It’s not about cats… well it’s mostly not about cats. Rafi, the ugly cat whose apartment I’m squatting in, creates a significant amount of chaos/love in my life that she will make semi-regular appearances here. (As I type this she is clawing my boyfriend’s suitcase to pieces in hopes of an early dinner. Not going to happen, you little terror.)
Here’s the thing. The day Rafi and I met, she was pent up in a crate with two other kittens: an impossibly cute and fluffy, orange kitten with white tufts under her neck, and a sleek grey tabby that only had one eye. The orange kitten was tottering around in that adorable way kittens walk when they’re little and have no balance while the pirate tabby was closing his one eye slowly, which is cat speak for, “I am chilling out, bro.” Rafi was not being cute. She was meowing and pacing anxiously. When I put my hand next to the crate she immediately rubbed her cheek on my finger, then pushed her whole body up against the part of the crate where my hand rested and let out the saddest, most desperate meow I’d ever heard.
At this point the writing was on the wall. The other two were cuter (even the pirate tabby). My roommate would later describe Rafi as a “junkyard kitty,” while my ex-boyfriend was more creative and less kind, “that cat looks like someone beat it upside its head with a bottle of peroxide.”
So I flagged down the stereotypically dumpy cat lady who was wearing a floral muumuu and asked if it was ok to hold one of the kittens.
“Oh course! Which one would you like to hold? Her sister, Buttercup has already been adopted, and so has this little guy,” she pointed to pirate kitty, “but Sprinkles is still up for adoption.”
Buttercup? Sprinkles? For real? I suppressed my gag reflex and asked to hold “Sprinkles.” Don’t worry, I told her telepathically a few minutes later as she climbed up my arm and perched on my shoulder, I will change that shit IMMEDIATELY. And I did.
The point is, this kind of sums up my philosophy on life: when you have a choice between a cute kitten and an ugly, manic kitten, choose the ugly manic kitten. Or something. Make your own inferences about me from that story!
Anyway. When Rafi’s not hogging the spotlight, you’ll find the musings of a sarcastic, Queens dwelling writer and editor with a decidedly left-leaning perspective on the world. Expect to see insufferable words like quinoa tossed around a lot. I don’t get paid to write about quinoa (I just like to be annoying), but I do get paid to write and edit text books! Beware. Your children’s education is in my hands!
I have four younger brothers (curse ye gods for not giving me a sister!), which is something I like to say because it makes me sound like I grew up spitting and cursing, building fires and killing bugs, and not taking any shit. In reality I get a mild anxiety attack when my nail polish chips and keep lying to myself that I want to go camping, but would probably fantasize about lattes, hot yoga classes, and watching Cosmos the entire time. But the last part is true- I don’t take any shit. Also, I’ve been told I’m a straight up weirdo my entire life so I’m just going to assume that’s true and embrace it.