Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Oh the fatmanity!

There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't have kids. (Isn't that just the most hilarious way to start off a post?!) Let's list a few:

1. My extraordinary (and completely justified) self-absorption.
2. The swingingest mood fluctuations this side of Courtney Love.
3. A propensity to leave the shades drawn until 2 p.m.
4. A cat that weighs 17.6 pounds.

See, Radley, (a.k.a. The Pooper, a.k.a. Mr. Prettypants, a.k.a. Asshole), and I have just returned from a pre-move trip to the vet. The good news is that Radley is otherwise quite healthy, well-behaved and adorable. The bad news is that, despite the fact that he eats diet food (and not even very much of it), he is morbidly obese. I guess the apple doesn't far too fall from the tree, but that's because both the apple and the tree have a hard time getting around.

Since the problem is not with Radley's caloric intake, it is necessarily a matter of inactivity. Therefore, I have been medically instructed to play with my pet more. I know.

Aside from the fact that it is fundamentally unnatural to try and motivate a cat to get off his own fuzzy ass, I feel like I've failed as a caregiver. What do cats ask from us anyway? A place to poop? Check. Some delicious Iams Weight Control with Hairball Care in a lovely bowl? Check. A windowsill in which to sit, cleans one's armpit and stare at squirrels? Check. A minimal level of shake-the-toy-in-my-face-so-that-I-don't-get-feline-diabetes? Oops.

I just can't help but feel like this is a reflection on me and what I would do to any possible human children. If my kids were half as neurotic and plump as my cat has turned out to be, I'd have an open account at the Department of Family Services. I mean it. I'd be one of those moms with great intentions, a cupboard full of healthy snacks and family-appropriate board games, and the kid from Thirteen. Sure, I'd give her the apple as an after-school snack, but she'd probably just go and smoke weed out of it.

I guess, though, I could adopt a better attitude about this whole situation. I mean, Radley is completely happy the way he is. Like Mo'Nique, he owns his fatness with unapologetic sass and confidence. And why shouldn't he? So what if his belly literally swings from side to side when he walks! Who cares if he falls off the couch when he rolls over! What's the difference if he's single-handedly responsible for giving me athsma by sitting on my chest!

Okay, that settles it. Fuck the vet and her "your beloved kitty is going to die young" propaganda! She's totally in the pocket of the cat-toy industry anyway and can not therefore be trusted. From now on, Radley and I are going to celebrate his immensity. Right, Mr. Prettypants?

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Oh my God, you guys, you're NEVER going to believe what happened!

So there I was. It was March 10th, one day after my last post. I sat down at the computer, ready to unleash the brilliant wit swimming around in my head through the keyboard, to be beamed directly to you, Dear Reader, through the wonder of the interweb. I had so much I wanted to say -- my class, my job, the Flavor of Love finale....but just as I was ready to begin writing my post, I suddenly heard a strange noise outside.

It sounded like a cross between a lawnmower, a ceiling fan and the music of Yanni. It was bizarre -- harsh yet ethereal, nasal and somehow also...otherworldly. Now, I'm normally the kind of girl to ignore such things. Frankly, life is strange and it often has a soundtrack to match. Who am I to go investigating every little rustle and bleep out there? But this sound was different, it drew me towards it, like a moth to a flame, or a magnet to a refrigerator, or perhaps a fat person to a buffet...there are a lot of apt metaphors.

Anyway, I didn't even pause to look out the window to see what was making the noise, I just walked outside. Not walked -- glided -- that's how strong the pull was. And there, in the backyard, was the most terrifying and magnificent thing I have ever beheld. It was a craft, certainly, but how to describe it? A Mini Cooper surrounded by tubing? Kind of. A luxury yacht as conceived by Volvo? A little bit. Kevin Federline's childhood home? Not so much. The point is, it really defied definition. And I didn't get that good a look at it, anyway, because before I knew it, I was surrounded by a warm and soothing light, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, I was miles above the Earth.

You know, somehow I just always knew I would be abducted by aliens. I'm not saying I aspired to it, per se, but it just seemed somehow inevitable. And I had decided long ago that when it happened, I had a choice between two attitudes toward the situation:

The Open and Inquisitive Option
Who are these creatures? What astonishing advancements has their (clearly superior) civilization accomplished to bring them to Earth? What can I learn of science, technology and interplanetary diplomacy from them? How will I tell my fellow Earthlings of my adventures once I return home? Will I be interrogated by Congress like Jodie Foster was in Contact? Will Matthew McConaughey be there?

The Abject Fear Option
Based chiefly on the possibility of anal probes and whatever they did to that guy's eyeball in Fire in the Sky.

But when it actually happened, my attitude turned out to be a mixture of unnatural serenity and blog-related worry. For while a blissful, fearless calm had enveloped me, I was at the same time thinking -- back in the tiny corner of my mind that I still controlled -- "how long will I be gone? What if I never return? The blog will have no closure! American Idol will continue without my comments! Kellie Pickler will win because I won't have been able to convince the six people reading this blog not to vote for her because she's an even less-talented version of Jessica Simpson than Ashlee Simpson is! Those two fucktards in my class will go on being grating know-it-alls and I won't have anything to say about it! And what will become of my friends without a semi-daily window into my hilariously singular take on everyday life?!"

But these anxieties quickly melted away, for that peaceful, rapturous feeling I had turned out to be the result of a brain implant installed by the aliens, one which gradually overtook my ability to feel pain, experience worry and taste garlic. It's good stuff, honestly, but it does seem to have affected my memory and judgment, as well. That's why I can't really tell you about my space odyssey, because it's kind of a blur. It's also why, when I got back to Earth, I was strangely compelled to do the following things:

1. Quit work.
2. Move back to Philly.
3. Attend school full-time.

I know, nutty, right? But I can't fight it -- an implant is an implant. Anyway, I'm currently jobless, packing up my house,and readying myself for the extraterrestrial adventure that is living in the city and going to school. And while you may scoff, and you may be tempted to discount my decision as yet another in a long line of empty plans, just remember -- you can't fight the aliens. Just ask Katie Holmes.