago (which he loved so so much) was enough celebration. I, on the other hand, will be spending the day trolling other offices for Halloween candy and/or eating the bag of PayDays I will inevitably buy at CVS on my lunch break.

Mm PayDays, what an underrated candy. So good.

See what I did there?

How are you spending your Halloween? Or, more importantly, what are you eating?

Do they make Lean Cuisines for cats?

After centuries of debate, I think I can put an end to the argument that is Nature vs. Nurture.

Last week, I took Boo to the vet for a check up and was told that he had gained over a pound in less than 9 months. Over a pound! That's like if you gained 10 lbs in 9 months. It's pretty drastic. At this point, the vet wants Boo to lose 1-2 lbs, which means he is now on a strict diet.

I blame myself.

Weight watching.

When I'm hungry, it's scary times for everyone around me. I am hostile and emotional. I once cried because a bouncer at a bar told me that the kitchen was closed. This food panic is apparently something that runs in my family as my sister has told me the only real fight she's ever had with her boyfriend was about when and where to eat.

The thing is, I'm apparently not rational enough to remember I am a middle-income American who is surrounded by food at all times. Even at 3 am, I can go to CVS and get a box of Cheez-Its if need be. Yet, when I'm hungry, I act like I am most definitely going to starve to death. Immediately.

Likewise, sometimes, if I'm gone for more than 24 hours, I come home to Boo's food bowl flipped over (presumably in fury), water all over the floor, and a chewed up sweet potato that he stole off the counter. It is the image of desperation.

Starvation.

Every time he eats, he acts like it's his last. He rarely breathes between breaths.  His ass is getting huge.

Carb face.

The parallels are stunning.

Drinking Problems

Feliz Navidad

Dunkin' Donuts recently reminded me that my birthday is coming up. Considering how poor I am lately, I'm pretty excited that I'll be getting a free coffee from them sometime this month.

Anyway, since my birthday is just right around the corner, I thought I'd make it simple for you all by compiling a list of things I like and dislike so that you can easily pick out the perfect gift for me! I'm so thoughtful, huh?

Likes:

1. Cats
2. Peanut Butter
3. Books
4. Beaches
5. CHEESE
6. Wine
7. Sangria
8. Football
9. Baseball
10. CHEESE
11. Beer 
12. Music (good kinds)
13. Coffee
14. Men
15. Medieval soft-core porn
16. Food
17. CHEESE
18. Wine

Dislikes:

1. Space
2. Movies
3. Birds
4. Cilantro
5. Celebrities
6. Faneuil Hall
7. Chain restaurants
8. Shitty television shows
9. Country music
10. Zombies
11. Light beer
12. Fake mustaches
13. Pictures of feet in the sand
14. Terrorism
15. This website

You have until June 16th. Or whenever. I'll accept gifts at any time, really.

The Famous Babis

For your morning pleasure, courtesy of my talented roommate:

Animals Vs. Babies

People always want me to look at pictures of babies they know or have and it makes me really uncomfortable. Babies don't really do it for me. So, when you show me a picture of a baby you care about, you're not going to get the reaction you want. In fact, you'll probably get no reaction at all. And then you'll say something like, "Come on, how can you not think that's cute?" And I'll say: "very easily." I just don't care about babies, you guys. I just don't care.

CATS.

I was recently called a hypocrite because I'm always showing people pictures of my cat and asking for reaffirmation that he's good looking. But, the major difference between my cat and babies is that my cat is absolutely, 100%, without-a-question one of the best looking creatures on this earth. You can't really say that about a lot of babies. Especially newborns; they look like gross mini aliens.

Google search: "baby aliens"

Animals are a way better, and more affordable, investment. Babies are really expensive. Child birth is disgusting costly, especially if you don't have health insurance (live free or die!!!). And then you have to pay for their shit for like 18-infinity years. But cats, for example, are wicked cheap (unless you're worried about their emotional well-being because you moved into a tiny apartment with relatively no windows so you shower them with gifts and catnip every day).

DRUGS.

I saw a woman WALKING HER CHILD ON A LEASH the other day, and all I could think was, if you wanted to walk something on a leash, why didn't you just buy a dog? Or adopt one? Or take one from one of the homeless people in Harvard Square who a) have pets and b) beat them in public (by the way, is there anyone I can call about this?).

Consider this: a child may or may not like you, but a dog almost always will. Also, a dog is way cuter than a baby and you can cuddle with it. You don't have to worry about smothering it in the middle of the night because it will get up and walk away. Babies can't even walk! Yet. Or whatever. Anyway, dogs are better than babies is what I'm saying. Okay, so maybe your dog sucks. Well guess what? You can get rid of it and get a new one much more easily than a baby. You also can pick it out from the start.  You want a brown dog? You can have one! You can't necessarily have a brown baby unless you plan really carefully and sometimes that doesn't even work out (see: Michael Jackson).

Craft Knight

Last night, I was pretending to knight Boo (obviously), when I thought to myself: He needs a crown.  Not only does he need a crown, he needs one right now. He needed one yesterday. He is so regal.

Knighting my cat with a Minnie Mouse bubble wand.
I'm 25.

Meredith and I looked at each other, and I said, "Well, I did just buy a new roll of tinfoil." Immediately, we both got up off the couch and rushed to the kitchen to begin craft night. The rest is self-explanatory:

Absolutely ridiculous.

Meredith: "I think Boo is embarrassed now."

Me: "Why?"

Meredith: "Because he's sitting with his head down, looking all serious."

Me: "Maybe he's just taking his new position seriously." 

Sir Boobis.

My only regret is not making him full body armor. Thankfully, there's still time.  

Speaking of time, in case you missed it, read yesterday's post about how I don't have time to date. I wrote it shortly before knighting my cat.

Cookie Butter

I have a blogger crush on Katie Levans from Sweet Tater Blog. I'm obsessed. I read her blog every day. I comment all of the time. I follow her cats on Facebook. It's intense.

Katie writes about "food, fitness, etc." and, most importantly, cats. And though our blogs are very different, I feel like we have a lot in common. Like, I think if we lived in the same city, we'd be friends. Maybe our cats would even hang out. Am I taking this too far? Whatever.

If you read food blogs as much as I do, you may have heard of something called "cookie butter." Let me say that again: Cookie. Butter. Generally, when I hear the word "butter," I think "must have immediately, if not sooner." And when you put "cookie" in front of that, I start sweating.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find cookie butter in any of my local stores. This made me sad. And one day, when Katie mentioned cookie butter in her blog, I commented about how sad I was.

A couple weeks later, I received a package in the mail containing a jar of the infamous cookie butter from Miss Sweet Tater herself. I immediately opened it and started eating it straight from the jar.  If there is one thing that defines my relationship with peanut butter, it's that I often eat it with my fingers. And sometimes I do this at work. And sometimes my coworkers see me. At least this time, I was dignified enough to eat the cookie butter with a spoon.

Cookie. Butter.

So, cookie butter, or "speculoos" as it's called, basically tastes like ginger bread cookie spread. I think it's phenomenal. And, obviously, I don't feel any need to put it on anything; it's fantastic all on its own. However, after a few handfuls, I decided to dip pretzels in it, which was... well let's just say that my verbal reaction was, "oh fuck, that's nice."

But while cookie butter is indeed magical, it will never ever take the place of peanut butter in my life. I need you all to know that. I also would like you to know that last weekend I ate a burger with peanut butter on it and it was a revelation.

That is all.

Thank you, Katie.

In-bread Cat

So earlier today, I discovered this "hot new internet meme," and then thought about it for the rest of the day. Really productive, obviously.

gchat

I couldn't wait to get home and bread my cat. The only problem was that I knew I didn't have any bread, nor do I ever buy it. Don't get me wrong, I love bread. Love. Carbs in general occupy a very big place in my heart (most of it, actually; sorry, boys).  I just don't buy it because then it would get involved in my nightly peanut butter binge* and things would get ugly. And by things, I mean me. And by ugly, I mean fat.

But today, I made an exception. Immediately upon leaving work, I went to the store and picked up a loaf of bread for the sole purpose of putting one (or two) slice(s) of it on my cat.

Got the good stuff, just in case.

Here are the results:

Carb collar.

This is fucked up.

Screamo emo.

Stage mom.

Artistic Shot

Perfection.

It turned out, Boo wasn't overly enthusiastic about the idea. I tried to explain to him that there are millions of cats out there who don't even have someone to put bread on them, but he wasn't impressed. I have no regrets.

Fuck it.

*Nightly peanut butter binges don't make you fat; only bread does.