1563 words (6 minute read)

Subject: Crazy Cat Lady

Subject: Crazy Cat Lady

David,

OK, I’m going to write this out as best as I can remember it. This one was about a year ago. I’ve dated worse, but I thought you might appreciate it for the absurdity.

It was probably mid-January? And here in Chicago, that means it’s cold, slushy, and cold. It was a pretty ordinary year, weather-wise-- you step outside and it’s so cold, your nose freezes first unless you pulled a wool scarf over it really quickly.

And I had a post-holiday, post-New Year’s date! Don’t get me wrong-- I love the holidays, but getting a first date between New Years and mid-February is perilous. It’s easy to find someone to be your “+1” at a holiday party or to kiss on New Year’s at midnight. It’s a lot harder to find someone when they’re staring the Big V-Day in the eyes, and the prospect of being committed for at least 4 weeks can be really, really daunting.

Gosh, this sounds like I’m talking about some kind of dating “season,” but it’s absolutely true. It goes in cycles, and January through February is kind of a downcycle for this particular activity.

I sound so cynical. There’s hope, though. In April, everyone starts getting invitations to May and June weddings, and suddenly, there’s another opportunity for “+1”ing it.

But I digress. It was mid-January, pretty danged cold. Heavy sweaters and mittens kind of weather. If you’ve never lived somewhere really cold-- and Seattle doesn’t count! I know it doesn’t get that frozen there!-- then you just haven’t experienced this kind of chill.

I kept my OKCupid profile and a few others pretty active. You never know-- Chicago is a big city, and new people move in and out quite a bit. Not usually in January, but…. there sometimes are a few guys who make New Years Resolutions that include finding a new love, and I’m hopeful of those.

Anyway, this guy Henry and I started talking on the site. He seemed nice, if a little “quirky.” If I’ve learned anything by now, it should be that “quirky” means “utterly weird and there’s a reason he’s still single.” I mean, I’m over 30, so any guy my age has his own baggage, right? For me, it’s just a matter of whether our luggage matches and fits into the trunk together.

Henry worked in accounting-- boring enough. He had a few pictures of himself in fairly ordinary work clothes, plus one of him in the gym. I can assure you, after meeting him for about 10 minutes, I was certain that was his one and only foray into a gym. He wasn’t fat-- a little heavy, but not unattractively so. But he was definitely one of those weak-chinned guys who thinks the world is going to deliver the girl of his dreams. And unfortunately, Henry had already met her and she’d friendzoned him.

How do I know this? Well, during our first date, he told me a lot about her. Her name is Amanda, she’s clever and friendly, and really “one of the guys,” except you can tell he’s completely in love with Amanda. She also has terrible taste in men, probably because she dates anyone who isn’t Henry.

In any case, after talking for a while, we both realized the snow had picked up a lot. I made a show of looking at my watch and, well, I really had to go--

“Oh, could you drive me home?”

“Uh, what?” I didn’t really want Henry in my car. I have something of a policy-- no first dates in anyone’s car. We show up separately, leave separately.

“Yeah, I don’t have a license. I took the El here, but it’s so cold now….” Henry gave me this look that was so pathetic….

Seriously, I don’t know what got into me. Probably the last vanilla eggnog latte of the season. I said yes, I’d take him home.

Got to my car and of course I had to clear the seat off. Now, when you’ve just begged a ride from someone who didn’t expect to have passengers, what is the appropriate etiquette?

1) Politely wait for them to clear off the seat and then sit without further commentary.

2) Wait for them to clear off the seat, but complain about it.

3) Sit your ass down while she’s still moving things, resulting in her inadvertently touching your butt, and tearing the papers she was moving off the seat.

If you picked 1, then you would be a correct, polite, respectful human being who would be welcome getting in my car again.

If you picked 3, you would be Henry, and you’d owe me some tape because my damned car registration was on the seat, and he ripped it with his ass!

So, my jaw clenched, I started up the car and eased into traffic. Now, I know how to drive in snow-- Boston, remember? And I’m certainly skilled enough, since I’d managed to get to the Starbucks in the first place.

A little detail I didn’t mention: Henry had picked this Starbucks. Why? I have no idea, since it turns out he lived on the other side of town.

Thirty minutes of mind-numbing road later, I finally pull up to what my GPS says is his house. He’s tried to be somewhat chatty, but he keeps bringing up the “ass grab.” No, Henry. That wasn’t an ass grab. If I grab your ass, you’ll know.

Ah, anyway. By this point, I’m cold and tired of Henry’s company, but he’s not done with me yet. Oh, no. Just as he gets out of the car, he slides on the icy sidewalk and falls on the very ass he’s been harping about me grabbing. He tries to get up, fails, and then looks pathetically at me.

“Could you help me?”

David, I don’t need a man to be strong for me, but for crying out loud. I think he was hoping his “helpless little boy” act would melt my cold heart.

It didn’t. I put the car in park and got out, taking my keys with me. This means the engine turned off, which means the car is now getting colder with every second I’m out of it.

I move around to the passenger side, help poor Henry off the ground. We talk a few minutes, and he assures me he’ll be fine, but then he starts limping towards his house.

I really should have stopped right then and gotten back in the car. I didn’t get enough “Ted Bundy” vibe off this guy, though, so I came up next to him and helped him with the doors and steps. He was really stiff-- maybe an act, I don’t know.

He lived on the second floor, so I help him up those stairs. As soon as we get halfway up the stairs, my nose starts twitching. I’m not allergic to cats, but the scent of cat litter was so strong, I couldn’t help but sneeze.

I get him to his door, and I can already hear the meowing.

“Do you have a cat?”

“Oh, uh, no…. they’re um, my mom’s.”

I stared at him as he opened the door. Five pairs of hungry cat eyes gleamed in the half-light from the hallway. I heard the meowing of hungry felines. I smelled the sharp scent of their urine.

“You live with your mom?”

“I’m, um, taking care of them, just over the holidays….”

My bullshit-- or maybe cat shit-- meter at this point is off the charts. I can’t tell if Henry is more pathetic because he lives with his mom and is too afraid to tell me, because he’s hopelessly in love with his friend who won’t give him the time of day, or because he owns more cats than I own pairs of shoes. In any case, I thank him for the latte-- he half-heartedly thanks me for the ride home.

“You want to come in? Have a drink? Maybe… a little more ass--”

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m allergic.” I don’t define to what-- right now, I’m allergic to Henry. “Thank you for the offer.” I am nothing if not polite.

There was no second date.

-----

Next Chapter: Interlude