January 14, 2009
Won’t somebody please get me pregnant?
IT STARTED LAST NIGHT,
with a rebel yell. The full moon was in full force, peering in the window like a spotlight, making matters worse. I’m on the floor administering the two-handed full-body massage that provides the only relief, and the screaming turns to agitated purring. Because my now seven-month-old kitten, Zahra, is experiencing her first oestrus. The little tyke is in heat. I had wanted to spay her before she went off her nut but I was out of town for a month and wouldn’t have been home to nurse her.
My darling is in agony! Meowing, growling, yowling, caterwauling, keening, pleading–what is happening to me? And why? I’m so sorry, my dear, I wish I’d been able to spare you, as I was spared, the desire to procreate. All I can say is, thanks, God! for excusing me from the ultimate challenge—responsibility for a life I brought into this world. Phew! But Zahra is beside herself, there is not a position she can find peace in, until finally she curls on my feet, exhausted. Don’t worry, my sweet, soon you’ll get your little round belly shaved. Then, no more turmoil. I envy you.
Zahra still has the sweet, innocent kitten in her face. A kitten should not be able to bear kittens! I think she was the runt of the litter, so it is extra painful to see her so in need of something she will never have. I’d rather drop dead than be pining for some guy like this. She’s twisting on her back with all legs in the air, crawling along the floor with her butt sticking up ready for action, her teats preparing to feed her litter. I’m sorry, my little love, that you ever knew the agony of desire. I hope you don’t remember anything about it.
Zzyzzy, my neutered boy cat, wants nothing to do with the whole affair. Just leave me out of it! Zazu, my spayed girl cat, seems a little hostile, hissing Zahra off when she comes near. She too wants no part of it. My heart goes out to her, but I’m just a bystander. Congenitally lacking the maternal instinct gene, I can sympathize, but cannot relate. All I can do is call the SPCA and make sure it doesn’t happen again.
I’M FINE AS I AM,
Supervisor Chris Daly told me tonight. “Stay artistic and don’t get mixed up in politics.” Suits me fine. I haven’t been paying much attention to San Francisco happenings lately, so when friend Kathy called she was going to a hearing at City Hall I met her there to check out the Bored by Stuporvisors meeting under new President David Chiu. A freshman supervisor elected President? Isn’t that like kittens having kittens? Lots of new faces—and Chris Daly’s is clad in a full beard. Nice move, Chris. How often do you see those any more? The stuff you see out there! Some of it’s cool, some of it’s ill-advised, some of it’s downright repulsive.
MODERN FACIAL HAIR CONFIGURATIONS
There’s the fine clean line outlining the jaw and chin. There’s the wiry shaving brush erupting out of the chin. There’s the random sprouts of hair look, the thinks-he’s-a-metrosexual-but-he’s-just-a-slob look (the exquisitely groomed marginal growth superbly displayed by Ryan Seacrest vs. the guy who just hasn’t shaved in three days and is wearing an inside-out t-shirt and torn jeans). Then there’s this guy:
I hope this one’s for a movie:
And here’s Doug of the Church of Stop Shopping Choir, the fuller brush man:
Of course some men are known by their Fu Manchu mustache, muttonchops, Amish or Abraham Lincoln beards, which are personalities unto themselves, like the little Brillo pad Supervisor Ross Mirkarimi sports with a soul patch. He could probably scour a sauté pan with the thing. Without doubt it’s a weird beard but it’s his. Newbie Supervisor John Avalos is my pick to replace Tom Ammiano as Dapper Dan. The gray hair, trim gray beard, gray suit, very smart.
As a matter of freedom of expression, I would never request that a man shave his facial hair off; it’s his face. Though I have asked a man to not shave before coming to see me and that’s enough about that. A mustache sometimes ages a man, and unnecessarily. One time a mustachioed friend I’d never given a thought to showed up at the door newly shaved and I wanted to jump his bones right there on the doorstep. His face looked so fresh and clean and unexpectedly sexy. John Rinaldi is a dimple-cheeked darling without his Chicken John mustache. But the most dramatic transformation I’ve ever seen, jaw-dropping in fact, is Sacha Baron Cohen without the Borat mustache. Ladies, that upper lip! Ouch!
CECI N’EST PAS UNE MONTRE
Got a spam advertising “the best fake watches on the market.” I wonder if they come in boxes marked “This is not a watch.”
“YOU ARE PLAYING THE HARPSICHORD IN MY KITCHEN!”
I exclaim to my friend Kendelyn, “with pink hair!” The scenario seemed preposterous. I was forced to rid myself of my beautiful Hoffman upright piano when I sold my flat (I donated it to the Baptist Center next door), and just replaced it, Saturday, with a much less obtrusive Yamaha YPG-625 digital portable grand, which I got off of Craig’s List from a Sunnyvale software engineer for $600.00. Such a deal! It is da bomb! There was nowhere to put it but the kitchen, and really, who needs a kitchen table? I have a dining table in my bedroom, after all.
So here was my friend Kendelyn, with her pink/magenta/purple/blue hair, a graduate in piano from Carnegie Mellon, playing Bach inventions in my breakfast nook, in the harpsichord voice. Life is grand. What’s grander than a grand piano, and friends who play them for you?
PUSH THE COCKSUCKING BOULDER UP THE MOTHERFUCKING HILL
Thanks to blogger Jennifer Saylor for calling my attention to the only resolution anyone will ever have to make.
THE HEAT GOES ON
Ow! Ow! Ow! OooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwW! You’re right, Zahra, love is nothing but one big ow-ie. Was in a thrift shop earlier. They were playing the Pathetic Love Song station. Betcha by-golly ooooooow! You’re the one that I’ve been waiting for, forever… Gag me. The only thing I’m waiting for is for Mother Nature to neuter me…
The author’s friend Kendelyn, in the pink, at the keyboard.
Care of the soul
Cats meet, eyes glowing green, and agree
copyright Alexandra Jones 2009