Crazy Cat Lady: Volume II

My faithful readers will remember the story I told about finding—and nearly rescuing—the kitten on the subway tracks a while back. They’ll remember my explanation about how sometimes, when something potentially tragic begins to happen, I get powerfully and nonsensically convinced that I was put in exactly that place and time for a reason and that I have a moral responsibility to take action.

My readers will also remember how I’m a bit of a self-described “crazy cat lady.”

Well, it seems that these two characteristics of mine, when combined, tend to have potentially catastrophic results, because it happened again.

I didn’t see another kitten on the subway tracks (I think if that ever happens to me again, I might not be able to ride SEPTA anymore). But this story has the same general framework as the previous rescue tale did: a kitten in distress, me preparing to take ridiculous action, and, upon thinking things through at a later point, realizing that I am insane.

As I’ve mentioned, or at least alluded to, previously in this blog, I volunteer with a cat adoption agency that rents space in the South Philly PetSmart called Forgotten Cats. We’re not like the SPCA: we don’t really have a shelter outside of the various PetSmart adoption centers. We’re no-kill, and all of our cats available for adoption, before coming to PetSmart, are cared for by a foster family until they’re ready to be adopted, both health-wise and personality-wise.

Because of all this, we can’t take cats from people who bring them to us in an attempt to surrender them. They could be sick or FIV or FeLV positive. They probably haven’t been sterilized. We have no idea what their personalities are like. However, word gets around that we’re a no-kill organization, so people try what they can to sucker us into taking their cats off their hands.

One night a few weeks ago, I had stopped by PetSmart to do an adoption. It wasn’t supposed to take very long, so Brad came along with me to buy some pet supplies and then to wait out in the car until I was finished. While I was in the process of filling out the paperwork with the new pet parents, another volunteer stopped by to take photos of Scarlett, a one-eyed beauty of a cat who was available for adoption, to put on our holiday brochure.

I’d just finished up the adoption and was chatting with the other volunteer for a minute while she took photos of Scarlett. If I had left as soon as I’d finished the adoption like I should have, instead of chatting and making Brad wait in the car even longer, I would have missed the woman with the tiny gray kitten in her arms and none of this would have had to happen. If only I hadn’t stopped to chat for that one minute.

But I did stop to chat, so I didn’t miss the woman. The other volunteer and I both noticed her creep up to us cautiously, saying nothing at first. We shared a wary look, each knowing what the other was thinking: Please just let this person be a normal pet owner with a normal pet question. Please please please.

No such luck.

“Do you guys work here?” she asked. We hesitated, because technically the answer was no, we just volunteered with the cats, but we knew what she meant.

“Um, sort of?” the other volunteer replied hesitantly.

That was all it took for this woman to launch into her sob story about how she found this kitten in her yard and she was allergic to cats so she couldn’t keep it, but she didn’t want to bring it to the SPCA because she knew they’d kill it, and she didn’t know what else to do, and someone had told her that “yous guys don’t kill your cats and maybe I could bring him here.”

I must say, I was the strong one at first. I tried to resist. “We’re not allowed to take in cats like this,” I stated, trying to be simple and matter-of-fact about it. “We can’t. Sorry.”

But the problem was, the kitten was so damn cute.

The other volunteer fell immediately into its tiny, big-eyed trap. “Well…” she said. That one word was enough to give the woman the hope she’d been looking for.

“Please take her. Please. I don’t know what else to do with her,” she said again.

Then I made the fatal mistake of taking the kitten out of her arms and holding her in my own. What a stupid thing to do.

She was so beautiful. Her gray fur was full and healthy. Her eyes were huge and round, and she was shaking harder than a Chihuahua in winter. She was clearly scared shitless, but she wasn’t lashing out, clawing or hissing like some cats do when frightened. No, instead of being easy to turn down, she had to be the kind of scared that made her bury her tiny head into my armpit and shake for dear life, frightened yet trusting at the same time.

Damn it.

“I don’t even know why I’m holding her right now,” I said as I gazed lovingly into the kitten’s eyes, speaking more to it than to the other volunteer. “I can’t take her home… my cats would have a shit fit…”

I heard the words leave my mouth, but I didn’t quite know where they were coming from, because at that point, my mind was already miles ahead, planning ridiculous plans the way it does when it thinks I’m meant to take action. I could see my cats at home being upset at first, but then welcoming this little gray wonder into our family with open paws. I could see the three of them curled up on the bed together. The fact that, when I had begun to volunteer at Forgotten Cats, Brad and I had decided firmly that we would not adopt another cat no matter what never really floated into my brain. I was already gone, and it was all the fault of this kitten’s buried, shaking little head.

Something in me, though—something the crazy cat lady part of my brain was doing a great job of suppressing at the moment—must have realized that it was a terrible idea for me to take the kitten, because when the other volunteer—bless her sweet sweet heart—said, “well, maybe I could foster her just for now,” relief flooded over me. “I have twelve cats that I’m fostering in cages in my basement right now,” she said. “I guess one more couldn’t do any harm.”

That statement was all that both the woman who’d brought the kitten and myself needed. We both thanked her profusely and tore out of the store before the other volunteer had time to change her mind.

Well, admittedly, as I handed the kitten over to her and the poor thing clung to my shirt with its miniscule claws and fought to keep its head buried, I did ask her (a few dozen times), “are you sure? Are you sure you can take her? You’re sure you can handle it, right?” Because, of course, that stupid, nonsensical part of me was hoping she’d say no and that I could go out to the car where Brad was waiting with a tiny new family member in my arms.

But the volunteer assured me that she was okay, and I, finally allowing the logical part of my brain to bitchslap some reason into the crazy cat lady region, followed in the woman’s tailwinds before I allowed myself the chance to look back.

As I reached the front of the store, I waved goodbye to Dan, one of the PetSmart employees. “You better get out of here,” he said, “before the crazy lady with the gray kitten finds you guys.”

I laughed. As if it could possibly have been that easy.

When I reached the car and climbed inside, Brad could tell that something was wrong. The only explanation I could offer was, “you’d better be happy that I didn’t just get into this car with a kitten in my arms.”

Brad, whose brain has a bigger logical region than most people, including myself, could ever hope to have, stared at me in that way that only a crazy person’s sane companion can do. He didn’t have to say anything for me to know what he was thinking:

“You see? This is what happens when I leave you alone with cats, isn’t it?”

Sorry I'm Not Sorry

I have a confession to make.

What I’m about to confess isn’t really a secret anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. I guess I just want to make a formal, coming-out type gesture, so we can all accept it and then move on with our lives.

I love country music.

And I don’t just love what many people consider the only “good” country music: the classics like Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and so forth. I don’t just love the more musically intricate country: bluegrass. No, I love it all, and what I might love the most is what most people consider “bad country.” I love the corniest, redneck-est, most ridiculous country music that’s ever been written. This includes such gems as “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk,” “Beer For My Horses,” and “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.” I love them all. In fact, the cheesier the song, the more I may love it.

Many of my friends probably consider this a sacrilege. They may even take personal offense to it. On some level, I can get why. I, like they, grew up listening to lyrically and instrumentally intelligent indie music. It was sophisticated. The lyrics were less like lyrics and more like poetry. They were deep. The music—not the lyrics, but the music itself—told stories. This kind of music is meant to be, above all else, art. It is designed to make you think. And, to its credit, it always did make me think. But it didn’t make me happy.

The problem with what I call in my head “intelligent music” is that, in addition to its pretentiousness (which even its most avid fans really can’t deny), it’s really depressing. I don’t think its depressive quality is intentional; it’s more that it’s unavoidable. Anything designed to make you think is going to be depressing. Because once you start thinking about deep things like how the world works, you’re forced to think about all the terrible and horrible facts of said world, and then it’s all downhill from there. Seriously, tell me Wilco’s “Spiders” makes you feel like rainbows and sunshine.

Not country music, though. The twang and drawl of country music is far from lyrically and/or instrumentally sophisticated. The music is simple. The lyrics are corny. The words “momma,” “bubba,” and “yee-haw” are thrown around like candy. This kind of music is not designed to make you think. It’s not meant to be art in the way that “intelligent music” is. It’s meant to be entertainment more than anything. And what else is entertainment, really, than a way to distract oneself from the terrible horrible deep facts of the real world?

This is why I love country music. It makes me happy. It’s fun. When I listen to it, I want to put on a pair of cowboy boots and dance around the kitchen. It doesn’t make me want to stew in my own piss in my room and cry myself to sleep. And I think that’s awfully nice.

For the record, this is the same approach I have to all forms of entertainment. I’ll take a sitcom over a murder mystery any day. I can’t force myself to sit through any of those serious, deep, thought-provoking movies; I need something light and flashy that keeps my attention, like Toy Story 3. My standards are pretty much met as long as whatever I’m watching has a sense of humor compatible with mine. I’m an intelligent person, but I do not have intelligent taste in music, movies, and TV shows.

And why is this? Because when the day is over, I’ve done enough thinking for two or three people. I could continue thinking and pop in Band of Horses, but I’m pretty sure if I allowed my mind to keep working 24/7, it would literally explode. Because my mind is about six steps ahead of me at all times, my mental fatigue by the time the day is over is too overwhelming to continue thinking. So I listen to some country music while I’m riding the bus home from work. I don’t have to think or process or realize anything. I just have to enjoy, and I have to dance in my seat a little bit.

Seriously, how does anyone listen to a banjo and not have the urge to dance?

When I Grow Up

Here's a secret that nobody tells ever tells you: sometimes, even when you’re grown up, you still don’t know what you want to be when you grow up.

They don’t tell you this on any of the occasions where it might be appropriate. They don’t tell you when you’re five and your teacher asks you, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” while she’s interviewing you for Person of the Week. They don’t tell you when you’re in high school and you’re trying to get good grades and score high on the SATs and pick out the right college that fits your needs exactly. They don’t tell you when you’ve switched majors, and maybe even colleges, more than once because you’re unhappy with the choice you’ve previously made and you’re under the impression that there actually is a right choice and it will lead you to the perfect career. And they definitely don’t tell you during the last chance they get: when you’re at your college graduation and you’re shaking the dean’s hand and moving your tassel to the other side and your parents are taking pictures that make you look like you’re going somewhere after this.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” is a question that I’ve known I’d have to answer sooner or later for a long time. As my life has progressed, my answering the question has become more and more pertinent. I first began to feel real urgency about halfway through my college career, when it would have been appropriate to begin looking at various post-secondary education options and make the right choices and plans with plenty of time to hammer out the specifics. College neared its end, and still I hadn’t hammered out anything. Graduation came and swiftly went, and I spent the summer trying to force myself to keep my mind off this decision, telling myself that--much like a grumpy cat—if I didn’t pay attention to it, it would come to me.

I reached the end of my post-graduation grace period this month and had to begin paying off my student loans. This means that it’s been six months since I reached the end of my college career. Six months of officially being a grown-up, and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

This fact has been especially hard on me lately (and can, in part, explain why I forgot how to be funny and thus have cut back on my posts here). I’ve been wasting an awfully lot of time stewing in it, disappointed in myself for my lack of direction and ability to make any sort of decision. But the biggest blow I’ve been dealing myself has been my anger at not knowing myself well enough to be able to see what it is I’m meant to do in life.

But sometimes, every once in a while, it’s not myself that frustrates me, but rather the existing impression that, in order to be successful in life, we must have a successful career. This, in turn, gets me frustrated that people so commonly define themselves in general by what they do for a living. Sometimes, instead of searching blindly for the answer to the age-old question, I have my answer more readily than most.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I want to be happy.

Being happy, to me, seems to be the most successful anyone could possibly be in his or her life. Above all, whatever it takes, this should be the goal we work to attain. This should be—and to me, it is—the truest measure of success.To some, true happiness may well come with the perfect career role. Some people are good at making that sort of decision. Maybe I can’t make it because that’s not the kind of thing that will bring me true happiness in life. Maybe I’m not the sort of person who is defined by her career. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing for others to define themselves in this way; I’m just saying that maybe it’s not exactly for me. Maybe the reason I’ve spent years trying to come up with an answer and have the same handful of air that I always have is because there isn’t an answer to be found.

For me, it seems that happiness is found through various smaller means, rather than the giant umbrella of “career.” I am made happy by love and companionship. Good food. The soft fur of a cat on my face. Beautifying my home (AKA nesting). Cinnamon Bun Coffeemate. Country music. A really well-done TV show.

This system of happiness—this happiness methodology, if you will—may seem inefficient, and to some, perhaps less worthwhile. But I argue the opposite: these various little things add up to equal happiness and validation as a successful career role might for a career-oriented person. More importantly, because I have so many to work with, the things that make me happy can come and go as I like. I might get tired of Cinnamon Bun Coffeemate, but I might get twice the vacation time next year that I get this year, and I’ll get to travel somewhere I’ve never been.

The main thing is that I have a lot of wiggle room. Maybe I’ll find a job I enjoy much more than my current job, and I will significantly increase the amount of happiness I derive from my work. It’s a constant give-and-take. But, through these various smaller means, I am working toward one bigger goal, the same way a career-oriented person may be.

When I grow up, I want to be happy.

I Have A Problem

How is a cat this cute?

So here’s something interesting/sad I noticed the other day. I think I’ve become one of those crazy pet owners that everybody hates.

See, here's the thing about owning pets. Every pet parent thinks that his/her pets are undeniably the sweetest, cutest, most intelligent pets on the planet. They're definitely better than everybody else’s pets. So we can’t tolerate it when anybody says anything that might possibly imply that their pets are better than our pets. This includes most stories that other people want to tell you about their pets. I can usually tolerate the occasional lighthearted tale, as long as it’s about a pet that’s a very different species from any of my own. I also don’t mind a photo or video of a cute/smart/extraordinary pet that I find on the Internet, because these pets don’t have enough of a personal connection to me to be a real threat in the contest of “best pet ever.” Maru, kitties on treadmills, a hamster with its mouth full of carrot- this is entertainment. It’s different. But no pet owner, myself included, ever wants to hear another person tell a story that either implies or states straight-up that the other person’s pet is any sort of superlative.

I’ve known this to be true for some time. I know that no one likes to hear stories about my cats. Even other cat lovers don’t like to hear stories about my cats. This is due to the reasons listed above. So most of the time, I try to keep my mouth shut when the opportunity arises in a conversation for me to steer it toward my pets. Of course, I mess up sometimes when I trick myself into believing that the other person in the conversation actually does want to hear about how smart and outgoing my guinea pig is. But then I realize that the other person is only keeping quiet long enough to satisfy me so she can then tell her own story about how sweet and personable her African grey parrot is to her, but no one else, and then I have to tell another one about how my guinea pig and my rabbit live together and how it’s pretty much the cutest thing ever, because I can’t let the conversation end with her pet story. If I let that happen, then I might as well be admitting that yeah, she’s right, her pet is better than mine. And I’m sorry, but that’s just not true. (It’s never true, no matter who I’m—oops. I’m doing it again.)

My point is that usually I’m able to exhibit some sense of self control. I’m pretty good when it comes to talking about my pets. Or, at least, I thought I was. Then I began to notice how often I posted photos/statuses/anecdotes about my cats to Facebook. I realized that, when I’d go visit my parents and their cats, which were also my cats growing up, I’d be unable to keep myself from countering one of my mom’s cat stories with one of my own. Hell, I couldn’t even look at my Ollie, my mom’s black cat, without thinking, “My black cat is so much better than you are, dude.” I’d even begun to do this thing that, when someone asked me how I was doing or how my weekend was, I’d reply in terms of my cats. “What’s new?” “Oh, not much. Flan lost her favorite Mousie today, but she sat in front of the entertainment center and stared under it, to tell me something was wrong, until I came and got it out for her. Isn’t she so smart?” I went from biting my tongue in situations where it would actually be appropriate to talk about my cats, like at Petsmart, to rambling about Bug’s ability to fetch bottle caps to my workmates, both of whom hate cats.

Since I’ve realized this, I’ve been trying to cut back. Instead of telling all of Facebook how Flan and Bug haven’t left my lap since the weather got colder, I’ll just think to myself how sweet it is and then move on with my life. But overall, I’m still having a difficult time restraining myself.

My biggest weakness is when someone tells me a pet story first. I just can’t ever seem to be able to hold my tongue. This is particularly problematic because my volunteer position at the cat adoption center in the South Philly Petsmart provides me with a constant influx of pet lovers who want to come in, pet the pretty kitties, and tell me about how much better their cats are than these cats. And I, knowing of course that my cats are better than both the cats in the center and the customers’ cats, just can’t pass up the opportunity. Your cat loves to be held just like this one I’m holding? Well, my cat, Bug—wait, let me show you a picture of her on my phone—literally begs to be picked up every day when I get home from work. And she loves to ride around on my shoulders. You had a cat and a dog once who were best friends? Well, my rabbit, Dexter—no, not like the serial killer, I just like the name—loves my one cat so much that he tries to hump her all the time. And he lives with a guinea pig who’s his best friend. And one time, when I tried to separate them, Dexter was so visibly depressed in his new, roomy cage that I had to put them back together after three days.

It’s like a disease. I can’t stop myself. It’s just that I know that my cats are so much better than everyone else’s that I can’t help but tell them, no matter how much it pisses them off. I mean, I don’t really see how anyone could have better pets than my pets. Seriously. Find me a cat who’s more in love with her owners than Bug. Find me a cat who’s sweeter than Flan. Show me a guinea pig with more personality than Ted. And find me a crested gecko with a better smile than Stryker’s.

Actually, you know what? Don’t even waste your time trying. Even if you are somehow able to prove that your pet is better than my pet, it’s not like I’ll believe you. Maybe it’s because I’m just another crazy pet owner like you. Or maybe it’s because I’m right, and my pets really are the best pets in the world.

I’m leaning toward the latter.

Seriously, how can you stay mad at those eyes?

The Toughest Breakup

Recently, I went through a pretty tough breakup. I’ve been reluctant to discuss it for the past few days, keeping uncharacteristically quiet while around others, trying to avoid the elephant in the room. I’m just now reaching the point where I’m able to talk about it: to share my feelings and to try to find a way to describe the empty feeling in my heart.

I was broken up with in a crowded, noisy bar. It was a tasteless, hasty breakup, lacking thought and heart. That, I think, was what made it hurt the most. It’s not like it came out of nowhere, completely unexpected. The possibility had been hanging in the back of my mind for weeks. It was the careless nature of the way things ended that really stung: lofty, nonchalant. Like they didn’t even care.

Yes, I said “they.” I, alongside every other Philadelphian, got dumped by the Phillies on Friday night.

It may sound overly dramatic, but if you’ve ever felt an unfaltering devotion to any sports team—not just the Phillies—you know my words speak true. I had a relationship with the 2011 Philadelphia Phillies, and all too soon, long before I was ready, they ended it.

From the very beginning, the Phillies made their intentions clear. I was promised, by them and by others who knew them well, that they were in this for the long haul. They wanted to go all the way. And I believed them. After all, they were everything a girl could ever ask for in a team: they had looks, they had charisma, and of course they had skills. Oh, did they ever have skills. They knew how to play the game, and everything they had to offer told me that they were in this to win it. They were nothing short of my dream guy—I mean, my dream team.

I saw them almost every day, and we grew close in no time at all. They were around so often, and for so long. The baseball season is just long enough that sometimes it feels like it will be around forever. The Phillies’ actions added nothing but support to that belief. Consistently, unfailingly, they showed their intelligence and maturity by bringing together the skills necessary to win game after game. I mean, they weren’t perfect, of course. All teams lose now and then. But I grew to love them in spite of, and eventually because of, their flaws. Everything they did, good and bad, was a part of what made them, them.

As their numbers kept rising, so did my faith in them. First to 40 wins. First to 50. First to 60. First to secure a playoff spot. First to win their division title. By this point we had grown so close, and I had fallen so deeply in love, that I began to feel like I was a part of them. Instead of referring to “them” and “I” like we were two separate entities, I began to say “we.” “We got a hundred wins.” “We made the playoffs.” “We need to get to the grocery store to buy some ground beef for tacos tonight.” It was me and the Phillies, in it together. Even when I was alone, I knew that they were right there with me anywhere I went.

Looking back from where I’m at now, I can see where things started to go wrong. I had fallen so deeply for this picture-perfect team that when the warning signs began to show, I was too far gone to truly take note of them. I mean, I noticed them, sure. But I didn’t really let my mind elaborate on what these signs might mean. I certainly noticed their eight game losing streak after they won the division. I heard the analysts when they pointed out that it was the longest losing streak all season. But I didn’t stop to think; I didn’t stop to listen. I didn’t stop to process that information and to realize it might mean that they were running out of steam a little early. No, instead I took it all in stride. I overlooked it and set my sights on the next big accomplishment, sure that it would come, because that was how I’d come to regard this team over their immensely successful season. And their last beautiful, incredible success only fed into my ill-fated beliefs. Their franchise-high one hundred and second win of the season, though it would be their last real accomplishment of the season, was nothing but a sign to me of the success to come in the postseason. They had my heart, my mind, my faith. They had my soul.

And down to the last out of the last game of the division series, I remained faithfully at their side. I really believed, till the very end, that they’d be able to turn things around and stay in the game. Or maybe it was more just that I couldn’t bring myself to believe that they weren’t going to turn things around. They weren’t going to go the distance. They were going to break things off like snapping a bat over their knee, and leave me with nothing but the jagged, painful pieces of what could have been the most remarkable relationship—I mean, season—in the history of the franchise. They were going to leave me.

The days leading up to the end were generally not pretty. We had some painful disagreements, the Phillies and I. I couldn’t help but think, from time to time, that maybe they weren’t trying their best. They weren’t putting forth the effort, and certainly not the skill, required to maintain the complex and sometimes difficult machine that is a relationship—I mean, a World Champion team. But they would always manage to come back, insisting they didn’t mean it, whether it was by pitching a nearly perfect game or by slamming a home run into the upper deck. They brought me back every time, because I’d never really wanted to be mad at them in the first place.

I maintained good spirits throughout most of what would come to be our last night together. Facing only a one run deficit throughout the entire game, I knew that we were playing pretty well overall. In the end, that was what broke my heart the most. As I watched Ryan Howard jog to first at a last-ditch attempt to get on base after a dropped third strike, I couldn’t help but wonder how nine players, in nine innings, could only manage three hits and not a single run. With a team as good as us, it just didn’t add up. It was like they had run out of stamina. They no longer wanted to remain in the relationship—I mean, the season—as long as I—I mean, their fans—wanted them to. They were done. They wanted out.

But I wasn’t done yet. I wanted to go the distance. And so, as Ryan Howard crumpled to the ground on the way out of the batter’s box, suffering what everyone would come to realize was a fairly substantial injury, my heart crumpled with him, unable to support the amount of love it held inside it with no one with whom to share it. I couldn’t give it to my team anymore; we were over. So that love seeped out of me as I sat on my bar stool, my glasses off so I didn’t have to watch the Cardinals’ celebration, slumping further and slowly further down toward the counter like I was a deflating balloon. I deflated until I was empty, devoid of the love I’d once shared in abundance with the team of my dreams just a few moments ago, and I felt nothing.

I put my glasses back on then, because I didn’t care whether or not I could see the TV anymore. I was devoid of emotion. I turned to Brad, who’d just suffered the same devastating blow the night before with his own true love: the Yankees. We quickly paid our tab and left. We walked home hand in hand, allowing ourselves to take comfort in the fact that we were alone together, and we dreamt the same dream that night: that it was May of 2012, and that we got to start our respective relationships all over again.

Philly's New York Complex

I think that most native Philadelphians have a raging, senseless hatred for New York City and all of its inhabitants.

It’s strange, but I keep noticing evidence of it. I’ll watch a Philadelphian meet a New Yorker and immediately either write him off as a douche bag, or begin to act like he has something to prove. Philadelphia Magazine, in its “Best of Philly” issue this month, described one particularly delicious restaurant as “the place to bring your snobby friend from New York.” I’ve found that even I am guilty of this bias: I saw someone reading the New York Times on the trolley the other day, and I immediately found myself thinking, “What a tool.” If our newspapers aren’t good enough for you, buddy, then just go back where you came from.

Try saying that anything in New York is better than anything in Philly (while in Philly, of course), and watch the swiftness with which you are shot down. Yes, we only have two subway lines, but New York’s massive subway system is too confusing and inefficient. Yes, so many TV shows are set in New York, but we’ve got It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Sure, they’re one of the most populated cities in the world, but do you know how crowded things are there? Philly’s population is much smaller and more pleasant.

But what I believe to be the most overt sign of Philly’s hatred for New York is captured in the way Phillies fans feel about the Yankees. I mean, the 2009 World Series certainly didn’t help things, but even before that, Phillies fans seemed to have this burning hatred for all things Yankees.

I can’t seem to find any logical reason why: the Yankees aren’t even in the same league as the Phillies, let alone the same division. They’re almost never required to play each other. Despite popular belief, most Yankees aren’t using, and in fact have never used, any sort of performance-enhancing drugs. They don’t “buy up” their players any more than we do. Most Yankees players are actually very respectable people, on and off the field: during a recent charity weekend where the Yankees spent time with various groups of unfortunate youth, closing pitcher Mariano Rivera gave one kid his cell phone number after hanging out with him all day, because, he said, the two of them really connected. Yankees outfielder Nick Swisher just released an album of children’s songs, even though he’s not really a performer; he did it because the proceeds of the album go to charity. I’m not saying the Yankees are better than the Phillies are (because they aren’t); I’m just saying that a little research will prove that the Yankees aren’t exactly the monsters that Phillies fans think they are.

But, to get back to my point, ask a Phillies fan why he hates the Yankees, and, after citing the above untruths and being proven wrong, he’ll say, “I mean, they’re the Yankees.”

And that really is the reason why: Phillies fans hate the Yankees because they’re the Yankees. They hate them because they’re the most famous baseball team; they’re the flashiest, the ones who appear the most in popular culture. They hate them because they have 27 World Champion titles, and we have two. Because they’ve produced most of the most famous baseball players in history, and we haven’t. Phillies fans hate the Yankees because, throughout history, they’ve been wildly more successful than the Phillies have been, and they continue to be the most popular team in baseball, even when they’re not necessarily the best team in baseball.

But really, it’s not the Yankees’ success that Philadelphians hate. Everything that Philadelphians despise about the Yankees is symbolic of why we despise New York as a whole—its success, its popularity, its flashiness—and this is what gives us our inferiority complex when it comes to all things New York. We don’t hate the Yankees because they’re the Yankees. We hate the Yankees because they’re the New York Yankees.

It makes sense, when you think about it. Philadelphians are fiercely proud of their city. It’s a defining characteristic of all Philadelphia citizens, and it’s what causes us to do things like beat up somebody who’s wearing another team’s jersey at a football game. We have this other East Coast city that’s only an hour or so up the road, though, that’s bigger, more famous, and more popular, and that makes us feel like we’re losing something to that bigger city. It’s like if New York didn’t exist, we’d be the most popular city on the East Coast (because, come on, Boston’s a little too foofy to hold its own against Philly, and no one wants to go to Baltimore because you’ll probably get shot).

And, no matter how much any given Philadelphian will complain about the state of virtually everything in this city (roads, crime, public transit, city council, other Philadelphians), we’ll all defend it to the death as the greatest city in the country. The problem is, we realize, that we’re the only ones who know how great it is, because everyone else is too busy being captivated by how shiny New York is that they don’t even notice Philly in the shadows. This fact gets under our pride-soaked skin and sets up camp, until it’s seeped into every pore of our beings and even the words “New York” make us scoff, smirk, and grimace.

This is what makes us do the things we need to do to show our pride- things like beat the other team’s fans up at football games. We’re like the little bird that puffs up its feathers next to the larger bird to make itself look more intimidating. We take it to ridiculous measures, though. Desperate to seem like the best in any way possible, we hold onto the defining characteristics of Philly that are actually terrible qualities in a city, but we make it sound like they’re good things. You’re from New York, huh? Well, fuck you, because I’m from one of the fattest cities in the country, and I’m proud of it. I’m from the city that beats the shit out of you if you wear a Mets shirt, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m from the city where kids get together in violent mobs in the safest parts of town and break windows and step on people. I’m from Philly, bitch, and I could kick your fancy, cultured, New-York-Times-reading ass any day of the week.

Just let me get my breath first, because I just walked up a couple of stairs and I’ve never exercised in my life. And let me just eat this Butterscotch Krimpet first, because I’m hungry and I haven’t had anything fatty to eat since an hour ago when I sucked down that cheesesteak with the bun so soggy with grease that it was falling apart.

God, I love Philly.

The Septa Chronicles, Part II: Saving Souls

One weekend morning when I still lived in North Philly, I was traveling south on the Broad Street subway to meet my mother for brunch in Center City. The train was mostly empty, and I was definitely the only white girl in my car (the only other white people who get on the subway north of, say, Race-Vine are Temple students, and it was still too early on a Sunday morning for most of them to get their hungover asses out of bed).

I sat alone, minding my own business and quietly listening to my headphones, for the first few stops. Then, suddenly, a large woman sat down in the seat next to me.

Now, this is the first rule of Septa etiquette I’d like to address. If you have the option to leave an empty seat between you and another passenger, you do it. We in Philly really like our personal space, and we tend to have wider radii for that space than most. I’ve even seen people who know each other sit in two separate rows when the vehicle is empty enough. Sitting right next to someone you don’t know when there are plenty of other free seats is unfailingly taboo.

So this woman plopping herself down next to me in a car holding maybe four other people was my first sign that something might be going on here. She smiled and said hello as she sat down, though, and such an uncommon gesture of kindness among Septa riders is always something I welcome warmly, so I couldn’t be annoyed with her.

I should have known that no Septa rider is ever nice just to be nice.

After she and I shared the row in uncomfortable silence for about thirty seconds, she handed me a brochure, and said, “Here, would you like one of these?” which was kind of a pointless question, because it was already in my hands. I smiled and thanked her. But just taking whatever it was she was giving me was not enough for her; she stared at me, smiling, until I was forced to read the pamphlet.

And of course, just my luck, it had to do with God.

Now, as anyone who lives in Philly knows, being handed one of these religious pamphlets is a relatively common occurrence. They’re usually small, colorful little things with pretty drawings that explain to you, very kindly and at a fifth-grade reading level, how wrong you’ve been about God your entire life. The people who give them out are clearly passionate about what they believe in, and they want others to feel the same way. And honestly, even though I know most people hate it, I really don’t mind it when someone gives me a God brochure. I’m not too keen on other people telling me what to believe, but I have an odd respect for anyone who can believe so strongly in something intangible. Most of the time when someone gives me one of these pamphlets, my odd respect for them overpowers my annoyance. This is because the encounters usually require no further interaction between the converter and the convertee/sinner (me).

But that day on the subway, while I was stuck seated next to the woman who’d given me the handout with at least four stops to go before I could get off, the encounter could not and did not end.

She watched me as I paged through it, pretending to be interested. I nodded my head and said “hmm” a few times for good measure, because I thought that seeming interested would satisfy her. Apparently, though, it only encouraged her to take things a step further.

“I’m actually headed to a barbeque that my church is holding for our youth group,” she told me. “There will be all kinds of food and games, and plenty of kids your age. We’re all supposed to bring a new friend with us, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

I looked at her for a second, then back down at the brochure, then back to her again.

“You know what?” I said. “That actually sounds great. I had nothing else to do today anyway- it’s not like I was on the subway for a reason, headed anywhere in particular. I’ve actually just been kind of wandering aimlessly. And I do mean that figuratively and literally. I’ve been needing some guidance in my life, but I didn’t know it until you handed me this brochure. And, after the three minutes I spent reading it, I’ve realized that your religious beliefs fit my outlook on life perfectly. I think that I, as a very white girl who only moved to the city a year ago to go to college, would fit in perfectly with the other people in your congregation. We have so much in common. But you already knew that, didn’t you? You saw me sitting here, and you could just tell that I’d be a perfect fit for your church. It’s amazing how accurately you judged my personality after having known me for only a few seconds. Let’s go! Where’s your church? Are you going there right now? Just lead the way, and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Actually, I just told her that I was on my way to meet my mother for brunch, but damn, I would have liked to go, and that I really appreciated her offer. Which also involved a lie, just like I would have been lying if I’d said all those things I didn’t really say, but I lied a lot less this way.

And that was how I learned the next rule of Septa: Don’t ever take anything that someone is offering to you while on board. You’ll avoid a lot of painful, awkward, lie-filled situations. This may seem like a relatively unimportant rule, but I’ve actually had to utilize it multiple times since that first encounter. People like to hand stuff out on the bus/trolley/subway a lot more than you’d think.

People like to ask you to give them stuff on Septa vehicles, too, but I’ll save that for my next chronicle.

Some Letters I've Been Meaning to Write

Dear Dude Outside the Shady Bar:

While it is no doubt flattering that you felt the need to stop me as I was walking home from work and make me take my earphones out just so you could tell me about how gorgeous you thought I was, this sort of talk will not make me drop my panties on the sidewalk and fall into your arms. I’m not sure what you thought you were accomplishing. I’m also not sure why you thought it was okay to be completely bombed at five o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday. It clearly instilled in you the false sense of confidence you may or may not have been going for, but such behavior in no way increases your chances of “hitting that.”

What’s more, the shady bar outside of which you were standing is probably the only place in my neighborhood I’m afraid of. It’s nothing against you personally; I just don’t make it a habit of meeting guys at bars that have no sign out front, peeling paint, fogged windows, and a front door that stays locked unless you know how to get in. In fact, I normally avoid that street corner altogether (you and your friends do an awful lot of shouting out there), but I happened to take a different bus home that day, and I had to walk by it/you on the way home to my apartment. Where I live with my boyfriend.

In summary, sir, I recognize and respect that you did your best to bring class to the situation by using the words “gorgeous” and “beautiful” instead of “hot,” “sexy,” or any form of the word “daaaaamn.” I especially appreciated the part where you told me that I was so beautiful, you’d do anything even just to be my friend. Somehow, though, I think that might not be completely true, and though your words were classy, the situation was not.

P.S. You may want to apologize to your extremely embarrassed friend who was with you at the time as well.

Dear Fifteen-Year-Old Walking With Your Friends:

First off, telling me you’re seventeen doesn’t make me any more likely to go out with you than I would be if you told me the much younger truth about your age. Come back to me when you think you can pull of telling people you’re at least twenty-one.

Now that that’s out of the way, I want to tell you that I recognize the amount of balls it must have taken to leave the group of friends with whom you were walking the opposite way down the street from me, turn around, cross the street, and approach me. But if you’re going to go through all that, you should at least have prepared a better opening line than “What’s yo name?” (I lied, by the way: my name isn’t Laura. Sorry, but you very randomly approached me on that stretch of South Street that’s kind of shady and has no street lights, so I was a little worried.) I must admit, the rest of your scripted conversation material was above average: telling me you go to Drexel and then engaging me in an academic discussion is, I admit, a better route to my heart than most.

But I need to explain something to you. I understand if you don’t know this rule. You’ve only just begun to play the game. You just need to know that when you ask someone out and she turns you down with any form of the words “I have a boyfriend,” that should be the end of it. Telling me “it’s okay, we can just be friends. Doesn’t your boyfriend let you have friends that are guys?” is not even a little bit convincing, and you’re just forcing me to turn you down over and over, which has got to hurt you more than it helps.

I guess it was just that you really didn’t want to return your group of friends with nothing but rejection, especially because I’m sure that just before you approached me, your parting words to them were “Watch me score this chick” (or some updated, non-90s form of that phrase). I do admire your confidence, your determination, and your unwillingness to take no for an answer; however, these are not qualities I find attractive in a mate. Tone it down a little, slugger. Tone it down.

Dear Drunken Man in the Subway:

As with the others, I’ll admit I really was flattered by your taking notice of me. I also want to commend you on your bold, unchecked confidence. Most creeps won’t go beyond turning around to get a glimpse of a woman’s ass as she passes him on the sidewalk. But you, my friend, went above and beyond what was expected of you. My cheeks must have been bouncing up and down merrily as I ran to catch the train, and when I didn’t make it in time you must have been over the moon. My choice to sit down on the bench while I waited for the next train was unfortunate for you, however, because it hid my backside from your view. But you weren’t ready to give up on it.

I know you really thought that you were covert when you sat down next to me on the bench and slowly scooted your way closer to me. Maybe you even thought I didn’t notice the first time I bent down to put my umbrella on the ground, and you leaned back to get a glimpse of the top few inches of my butt. Or maybe you just didn’t care if I noticed. Because after your first reward, you slid even closer, and when I was stupid enough to bend over again to put my drink on the floor, you let out an elated “Hoooo! You got a NICE ass fo’ a white girl!” which I think was a combination of your attempt at a compliment, and your complete inability to censor your own thoughts at this stage in your inebriation. And really, whenever a black man takes notice of my ass (which I’ve never thought of as “nice,” even “for a white girl”), I do feel a pinch of pride. So if this was what you were trying to do—make me feel better after I missed the subway train—then you succeeded.

Where you lost me was when you continued to make comments, even after I learned to stop bending down and simply remained seated on the bench and you had absolutely no way of seeing the thing on which you were commenting. Your compliments lost their credibility then, and I wondered what exactly you were picturing situated between my torso and the subway station bench. Was it something out of a Jay-Z music video? Something firm and bouncy? Because I, as well as everyone else in that subway station, knew this to be a delusion of grandeur. Eventually you, too, must have realized that your dreams were a little too unattainable, because when a couple of beautiful ladies whose rears better fit your fantasy descended the stairway, you left my side to pursue bigger and better butts. I hope you’re as confident sober as you are drunk, my friend, because that sort of pride in yourself can really take you places.

What Really Is In A Name

I saw this ad while riding the bus home the other day:

(click to enlarge)

Yes, that’s right. There’s an attorney in Philly named Justin Bieber, and he’s advertising himself like that’s not weird. Good luck getting taken seriously in a courtroom, buddy.

I mean, I kind of feel bad for the guy. I’m guessing he was born, named, entered law school, and maybe even passed the bar before the singer rose to fame. It’s not like he chose this profession knowing the potential consequences. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence, and now he has to suffer through the agony of trying to practice law with the same name as a floppy-haired teenage heartthrob.

If I were the lawyer, I’d definitely either change my name or go by something else- a middle name, perhaps. But apparently, this guy doesn’t agree. He’s flaunting his given name loudly and proudly.

I’m willing to bet he’s actually promoting the name association. I mean, it’s extremely unlikely that he is unaware of it. Everyone’s at least heard of Justin Bieber the singer by now. People probably point out the happenstance to him all the time. But this wank-job is bold enough to display his name on his posters, and slap those posters all over Septa buses. The name itself will make it difficult enough for the guy to seem legitimate; plastering it all over the city like it’s clever makes it that much worse.

What this really got me thinking about, though, is the way your name defines you in general. Studies that I won’t cite here have proven that people with regular, more common names like Mary are more likely to be college educated and wealthy than people with other, less “normal” names that are more commonly associated with poorer and/or minority groups. It’s interesting how a person’s name is viewed as so indexical of his/her personality, whether or not it really is.

But whether your name really reflects your personality or not, you will still be judged by pretty much everyone else in the world as though it is. That’s just the way it is. My co-workers admitted to me, months after I was hired, that when they were accepting applications for my position, they didn’t consider the applicants who had really weird names as strongly as those with normal names. In much the same way as the name “Justin Bieber” is associated in our minds with a young, high-voiced teenage boy over whom 12-year-old girls fawn, there are certain traits of a name that will pretty much automatically prevent you from ever being taken seriously in life.

Point is, we all know that weird names pretty much condemn kids to certain personalities (come on. We all went to grade school. We all made fun of the kids with the funny names). And yet, despite this knowledge, parents continue to name their kids really weird, goofy names. In fact, it’s becoming really popular now to pick out as bizarre a name as possible for your child in the name of “originality” and “uniqueness”. This is of concern to me. These parents should really know what they’re doing to their kids (like I said, we all went to grade school), but they don’t seem to understand. So I’d like to supply you all with a list of traits that should never be included in a name. (Unless otherwise indicated, all points apply to first names only.)

- Anything with punctuation. There is no name for which this is not true. No hyphens. No apostrophes. No dollar signs. No asterisks. No parentheses. Just don’t do it.

- A first name that rhymes with the last name. It’s not funny and it’s not cute. There is no way a person will be taken seriously with rhyming names. I would even go so far as to say never to choose a first name that begins with the same letter as the last name, but name alliteration is much less awkward than name rhyming, and can be left as more of a personal preference than a steadfast rule.

- The name of a place. I might get a lot of disagreement on this one, because it’s a really popular trend right now. But seriously, no one wants a name that’s also somewhere you can go. It will unfailingly cause people to assume that the child’s personality is representative of whatever ethnic/cultural group is from the place for which he/she is named. Please don’t carry out your world traveler fantasies through the naming of your baby.

- A name for a male that is more commonly a name for a female. I can’t think of many exceptions to this rule. There are very, very few truly gender-neutral names in existence. Do you really want your son to grow up with the name “Leslie”? I don’t even think an exception should be made if it’s a family name. Your great great grandfather was named Leslie because in 1860, it wasn’t a feminine name. Now it is. Things change. Your son’s going to get beaten up on the playground with a name like that. If you really feel the need to keep the tradition, make a slight alteration: name him Lester instead. (To clarify: I don’t believe that this rule applies as heavily the other way around—i.e., naming your female baby a something that is more commonly a male’s name. Girls have an easier time overcoming name-gender stereotypes. I’d just exercise caution in the degree to which the name you choose is masculine: Don’t name your baby girl “John” or “Andrew” or something clearly masculine.)

- An uncommon name of a celebrity. This one is less about your own preferences and more about what you’re doing to your kid with a name like that. I can understand if you want to name your kid after a celebrity with a common name. It’s your own business the type of people who are inspirational to you; I can’t condemn that. It’s more about the immediate association people will make when they hear the name. Naming your baby Julia because your favorite actress is Julia Roberts is acceptable, because the celebrity is not the first association people will make when they hear the name. But if you want to name your kid after a celebrity with an uncommon name, whether you like the celebrity him/herself or you just like the name, please think again. Do you really think a girl named Beyoncè won’t get made fun of growing up? Do you really think a guy named Ziggy won’t be looked at a little strangely when he’s interviewing for a job?

- On the same vein, a name that is more closely associated with a pet’s name. I’m talking to you, people who’ve named their daughters “Marley.” It doesn’t matter that you think it’s a really pretty name. It doesn’t matter if you thought of it before the book/movie came out. The association is there now, and it will be for years and years to come. You can’t use that name anymore. You just can’t. Sorry. Pick another one. There are literally thousands out there.

- A real word that is not a real name (applies to the English language only, because I know this is common in other countries). There are some names that are also real English words, like “Mark” or “Brooke.” They’re okay because they’re socially acceptable as names as well as words. I’m talking about words that have no business being names. Like “Apple.” In what universe could that name possibly capture the essence of a personality? You might as well name the kid “Refrigerator.” Just because you chose a word out of the English language at random does not mean you are creative. (The exception to this rule: nicknames.)

I don’t think these rules are very difficult to follow. I could have listed many more things people do with names that I can’t stand, but in an effort to be as non-judgmental as possible, I listed only the worst atrocities. Please, parents, just be good to your kids and follow the rules put forth above. Your kid will thank you later in his life when he asks, “What was I almost named?” and you tell him “Lindsey” and he thinks about how much he hasn’t been beaten up on the playground lately. I can assure you that the rest of society will thank you as well. It will be one less La’Qui-shah running for president in twenty years; one less Paris teaching our children, and one less Baxter doing our taxes for us. The world will be a better place.

Facebook Friends: A Comprehensive Analysis

You’ve had a crappy day at work. You’re exhausted, mentally and physically. All you want to do when you get home is flop down on the couch and enjoy a little time that is completely your own; time that you can fill with virtually any activity you choose. So what do you do? You open up your computer and you read a series of short summarizations about all the mundane things your friends are doing and thinking. And then, when you’ve finished reading all of those, you post an equally mundane summarization of your day, content with the knowledge that, as you type, your friends are also getting home from work and flopping down on the couch, as eager to read about you as you were to read about them just a few minutes ago.

This concept of computer-mediated “hypernarration” (I don’t know if that’s my own term or someone else’s) in the context of social networking websites like Facebook is a fascinating study all its own, but one that’s a little too academic for the purposes of this blog. What I find peculiar about the whole thing is that, despite differences in age, personality, and various socioeconomic factors, all of us Facebook users tend to have the same types of Facebook “friends.” The specifics may differ, but I think that a few different general categories stand out prominently, and if you have or have had a Facebook, you’ll be lying if you don’t agree.

1.) Your “best friends”

These are usually the people you’re closest to in real life-- best friends, significant others, family, etc.-- and also the people you’re most interested in on Facebook. In addition to commenting on almost every one of their statuses, you check their profiles daily- sometimes more often- just to see if anything’s changed. These are the people to whom, when they call/text/visit you to tell you some piece of news, you’re not embarrassed to admit, “I know, I saw you changed your relationship status/employment status/profile picture!” You understand their more cryptic status updates. You know when and where every one of their profile pictures was taken. And they’re some of the only people whose particularly mundane statuses actually interest you.

2.) Your “frenemies”

You have some friends in real life who aren’t exactly your favorite people in the world, but they’re tolerable, because maybe you don’t have to see them every day, or maybe they’re relatively shy and quiet in person. Parents and other relatives can often be a good example of this type of friend (but, of course, not my relatives).

But in the faceless, blameless world of social networking, these people have a fresh realm in which to annoy you. Those friends whom, ordinarily, you only have to tolerate in small quantities seem to pop up on your Facebook news feed multiple times a day, every day. The ones who are normally quiet and reserved seem to kick down their walls of social anxiety over the Internet, and they too develop what can only be called “Facebook diarrhea”.

And their posts could not be more annoying. They can be pointless, boring, pretentious, whiny, or rude. Frequently, they’re some combination of those. The worst of these friends will even intrude so much as to comment all the fucking time on every fucking thing you post, until it comes to the point where you censor what you post to minimize your chances of hearing from them. Because the problem is, you can’t un-friend these people. You still have relatively regular real-life interactions with them, and they’d notice if you were to un-friend them. They always notice. There’s a special place for this type of friend, and it’s under the “hide posts from” option on the bottom of your feed.

3.) Your “photogenic friends”

Some of your Facebook friends are fucking gorgeous, sexual preferences completely aside. Maybe they have photographer friends who love to take artsy photos of them. Maybe they entered the performing arts after high school-- acting, singing, modeling-- and they always look perfect in their profile pictures. Or maybe they’ve just always had perfectly sculpted arms/faces/boobs. Either way, you have to keep these people as your friends so you can see any and every new photograph of them, and drool.

4.) Your friends who are your age, but are in completely different life stages than you

You know exactly what I’m talking about. The girl who sat next to you in math class had a baby while you were off at college, acting like one. A friend of a friend you met one time married her military boyfriend and moved to a different country. A guy from your elementary school t-ball team just graduated with his MBA and was hired at an accounting firm where his starting salary will be six figures. And you follow their every post, because you need to know how the other half lives. You are absolutely fascinated by every wedding photo, every pre-natal appointment update, because these people have lives that you very much do not. It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s a life you actually want. But maybe you will have the same experiences someday, so you need to know what it will be like. This type of Facebook friend is the perfect window into your future.

5.) Your “trainwrecks”

This is, without a doubt, my favorite type of Facebook friend, and I’ll bet it’s yours, too. You may have any number of different relationships with your trainwreck friends. They could be ex-lovers, old classmates you always hated, family members, and so on. But the two things they all have in common is that 1.) they haven’t got their lives even a fraction of together, and 2.) they’ve done something to you in life such that you now very much enjoy your front-row seat to their ongoing shitshows. Maybe the girl who beat you to the valedictorian spot in high school now has, and posts about, nightly panic attacks due to her massive Harvard workload. Maybe your first boyfriend posts photos of one skanky chick after another, and you watch with joy as his relationship status changes weekly. Maybe the bitch who always made fun of you in the cafeteria now gets bombed nightly, and posts varying degrees of embarrassing photos of herself-- drunk table dancing, drunk screaming-with-her-eyes-closed, drunk doing Car Bombs, and drunk stripping-- all of which will surely prevent her from ever acquiring a marginally respectful job. These are people who you’re clearly beating in the game of life, and you keep them as friends on Facebook so you don’t miss a second of the wonderful, terrible show.