Saturday, May 28, 2005

As many stray cats as there are in New York City, you would think it would be easy to just go to a shelter and pick out a cat. This is what you would think, right? Don’t be fooled.

To adopt a homeless cat in Manhattan, you have to go through screening like you’re being hired for the CIA. It’s amazing to me because a person can honestly pick up a cat off the street faster than they can adopt one from a shelter. And at a shelter, you have to actually PAY for the cat! You might as well pick them up off the streets!

The kitty we found in a trash can in Bed-Stuy last year was driving us absolutely crazy, so we decided to get her a friend so we could be driven crazy by two cats. Good idea, huh? After months of looking on, we decided it would be best to go to the Humane Society.

Reputable shelter = healthy homeless cat.

It took us weeks to get our kitty. First, we had to fill out an application. They needed references! And they actually called them! Second, we went through questioning. Is your cat declawed? How long have you had him/her? Where did you find him/her? How many cats have you had in your lifetime? And the questions went on. When we finally picked one out at the Humane Society, they said there was a waiting period to make sure we wanted the cat!

I think these shelters get attached to the cats and they don’t want them to be adopted. And I think I really may be on to something here. It’s sad because some of these cats have probably never seen or even remember what it looks like outside. All they know are cages. But I’m serious; each cat we looked at had a story as to why it couldn’t be adopted. “That one bites.” Duh, it’s a cat!

I was the perfect candidate for adopting a cat from a shelter. There was no way they could turn me down. I’ve had four cats in my lifetime; two of them I picked up off the streets. My fiancé on the other hand, has only had the cat we found last year in the trash.

After the waiting period was complete, I called to reiterate to the woman at the shelter that, yes, we WANTED the cat! To which she replied to me, “We are concerned as to whether or not your fiancé was excited about the cat.”


Like I said, it’s easier to pick a cat up off the street. But I’m happy we stuck by our decision because now we have a healthy happy cat… and it’s not homeless anymore.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

Last night as Charlie and I were walking home from Applebee’s, out of the corner of my eye, I see a big THING running full-force towards us. Running across the street of Dekalb Avenue, is a pit-bull… and let me mention that there was no owner in sight.

Most people would be in panic if they saw a pit-bull running towards them, but as a child I learned that dogs can smell fear. And believe me when I tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of any animal. Of course, I’ve never been face to face with a wildcat…. but I swear I may be one of those people in the jungles of Africa saying “Here kitty-kitty.”

This pit-bull sighting is something you’d only see in New York. Maybe it’s because there is an abundance of these animals in Brooklyn, but I can’t see myself in Virginia Beach walking down the street and coming face to face with this kind of dog with no owner. As a matter of fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a pit-bull in my parent’s neighborhood in my entire life.

So there I am pulling out the cell phone calling someone to come pick up this poor lost dog that is running crazy on busy streets of Brooklyn. My first instinct is to call 911… in my eyes, this is an emergency! But Charlie gets me to call 311, which is the phone number New Yorkers call for “not-so-emergencies” emergency.

Please note that it’s 9:30 at night on a Friday.

A dispatcher answers and tells me that she can’t help me, and that animal control is closed for the weekend. So my options are either taking the animal to my apartment until Monday or bringing it to a shelter. So obviously, I couldn’t take the dog to my apartment… my cat would have probably gone into shock and fallen dead to the ground if she saw a big dog in her place of living. So the only REAL option is finding a shelter. But guess what? The shelter is closed.

And before I know it, after 15 minutes of keeping this dog’s attention, the dog is gone. Just as fast as he came into our sight, he’s gone just as fast. And this morning, I’m sitting here thinking of where he is, where his owners are, and hoping that that poor puppy is safe somewhere.

I know I can’t save them all, but I really wish I could.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Can someone explain to me why the women in New York who are my age have two-carat diamond rings on their finger? I am completely unimpressed. I mean, who are these girls marrying?

Everywhere I look, I see women in their mid-twenties wearing rings that I’d be afraid to wear. I have insurance on my half-carat diamond. I remember when I called up USAA to buy insurance for my engagement ring… and when they asked me the weight of my diamond, I replied: “.49.” And I’m completely cool with that. In fact, I told Charlie that I want quality over quantity and that’s exactly what I got.

[[I have to add in that my ring is GORGEOUS. Not even a two carat diamond can top my ring. My fiancé designed my ring and the diamond is flawless. It seriously couldn’t be a more clear or colorless diamond.]]

I don’t ever want to be wearing something bigger than what my Mom has. Which isn’t going to be hard for me to accomplish, because let’s face it… my Mom could be known as Mrs. T with all her jewelry. And it doesn’t hurt that my dad has the Dr. in front of his name. My mom got her big diamond after 30 years of marriage and she calls it “the Honker.” I’m assuming that needs no explanation.

But I’m back to the same question: What is it with these girls wearing these huge diamonds? What are they trying to prove? That their fiancé loves them more? I don’t think so.

These women need to stop flaunting it around like it means something, because it doesn’t. Besides, having a ring like that means you’re probably more likely to get mugged. And the truth of the matter is, and I don’t mean to stereotype…. but I feel the bigger the diamond, the more likely it is that your husband will cheat. Haven’t you people read Bergdorf Blondes?

So hold on to that diamond, baby… soon, it will be paying your alimony.

PS. And no, I’m not bitter. It’s just the dead-honest truth.