9 Lives!

On Sunday night, an acquaintance asked me how old I was. I looked at him, trying to gauge his interest and said darkly, “twenty-two, but I’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks.” He responded, “Oh, so you’ll be needing a cane.”

Old Age! Once you graduate from college, Death’s clammy fingers start to niggle at your ankles. Suddenly, the whole “career-marry-kids-grandkids-nursinghome-hospital-death-graveyard” scenario looms closer than it ever has before.

Ditched on the cold sidewalks of LIFE, your inner guidance counselor says with enthusiasm, “Time to start career building! Go on! Start moving forward! You’re AN ADULT!” But your inner nudist-artist-lover responds, “HOLD UP. Ok?! Just wait a second.” And picking up a ukelele she sings, “I need timmme to find meee. Timmme to nooooodle,  timeee to be freeeee.”

Not sure which inner voice is right, but it is awfully dreary to keep looking at the world like a cynical human.

So I thought I’d try looking at life like a cat… “Cats have nine lives,” I thought, “So why can’t humans? Maybe its best to embrace my inner cat, and shift my perspective a bit.”

Possibility blossomed before my eyes. 1 life became 9. Twenty-three became the beginning of a new, post-collegiate life – not another step down into a dark, dusty sepulcher.

So: assuming I live to be 90 years old, I get to have one life per decade! Right now, I am still in the beginning phases of my third life – I’m less than 1/3rd gone!

Though I haven’t really decided on my policy re: the guidance counselor vs. artist-nudist-lover conflict (Anyone?), at least thinking like a cat gives me a fresh lease on life.

So remember:

When you need to be consoled,
Cuz someone says “you’re too darn old,”
Or too “mature” for this or that,
Just remember you’re a cat!
You’ve got 9 lives to live on the edge,
Forget the nay-sayers, full steam ahead!

Rosie (the Cat)



One Fat & Frustrated Cat

January is the WORST month of the year, mostly because EVERYONE feels fat. Particularly post-collegiate cats. So if you are a post-festive, SAD cat, this tail might resonate:

One Fat & Frustrated Cat

You’ve gained a few pounds over Christmas / Hanukkah / New Years / Kwanza, and you’ve decided that *one* of your New Years resolutions is to lose that 5, 10, 15, 20 pounds, and get fit!

Low and behold, less than two weeks into the New Year and you find yourself trudging home at eight o’clock in the bitter cold, enervated and yearning for some Cabernet Sauvignon and 70% Dark Chocolate. Collapsing at your kitchen table you think, “What the hell! I deserve it! I never see the light of day, and I don’t have a boyfriend! So. WHO CARES.”

One chocolate bar, one wine bottle and several chunks of cheese later, you are lying on your back groaning in agony. You hadn’t meant to! Your stomach feels as though it might burst, your eyes are heavy, and, and, and, YOU ARE FAT.

You probably feel like this:

In order to combat this terrible downward spiral, you decide to join a gym. But see, you’re poor. So you join the YMCA. The catch? It is still 52 dollars a month, smelly, and overcrowded.

The first day you go, you are dismayed to find the place a-crawl with people.  After wandering down the maze of  a staircase to the ladies locker room, struggling to change into your sports gear as modestly as possible, traveling back up the stairs to the machine room, and finally pulling open the door, you are greeted by a blast of hot, sour body odor, and the whir of a thousand sweaty limbs shuffling together against the grain. Gross! When you go to the sign up board, you realize you are going to have to wait at least a half an hour to get on a machine. Impossible!

SOUND FAMILIAR? Might as well go home and run up and down your stairs a few times.

There has to be a remedy! There must! But what?!!?

Tips to Temper the Terror of this Common Tail:

1. When you want to drink the entire bottle of wine, try drinking diet ginger ale and herbal tea instead.
2. Just go to sleep. If you sleep, you can’t eat!
3. Find yourself a man-friend. In the bar, or on the subway. Men-friends are extremely distracting. (Don’t know how to find one? Never fear. Cat-o the Cat will post a column shortly on how a cat is actually supposed to find a male companion in this cold, hard city we call home. To be Continued….!)

Rosie (the Cat)

KEY 2 COOL: Beat Boxing for Beginners

Beat Boxing is VERY COOL.

Quite simply, it is a skill all post-collegiate cats should acquire.

Last night, whilst drinking a beer in Boerum Hill, my friend and fellow musician Jon Good let me in on the key to becoming a *sick* beat boxer, and I feel, for the benefit of my audience, that it ought to be shared. It goes something like this:

To create a simple Dub-Step drum line, say:

“boots and cats, and boots and cats, and boots and cats…” over and over again.

Try it!

For a drum that lands on the down beat, Detroit Style, say:

“Pizza, pizza, pizza, pizza, pizza…” over and over again.

Pretty amazing, huh.

On the prowl for “Everyday solutions to life’s most perplexing problems…”
Rosie (The Cat)

Cat-o’s Tips for Cats: Advice worth Caterwauling for!

Cat-o the Youngest, unlike her great forefathers, Cato the Elder and Cato the Younger, is a woman of Grecian influence. She is a hedonistic humorist.

To Cato the Elder’s comment: “Grasp the subject, words will follow,” Cat-o the Youngest says: “Feed the subject, in turds we’ll wallow .” While Cato the Younger was a follower of “Stoicism,” Cat-o the Youngest prefers to, “Show-it-to-him!”

In short, Cat-o is a brilliant fount of information, and serves as an invaluable resource for young lady cats far and wide.

Have a problem? Never fear.
Cat-o’s Tips for Cats is here.

Question 1: Dear Cat-o, I am a high-heel-aholic. When I step onto a subway platform in high heels, my heart skips a beat. My legs look like long stem roses, and crowds recede for me like the Red Sea. I’m positively desperate to find a comfortable pair to wear while navigating the snowy sidewalks of New York. Any tips? – Tipsy, the Cat-o-heel-a-holic.

Dear Tipsy,

The answer’s easy: EasySpirits!
See that snow bank? In these you’ll clear it!
With rubber heels and room for your toes,
You hardly need to put on clothes!

Easy Spirit Boot : Just $50!

Advice worth Caterwauling for!

Cat-o (The Youngest)

One Cold and Keyless Cat

Staring at a computer screen from 9 to 5 ravages my soul. When I slip into the cold each night after work, my brain is on the verge of implosion and my organs are howling. Usually, I do something about it, like dancing in my skivvies to Adele’s Rolling in the Deep, or going on a freezing night jog.

Last Thursday, was a freezing-night-jog-night. When I got home, I decided to put on my running sneakers and tread the frozen sidewalks and icy rounds of the McCarren park track.

I was so thrilled with myself, and my new i-pod, that I forgot, for the first time since I moved into my apartment, to take my KEYS. I bounded down four flights of stairs, leaped out the front door, and froze. I was LOCKED OUT.

After a moment of heart-stopping panic, I realized there was nothing to do, but go on a very, very long run, swing by my friend’s place, and take cover until my roommate got home at midnight.

Disaster temporarily averted, I set off down the darkened, snowy sidewalks. My legs were elastic and limber, firing like brand new, well-oiled pistons. Filled with energy and reconciled to the idea that there was no going back to my apartment anyway, I proceeded to jog several miles. The cold nibbling at my face, my lungs hot and active – I was happy for the first time that day.

McCarren Park Track!

Finally winded, I decided to walk the last leg to my friends’ home. But as I cooled down, the cold crept under my clothing. I was wearing thin jogging gear, none of which was particularly insulated, and my sweat started to freeze in all sorts of uncomfortable places. Horrors!

So I ran-walked as best I could the rest of the way, and leaned into their buzzer, panting. Luckily for me, one of my friends was there, and was thoughtful enough to let me in, and serve me water. We spent the next two hours watching Woody Allen’s Manhattan. A glorious conclusion to the evening.

I had so much fun, I failed to learn my lesson:

I locked myself out again four days later.


According to my feline instincts, loosing ones keys is a manifestation of a subconscious inability to open / understand / gain access to something. What could it be???


1. If you go running in freezing weather, wear extremely warm underpants.

Confessions of an Overpriced Non-alcoholic Beverage Addict

I am addicted to overpriced, non-alcoholic beverages, which means I am also a platinum supporter of the bodegas of New York.

To give you an idea of the scope of the problem, here are a few of the bottles in my house NOW, all of which are empty:

Vita Coco
Acai Berry Juice
Zero Vitamin Water
Diet Coke
Diet Pepsi
Diet Dr. Pepper
An exciting assortment of Canada Dry Seltzers

The addiction has it’s peaks and valleys. When I’m tired and stressed out, it’s at it’s worst. The pricier the better. I storm the local bodegas and grocery stores, seeking out their Kombucha ($4.00), Zico Coconut water ($2.50), and weird berry juices that apparently make you “Zap Fat!”

On Tuesday night I came home late, after a long day, and when I emptied my backpack, I found five empty bottles! That’s right, FIVE. I realized I must be using these drinks as a coping mechanism for a deeper psychological pathology.

After a late night self analysis session, I decided that I may suffer from an Ophelia complex, in which I am trying to drown myself in synthetic vitamins, aspartame and bacteria. Or, maybe it’s a purely aesthetic addiction and I am victim to the unbearably delectable packaging of fruity, caffeinated and pro-metabolic fluids. Or maybe I’m a zombie of the woman’s health movement and am falling victim to the mythology that juice diets so work.

Glug, glug, glug.



But today, I had a potentially revelatory breakthrough. I was particularly sleep deprived this morning, and as a result, aching for the priciest beverages I could find. Around noon, I ventured from my work place and walked over to Fairway, home to an impressive collection of non-alcoholic, overpriced beverages. I went straight for the Kombucha department and selected their “Original” flavor. I purchased it with a feeling of accomplishment and anticipation.

Later on in the day, as I finished up the drink, I inhaled a blob of bacterial growth that had been lurking at the bottom of the bottle. It resembled the consistency of snot. I was so shocked, I spewed the bacteria-snot-blob onto my computer monitor.

“Ack! Never again!”

We’ll see how long that lasts.

Yours truly,

The overpriced, non-alcoholic beverage fiend –

Rosie (the Cat)

I spilled overpriced coffee on this one...


1. Overpriced Non-alcohoic Beverages are not the answer.
2. Maybe overpriced alcoholic beverages are…

A GUIDE! How to find toilet paper in Key Foods

It was Friday night, and I was struggling down the aisles of Key Foods, lugging eight bottles of wine, in search of toilet paper. Eighty people were going to pass through my apartment that night, and if I didn’t find the toilet paper, eighty people would be stranded in my bathroom with q-tips and a hand towel.  They would be arriving in just over an hour. And I hadn’t showered. And I was still sporting my best Banana Republic suit from an interview at a law firm earlier in the day. When reality boils down to locating toilet paper in Key Foods, you know life is really heading for the dumps.

Fresh! In the imperative.

A young man was struggling towards me, carrying a twenty-pound bag of dog food.  At fifteen feet, he was cute enough to qualify as a potential mate! At ten, a potential date. At five feet, alas. Probably not. And he was grimacing at me. That’s when I realized I was bleeding profusely from my right hand and blood was splattered all over the sleeve of my Banana Republic suit jacket.

Sucking on my finger, I struggled back to the cashiers and interrupted them as they scanned.

“I’m sorry but where is your toilet paper?”


“Your TOILET PAPER. Where IS it?” This was starting to get embarrassing. Must one yell about these sorts of things?

“Aisle four.”

“Great! Thanks.”

Why was it so great that the toilet paper was in aisle four?

As I stumbled towards aisle four, still sucking on my finger, I considered the poetic significance of my injury.  If there was already blood on my suit, I was clearly not supposed to take the job.

The Job Interview…

At one o’clock that afternoon, I was sitting alone in a windowless room on the 19th floor of a terrifying corporate tower. Think faux rubber tree plants, a conference table and plush pinkish brown armchairs.  I had just met with the girl whose position I would be taking (marketing and recruiting for a law firm. DREAR.) , and I was waiting for her boss. The idea of working there was already giving me a splitting headache.

When my hypothetical boss walked through the door I gasped (in my mind).  She looked like a cross between Shelley Duvall, an anteater and Ursula from The Little Mermaid, only terribly thin. She was wearing a glittery purple and bronze dress with knee high riding boots.

“So do you have any questions for me?”

“Questions? Ahh. Hmmm. Ahh… Let me think. Well, um, actually, no, I think I understand everything this position entails.”

“Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Well, I think I understand what marketing and recruiting means. Um, but, um, well, how did you end up working here?”

Fail. Death. Fail Death. Eat my shoes – I broke rule number one: always have a question for the employer. Ahhhhhh.  I can barely hear what she is saying.

“Well it’s great to meet you Rose. We will be in touch with you this coming week.”

“You too!”

I shook her hand and split like lightening, only faster.

Back in Key Foods with a bleeding finger…

I located the paper products in aisle four. Toilet paper found. Recycled Marcal’s looked promising. A six-pack was all I could handle. I reached out and coaxed the bag under my arm. Toilet Paper Victory!


1. When guys stare at you, it’s probably because you’re injured.
2. Run from the law / lawyers / people that work for lawyers.
3. The toilet paper is in aisle 4.