I'm Pretty Sure the Cat Wants Me Dead

Last year, I thought I'd do a good thing and adopt a kitten. My parents were living in the country and three kittens were orphaned outside of their home. My mother took them into her bathroom and took care of them for several weeks, and when they were old enough, we took one back with us to New York.

Despite having mostly lived indoors, the cat still acts feral. We named her Gypsy because of her spunk (I was reading a book about Gypsy Rose Lee at the time), but she more embodies the spirit of the Romani people (as described in racist European folklore). The hubs has a Bulgarian co-worker named Boris who is always telling little gypsy stories, such as, "At McDonald in Bulgaria, you must pay for the ketchup and mustard packets as well, otherwise Gypsy would make a fortune." Boris also has a story about Gypsies cutting down a live power line to try to steal copper wiring. My cat is more like these characters, always up to zany hijinks.

Gypsy with a plastic bag stuck around her middle

Once, when she was smaller, she escaped through the flimsy divider of my a/c unit, jumping or falling about 15 feet. I couldn't find her for four hours, but luckily a neighbor spotted her and took her in. Gypsy had a slight sprain in her back leg, but that was all. I was probably worse off than she was. She still managed to give the vet technicians hell and had to be restrained in a towel for her examination.

She is not too popular at the vet for this reason. Her first visit to the vet, they went to trim her claws, and she let out the most unearthly wail. The vet's young son was in the room, and he was stuffing his fingers in his ears. The vet was calmly talking over the yowling and I was just laughing hysterically. The last time she visited the vet, to get spayed, she earned a caution label on her chart. They decided to do her surgery earlier than planned because it would be tricky to get her down. That evening, we got a call stating that Gypsy was fine but they'd had to use a little extra tranquilizer and she couldn't really walk yet.

I have unbridled affection for this small animal, despite the fact that she sometimes preys on me. If I leave the bathroom door open, she'll sometimes pounce on my feet and bite them at their boniest part while I'm vulnerable on the toilet. If she happens to be sitting on the shelf above my desk and I walk by her, she'll swipe at me with her claws out. Sometimes she'll tear across the apartment, rear on her back legs, and launch herself at my leg. Even in her affectionate moments she feels compelled to nip and softly scratch me. When I brush her, I wear gloves so I'll still have some skin left on my hands afterward.

Gypsy waiting for some feet to bite

I've suspected the cat may hate me or that she's trying to escape from me, but now I'm wondering if she intends to kill me. Weeks ago, she had knocked a small plastic halogen lamp from its mounting and I just sort of left it where it fell and forgot about it. Yesterday, the hubs smelled burning wood and found that the lamp was on and slowly scorching a spot on the hardwood floor. There's no doubt in my mind that the cat was trying to burn down our apartment. It's only a matter of time before an anvil drops down on my head when I open the front door.

Stuff My Husband Says

I love Seth, but he says some pretty stupid things sometimes. Maybe it's one of the reasons I love him. On the night we met, one of the things he revealed about himself was: "I won third place in the Maryland Junior Duck Stamp Contest." That was his most skillful pick-up line. It turns out the ducks he painted for the contest are very beautiful, and his parents still have the framed painting hanging in the hallway with its third-place ribbon affixed to it. Seth blames the species of duck he painted for being too plain to deserve a postage stamp. Anyway, that's the way the man I love talks. He says whatever comes to the top of his head. Sometimes it doesn't come out well, and it could be construed as offensive, but nobody pays mind to that when the words are coming from such a handsome, earnest face. Or at least I don't.

But sometimes I pretend to. Last night, while sitting on the couch, Seth referred to me as "my sexy pumpkin."

"Do I look round and orange to you?" I faux-whimpered.

"Okay... you're my sexy... gourd?" Seth ventured.

"So you think I'm bumpy?"

"Are gourds bumpy? I don't really know what they look like."

"Well there are many different varieties of gourds, but they can be bumpy, and brown, or green, or orange, or a combination of all of those."

"Well if there are so many different kinds of gourds, there's got to be a fleshy-colored, sexy gourd."

"What constitutes a sexy gourd?"

"You'll know one when you see one," said Seth, making that clicking noise and gun gesture in imitation of a douchebag character in an 80s movie.

Then later on, as we were both about to go to sleep, Seth and I were having a discussion about Fort McHenry.

"Man, why did they always take us there for elementary school field trips? I think I've been there at least five times," I was saying.

"I've been there at least twice," said Seth, "but I only remember going when I was in middle school. The second time was probably because of the rocket... ... ..."

"Rocket club?" I was thinking. Where was this going?

Then suddenly he started talking again. "Honey, I really should go to sleep. My dreams are starting to get mixed in while I'm talking."

We both burst out laughing, and then I shut my mouth and left him to dream peacefully about rockets.

Fall Fashion Post: Jungle of Ugly

It's Fashion Week in the city, and I can't wait for it to be over. Why, you ask? Fashion Week was good to me this year. It provided me with plenty of free booze, cheesecake bites on a stick, and the opportunity to hobnob with the current cast of Project Runway. But truthfully, my favorite thing about Fashion Week is going through pictures of the shows to pick out the most supremely ugly garments, so I can dis/discuss them with friends.

However, since the fashion industry is kind enough to let us know what we're going to be wearing six months from now, I'm proud to present my fall fashion issue, albeit a bit belatedly. Here are my bottom picks for this fall.

Highland Fat Suit, Comme des Garçons

Charles Anastase: Snow-woman Abomination

Charles Anastase: Kidney Transplant

Topshop: Wildebeest chic

Chanel: Chanetland Pony

Isn't this fun? And here's a little preview of what you won't be wearing in Spring 2011!

Betsey Johnson: Traffic Accident

Hierarchy of Loathing

Some people love to love, but I loathe to loathe. It seems like every 10 minutes during my waking hours (and perhaps a little less frequently during my slumbering hours), I run into a situation that inspires loathing. Here are some every day examples, ordered from mildly loatheable to loathesomely enraging.

-People who abruptly reverse their direction in the middle of a crowded street. Pick a lane!

-Your upstairs neighbors walking all over their creaky floors when you are trying to go to sleep.

-Your across-the-courtyard neighbors blasting banda music at 9 am on a Saturday.

-Dogs wearing sweaters. God gave them fur to spare us the hideousness of dogs in sweaters, but alas, we live in a fallen world.

-A train closing its doors just as you emerge onto the platform.

-The knowledge that you could have made that train if only you hadn't gone back for your iPod.

-The knowledge that you could have made that train if not for the slow-moving person you were stuck behind on the stairs.

-People who stand on the steps of a subway entrance to talk on their phones. There's no way you're going be able to hear the train coming, say goodbye to your boyfriend, run down the stairs, swipe through the turnstile, and still catch the train, so why not stand where you aren't in the way?

-Groups of people who don't know how to use a Metrocard trying to get through an entrance with only two turnstiles.

-Bachelorette parties.

-Dogs in strollers.

Those are just some of the items on my loathe list. Thankfully one doesn't see a lot of clothed dogs walking (or being pushed) around the city in August, but all of the other items are a fairly frequent occurrence. I could do a whole list on the subway, but let's just keep it right here for now. And for those of you with a lot of bottled-up loathing, why not write a list of the things that annoy you and release some of it before you rage against the dying of the light? Unless of course, writing lists of things that annoy you annoys you.

The Crepuscule of Sailor's Wife Life

Yes, so I went for a little poetry with today's blog title, but why the heck not? And who doesn't love the word "crepuscule?" It's a disgusting-sounding word for the most beautiful time of day, just after sunset. It sounds like some kind of bivalve creature, though.

The grand language I use because this may one day be an historic moment in my life; the moment just before I found out whether my husband was offered a land job. You see, in less than an hour, the hubs is due to enter an office and negotiate a contract for an engineering job- on land. For the four-plus years we've known each other, our relationship has always been long distance for half of the year. For the past three years, it's been three weeks on the ship and three weeks off. There have been birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries spent apart, and weddings attended sans my plus-one. There have been lonely, pathetic, and frustrated nights. There have been nightly hour-long phone calls. There was one text that read "Another ship hit ours. But everyone's okay!" There was the kitten acquired to dull my loneliness. Then there were the phone pictures of the kitten growing up, sent via email. It became a way of life, and I became accustomed to it. I stopped feeling jealous of other couples who get to see each other every day. To my friends and family, I painted a picture of a life that was exciting and romantic.

But now it may be over. I might finally be on the cusp of knowing what it's like to be married, full time. The possibility is dangling above me for the next hour or so, and yet I have to go on at work like nothing is happening. Yes? No? Yes?

The Funeral

No, nobody died. Not yet, anyway. I haven't written all week because I've been sick. Actually, I'm terribly sick right now. To say I'm typing this feverishly would be entirely accurate. I should just lay back and go to bed, but I wanted to put my thoughts out there, however delirious they might seem when I'm back in the pink of health.

To escape from the pain of my sickbed, I grabbed my laptop and viewed the finale of Gossip Girl. Yes, it is this generation's Dynasty, but they do make some good musical choices. I happened to hear a cover of my favorite Band of Horses song, "The Funeral."

It's an amazing song, though it's a simple one. I saw Band of Horses not too long ago at their free "secret" show at Grand Central, and hearing them play this song live made an hour of standing there trying to see the band through a grandstand and a camera crew worthwhile. I started to think about what it meant to be "ready for the funeral" at any occasion. On a surface level, it could mean always wearing black, which I pretty much do anyway. But I like to interpret this lyric as one symbolizing an awareness of our own mortality. At any occasion, I'll be ready for my own funeral. Essentially, it means I've made my peace with the fact that I'm going to die at some point.

Pop music tends to project the opposite message in general ("Forever Young"). Radio hits are driven by infectious melodies and rallying beats that lift us up from the drudgery of life and appeal to our inner teenager (the one who doesn't care about anything and believes that she is immortal). There are exceptions, of course, but generally morbid music makes its appeal to brooding outsiders.

What I love about "The Funeral" is that it makes the eventuality of death a beautiful thing. It's the essence of folk music; the constant mourning juxtaposed with the sense that life is truly dear. I have in my music collection a compilation entitled People Take Warning! Murder Ballads and Disaster Songs, 1913-1938. It's a rare chance to connect with history. There are train wrecks, epidemics, high-profile killings, and even the sinking of the Titanic chronicled in this rather depressing box set. These tragedies often end with a hopeful note, however- perhaps the deceased looking down from heaven, or a vindictive glimpse of the murderer as he ascends the scaffold. This is the musical world I dwell in.

Sure, I'll join in for a chorus of "Don't Stop Believin'" on karaoke night. In fact, 80s hair metal is sometimes the only thing that gets me through a slow day at work. But when I'm in the mood to really listen, I seek songs that tell a story, songs that tell the truth. The truth is, we should always be ready for the funeral. We'll go to enough of them in our lives. To constantly think about our eventual death may seem morbid to some, but I think it makes life all the more precious and worth living. My cousin and I were discussing the issue of mortality this weekend on our drive back from the Poconos, and I mentioned an article I had read about a scientist who claims to be working on cellular research with an eye to ultimately conquering death. My cousin, a physician, was not impressed. "It would be one thing to cure cancer," she said, "but I don't know that I would have anything to live for if I knew I would never die."

So a dreamy indie-rock ballad has become my motivator. I think of my short time on Earth and am thankful that I have the chance to experience it yet. I think of my family, of my husband, of my badly-behaved little cat, and the sentiments wash over me. I think of how grand my story will sound in future reiterations- a young writer moving to New York City and living on instant mashed potatoes and ramen, communing with cockroaches in a college dorm that was formerly the cheap hotel where Kerouac wrote of his interracial love affair. And I have to admit, I do have some amazing stories. So yes, I'd say I'm ready. Just please give me the chance to write up the playlist for my funeral before I go.

-B.S.

Review: CAN I REALLY DATE A GUY WHO WEARS A YARMULKE?

I'm taking a break from my usual sour diatribe to make sure you all go to see Can I Really Date a Guy Who Wears a Yarmulke? at the Midtown International Theater Festival while you still have the chance.

Yarmulke is playwright Amy Holson-Schwartz's first production, but it has a sophistication and polish far beyond that of a first-time playwright. The play follows Eleanor, a late-twenties Jewish-but-Atheistic Jane Austen scholar who struggles with her identity when she meets Aaron, a charming young pediatric cardiologist who happens to be Jewish and observant. As their relationship progresses, they delve into what each sees as the other's hypocrisy- Aaron won't flip a light switch on the Sabbath, but he'll eat un-Kosher food at restaurants and is all too happy to engage in pre-marital sex with Eleanor. Conversely, Eleanor loves bacon cheeseburgers and expounds at length on her disdain for her birthright trip to Israel, but checks the "other" box in the racial category of a grant application. There are plenty of laughs along the way as Aaron struggles to overcome Eleanor's aversion to Judaism, but Yarmulke doesn't gloss over the deeper internal battles that occur when one considers mating with someone of differing beliefs. Yes, the play is about Judaism, but I'll venture to predict that even a Zoroastrian could identify with its characters and themes.

Formally, Can I Really Date a Guy Who Wears A Yarmulke? is refreshingly old-fashioned. It has the ease and grace of a Neil Simon comedy, but with a modern bite. The dialogue oozes dry wit, and even though there is a lot of it, I never found my attention wavering. I was reminded of my own experiences back when I was first dating my husband. Though we share a religion, we were raised in different traditions, and during the first few months, we delicately felt out each others' beliefs for compatibility. We danced around issues on which we didn't agree as we got to know each others' minds. It wouldn't have made a play anywhere near as entertaining as Yarmulke, but it enabled me to really experience the range of emotions its characters feel. In our largely secular age, faith is still as important as ever in determining one's mating choices. And the onus to preserve the purity of the Jewish culture is perhaps just as strong as it was 4,000 years ago (unless you happen to have snagged the daughter of a former president, perhaps). Jewtopia exploited this to great comic effect a few years back, but Yarmulke does so with a lot more brains. Let's hope that "one season follows another" and this play gets a full run, but there are still four more performances at the Beckett Theater. Click Here for details.