I walked home from work last night, and by the time I got home, I’d grown stiff and weary. (Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that I work nearly eight miles from home, but that isn’t really the point. Young people can walk seven or eight miles without difficulty. I’m sure I’ve done it, back in my twenties.)

I woke this morning, puttered over to the sink, washed my dishes, brewed a pot of coffee, had my yogurtberriesflax, and skimmed the digital NYT, focusing entirely on education and real estate. (Waaaait. I think that last just makes me a recovering New Yorker.) It’s quiet. I’m alone. And I like it. The morning could only be more perfect had I a teak, drop-leaf, round dining table and someone whose name rhymes with Berry Gutler snoring in my bed. I don’t have Big Plans for the weekend, nor do I want any. I’m good.

I read secondhand Grantas on the bus on the way to work in the morning, or listen to New Order and Sade on my iPoodle. (Okay, and sometimes QOTSA, but that detracts from the old mood I’m trying to build).

Maybe I’m not old, yet. Maybe I’m just comfortably complacent.

I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to report on a story like this, your own story.
People do it all the time, of course, in the form of memoir, but this isn’t a memoir, not a one-sided recollection of events. It’s an exploration of a rape, of the perpetrator, that neither makes excuses for him nor blindly vilifies. And it was written by his victim.

Also, happy first anniversary to me and the fine city of Chicago. I celebrated unofficially with K. by sampling the much-heralded cocktails at Violet Hour. I celebrated so unofficially, I don’t even think I told her I was celebrating.

Now, I’m gonna go take what coins I’ve collected to the CoinStar, deposit the resulting cash, and hope my rent check clears.

Seriously, I’ve managed to mismanage my money so stupidly (by forgetting to budget in my CTA card for this month, and forgetting I had set up a student loan payment to auto-withdraw) that I am possibly going to come up short by about $4.

I shit you not.

Plus some other things are making me cranky right now. If anyone feels inclined to lift my spirits with a coupla rounds, do let me know. :-/

Edit: HAHAHAHA! All cleared with two bucks to spare!

It’s wrong that I’m excited by that. I know.

1. I really, really want a feline companion. That little Scottish Fold in the video below has managed to sink its claws directly into my heart. I’ve watched the vid a few times now, and every single time I have to fight off a “hed asplosion from teh cute,” if you will. I can’t stand it. I neeeeeed a fuzzball.

Easy, right? I get a fuzzball, right? Wrooooong. It’s A-Okay with the landlord, but I’m still trying to figure out if I can feasibly afford a pet. I’m of the mind that you don’t just take an animal in willy-nilly because it’s purrrrty. You ensure you can support it as you would a child. Can I afford possible veterinary emergencies, RFID chipping, Fancy Feast and a cat-sitter for when I take a vacay? I’m not sure yet. I need to run the numbers.

I’m also on the fence regarding a purebred cat v. a shelter adoption. Shelter adoptions these days are not cheap. Shelters want to place their wards with serious, responsible owners, and they need to cover their overhead. As such, the local shelters I’ve looked into have fees topping $100. That ain’t nothin’. It’s still cheaper than a purebred, and I’m sure I could fall in love with a stray.

But.

I am IN LOVE with Scottish Folds. IN LOVE. I have never reacted so strongly to kitty cute, ever. Specifically, I want a short-haired, red tabby folded-ear, probably a male. (Like the one in the video.) Yes, my desire is THAT SPECIFIC. But you know what I just asked for? Urm, a cat that would cost about $800, with transportation, because breeders are thin on the ground in the Midwest. I cannot spend $800 on a cat! Not right now, anyway. I could start a kitty fund, but it would probably take me the better part of a year to scrape it all together, and that would be highly irresponsible anyway, because did I mention I still have 5 years worth of student loans left to pay, in addition to my rent, credit card, partially furnished home, etc.? Right.

Butbutbut…I WANT it.

So in the very near future, I will check out some pound kitties, and hope one mewls its way into my heart the way these shagging Folds have.

In the meantime, I’ve been considering imaginary cat names. Here’s the shortlist:
Harlie de Fuzz (short for Harlequin Hairrison deFuzz, Ph.D.)
Chumley 2.0 (named for my first ever kitten, a darling fluff-ball who disappeared from my life far too soon)
Plonk (named for teh booze, obvi, and if I were totally honest I’d just name him Fisheye Screwtop Cab, or Friday-Sunday Night Chez Sid)
Speyside Ben (named for my favorite whisky, BenRiach, but sounds like a racehorse)
Too late to claim: Katamari!

I should get a shelter kitty. Rationally, I know I should. But, what if it grows up to look at me like this? I don’t want a feline with an agenda, hespecially if that agenda is CLEARLY to cut a bitch.

Ugh. Anyway. Decisions for another time.

2. Sunday, I spent the afternoon trawling the booths at the 2008 Fancy Food Show/All Things Organic Trade Fair. There wasn’t much I was super-jazzed about, but a few tipples snagged my attention, and I’ll make sure everyone knows about ‘em ASAP. I just want to see if I can convince someone to pay me to cover ‘em, first.

You know what is not on my mind-space shortlist?

My paternal grandfather bit it last week. He’s the first of my grandparents to go. I’ve never met the guy, and last I heard, he was somewhere in the Philippines with family 2.0, after years spent being an asshole to his first brood (I suppose that’s where my father learned his sterling approach to parenthood). You know what? I feel nothing. I feel sort of bad for feeling nothing, of course, and I will have to figure out how to muster some sadness when I call my aunt back later this week, because shit, her father has died. She must be in some pain, right?

But I can’t call her back, because right now, I can’t say I give monkey’s toss. I don’t hate the guy, or even slightly dislike him; I never knew him. And as such, I can’t care.

It’s tough being a cyborg.

I woke this morning from a dream that I was in a musical adventuring duo with my boss, and let me tell you, that’s fricken’ weird. Dreams about the boss are never good, even when they’re not bad. I need to spend less time thinking of work, clearly.

The whole eHarmony thing is just starting to look up. There are a few guys on there with genuine wit, solid education, and no children who–GASP!–are actually engaging me in “guided communication.” I hesitate to get my hopes up, but at least I’m not lamenting my $14/month investment (yet)!

I’m going to stay out late on Sunday and see a friend’s band. That doesn’t sound all that crazy, but I assure you, I’m not inclined to do this sort of thing anymore. But he invited me to a show before and I passed then, so I’m worried if I pass again he’ll think I’m blowing him off (I’m not. I just don’t want to be on the west side of town after 8 pm if I can help it, because it is a right pain in the ass to get back without spending money on a cab or investing a good hour plus in the effort. This show starts at 10p. Cab.). I’m already looking forward to getting myself home and tucking in with a book and a glass of Penfold’s shiraz/cab blend after.

Oh, remember this? Guess who sent me a message today!

I’ve lost another pound. I’m at 185.25 now. Not that much lost since my last post, but when you consider that I have a) only been to the gym four times in the last three weeks and b) I haven’t changed a single thing about the way I have been eating, and in fact have done more eating and drinking out than usual thanks to work, it’s practically miraculous.

This evening, I took a slight diversion from my regular route to pick up a soda. I saw a madman cursing at strangers and shoulder-checking the local flora to prove his manhood as I approached the shop. Naturally, he turned just as I was trying to sneak by him and began to profess his infatuation. Dude, you smacked a sapling and you were talking to yourself. Do I want a date? Paaassssss.

I hurried along into my favorite cupcake shop. The kid behind the counter immediately launched into a tale of woe involving his mom, a bus, and a 15 minute commute. Very, very odd. AND they were all out of red velvet.

I should have stayed home today. Or bought a cat. I’ve been thinking I would very much like to have a cat. In fact, I unabashedly want this exact cat:

Thanks, Amanda!

Oh, and Sov, is there less crazy in Tey-has? Because if so, I’m there. ASAP.

Sigh.

Happy Friday, kids.

I am calm! I am zen! I am happy these days!

Let’s look at my tab, eh?

Federal taxes owed: $11.

Whew! Dodged that bullet! I was afraid I’d owe more, even though I hardly made any money last year, what with temping, limited freelancing, moving, and general povertitious behaviors.

Adopted-home-state-Illinois taxes owed: $162 refund for 7 months of resident employment.

CHA-CHING! Yaaaaaay, monies back, yaaaaaaaay! I love Chicago!

New York taxes owed, with exactly 12 days of non-resident employment accumulated in 2007(hey, if I’m crashing on someone’s floor during weekdays, and at my folks on weekends? I’m a fudgin’ migrant worker, okay?): $251.

Twelve.

Days.

Two hundred and fifty-one dollars.

This muhfu…

Zen!

Happy!

I’m not there anymore!

I have a spacious cheap apartment in an incredibly vibrant neighborhood, and a job I enjoy, and am surrounded by people I like! Hahahahapppppy!

I will not sacrifice my contentment and health to that soul-sucking vortex again. Ha!

(Have you ever wanted to plot the downfall of an entire land mass? Because I do, right now. I want all of New York City to fucking toss my unwashed salad…ugh. UGH.)

Dear New York,

STOP. FUCKING. RAPINGMYWALLETIDON’TEVENLIVEINYOURHELLACIOUSPITSANYMOREWHYAREYOUSTILLBLEEDINGMEDRY!?!?!?

That’s okay. I mean, between the IL refund and the $600 tax rebat, I’ll be able to cover it. But honestly, and this is a rare emotion for me these days, I COULD CHOKE someone right now. Unbefuckinglievable.

In other news, I have made my first mac and cheese (fatty as all get-out with four cheeses AND bacon crust), I have an honest-to-god bed and several chairs scored at a thrift shop, I continue to inexplicably lose weight despite minimal gym attendance on my part, I have looked evil in the eye (and lost), and I am happily three chapters into Dorothy West’s “The Living is Easy.”

Oh, and I signed up for eHarmony, for what that’s worth.

How are you?

I’ve been this friggin’ happy at work.

Shocking. Maybe it’s just a Friday thing. Or some sort of karmic refund for the previous few years of misery. Maybe it’s just the fact that the sun has been streaming in on all of us, full and strong, and it’s reset our internal happy clocks after months of winter gloom.

Whatever, man. I’ll take it.

And just because I cannot get my mind off the nest right now, here’s a link to Jonathan Adler’s eponymous design site. His book is rather appropriately (and cheekily) dubbed…My Prescription for Antidepressive Living.

Love!

But by golly, someone should take advantage of this BMI fare sale to the UK.

Frozen diet meals, 100 calorie snack packs, five-day-per-week workout plan. I lost some weight, but then I reached a plateau, hovering around 192 or 193, and nothing I did would get me below that point for more than a day or two.

It made me nuts.

“Fine,” I thought. “Maybe this is my new ‘as-good-as-it-gets.’”

Then the new year rolled around, and my birthday, and my move. During all of this time, I eased off the prepackaged meals. My workouts fell to four days per week by my birthday, then three, and now, sometimes even two.

Around the birthday, my weight fell to 189, but I attributed that to a particularly hectic period in the office that kept me from doing little more than swallowing soup at my desk one-handed. I was sure it wouldn’t last, especially since I seemed to be having a harder and harder time of talking myself into heading to the gym after work instead of home to my little box. I try to make up for it on weekends–I average 4 or so hours of walking each weekend just to handle all my shopping and errands and whatnot. Still, how can that bit of walking compare with five nights per week of 45+ minute cardio sessions, and strength training, and 45 minutes per day of commute-walking?

I hopped on the scale after my first workout of this week (while I know some people consider this cheating, I always check my weight at the end of the day, post workout–I started tracking it that way, and so that is how I will go on). 186.5.

On one hand, hooray! I am officially NYC weight again. On the other hand, what the hell? How is it that when I tried, I stopped losing, but when I stopped trying, I started again?

In other news, I had my annual physical today. I chose the doc on a coworker’s recommendation–she was close to my office, and the coworker had great things to say. I had to wait several weeks from the scheduling to the appointment, but I figured, heck, I’m in no rush to be poked and prodded. When I walked into her office, though, I realized I was lucky to have gotten onto her patient roster at all. She’s got a bunch of “Best Doctors in America” write-ups, apparently. She completely deserves it, too. I liked my doctor in Manhattan, but she also had a busy practice, and I always felt she was rushing through my exams. New doc took all the time needed to discuss my health and history, listened well enough that she was able to elicit bits of history I hadn’t considered as relevant, and was generally good humored, soothing, informative and attentive. Human. (Arguably exactly what a good doctor should be, I think, so why is it so difficult to find?)

As a bonus, my blood pressure is normal again. Last summer it seemed to have stabilized, but by fall/winter, it was reading high, I imagine thanks to a series of stresses including a month of HR drama, too much PBR, a doomed fling, and apartment hunting uncertainty. My body in this sense is so closely attuned to my overall satisfaction, it’s astonishing. For instance, I was never before as cosmetically fit as I was in NYC in early 2006. I ate clean for the most part, worked out like a madwoman, and looked better than I do now, but I was miserable with the rest of my life, and it was written all over my suddenly 140/110 BP readings.

Now I make less money, have less spare time, and hover around 3% fatter, yet am somehow still more satisfied, and healthier than ever. It’s a stark reminder that I have to manage my environment, my personal satisfaction, quite carefully as a part of managing my health.

And on that note, I’m off to bed. Adequate sleep, I am acutely aware, is one of the factors most crucial to my general well-being.