The Diary of my Part Time Cat

When I rented my house, my landlord asked, in exchange for a reduction in rent, would I feed the stray cat who lived under the deck.  Of course, I agreed.  I established a regular routine ofcat placing a bowl of food outside, and cat seemed satisfied.  One rainy night, like something out of an ASPCA commercial, complete with Sarah McLachlan
serenading in the background, he sat outside the back door, meowing to be let in.  Oh, he layed it on thick, enough that I was compelled to allow him into the house, and into our lives.

He’s a vocal cat, a tiny little dictator of sorts, which inspired us to name him Chairman Meow.  He comes and goes as he pleases, and there are times I’d hear him scribbling, but I never paid much attention to it.  Turns out, he’s kept a diary of his daily comings and goings. (What? He left it open on the kitchen floor.  Was I just supposed to NOT look at it?  Of course I did.) Apparently, the good Chairman has much on his little mind.

An excerpt from his journal…

September 15th, 2013

Infiltrated the nest.  God, humans are easy.  A handful of meows and a slight tilt in my head to let the few drops of rain run down my nose and they are putty in my paws.  Targeting tiny, boy human.  Food status: mediocre but consistent. 

September 17th, 2013

Lady human loves me. Of course she does…I’m adorable. She thinks it’s a hoot when I meow after she talks, so, I’ll just go with that and see how far it gets me.  

September 20th, 2013

So, today, lady human was talking to me in this crazy, idiotic, high pitched voice, when she produced this tiny, metallic bag.  She shook it, still talking to me about some nonsense.  No, lady…no idea what the fuck is in the bag.  Why don’t you show me.  Then she sprinkled something on the floor that looked like food, but OMG, they’re SO good.  Good enough to endure her shrieking?  Jury is still out.

October 1st, 2013

It’s been a while since my last entry for a few reasons.  First, I decided to explore a bit.  Found boy human’s sleeping space, and damn if it isn’t comfortable.  And, unlike the lady human and girl human, he’s quiet.  And still.  Nice place to nap.  I tried letting someone know I needed to get the hell out of dodge this morning, but my meows fell on deaf ears. Taking a shit on a pile of clothes left on the bathroom floor seemed to get their attention.  It also got me banished from the house temporarily.  Note to self, don’t shit on their stuff.  Humans don’t like that.  Meh, whatever.

October 3rd, 2013

HOLYCRAAAAAAAAAPLADYHUMANGAVEMEATOYANDITSMELLLLSSOOOOOOOOGOOODZOMGGG

October 5th, 2013

Dude.  Cat Nip bender and I lost a few days.  No idea what happened.  All blank, except for waking up on my side and feeling the urge to kick the crap out of whatever was touching my feet.  That’s all I remember.

You Think You Won’t Miss the Snoring

I haven’t shared many details of my divorce with anyone outside of my therapist’s office, mainly because droning on about the end of your marriage elicits a similar reaction to when you swipe left one too many times looking through someone’s pictures on their phone, and you see far too much of Linda and her penchant for nudie Judy’s, and, well, suffice to say listening to someone’s divorce story is a lot like seeing your friend Linda’s naked ass.

Exposed, uncomfortable, and a stark reminder that maybe your own goddamned life isn’t so bad.

The only thing worse than talking about the demise of your marriage is the aftermath, which, at a certain age, likely includes online dating.  Fresh, new, interesting men don’t just flutter into my life like they did in my 20’s, when I met new people on the regular.  At 40, I’m lucky I’m not wearing the same pair of yoga pants for 3 days in a row, and the highlight of my week is making some domestic discovery (this week: Downy UnStoppables.  HOLY. SHIT. They are perhaps the greatest invention of our time) or organizing the crap out of some crevice of my car.

I enjoyed alphabetizing the paperwork in my glove compartment far more than a human should.

But, here I am. And sure, companionship would be lovely.  To include someone in my life, and share the minutia of my day, maybe grab a drink or dinner and a movie on the weekends, someone to hole up with on the couch to explain to me the ridiculousness that is Game of Thrones, to play Twister on some idle Thursday evening, or someone to annoy me with their snoring.

Not a lot. Truly.  Just something, nothing short of a John Hughes plot line.

Dating at 40, so far, equates to learning to drive a stick shift.  It seems so daunting at first, juggling the gas and brake and clutch, then you start to get the hang of it on a nice flat surface, then you get a little cocky and try climbing a hill from a dead stop, then everything goes to hell.  And, you quit briefly, but you try again and you’re so goddamned determined to get it right because there must be some magic, somewhere in the whole process.

I’ve met the married guy, who wanted to “see what else was out there” before he made the decision about staying in his marriage or not.  I went on a few dates with a guy who flatly refused to talk on the phone.  Any and all communication between us happened via text, which made for a shitty dating experience, but hilarious screenshots to my friends.  Then there was the guy, with whom I hit off immediately, who disappeared off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again, I thought, until he contacted me a few weeks later, and when confronted with his odd disappearance, explained he needed to take periodic respites “probably because of (his) complex personality.”

Y’all, I can’t make this shit up.

It’s a weird thing you learn when you’re married for a long time, then suddenly not, that while the sound of your former partner person breathing sent you into fits of rage that would make Alec Baldwin take pause, you simultaneously miss the sounds and warmth and proximity of another human being.  After fighting so hard to be single, you realize how much you miss some of the very things that annoyed the living shit out of you when you were married.  This was an unexpected side effect of divorce.

Sure, there are lonely days. but what I’ve learned in the absence of a partner is how to take an honest look at my existence, and acknowledge how good my life really is.  Like, really good.  I fill my time with a job I love, creating shenanigans and memories with my kiddos, reconnecting with old friends, annoying the crap out of my sister and parents, and rediscovering the joy of eating pizza rolls sans pants.  Wait, what?

In the end, I don’t need someone with whom to share my Hot Pockets, although that is a nice thought, so, in the meantime, I’ll just patiently wait for someone amazing to fall into my lap.  Until then, there’s always Linda.

What I Can Write While Waiting for my Eggs to Boil

Egg salad.

Pretty much the only thing I can eat right now, seeing as I’m sick with the streptococcal bronchaplague of 2015, rendering my throat something akin to steak meeting fiberglass.  And not in the good way.

Plus, as of yesterday, I’m 40. Fuck. 40, man. I distinctly remember celebrating my Dad’s 27th birthday (I was 6, for those following along at home) and thinking, “Shit.  That’s OLD.” Yes, I spoke like a tiny punk, even in 1st grade.  My body isn’t the same shape it was 20 years ago.  It has a shape, sure. Whereas I used to wear fancy, tight pants, now I more resemble Spongebob Squ…do I even really need to finish the joke?  I’m so lazy, I can’t even follow through on true, self-deprecation.  *sad trombone*

At the same time, FUCK YEAH, I’m 40!  Graduating out of my 30’s means so many great things, like…never again apologizing for a Spanx free outing. My once obnoxious demeanor suddenly classified as “sassy”.  Eye cream samples, FOR DAYS. (Because, apparently, upon entering an upscale purveyor of cosmetics, as a woman bearing wrinkles and lines and dark circles, sales peeps of said establishments bestow upon you every…single…emlusion ever made to remove said age markings, and they do it so sweetly, with their perfectly arched brows, and flawless foundation.  Oh, wait, you’re not even wearing any makeup. Whatever, Anya, the Ulta Beauty Brow Bar manager. I do love that you taught me some shit about concealer, though.  Thanks for that!) Also, massive cleavage that makes everyone in the room uncomfortable, except, for once in my life, me!

40? So far, so good.