Here, Pussy, Pussy

I’ve always hated cats. I’m a dog person. Dogs make sense. They love a good cuddle and come when you call them. Cats scratch and hiss when you come near. Dogs serve and protect. Cats purr seductively when they want something and then swat at you when they're through.

So men who like cats have always raised red flags for me. They tend to be drawn to “catty” women, who, like their feline counterparts, play games, lure you in with pretended charms, and then scratch you to bleeding bits when you get close. These men should be avoided. People should pay more attention to the pet section on dating websites -- could save them the grief caused by the cat/punishment-loving sort. I guarantee they will just reject you the minute they sense you need them. Abort. Abort.

Women who have cats, however, are a whole different story. With few exceptions, they deserve our pity. They’ve signed up for these loveless companions--creatures who will never return their affections, no matter how much nip they give them. So it’s fair to say that women of a certain age who have never been married and have more than 2 cats have just given up the prospect of love entirely. My best friend lives next to a single woman in her sixties in a rent-controlled apartment with a 70’s Technicolor “I Love Cats!” poster on the exterior of her front door. Turns out, she doesn’t even have a cat. This, I find, most disturbing. If there was an a suspicious person task force that was not terrorism related, I’d feel compelled to report her.

Then there is the woman who lives in the building next to us who just lost her cat. I feel sorry for her (really, I do). She has papered our entire neighborhood with “Missing Cat” signs. The post right outside our building has, count ‘em, 6 signs on it: at the 2 foot, 3 foot, 4 foot, 5’ , 6’ and 7’ foot marks: I guess in case dwarves AND giants are on the lookout. After 3 catless days, she added the words “$100 reward. Nothing. What if she upped the ante? Would her cat be returned? Is a dwarf keeping her cat, waiting for her to hit the $250 threshold so he can upgrade his I-pod? A few days later came “Needs meds” crazy-scribbled in red ink on the signs. Was she referring to herself … or the cat? When she encountered me on the street, however, it became unclear who was in direst need.

I was standing in front of our 25-floor hi rise building and, naturally, a pole plastered with cat posters. “Have you seen my cat?” The voice and the woman really came out of nowhere. “Uh, no.” “She needs her meds,” she quickly added (This is awful—truly, but really doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t seen her). “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen her.” She continued, “I keep thinking she might be in someone’s basement or first floor apartment. Do you think you can help me?” “Um, I don’t have access to anyone’s apartment—or their basement.” “Do you know who lives on the first floor?,” she persisted. I wanted to answer: “This is Manhattan. I don’t know who lives NEXT DOOR to me,” but I swallowed my sarcasm and answered “No, sorry.” “I just keep thinking she’s in an apartment—or the basement--needing her meds.” “Again, I’m so sorry.” (Me now trying to end this conversation). Then she went for it: “Are you sure she’s not in YOUR apartment?” “Really, really sure,” I answer. “I’m allergic. I’d notice.” (No response, so I continue). “In fact, I live on the fifth floor, so, basically your cat would have to get permission to enter from my doorman and ask someone to press “five.” She didn’t find this amusing and curtly thanked me before going back into her apartment.

I’ve always wondered how successful these “lost pet” paper campaigns are. Frankly, I don’t’ know if I would recognize a pet from his or her black-and-white photocopied picture. And even if I DID see a cat skulking about the neighborhood would I actually attempt to capture it? What if it were the wrong cat and I got rabies? Even if it were the RIGHT cat, I might get clawed to bits in the attempt, as so many cat lovers refuse to de-claw (being sadomasochists and all). Maybe I’d just scream “I see pussy!” at the very top of my lungs and see who comes. (no double entendre intended, btw). That sounds like a fun, free Saturday night in the naked city.

A few days later, I noticed a man tearing her posters down—one by one. I’d love to say he was a fellow conscientious cat objector, but I’d seen him do this before: in response to signage advertising an upcoming street fair. But this time it was actually painful to watch. This one woman’s hard work spoiled by an obsessive-compulsive who detests papering. “Stop!” I almost yelled. But I didn’t. I know I should have (Just imagine if Dudley, our beloved dog, were missing!), but he was so driven, it didn’t seem wise to interfere. At the end of the day, I didn’t want to get into it with him … over a damn cat.

Mommy Chain Letters

I have always hated chain letters. They're annoying--even illegal. But mommy chain letters take the cake. They try and capitalize on your inherent guilt as a mother to make you propagate the chain. Take the infamous "book chain letter." It promises that if you send just ONE book to the child listed in the letter, then make 5 copies of the letter and send it along to 5 other moms, your child will receive 36 new books.

At best, your child will receive 36 books he already has. At worst, you stand to lose either one or five friends. Your call. Let me explain.

If you don't do this, the mom who sent this to you will think you think you're too good for her lousy chain letter and, more, think your time is more valuable than hers. Plus, you will have denied her kid his 36 books. You think you'll have a playdate on Monday? No chance.

If you DO do this, the five busy moms you send the letter to -- 5 women with better things to do -- will similarly think you don't value THEIR time, will feel the conflict and guilt you felt, resent you for that, and, quite fairly, hate you forever. No more playdates Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday ...

Oh, and let's be clear: These books aren't meant for kids in townships. They're going to affluent Upper West Side toddlers with already extensive libraries whose moms would probably hail the first cab they could find to Pottery Barn Kids to secure appropriate shelving should 36 new books arrive at their doorstep.

Your first instinct, then, is to throw this dreadful thing away. Then you realize the person who sent it to you will be pissed off, their child will not receive the promised 36 books and you're denying your own progeny his books, to boot. Shit. You're off to the bookstore.

So, you go to the damn bookstore, stress over what kind of book this kid you never met before will like, rush to the office and realize you left the letter with his address at home. For days, letter and book never meet. In the meantime, you do something the person who sent this damn letter to you never did: ASK others if they'd be interested in participating in the book exchange. No one is. In fact, you get a taste of their wrath at the very prospect of being dragged into this morass.

So here you are with a $10 book, no UPS store near the office, so you need to use Fed-Ex 3 day (an extra $5) and you can't--nor do you WANT to share the nuisance/muster the 5 friends to send it to, which means that the son of the mom who sent it to you won't get his 36 books, anyway. She'll be pissed. Your daughter will get zilch. And you're out $15 bucks.

Join a library, ladies.

Apocalypse NOW

I've never been one to say "I need a feel-good movie." Comedy, thriller, drama ... the sheer act of GOING to the movies uplifts me. (And seeing a GREAT film exalts me.) Fart joke fare and frilly pop montages of OTHER people having the times of their lives don't make me forget my troubles. You know what, gimme "In the Bedroom" or "Precious" on a grey day. Knowing I can leave those troubled landscapes and return to my silly everyday problems cheers me up. A quick jolt of welcome perspective for $11.50 plus salty snacks.

And then there's a film like "The Road." The day after Thanksgiving, when we had rare, free babysitting (my in-laws were staying with us), why on earth did I suggest we see this doomsday doozy-- a 2 hour gray-and-beige toned post-apocalyptic tale in which humans hunt and eat each other? Maybe I WAS trying to escape my own reality (did I mention my in-laws were staying with us? Just kidding). Actually, it was the other age-appropriate option at our local theaters (I'm discounting not one, but two vamp films here). All that was left was 2012--not a space odyssey--but an end-of-the-world epic, starring, um, Lloyd Dobler.

Oh, and the preview for the Road? That would be Denzel Washington's new film, "The Book of Eli," -- a, you got it, "post-apocalyptic tale, in which a lone man fights his way across America in order to protect a sacred book that holds the secrets to saving humankind." From the looks of the preview, cannibalism also ensues.

These movies make "Precious" look the feel-good movie of the year (Sure, she gets sexed up by her father at age 15, but at least he doesn't try and eat her).

Film has been a reliable gauge of our zeitgeist. And, with cover of last month's Time Magazine reading, "The Decade from Hell," all indications point to "we're worried." But this decade from hell--with its elective war, unrelenting unemployment and lack of health care--is looking far cheerier than the offerings at your local multiplex.

When times are tough, we look to Hollywood for escapist fare: fantasy. Fantasia. A little mouse going rogue. Lately, Hollywood is heavy on the fantasy, but giving us the grotesque over the fanciful. We're being transported to worlds of colorless sunrises, cannibalistic gangs and Me: It's What's for Dinner.

Futuristic movies aren't just getting tough on our collective psyche -- they're unrelenting. We kicked ass in "Independence Day." In District 9, we kick their ass, sure, but we also murder their young and go after our own--we stop knowing the difference.

Then there's the more realistic fare: "Up in the Air" has no traditional cannibals, but stars a guy who can't get enough of criss-crossing the country firing people. He loves his job so, so much he doesn't make time for any personal attachments. The sky, his only friend.

But while my husband emerged inconsolably depressed from "Up in the Air" and reconsidering his 2010 business plan, I thanked heavens that we had full bellies and a home to return to. (Either way, no one got any that night.) And at least it didn't leave me flattened (or craving Dole peaches) like "The Road."

Considering what's out there, it's no wonder a badly reviewed film like "the Blindside" is top of the charts. It's one of the only films out there starring the American dream and Sandra Bullock. Personally, I refuse to see it. She looks like a wannabe Julia Roberts in "Erin Brockovich"--save the tits--and I could pinpoint it's heartstring-pulling-plan-of-attack from the previews.

True, I don't need a feel-good movie, but I wouldn't mind fewer feel-BAD (and, well, bad) movies to choose from.

The First Birthday

I decided that since she didn't know how her foot from her face, a fancy affair would be wasted on our one-year old. We had been to a first birthday party at one of those fancy playgyms a few months prior and the guest of honor slept soundly through the first three-quarters of it. When he finally woke up, unceremoniously, to a rousing edition of "Let's Get it Started" with disco lights, he had such an enormous tantrum, his grandmother had to take him to the (peppy) employee break room to calm him down. Our daughter was the only other infant invitee, so she frolicked in the ball pit by her lonesome and the parents of the birthday boy snapped away, stealing pictures of OUR daughter enjoying THEIR son's pricey party. I wondered how they'd photoshop that one.

So, it would be a no muss, no fuss birthday. Then I got an email from my oldest friend, a Martha Stewart reincarnate with 2 kids, who now lives out west. "Have you gotten the stuff for Z's party yet?"

What "stuff?" Stuff? I wasn't aware stuff was required. I thought we'd sing "Happy Birthday" while she threw yams across the room and then we'd all eat turkey and down beers while I begged people not to partake in seconds.

I asked and she answered.

"it's called a smash cake made especially for one year olds to smash and grab and stuff in the face. you need it for the pictures that you should be taking. that and the frilly, glitzy one year old birthday hat."

No response from me. Then another email from her...

"And a banner. Those cute ones you hang above the highchair. You'll need it for the pictures you should be taking."

Note to self: I think someone thinks I should be taking more pictures of my baby. Just b/c I don't send pictures out to my distribution list every 3 weeks, doesn't mean we aren't taking any. Just that we aren't bothering to upload them. Like ever.

Also, what the hell is this smash cake? How is it different than a regular cake. I scoured the internet. No luck. Really, you try. I called three NYC bakeries. They had no clue what I was talking about. I would have emailed my friend again, but a dittering mother must reserve her "help me" emails for real emergencies. The smash cake conundrum was bordering one, but not quite there. So, I decided on a cupcake (a small cake she can smash, hurl, maybe even eat). But 4 days before the big non-event, I realized that in addition to a cupcake not really being a cake, we could probably use the extra doughage a proper cake would provide for leftovers for the new parent-friends! Ta-da! But, wait, not if she smashed her face into it. So, for the four nights before Thanksgiving, I'd turn to Ben and ask, "Cake or cupcake." And every night he'd grunt "cupcake" and turn the volume up on whatever we were watching.

Let her eat cupcake.

Then the day before, as I was leaving my husband's office, on my way to the cupcake place to pick up my decision (er, her birthday treat), his employee Jessica asked me the question: "Are you ready for Zoe's birthday?" Yes, I'm ready. "Did you get one of those Number 1 candles?"

Fuck me.

As the entire city of New York raced around to pick up their preordered turkeys, pick up more celery for their stove-top assisted stuffing, make their car, train, plane home, I went hunting for those oversized number 1 candles.

And hoped, the whole time that it wasn't too big for the fucking cupcake.

Buying Thanksgiving Leftovers

Our Thanksgiving was already pretty untraditional: it was 100% store-bought (stay away from Zabar's brandied chestnut stuffing--tastes like gizzard pate with a liquored kick). And our guests were a pair of lesbians from the Maine woods. (Realizing this sounds like the beginning of Deliverance 2010--not a holiday meal.)

It was our first Thanksgiving with baby (coincidentally, our little turkey's first birthday, but I'll get to that later). And I had invited the new parent-friends over for Thanksgiving leftovers the next day. Then, the day before Thanksgiving it hit me: We may not have enough FOR leftovers. I panicked. I made my husband promise not to gorge. He scoffed. At the big meal, I politely suggested to my mother-in-law that, just maybe, she didn't need a third helping of mashed potatoes. She correctly ignored me. Not only was I counting MY calories--but everyone else's.

I couldn't wait for Black Friday to come. Not so I could go hunting for for half-priced electronics, but stale pumpkin pie. And so, the next morning, with more than half a 13 lb. turkey sitting in the fridge, and a pissed-off husband and slightly annoyed mothers-in-law at home, I trekked to Whole Foods to buy leftovers. Not surprisingly, the place was desolate.

I blame my heritage: being a Jew, we are preternaturally concerned with food and forever anxious there won't be enough. But logic also intervened. Since, we only had six guests coming over (two under a year-old), I limited my purchases to a better stuffing and three anxiety-reducing slices of white meat. Unfortunately, they had an herb crust--our bird did not--so I wiped them clean with paper towels and scattered the new slices amongst the authentic leftovers and hoped no one noticed. When all was said done and eaten, we still had almost a half bird left after the new parent-friends came and went, and, being a Jew--preternaturally obsessed with food going bad and paranoid about giving anyone a food-bourne disease, I threw that half a bird out.

Oy.