Not even the cheerless faces and curt responses of most Londoners could make me renounce that rule. I’ve never been afraid to annoy complete strangers, even foreign ones, for my own benefit.
My friend Holly, on the other hand, navigated London like a pro without me a couple times, mapping routes on intricate tube and train maps and finding her way back to my brother’s house twice without asking anyone. So why a simple lock box at our vacation rental in Devizes flummoxed her, I can’t say, but I strongly suspect it had something to do with my corrupting influence.
Our cell phones didn’t work overseas, and the lock box stymied us in a sleepy English town after dusk. There was no one to ask, so I was fresh out of ideas.
Normally when things went wrong, I simply shrugged and quoted my husband’s favorite, “It is what it is!” and Holly responded in her best New Jerseyese, “Fo’get abou’ it.” But we had already had a hard night. The train from London was late, and we had missed the last bus leaving Bath for Devizes. We asked a cabbie how far to that charming canal town famous for a different kind of lock, and he replied, “Oh, about 35 kilometers. Last time I drove there I think the fare was £55.” The train had been £32; the bus cost a mere five! For a minute I contemplated just how bad a 35-kilometer walk could be in decent weather.
Instead, we chose to chuckle with our cabbie about “booking a cottage within walking distance of Bath” as he navigated endless roundabouts through numerous villages. An hour spent, the cab dropped us off at the alley access from our cottage, number 6 “Birdveil” Street, at dusk.
The key was in a lock box by the garden gate. I grabbed a torch hanging on a hook and held it for Holly as she quickly lined up the four-digit code I read off to her. There was a tiny lever to the side that Holly pushed down and released. Then she pulled on the box.
We checked the number, pushed down the lever, pulled….nothing. We reread the skeletal instructions: The key is in the lock box by the back gate. The code is—-. Then we repeated our unsuccessful formula, tugging harder and harder on the impregnable box.
Holly spied another lock box near the back door. We ran to it eagerly.
“I know how to work these!” announced Holly, entering our code. She tried coaxing and then switched to brute force as I looked longingly in the back door like a street urchin from a Dickens novel, tormented by the cottage’s warm interior as I jangled the handle rudely.
Then I exclaimed, “What about that ambulance station across the street? Maybe somebody there can help us!”
The station was deserted, the injured and ill abandoned to the hope that they could hang on until morning.
The time had come to accost the natives. I knocked at number 7. A skinny blond woman cracked the door and looked at us like we were escaped convicts, wild animals or poor circus performers.
I quickly explained our difficulty, and she pointed. “Number 8 knows everything,” she whimpered before slamming the door.
Already 9 p.m., I tried to knock quietly at number 8. The longer we waited, however, the louder I became. Three noisy teenagers came down the quiet street toward us, and I was certain that if Devizes had punks, these three were it. When one cheeky young man waved his hand toward our faces, sensing our discomfort, I said a curt, “Good evening,” with a smile so tight I almost swallowed my teeth.
No. 8 ignored us, and the punks swaggered on; back we went to try new incantations on the demon box.
“Maybe the numbers are out of order,” said Holly. “We need to try different combinations.”
“Yeah,” I rallied. “Maybe the owner’s dyslexic!”
We tried our hand at the obvious switches. Then we took turns desperately yanking on the lock box with both hands and scouting the tiny garden for the softest place to sleep.
Hysteria was creeping in. Forgetting we had no phone, I cried, “Isn’t there somebody we can call? Some emergency number here like a 911?”
Driven mad by failure, Holly shouted back at me, “Not for idiots!”
I doubled over in a fit of laughter that could have awakened no. 8 and made no. 7 pee her pants.
But I quickly sobered up. My rolling baggage thundered as we went down the stone passageway to the street. We gazed down its length. It was like the main drag in an old Western before a shoot-out; the locals were hiding.
Then a door down to the right opened, and out came an unsuspecting lady with a bag of trash. I pounced, and she jumped.
“We’re Americans!” I yelled. “We rented the cottage next door, but we can’t open the lock box, and our cell phones don’t work over here! Please, can you help us?”
“Come in,” she said. “I can’t keep the door open because of the cats.”
A small woman with short gray hair in disarray over her glasses, she introduced herself as Jane and offered me her phone, and I called the cottage owner. No answer. Then Jane brought over a lap top as old as me, warning that you had to keep it steady at a certain angle for the Internet to work. I fumbled with it as Holly tried the owner again.
As I began typing an email I could only pray would be seen by the cottage owner that night, I was shocked to hear Holly, New Jersey accent thick, say into the phone, “Hi, this is Hillary Eye-bar-uh. I rented the brewery cottage from you….”
Now I had called the owner, “Vernie,” two days earlier for access instructions, and I was absolutely certain that Holly and I sounded nothing alike, especially since she had just mispronounced my last name. But when Holly hung up and informed me that Vernie would text no. 8 to let us in, I quickly forgot our duplicity.
After thanking Jane, we went back out to try no. 8 again. We knocked and waited several minutes, but just like the Beatles song, there was no reply.
“We have to go back to Jane’s,” I lamented.
Lady Jane, as we would dub her, took us in.
“Nothing?” she asked. We shook our heads in dejection. “Can I get you some coffee?” she offered kindly. We nodded eagerly. Who cared about sleep if it was to be had in the metal garden chairs of your vacation rental? Better to remain alert to fend off punks and wererabbits!
Jane brought us coffee, and we decided to call Vernie again to our shame. This time I dialed.
“Hello, Vernie, this is Hillary E-barrrr- ah,” I said, rolling the r’s of my Hispanic last name. “No. 8 isn’t answering. We’ve tried the lock box several times, and it won’t open! What are we doing wrong?”
We repeated the code to each other, and then she said, “You just hold down that little lever and pull on the box.”
“At the same time?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Vernie. “Enter the code, press down the lever and pull on the front.”
“At the same time?”
“You push down the lever and pull on the lock box at the same time?”
“Yes!” Vernie cried with exasperation, “Look, Hillary, we’ve had that lock box all year, and we’ve never had a problem…”
“Does one of you want to go try it?” Jane asked when I hung up.
I was designated and rose to do my duty. I closed the door to number 4, walked sideways down the narrow alley that now felt decidedly sinister, and opened the garden gate, trying not to picture myself as the strange victim in some tiny village of an Agatha Christie mystery. I lined up the numbers of the code, held down the lever and pulled mightily.
I reentered number 4 holding up a large, old-fashioned key. Holly guffawed, relief and caffeine making her giddy.
I picked up my coffee, ready to decompress after an hour-and-a-half-long ordeal, and laughingly said to Jane, “You had to hold down the lever and pull! We just didn’t think of it!”
“Well,” said our gracious hostess. “I won’t keep you.”
Able to read simple social cues, we rose and thanked Lady Jane profusely.
Later, as I surveyed the darling living area of our cozy cottage with heightened appreciation and Holly scanned the guest book for mention of “lock box issues,” I abruptly began to laugh again.
“What?” inquired Holly.
“Vernie must think I have a split personality!” I cried.
Ah, well. Vernie will probably never hear from the New Jersey or Arizona “Hillary” ever again. Even if we did wish to rent that precious place a second time, I would be afraid to look it up now:
Because of the need for basic lock box skills, this accommodation not suitable for idiot Americans.
— Hillary Ibarra
Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org. She is a mother of four who dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen’s childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.
Drawing from the pain and joy of her own life experiences, Sharon Dillon teaches practical methods for living a peaceful and balanced life in her first book, Echoes of Your Choices: Laughter, Peace, and Joy. She’s been a reporter for several newspapers and magazines in Wisconsin and Virginia.
The news doesn’t need to be complicated and confusing; that’s what any new release from Microsoft is for. And, as in the case with anything from Microsoft, to keep the news from worrying our pretty little heads over, remember something new and equally indecipherable will come out soon.
Really all you need to do is follow one simple rule: barely pay attention and jump to conclusions. So, here are some headlines today and my first thoughts:
U.S adds 223,000 jobs in June
Although most of those went to Republicans running for President.
Kim and Kanye announced they’re having a baby boy
Or, as Kardasian kids are also known…a spinoff.
Soccer’s FIFA board corruption scandal widens
Ironically, they’re using their hands to scoop up all the money.
The number 1 bad habit you need to stop if you want to lose weight
Having pizza while reading articles about weight loss.
Happy World Naked Gardening Day
The perfect time for rakes and hoes to get together.
Bristol Palin was spokesperson for abstinence only birth control
Look for Donald Trump to be named Ambassador to Mexico.
Kim Kardashian reveals a little too much about her underwear
Shocking. Kim Kardashian wears underwear?
Fox Host: Hillary Clinton ate at Chipotle for ‘Hispanic outreach’
Next, it’s Panda Express to reach out to the Asians.
A website ranks Mississippi as the sluttiest state
Guess you really can get lots of ‘S’ in Mississippi.
Is it ok to leave butter on the kitchen counter?
Since Marlon Brando died, yup.
Republican senator wants restaurant workers not to have to wash their hands after using the bathroom
That’s odd, because most politicians want to wash their hands of everything.
Miley Cyrus: I haven’t had only ‘straight or heterosexual’ relationships
Guess that makes her Bi-ley Cyrus.
— Paul Lander
Paul Lander is not sure which he is proudest of — winning the Nobel Peace Prize or sending Sudanese peace activist, Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim, to accept it on his behalf, bringing to light the plight of central Africa’s indigenous people. In his non-daydreaming hours, Paul has worked as a writer and/or producer for shows on ABC, NBC, Showtime, The Disney Channel, ABC Family, VH1, LOGO and Lifetime. In addition, he’s written standup material that’s been performed on “Leno,” “Letterman,” “Conan” and “Last Comic Standing.” His humor pieces have appeared in McSweeney‘s, The New Yorker, Santa Fe Writers Project Journal, Humor Times, The Higgs Weldon and Hobo Pancake. In 2015, he placed second in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ annual column contest in the online/blog/multimedia category for his pieces in Humor Times and was named the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop’s “Humor Writer of the Month” in April.
In a summer long past I worked as an intern in Washington, D.C. and would frequently walk past the White House on my lunch hour. There I encountered, as you may today, protestors of various persuasions, all of whom blamed a predictable cast of characters — the President, the CIA, the FBI — for the ills of the world.
After a while, it became part of the summer atmosphere of the District, like the humidity and the tourists. But then one day, out of the blur of figures that had become as familiar as wallpaper, a lone man with a display of photographs caught my eye. “PIGEONS HAVE COPIED OUR BRAINS!” the legend above his pictures read, and I stopped. To say that my life changed with that chance encounter would be an understatement.
I worked for the government, so I had plenty of time to examine his pictures and listen to his tale. It turned out that pigeons had been reproducing human brain waves for years — right under our noses — using nothing more sophisticated than ordinary photocopiers. And nobody was doing anything about it!
I heard the man out, examined his photos, most of which depicted apparently addle-brained humans — the finished product, as it were — and never saw him again.
I returned to Boston and found myself a legal beagle in a large law firm, spending hours in the library doing research. The closest I came to a real-life lawsuit was when one of our clients was named as a defendant in a nuisance suit by a crank. My job was to draft papers to get our client out of the case, but first I was told to call the fellow up and ask him politely if he would consider dropping Acme Amalgamated Fasteners, or whomever, from the suit.
“I can’t,” came the reply. “The voices — they won’t let me alone.”
“Who’s tormenting you?” I asked politely.
“The CIA, the FBI, the Pope, the . . . “
“You’re forgetting somebody,” I said brusquely. Sometimes a forceful intervention can bring a madman back to reality. “Like — pigeons?”
“Yep. I went to the White House and found out it’s actually pigeons who control our brains.”
“Really?” the plaintiff asked.
“Sure — you don’t buy that crap about the CIA and the Pope, do you? That’s exactly what they want you to think!”
“I never liked pigeons. You may be onto something.”
“Sure I’m onto something. I got it from the pigeons themselves!”
“I never knew . . .”
“That’s okay, glad I got to you before it was too late. Now about Acme Amalgamated Fasteners . . .”
I didn’t persuade the man to drop the suit, but the dialogue came back to me today as I walked the streets of Boston and heard the same tired complaint. A disheveled man, talking to himself incoherently, yelled out “It’s the CIA!”
Please — can we finally bury this base canard in the graveyard of lunatic ideas where it belongs? As between the CIA, the FBI, Pope Francis I and pigeons, which is more likely to control your brain? I submit the following:
1. If the CIA controlled your brain, you’d be thinking about dossiers. You don’t know what a dossier is.
2. The CIA has centralized headquarters in Langley, Va. Pigeons operate independently, like franchisees, from a number of convenient locations around the country to better monitor your brain waves.
3. The Pope is too busy writing papal bulls to control your brain.
4. In 1950, King George VI made FBI director J. Edgar Hoover an honorary knight in the Order of the British Empire. They don’t give those things out for trivial stuff like controlling your brain waves — you have to be a cross-dresser.
5. Finally, and most importantly, noted behavioral psychologist B.F. Skinner taught pigeons how to play ping-pong. If pigeons have so much free time they can play ping-pong, they have time for really important stuff like controlling your brain!
So there you have it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if you see a pigeon as you walk through the park today, do yourself a favor.
Throw him a piece of your hot dog roll. You never know what he might do with the stuff he’s got on you.
— Con Chapman
Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer whose works include The Year of the Gerbil, a history of the 1978 Yankees-Red Sox pennant race, 10 published plays and two novels, Making Partner and CannaCorn (Joshua Tree Publishing). His articles and humor have appeared in magazines and newspapers including The Atlantic Monthly, The Boston Globe and The Christian Science Monitor.
There we were, an eclectic collection of flawed people, listening to a gray-mustached man in a black robe, sporting reading glasses midway down his nose, reading for what seemed like 45 minutes on a flat screen TV. The fact that the TV was not at the front but in the back right side wall was the first disconcerting part of our day.
It was our job to listen. It felt like Judge Judy was talking down to us. It was Mustache’s legal obligation to read all about our rights and obligations and how we were to obey everything he said that day and shut up and do whatever he decided.
We were a local town courthouse awaiting our fates for doing bad things. Why else would be there on a Thursday morning the day before the Fourth of July Holiday?
On the wall next to the TV, where the lawyer kept reading our rights and obligations forever, hung a four-by-six-foot painting of George Washington and his crew in the row boat crossing the Delaware River. Our country’s first leading man stood on the bow staring straight ahead amid the choppy waves, ready to go to battle to save America from itself. At the front of the court room was a circular plaque of the cover of an Olympic Bronze medal with the township emblem inscribed. Near the front stood a police officer who looked like he lifted 400-pound weights every morning for three hours before coming to work. His face was stern, serious and scary, and he had a big black pistol in a holster on his right hip.
And there I sat in the back wondering what how much hazing I was going to endure from a prosecuting attorney and how much money he would insist that I pay for a traffic accident I had with a middle-aged woman a few months ago.
I knew the accident had been her fault. But I also knew the lawyer would try to convince the judge and me that it was my fault. The day was not looking good. I would have rather been at a Rotary Club meeting that didn’t serve food or drinks.
Before my trial began, the policeman told me the attorney wanted to speak with me. He escorted me to a back room to a conference table at which six people I did not know stared up at me when I came in the door.
The prosecutor wanted to have a word with me outside in the hallway. Whenever a prosecuting attorney wants to pummel you with a pre-trial inquisition, don’t expect a pleasant exchange of ideas. It’s going to be as ugly as a dead slug.
As expected, he launched into me with this: “The woman says that right after the accident you apologized to her. That would suggest to me you thought you were at fault for the accident. Why did you apologize?”
Thinking slowly on my feet, I said I apologized because I felt bad about the accident.
“The damage to her car indicates she didn’t hit you but that you side-swiped her,” he said.
I then remembered that in this situation, having watched “Law and Order” several times, that I had the right to remain silent. Anything I said could be held against me in the court of law.
Not feeling warmed by this guy, I stopped talking. He had long grayish/black sideburns which, in and of themselves, would not have bothered me. But because he was interrogating me and wanted to destroy my integrity, ruin my morning, and take lots of my money and prove to a judge that I am a schmuck, his sideburns bugged me. As thick as a yardstick, they extended to the bottom of his ear and made me want to say something like, “Nice sideburns, you jerk.”
But I didn’t say that. He held the future of my life in his vanilla envelope of evidence he was sure to float in the courtroom to get me squirming and feeling small and confused. Anyone who wants you to feel that way is not your friend.
I had had enough of him and his questions. So I shut him down. No more self-incrimination from me, Sideburns Sharphead.
I went back to the court room and got ready for the trial. When it began, he asked me to tell what had happened.
“I was driving down the road and this woman pulled out and hit me on the right side of my car.”
I demonstrated with my hands how she hit me at a perpendicular angle.
“Did you say perpendicular?” Sideburns asked.
“Yes,” I said. But I then knew where he was going. He was going to try to prove that I had not been hit at a perpendicular angle but something less direct than that and this would prove to the judge I lacked credibility. So I maneuvered my hand to about a 75 or 80 degree angle.
“It was more like this angle.”
“But you just told the court it was a perpendicular angle, which is a direct hit at 90 degrees.”
“It was, I don’t know, about 75 or 80 degrees.”
He had already made me feel like a liar and non-credible witness. This was not going well. I knew it wouldn’t. His sideburns were repulsing me.
My time in the sun continued. He put various photos of the woman’s car in front of me on the table. His goal was to show photos proving that she had not hit me the way I said she had. It was all going wrong. I was losing. Sideburns was killing me. I felt as if I was being punched in the face by a guy who wanted to crunch me into charcoal dust.
Once he was done trashing me, I was told to sit in the back. How many thousands of dollars am I going to have to pay Sideburns once he slam dunks the case against me for lying under oath about the perpendicular thing?
But my mood lifted once the woman started testifying. She reminded me of my experiences reading and/or hearing about Aesop’s Fables. She told the judge about how I swerved into a lane of oncoming traffic and then sped up and sideswiped her after she had made a full turn into my lane and drove down the road some 30 yards. Neither of these things happened. This was confirmed when I saw the cop who wrote the police report after being on the scene at the accident. After testifying about the accident with the same facts I shared, he looked at me with a quizzical look on his face as if to say “What is this woman talking about?”
At this stage I thought about what Sideburns was thinking. At that moment I bet he regretted he took the case because his witness was making up details about distances she traveled before the accident that didn’t make sense mathematically.
She went all perpendicular and no one could follow her train of thought.
Before the judge, the prosecutor’s sideburns were being shaved off. I left the courtroom victorious.
I swear I have told the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
— Charles Hartley
Charles Hartley is a freelance writer who has had more than 1,000 articles published in a wide range of media outlets focused on humor, sports, business, technology and consumers. He has earned master’s degrees in journalism and business administration and a bachelor’s degree in English and communications.
Bill Watterson isn’t just the creator of the world’s best comic strip. According to the book Looking for Calvin and Hobbes, a biography of the elusive and reclusive cartoonist, Watterson is also a world-class introvert.
Watterson refuses to make public appearances, give interviews or talk to fans, although he sometimes responds to fan mail and occasionally corresponds or collaborates with fellow cartoonists. Family and friends have been instructed not to reveal where he lives. (For years, he had an unlisted number and lived under his wife’s maiden name.) There’s just one, early, photo of him available to the public. It shows a dorky looking dude seated at a drawing table.
Apparently, Watterson, like J.D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon, is one of those very smart, very creative people who just want to be left alone. He doesn’t want to be the life of the party. He doesn’t even want to GO to the party. He wants to stay home and get on with his work.
Fame, for these folks, isn’t a perk. It’s an ordeal.
An introvert is “a person who is energized by being alone and whose energy is drained by being around other people.” Introverts enjoy exploring their own thoughts and feelings. Being with people, even people they are comfortable with, interferes with their desire to be “quietly introspective.“
Although Watterson won the Harvey Award for “Best Syndicated Comic Strip” seven years in a row, from 1990-1996, he never once showed up to claim his award and accept the acclaim of his peers. “From most reports and reported anecdotes,” says fellow cartoonist Berkeley Breathed, with affection, “he is most assuredly a serious whack job.”
Or just a serious introvert.
As he worked on the strip, he had no need (and even less desire) to leave the house seeking acclaim or inspiration. Everything he needed was inside his own head.
Watterson, famously, also refused to sell out.
He wouldn’t agree to license or merchandise “Calvin and Hobbes.” When pressured to do so by the syndicate, he threatened to stop drawing the strip altogether. After several years of wrangling, the syndicate backed down and handed control of his creation back to the artist.
About the millions he passed up by refusing to merchandise the strip? “The so-called opportunities I faced,” he once said, “would have meant giving up my individual voice for that of a money-grubbing corporation. It would have meant my purpose in writing was to sell things, not say things.”
Watterson gave us, in all, a total of 3,160 “Calvin and Hobbes” strips. He also gave us an instructive example of one way to live, with integrity, a creative life.
“He doesn’t get his kicks from being famous.” his mother once said in an interview. “He was just doing something he enjoyed doing. He definitely wants to disappear.”
Nearly twenty years after that last strip? Mission accomplished! Today, nobody knows where the guy is or what he’s up to.
Nicely done, Mr. Watterson. On behalf of fellow introverts everywhere, I salute you.
— Roz Warren
Roz Warren is the author of Our Bodies, Our Shelves, A Collection of Library Humor. This piece first appeared on www.broadstreetreview.com.
Eric Heyl is a staff columnist and former reporter at the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, where his writing has graced the newspaper’s pages for 23 years. His witty columns garnered him first place in the humor category for large newspapers in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ 2016 column contest. Judges called his work “laugh out loud funny” with “spot on” comical observations. He is the former president of NSNC, where he also served as vice president of the NSNC Education Foundation.
(Allia Zobel Nolan and Nicole Hollander’s newest book, Women Who Still Love Cats Too Much, will be released in September 2015 but is now available for pre-orders. Enjoy this interview with the author to understand her
obsession affection for felines.)
Cats are ridiculously popular these days. But it wasn’t always so. When and what got you interested in writing about these feline fur babies?
Truth is though I always had an affinity for cats, my parents were really dog people. In fact, my mom really didn’t like cats at all…said they were sneaky. Then one Christmas morning, a friend dropped off a box for me. It was large, moved, and had holes in the top. It turned out that inside the box was a white ball of fluff…the cutest white kitten I’d ever seen. I named him Oscar Pooke. Much to her dismay, the tiny fur ball followed Mother around all day and at night, sat in the crook of Dad’s neck while we watched TV. Needless to say, Mother fell in love with him; father fell in love with him, and of course, I was over the moon. I was about 15. Ten cats later, I’m still smitten.
Do you consider yourself a “crazy cat lady?”
You know the stereotypical image of the crazy cat lady is of a spinster, in slovenly clothes, who lives with hordes of cats in a stinky house that looks like a bomb hit it. Other than the messy house, I don’t fit that category. Some may consider my over-the-top treatment of my cats “crazy.” But I believe if you are blessed with the care of an animal, you should do all you can to make it happy and comfortable…everything.
What is the most bizarre thing you’ve ever done for your cats?
Well, I don’t consider anything I’ve ever done for my cats “bizarre.” The book notwithstanding, others whose involvement with their puddies may not run as deeply as my own, may think I spoil them — what with insisting on fresh, wild caught (never farmed) salmon for their meals, or hiring a vet technician to come in to the house six times a day to make sure they are okay when I’m away for more than two hours. Also, when I’m cuddling my newly rescued baby, Nolan Nolan, I also run my face up and down his fur, imitating the licking gestures a mommy cat makes when she cleans her puddy. I do that because he is under a year old and may be missing being groomed by his birth mom. But I don’t consider any of that “bizarre.” However, I read on the web of some woman who actually “married” her cat. Now, to me, that’s bizarre. That’s like marrying your child.
Does your love for your cat interfere with your love life?
Well, truthfully, my husband, who is Irish, prefers dogs. However, it’s a matter of the old saying, “love me, love my cat(s).” I really couldn’t spend my life with someone who doesn’t like cats. I’m not saying they have to be ga-ga over them — like I am — but they have to at least understand where I’m coming from. I just lost a cat, Angela Dahling, who had thyroid disease and kidney failure. For two years, I hand-fed her, or arranged for her to be fed, four times a day. She also had to have fluids three times a week and Vitamin B12 shots, and all of this was very time-consuming and costly, both physically and psychologically. And my husband was very understanding of it all. Many wouldn’t be, but then, I wouldn’t be with a person like that.
Can you give us three things women who love cats too much can do to course-correct their lives?
Well, first, many of us (and I include myself in the quotient), don’t want to course correct. Our lives may not be as smooth as they would be if we didn’t love cats too much. But then, surely our lives would not be as fulfilled as they are now. But for those who may consider (however briefly) changing, I would suggest: Be firm when it comes to opening and closing the door for your cat. Do it 50 times, and then leave the door ajar. Kitty may learn the mechanics of door-opening, and you’ll have 10, maybe 20, extra minutes in your day. Here’s another thing: Try (and I say try, because you may have to give in) not to feed puddy every time she stands at her feeding bowl starring at you with soulful saucer eyes. Walk away, engage yourself in busy work, build a catio…anything to get your mind off that face. If you can’t stand the silence, though, wait a while before you fill her bowl. This way, she’ll know you are NOT at her beck and call. The third thing is to try (I know it’s difficult) to do more outside the house: volunteer, go shopping, get the mail. If it becomes simply too unbearable, you can always get a video monitor app for your phone to check on them. Course-correcting will not be easy, so take baby steps.
Many people don’t like cats at all. They prefer dogs. In fact, many people think dogs are the superior companion animal. What do you say to that?
Hogwash! I’ve written extensively…books and articles…on why the cat is paws-down above and beyond the dog. For starters, unlike dogs, cat don’t have self-esteem issue. They’re not hyper and aren’t in your face for approval every half-second. They may sit on your computer or book now and again. But that’s only for your benefit — so you don’t feel they’re not paying attention to you. A cat’s breath doesn’t smell like a mixture of a dumpster and an old locker. Cats would never cling to a guest’s leg, nor slobber all over them. Cats wouldn’t dream of rolling in the mud, then jumping all over you. I could go on and on and on. But you get the picture.
— Allia Zobel Nolan
Allia Zobel Nolan is an internationally published, award-winning author of more than 200 children’s and adult trade titles. Her books reflect her two main passions, God and cats, and include such varied titles as Purr More, Hiss Less: Heavenly Lessons I Learned from My Cat, Cat Confessions: A Kitty-Come-Clean Tell-All Book, The Ten Commandments for Little Ones, The Worrywart’s Prayer Book and Whatever: Livin’ the True, Noble, Totally Excellent Life. Her newest book, Women Who Still Love Cats Too Much, will be released in September 2015 but is now available for pre-orders.