day 1

For my birthday, my brother bought me a plane ticket to New York City. Seeing as how I happen to find New York City about as pleasant as a plague of locusts at a dinner party, this might at first glance seem to be a gag gift bordering on the malicious. However, my beloved K, my CFF, the gentleman and scholar who is my favorite person in the entire universe, having surpassed even Stephen Fry and Neil deGrasse Tyson (the nail in their coffin was when K gifted me with a pair of socks bearing a songbird pattern and the words "Pimpin Ain't Easy)... this freewheeling man-about-town has of late transferred his residence yet again, and now bases his nefarious operations where else but in the introvert-paralyzing, subway-redolent, admittedly-adorable-dog-jam-packed borough of Manhattan.

Aw, dammit.

So I went to New York City for a couple of weeks. Let's start that story now.

We went to Chelsea Market for lunch today, having, as usual, slept through any hour that could reasonably be called breakfast. Chelsea Market is currently decorated for Halloween. A waterfall of blood pours down one wall, which is almost certainly a health code violation. Deformed infants pop from carriages with tinny wails, observed by lackadaisical children who probably saw scarier stuff on the subway ride over. Cobwebs dangle, threatening to drop into cups of gelato and artisanal sandwiches. We ate "Japanese-inspired Mexican" at Takumi. Whoever received this inspiration was probably quite high on a number of cool drugs, but I can't complain about the food, because it was a burrito that contained edamame, and who the hell am I to complain about something like that?

K abandoned me to go to work and make them fat staxx. I was left alone, full of burrito, confused, lost, purposeless except for one burning, singular motive - I knew I had to find somewhere to buy toilet paper, because at the apartment, we were all out.

Here is something fun about grocery shopping in Manhattan: it is the worst experience ever and you should never do it, you should just starve and die and go away. I ended up buying toilet paper, paper towels (cleanliness!) and a two-pack of toothbrushes (value!) at a CVS, paying double what I'd have paid at the Trader Joe's in Chelsea for the breathtaking luxury of not having to stand in a line that wound LITERALLY TWO THIRDS OF THE WAY AROUND THE STORE, YOU GUYS. IT'S OUT OF CONTROL. THIS WAS AT 3:00 PM ON A WEEKDAY. SORRY FOR THE FULL CAPS, BUT COME ON, THAT'S JUST OUTRAGEOUS, WOULDN'T YOU AGREE?

The act of obtaining personal necessities robbed me of all my remaining strength and energy. I returned back to K's swank, albeit sterile, high-rise corporate housing (permanent lodging TBD, will probably be less schmancy, but considerably more personable, god willing) to complain about everything to all of you people, and drink the beer that I bought at this store that reminded me of Madison Market on cocaine. This beer is called "Raging Bitch," which is why I bought it. Here in Manhattan, I am a quietly raging bitch, going about my day seething on the inside in a powerfully West Coast style that no one here understands.

Briefly.

All other things being equal, there's not much we vet assistants enjoy more than bursting open a nice, juicy cat abscess.

In a little less than two weeks, I go to New York to visit my clever beau, and to go on missions throughout the city, exploring, prowling in search of carousels and high-quality pastry. Until then, I'm working and working, distractedly watching the occasional movie, cuddling as many animals as will hold still long enough, and acting casual.

Tonight's film, I watch in the apartment of my best girl and her best man. They've got a spacious Columbia City two-bedroom with funky furniture and art on the walls. One cat, Jibs, is aged and haughty. Her huge, lamplike eyes and alert, vaguely judgmental ears give her the appearance of a conservative owl who's just seen something that offends it on a deeply personal level. The other cat, Hoagie, greets everyone from family to strangers at the door, wagging his tail like a dog. Picking him up is like picking up a warm, hairy, delighted sack of potatoes - heavy, soft, and thrilled just to be loved by you.

Tomorrow: declaws, hugs, the word "sir."