When Zach and I first got our cat, I was thrilled. She was adorable, docile, and curious - and she seemed to at least tolerate our well-meant-but-entirely-unwanted affections. Growing up, due to my mother's extensive allergies (in my family, we never do anything small), I'd never before had a pet. For my boyfriend and I, the choice of a cat instead of a dog had been painfully obvious. Thanks to my small income as a graduate (perpetual) student, I could not afford to contribute enough to buy a house or condo in Seattle, so we were (and are) stuck with rentals. And moving a feline from rental property to rental property is much easier than a canine.
In those early gay and carefree days of cat ownership, we had to choose a name, as the name she came with (Lolita) for me elicited images of pedophilia and prostitution. Here's where my logic broke down. Hell, it didn't fail me; it just cashed out and moved on. I somehow found it more dignified to insist on naming our precious cat after a Bond Girl. Despite my cat's turbulent past (before she got two dads), I'm sure it's at the point where she was named for Kissy Suzuki from You Only Live Twice that she decided to contract feline ashtma and have difficulty finding her litterbox when it's time to take a long, satisfying piss.
Suzuki (or even the shortened "Suzie") quickly became - at best - a difficult and nonfunctional name. True, in the eyes of our veterinarian, she will always be "Suzuki," but in our hearts and minds, she's always been "Kitty." And at least once a month, my boyfriend (my poor, poor boyfriend... who grew up with dogs, wanted a dog, and fell under my spell long enough to let me not only get a cat, but name that poor, tortured cat for a Bond Girl), begged us to formalize this title, and ring the Seattle Animal Shelter to change her name to reflect the name we most often bestow upon her. I've resisted, mostly from embarrassment. After all, the Bond Girl homage was my decision, and I already get enough grief at our veterinarian's office ("You mean you don't brush your cat's teeth AT ALL?!") to keep me from telling them that Suzuki (sometimes Suzie, formerly Lolita and God knows what else) has had yet another change of heart.
But, after reading this, I've had a change of hear regarding my cat's change of name. When my boyfriend returns tomorrow from Olympia, I'm going to tell him that, in honor of Ms. Gibbons, we're changing our cat's name to Muhammed. And let the rest be damned.
When my boyfriend's in Olympia for a special session of the legislature, I obviously get bored.
In our previous apartment, my cat would be let out through our sliding glass door. Every now and then, after spending a few hours outdoors, she'd bring back a treat for us - something she'd proudly display to us, expecting praise. It was usually a mouse, sometimes a bird. Once, an already-dead rat, which showed us that our laziness is rubbing off on her.
Since we moved in the summer, though, my cat's access to a cat door, and frequent trips outside, did not yield feline gift-giving. We were disappointed. You see, unlike normal people, my boyfriend and I are emotionally invested in our emotionally handicapped cat. We figured her lack of hunting and presentation meant she hated us (since, you know, cats can... like... feel the full spectrum of human emotions).
So, you'd think we would've been thrilled this morning when she caught and killed a small vole, and brought it home.
Except that, since she now has a cat door, she brought it inside the apartment to present it to us.
Yesterday afternoon, I was driving north on Aurora Avenue. While I was passing Woodland Park, some of my fellow Seattlites were standing on one of the pedestrian bridges over the highway, and had hung a banner down for divers like myself to see:
"Holidays are MURDER on turkeys."
I couldn't have agreed more. As I approached the pedestrian bridge, I enthusiastically honked my horn, waved, and shouted (to no one in particular, since no one else was in the car with me), "Wo-hoo! Murder turkeys! Yay! Yum yum yum!"
It was only once I'd passed Woodland Park and reached Green Lake that I realized I'd completely misinterpreted their sign.
I have to go eat a murdered turkey now. Happy Thanksgiving!
I've been busy this week learning to be a hostess. My boyfriend and I are holding a Thanksgiving brunch tomorrow.
Luckily, only my boyfriend's friends are coming. My co-workers and handful of local friends all made up excuses (and always the same one: "going to see family")... They know better, after all, than to eat anything I might cook.
My boyfriend's friends apparently haven't learned this lesson yet. But, that's okay. We're serving mimosas.
me: "This whole exercise thing is such a crock. Look, I'm still fat!"
Zach: "Jim, these things take time."
me: "Time? Do you KNOW what the life expectancy is for men in my family?! I ain't got time!"
Zach: "Well, you could always drink less beer. That'd help, too."
pause
me: "Let's not be too hasty, here."
There are a lot of teachers in my extended family. I was raised to think of teaching as one of the most noble professions, and teachers themselves as gifts from God.
Yet, I'm persistently surprised by my uncanny ability to shoot myself in the foot when it comes to teaching. Today, for example, I took part in a community outreach workshop for high school students from around Washington state. I was part of a team teaching and demonstrating an easy, do-it-yourself-from-home protocol to extract genomic DNA from a strawberry.
Perhaps it was the point where my carefully-worded instructions ("Place your strawberry in the ziploc bag and seal it securely...") led one delinquent to eat his strawberry. Maybe it was at the point where I proudly announced to one set of students "I study evolution and genetics...", only to discover that these kids were from a conservative Christian academy. Or, perhaps it was at the moment where a visiting teacher sternly admonished me for needing to kill the strawberry in order to extract its DNA. Instead, it could have been the moment where one of the high school students corrected me, as the DNA model I was holding was twisted in a left-handed helix instead of the (correct) right-handed helix. Perhaps it was the moment where I mispronounced "Ephrata," and offended the students from that hamlet. Or, maybe it was the time where I told a group of surfer girls that I was raised far from the ocean, all the way in the midwest, and they looked at me like I was from Pluto.
But, at some moment during that three-hour ordeal, I came to the inevitable conclusion that the family line was broken with me: I have no innate talent for teaching. If I'm a gift from God, she likely sent me here to give others hope.
Me: "It could've been worse, actually. I could also let it slip out to those kids from the Christian academy that I'm also a raging homosexual with a boyfriend of four years."
Friend: "Wow. Zach's really put up with you for that long?"
It's mostly because he knows of my talents for using dish soap, salt, water, and ethanol to extract DNA from strawberries. Plus, sometimes I fall off exercise bikes.
friend: "James, did you get a haricut? Something's different about you..."
me: "No, I just shaved off my sideburns."
friend: "Why?"
me: "I had an accident."
friend: "Like, 'peed-your-pants' accident?"
me: "Sorta. Except with hair clippers, not peeing my pants."
friend: "Huh?"
me: "I tried to clean up my sideburns, but forgot to put the guard on the clippers."
friend: "Oh... so you..."
me: "Yeah, I took a big chunk out of one sideburn, so I had to shave them off."
friend: "Oops. Well, could be worse!"
me: "How?"
friend: "You could've peed your pants, too."
I could talk about all the "obvious" reasons we so thoroughly enjoyed last night's symphony performance (like the wonderful guest conductor, the orchestra's infectious enthusiasm, the piano soloist's relaxed confidence), but my boyfriend is much better about writing about these things than I am.
So, let's go over the two "less obvious" (though no less important) reasons why we (or at least I) so thoroughly enjoyed going to the Seattle Symphony last night:
1. I had a stellar view of the most beautiful member of the Seattle Symphony, a violist we refer to affectionately in our household as "my Mossad agent." Sometimes, I want him to spirit me away to a magical, romantic villa outside Haifa. Sometimes, when I say "sometimes," I mean "always."
2. When I was in the bathroom before the performance, I heard a guy say this to his friend, just as his friend was entering one of the bathroom stalls:
"Be careful in there, buddy. You might lose your Senate seat!"
Combined with the French music, it was a magical evening.
Looks like I'll have plenty of time now to read all those unread books I keep on my shelf.
Dear God,
I'm sorry. I'm really really sorry. I tried... Lord knows I tried (Hey, that's you!)...
I thought I could stop. I really thought I could. 'Just once,' I told myself. 'Just once, and never again.' But, I kept going. I did it twice, thrice, multiple times. Even now, days and days later, I'm still going strong, and there's no end in sight.
I'm really sorry, God. I know this makes me a horrible person. I understand entirely... and yet, I can't stop laughing.
I don't think I ever will stop laughing.
Again, I know this makes me a horrible person. But, I'll probably keep laughing for some time. I just wanted to let you know.
Sincerely,
-James
P.S.: Lord, for the record, just how many times did you laugh?
