Thursday, February 25, 2010


Look who has a new roommate!

Due to some complicated family disasters, I have been given the OK to welcome pets into my apartment! Soooo . . . everyone meet Emily, the cat I've had since I was 14. Which makes her a dottering old woman in cat years. Like Carol Channing.

Actually, Em is a lot like Carol Channing. She's always had this aura of raggedy-ness to her, like we just pulled her out of a dumpster -- even though she's been a pampered indoor cat since kittenhood. Apparently, you can take the kitty out of the derelict house in Revere, but you can't take the derelict house in Revere out of the cat.

She's also totally wacky and acts like a dog. She comes dutifully when called, but only if you say her name in this high pitched sing-song voice "Eeeeemmmmmmilllllllieeeee!"

I suspect Emily was the runt of the litter, and never quite got the hang of basic cat behavior. She has shitty balance. She will take five minutes to psych herself up for the epic leap from sofa to floor. She never quite got the hang of the cat tongue-bath, either. Instead of finding a discreet corner and grooming herself, she'll crawl into your lap, lick your hand, and then rub herself against it. This is either incredibly lazy or incredibly brilliant.

Emily is also skinny as a crackwhore, dispite the fact that she loves to eat, and will often eat so fast that she pukes. The only way I was able to lure her out from under a chair yesterday was with the promise of yummies:

I was a little afraid that the move to the big city would be traumatic for a cat who has only the left the confines of my parents' house a few times in her entire life. But she is adjusting rather well, and is slowly starting to explore . . .

Even she is horrified by the condition of my ancient kitchen floor.

Emily and I share a mutual love of watching TV, so that's what we did for much of yesterday:

"That Dr. Phil is full of shit! Put on Tyra!"

"And get that camera out of my face, bitch!"

And while I'm still paranoid that the apartment is not totally cat-proofed, we seem to be settling in nicely here! And now, when I'm talking out loud to myself or the TV, its like I'm ostensibly talking to Em.

Meow meow meow meow meow meow!

Friday, February 19, 2010

Wednesday, February 17, 2010


As my previous post so cleverly (read: lazily) illustrated -- I had a birthday!

I turned 27 on 2/7. Which seemed only mildly cool until I started to figure out the "magic" birthdays of other members of my family, and realized that not everyone lives to see this numerological milestone. For example, my brother will have to wait until he turns 127 on 12/7. Sorry, Ev.

Anyway -- birthdays are always an excuse for festivity, magic number or not! I definitely dragged the celebrating out for a whole weekend. A weekend full of booze, fried food, and waffles.

And it was glorious!

So after a delicious party-bender, I returned to the gym for my Monday afternoon session with Ron. I was feelin' ok -- a little bloated, maybe, but certainly not hungover.

"Are you ready for me?" Ron asked.

"Sure!" I blithely replied, as I wandered over to the weight room and plunked myself down on the giant rubber exercise ball.

Five minutes later, I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. The muscles in my arms felt like they'd been replaced with waffles.

"Are you sweating maple syrup?" asked the 6-foot talking lobster with Ron's voice.

"I'm dying!" I groaned, and rolled ever so gracefully off the ball and onto the floor. Where I planned to remain until Spring.

"Party too hard?" Ron asked, as he pressed some slightly-less torturous 3lb dumbbells into my hands.

"It was my birthday weekend," I said.

"Ahhhhh . . ." Ron said, as he propped my limp body up against a wall. "Seven reps, you can do it . . . ok, seven more . . ."

Ron was not about to let me off easy, even though I was about to let loose a weekend's worth of junk-food all over his sneakers. I'd had my fun, and now Ron -- and my pathetically uncooperative body -- were going to make me pay for it.

At this moment, I hated Ron. The same hot, prickly, frustrated rage I felt towards every gym teacher and soccer coach I've ever had. Why are you making me do this? I can't! Not today. I can't.

It turns out, I could. And I did. Ron cut the end of the session a little sort and let me off without much of an ab workout. He was probably also afraid that I was about puke all over him. I limped and crawled frantically out of the gym like I was escaping from some sort of POW camp.

Never again, I thought to myself. That SUCKED.

At first, I blamed Ron. Couldn't that bastard cut me a break? It was my birthday . . . er . . . month, after all! I was pissed. And . . . disappointed.

I'd been feeling so good about my little baby-steps of gym progress. Lifting weights and doing crunches had made me feel strong and powerful and capable. Like my body was a well-tuned machine, instead of a doughy sack of insecurities. I was on the road to becoming a stronger, healthier, less insane me . . . and now I was back to square one. Cue the crying and shame eating.

It's taken a little time to shake off the frustration. I'm realizing, though, that getting in shape really takes a certain amount of commitment. I've always rolled my eyes at people who get up at 5am on Christmas Day to get in their workout or whatever . . . but I'll bet those people feel pretty damn good when they're done.

Yes, there are going to be days when my brain says, "Eff it, Tea -- let's skip the gym today. You went yesterday, you can go tomorrow!" Or, "Life sucks, have another beer!" I can choose to listen to that voice -- and there will probably be times when I do -- but there will be consequences. I will feel like ass the next day. My strength training will come to a standstill, and workouts will get harder. I will continue hallucinate that Ron is a giant crustacean.

Basically -- I gotta make a commitment. Which, for a commitment-phobe like moi, is scary shit. But I also need to choose what's more important to me -- feeling good in the long term, or self-gratification in the short term.

Heady stuff, man. And I thought I was just signing on to drop a few pounds for bathing suit season!

This week, I'm gonna get back in the saddle and commit to the plan. Four strength training workouts a week -- 1 with Ron, 3 on my own. That's 2 Upper Body Days, 2 Lower Body Days. I'm also gonna be brave and hit up the Sunday morning yoga class. I'm gonna include my Couch to 5k training sessions as warm-ups before my strength training sessions.

I don't have to do everything perfectly, but I have to make the effort. Time makes things easier -- but only if you stick with it!

Sticking with things has never been a strength of mine. But this is all about getting stronger -- in every sense of the word.

Saturday, February 13, 2010


1. February is a short month.

2. As is customary with my magic-short-birthday month, I have been doing a lot of eating/drinking/partying!

3. Blogging, not so much.

4. I have seen lots of lovely bands:

5. I ate wondrous pomme frites while bicycles twinkled above me . . .

6. I hung out with the locals and watched J.Bo's karaoke-DJ destiny be fulfilled!

7. We also played darts . . .

8. Apparently, I have taken very few photos in the month of February. I must rely on stock-images from the internets!

9. But Libby did come over and take pictures of me for her photography school assignment. Hello, Libertine!

10. My apartment smells like springtime:

11. On my birthday, I had a lovely massage here:

12. The massage lady was very nice. Especially after I fell asleep on the table.

13. Chicken and waffles changed my life!!

14. You should all stop reading this blog and go, immediately, to Tupelo in Inman Sq. I'll wait for you to get back.

15. And while I'm waiting, I will think about how lame all the Superbowl ads were.

16. Except for the one with Betty White:

17. Chelsee and I have seen lots of movies, in preparation for the Oscars.

18. I love this girl:

19. This girl, too:

20. And speaking of Carey Mulligan, An Education sparked some serious "50's-style-retro" cravings. The cure?

21. Diners . . .

22. . . . and shopping for vintage goodies.

23. I found these old school menus, which will make lovely art for my kitchen . . .

24. I also found $600 Chanel pumps for $68!

25. But now it's time to get back on the bandwagon. Less shopping/partying/waffles, more job-hunting/FAFSA-filing/weight lifting!

26. I promise my next update will feature more words . . . and perhaps some wacky stories of my gym exploits. That's what the readers want, yes?

27. For now -- here's to my lucky year!