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.