Games You Can Play While Riding the SEPTA Bus

The daily bus ride home gets tedious for all who ride SEPTA, myself included. Things get ten times worse in the summer when everyone smells worse. I know that anything I can do to make my ride a little more amusing is always a big plus. That's why I came up with this list of fun games to play in your head during your daily commute. Think of it as my gift to you.

-       How Far Into West Philly Will We Get Before the Last White Person Gets Off?

-       Who Farted?

-       Is The Yelling Guy Behind Me On His Phone or Just Rambling to Himself? (It’s cheating if you turn around and look; it’s actually probably a risk to your personal safety as well.)

-       What/Who Would I Hide Behind if Gunfire Rang Out?

-       Did The Guy Pick The Aisle Seat Just to Be a Dick, or Because There’s Something Sticky On The Window Seat? (This one is less a game for your amusement and more one of strategy.)

-       Who Owns the Bike on the Front of the Bus? (This game requires at least 3 white people to be on board, or at least 2 if YOU’RE not white. If there’s only one other white person on board, it’s no fun.)

-       Does She Really Have A Disability, or Is She Just Too Fat To Walk To The Back of the Bus?

-       How Many Seconds Would it Take Me to Strangle that Screaming Child? (This one’s particularly fun if you have a mechanism with a stopwatch on your person, and a great imagination.)

-       What Would my Life Be Like if I Were One of the People Who Pick Their Lawyers Based Solely on the Fact That Their Ad Is Wrapped Around the Bus? 

-       How Violent Would I Be Willing To Get in Exchange for a Piece of Your Fried Chicken? 

Keep this list close at hand, and your bus ride home will never seem very long. Unless, of course, you lose any of these games. (Example: To lose "Who Farted?", the answer to that question has to be, with 100% certainty, "the guy standing next to my seat whose asshole is at the same height as my mouth" at least 3 times during one bus ride.)

Juxtaposition, or "I Promised Myself I Wouldn't Make Any Racial Jokes on this Blog"

It has felt to me lately like my life is just one giant juxtaposition. I guess it kind of makes sense, because I’m right around the age where life often begins to transition in big ways, and so maybe a lot of people my age feel similarly. 

But the thing is, things aren’t really changing right now. I’m just stuck in this awkward, in-between gray area that borders the black and the white (and that’s not just because I live in West Philadelphia, if you catch my drift). And I'll be stuck here for a while to come, I think. Hence, juxtaposition.

I work at a job where my co-worker/supervisor/person-who-sits-ten-feet-away-from-me-every-day-and-with-whom-I-have-to-get-along is in her fifties and has two children that are older than me.  For this reason, I can understand why she can’t see me as anything but a child pretending to be an adult. (Things that probably don’t help my case: the fact that everyone in the office knows I love Spongebob Squarepants; my very slight lisp; the fact that I dress kind of like a 12-year-old, only in earth tones instead of sparkles.)

But the fact is, although she is my supervisor, she and I are technically equals in some small ways, such as the fact that we are two thirds of the front office staff, we sit in the same room together all day, every day, and that we both need to chat about trivial things in order to get along and so the otherwise awkward silence doesn’t crush us alive. That’s where the equality ends, really, and we both know it, but sometimes we pretend like that’s not true while we chat. 

Case in point: she likes to talk about her two older-than-me daughters who still live at home. I don't have daughters. I am nowhere near the stage in my life in which I would have daughters. And I certainly don't know what it's like to have two adult daughters who still live at home. I had absolutely nothing to contribute to this conversation that would make us seem like equals. I could have talked about how my cats mooch off of me just as much as her daughters mooch off of her, but I felt like that would've only increased the awkwardness.

The more obvious option, though, was to bring up the one way I could possibly relate to this conversation: the fact that I'm a daughter with a mom, just like her daughters. 

You can’t expect somebody to see you as an equal if you’re comparing yourself to that person’s daughter during a chat. It doesn’t work like that. But that didn’t stop me from trying.

Juxtaposition.

The other day, this same co-worker of mine was telling me about before her daughters moved back home, while they were still in college, they were obviously able to take care of themselves just fine. But now that they’d returned home, they seemed to rely on her for meals, laundry, and everything else for which I have not relied on my mother since I was about 14. She brought up a time when she went to visit one daughter while she was in college, and all that this daughter had in her fridge was one can of beer.

I silently commended myself on the fact that my fridge is much more well-stocked than her daughter’s had been (I’ve learned that saying such things out loud is generally frowned upon in the workplace; it falls under “Bragging About Yourself” on the list of Inappropriate Workplace Topics. This list, by the way, also includes “Potty Talk,” a topic which I learned was taboo the hard way as well). But when I got home that evening, I studied the contents of my fridge, as well as my pantry, and I came to the conclusion that my food supply isn’t as far as I’d thought it was from “one beer” status.

My fridge has a couple of staples: items that have been and will continue to be in there until we move (and maybe even after that). They are:

1.) A filtered water pitcher, the filter of which has never (NEVER) been changed over the course of its 4 year life

2.) Half of an onion in a Ziploc bag that can’t possibly be good anymore, but it doesn’t actually look rotten to me

3.) A container of off-brand Parmesan cheese that we bought once for a combination dinner party/Halloween party during which we served spaghetti (This party went just as badly as you’d imagine it would.)

4.) A bottle of balsamic vinaigrette from the same party (because nothing says “fun” like a salad)

And if you move onto my pantry, you’ll find the same pattern of staples:

1.) A can of mini corns that I bought in Chinatown back when I still lived on Temple's campus (it's moved with me three times. Why?)

2.) Three cans of chicken salad that are still shrink-wrapped together, for obvious reasons (CANNED chicken salad...?)

3.) A box of pasta boobs

Occasionally, Brad and I build around these staples and stock our shelves with food we actually eat, the classiness of which varies. Right now, our building blocks are a case and a half of Miller Lite in our fridge drawer, half a loaf of stale bread, and a carton of eggs and a box of instant pancake mix, both of which we bought last weekend when we had friends staying with us so we’d look like we were people who went grocery shopping the way grown-ups do. I think these additional items put us about a step and a half up from “one beer” status.

On second thought, I’m going to take away that half-step, because a case and a half of Miller Lite is actually less impressive, not more impressive, than just one can of beer.

However, at the same time that we stock our kitchen the way college kids do, Brad and I are engaged and planning a wedding, the way college kids, you know, don’t. We’re signing $10,000 contracts and talking about what we’re going to do with our bank accounts after we’re married and looking into how I go about changing my last name. We are doing all this while there is a box of Pasta Boobs front and center in our pantry. 

Juxtaposition.

I could go, in detail, into the other examples of juxtaposition in my life, such as the fact that I started volunteering at the cat shelter solely so I could play with kitties once a week, but instead, I found myself last Thursday reduced to wiping from the ringworm-ridden fur of a litter of 7-week-old kittens a thick layer of their mother’s shit/vomit compound.  Or the fact that I’ll be paying off the loans I borrowed to pay for my college education until I’m 40 because after college, I could only land the type of job that you don't need a college education to do, and so you don't earn a college-education-worthy salary. Or the fact that, despite all of these enormous pathetic aspects of my life, I’m actually very happy with the way things are, and most of the time, I enjoy every minute of it.

Such is life. I think.

Never Piss Off A Scientist

This is a somewhat atypical blog post for me. Actually, I didn't write most of it myself. What is about to follow is the entirety of an email that Brad wrote to the director of our softball league, PSSC: an email so great that I think it needs to be shared with the world.

The (brief) back-story:

One PSSC umpire (Gary) began to use bat rings on our bats without warning at Brad's game last Sunday and at our team's game on Monday (we happened to have the same ump for both days). A bat ring is a small plastic ring that you slide down an aluminum bat to check for any dents in the bat. If the ring makes it all the way down the bat cleanly, it has no dents. If it gets stuck, the bat has dents, and the ump ordered us to stop using these bats immediately. This was our fourth game of the season. This is also our fourth year playing PSSC softball. No one has ever used a bat ring on our bats in any other game this season or in the past four seasons. There is nothing whatsoever in the rules PSSC posts that deems a dented bat illegal.

Brad bought a very expensive new bat about 1.5 weeks ago. He'd used it in one game and one practice before his game last Sunday. The bat ring detected a very tiny dent in the bat- small enough that the ring still made it all the way down the bat. Brad was not allowed to use his new bat in Sunday's game.

Brad came home from the softball game extremely angry.

This is what happens when Brad gets angry.

-----Original Message-----
From: Bradley Hollidge
Sent: Tuesday, April 17, 2012 2:18 PM
To: Eric Long
Subject: Softball Policy

Greetings Eric,

I hope you are doing well and enjoying the wonderful weather. I have emailed you a couple times before over the past several years and you have been very receptive and helpful. I have played in at least two leagues every season over the past several years and a new policy began to be enforced, which I think should be brought to light. Let me premise this by saying that Gary (and Gunner) are by far the best umpires. Gary is knowledgeable, respectful, courteous, and overall the best umpire I have encountered since my baseball days. He is generally a nice and great guy. That being said, this past Sunday and Monday, bat rings have suddenly been used without warning or a grace period. I recently (1.5 weeks ago) bought a new bat and used it in one game and it was slightly dented on Sunday so I was unable to use it. The bat ring went around it, but not smoothly. I was able to use it on Monday based on Gary being told to be more lenient (Gary was the ump for my games on Sunday and Monday). I am currently sending the bat back to the company for a replacement. However, I have spoken to several people that have bought a new bat in the past month or two and this has become a problem. Below, you will find the flaws in this bat ring policy (at least for a rec league). I look forward to hearing back from you regarding this and I hope you have a great day.


1. The use of bat rings suddenly appeared with no prior warning and is inconsistent:

(A) Please see point #5 for inconsistency by a single umpire.

(B) There is no consistency between umpires. Evidence for this:

(B.i) I have never been bat ringed before Sunday and Monday.

(B.ii) Monday's other umpire on the opposite field does not use a bat ring. Evidence for point 1.B: I asked Gary if they were using bat rings at the other field on Monday. He replied, “I have no idea what they are doing over there.” I walked over to the other field after our game to gather more evidence. I asked the teams playing if their bats were bat ringed. They had no idea what a bat ring was and said that it had not happened. I asked a team captain from another night about the bat ring:he was unfamiliar with what a bat ring was and once explained, he said, “no, it did not occur.”

2. Using bats in under 60 degree (Fahrenheit) voids bat warranties and makes bats more susceptible to denting:

A few examples:

Demarini: http://www.demarini.com/en-us/forms/customer-service
Easton: http://www.eastonbaseball.com/customer-service/usa-bat-forms?nav=bp&src=ft/
Louisville Slugger: http://www.slugger.com/tips/batcare.html

We begin playing softball at the end of March; obviously, more than a few of these games will be played in below 60 degree weather. If we are playing in 60 degree (or less) weather either:

(A) the bat ring rule should not be used,

(B) we should be reimbursed for damaged bats,

(C) games at temperatures below 60 degrees (F) should be cancelled, or

(D) we should be provided adequate replacement bats for those games (see point #2A for further explanation of replacement bats).

I believe two of these are logical solutions.

I have spoken with several people that have purchased a new bat (myself included) within the past month (mine was purchased 1.5 weeks ago and used in one game, now two [I was unable to use it Sunday and was able to on Monday]) and it was already dented (I have contacted the bat company). These bats range from cheap $30 bats to $150 bats (what I bought to avoid this very problem) and cover several different bat brands. I have contacted the state representative of your balls who ensured me that it was not the balls that were causing the problem, and even if they were waterlogged, would not damage bats. The variety of bats affected has left one common variable: use in under 60 degree temperatures.

2A. Because only two of our bats passed the bat ring test, Gary offered and brought us some replacement bats. These bats were three wooden bats (this was not a wooden bat league). If there are to be replacement bats, they should be quality aluminum bats with a variety of models (or at least the top model such as Easton Rivals SG1), lengths, and weights: 26 ounces (many girls use this weight), 28 ounces (most people use this weight), and 30 ounces (stronger/bigger people typically use this weight). While I know how to hit with a wooden bat, most people do not and do not know that they have smaller sweet spots and do not allow the bat to be hit as hard, creating an unfair advantage if the other team has adequate bats. Furthermore, this takes away the fun of a rec league softball game.

3. Gary cited safety as the reason for this policy. I know that safety and fun are the most important aspects of these “beer league” softball games. Safety is the reason for the list of legal bats. I will argue that dented single-wall bats do not significantly decrease the safety of the game and actually increase the safety of the game while providing evidence for this argument.
3A. When asked how dented bats could affect safety, he replied, “the balls can go crazy ways”. I will provide sound scientific evidence to prove this is not a statistically significant argument. PLEASE SEE ATTACHMENT FOR EXPLANATION.
3B. Dents actually improve the safety of the game. With these single-wall bats, dents negatively affect the structural integrity of the bat and as a result, they decrease the trampoline effect of the bat barrel. Thus, the ball is not hit as hard. With composite bats and multi-wall bats, this is not true. Denting actually improves the performance and makes the bat more and more “hot” until it cracks. Thus, this should not apply to single-wall bats.

4. The game is a fun, rec league game. This new policy has negatively affected the enjoyment of the game for our team and our two opponents by getting everyone worried about their bats. Other teams are worried about this as well. Strictly enforcing obsolete rules takes away the fun of a rec league softball game where nothing is actually at stake.

5. There were inconsistencies in Gary's explanation as to why he was suddenly enforcing the bat ring rule and I do not like being blatantly lied to. Evidence for this argument:

(A) I had Gary all last spring on Sundays at Belmont Plateau and no bat ring was used. I had him several other times on occasion last year and no bat ring was ever used.

(B) On Sunday, Gary said that he didn’t use the bat ring at the first few games because people buy new bats for the start of the season, and this is about the time they can become dented. On Monday, however, Gary changed his explanation and said that he had used a bat ring every game that he umpired.

(C) We have had Gary previously this season on Monday and no bat ring was used.

(D) At Monday's game, Gary said he'd spoken to the commissioner about this and was told to be lenient. I am sure this conversation would not have happened on Monday if he had been using the bat ring during the first few games of the season or all of last year.

(E) The bat I used the first two games of the season (umpired by Gary with no bat ring) was severely dented and I used it with no problems.

(F) No players understood what was going on when the bat ring was being used or why they couldn’t use their bat if it didn’t pass.

I think the discrepancies in his stories provide evidence that he knew he just started doing this. Again, Gary is a great and respectful umpire. I believe he did this to attempt to cover his tracks and attempt to get the game started without further dispute.

6. Gary admitted that the bat ring policy was that of the ASA (American Softball Association) and not necessarily of PSSC. The ASA rules are not posted on PSSC's website for the teams to review. I have tried to find them and asked Gary about it. He said they are only given to ASA umpires when approved, and to ASA registered teams (which, as you know, we are not). Thus, we don’t have access to the very rules that are being imposed on us. They should be readily available to the participants if we are to follow these rules and regulations.

7. If bats are to be bat ringed, they should also be inspected to make sure illegal bats are not used. This has already occurred where a bat was ringed and used in a game, then found to be illegal. I would prefer (for safety) if the bats were inspected to make sure they are legal rather than round.

Thanks,

Brad Hollidge

This is the attachment Brad referenced in point 3A:

(click to enlarge)

And this was PSSC's reply:

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: "Eric Long"
To: "Bradley Hollidge"
Sent: Wednesday, April 18, 2012 2:06:03 PM
Subject: RE: Softball Policy

Hi Bradley,

We have spoken to Gary and the rest of our umpire staff. There should be no more issues regarding dented bats.

Thanks!

The moral of this story: Never, ever piss off Brad Hollidge with something he can use science to dispute.

Fear of the Un-Alive

So there may be some new evidence to support the fact that I’m a crazy person: I have a really-not-normal tendency to treat nonhuman, inanimate objects like they’re alive, and, in fact, human.

I think that this is something I’ve done for a long time, but I didn’t really notice it until Girronster came into my life.

This is Girronster.

To make a very, very long story short, I’d always thought it would be cool (apparently, my definition of “cool” is slightly different from that of the average person) to have a giant, nearly life-sized statue of a giraffe in my house. (I mean, c’mon. It would make one hell of a conversation piece.) But because such things tend to cost upward of a thousand dollars, my mother surprised me with a much shorter version for my birthday last year. It was about five feet tall, and initially I was ecstatic. My dream had come true!

See? I’m loving it.

But by the time Brad and I managed to fit it into the car, drive it home, and put it in our living room, I’d realized that this giraffe was awfully close in height to myself. If I looked at it straight on, I could see right into its pitch-black, glassy eyes; I could gaze right into its flared and pronounced nostrils. I moved around the room, but everywhere I went, its eyes seemed to follow me. And, worst of all, because of its similarity to a person in height, it would often startle me upon entering the living room, causing me to think for a second that another person was there.

My wonderful, loving fiancé, Brad, picking up on my unease, began to place the giraffe in unexpected places, simply for the joy of hearing my shriek as I got out of (or into) the shower, came in the front door, or opened my closet. I don’t think anything brought him more joy over the next few weeks. He still pulls one on me occasionally.

You’d think that the repeated exposure to giraffe-induced surprise would dull my reaction to the thing; apparently, it just made me fear him more. I started calling him “him,” not “it.” I found myself trying to please him by giving him a fun hat or a pretty scarf to wear. I often wondered how he spent his time all day while no one was in the apartment. I also began to treat him with the utmost respect, greeting him with a cordial “Hello, sir” or a nice pat on the muzzle whenever I entered the living room, in the hopes that maybe, if I was nice to him, he wouldn’t attack me in my sleep in what would be the first step of his giraffe uprising.

And for a while, I thought about all of these things like it was completely normal.

You know, though, in my defense, it kind of is a little bit normal. Isn’t it? I mean, at least this particular inanimate object was created in the likeness of something that is alive. People give nonhuman attributes to animal (and human) likenesses all the time. Think your favorite stuffed animal growing up. Think playing with dinosaur figurines.

So as long as I limited this tendency of mine to objects that resembled living, moving things, I wasn’t too worried about myself. And believe me, it was more than just Girronster. Sometimes I would turn my cat-shaped tape dispenser to make it stare at my co-worker at the office. Sometimes I would attack Brad with his stuffed sugar glider, and maybe sometimes I talked to Brad in its voice. On our summer road trip last year, I bought a very cute but ferocious little dinosaur and kept him on the dashboard when we weren’t in the car so he would guard it for us.

A little bit crazy, sure. But, by my standards, definitely manageable.

Slowly, though, I realized that I tend to treat many, many objects as if they have feelings, opinions, and even voices. I realized this in small increments, like when I was restocking the paper shelf one day at work and I realized that I put the new paper underneath the old paper to make sure the old paper was used first, because I didn’t want the old paper to feel bad about itself for not getting used. Or when I called my blanket with Spongebob on it just “Spongebob” in conversation-- not “the blanket”—and I went on to refer to said blanket as “him.” There was one day when I lost my favorite beat-up sweatshirt that I wear around the house, and I called out for it by name as I searched for it: “Sweatshirt? Where are you, Sweatshirt?” as though it might respond to me. And, I always made sure not to leave the broken, ugly piece of cookie/pretzel/anything as the last one to be eaten, because I wanted it to know that it was beautiful (I mean, tasty) too.

However, I never actually feared any of these things. Clearly, I was teetering on the edge of insanity, but I felt that, while I treated these objects as though they had feelings, I wasn’t actually crazy as long as they didn’t evoke real, genuine feelings in me. It wasn’t like I ever cried over the sorry-looking broken cookie at the bottom of the package. And there was certainly nothing that I ever feared the way I feared Girronster.

We had an incident last night that changed this.

There has been a Mylar balloon hanging around our house since about mid-January that somebody got us to congratulate us on our engagement. I’d actually been impressed with how long it managed to stay afloat, despite its obvious, progressing deflation. But I guess yesterday it finally reached the stage where it started to sink lower in the air. For some reason, this gave it the ability to move around the apartment of its own accord.

I’m sure there’s some physics-related scientific explanation for this—some sort of thing about how when helium levels reach below this concentration, the current in the air has the ability to push it around and blah blah blah. But fuck that; it was just plain scary.

Last night, I’d just gotten into bed and was waiting for Brad to finish up in the bathroom and join me when the balloon, stirred, I guess, by our activity of moving around the apartment, wafted its way into the bedroom. Let’s leave the discussion of how it managed to duck under the foot or so of wall that hangs down into the doorway; that’s scary enough to consider. I was more focused on how the balloon slowly crept in, made its way around the perimeter of the room, and inched toward me, finally coming to rest right over the bed.

Brad came into the room to find me facing off with this balloon, staring straight at it, it staring right back at me. I answered his unspoken questions: “It followed me in here. Now it’s staring at me. Why is it trying to kill me, Braddy? Please put it back in the hallway.”

Not without enjoying a good laugh first, my loving fiancé complied with my request, and carried the balloon by its string out of the bedroom and halfway down the hallway. He came back in and got into bed. A few minutes elapsed. As I, feeling relieved, went through my final bedtime rituals like plugging my phone in and setting my alarm, I noticed a silvery gleam outside of the bedroom. It came closer. And then the balloon peered its stupid shiny face around the edge of the door, like some sort of creeper who watches other people from outside their bedroom windows. It stood still for a minute, looking me pointedly in the eye, before creeping on in again.

Son of a bitch.

Brad, through his uncontrollable laughter at me (not with me, but at me), refused to put the balloon outside again. “Clearly he wants to be in here. I don’t want to piss him off. If you want him out, you do it.” What a kind and loving person he is, confirming my fears like that.

Brad had cracked the window after putting the balloon out the first time, and it floated on over to it, presumably pulled in by the draft. I decided that as long as it stayed over there, in the corner, and not above my bed, I’d be able to get to sleep with it in the same room. But I didn’t sleep easily, and I didn’t wake up the next morning without casting a wary eye in its direction.

This sort of irrational paranoia is one of the clear warning signs of dementia, you know.

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.