Today, I discovered something. Apparently my kitten, Jasper, has started only responding to me when I say “Hey. Asshole…” Which is usually followed by something like “Stop using my computer chair as a scratching post” or “What the hell are you doing trying to burrow to the bottom of that trash can. You can’t eat anything in there.”
My personal favorite from this week though has to be “For the love of God, that’s a tampon…not a cat toy.”
Jasper has a brother cat. His name is Bear. She also has four dog siblings (between myself and other members of my family) who are scared of her. I am almost 30 years old. I’m not married, I have no children, and I happen to either love animals or be an extreme masochist who loves spending my time yelling things like “Stop Eating Trash.” and “Who Pooped on the floor?!” (And not ever getting a response because they don’t speak English). It’s likely a little of both.
The point is this. I have this adorable seven month old rescue kitten that has been a labor of love from the beginning. Mama was hit by a car and killed and she was separated before she really had time to bond with anything. I kind of have been mama to her, so when I say “Jasper….Jasper…Hey…JASPER” and I get nothing, but then I yell “Hey, Asshole!” and she comes running to me and sits in my lap, I’m wondering what kind of a terrible cat mother I am.
I’ve had a rather emotionally trying few days for a number of reasons.
I’ve been having a week where every insecurity I posses from the crinkle in my forehead that somehow has magically appeared over the last year when I furrow my brow – to the fact that no matter how much weight I gain or lose – my hips, ass and breasts all stay the same size. So I wind up either looking like a a weeble wobble, or (in my skinny frame) plastic surgery barbie (Complete with life raft boobs!). I have stubs for legs. I can go on…every woman can. We are all programmed to zero in on our greatest faults – or what we perceive them to be.
I wonder sometimes why we spend so much time steeped in self loathing. Then I wonder that maybe “We” don’t and this is just another one of my quirks that I’ve developed over the years.
I’ve had more than a few people encouraging me lately – and by encouraging me I mean gently banging me upside the head with a 2×4 – to focus on the positive.
So. Hopefully my cat remembers that her name is not asshole.
Hopefully, my combined hormones and insanity do not drive me even further down the insanity path. If they do, I’m dragging you all with me.