3x is Da CHARM ~

I’m Still Alive,
Fair Readers All
A Feat To Be Sure,
However Small.
They Say Cats Have
Nine Lives to Live
If this is My Third,
I’ve Time to Give
To Penning Sweet Prose!
& Verses So Rare
You’ll LOL ThiS TiMe
In your Desk Chair
But really, I know
My impact is small
— One Cat’s Caterwaul
In the Ever Rhizomic Sprawl
Oh Internet. Woe is me.
Why do I persist?
In my Courtship of Thee?
I wander your Hallways
Chew Through your Gum
Paw Through Your Pages
Wall-eyed & Numb
I Burrow in Trash Heaps & Frolick in Rot
Mine Troves of Text
That Inform
And Distract.
All of these Pages
& Pages Pinned Up
Pages for Wages
And Then some for Naught
But For Audience, Yes!
Well, Presumably So
Or A Deeper Understanding
Of What it Means to Know
The Self. The Self.
And to Have Others Know You
Through the Two Way Mirror
Of the Thrilling Unknown
So Alright, Ok.
Let’s Cut To the Chase
This Cat is Back
In Cyberspace.

~ Yours Ad infinitum ~

Rosie (The Cat)3x is Da Charm


A Feline Recrudescence

Hey ho dear readers!

At last, I write. My promise to recapitulate these post-collegiate ramblings must now be enacted. I quiver with regret at these long weeks that have passed since my last entry. Seven months of folly and disillusionment, uncharted by my pen!

But oh, sweet sorrows of post-collegiate life, stay awhile! Let me skewer you with my ink-laden sword, and lay thee thick upon the page. 

Rest, dear readers, for I have come to provide. 

I. M. A. Cat

and…she’s back!

To all three of my readers,*

The cat is back.

After 321 days of absence, I have decided to publish my post-collegiate musings once again. And I’m excited. Things are different. Don’t worry, I’m still floundering in the vast sea of post-collegiate life, but it seems I have gotten better at treading water. Or so my swim coach tells me.

So in honor of a new beginning, here is the chorus and my favorite verse from a song by KiDiddles:

The Cat Came Back

“The atom bomb fell just the other day,
The H-Bomb fell in the very same way;
Russia went, England went, and then the U.S.A.
The human race was finished without a chance to pray.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn’t stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea”

Tits for Cats!
Your feline friend

*and every other person who falls into this self-reflexive portal of whiskers and furry flailings.

Haiku Mews: Occupy Wallstreet

Occupy Wallstreet!
Felines Fume Ferociously
A Furry Fury…

Rosie (the Cat)

A great solution! But would it be cannibalism? I can see it now: Headline: "Cats feed on Fat Cats...Fattism at it's worst?"

Cat in Crown Frights!

I gave up my apartment in “East” Williamsburg at the end of July and fled town for a month. With the wind in my hair and my hands on the wheel, I spun my way westward, across the United States, in a flurry of friends, family, and wasabi peas.

I slept on a loveseat on the outskirts of Nashville TN. I sunbathed poolside at the Virgin River Motel and Casino in Mesquite Nevada. I wound my way up the California coast and spent a week in the bay, going to nude beaches, getting free passes to JCC yoga classes and hanging out at the Anarchist bookshop.

Now where do I find myself?

Deep in Crown Heights, where I feel the weight of my identity all too keenly. I, my friends, am an YWFAG:

Young White Female Agent of Gentrification

Last Wednesday evening, in typical YWFAG fashion I decided that I needed to get out of the house, go to a coffee shop, write, drink some herbal tea and glance at plaid shirted, twenty-something boys with scruff.

So I did a google search for “coffee shops in crown heights, open late.”

The first hit was the Yelp listing posted by another YWFAG.

“Sarah Jo “SJ” M. says:
Looking for OPEN LATE coffee shops in Prospect / Crown Heights, or a goup of people to put pressure on the non-late-night shops already in existence! Anyone interested??”

Here is a sampling of the responses “Sarah Jo” received:

Mike “Sexy Beast” S. says:
Sarah look at the crime statistics for those areas. That will explain why they close so early.

Peter “I was being facetious” D. says:
Crown heights and late night = stupid

But fazed, I was not. The last comment from the thoughtful Young Yelper self titled “John “stone crazy” Q” was –

“It looks like Outpost on Fulton St is open late too, that’s a bit closer to you.”

An outpost was exactly what I was looking for.

1. A small military camp or position at some distance from the main force, used esp. as a guard against surprise attack.
2. A remote part of a country or empire.

So I decided to go.

The only problem was, it was a twenty-minute walk away. By the time I got there, my nerves were so jangled I had to order not one, but two glasses of wine.

As I drank and hacked away at my keyboard, I surveyed the selection of eligible gentlemen at the cafe. I was exceptionally uninspired. The most entertaining café sitter of the evening was an elderly hassidic gentleman who kept ordering orange juice and ogling female patrons.

At 10 o’clock I decided I better get home before I was groped/licked etc. by a passerby. I walked to the nearest bus stop. But the arrival sign had been smashed and from what I could make out from the schedule, I’d have to wait on the corner of Bergen and Washington for twenty minutes in the dark. Walking seemed like the preferable option.

After just five minutes of walking, a man started following me, addressing me in all too endearing terms. He was trailing me for about two yards before I turned around and hissed at him with intensity,

“What do you want?”

That showed him! He shuffled away in a hurry.

I crossed the street and trundled on, at a faster pace. To my dismay, less than two minutes later, I found myself approaching the silhouette of a figure hunched under a subway bridge who appeared to be – GASP –

Taking a shit on the sidewalk.


He looked up and saw me swerving across the street.

“Sorry Miss! I couldn’t hold it in any longer!”

“Oh that’s fine! No problem!” I called. “Really!”


When I slipped the key into the lock and closed the door to the apartment, I couldn’t believe it. I was alive?

MeKnow How Now
1. Get some brass knuckles

Epilogue: 3 Fatally Shot in Brooklyn; 2 Officers Are Wounded

Rosie (the Cat)

Hostess Cat: Death by Rolls

I quit the restaurant job last week. Tuesday was my last day, and yet, strangely, it felt like every other day at the host stand: Painful feet. Boredome. Elicit trips to the busboy closet to stuff rolls in mouth. 20 minutes cursing on the subway platform. You know, hell.

What did I gain from the experience? 5 pounds.

What did I lose? The ability to wear pants.

A Google image search of the word “hostess” basically describes, in pictorial form, what this job entails:

If only they had let me:
a) play with a football at the stand
b) wear a nightgown like the lovely lady to above.

I was there until 2 in the morning, so one would think multi-purpose apparel would be condoned. However, it was not.

I could not sleep when my circadian rhythm said, “SLEEP!”
I could not sit when my lower back said, “GODDAMMIT!”
I could not read when my mind read, “VACANCY.”

WHAT, my friends, are the perks of being a hostess?

(silence in the cyber-sphere)

This cat is flat on her back, and has forsaken the ROLL of hostess. Never again my friends. Never again.

Rosie (the Cat)


1. You know the aphorism, “You are what you eat?” Well it’s true.

tips, a cat’s nip

This cat’s wallet is a fat wallet.

In truth, my wallet’s bulge is a little grotesque. When I try to snap it shut, it pops right open again. Bills are constantly spilling on the floor of bodegas and grocery stores. I find myself bent over in front of cash registers everywhere, apologizing to customers, trying to pull down my skirt so they don’t know what color underwear I am wearing. Maybe, they think I am a drug dealer! But drug dealers would probably shoot their clients if they paid them thirty dollars in 1s.

Having large amounts of petty cash in your wallet is a recipe for overspending on un-necessary items. Here is a illustrative scenario:

I am prowling through the subway at 2 AM after work. I am beat. I slink past one of those little food stands in the subway, with all the brightly colored candy wrappers, and glossy magazine covers, and I realize that the giant wad of $1 dollar bills in my pocket can buy me most of the contents of the candy stand.  Out comes the wallet, and I start counting out the 1 dollar bills…. one, two, three, four…

But really, is all this impermanent distraction going to make me feel better in the long run? NO.

Spending tips is a temporary fix.
I’m a hopeless addict!
Tips are this post-collegiate cat’s nip.


Rosie (the Cat)

Tats 4 Tips

1. Put your money in the bank.