Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (9 page)

I came up with various scenarios in my head: He might be separated. But that didn’t make sense because if he was, he probably would have said, “I’m separated,” instead of, “Sounds good.” He might be in a green card marriage, but that didn’t make sense because if he was, he probably would have said, “I am married, but I just did it to help out a friend in need of a green card,” instead of, “Sounds good.” He might be a widower, but that didn’t make sense because if he was, he probably would have said, “I’ll just need one ticket to your show since my wife is dead,” instead of, “Sounds good.” The only scenario that made sense was that he was married, that he didn’t tell me, that he knew I’d found out, and that he was busted. So all he really had to say for himself was: “Sounds good.”

I didn’t hear from Alex the rest of that day and honestly I figured I wouldn’t be hearing from him again now that the jig was up. But the next day, I got a text from him that said, “Seattle . . . tick, tock. Can’t wait.”

I was confused and angry. Did I misread this entire thing all along? Did he just want to be friends and therefore my mention of his marriage didn’t change anything for him? The thing is, I know a lot of married people and they certainly don’t make new friends of the opposite sex and then have said friends meet them in other cities on the weekends.

An hour later, another text came through from Alex. “Sorry I didn’t write you last night, someone was next to me most of the evening.”

My stomach sank further. Then I got pissed. For months there had been no mention of a wife or a marriage, but when I found out and I let him know I’d found out, now he was all open about it? Did he think I’d think that was awesome? And as for the texting-at-night thing, where the fuck was she sitting for the past sixteen weeks? Because it didn’t seem to be a problem before. I had so many questions but instead of asking them I just stared at my phone. This was becoming a pattern.

The day before I was supposed to leave to meet Alex in Seattle, I got a text from him asking me what time I got in.

“I get in at 4,” I replied.

“Great, text me when you land and I’ll meet you at your hotel.”

I packed my bags that night. I shoved everything to the back of my mind and decided to just meet him in Seattle and get my answers there. Maybe he was in a bad marriage, maybe it was coming to an end. But these weren’t questions I felt like I could get answers to via text. I thought his “Sounds good” spoke for itself. The only way for me to know what this was between us and what exactly was going on with his marriage was to go to Seattle and find out. At least that’s what I told myself.

I talked to Jackie that night, asking her what I should do.

“I think you should stay in town,” she said firmly. “Some of us are going out to Malibu tomorrow for happy hour. Come get drunk and forget about this guy.”

“I don’t know, Jackie. I want answers. I want to know what he’s been thinking this is this whole time.”

“Think about it. You probably already know the answer to that.”

I lay in bed that night with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. When my alarm finally went off I’d probably racked up a whole forty-seven minutes of sleep.

I got up, put a couple more things in my bag, and zipped it shut. Then I made myself some breakfast, sat on my balcony, and stared at my cat.
So apparently I’m doing this in the mornings now, too?
I thought as I contemplated completing the familiar routine with a cocktail. It was nine o’clock in the morning; I don’t even drink at nine o’clock in the morning when I’m on vacation . . . I always wait until at least ten a.m. so that it’s double digits on the clock when I start. It’s called being responsible.

After about an hour of staring at Mischief, I grabbed my phone and texted Alex.

“I’ve decided to stay home this weekend. Sorry.”

“Whatever,” he replied.

Not the most satisfying response, but I had already come to the conclusion that I was never going to be satisfied with any response I got from him. I knew what I needed to know: Alex was married. It didn’t matter if he was happily married, unhap
pily married, in a green card marriage, or in an open marriage: none of those were things I wanted in my life. If I thought I felt lonely now, imagine how lonely it would be to have a married boyfriend. I deserved better. And yes, I figured this all out while staring at my cat. He’s like a Buddha, if Buddhas jumped on your chest in the middle of the night and coughed up hair balls.

I unpacked my bag and got dressed to go to Malibu. I’d been missing my friends and now I was finally home for a weekend to spend time with them. That was what I needed.

At around five o’clock that evening, while I sat at a table with four of my closest girlfriends, drinking mai tais and laughing, I got a text from Alex.

“Are you here yet?” he asked.

Wait, what?

“I told you earlier, I’m not coming.”

“Seriously? I thought you were joking. I’m so disappointed.”

I can’t lie; part of me was extremely satisfied that he’d sent his earlier response because he didn’t think I was being serious. And another part of me was even more satisfied that I had disappointed him—the way he had disappointed me.

Another text came through: “I really am disappointed,” he said.

“Sounds good,” I replied.

It Ain’t Over till the Cat Lady Sings

S
o I had a cat, Mischief, for sixteen years. The same cat—not a whole bunch of different cats over that span of time. I mean, I’m not insane.

Having a cat didn’t do much for my dating life. You see, when you’re single and you have a dog, people think you’re cool and you love to hike. When you’re single and you have a cat, people think you’re a loser and you love to watch the Lifetime network. I would just like to clarify that both of those stereotypes are 100 percent accurate. The only time I like to hike is when I’m filling out the “activities” portion of an online dating profile; in reality, I prefer spin classes. Sorry, I’ve seen a lot more chubby hikers than I have spinners. And if the Lifetime network didn’t exist, then as far as I’m concerned, neither should Sundays.

Anyway, the struggle of being a single woman and owning a cat is real. However, I didn’t purposely go out and get
my cat. I didn’t put on my Shape-up Skechers one day and head out to the cat store. I inherited my cat from a boyfriend who died in a car accident. But I’m not going to get into that (again).

I realize that some people disagree when you say having a pet is similar to having a child. Well guess what: I cared for Mischief for sixteen years. He relied on me for food, water, and shelter. I took him to get his shots. I cared for him when he was sick and I cleaned up after him when he pooped. Plus, cats don’t grow out of it and start using the toilet like kids—like
most
kids—do. I mean, I have seen a couple of YouTube videos with cats using the toilet but my point is, having a pet is similar to having a child except before they can grow up, go to college, and start paying you back for all the hard work you put in, they die.

I’ve never liked parents who act like their kids are awesome all the time, so I’m not going to do that when I talk about my cat: my cat was an asshole. He had a deep, loud meow that he only let out late at night when I was trying to sleep, but even worse: when I was trying to sleep with a gentleman caller. I don’t know if it was some sort of protective instinct because he knew I used to date his dad or if he just had some sort of beef with my having company in general, but it usually ended with the guy saying,
“What the fuck is wrong with your cat?”
then leaving because he had to “get a good night’s sleep,” which for the first several years I always knew was bullshit because most of the guys I had sex with in my early twenties were unemployed.

My cat also fancied himself quite the foodie. Although he would eat his
perfectly fit-for-cats
cat food all day long, the second I broke out any food for myself, he would approach me in a manner that seemed harmless, then out of nowhere his paw would come up and swipe my entire meal. He just took food out of my hand. It didn’t matter what it was either. He wasn’t one of those cats who thought he wanted your food, then once he got it realized that he didn’t. He always really, really wanted it. He obviously preferred when I was hungover because he’d get a delicious meal like a Quarter Pounder or Taco Bell. But he’d pretty much eat anything. One time I left a bag of Ruffles open on my couch while I went to grab water (Ruffles are very salty) and came back to find half of his body
inside
the bag. When I pulled him out, he was eating a Ruffle and looking at me like I was the asshole. I swear I’ve even seen him eat sauerkraut. He didn’t give a shit what it was, he just wanted food.

This was a huge date killer when someone was over and I cooked—well, ordered Chinese food. After Mischief had made off with half of the guy’s lo mein and an egg roll, I’d apologize and lock the little bastard (the cat, not the guy) in my bedroom so we could finish our meal in peace and play that super-fun “in bed” game with our fortune cookies. Mischief never went quietly, though. He’d meow in this deep, throaty tone that my friend Sarah Tilley dubbed his “Barry White” and stick his paw under the door to rattle it. It was like living with a lion. I’d just turn the volume up on the TV louder and louder in an attempt
to drown him out while my dinner guest looked at me in horror, asking if I was sure my cat was okay.

“He’s fine,” I’d assure him. “I think he’s just possessed with the spirit of his previous owner.”

“Um, what was that?” the guy would ask.

“This guy I was dating. He died while we were dating and I kept the cat. Can you pass the fried rice?”

“He died while you were dating?”

“Yeah, but it was a long time ago, it’s fine. It’s not like I killed him or anything!” I’d say and laugh.

Those nights Mischief let me sleep in peace, because I would inevitably end up spending the rest of the night alone.

Now, I don’t want you to think my cat sat around eating fast food all day, because then you’ll think he wasn’t healthy and I gave him diabetes. At least that’s what happened one night when I made a joke about his being a loud fat-ass when I was on
Chelsea Lately
. Here’s the actual e-mail I received the day after the show (the typos belong to the person who wrote it):

Sarah:

Why get a cat if you’re not going to take good care of it and learn how to care for it properly? It’s obese because of your stupidity. It didn’t do it by itself.

Animals food needs to be restricted just as for any human. Look at Chuy! Look at the people who can’t even get out of bed! You’re doing the same fucking thing to a precious animal who can’t change what YOU do to it!!!

Food 24/7 also creates crystals in the kidneys which block the urethra.

Why don
’t you EDUCATE yourself about an animal BEFORE you decide to get one, instead of abusing the poor thing.

You need to take the cat to the Humane Society and get it proper care since you don’t give a shit

Fucking cunt. You should be arrested for animal abuse.

Sad thing is. . . . . you’ll probably make “jokes” about it instead of being a caring, compassionate, loving person.

Just shows what a pathetic excuse for a human being you are.

Wilson

Nice, huh?

And here’s my reply:

Dear Wilson,

First of all, is that true about the urethra? Because I also eat food and I’m almost positive I have a urethra and I never want anything that’s not in liquid form coming out of it.

Next: I’ve had my cat for sixteen years, and he’s as healthy and happy as can be. The vet says his weight is normal, but thanks for your input! He’s also very loud, which I did make a joke about because I’m a fucking comedian—or as you called it, a “cunt.”

Oh, and I didn’t “go get”
a cat, I inherited my cat from a boyfriend who died suddenly and tragically in a car accident and I have taken loving care of him ever since. That’s a true story! You can read all about that and more in my
New York Times
bestseller
Life as I Blow It
.

PS: Thanks for watching the show!!!!

Sarah

In reality, yes, my cat was a pain in the ass, and yes, he enjoyed stealing food. But I took really good care of him. I mean, he lived, nice and healthy, for sixteen years. I monitored his human-food intake. He only got a bite here and there. You think I’d let
anyone
eat all of my Big Mac? Never. I’ve ended relationships over shit like that.

Mischief also opened cabinets in my hallway in the middle of the night with his man paws; when I’d get up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water, I’d bang into them and wake up with giant bruises on my knee (bruises are never good unless they are the kind you get from adult fun time). But he did some really cool things, too, like curl up on my lap when I would watch TV. He loved baseball and
General Hospital
, just like me. Sometimes he would sleep on my chest, which can be creepy when you wake up but for the most part is pretty awesome.
He
was awesome. And I took good care of him because as fucking annoying as he was at times, I loved him. I assume my parents feel the same way about me.

So when he started to act differently I took him to the vet. He was constipated—we shared many of the same issues—and not eating much. The “not eating” was what really worried me: that’s like me telling my friends I don’t want any alcohol; they’d know something was way off.

The vet ran some tests and told me Mischief had kidney failure. She said it’s what most older cats eventually develop. It’s terminal, but there are some things you can do for them to make them comfortable enough to live happily for a while longer. The first one of those “things” the vet told me was that I was going to need to administer an IV to my cat daily.

“Excuse me?”

She took me into a room and showed me how to do it. How to stick a big fat needle into his back—that he didn’t really seem to feel, but whatever, she was sticking a needle in my fucking cat! I wanted to punch her in the face. She kept it there while a certain amount of liquid something poured into his body and apparently hydrated him. I cried while she did it and I cried when she told me I was going to have to do it.

“Fuck that noise,” I told her. “Can’t I bring him in here and have you guys do it?”

“Sure,” she said. “But most cats don’t enjoy going to the vet and it would be easier on you to do it at home. You’d have to bring him in here every day for the rest of his life.”

She was right. Mischief hated going to the vet. I used to have to go downstairs, crack open the door on his little carrier, and position it just so, so that when I got him downstairs
I could shove him in it before he had the chance to realize what was happening. Otherwise, the second he saw it he’d dart under the bed and out of my reach. Then when I finally did get him in it, he’d do his deep loud meow, but with an extra tone of misery added in that made me feel like I was an animal abuser.

“Fuck that noise,” I repeated. “I’ll see you every day for the rest of his life.”

After three days of taking him to the vet, both of us crying the whole way (I realized then that I also sound like Barry White when I’m upset), I knew I was going to have to learn to do it myself.

So, I sucked it up. The vet explained to me that we’d both get used to it and soon enough I’d be able to administer the IV painlessly. I thanked her and told her that she was probably pretty wrong about that.

So every morning, I woke up, went into the kitchen, hung the IV bag onto a hanger on a cabinet, pulled my cat into my arms, and stuck a needle in him. I’ve never felt so single.

The vet was right, though; we both got used to it. I think Mischief knew it made him feel better. He even got to where he was purring when I’d do it. I assume this is the same kind of bonding that happens with heroin addicts.

A week or so later I took him in for a follow-up, and the next day the vet called to let me know that he probably didn’t have much longer. She said to keep doing what I was doing, gave me like four more medications, and told me what to
look out for so that when it was time to let him go I would “know.”

So now not only was I jamming an IV into him, I was trying to get him to swallow various pills—cats love having pills tossed down their throats—and putting some weird shit into his food. At this point it felt like I was taking care of my dying grandfather.

It was all getting to be a lot; he had some good days where he felt okay, but the bad days started to take over until one day I found him peeing right beside the litter box. Not inside it—beside it. The vet told me this was one of those “signs.” I don’t know why they do that, I just know she said he would and he did. When I found him in action, he looked up at me—I expected him to feel bad about peeing on the floor, so I was ready to let him know that I knew it wasn’t his fault. Instead he just looked at me like, “What? I’m peeing,” and sauntered off. Even near death he could still be an asshole, and I appreciated that about him.

I let the vet know what was happening and she softly suggested it was time. She said that often people hold on to pets for too long because they don’t want to let them go, but in reality it’s unfair to the animal, who can’t make decisions for himself. Although, I kind of felt like Mischief made the decision for himself the day he walked by me and pooped right next to my foot. He was letting me know it was time. Five minutes after that, he lay on my chest and purred. I was afraid he was going to poop again right then and there, which, just
for the record, is something I’ve never let any man do. But he didn’t. He just lay there so I’d know he still loved me. I loved him, too—so I had to do what was right.

I’ve never had to put a pet to sleep before; I grew up in Arkansas. Most of our pets got run over by some jackass going too fast on a dirt road. My stepdad always buried them in our pasture (yeah, we had a pasture—I’m very worldly) and that was that. So this was all very new to me.

“I’VE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO,” I wailed to the vet. God bless that woman, that can’t be an easy job, but she was so nice and patient with me. She explained that I could bring him in and they could do it there or she could come to my home and do it there. I didn’t even know they did that.

“THAT ONE, I WANNA DO THAT ONE,”
I sobbed. I couldn’t imagine driving him to his death—it seemed so moblike. This other way he could pass away at home like a respected senior citizen should.

I have some pretty great friends, I have to say. The night the vet was coming to put him down, three of them came over. We drank wine, shared silly memories about Mischief (they’ve known him a long time, too), and gave him tons of love. He was pretty stoked about all the attention; he perked up and was like,
“What’s up, ladies?”
taking full advantage.

When the vet knocked on my door, we all just stared at each other. The girls offered to let her in but I said I would do it; I could do it. She came up and softly explained to me the
quick procedure; she’d give him a shot that he would barely feel to sedate him, then after a couple of minutes, when he was definitely unable to feel anything, she’d give him the shot that would make his little heart stop.