A Change To My Biography

“Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.”
               ― J. D. Salinger "The Catcher in the Rye"

Change came to our house in the form of a hairy little beast.  It wasn't our choice. Claudette's son was going on a trip and he asked us to take care of his cat for a week. She has been here more than a year.

Sometimes it's hard to tell if WE have adopted IT or IT has adopted US! Whatever has happened, the routines of life have changed with her arrival.

Firstly, let me say that Lea, for that is the princess', name, is not an ordinary cat. Her long and varied life in animal shelters, and different houses have given her quirky, often bizarre habits. She gives new meaning to the phrase "jumpy as a cat" and is so shy with strangers that when we have visitors she will disappear for hours or until all those strange to our house have gone. She has a new litter box with the most up to date, scientifically proven, especially designed gravel and sand material--but, she refuses to use it and would rather go to the garden, even in the most cold, rainy days, and do her "business" there.

She has decided to eat just one type of food and Claudette, who seems to think that cats are like French people, and that they love variety and luxurious gourmet food, has brought her stuff made by the fanciest cat-food brands in the market--all of which Lea has proceeded to vomit as soon as she eats them. So, much to Claudette's chagrin, Lea will eat ONLY one type of dry, pellet-like cat food.

But, all of these little, strange habits are tolerable and I write them up to the legendary finickiness of cat as a species. Where things begin to get nasty is when she decides where SHE wants to take her naps, which are frequent and long.

It all started out fine when Lea first arrived. She was content to sleep on an old rug we threw down for her wherever we happened to be in the house. On warm summer days, she would climb up a palm tree in the garden and lie in the sun on top of the wash house.

She even took to sleeping in the garage, on top of a pile of old blankets or outside under the table where we eat on hot, summer days or nights.

But then, came winter. Now, before I go any further, let me say that I too am a creature of habits. Among my daily routine of teas, lunches, aperitifs, writing, reading, and watching films on TV, there is one that is especially dear to my heart: my nap after lunch.

I usually take said nap in my favorite corner of the living room sofa. That is until SHE decided she liked that corner, too!

Now, I have been relegated to the other corner of the sofa because Lea will not budge when I try to sit in the place I have sat for YEARS! We usually lay out her blanket on one side of the sofa, opposite of my side. She used to sleep there but lately she has taken to sleeping on MY side.

To add insult to injury, I woke up one day, went downstairs to have my tea, went into the study to turn on my computer and WHO was on my chair? LEA!

I was taken aback! I felt like saying what Bugs Bunny said to Yosemite Sam in a cartoon: "Of course, you know that this means war!

"That means she likes you," said Claudette whose motherly instincts make her a push-over for kids and pets.

"No," I protested, "it means she wants to prove she is top dog, er, top cat around here."

As if her affront of taking over all my favorite spots was not enough, when I got up from my chair after shooing her off, my bottom was covered with cat hairs. Augh!

I tried everything: menacing to sit on her when she was on my side of the sofa--she didn't move; placing her blanket on another chair--she ignored it.

It was not a fair fight because Lea had Claudette on her side. So, we came to a compromise: I get to sit on my favorite side of the sofa to take my naps, and LEA sits on my lap!

As time went on other things changed in the house: now there is more food in the pantry for the cat than for humans; we used to just get in the car and go when on vacation, now we have to think about care for Lea; now that we plan to go to Mexico for the winter, our biggest problem is not flight tickets or who is going to mind the house, but who is going to care for Lea.

The other day, thinking about these things, I said to Claudette: "We are now officially old folks with a cat! We can now form an association or club with all the little old ladies in the block who have cats and dogs!"

Back Again With A Brand New Rant

If I were a researcher in the mysteries of the human brain, I would dedicate my life's efforts to investigating (and perhaps reducing) the very selective memory of the female of the species.

I have always wondered, and many times have been miffed at, the fact that a woman can't remember where she has left the car keys, which she had in her hand a moment before, yet she can remember the look you gave a woman (whose dress was so low cut one could see her navel) several years before!

Every time my wife and I leave the house, we have to do a house-wide search for my wife's hand bag, her hat, sunglasses, the things we are taking with us (her luggage if we are going on a trip, the gift if we are going to someone's dinner party, etc). Yet, if someone mentions Madam X, my wife will rejoin, "You remember her. She was the one in the blue dress you much admired at that party five years ago!"

All of this serves as introduction to my most recent rant. My wife has helped me with my novels, not only in proofreading them, translating them into French, and generally helping to knock them into shape, but he has also given me constructive (that is, if you consider getting banged in the head constructive) criticism. Said criticism ofter develops into an argument.

Our latest disagreement (for those uncultured in the language of relationships among couples, a disagreement means you get the "ice" treatment, i. e. a glacial silence and generally being ignored, and that you have to eat frozen food or leftovers for a month) was over the name I gave one of my characters.

I will spare my three loyal readers the gory details of the spat (suffice it to mention that neighbors a block away were alarmed), but I will give you the gist of the argument: I named a character "Madame LePoint" and my wife thought that a rather uncouth (to use the polite form of the word) choice of spelling. She insisted it should be "Madame LaPoint". 

She would not hear my arguments that to change a character's name in a final draft, one has to change it in the list of characters for the proofreader to check, etc. Nor would she consent to look at a web page where it was clearly explained that the spelling of a name is up to the person that fills out the registration form at birth, and arguments of that nature. To all of these she replied as she usually does in every argument: NOT in France!

I argued that throughout history names change, deteriorate, are misspelled, and so on, therefore changing and evolving. "NOT in France!" was the answer to this and other arguments.

OK - flash forward three moths or so.

We were invited to lunch with my wife's former colleague and her husband. The conversation as well as the delicious lunch was moving right along when all of a sudden, out of the blue, like the proverbial thunderbolt, comes the question from my wife:

"What do you think, Clarisa (name changed to protect the innocent) is the proper spelling for a name: LaPoint? L-a-p-o-i-n-t or LePoint? L-EEE-p-o-i-n-t?"

Our hostess was taken aback. What did it mean, this question, and why did it pop up like a weasel out of its hole in the middle of a conversation.

"Well, I suppose..."

But, before she could answer, my wife jumped in to add, "HE says it does not matter and I say it is ridiculous to..."

"That is not true," I said, "I only argued that there is no "proper" spelling one's name and..."

Like a cinder that remains unquenched and flares up again into a roaring fire, the argument was on again.

Our host and hostess sat back and watched with amazement as we argued our old and much flogged points again.

Now back to my original question:

Why is it that something like that would remain embedded in a woman's brain, and would be as tightly held on to as a woman clenches in her fist a particularly good find in a Going-Out-Of-Business Sale?

Why can't women remember where they left the top of the jam jar but can remember a derisive word you said five years ago when she didn't understand your explanation of how the Stock Exchange works?

I have only one explanation and it can be summed up in one word: GRUDGE. For millions of years, women sat around the cave, grinding into paste the berries they picked, or whatever it is cave women did, and conversations included ruminating about how Ugh's wife had dissed the skin Mugh's wife had tanned or similar important issues. These millions of years of millions of similar squabbles developed a part of the brain where grudges are kept. In fact, it has been scientifically proven that a woman's grudge bearing part of the brain is three times as large as that of a man's! (At least that is what was stated in the very scientific magazine, General Auto Mechanics). This, of course, impinged on the growth of that part of the brain called the "Practicalis Olvidatus" or something like that, that stores practical information.

Hence, a woman can't remember something as simple as the Wave Equation, but she will remember to her dying day the fact that Rosie thought her Apple Crumble was "a bit too sweet".

We men cannot change that (although I am in favor of generalizing electric shock treatment as a possible cure). So, we should be careful around such "grudge bearing" creatures and watch carefully what we say and do. Next time Madam X comes along and her generosity is bursting out of her dress, do what I do, raise your glass as if inspecting the bottom of your drink for unwanted content: the thick bottom produces a usable reflection!