Tag Archives: the old apartment

in which I dig in the dirt with a spoon

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself crouched beneath my neighbor’s window, using a kitchen spoon to frantically scoop dirt from their garden into a ceramic mug, all the while poised to bolt if the door opened.

And I thought to myself, “Self, how did we come to be crouched beneath our neighbor’s window, using a kitchen spoon to frantically scoop dirt from their garden into a ceramic mug, all the while poised to bolt?”

Let me explain.

A few weeks ago, one of my roommates moved out, and my friend Marx, who you may remember from some of our previous shenanigans1 moved in—huzzah! However, when the first roommate moved out, I discovered that everything that was useful in this apartment was hers, and everything that was a Cat in the Hat pennant and three copies of 500 Days of Summer on DVD was mine. So me, Marx, and our third roommate, who is making her blog debut so I will call Galactica2 have been left to refurnish what a few weeks ago was a completely furnished apartment.

Now something I relearn about myself every time I move is that I don’t like living in a state of flux. There is no gradually buying the things I need, no slow acquirement of necessities and then luxuries, no operating out of boxes until I find the time to unpack. I need a decorated apartment and I need it NOW.

So over the past few weeks, we have furnished our apartment in what can only be called a frenzied manner. The most notable acquisitions include a hundred year old steamer trunk purchased from Craigslist3, a flaming red foot locker, a free TV because Galactica has great friends, a World War II propaganda poster, a slightly incorrectly sized frame for said poster, a blue lantern in the style of Paul Revere, and some sunny yellow paint to cover what was once ghastly pea soup-colored benches.

Also some plants. Those were my idea.

You may remember that last summer I played mother to two lovely office plants, Sherlock and Mycroft. Being back in an office for the first time since then has made me yet again pine for greenery, so I made a snap decision to invest in two hanging baskets, some fern-ish things, and a flowery bush for our back deck. Then I ate a lot of food in jars with the thought I would repot the fern-ish things into these jars and be super Antorhopologie-esque5.

Except it turns out to repot something, you need dirt. Which I failed to consider.

You also, it turns out, need nerves of steel to nick this dirt from a garden that might not technically be yours but is on your property, except it’s technically not your property because you just rent the second floor, and the garden on what might or might not actually be your property is mostly cultivated by a downstairs neighbor who for no apparent reason dislikes you. Also the dirt in question just happens to be located directly underneath his office window6.

And that, kids, is the story of my now furnished apartment, my repotted plants, and my crouched spoon digging in the dirt.

 

  1. Such as the Ikea trip from Hell and our iFrankenstein opening night escapade.
  2. Because of our shared affinity for most things nerdy and awesome
  3. And a failed acquisition of a hundred year old piano, because apparently I wasn’t a “serious buyer.” Whatever that means4.
  4. Though I admit, my entire plan of how to get this piano back to our apartment was a set of bungee cords and the roof of Marx’s petite Mazda.
  5. It should be noted that I sincerely meant to take pictures of all these things to accompany this post, because a picture is worth a thousand words, or so I’ve been told, but somehow I forgot to set my alarm this morning, so blog pictures sort of slipped down the priorities list.
  6. And by the way, he has this fantastically cool pop up model of St. Basil’s Cathedral on his desk. Neighbor, you and I would probably be friends if you did not insist on hating me.
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in which a kitchen cabinet takes its own life

Last night, one of our kitchen cabinets decided it was not long for this world and threw itself to its death.

Yes that’s right. Our kitchen cabinet five feet off the ground filled with all the plates, bowls, and Tupperware three poverty-stricken young people had in the world, spontaneously decided to detach itself from the wall. Fortunately, its fall was broken by my roommate’s boyfriend1.

The plates, bowls, and a sizable Tupperware full of flour cascaded to the floor in a slow-motion waterfall of glass and ceramic. So many casualties, strewn across the kitchen floor. It looked like the after picture of a natural disaster area.

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I was not home at the time the collapse occurred. I got a confusing text from my roommate that started, “Everything’s fine.” Which usually means something is very wrong.

“Everything’s fine,” she texted me. “Except one of the cabinets fell out of the wall and into my boyfriend.”

It was the icing on the cake of an already stressful evening.

A repairman2 came by today and fixed it, so the cabinet is once again suspended where it should be. I still have a lot of lingering anxiety that it’s going to pitch forward again3, especially since I’m the only one at the apartment all weekend and this time it might be me the cabinet breaks its fall on.

I’m not sure what it is exactly that makes kitchen cabinets decide to throw themselves to their death at seven pm on a Wednesday night. But take this as a public service announcement, and a warning.

It happens.

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  1. Oh, don’t worry, he’s fine.
  2. Named Emerson, which feels very Boston appropriate.
  3. And take our surviving dishes with it.
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in which I get decorate-y

Recently, my housing situation has not been great.

And by recently, I mean for the past six months of my life.

As far back as Chicago, really, where you may remember I lived in a one room apartment with two girls and Cat1. For one, this was cramped. For two, I only got along with 1/3 of the apartment’s occupants2. For three, this was real just a terrible idea from the start. Even the chalkboard wall was not enough to make up for the fact that the Chicago studio was a less than ideal situation.

Three months later, I find myself in the exact opposite situation. I am living in a house – a large, four story colonial house, with a grand piano and newly refurbished kitchen and a bathroom that was bigger than my room at my parent’s house. And, for reasons that I griped endlessly about so they do not need to be mentioned again, I was unhappy. Extremely unhappy. The unhappiest I’ve been in a while.

So I had almost forgotten what it’s like to live somewhere that is peaceful and happy, where the thought of coming home doesn’t make me moan. Somewhere I actually want to be.

Guys – my apartment in Brookline is awesome. And it just got a million times better.

When I first came to this apartment, I decided, much to the dismay of my parents and my debit card, that I was going to get settled here. Like really settled. Like buy paint and furniture sort of settled. And I wanted to do it fast, because I was tired of feeling like I was drifting. I know myself pretty well3 and I know that, for me, a big part of being happy is being settled. Feeling a part of somewhere, rather than a guest. So these past two weeks have been dedicated to me trying to transform my bedroom from four windows and a hardwood floor to somewhere I actually wanted to hang out. Somewhere I could call my own.

I am happy to say that MISSION = ACCOMPLISHED.

My room is awesome. Totally awesome. So awesome it makes me sad that probably no one will ever see it, since I never entertain, particularly not the sort of guests that one usually shows one’s room to. So instead I have decided to show my room to the interwebs. Because you guys are like my virtual friends that I never see.

I am kicking myself for not taking before pictures to make these after pictures all the more awesome. In fact, even as I’m looking at them now, I realize there is nothing particularly special about my room. It’s just a normal person’s room4. But – and I cannot put too fine a point on this – I AM INSANELY AND DISPROPORTIONATELY EXCITED ABOUT MY ROOM!

Alright, alright, enough build up, I know you’ve all scrolled down anyway because pictures are way more exciting than words. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, my room.

…the suspense was sort of killed by the fact that you can’t see the whole room. Let’s take it in sections, shall we?

Ah. And there’s the other half. Now, for the close ups!

The above photo is my lamp, on which I wrote my favorite Hamlet soliloquy. Because what is lighting if it isn’t fantastically nerdy?

I know it looks like my dresser is in front of my closet, but this is not an actual closet – it’s a connecting door thing to the living room. Also I’m very big on photo ledges.

I painted the inside of this shelf. I was very excited about this idea.

And then, of course, my Mona Lisa – the hats! I am way prouder of this idea than I should be.

And I promise after this, I will stop talking about my awesome apartment in awesome Brookline that is FIVE MINUTES from a train stop and FIFTEEN MINUTES away from school, because I know nobody wants to hear about that. So I will stop…

…Until we get the living room finished.

  1. *shudder* Ugh Cat…
  2. Though what an awesome 1/3 Nevada was.
  3. This is a lie.
  4. If that normal person was really into books and liked to show it.
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in which I zip to a Swedish furniture store

Most of the last week of my life has consisted of me putting together furniture.

In the past week, I have put together a bed, a lamp, an end table, a mirror thing with a stand, and a bookshelf1. I have learned a lot about putting together furniture in the past seven days. Primarily that I do not enjoy it.

But my total room makeover project is coming to a close. I am starting to feel awesome about the new digs, and no longer sleeping on the floor on thin mattress like a heroin addict, so that’s good.

I decided to wrap up Project “Make the Corner Bedroom Liveable” with one final grand adventure – a trip to Ikea, the Swedish Walmart, meccca of the under-budgeted home improvement project.

There is no Ikea in Boston. There is, however, one in Stoughton, which is a thirty to sixty minute drive depending on traffic and aptitude of driver. And since I really wanted to go to Ikea, I thought it would be a great idea to grab myself a ZipCar and go. Zip on over, if you will.

Along for the ride was my friend Marx, so named because we discovered we are both white Mormon girls from Utah after she courageously announced her faith in the middle of a presentation on Karl Marx2. Marx agreed to come along and serve as navigator, as long as she got some Swedish meatballs and disassembled furniture out of the trip.

And so, tonight, at 6;00, we picked up our ZipCar, which was named Darold.

At approximately 6:06 pm, while trying to make a nineteen-point turn out of the parking lot against a cement wall, a horrible realization struck me.

Friends, I am a terrible driver.

Miserable. Hopeless. Shocking. Simultaneously sloppy and petrified.

In the six minutes it took me to figure out how to start the car3, I realized I have never driven in any state other than Utah. Never driven in any city other than Salt Lake. Never driven in downtown Salt Lake. I also do not drive on highways, and rarely drive a stretch of road that is not the one between my house and my old high school. I’ve also only ever driven two cars in my entire life. Of the three cars my family owns, I’ve been behind the wheel of one.

Suddenly, this seemed like a terrible idea.

I did not mention any of this to Marx. I hoped this would help her keep a cool head and rational state of mind. Because that would make for at least one of us.

So here I was, driving in a strange city, in the dark, in a car that was not mine, with a license that has not been used since it was renewed4.

It was easily one of the top ten most stressful experiences of my life. There were times I actually had to turn off the heat because I was sweating5.

And yet somehow, by some strange act of the God of ZipCar or Thor6, an hour later, with the neon blue and yellow sign above us glowing like a beacon of hope, we had arrived. And I was only honked at three times7.

And a set of storage boxes and a floor lamp later, I am home. Safe. Alive. And slowly, gradually, unwinding.

  1. Even though I do not, as the UPS guy asked me, have a “big strong boyfriend to put it together for me.” Feminism FTW.
  2. This may be the greatest thing that has ever come out of a reading of Das Kapital.
  3. How I wish I was exaggerating.
  4. A pink haired picture to boot.
  5. When we got out of the car, Marx said, “My feet are freezing!” And then I felt bad. Though not as bad as I did later than night, when she said, “Can you drop me off at home so I don’t have to carry my new area rug on two trains to East Cambridge?” And I had to say no, because if I didn’t have her, there is no way I would have gotten Darold the ZipCar back to where he needed to be one time.
  6. Who is not Swedish, but I think I get points for being Scandinavian.
  7. And only swore once. I was really controlling myself because Marx is a much better and more sensitive person than I am.
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in which I move

As you may or may not have noticed, I have had a bit of a trouble settling into life in Boston, primarily because of a terrible housing situation.

This terrible housing situation was living with an elderly couple in a huge Revolutionary-era house at the top of a monster hill in Lexington, MA. Now on paper, this does not sound like a particularly bad way to live. But things get rough when your landlords are fairly crazy, the house is a mile away from a bus station, and that bus station is leagues away from where you actually need to be, putting your total commute time between an hour and a half and two hours.

Yeah, Lexington kind of sucked.

When I first agreed to live here, I was…I don’t want to say misled. Let’s say I was not totally informed about just how long of a commute it would be for me to get to school. I was also not aware that the MBTA1 is the seventh level of Dante’s hell2. You’ve all read my angry posts railing against the MBTA. If you are at all close to me, I’ve probably called you and railed to you over the phone about it. But really, just getting to school and work have been a test of my patience. Plus, the whole “living in somebody else’s house” thing really sucks. It’s incredibly hard to get settled when every time I set something down, my landlady was over my shoulder sucking in her breath, cringing when I put pasta sauce in the microwave, shuddering when I set down a cup without a coaster.

So for the past two months, I have been itching to get out of Lexington.

And I am happy to say that I finally have.

I am posting this live from my brand-new3 apartment in Brookline, Massachusetts4, AKA fifteen minutes from school. Guys – it takes me FIFTEEN MINUTES TO GET TO SCHOOL! DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?!

No more walking up the steepest hill I’ve ever seen every night in the dark! No more waiting for hours at Alewife Station5 with the homeless guys sorting through the trash all around me! No more swearing at the bus as it pulls away without me! No more being stranded on the weekends because the buses don’t run! No longer will it take me an hour and a half just to get into the city! Life is again beautiful and shining!

Really, I feel like a whole new world has opened up to me. I feel liberated. Like I can finally make a life here, make this city my own. I could not be happier.

Now, to Ikea! I gotta get me something more than just a mattress on the floor to call my own.

 

  1. Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, i.e. the public transit system here
  2. Seriously Boston, you have been a major world city for three hundred years, get your act together!
  3. Fifty years old, but still! New to me!
  4. Albeit a furniture-less apartment, but hey! You can’t have everything.
  5. Which smells like pee and pigeons.
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in which I compare myself to a centaur

If I had a nickel for every time I was told that being a student was the best time of your life, I would have enough nickels to have paid in full for those very expensive best years1.

And yes, I am the first to admit, being a student is great. Being a grad student is better. You immerse yourself in something you are passionate about, study it, improve yourself and expand your knowledge about it. You surround yourself with people who push you, and compete with you, and make you better.

But at my age, being a student also presents some difficulties. Namely, limbo.

Now what I mean by limbo is that, as a student, I exist in a state where I occupy two spheres. A piece of me still lives in childhood, in the way of life I have always known, namely relative comfort and financial stability where I could afford to spend my limited funds exclusively on social engagements. But another piece of me has slipped out of that world, and trespassed across the borderlands into adulthood, where suddenly nobody is giving me food or a place to live.

And really, it’s not that one is better than another, or even that one is easier2.

What bothers me is where I am right now – stuck in a weird half-way point that is simultaneously neither of them, and also both.

Some examples:

  • I’m tired of calling my parents to ask their permission before commit to an apartment, but I’m glad they’re there to go over things when the landlord emails me the lease.
  • I’m tired of my parents going over my debit card statements, but when they offer to give me some financial support, I don’t say no.
  • I’m tired of tired of working jobs that aren’t my profession, but I don’t feel ready to commit to a real, full-time job yet.
  • I’m tired of sitting in classrooms learning about the work I’m someday going to be doing, but I’m terrified of the day when I’m actually doing that work with the possibility of real failure at it.

So as you can see, limbo is a state of perpetual dissatisfaction.

Right now, I have virtually no money, yet I am participating in a lifestyle3 that requires spending a great deal of it. That lifestyle dictates I live in an expensive city, and that I pay a lot for my education with money I do not have. I have a good job, but at 20 hours a week, I’m not exactly rolling in the dough. You see? My life is one giant contradiction.

Sometimes, I feel like I am shouldering the burdens of both an adult and adolescence. My weight feels twice as heavy because not only do I have to do things like pay bills and file my taxes, I have to learn how to pay bills and file my taxes, all the while trying to swallow the feeling that I am too young to be worrying about paying bills and filing my taxes. It’s not just the weight of a new responsibility, but it is the pressure of having to learn and have it perfect without practice.

Which makes me wonder – all those days in public high school, when I spent hours of district-required credits getting dodge balls thrown at my face or learning how to balance a chemical equation, where was the class where they teach you how to not freak out the first time somebody hands you a lease? Where was the class about learning to grocery shop in a way that didn’t end in overpaying for milk and then throwing it out a week later because you can’t drink it that fast? Or what to do when you’re living with crazy people who eat your ginger snaps, or what to do when the money runs out, or how to keep yourself on task at work when no one’s looking over your shoulder. Why the hell was I wasting space in my brain on syntax and differential equations4 when there were so many scarier things I needed to be learning about?

This is not meant to be a poor little rich girl post5. I appreciate my middle class upbringing, and the support my parents are giving me to help me get where I want to be. All I’m saying is that there are some days – many of them – when I resent the duality of my current state in life. I do not want to be half child, half adult – I don’t care which I am, I just want to be something, and know what I am. It’s like being a centaur – half of two things, but neither of them. And nobody likes a centaur6. I do not want to be half student, half professional. Half reliant, half self-sufficient. I want to stop walking the line between dependence and independence and stop feeling like a fraud in both worlds.

I am tired of being aspiring. I want to be.

  1. I’m not sure how the government feels about paying off student loans in nickels. Hold on, let me get back to you on that.
  2. It always bothered me as a kid when adults said kids have it easy, because really they don’t. Maybe they don’t worry about mortgages and debt, but they have other problems that in their world are just as earth shattering. As a writer of children’s lit, it should be no surprise that I subscribe to this category of thought.
  3. By which I mean grad school.
  4. That’s a thing, right?
  5. Only two of those words describe me, and they are not ‘little’ or ‘rich.’
  6. Speaking of things that are half animal half human, once at NPR during a table read for Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, the staff indulged in probably a good hour of discussion about the reverse mermaid, which they named the fishtop. They were all hysterical by the end of this. And I just remember sitting at the end of the table, thinking, “These people are the finest of American media.”
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In which I go totally nuts, Joseph Gordon-Levitt style.

A few months ago, I read a book that changed my life.

Since finishing this book, it has dominated my thoughts in a way that only truly great books can. I have reread it several times since, as well as shoved it upon everyone I meet. If I could, I would stand on street corners and hand out this book to strangers.

Within its pages, there are innumerable pockets of wisdom, and since I read it, I have been filling my journals with nothing but quotations from its chapters. However, there is one mantra throughout the book that I became particularly attached to.

I am not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasures of existence.

I read this. Then reread it. Then reread it again. I thought about it in the frame of the narrative, and then I thought about it within the context of my own little life. I thought of all the time I had wasted apologizing for things that made happy. Apologizing for being myself. All the times I had denied myself happiness because of my own doubts and obsession with self-image.

I remember a very specific moment in late April, when I went to a swing dance performance that my best friend since middle school and once roommate was in1. The show was held at a disused roller rink, with neon lighting and lots of people in cowboy hats and very loud country music. In totality, it was about as far out of my element as I get. So there I was, standing on the sidelines waiting for 14’s dance group to perform, watching the room having fun around me while I stood with my shoulders hunched in clear indication that I was not comfortable here.

Then, out of nowhere, Augusts Water’s advice rose, unbidden, to the forefront of my mind.

I am not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasures of existence.

Simple pleasures like dancing like a maniac in a room full of strangers. Like singing to country music, and boot-scootin’ boogie-ing, and permitting yourself to look like an idiot because you were happy.

So I stopped apologizing through my posture, and I danced2.

If you know anything about me, you know that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with the film “(500) Days of Summer.” In my opinion, it is one of the greatest cinematic triumphs of the last decade. It is one of the simple pleasures I do not ever deny myself.

There are many things I love about this film3, but one of the biggest things is that the main character Tom has a chalkboard wall. Since the first time I saw the film, I have perpetually lusted for a chalkboard wall of my own. How absolutely divine that would be, I thought, to make your home into a canvas where you could daily fling the contents of your mind.

So when I moved into Iowa’s apartment and found her closet was made of chalkboard, I had a silent internal nerd girl freak out. I could not wait to go nuts all over it, JGL style. Give me chalk and give it to me now, I wanted to shout, because surely this will be the greatest piece of home décor I have ever known.

….and then I proceeded not to touch it for three weeks.

Because I was nervous4. I was nervous to make any mark upon the wall because I knew that whatever I drew would be like putting myself up for judgment by anyone who walked by the wall and saw it. I would have to own up to anything I wrote or drew, claim it as a piece of me, and allow others to think what they would about me based upon it.

That was mostly the reason. But I told myself it was also because I didn’t want to inflict anymore of myself than necessary on Iowa and Nevada5.

And then, last night, with no one at home but me and Cat, I found myself again scanning the pages of the book that changed my life, and I once again was pierced by the mantra of a dying boy:

I am not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasures of existence.

Writing on chalkboard walls made me happy. It was a simple pleasure of my existence.

So why not stop apologizing, and go wild all over that bad boy?

And so I did. In a staccato burst of artistic fury that struck at one am6, I attacked the wall, while Cat watched with her usual wry amusement.

And in the end, our barren chalkboard closet doors, which once held only a single inspirational gospel quote, a drawing of a rocket ship, and a few notes from couch surfers, looked like this:

Gah the picture is borderline out of focus. Out of focus photos are the bane of my existence. Perhaps some close ups then, for emphasis. Also I want to show this off because you have no idea how insanely proud I am of this wall.

I don’t fancy myself as much of an artist, and I’ve always been of the mindset that pictures may be worth a thousand words, but I’d rather have a thousand words. So mostly I wrote things.

Things like my all-time favorite Andrea Gibson quote;

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And some Zelda Fitzgreald awesomeness;

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And then there was a message to fellow Nerdfighters7

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Some Sherlock-related graffiti8;

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Some Star Wars love, complete with a Chewbacca, because he is the only Star Wars character I feel capable of drawing, though as I look at it now, I realize that really don’t look as much like Chewbacca as I previously thought;

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Assorted randomicity, including a Buy More man that in no way compares to the one 14 once henna tattooed on my arm;

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And, of course, the quote that inspired it all9;

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And so, in summary;

Moral of the story: do things that make you happy.

Also, points if you can guess all the references on the wall! Leave them in comments!

  1. Oh I forgot, she really wanted an alias….let’s call her 14. But not because that’s her age. That would be creepy.
  2. But only one dance. Let’s not get out of control here.
  3. Zooey Deschanel, Zooey Deschanel’s hair, Zooey Deschanel’s clothes…
  4. Which really is a neutral state of being for me.
  5. The new roommate! Welcome, Nevada!
  6. As most bouts of artistic inspiration do.
  7. Anyone? Nerdfighters out there besides the MT?
  8. So many Sherlock quotes I wanted to write, but they were too weird out of context.
  9. Please pardon the fact that this looks like it was written by an eight year old. It was, fittingly, the first thing I wrote on the wall, and I was still getting reacquainted with the delicate art that is writing on a chalkboard. It’s a skill I have not had to use since primary.
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In which I curse all feline kind.

There is a cat that lives in my apartment. She is not my cat, but she lives with me none the less.

She will heretofore be known as Cat1.

Cat has belonged to my roommate, Iowa2, since she moved to Chicago two years ago. Cat has never seen beyond the four walls and one room of our apartment, other than her brief tenure at the pet store where her life began. She spends her days alternately engaged in one of three activities: one, watching the L train pass the window; two, loving on Iowa; three, hating me.

Cat does not particularly like me, and I don’t particularly like her. But at least it’s mutual.

Having grown up in a house with a rotating cast of dogs that weighed more than I did, two of the last words I would use to describe myself are “cat person.” I do not like cats. I have never liked cats. And I am fairly confident that I will never like cats. And, though I came into this relationship willing to give things a chance, I have yet to meet a cat that has changed my opinion of cats.

I especially do not like Cat.

Iowa and I have been both been gone this week – Iowa went home for a few days, and I was having grown up life adventures in Maryland.

Cat was not happy about this.

Cat was even less happy when it was me that walked through the door yesterday morning and not Iowa.

So, on top of her usual aloof standoffishness, Cat has been going out of her way to torment me until her mistress returns home.

And so, for the past two days, Cat and I have had a less than playful back and forth thing going on. I refuse to pet her. She bites my leg. I try to pet her. She bites my leg. I push her off the couch when she chews on my Duluth pack3. She bites my leg. I try to shut her head in the refrigerator4. She bites my leg. I leave for several hours to go to church. She poops all over the apartment, walks in that poop, and then tracks it all over the carpet. Which does not seem like a proportional response.

Now, after the arduous and odorous experience of de-pooping the entire apartment, I am sitting on the sofa, and Cat is sitting on the sofa above my head, staring unblinkingly at me with those unnervingly large green eyes. Which is freaking me out, because I feel like she’s sizing me up to fillet me. Occasionally, I will try to make peace with her; I will reach up to give her a scratch behind the ears. And she will lunge at me, jaws spread wide, with the intention of taking off my finger. Then I call her a name, and we both go back to what we were doing before.

I do not like Cat.

  1. I considered calling her “The Cat,” but having just watched BBC Sherlock’s “A Scandal in Belgravia,” this somehow felt disrespectful to Irene Adler.
  2. Since my blog has been getting traffic that extends beyond my family and friends, I’ve decided not to call people by their names in this blog without their permission, mostly because I had a dream about someone getting mad at me for writing mean things about them. So if you are ever mentioned on the blog, it will be under an alias. Which could be exciting for you.
  3. In unrelated news, my Duluth pack is the best investment I have ever made. There is no way in hell I am letting Cat get her razor choppers around it.
  4. Calm down PETA, I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect. But seriously, the thing where she tries to climb in the fridge every time I open it is driving me crazy.
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