Khloe, et al.

I realized recently that I've turned a corner. First, I noticed wrinkles regularly in all my pictures. But then I noticed I was talking to cats. And answering them. A typical conversation goes like this:

Me: Hello, kitty. You are still looking very gray, I see. How are you?

Graysee: Meow.

Me: And why is that?

Graysee: Meoooooooow.

Me: I know. I feel you completely.

Graysee: Meow!!!!!

Me: I understand that, but we tried repeatedly and it didn’t work.

Graysee: MEOW

Me: I LET YOU OUT SEVERAL TIMES AND YOU CLIMBED THE FENCE AND WERE A VERY. BAD. CAT. The reason your brown friend gets to go outside is because she never runs away!!!

Graysee: Meow

Me: That’s what you say, but we keep ending up at the same spot. 

At this point, I usually quit talking because I am truly horrified that I am not only talking to a cat, but answering for it as well.

This is just one of the many ways in which I am becoming eccentric. In an effort to curb eccentricity, I work part-time at an upscale shopping mall. I figured that being around lots of not-14-year-olds on a regular basis would be good for me and force me to rub shoulders with normal folks, people who don't hold 2-sided conversations with cats.

The problem is that, unlike the other amazing women who work at the boutique with me (we'll call it Persimmon), I am very bad at dissembling. Let me give you a for instance...

We have a reality TV star who regularly endorses us, and the brand rewarded her endorsements by giving her her own product line. Now people come into Persimmon ALL THE TIME and ask me if I know Khloe, if she comes to the store, when her line is coming out, if it's true that her famous husband comes in sometimes and blah blah blah...

And unlike my coworkers, I cannot even feign interest in Khloe's life or habits or the fact that she is famous for being famous. Margaret and Shirley, my two older colleagues, laugh whenever a customer asks me what Khloe's new fragrance line smells like and I make a big show of getting out the clipboard with my "script" written on it and reading my lines: "This signature fragrance is inspired by Khloe's natural grace and elegance. Her truly singular personality is exhibited by the soft notes of..." (I can't even remember the rest). After the customer leaves, I mutter mutinous things under my breath while Margaret and Shirley heckle me.

On Tuesday, Khloe is coming to the store for an event. There are not going to be any appetizers or wine or special discounts, so -- as far as I can tell -- the event will consist purely of people ogling Khloe. And who is the one employee  scheduled to work the event? Me. Obviously. Because Fate is a cruel mistress and I'm the only employee at risk of rolling my eyes during such an auspicious gathering.

All of this illustrates that I am becoming crotchety. When students come to my class without a pencil and ask me if they can borrow one, I cast them a withering glare and then tell them to write in their own blood.

I talk to cats.

I gnash my teeth over celebrity culture. But Khloe has a famous husband and a cute baby and her own reality show and a "graceful and elegant" new product line. So maybe she's actually doing things right and the joke's on me. Who knows.

WHY DO YOU CHECK THIS BLOG SO OFTEN?

Yes. YOU.

Rom-Com

Several years ago, I decided to move to New York for the summer. I've been GROSSLY directionally impaired my entire life and felt that the best way to defeat my fear of maps was to move to the most congested, urban place I could think of and force myself to navigate daily.

This mostly worked, I only ended up out in Queens once. I had reconnected with Nick, who invited me to dinner in Bryant Park, and I took the subway the opposite direction by accident. Then I got really nervous, so I stopped and bought airplane tequila at a bodega, to calm my nerves. I called Stella as I was footing my way back uptown.

"Jesus, T. You're like a $#$%@#%^ heroine in a romantic comedy."

That statement stuck with me... As I attended mass in Brooklyn with my great-aunt and millions of 90-year-olds who only spoke Italian, I thought, "I am living in a romantic comedy."

Then as my great-aunt insulted a Jersey tramp who tried to throw down with her on the steps of Saints Peter & Paul, I thought, "I am living in a romantic comedy."

As I discovered that my aunt had adopted 14 cats in my absence and was regularly feeding them roast chickens, I thought, "I am living in a romantic comedy."

I continue to think this way, even now. When I go on dates where the guy starts crying and asks for a hug, I think "I am living in a romantic comedy."

Or when I buy a house with no hot water and discover that I have to shower at my new neighbor's, I think, "I am living in a romantic comedy."

And rom-coms revolve around break-ups and make-ups. The good thing about breakups these days is that, after I turned 30, I noticed I started getting over minor relationships in like a week, solid. It goes like this:

Day 1: hate life, want to die, cry eyes out

Day 2: don't want to get out of bed, feel despair

Day 3: get out of bed, stare at mirror forlornly, try to smile

Day 4: get out of bed again, go out with girlfriend, drink wine

Day 5: hmmmm, it's okay, it's actually for the best probably, put on lipstick

Day 6: I'm marginally okay, I think

Day 7: wait, why was I going out with that guy, again???

I'm not even kidding. If you'd told me when I was 25 that I would one day get over guys in a week, I would have scoffed. Yet here I am.

And thank God, because what came next was so mind-boggling.

A few weeks ago, a guy I'd very recently been dumped by sent me an ad for a matchmaking service that he thought I might find helpful. I was dumbfounded. I stared at it. Was it like...a joke? But then he followed it up with a note about how he hopes I can one day find happiness again (not realizing that a week had already passed, so...)

Stratski and I started laughing our asses off.

It was at this point that I realized, YES. I am living in a romantic comedy.

At first we didn't know if that level of douche-baggery existed outside of rom-coms. But then we realized the heroine only gets patronized right before the good guy comes along. Like how that Irish policeman in Bridesmaids came along for Kristin Wiig right after that rich douchebag playboy dumped her!

So I'll just be right over here. Running red lights.