Zits & Wrinkles

Greetings, internet.

I am logging in from a weekend of boat rides, movies, nachos, rosé, wandering, feller, Bossypants and season 1 of Nip/Tuck to tell you that I just did the crazy cat ladiest thing I have ever done.

So, I* leave dry food out for Bear & Lily all day, but then I also feed them one large can of wet food a day, half in the morning and half in the evening. The cans live on a shelf in the pantry (fine, we don’t have a pantry, the cans are stacked up in front of our DVD collection, whatever, it’s New York) until I open them. When I have opened them and fed the ladies the first half, I refrigerate what’s left in the can, like it says to do.

But whenever I serve them the cold half of the can, they balk. It’s really cold! Our fridge works! That’s some cold-ass pâté! It takes athletic chewing and nonsensitive teeth, I guess. Lily sort of nudges at it and wanders off, and then Bear, who balks at no food, eats Lily’s after hers. Not fair to my gal Lil!

So just now, I pulled a cold half-can of Turkey Formula (I feed them a really expensive, fancy brand of food {in other words, one that does not have the word “fancy” in the title}, but they’re still “formulas,” don’t judge) out of the fridge. I looked at the congealed juices solidified at the top of the pâté loaf and the bottom of the can. I touched the cold, dry parts in between. And I thought, “If I were them, I’d want to eat this warm.”

And then, without thinking, I ripped the paper label off the can, turned the stove on low, and plunked that sucked on our front right burner.

I’m sure the inside of these cans are lined with something toxic that shouldn’t be heated up. I’m sure they are not like the tin cans you see cowboys heatin’ thur beans up in when they’re drivin’ cattle and/or hunting Josh Brolin with the girl who should have been Katniss. But 30-45 seconds on a low burner was just enough for that congealed goop to animate into clearish turkey sauce, and then when I stirred it into the rest of the meatloaf (It really is meatloaf—no fillers! That is why it is so expensive and why we must continue to live in a place where my DVD shelf stores my cat food), it all got warm and mushy. I was no longer cutting cold congealed chunks into my cats’ dishes, I was stirring in a sauce (and 1/4 of a canine Prozac, for Lily, who yes, is a feline, but they do not make cat Prozac)!

Obviously, they inhaled it. Now they are sitting on the floor/our new air conditioner’s box, licking their chops and staring at me for more. My apartment is filled with the toasty, confusing smell of warm Turkey Formula.

I feel brilliant and also, naturally, like I have gone completely off the rails.

(*Please note that until the story hits the action that happened this morning, all references to “I” should actually be “we,” because Futt and I co-pet-parent up a storm in these parts, which facilitates my ability to have a somewhat normal relationship, leave town, etc. Yes, everyone should want my {human} roommate as their own. Jury’s still out on the furballs.)

So, you’re going to a hip concert tonight? It’s General Admission and there are no seats? AND you’re a sort of grumpy old person, either for real or just on the inside? Then you have come to the right place!

When your much cooler friend tells you that the concert is at a venue without seats, the first thing you hear, I know, is “Your old self will be standing up on a sloping concrete floor for three hours.” This means two very important things:

1. You must wear shoes that allow you to do this.
2. You must not bring anything too bulky that you will have to hold.

Thing 1 is a nonissue for young people, who do not get lower back aches if they stand up too long (also, they are young enough to correct their terrible posture, whereas you failed to do so and are probably forever damned to slouch, shoulders rounded and gut out, until your dying day, when you will also probably have a hump) in uncomfortable shoes or otherwise. Point is, this is a challenge for you! Because maybe you are not SO old that you are resigned to looking like a haggard crone, but also not so young that you enjoy standing up. There is only one solution to this problem, and it is Danskos. Ask your vastly more accomplished doctor friends, they will tell you the same thing. Fashion be damned! Short people behind you be damned! Wear them with pride and experience minimal discomfort! Also come on, you know by now that of all potential demographics, boys at concerts definitely don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses, so just put on your clunky old lady shoes and go.

Thing 2 is slightly more complicated, especially given the weather. March 31, in some places, is springtime! But obviously not where you live, where your weather widget said the high would be 40 degrees today. Normally, today, you’d have worn a shirt, a sweater, a scarf and a coat. But gurrrrl, if you are going to stand up later for three hours surrounded by humans, you are gonna have to modify that. You do not want to be holding a real coat, but you have to commute to work in the cold and the concert in the cold! So you put on a tank top. Then a T-shirt. Then a long-sleeved cotton shirt. Then a cardigan, possibly (definitely) the one you wore to work yesterday. Then your thinnest fleece jacket and a hat that can scrunch up into nothing.

WHOA, you say! That is a lot of stuff! Not really. They are all thin layers, but they will keep you plenty warm outside, even if you do look a little bit like a puffy weirdo on the train and have to disrobe significantly when you get to work.

BUT, you say, what are you going to do with all of those layers when you get to the show? You will have so many things! No, my child, no.

Go to your closet. Or under your bed. Or wherever you keep that really fugly, busted, potentially canvas cross-body bag that you bought from a cart at the mall in 1998. You know the one—definitely squarish, wide strap, many pockets and zippers? Good. Now: downsize your big ol’ ladywallet (not a euphemism) into a tiny packet of cash, ID, Metrocard, credit card. You don’t need to be carrying the 2011 Renegade Craft Fair schedule with you today, or your 16 Handles punchcard, or your dental insurance card.

Put the makeup you swear you will remember to put on after work, and just the stuff you know you’ll use, in a bag with your hand sanitizer (THIS IS NEW YORK), Rolaids (YOU ARE OLD) and Advil (SAME). Yeah yeah, take your breakfast Chobani, too, but only because you will have eaten that by concert time. You do not get to take your Kindle, sorry, or your Camelbak, but you can get through a day without “Goblet of Fire,” and you can use a normal water bottle like everyone else. And hey, remember that tiny umbrella you bought that time you had a date in Brooklyn, and it was rainy, but you didn’t want to compromise your tiny purse? Wasn’t it appropriate that that dude was so tiny, too? Totes. Anyway, pop that sucker in there, because of course it is a little rainy today, too.

Anyway, those few things in that horrendous purse leave puh-LENTY of room for your discarded layers, and you can tie your very thin fleece around the outside of the bag, and voila!

See? With just a few compromises, you can be only mildly inconvenienced by your necessary belongings and lack of fashion sense, and, obviously, free to boogie. All around you will be foolish people in their early 20s whose backs hurt because they wore Chuck Taylors, or who are carrying their down jackets, or who are inexplicably thin and effortlessly unburdened by pain or belongings. You can smile and enjoy yourself, because one day the former group will grow up and stop trying to be cool, while the latter group definitely has a drug problem.

Ok, I did this. I’m listed in Tumblweeds, a user-generated community directory that rates Tumblr bloggers by their number of followers. Find me listed in #humor, #nerdiness, #twentysomething.

Uh, have like 12 followers though, so you’ll have to dig pretty deep to find me. Also, if you’re reading this, you have already found me. Duh?