My Life in the Slow Lane

Between going -to-bed and getting-to-bed I’ve had to deal with the following:

a) A cat who is busting to go
b) A weak plastic bag
c) 2kg of litter-and-cat-poo
d) Cleaning all of the above from my balcony floor.

I’ll leave you all to fill in the dots. Awesome way to wind down before sleep.

As I lay in bed, curled up snug and warm, I drifted in and out of sleep. Every muscle was relaxed. I was aware of The Midnight Cat as she jumped up on to the bed, miaowed once and sat down. At length she stalked the length of my body, purring loudly yet silent. When she reached my chest she stopped, waited, then lay down the length of my chest. She continued purring and I continued to drift in and out of sleep. I became aware of a strange sensation on my chin, like the feeling icing sugar would make it landed gently on your skin. It got stronger and stronger until I woke up a little more and realised that The Midnight Cat was licking the aftershave off my face. Shamelessly.

For the last eight weeks, I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated having The Midnight Cat around. She’s always here, ready for cuddles, and totally doesn’t mind being used as a sounding board when I’m feeling miserable (as long as it doesn’t impact on her quiet enjoyment of life). Sometimes, however, late at night, I think that perhaps The Midnight Cat is trying to kill me. That site shed new light onto the devious ways that felines incorporate their dastardly plans for assassination into everyday, prototypically “cat-like” behaviour.  Then this happened:

The cause of this aggression: The Cone of Shame

Last week some time, possibly on Tuesday night, I began noticing her strange behaviour. If piss bolting out of a room is failed ambush, I can only describe the unpleasant events of that night as an all out offensive attack. While Ben and I were cooking dinner, she charged towards us from the lounge room, hesitated menacingly in front of us, legs still poised for sudden flight, and then took off out the open door to the yard. A few minutes later she returned and dashed through to the lounge room and up the stairs. This worrying display of aggression continued a few more times as we became increasingly worried about our safety. For some time after the initial onslaught, she appeared to be lying in wait under the bed. When I returned to the bedroom she sprinted out, daringly darting between my legs, and ran down stairs. At the bottom of the steps she paused and looked back up. I had walked back into the landing to look down the staircase to see what she’d be doing. In the dim light, she looked up and me, her face a contorted picture of hatred. Without warning, she shot up the stairs. She lost her footing on (about) the sixth step and proceeded to face-plant herself into the seventh step in front of her. For a split second she stood, stunned, and took stock of the situation. She turned, and gracefully sauntered down the stairs and outside, whistling to herself as if to say “I know that looked clumsy, but I totally did it on purpose. Just saying.” I won that round, but was my safety assured? Not by a long shot.

The Midnight Cat trying to act all innocent looking

Last Friday, I came home from work early because I have a cold and I just couldn’t concentrate on the computer screen in front of me. I ambled home and, immediately, stripped off my jeans and went straight to bed. Sensing my obvious weakness, The Midnight Cat executed her second assault. It was ingenious really; first, she lulled me into a false sense of security by pretending to overjoyed to see me. She knew, I am certain, that I was tired, drug-fucked, and feeling a little sorry for myself so she miaowed affably and sauntered up the bed and lay down on my chest. Feeling a little better for having such a friendly creature around me in my hour of need, I drifted up to sleep. At this point, I woke up, because I was suddenly inhaling her fur rather than the air in the room. I should have heeded the advice of that site and recognised this clever plan for what it was: An attempt to smother me. I pushed her off; she miaowed testily.

Curled up asleep in bed.

The next night I was still sick in bed. I lay there, reading in bed with the electric blanket on. I lay on my back, as usual, with my legs crossed at the ankles. As I read my novel, I absentmindedly moved my right foot from one side to the other, under the blankets, so that a moving bump appeared on the surface of the quilt cover. The Midnight Cat sat, transfixed, at the foot of the bed, watching what can only be described as a Rogue-Imposter-Bump move around, totally unbidden. The fact that her attempts at homicide had failed twice was, I am sure, a devastating blow to her pride; for me to introduce a Rogue-Imposter-Bump to the bed was a slap in her face, a battle cry of “Ha! I am in charge here!” I had pushed her to the point of rebellion and outright aggression and, without warning, she attacked the Rogue-Imposter-Bump. She continued frantically biting and scratching the surface of the manchester for a full minute. I am fairly sure that at this point I snort-laughed, but I cannot confirm nor deny that because I was too busy laughing. The laughing was the last straw for The Midnight Cat! I stopped moving foot. She noticed that the Rogue-Imposter Bump had stopped moving so she sat, staring at it, daring it to move. I moved my other foot. She leapt over my legs and attacked from the other side. This time I felt her jaw engulf my left foot through the linens. The only way to stop her was to tuck my feet down, so the Rogue-Imposter-Bumps disappeared; The Midnight Cat miaowed triumphantly, I continued reading, no blood was spilt.

I’ve told a few friends about that unsettling week and they’ve all told me how lucky I am to has escaped her claws and avoided being turned into mince meat. One friend, however, simply pointed out that maybe she just wanted to be around me and was feeling cold so she wanted a hug? I conceded she had a point, however weak, but I chose to agree. After all, I’ll take temperature regulation over homicide any day.

Dear Pop,

It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. It feels like a decade; it’s been 3 years (and two months and four days) since you left. So much has happened in that time… I’m like a totally different person now… There’s so much I want to catch you up on: The Midnight Cat is now a permanent fixture in my home, I’m living with Janek now (and three others), I’ve resigned from one job and have another one now, and I’m having one of these blog posts published in a book in April.

So for a start, I turned twenty-six on Monday. I am now officially hurtling towards the outer edge of the “mid-twenties”. When you were twenty-six, it was 1940. You were married, had a daughter and another on the way, and (or so I thought when I was little) the world was eerily in black and white. You were working full-time, a fully qualified draftsman in a small firm in Martin Place in the city, living with your wife and daughter at your parents’ place in Hammond Ave. You were soon to leave for Port Moresby in the Royal Australian Air Force during the war. When my dad was twenty-six, it was 1981. He had already been married for three years, though I wasn’t to come onto the scene for another three. What is it about thinking of you and Dad as young men my age that makes me feel vaguely inadequate? The trippy thing is that the twenties are generally regarded as “the best years of your life”—full of parties, live bands, sex, drugs, alcohol, and very little responsibility—and that’s where I am (though without some of these features, admittedly). This is where you were in 1940!

So Janek and I took the plunge and moved in together. After The Proposal, it was kind of a foregone conclusion that we would eventually move somewhere together, since our respective leases ended at the same time. They were due to finish in November, but we were lucky enough to find a room in a sharehouse without really trying. We moved in during October. It was interesting. I suddenly had half as much space as I was used to, with twice as many things to cram into it. Janek, God bless him, has been incredibly patient with my messy tendencies and has even promised not to clean up my stuff because when he does I can never find anything. He has revoked this promise twice thus far, when it got too much for him to ignore.

We live with three other people: The Child, The Writer and The Clubber. The Child is gay, twenty, totally incompetent in that fresh-out-of-home way, and totally annoying on a daily basis. He doesn’t do the dishes without being asked, doesn’t clean the bathroom or kitchen at all, and his personality grates on me. The Clubber is the only girl in the house, so she has the bedroom with the ensuite. She’s a lot of fun and we really get on well together. The Writer is my favourite. He’s straight, my age, and works by day as an accountant. He’s like Clark Kent in that way: at night he is a party animal and a writer, working on a novel and writing short stories. He’s amazing and great to be around.

The fourth roomie is the queen of us all. I am referring, of course, to The Midnight Cat. After we moved I missed her terribly. I even cried on a few occasions because I missed her evening cuddles. Though by the time I moved she was spending most of her time either with me or Janek, technically she wasn’t ours so we had to make the difficult decision to leave her behind. One Saturday, I arrived home and was greeted by Janek’s enormous grin. “Guess what!” He said, beaming, “I have a surprise for you!” I was about to ask what it was when I saw a movement in the kitchen, just behind his left shoulder. I focused my vision. The Midnight Cat meowed and sauntered over to me. It turned out that Janek had been driving home, feeling miserable after spending the weekend with his family, when he decided to stop by the old place because he wanted to see her. She materialised at the sound of the car’s engine, Janek picked her up, chucked her into the back seat, and drove her here. We called the owners, of course, and were told they hadn’t seen her in three months, and had assumed she’d found a new home. She had. She now rules the house with an iron paw, which she swipes at The Child when he gets too close to her. You’d like her. I know that everyone thinks their cat is the best, but mine totally is.

I resigned from my job a month ago. After clashing heads with someone else in the organisation, Ada, my (former) manager resigned in November. I was determined not to resign on a knee-jerk, in perverse solidarity with Ada, although I did know deep down that my time there was numbered. Janek begged me to resign months before I actually did, always asking me “Did you resign today?” when I got home. It was starting to affect my health and I knew I couldn’t work there any further, which is very sad because until recently, it was my dream job. Ultimately, I clashed heads with the same person and resigned. That day was contacted by a lady at uni that I have worked with in a voluntary capacity and she offered me some casual work over the next few weeks. I have since got a little more, and though it’s all short-term contact work, so it likely won’t last, it’s a step in the right direction. The pay is better, the people are nicer, and I’m really enjoying it.

Finally, I have some big news. I received an email in October from an editor at a publisher, asking if I would give permission to publish one of my blog posts—“Reality and Truth”—in an anthology. I said yes, if I could combine it with another post—“Retraction”—and it was accepted. I’m currently trying to write a short bio… It’s really, really hard! I can easily spurt out 1000 words, like this little letter, but for some reason I seem incapable of only 150.

I miss you. I love you. I still want to call you up and talk to you, tell you everything that’s been going on. I just tried your telephone number, in fact, and it rang. I want to know who has your phone number now, but I chickened out and hung up after one ring.

Well I should get to bed. Night.

It’s a scary thought to think that right now I am living in the proverbial Best Years Of My Life™. Even though I’m twenty-five-and-a-half, I certainly don’t feel like the Grown Up™ that I am supposed to be, and I certainly don’t feel like the Grown Up that my parents appeared to be at this age. I look back at photos of my parents from back then, circa 1979, and cannot believe that I am, in a way, at the same point in my life that they were back then, given that in many ways I really don’t feel it at all.

Twenty years ago, as a child, I poured over the same photographs—they were only ten years old at that point—and seeing my parents’ twenty-something faces smiling back at me I thought to myself that they were just the same as the parents I knew, only slightly younger and presented in colours slightly faded. But they were Grown Ups, that was for sure.

But nonetheless, here I am, Grown Up™ (at least on paper), and living life smack bang in the middle of the Best Years Of My Life™:

I’m halfway through a degree at university. Although at this time of year (and again in November) I am generally loathe to talk highly of academia in any way, shape or form, I am really enjoying it at uni. Currently I have two 2000 word essays due within the next three weeks: the first about the assimilation “experiment” in relation to Indigenous Australians, the second about the ways that the Catholic Church prescribes heterosexuality and gender roles in society. Both topics I’m interested in and passionate about, particularly the second one, but it’s a lot of work!! I also have a 100 question multiple choice exam for psychology to study for. Terrifying.

I’ve got a job I love. It is very stressful lately, I grant you, because we are undergoing a process of Quality Improvement which entails us filling out 17 evidence-based competencies. This, in turn, involves us wanking on about how we do or do not meet said competencies. It’s necessary, yes, but a very stressful endeavour for all involved. Ada, my manager (so named because she bears an uncanny resemblance to Ada Nicodemou), and I have been pulling out our hair and smoking out our lungs trying to get it done on time. It’s due today (being the end of the month). It’s not done. It will be handed in, late, on Monday. We both worked late on Friday, including locking ourselves out of the office at around 5pm when we went for a smoke break.

I have a cat I adore. It seems the slippery slope has been slipped, and the cat is now, for all intents and purposes, mine and Janek’s. I was explaining the situation to my grandfather, by far the most morally upstanding man I know, and he pointed out that what is important here is that as far as she is concerned, she is ours (or, as he put it, we are hers). This means I can now take her to the vet to get her claws clipped with a clear conscience. More about her incredible cuteness at another time. Probably with photographs.

And finally, though by no means least(ly), I have a boyfriend I love. It’ll be a year in six days. Wow. Things are great; nothing much to report really, but then no news is good news. Or so they say, whoever “they” are.

So that’s me. I look back at the faded faces of my twenty-something-year-old parents in those photos from 1979, but I don’t feel as Grown Up as they appeared at the time.

It appears that all felines in the area now congregate around my place. There are now four cats that I see on a fairly regular basis. There’s The Midnight Cat, of course, who has been getting quite comfortable here of late, but it’s impossible for me to say no to those big eyes when she wants something. Ginger Megs is the second cat I met, a big ginger and white cat who will watch you walk past with intense interest and then run off when you get too close. Smokey, the local tomcat, miaows loudly at night, presumably to attract the ladies to his masculine charm; he’s big and awkward looking so I don’t know how much action he gets.

Last night I met the newest addition to the menagerie; The Midnight Cat was walking down the side passageway towards me, as I sat smoking outside, and suddenly stopped dead in her tracks and turned around. She retraced her steps cautiously, inching closer to a stealthy little black cat who was crouched by the laundry door. Lucky, the black cat, moved slowly backwards. The Midnight Cat, being the curious busybody that she is, followed Lucky. Lucky dove into the laundry and stuck her head out to face The Midnight Cat as they played a bizarre game of feline hide-and-seek in which The Midnight Cat only moved when Lucky was inside the laundry, stopping dead when her head popped out the open doorway. Eventually, she reached the laundry and peered in, her two front paws on the door-ledge. A giant hiss broke the silence and Lucky scuttled towards the back gate, followed in close pursuit by The Midnight Cat, until they were both under a car swatting in each other’s general direction with their paws.

So just call me Dr Doolittle.

Me: Hello, my darling, how are you enjoying the heater here?
The Midnight Cat: Could be warmer. Why?
Me: Well it’s getting late and I need to get some sleep soon.
The Midnight Cat: How does that concern me?
Me: Well, my love, you know what happens when I go to bed.
The Midnight Cat:… [silence] …
Me: So, as I was saying—

At this point The Midnight Cat looked into my eyes, balled up her front right paw, and punched me in the forehead.

Me: Oy! What the fuck was that for?
The Midnight Cat: I know what you were about to say. You were going to say ,“When it’s time for me to go to bed, I put you outside. You know that. Remember?”
Me: How did you know that!?
The Midnight Cat: I’m a cat; I know all.
Me: Yes, you do.
The Midnight Cat: … [purr] …
Me: That’s more like it. Now, as I was saying. It’s getting late and—

At this point she swiped her paw in front of my face, narrowly missing my left cheek.

Me: OY! What did I do this time?
The Midnight Cat:You were thinking it again.
Me: What is this? The Midwich Cuckoos?
The Midnight Cat:No. I’m just that good.
Me: Well cut it out dammit!
The Midnight Cat:You asked for it. Now leave me alone, I’m trying to cogitate here.
Me: Oh no you don’t. Come on! Up with you!
The Midnight Cat: No.
Me: What do you mean, “No”?
The Midnight Cat: I’m actually really quite busy here. Can we discuss this in the morning please?

Shortly after she was put outside.

In my experience, there is no other domestic animal that conducts itself with grace, poise and dignity like a cat does. A cat demands attention when it enters a room; it saunters gracefully as it moves and then has the uncanny ability to look into a human’s eyes and express such total disdain with just its facial expression. Cats seem to be in control at all times, conducting themselves with precision and elegance. They seem to think themselves better than the rest of the mere mortals that inhabit this earth.

Last night I was sitting up in bed watching TV while The Midnight Cat lay curled up in a ball at the foot of my bed, snoozing. As I sat watching, I started absent-mindedly stroking her with my left foot. I slowly stroked her outstretched legs and her tummy. After about five minutes she stirred and looked up at me from her slumber, shooting me the trademark disdainful look that only a cat can pull off. I realised that my absent-minded foot rubbing had crossed the line from appropriate cat patting to an invasive sleep-depriving violation.

Suddenly, with no warning at all, she attacked my foot with her four paws; she grabbed my foot with her front paws and dug the claws into my skin while she kangaroo kicked my heel with her back paws. The action of the kicking forced her body to be propelled backwards across the bed. She was on the edge of the bed. It was at this point that her dignity and grace went out the window as she realised she was going to fall off the edge. Cats can jump effortlessly, leaping from heights that are comparatively huge distances, with that same sophistication they always exhibit; this was not like that. I could see her face when she realised she was going to fall, watching the horror as she dug her front claws into my foot and tried to use her back legs to grab onto the mattress.

I laughed as this graceful little creature, formerly so poised and commanding, fell from the bed and back down to earth where us mere mortals walk so humbly.

This week I’m spending the week at home with Mum & Dad. The plan is to relax and do nothing, except write my speech and catch up on some reading, but experience tells me this is not going to be the case. Anyway, this post is going to be very uneventful; it’s late and I’m tired, but I wanted to say hello and let you all know I’m alive and well.

Things with Janek are going well… I don’t want to jinx it by going into graphic details, so I guess you’ll have to use your collective imaginations. Grin. He’s incredibly sweet, charming and has made the last month fly by on a cloud of grins, double entendre and corny innuendo.

In other news, the Midnight Cat puked on my carpet the other day. So that’s that. More to come soon!

I was standing in the kitchen tonight, after having cooked up some turkey burgers, marvelling at my brilliance. I finally figured out a way to make burgers that fit into my insane dietary requirements: cook 1 cup of rice then combine with 500g turkey/chicken/pork mince, 2 eggs, 1 cup gluten-free (or other suitably low GI) flour and 1 cup of frozen vegies and shallow fry in canola oil. I was organising the washing up when I heard a miaow. The Midnight Cat meandered into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably.

He made a bee-line to the fridge before rubbing his body against my ankles. Being the cutest cat in recent memory I gave in and got out some ham for him to nibble on. I continued washing dishes and he continued trying to get my attention until fed him more. After the dishes were done I took some dry cups into my room and he followed me and started poking around my cupboards and under my bed; I’m not sure if he was exploring, hunting or both. He found a place in front of my heater, curled up and sighed contentedly.

I left him alone and continued with my chores in the kitchen. When I returned he miaowed for more ham now that it was conveniently located in my hand and not in the fridge. I poured him a small bowl of milk and put the ham and the milk on a piece of newspaper in the corner. Once he had satisfied himself he stalked over the bed and sat on the floor watching as I typed on my laptop. He caught my eye, so I called his name and patted the mattress beside me.

He leapt up onto the bed and started walking over to me. He walked onto my crossed legs and placed his front two paws on my chest, effectively walking up my body in such a way that his head was pressing into my shoulder with all his might. I put my arm around him and cuddled him and he purred and arched his back in delight. He was pushing on me in such a way that I had to lay down to stop him falling off me onto the floor; he took full advantage of this and stood on my chest, purring. He lay down, nuzzled his head into my neck and sighed contentedly.

He’s now asleep on the floor in front of the heater… The Optimist has had him in his room overnight and had no problems, not even being woken at sunrise, so I think I’m going to let him stay in here tonight. It’s nice to have the company.

I think Janek is jealous.