I want a ragdoll (among other things), but I don’t think my plain tabby would approve.
I’ve warned against the evil that is the Urban Dictionary before. Well, I told you not to go and read the definition of BBC, so what probably happened is that everyone promptly stopped reading my post and went to Google it. (If you didn’t, please raise your hand in the comments below. Also if you didn’t, just don’t. Not this one. It pretty much ruined my life and rendered me incapable of ever looking at BBC News the same.)
Since I don’t exercise what I preach, I recently turned to said dictionary to double-check on DILF (That’s comparatively safe to read, hence feel free to click the link provided—but wait! Only as long as you realise that this is not the kind of dictionary you’d want your kids or kittens to read and that it’s NSFW.) Don’t even ask me how I came up with DILF (and don’t dare ask me how I knew the meaning before checking it. I know things. I know terrible things, apparently.)
Okay, so since you’re asking so nicely, it all happened absolutely innocently when I was procrastinating on Instagram and was amusing myself with actually reading the profile blurbs of people out there. One of them included said abbreviation. Obviously, that inspired me (besides checking if the claim is correct) to delve head first into the depths of the Urban Dictionary to try to find if there’s a nice abbreviation I could use for my profile.
There indeed are many abbreviations I could use but none of them is nice. Hey, Urban Dictionary, be gender fair! I want something sassy in my profile too! Alright, maybe I don’t, but I have no clue what I want, so whatever. The point of this free-writing exercise is that I found for myself a perfect definition. It’s a gem because it’s a fair definition of the cat lady!
A woman who is fond of cats so much that she decides to live her life with cats all around her than being with chauvinistic male. The catladies are independent women who know how to take care of their cats. They are proud, highly intellectual beings having a behavior resembling that of a cat itself.
I’m only slightly concerned that the definition seems to suggest that all males are chauvinists, but let’s not overthink it. It’s not like it’s the Oxford Dictionary (whose definition of the same phrase is, as could be expected of the classic dictionary, boringly unadventurous). So, being defined as a smartass catty lady is cool and I subscribe to it.
Part of WordPress’s writing course Finding Everyday Inspiration.
Today’s writing prompt is to present a series of anecdotes connected with a shared motif. Sure.
The alarm rings and I tilt my neck to kill it and look out. From my bed, I can see a few bleak branches and an unexciting strip of sky behind the bare window. I still haven’t got curtain rods installed. The newly purchased curtains are stacked at the bottom of the closet, waiting for me to make a move. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. Just let me lie here. Let me die, if it needs be. I can’t even. Anything. Nothing.
The alarm rings and I tilt my neck to kill it and look out. Overcast. The branches are fluttering erratically. So windy too. Cold as fuck by the look of it. Semi-dark. Does this even qualify as a day? I frown and imagine a deep wrinkle forming on my forehead. I try to open my eyes more than to a slit. Not working. I don’t want to be doing this. Go away, day. Let me sleep. And not dream, if I may. Because nightmares. Another day in my life the worst of them.
The alarm rings and I tilt my neck to kill it and look out. Shy sunshine. I could go out take some pictures today. But whom am I kidding. I won’t. I don’t go out to take pictures anymore. I check the cat. She’s curled up on the bed next to my feet. One eye tentatively half-open. I make to move. The cat swiftly shifts to my face and crouches expectantly. I cuddle the cat and she purrs. Alright. Let’s get up and get the day over with.
Part of WordPress’s writing course Finding Everyday Inspiration.
Today’s writing prompt involves going out and watching people. I’m not doing it for so many reasons.
Number one, I’m scared to out after an incident with a neighbour yesterday, which sent me spiralling down into a panic attack. I might or might not blog about it, I’m currently deciding which will be more therapeutic.
Number two, I’ve been there and done that. The same task was part of an earlier writing course I took and I already completed it. It resulted in an unexciting post.
Number three, nothing is happening. I consider that a good thing. Nothing is not a particularly suitable subject to write about though.
Instead, I’ll watch my cat sleep.
My (her own) cat sleeps on her half of the double bed and I sleep on mine. That’s at least what I think. In fact, the bed and everything else is the cat’s.
The cat joins me on the bed shortly after I tuck myself in. She usually curls up at the bottom, next to my feet. Even when I’m sleeping, I’m on guard so I wouldn’t kick the poor thing when I’m tossing and turning.
When I wake up at night, I watch the cat sleep. There’s not much to be seen. In the dark, the cat is just a dark heap, which could be mistaken for a bundle of clothes. One can’t tell where the head is and where the tail.
Towards the morning, the cat often moves to the other end of the bed, next to my face. She’s there when I wake up to get up. Sometimes she’s still sleeping. She breathes fast but steadily and her furry downside is rising and falling.
She is wide awake the moment I start moving. She comes for a cuddle. She sits or crouches with her front paws tucked beneath her and presents her head for a rub. Cuddling the cat is the first thing I do in the morning and the most zen thing to do.
It’s been a while since I last reminded you of the fact that cats are the best. And since it’s Caturday, here’s the history of how I met my cat. It’s a lengthy, convoluted and boring story with several false starts. You have been warned.
I first found myself in a regular proximity with a cat when I moved in a house which came with a black panther. At least I thought it was a dwarf panther, but on closer examination, it turned out to be a huge black cat. On an even closer examination, it turned out to be two cats which looked alike. Soon, one of the cats went to Tahiti. That’s a local saying meaning he disappeared for good. The other cat remained but resisted all my attempts to become friends.
Since the in-stock cat wouldn’t have me, I got myself a spare cat. It was a super cute multi-colour kitty. She was alright as long as she was young and dumb, but then, under the adversarial influence of the unfriendly panther cat, she became a feral wild thing. She would only let me hold her as long as I was feeding her ham. Before she managed to grow up, she got herself run over by a car. That much to me having a kitten.
A few years later, I got a replacement cat. I got to pick her from a new litter. There were only black-and-whites and tabbies. I didn’t particularly fancy any of those, but I half-heartedly selected a brownish tabby. I wasn’t too impressed. I called her Ella. Ella wasn’t too impressed either. She spent the first few weeks sitting at the doorstep and meowing plaintively. And then we somehow grew on each other.
Meanwhile, Ella has become five, has moved with me twice and has become my bestie. She’s a pretty average cat, but she has a bunch of redeeming features. She’s affectionate but not annoying, doesn’t mind it when I don’t mind her and can be left home alone for up to two nights. Though she’s always pissed off when I dare leave her for too long. Right now, she’s sleeping curled up on my yoga mat. It was third time the charm.
Since I’ve been living at my cat’s place, I’ve learned a few interesting things about cats in general and my cat in particular. Such as the following.
The cat wants attention. She acts like she doesn’t, but she does. She’s quieter, calmer and better-behaved when I cuddle her anytime I chance to walk by and she happens to be awake.
The cat gets depressed when I’m depressed. She also gets calmer when I’m calm. Either my cat is psychic, or depression is infectious. The only difference is that when I’m depressed, I’m paralysed; but when the cat is depressed, she’s wild.
The cat likes routines. I like routines too, so we’re good. The one thing the cat doesn’t get routine-wise is the concept of every other day. I give her wet food every other day, but she demands it daily at the usual time.
When you’re in doubt what to blog about, blog about the cat. That’s self-explanatory.
I have a new pair of kitty earrings. I thought you should know. I mean, they’re awesome. No one should be deprived of the pleasure of viewing anything cat related, especially when it’s cute without being too cute.
I think my earrings seek to represent the Siamese cat. It’s a slim, sleek and elegant breed. So are the earrings, as far as a cat-shaped accessory can ever be elegant. They are so light that I hardly feel the weight. That’s quite convenient.
I’m a fan of big badass earrings, and this stuff can be rather heavy to wear. It can also get somewhat painful when it’s windy and the earrings keep on hitting your face. Not my new kitty earrings though. Here’s another picture. 🐱 ❤