To understand how disturbing the following events were, at this point in my story, I would ask my readership to be reminded of my relational status or, more precisely, lack thereof. With this in mind, I add that receiving some acknowledgment of Valentine's Day from any living, moving creature would ordinarily be received by a single, twenty something young lady with unfeigned tenderness. The only exception to this unspoken rule is when one's alleged Valentine is an un-distant relation of the fallen angel of darkness.
What I found, then, was a huge bouquet of flowers (salmon-colored carnations, pink roses and DAISIES--the demon even knows my favorite bloom!) So that I would have no confusion as to who left such an enticing collection of poison petals, there was a framed picture next to the bouquet. Was the picture of the coffee shop guy mentioned in some previous post? No, and thank goodness, because he turned out to be twice my age (awkward!) Was it some other kind male suitor destined to be the love of my life? NO, no, and no! The picture in question was none other than Lucy pawing at a camera. In a word bubble next to the picture was scrawled in clawy-cat-like font "I only have eyes for you." I screamed, and wrapped my robe more tightly around myself. If my life were a horror movie (and sometimes I daresay it is), this would be the point where the piercing music cuts in, and everyone watching starts shouting "No! Don't turn around--he's right there! Run away! He's going to kill you!" But I didn't listen, mostly because if it really was a horror movie, I can't actually hear the people in the movie theater shouting out unsolicited, life-saving advice.
And so, as I turned around in sheer terror, I saw Lucy sitting in the middle of my doorway staring, flicking her tail restlessly toward me as though beckoning me for something... Something sinister.
And then she pulled a chainsaw from her abdominal fat pouch and slashed me to pieces, figuratively not literally.
***
The Roommate is a seasoned life coach. If The Roommate happens to never find a full-time job with her mad French Horn playin' skillz, she would be a perfect life coach for the rich and famous. She's always using trite euphemisms to excuse unhealthy and/ or hideously erratic behavior. I think this really helps make people (well, more so, cats) feel better about themselves and view their self-destructive moral vices as marketable traits . For example, Lucy is never loud and annoying, she's always "verbal" and "expressive." She's never fat and ugly, she's "voluptuous" and "muscular." Lucy never breaks rules and destroys things, she just "thinks independently" and "gets curious."
Since cohabitating with The Roommate many moons prior, I noticed this about her in a way I hadn't when we'd been "just friends." The life coaching quality is definitely something I am not very blessed with, but what I am blessed with is a keen sense of childlike covetousness, so naturally I began to grow irrationally jealous of The Roommate's skill almost immediately after moving in together. In the midst of this personal struggle, someone (ok, it was The Roommate herself, I told you she's a good life coach) wisely advised me to find what I am good at besides life coaching--we're all good at something, and we all have our own strengths when it comes to communication. We can't all be life coaches, after all, just some of us. So I thought for many days and decided that I do have a good skill to bring to the coaching arena.
While The Roommate may excel as a life coach, what I really think I'm good at is more so being a death coach.
***
You may find my reaction to the Valentine from Hell a little over-the-top. That neither surprises nor dissuades me, since my dear readers are naturally unaware of Lucy's long tradition of making predatory advances towards me, specifically those of the non-platonic variety (that is about the best I can describe it while keeping this blog rated PG-13). How many times have I been innocently taking a shower only to realize Lucy had been watching me through the shower curtain? One time, she even got in the shower with me, and I didn't even notice until I stepped on her tail by accident. Another time she tried to take a bath with me--she perched on the edge of the tub, she was buck naked, and began licking herself (that is the cat equivalent of bathing so, yes, she was trying to take a bath with me). I put an end to all that--now I wear nothing less than a full-body scuba suit in the shower, and the moment I have a cat siting, I shoot her with my waterproof tazer eyes (well, I'm practicing that at least, I haven't been able to turn her into a pillar of stone yet). But THEN Lucy started hiding out in my closet. Sometimes I'll be in my room going about my business, and I happen to glance up, only to see two eyes peering out at me from some deep vestige of my closet. She'd been watching me the whole time. There are a lot more stories like this, but I'm blushing just thinking about them. I will the litany of my victimhood at that.
So when I saw that picture, I just lost it. I saw my life flash before my eyes, and in it, I was an 80-year-old-cat-woman whose of love of her life is some senile, wrinkly old hairball that the neighbor kids spy on the front porch as they walk home from school on sunny afternoons. But pretty soon the kids stop walking past my house, because they can't tell if the senile wrinkly thing is a cat or a cow, and it scares them. That, and I tried to give them candy once that had razor blades in them. But I couldn't help that, because I'm an old cat lady, and old cat ladies are weird, especially old cat-cow ladies--plus I can't see very well, due to my failing eyesight. And that's what I've become, or am becoming, or... I don't know.
My point is, that picture just really annoyed me, and Lucy beckoning me and trying to be seductive with her tail annoyed me. And I've put up with her advances long enough.
My point is, that picture just really annoyed me, and Lucy beckoning me and trying to be seductive with her tail annoyed me. And I've put up with her advances long enough.
***
I recently began my campaign of properly coaching Lucy.
I recently began my campaign of properly coaching Lucy.
"Lucy, I think it's time we discussed the topic of your mortality," I told Lucy one morning, sitting down on the floor near the bathroom door. We were waiting for the Roommate to finish her morning ablutions. I saw "we" because it is part of Lucy's morning routine to try to get in to the bathroom while I do my business (I told you, I'm not exaggerating about her advances!) "I know you don't want to discuss it, but I think it's something everyone should think about at some point in their lives, especially cats, because cats die much sooner than humans."
Lucy blinked her eyes sleepily in my general direction. As a self-certified death coach, I'm used to this sort of feline apathy.
"I just want what's best for you. I just want to see you reach your full mortuary potential," I told her. She sniffed the air. "Don't change the subject, Lucy. You need to face this. You're going to die some day. And, as your death coach, if I can just be honest here... With any luck, your death will be sooner rather than later, to give you a chance to learn this lesson so that you can move on to bigger and better things."
But by then, the birds outside were waking up and chirping, and Lucy was getting the crazed cat-nip look in her eyes. Suddenly she used her demon powers to about fly to the window. Then, of course, she started in with her bird-calling meow, which Lucy uses to sound as much like a bird as possible, thinking she will entice those fine, feathered friends into her lair. Lucy is such a narcissistic epicurean, she is a product of our post-modern, post-sane Western culture. She'd rather live, drink and be merry today (i.e. meow at birds all day) rather than face the truth about tomorrow (i.e. certain death). It made me sad, because as I watched Lucy's pupils dilate at the birds, I realized how sad it really is: friends, Lucy will never get those birds. There's a window between her and them. Nonetheless, she would spend her whole day fantasizing about killing them, without once stopping to think about her own mortality. As her personal death coach, this is very difficult for me to bear. I think Lucy may be in existential denial.
But by then, the birds outside were waking up and chirping, and Lucy was getting the crazed cat-nip look in her eyes. Suddenly she used her demon powers to about fly to the window. Then, of course, she started in with her bird-calling meow, which Lucy uses to sound as much like a bird as possible, thinking she will entice those fine, feathered friends into her lair. Lucy is such a narcissistic epicurean, she is a product of our post-modern, post-sane Western culture. She'd rather live, drink and be merry today (i.e. meow at birds all day) rather than face the truth about tomorrow (i.e. certain death). It made me sad, because as I watched Lucy's pupils dilate at the birds, I realized how sad it really is: friends, Lucy will never get those birds. There's a window between her and them. Nonetheless, she would spend her whole day fantasizing about killing them, without once stopping to think about her own mortality. As her personal death coach, this is very difficult for me to bear. I think Lucy may be in existential denial.
***
"So, are you and Lucy, you know... An item?" A fellow human winked at me who happens to know both the Roommate and me.
"Oh, shove off," I told her, because I've been watching a lot of British television shows lately, and trying to practice my Anglish.
"But, she gave you a Valentine," the human being commented. "That means you're together."
Then I pulled my chainsaw out. But I am better than Lucy--my chainsaw is my mouth, and the sharp points on the chain are words spoken with an undeniable aptness appropriate for the moment at hand.
But before I could use my words, the human being gave me some cookies and I acquiesced.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Cole you are about as crazy as the cat :)
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