There’s a scene in “When Harry Met Sally” where Meg Ryan is out to lunch with Carrie Fischer and some nameless friend. Carrie is regaling her friends with her latest encounter with her married boyfriend. The gist is that she snooped through his things, found out he and his wife just bought a $1200 dining room set (hey this was 1989 people) and she wonders aloud if he’s ever going to leave his wife. Her friends answer with a resounding and emphatic chorus of, “he’s never gonna leave her!” using a tone of exasperation that suggests this is a conversation they visit frequently. As cliched lover of all Rob Riener films, I have spent many days hoping and waiting for my life to turn into one - and pondering how my life could already be set on a course for a big dramatic ending on the empire state building, or with a tearful speech full of quirky things only a soulmate could love. In recent years I mostly find myself coming to the conclusion that I am well on my way to being Carrie Fischer in that particular scene of When Harry Met Sally.
Ask my friends and they will tactfully deny they have had to have that exact conversation with me, while shortly there after agreeing with you that Robin’s “Call Your Girlfriend” elicits a “this is my sooooong” when it comes on at the bar.
If we’re going to talk about types, the more unavailable the better as far as my twitterpated heart is concerned. Drop a hint, or even not so subtly let me know that were it not for your serious girlfriend/commitment issues/arrested development/feelings for someone else we would totally be a thing and I’m stuck like glue. As the proud owner of a fixative, and one track mind, I frequently cast myself in the beginnings of next year’s regurgitated version of The Notebook. Until the next Mr. Darcy wanders into my field of vision it can be a morose time to be my friend once I realize that it’s never going to happen.
So I can tell you, my friends were thrilled when I said I was adopting a cat. I love my friends dearly, but I do believe they were getting a little bit exhausted from my incessant texts from my hermetic existence. Living alone, and working from home leaves a gal more than a little lonely. A cat, I joke, would be the perfect pet. It’s everything I want in a boyfriend - always up for the chase but never wants to be caught, slightly aloof until they want something, and most importantly unavailable. Maybe, I even joked, the cat will fill my need for the distant beaus I generally sought, and I could finally finally find a guy who wanted to date.
Luck would have it that I had access to a liter of darling kittens who needed a good home. Naturally I chose the one most frequently found up in a tree or biting ankles. He had a little white chest that looked just like a tiny tuxedo, and a little white beauty spot above his lip on his dark grey face. Devastatingly handsome, big trouble, playing in poison ivy, it was true love at first sight. Unable to resist a self deprecating joke, I named him Mr. Willoughby after the Jane Austen character in Sense and Sensibility. Not only did his tiny formal attire fit the bill, but Mr. Willoughby is a scoundrel of my favorite kind - married to another in the city, preying upon the true affections of the genuine Marianne Dashwood. (Who is then married, in consolation, to Snape, excuse me Professor Snape, in the Ang Lee adaptation.) The tiny kitten may have looked the part but much to everyone’s amusement he has not the personality of such a rouge. Rascal, rapscallion, hell raiser, general terror, absolutely but distant? Unavailable? Hard to get? NONE OF THE ABOVE. The charming little gentleman is the clingiest, neediest, most smothering, living thing I have ever met. Should I disappear from his line of sight for even the smallest fraction of a second he yowls at top volume. I have not peed alone in my house since adopting Mr. Willoughby. Every waking moment is a battle for my full and exclusive attention. Books, the iPhone, the computer, really anything in front of you that is not the small and furry kitten is viciously attacked. Even when it isn't in my lap, the cat displays a level of vitriol I generally reserve for Bill O'Reilly toward any object that receives attention. Once conquered, my lap is not nearly enough. In fact the closer he can get to my jugular the better. His preferred spot is seated across my neck, rear end firmly in my face, preferably gnawing on a knuckle.
Much to the dismay of my friends, my attempt to adopt a “cool” cat, has gone terribly awry and instead I find myself with a helicopter cat; leaving me with nothing but time and eyes for the wildly unavailable. Girlfriend? It’s complicated? Emotional issues? Living at least 1,000 miles away? Never gonna leave her? Now accepting applications.
My cat boyfriend, hard at work on the blog.
I hereby submit a formal request that your cat be renamed to Irony.
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