Putting The Cat In Cataclysm

So it's been raining torrents for the past couple of days here in Toronto, scuttling yet another summer's weekend and naturally indicating that The Reckoning is upon us. And so I spent the afternoon doing what most folks do on soggy Sundays - recovering from last night's ping pong tourney and searching for survival gear for Bucky. I mean, Bucky's cute, but he ain't no Michael Phelps. And he certainly ain't no Hawkeye. Hawkeye's da bomb. He sashays underwater like Esther Williams in Dangerous When Wet. When I showed Bucky this clip of Hawkeye in action, he just yawned and said that Hawkeye clearly didn't care about the effects of chlorine on his coat. And that the "mangy" (his words, not mine) Mutley was surely flea-ridden.

Methinks someone feels a little outshone...It's clear, however, that Bucky will never don a self-contained breathing apparatus and so I was forced to shop around for feline floatation devices, lest he squander his nine lives. Aside from the requisite Hello Kitty boots:

I figured I'd also pop for one of these nifty Float-A-Pet flotation collars (link via engadget):

And, of course, one of these uber-chic pet umbrellas. But only cause Bucky loves Rihanna.
Recognizing that The Reckoning will likely entail more than a Biblical deluge, I'd have been remiss if I hadn't also investigated other pet survival items such as the pet earthquake jacket:

This little piece of sartorial safety gear comes replete with aromatherapy that will help ward off the stench of decomp. Or in Toronto's case, the 2009 CUPE garbage strike (link via luxurylaunches and geekologie).

And if things should go all The Day After, Bucky would be completely covered. Literally:

Course Bucky could really care less about all the preparations I'm mulling over. He's more interested in grooming his privates and napping on his very dry couch like an insolent teen. But proper parenting ain't about gratitude - it's about worrying now so you don't worry later as the survivalists like to say. And about self-soothing with booze. Preferably Heineken.

Pamela Westoby guesting and ghosting while Barker cottages. Likely in the rain. If you like this, you might just like my book Hoyden and my flickr!

This Recession Needs More Rachel!

God, it's been a good week. I just ate a bunch of jube-jubes. The remaining time left on the Bush clock can be counted in hours. No one perished on flight 1549. And The Rachel Zoe Project officially launched on Cosmopolitan TV in Canada. What more could a reality TV junkie ask for? We should all thank our lucky stars. Maybe it's the jube-jubes talking, but The Rachel Zoe Project, a Bravo born program, is chock full of all things delicious and delusional. I adore the fact that, during this time of catastrophic job cuts and widespread foreclosures, our dear Rachel is concerned with nothing more than collecting the next Birkin bag and hiding the purchase from her hubby. I mean, I know that's what I'm doing. Except replace "Birkin bag" with "baked beans" and "hubby" with "cat" and you've pretty much hit it head on. Bucky goes as crazy for old Bush Brothers as Rachel does for vintage Balmain. That's right. My kitty goes bananas for cured bacon. That and I think he's got a crush on Duke. But I digress. Despite the ridiculous focus on all things fashion and the wide divide between Rachel's rarified air and the rest of the pedestrian populus, this show is beyond addictive. Between the warring assistants Brad and Taylor, the pursuit of insane couture and the quips of "Do you die?" and "Shutting it down", Rachel and her entourage prove the perfect remedy to roaming the list of want ads and Walmart Deals of the Week. And in the process she actually seems likeable, which, for the Stylist Formerly Known As Raisinface, is quite the feat. Simply put, for me The Rachel Zoe Project provides the sweet escape necessary during these harsh economic times. That is beyond the Heineken and shots of Goldschlagger. Oh, and for you lucky duck Yanks out there, there's even a chance to meet Ms. Zoe. From Obama to Target, you Americans get all the fun.

Pamela Westoby still guesting and ghosting while Barker tans his tush. If you like this, you might just like my book Hoyden!