C-Word(s)

I am a young, urban, professional--a yuppie.   Finally, I've reached my goal.  And not unlike in "American Psycho" and Huey Lewis songs, I feel that it is "hip to be square".  So instead of adopting an African baby like swanky hipsters such as Madonna or the Jolie-Pitt klan does, I am adopting the un-hippest thing I can think of.  I have several name choices.  But my favorite is "the C-word".   C is for... that's right, Cat!   I am so excited.   Tomorrow I am driving up to Columbus to pick up my (already spayed) little bundle of joy.  She is a rescue, 3 years old, who likes purring and sitting on laps--ideal for my love-sponguing ways.  Picture Elmira from Tiny Toons.  That will be my cat and I's relationship.

Isn't she adorable?  I don't know why people dislike Cats.   I like most animals, but it isn't beyond me that some animals eat their own excrement and need other people to scoop up their excrement in little plastic baggies or it gets left in people's yards.   Cats are discerning.  Like a fine wine.   They only agree with some people's palates.   Also worth noting, most "dog people" don't end up hoarding an amount of dogs which allows several to die  and be buried under piles of debris without anyone noticing, but as A&E has taught us, "cat people" do.   So you know, you take the good, you take the bad.   I know that my personality is sub-par, and my looks will fade... so I might as well embrace my crazy cat lady ways instead of fighting them.  I find my attitude very zen. Disclaimer:   When I start trying to throw a birthday party for C.C., my C-word, that's when it's gone too far.  

Speaking of C-words...I have another new one in my life.  A car.   Going against the grain of frumpy cat-lady.   I have secured myself a sexy car--a 2008 Acura TSX.   Silver.   Black leather interior.  

I'm re-reading this, and this is a dull blog about my NEW ACURA SPORTS CAR.   What?!  Is it true working in an office, surrounded by buzz-words like "deliver the mission," and "positive leadership experience" has dulled my otherwise razor sharp wit?  Will I someday, somewhat defensively, pull up this blog and point to it violently, "See! See!  I used to have funny stories!  I used to make dick jokes!"  Will I be saying that while I pet one of my seventeen cats, wear a beige pantsuit, and worry about whether the micro suede on the coach will repel the stain from the weak tea I now like to drink (because the caffeine in coffee disturbs my ulcer)?    I need to work on keeping sharp.   Maybe my boyfriend's right... maybe the cat is the first step to a slow and steady decline.