I'm too lazy to reach my own feet, so I got a pedicure.
My apartment's a mess, I have no clean underwear, there's a manuscript to finish reading, and as we are all well aware, I am living in New York on an entry-level salary.
And I just got a pedicure.
Oh man, not just any pedicure. My feet look amazing. Which says a lot since I have ugly feet. It wasn't until I was 18 years old that I was able to summon enough self confidence to even buy a pair of flip flops, let alone wear them. And I sat in that vibrating, massaging, better than anything at Sharper Image, chair for an hour, and THEN while my feet were under the dryer the friendly woman gave me another back massage. The ratio of back massage to time awake so far today has been amazing.
So here I am, in a Brooklyn apartment that barely has running water, living on "dreams and spaghetti-os" with the best damn looking feet in town. And the energy to attack the previously mentioned to do list.
These cute feet are even going to go sweep.
To my friends. . .
No matter how many miles may separate us it is comforting to know that we are bonded forever by the solemn vow we have made to never, ever own platform flip-flops.
sterilizing the needle for the lethal injection.
There's a tow truck out front with a parking ticket on the windshield.
Actual Conversation With My Cat, Saturday - 10:15 p.m.
"Did you know that you're a Maine Coon Cat! You're pure-bred! Yes you are!"
[rubs kitty's tummy, kitty begins to purr]
"Ha Ha! You're not pure-bred, you're PURRRR-bred!"
Because suddenly, my life is a Family Circus cartoon.
horrific event du jour
This afternoon, as I walked through Union Square hunting for a nice patch of lawn to enjoy my picnic lunch, I saw a boy napping by a tree. He looked pretty cute and looked at me and smiled, so I politely smiled back and sat down a few trees away with my yogurt. Apparently he thought I was pretty cute too because half way through my yogurt he stood up to come over and talk to me. STOOD UP OFF OF HIS CARDBOARD BOX THAT IS. Yup, its true. I totally checked out a homeless dude today.
My horoscope told me to try online dating.
I obviously need some sort of screening process.
I got home today and Moby met me at the door, throwing himself on the floor for belly scratching. I sat down, giving the cat some much needed attention and realized that I am officially the girl who goes home alone everyday to her tiny apartment in Brooklyn after a long day in Manhattan looking forward to an evening talking to her cat.
Publishing companies make millions of dollars sending self-help books in our direction, "saving" girls like me. Girls who understand "Meow meow meow meow" far better than they will ever understand "I'd like to buy you a drink." But as I sat cuddling the cat, making sure he felt cared for after a full day alone, I couldn't help but realize that being the target demographic of "He's Just Not That Into You" just isn't as bad as it sounds.
Thats enough blogging for now, I'm going to go needlepoint.
IT'S A BOY
Moby
15 lbs 13 1/2 oz.
We adopted a trainwreck. Moby tears apart furniture, climbs bookshelves to reach aquarium fish, wakes up every morning at 3 a.m. to throw ceramic objects around the kitchen, screams if you leave him alone, such as when you go to the store, or to the bathroom, crawls into the refrigerator every time you open it and refuses to get out, will only drink water from a running faucet, (apparently bowls are for the proletariat) and otherwise wreaks incredible havoc on our home. Most people would have called a cab and taken the cat straight back to the shelter. Probably at the 20 minute point when he got stuck in the toilet. But not us. We just named him Moby Dick, a giant white whale with fur that even Melville may have underestimated.
I am going to go watch the fireworks from the roof of a 13 floor building, right on the river in Manhattan. Work went well last week. We'll have to see if the cat allows me to sleep enough for it to go well this week too.
