At least it's not a van down by the river

Pumpkin, my cat, has been living in an Ikea bag for the past week. No, she's not out in the wilds of Virginia using a reusable bag for shelter. The bag is sitting on the floor of my apartment. Every night, she sits in the bag on some schedule that only she understands. As I write this, she's sitting in the bag, gazing out into the vast expanse of the apartment while ignoring me. Her new abode raises a lot of questions for me; we'll get to those in a second.
 

Day One

Here's how it started: I had a bunch of smaller bags to bring in when I got home from work last Friday. Since I have this oversized, reusable bag in my car, I put the smaller bags in it which makes carrying things to my apartment easier than struggling with multiple little bags. I put the bag on the floor and went about my evening tasks of feeding Pumpkin, making dinner, and going through the mail. I didn't immediately remove the smaller bags from the bigger bag BUT there was enough room for a tiny orange cat to shimmy her way into the bag. Which she did. She sat, nestled amongst the bags, for a solid 20 minutes. Eventually, she jumped out and ate her dinner. I went about emptying the bag but left it on the floor since I wanted to take it back to the car. It never made it.

Pumpkin kept going back in. Since last Friday, Pumpkin has spent anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour sitting or napping in the bag. I don't know if she spends time in it when I'm not home; I haven't become the person who sets up video cameras to see what her pet does when she's not home...yet. Sometimes she peeks her head out and watches me, either when I'm in the kitchen (directly across from where the bag is) or sitting on the couch. She occasionally lays down so I can only see the tops of her ears. On Thursday, she didn't go in the bag; she rubbed her face on it and sat next to it but didn't go in. My theory is she did this because I came home later than normal and she preferred snuggling with me on the couch than sitting by herself. However, she did get me up at 4:30 am by making the "I'm going to throw up in your shoes" gagging noise. She didn't actually throw up; when I got up to check on her she was laying in the bag. The move seemed to say "I just want you to know I do what I want and right now I want to live in this bag. I don't have to explain my life to you, Erin."

Which brings me to all the questions I have about this latest chapter in my life with Pumpkin. We've been a part of each others' lives for 15 years now. In that time we've lived in Honolulu, New Orleans, Alexandria (twice), Alameda, and Arlington. She's been in an airplane on multiple occasions and driven cross-country (not in a Toonces the cat sort of way). She's even evacuated form a hurricane like a freaking boss. She's undergone endoscopic surgery (she swallowed a needle and thread because cat's do stupid shit sometimes) and had to take kitty morphine once after having some teeth removed. Pumpkin has led a more interesting life than many humans. She's just that cool.

So what does the whole thing "I live in an Ikea bag" thing mean? Pet experts always tell pet owners that pets do odd things to tell you something; their food isn't right for them, they're not getting enough exercise or water or sleep, they're sick. Weird behavior can be a sign of trouble. Here's the things: cats are always weird. How is a cat "owner" supposed to know the difference between normal weird and weird weird? Cats have a very specific life philosophy that skirts the normal weird/weird weird line very closely:

1. "If I fits, I sits."
2. Nap for at least 18 hours a day, sometimes with your eyes open because you can and it creeps humans out.
3. Sleep in ways that can only be described as cat yoga.
4. Stare creepily at your human in the shower or bathroom not because they're planning anything bad but because you love your human as the intense staring proves.
5. "All of your things belong to me, human. I will now rub my face on everything."
6. Run around at odd hours of the night like something is chasing you. Look perfectly at ease.
7. Hide when your human sneezes; she has offended your ancestors. 

I don't think her new behavior is a sign of anything bad; but because I'm me, I have to overthink her behavior and try to find some meaning in the behavior of creature who never makes sense. Here's what I'm wondering:

• Am I a bad pet mom? Have I not provided you with adequate napping and living space options?
• Did you pick up a love of modular, brightly colored Swedish furniture at some point in our journeys and the only way you know how to express that love since you can't go to the actual store is to spend time lounging in a reusable bag created by the same company? 
• Are you still upset about moving? Are you trying to figure out your place in our new apartment?
• Have you secretly been harboring a desire to construct furniture with only an Allen wrench? Do you know what an Allen wrench is?
• Is the apartment too big? Our last apartment was on the small side and we lived there for awhile so I could understand if the space now is too much for you. Maybe the smallness of the Ikea bag is comforting. 
• Do cats know how to interpret the instructions provided when humans buy Ikea furniture? Is this actually the cat plan to take over the world - reduce humans to sad, sniveling creatures curled in the fetal position because they can't construct a three shelf bookcase and then our cat overlords take over providing clearer instructions but only if we pledge our eternal devotion? Wait...I sort of already do that. When do I get clear Ikea instructions?
• Is it the crinkly-ness of the bag what makes it so appealing? 
• Does it feel like you're hiding but also visible at the same time? You can see me but I can't see you? (I can see you because you're terrible at hiding in a very large, blue bag.)
• Did you want to give me a good story to tell people this week?  
• Is this the cat version of an mid-life crisis? Is Pumpkin thinking: "I need change in my life but I like my toys and my food so I'll just add oddly cryptic behavior to my repertoire because I'm a cat and it's the only option I have"?

As the week progressed, her time in the bag got shorter. Maybe she's tired of it; maybe she realized I'm much more comfortable as a pillow than the floor is. Maybe she's decided to be less weird. I don't know. What I do know is that this is not over. Pumpkin is heading to her grandparents' house this weekend. We're going to try a little experiment to see if it's a specific Ikea bag or all Ikea bags. My dad has the same blue bag and we're going to put it out for her and see what happens. How far will Pumpkin's weird go?

Next week: Dispatches from the #misfittoysroadtrip2017 all the way from Music City. We'll talk queens of country music and there might possibly be a new chapter from my novel. 

If it's not color coded, I don't want to hear about it

I've lived in an apartment of some kind since the summer after my first year in college. Getting that first apartment was a big deal; my roommate and I took it over from a friend who was graduating so it was like the apartment was staying in the family. It wasn't the greatest apartment ever but it was my first apartment; I still think of it fondly nineteen years later (yikes, I'm old). Back then, moving into a new apartment was exciting and new. It felt like an adventure. I recall that we would overspend at Wal-Mart (Target wasn't really a thing yet) and maybe the thrift store if we were feeling up for it. We needed new things for our new space despite the fact that we didn't have much money and what we bought normally didn't last very long. Inherited furniture was the norm and none of us thought about it for a minute (free is free when you're in college). I remember having dinner parties in this apartment and experiencing those glimmers of adulthood we all have at nineteen. This was what it was like to be on your own and have friends and entertain. I roasted a chicken like a boss back then. One of my favorite photos from that period is from Halloween; we had everyone over before people went their separate ways. One of my friends was dressed in drag as Super Doppler 6000 (people who lived in New Orleans in the late 1990s know what this is) and another friend is sitting in the background with no expression on his face about the costume. It was glorious and weird and exactly what is perfect about college.

This is what happens when I move now.

In the history of my apartments, I've only truly hated one place I lived (I had to break my lease it was so bad) and have loved three of my apartments so much that I often find myself daydreaming about living in them once again. For the record those apartments would be: the Broadway house, my second apartment in Alameda, and my lovely studio on Bordeaux Street. Two of these apartments are in New Orleans; this probably means something.

When I moved back to Virginia four-ish years ago, I had a crappy time finding an apartment. For anyone not familiar with the DMV, real estate in this area is ridiculously priced (overpriced I would say). If I want to pay a reasonable amount of rent, I'd have to live an hour away from work (at least) which is probably more like a 2-3 hour commute each way. I don't hate myself so this is not an option. Paying for proximity makes me rage-ful but it's the way it works here. I knew this going into my search when I moved back, however, I didn't prepare myself to be wildly disappointed by how not worth the money most of these places are. Curious what a junior one bedroom is like? That's just a fancy way of saying "studio apartment with no washer and dryer." Affordable housing in the DMV is a huge and I can only imagine what families face when going through this. I have the luxury of just needing a place for me and the great Pumpkin but that doesn't mean it's any less disappointing when you look at what you pay versus what you actually get. Of course, leasing companies know this and they see us all coming.

I've never been interested in owning a home; owning a home in this area wouldn't necessarily be any better for me. I assume my disinterest in home ownership is because I grew up in the military; we moved every few years. I don't have a childhood home per se. The houses I grew up in are probably still there but my parents don't live in any of them. They moved into their current house in the early 2000s; I lived there for about four months during Hurricane Katrina. It's a lovely house but not my house. I don't really know if not having a childhood home has anything to do with not wanting to own a home but I'm sure it's a contributing factor. I see houses I like all the time; I just have no inclination to buy one. Maybe I fancy myself a vagabond and buying a house would go directly against that idea.

I'm moving to a new apartment the first weekend of January. I don't really have to move but I'm feeling restless and this was the easiest way to cure my restlessness. Unlike 99.9% of the population, I enjoy moving. Moving appeals to the organizer in me; it's a system with processes and I like systems with processes. I like to think of moving in different phases: search phase, purge/donation phase, pre-packing phase, final packing phase, and unpacking phase. The search phase is the phase I like the least; I'm impulsive when it comes to apartment shopping. I get frustrated easy and have little patience for listening to the same leasing office spiel over and over. This means I either rent the first place I see or I look at a million places before making a decision while simultaneously complaining to everyone and needing a drink after each visit. I only looked at three places this time around and it was definitely enough.

My favorite phases are the purge/donation phase and the unpacking phase. I love getting rid of things; I don't do it often enough. There's something satisfying about throwing shit away. I can still be sentimental about people and memories without having all the freaking clutter. Why did I keep all of this stuff I haven't looked at since 2000? Do I really need these Christmas lights I haven't used since I moved into this apartment? For this particular move, I did something I've never done before: I tried on all of my clothes. It's sounds bananas but it was awesome. I went through my closest, my chest of drawers, and the two bins of stuff under my bed. The donation pile is huge and it makes me feel good about my life. I got rid of things that don't fit (mostly too big - score!), things I've only worn once or twice, and a few things I've never worn and feel bad about wasting money on. I went through all my shoes and pared that mess down too. It feels good to shed the unnecessary. I, like many other women, have kept clothes thinking I'd wear them when I was a little skinnier or whatever but seriously, it's not worth it. I'd rather keep clothes I love and enjoy wearing than clothes that make me feel bad about myself or have some unrealized purpose associated with them. I have zero fucks to give about unrealized purpose and clothing. It's all about being comfortable and fashionable - I can. scratch that, I am both.

The other thing I did in this phase, and I know I'll do more of when I get to the new place, is evaluate my baking equipment. I have amassed a lot of baking accoutrements over the years. I'm not even sure where some of it came from since I don't recall buying several of the items that were in my hall closet but I also don't recall receiving them as gifts. Where did these mystery baking pans come from? Anyway, after getting over my shock of having mystery pans, I was able to cull down my collection and add the others to the donation pile. They're all in really good shape so there's that.

I'm looking forward to the unpacking phase. It takes me back to the excitement I used to feel whenever we'd move when I was younger and the adventure of my first apartment in college. I see unpacking as opportunity - how will I design my new space? Do I keep my books organized by color because it's nice to look at despite being hard to find things or do I revert back to alphabetical order? Alphabetical order is boring so I have a feeling I'll keep my color organization going. I mean, look at how visually appealing that is. It's like my books are saying, "Welcome home, Erin!"

What about my CDs and records? Should I entertain the grand reorganization style of 2002 when I organized my CDs autobiographically? This takes forever to figure out and I need to invest in a new storage system for them. Autobiographical organization is based on the time in life that you purchased the album. So it's like an episode of "This is Your Life" as told through CDs. Or maybe "Behind the Music" without the drug addiction, car crashes, and poor life choices. How should I arrange my art? What goes where in my closet (organized by color and clothing type because that's the only way to organize a closet)? What about my shoes? Don't even get me started on my kitchen. There are so many possibilities when you move into a new space. Organization is an art form; I'm looking forward to working in my greatest medium. 

You know who's not going to be happy about the move? Pumpkin. Despite her love of jumping in boxes, she's really going to miss her heater.

Your Resident Single Friend: You're not the cat's pajamas

Today is both Hug Your Cat Day and Old Maid's Day. I'll let that sink in for a moment.

Old Maid. Spinster. Cat Lady. To say that these phrases make me rage-ful would be an understatement. I've never been fond of the idea that the only way to value women is by their marriageability or fertility; this is not a new story just another day in the life of being female.

I've been called a spinster before. Not by anyone I knew personally but by the government of Hong Kong. Yes, the government of Hong Kong. A few years ago I traveled to Hong Kong to conduct training for a school district in the city. Based on the length on my stay and the work I was doing, the school recommended that I apply for a work visa. The application included a field for marital status. I most places, the options are usually "single/unmarried", "married', "divorced", and maybe "widowed." Not Hong Kong.

This is from my actual visa application.

They couldn't just use "unmarried" or "single" which would cover both of the options included in the box I had to check. I was told that it has to do with British forms still being used but I don't know that I actually believe this explanation. I'm pretty sure there's something else here. At the time I opted to make fun of it on the Island and move on because I was going to Hong Kong and that was pretty cool. It was the first and only time I've ever had to use that word to describe myself and it will be the last.

I've been reading Rebecca Traister's book All the Single Ladies. The book takes a look at the political and social power of single women. While Traister focuses on current events and 21st century women to tell their stories, she also presents a historical look at the evolution of single women and social change in the US. It's a great read; I recommend it to everyone, not just the single ladies out there. In one section early on, Traister mentions the historical meaning of the word spinster. In its original use, from roughly the 16th-18th centuries, it was used to describe women who were employed as spinners. These were women who spun fabric and thread for home and commercial use. Many were unmarried but their status was not as important as their profession. During the 18th century, the definition shifted, mostly focusing on women who remained unmarried and were beyond the socially acceptable age for marriage (their early 20s). And of course, from there, it becomes a terrible way to describe an unmarried woman. "Old Maid" is a sister term, coming about in the Victorian era and is also the name of a card game where players are supposed to get as many paired cards as possible. Unpopped popcorn kernels are also referred to as old maids. Traister discusses the more successful spinsters in one chapter, women like Mary Cassatt, Emily Bronte, and even Elizabeth I.

What I appreciate about Traister's book is her look at how women have bucked against these limiting terms, creating single lives and married or partnered lives, on their own terms. It's satisfying to read of the experiences of other women my age (or younger or older), famous and not, who feel the same as I do: that marriage and family is not the goal; it's one of may possible options that exist out there in the world. In my post last week, I mentioned how it bothered me that Muriel only thought she was worth something and successful if she got married. What Muriel failed to realize is that she was amazing regardless of her martial status. We need to be okay with this idea and teach this girls and young women (and boys and young men too).

I was thinking about all of these things as I returned to my apartment after a fire alarm forced us all out into the night. I was getting ready to go to bed when the fire alarm went off. Not knowing if it was a false alarm or an actual emergency, I quickly threw on shoes, packed Pumpkin into her carrier, and walked down seven flights of stairs to the front of the building with everyone else. As you can imagine, Pumpkin was not amused. It turned out to be a false alarm; someone hit the alarm on accident. Once we got the okay, we all made our way back into the building. That was when Pumpkin began meowing like she was being tortured (or singing the song of her people as I like to describe it). People were staring and making comments about there being a cat. Why wouldn't someone have a cat? Other people brought their dogs with them; it's the natural thing to do in the face of a possible emergency. One of my neighbors even asked me why I brought her downstairs with me. Those of you who know me well can probably picture the face I made at this guy. I politely responded that I wouldn't leave a living being to suffer in a fire or some other emergency. I heard him say "cat lady" under his breath as we walked our separate ways. Admittedly, I was shocked by that; no one has ever called me a cat lady in a vicious way before either. Had I not had Pumpkin in her carrier and was actually wearing real clothes (I too was in my pajamas), I would have followed him to ask this: What the fuck is your problem and why don't you like cats?

This experience made me realize several things:

1. I have now seen a fair number of my neighbors in their pajamas. I can never, ever unsee this. 
2. This is the reason most people who live in large apartment buildings don't know their neighbors. 
3. The words "spinster", "old maid", and "cat lady" need to be struck from our vocabulary just as "#(insert any word here)goals" and "bandwidth" need to be struck from our vocabulary.

This would be Pumpkin & my neighbor

I want to believe my neighbor is living the best life he can live and is a truly awesome human being. I want to believe that he was mad at the situation and the fact that he had to evacuate the building in his pajamas (again, can't unsee that) so he took it out on me. But I don't. I don't even think he was trying to be funny. By the time I got upstairs I was as mad as the time a guy standing outside the National Museum of Women in the Arts tried to grab my ass as I walked past. Outside of a women's art museum!

Yes, being called a "cat lady" is not the worst thing he could have done but that absolutely 100% does not excuse the behavior. I wish I had done something at the time to tell him that wasn't okay but I didn't. I forgot Ms. Norbury's words to us in Means Girls: You all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it ok for guys to call you sluts and whores. Never forget Mrs. Norbury's advice.

Up next on the Island: I'm taking next weekend off to celebrate my entry into my 37th year (my birthday is next Saturday). I'll be back the following week with a new UT Recipe and later this month I'll be sharing my adventures in yoga. You read that right - yoga. There might even be a new chapter from my novel to share. June is going to be one busy month!

Awkward Hug
Hug Your Cat Day
Old Maid's Day