Friday, January 31, 2014

F**k You, Weather, or Why I Hate Cold, Rainy Days -- Four Minute Musings with Kitty Dementia

I hate being cold.  And I hate being wet.  The obvious exception, of course, is when emerging from a steaming hot tub at a five star Canadian ski resort and being handed a toasty towel by an adorable pool boy who quickly raises the heat by promising a world class shopping experience nearby and letting his gaze rest a little too long on my rack.  But that's it.  That is the only time I find it acceptable to be wet and cold.  And there's a reason for that.  Several actually.....

1)  I come from Puerto Rican blood.  That means I am genetically predisposed to thriving in warm, sunny environments that promote strappy sandals over soppy snowboots.  In other words, being cold is not in my DNA.  IT CAN AND QUITE POSSIBLY MAY KILL ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Is there a little Viking in me from my Danish grandmother?  Probably.  But that is recessive.  Very very recessive.  Because the Boriqua triupmphs over any and all other genes. 

2)  I live in Florida.  The Sunshine State.  WTF?????  Go back and check your brochure.  NOWHERE does it mention freezing rain, gray skies, and flooding potholes.  When it looks like Eeyore and the Snow Miser have collaborated on the weather, I feel like I've been cheated.  Scammed.  Like I stood in line for 4 hours on Black Friday for a Super Wii-Xbox only to reach the checkout and get handed an offbrand Operation game.  Not the same thing at all.  You lied, Florida, you shady bitch.

3)  Nobody looks good in sweatpants.  Ever.

4)  No matter what you do, short of literally lighting your toes on fire, you cannot warm them up when they are wet and cold.  I can put on the fuzziest fluffiest socks,  socks that look like they were jacked from Muppet Studios, and my toes will still feel like a bag of Sam's Club frozen meatballs.  And if your toes are cold, you are cold. Period. 

5)  It just makes me sad.  Despondent.  Glum.  Meloncholy.  Wobegone.  There's something about the drizzle that sucks the joy out of me.  I'm usually a happy girl -- I love tutus and tiaras, glitter and glitz.  I love Doris Day and Disneyworld.  I love Sunshine.  And Lollipops.  And Rainbow's for fuck's sake!!!!!  I AM PINK!!!!!!!!!!!!  I DON'T DO GRAY!!!!!

So there it is.  My rant on the rain.  My column on the cold.  My manifesto on why Manolo's trump mukluks. I hope that wherever you are you are feeling the sun on your face and the sand between your toes.  If not, I hope you are close to the mall.  Because with a new lipstick, a fruity drink, and a pair of sassy sandals you can fake it.  And that's a Kitty skill worth learning.

Love you all,

HRH Lady Kitty Dementia

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

So here we go.......

As promised to millions of eager readers -- ok, rewind..... As promised to my cousin Jowi and a few other kind and placating friends, here it is.... my attempt at channeling all that sarcasm and wit that pulses through my veins with such vapidness into something that may, in fact, actually do some good out there.  Maybe it will make you smile.  Maybe it will make you cry.   Maybe it will make you question if I took my meds before sitting down at the keyboard.  If nothing else, hopefully it will make you think. 

Why four minutes?  The answer is simple really.  As a working wife and mother and card carrying competitive shopper, four minutes is about all I really get at any one time.  And by that logic, four minutes is about all I can expect you to commit to these rants.  Madonna and Justin Timberlake, two people I consider to be incredibly credible sources on the topic of how much time one really needs to save the world, told us we only get four minutes.  So four minutes it is.  And like any other registered member of the Justice League of America whose superpower is shopping ( I can't be the ONLY one....), I bet I can also pull off a fabulous pair of Kate Middleton worthy nude pumps before the buzzer goes off.

And with that, I leave you breathless, anxious, desperate.  I leave you, I'm sure, with your right pointy finger frantically rolling that little wheel on the mouse looking for more.  There will be more, I promise.  And there will be shoes.  By God, there will be shoes.

love ya,
or as my friends call me,
Her Royal Highness, Lady Kitty Dementia