Tag Archives: Rosie duPont

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

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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.

Outpost
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.

Good GRIEF.

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!”

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)

MeKnowHowNow

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.

Love,

Rosie (the Cat)

Tats 4 Tips

1. Put your money in the bank.

obsessive grooming is overrated.

These days, I am hostess at a hip restaurant on the Bowery. Everyday, when I peer into my closet before work, and try to piece together an outfit, I get stomach pains. I am not cool enough to work at this restaurant. This is a restaurant where everyone has really good hair and expensive pants. They do not have frizzy fly-aways or cow licks or limp bangs. Nor do they have dorky pants they bought for a soulless office job last summer.

Ohhhh, but friends, I do. I DO. AND I WORE THEM TO WORK. And my HAIR: A story best told in this brief anecdote:

On my third day at work, my manager came up to me, waved his hands at my face, as though he was performing some kind of magic trick and said –

“This… has got to change.”

By “this”, I was unsure whether he meant my face, my sad half-smile or my entire being, but I took the critique with a wide-eyed grin. Then he said –

“Hold on, I’ll get you a hair thing.”

What a relief! I did not need to get a new life. Just a new hairdo. I guess air drying your hair, sleeping on it in a weird position and then leaving it down is not the way things roll on the Bowery.

Despite my hideous pants and lackluster hairdos, I’ve got a touch with customers, most of which I chalk up to my “great smile.”

My “great smile” is comprised of two generous cheeks, and two large dimples. Some customers may find my cheeks overwhelming, but there are definitely some men who LOVE dimples – and they are usually men with dimples themselves. I can’t TELL you the number of times I gotten men with dimples making really hilarious jokes about how, if we had a kid, their whole face would be one giant dimple. (gross.)

There is a redemptive message though contained in these off-color pick-up lines: grooming isn’t everything. My hair may look like a dishtowel, and my pants may look like a melted kitchen mit, but gosh darn-it, it’s the smile that counts.

Proof that obsessive grooming is over-rated.

Rosie (the Disheveled) Cat

Vermin City vs. Angry Kitty

Since moving into my lovely apartment this August, I have become acquainted with all sorts of vermin.

Cat vs. Cockroach

Cockroaches

Mice

Hairy-Drain MONSTERS

Toothpaste Goobers

Turd-Terrors

The WORKS. You name it, I’ve had it. You might be thinking – gosh – this cat must live in a HOVEL. But truly, I don’t! I live in a cozy railroad apartment on Scholes Street, in Brooklyn NY. So I am forced to chalk up my extensive experience with vermin to three things, only one of which is my fault:

  1. Occasionally lackluster cleaning efforts.
  2. Neighbors.
  3. New York City.

1. Cleaning counts, it’s true. But I do my dishes, and try to sweep every full moon. So I’d say I am only marginally involved in my cockroach problem.

2. I have several neighbors that live in a junkyard / squatters settlement behind my building. The exact nature of my neighbor’s employment / lifestyle / rent / legal situation remains somewhat ambiguous. Whatever it is that they do, it involves three things: Beer, Junk, and Reggaeton. Oh yes – and VERMIN. Vermin LOVE junkyards. Or perhaps, they love fleeing junkyards for warm cozy homes located nearby. Whatever the case may be, I blame some of my vermin encounters on the junkyard.

3. New York City is, as you know, home to 10 million humans. What you probably try not to think about is that it is also home to 15 BILLION cockroaches, 10 billion mice and 5 billion rats. They have to live somewhere, so why not my apartment?

I think you’ve got the picture. Now for the horror story:

Last Tuesday, I had an encounter to beat all encounters. I came face to face with a vermin so frightening, so mythological, so demonized in this fair city, that I must record the event for the sake of my readership and posterity. Let it be known:

I encountered every New York City cat’s greatest enemy: The NEW YORK CITY RAT.

Where did I encounter him?

In my KITCHEN!

The encounter went something like this: I was lying in bed (my bedroom is right off the kitchen) reading John Updike’s Rabbit Redux and through the bedroom wall, I could hear my roommate watching Twin Peaks, which, if any of you have had the opportunity to watch it, you know that the scariest part of the TV series is the soundtrack.

So I was lying there, reading, when I heard something in the kitchen. It sounded like plastic bags rustling. Drawn out of the novel, I looked up and listened more closely. The rustling continued. My heart rate peaked. We keep our plastic bags under the kitchen sink, which is right next to a window, which leads out onto a fire escape, which leads into the backyard, which is right next to the squatter’s settlement, which is filled with potential ROBBERS/RAPISTS/DRUG ADDICTS/SERIAL KILLERS/VAMPIRES/ZOMBIES. I pushed myself up on my elbows and peaked into the kitchen. I couldn’t see anyone, but then again, they may have already entered and be hiding on top of the refrigerator. I realized that the only thing to do was to run into the kitchen and catch the offender red handed. That way, I’d be on the offensive. If I waited, he/she/it could come into my bedroom, and then where would I be? So I put down my book, got up and pushed my bedroom door open all the way. I looked around the kitchen – nobody on the refrigerator! A big sigh of relief. Then I looked down. HORRORS!

A RAT – the size of a prairie dog – was staring me down! If my feline instincts had been functioning, I would have pounced right then, and strangled him. But I was paralyzed, and started screaming instead. As I started screaming, the rat scurried away into the kitchen sink cabinet, his five-inch tail, the width of a human finger, bidding me farewell. By the time my roommate, Melanie, was in the kitchen, the beast was gone, and I was still standing there, helpless. When I told her what happened, she and I started screaming again, in unison. Then she grabbed the duct tape and said –

“I know! Let’s tape him into the cabinet!”

“Ok!” I said.

While I cowered in the corner, Melanie bravely taped the beast into the cabinet along with our Clorox and plastic bags.

We went for days without using Clorox. Finally, when we did an investigation of the site of intrusion, we found a large hole in the side of our building underneath the sink. Ewww.

So we called the super, (he didn’t answer) and then we called the exterminator (he still hasn’t come…) and then, we got POISON. I haven’t seen the rat since, but that hole is still there…. so… it looks like this angry kitty will just have to come to terms with the vermin city she calls home.

Rosie (the Angry Kitty)