The Cat Lady

Yea yea, so I am a cat lady, so what?

I live alone in a studio on the east side of Manhattan. I have a coffee maker, a nightstand with lots of half-read books, and yes, a cat. I know the stereotypes, believe me, I hear them all the time. And I understand that a lot of people don't like cats, claiming to be allergic to avoid contact with the "alien being," or just telling me "I like cats, I just would rather watch him than touch him."

People are always surprised that I am a cat lady. Given that my freezers contents consist of an oversized bottle of Grey Goose and ice, and that I have more wine than food in my apartment, one might be shocked to find out that I rescued and adopted a cat. Some people even ask me when I have time to spend with the little guy, being that I work almost 9 hour days, and have to "entertain" at night (clients or otherwise).

The truth is, I don't spend that much time with him, and when I do see him, I am usually 3 martinis in and am more concerned about the bagel that I am about to take down at 1am. This is why my cat, Sir Zigfried Weiss, aka Ziggy, is more of a gangster than a cat. He is pissed. He is pissed that I am rarely home, and pissed that I cannot commit to the cat lady life the way most cat ladies do. He is pissed that he is underloved and overlooked, and I can't blame him.

After seeing an Animal Planet special on a cat lady hoarder who lived and breathed taking care of felines, he realized, I am just not up to cat lady-par. He also realized that if he wanted me to be a better cat lady, that he was going to have to pull some trick out of his...paw, to get my attention.

When I get home at night, I am left to fend for myself. Ziggy has a white head band on and he is sliding ninja-style along the hallway wall, making his way to me, the resentment filling his eyes with controlled anger. We rumble, briefly. I am left with scratches that once the vodka wears off I know will sting, and I ask myself, what did I do to deserve this? I appease the lord of the cats with salmon flavored treats, coaxing him into forgetting that I have been gone most of the day. I see him waver in his trust, he bites, I bleed a little more, a tear rolls down my cheek, and I turn off the light and get into bed.

He stands on one leg (that's how ninja cats sleep), balancing on the edge of the bottom of my bed beckoning me through fluffed whiskers to play with him, tire him, to give him some freaking credit. But I am too sleepy, and wounded, and I fall asleep to the sounds of his frustrated sighs as he lays down to sleep yet another 8 hours of his existence away. I can feel his dissapointment and as much as I hate going to bed angry, we do.

Being a cat lady is no easy feat. The love I have for the furball outways the brief battles, and cost of Neosporin and Band-Aids each month. And I do have someone to come home to, domestic cat violence or not, he is always there. The best part of being a cat lady though is in breaking the stereotype. We are not all crazy, nor are we all lonley and desperate. In fact, I am far too tan, far too much of a lush, and far to busy to be defined as such.

I believe I have elevated cat ladies to a new place. A place where even if one choses to write an entire blog post about her cat (not sure who would do such a thing), she can still be considered to be full of life, and also respected for her love of the feline.

In Memory of “Captain Max”

Endless tides meet endless times, and he aboard his boat,
Pink sun kissing rippled waves, beauty admired as in a sonnet God wrote.

He stands at the helm, crystal sand and salted breeze at his cheek,
The sky brushed with purple clouds and golden bands as if heaven had a leak.

Strong fists pull rope taught and wide sails lap and then stand upright,
And like a seabird skimming the mirrored foam, the white vessel takes flight.

Wood grazing water, boundless with fury and fervor, leaping from crest to crest,
He rides his stallion into the wind, resonating with passion as the sea can attest.

How unsullied joy is, when we become what we worship and love,
As he glides across the horizon and follows the wistful tides to above.

And So We Grow

A single dew drop
A single tear
Another seed
Another year
And so we grow
And fall and climb
The hours hold
The hand of time
There is always light
Among the dark
Always a place
To leave your mark
Clouds do pass
A wrinkled sky
The moon a wink
The sun reply
Life is that
Which we hold near
A single dew drop
A single tear
And so we grow…

The Silence of Lavender

Where lover’s sides meet and hurried breath reaches pillows and dreams, I lay alone. The lights of the city spilling onto me, the weight of my solitude felt through amber and fluorescents. Coupled hearts tend to sleep as the sun tip toes upstairs without a creak, the floorboards of earth mindful not to wake the children of love.

I stand at the window, cold feet touching cold glass, and the secrets of morning are spread across the cracked river. There is a silence when the world is lavender and still, that is beyond humbling. A silence that once wasn’t there and instead was filled with the joy of life, and the simplicity of sleep. When slow songs wrote themselves and scraps of paper were filled with words like "you" and "soul." When morning could creep up without being noticed and linens wrapped bodies like packages of lust.

And now, the silence is so loud, it screams without warning and throws me against the window at dawn, and I am left asking questions to a lingering fog; a fog that like me knows no direction and is boundless in its edges. I have the capacity to love so hard, I know I do. Somewhere between the eyelid of darkness and the blink of day, its there, waiting to inhale and to consume, just as the moon does sun, and the river, for now, does my heart.

Is Chivalry Dead?

Lately I have had this subtle feeling that chivalry is dead. The feeling could have started when I slipped on ice a few years back, skidded 10 feet on my chin, tears salting the ice beneath me, and an entire slew of young, able bodied men watched, mouths agape, not only neglecting to help me up or ask if I was okay, but the only thing I heard from this useless crowd was one guy yell, "did you see THAT?"

Or maybe it was last month when trying to get off the bus in a civilized morning commute, wait your turn to step off the M34 manner, when I was pushed by a middle aged man who either had to go really badly, or was just over the 45 minute sluggish ride that had him lacking patience. Either way, with my coffee splattered on my new coat, purse items strewn on the dirty street, I helped myself gather my things, helped myself wipe off my hazelnut mess and searched for what was left of my dignity for the day. The man walked quickly away, knowing quite well that he had left me on the street to fend for myself, and with no explanation for what the hell men were thinking.

The definition of chivalry is this: "The sum of the eideal qualification of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor and dexterity in arms." It is a term that goes back to the medieval institution of knighthood and is now been somehow worked into modern day to describe couteous acts, especially men towards women. So techincally, unless their occupation, on Facebook or otherise, announces that they are in fact a "Knight," what have we been expecting?

How the word even came to be used today, as it is so freely and loosely, is beyond me. Considering the dwindling job title of Knight, I guess the answer to my question is in its origin; Chivalry is dead and has been dead since 10th century France.

It seems to me that we have been using the wrong word, and a powerful one at that, in building our expectations for the male sex. One that has made feminists fight to kill the story of Cinderella for instilling false hope in young girls that a Knight will and should rescue you from, well, yourself. And one that has made men struggle to walk the thin line between being a total doting push over and gentlemanly-enough so as not to insult women by making them feel that they are in fact "helpless."

I can't help but wonder that if we used a more appropriate, less loaded, less dated, more gender-mutual word such as respect, would we still feel as let down by the opposite sex?

So I propose this: If chivalry is somehow, anywhere, lurking in the shadows of our Knight-less society, and not already dead, let's kill it. I have had it with the pressure it subjects both men and women to, especially on a first date (it is the main ingredient in that bit of awkwardness), and I refuse to use a word that attempts to over-indulge a basic human and necessary code of conduct. Respect is all I ask, and all you should ask as well, regardless of gender...

If I was looking for respect that day face-first on the ice, or that awkward tumble off the bus, and I wasn't looking for "chivalry," maybe I would have seen her hand reaching to help me up, and I would know that morality lives.

I See it in Your Eyes

I know what you have lost, I see it in your eyes,
how you miss the way you saw before.
You want so badly to go unrecognized,
for someone to heal all that is sore.

You were only a child when you first broke,
and knew not how to walk but were asked to run.
Innocence into amber, hope into smoke,
left to give youth back, virtuous resignation.

I held you when you cried, and told you to be brave,
and knew that latent time was all I could give.
I found pieces of you here and there and part I did save,
misshapen and mangled, you were determined to live.

You are stronger than you think and better than it all,
your beauty is in your will to move on and grow.
Learn from this and remember what it felt like to fall,
flourish in the power and be conscious of what you now know.

I know what you have lost, I see it in your eyes,
the light dim that once surfaced from within.
You need to love yourself to see fully with no disguise,
to honor yourself truly is to honor where you have been.

The House of Now

If you have gone through hard times then you have grown and evolved,
and let go of what you cannot control, watched it as it dissolved.

Expectations are the bricks to a house built on disappointment and regret,
release the ones you know are not in reach and realistic ones set.

When it looks impossible, flip it upside down and look once more,
there is always another way, somewhere another door.

This is the moment and the only moment there is, is now,
each passing one a chance to change your story, and the "how?"

Awareness is acknowledgment of where you have been and where you wish to go,
but acceptance is knowing that right here is all you need to know.

The Life and Times of Gratitude

There are moments of clarity and moments of bliss,
there are moments of struggle, confusion and this.

Mornings can be hard even with thanks when bare feet touch the floor,
and nights can be lonely when you ask "but isn't there more?"

When breathing is a challenge and air hard to come by,
when all there is left to be said is a frustrated sigh.

The time passes with slow hands and you in your head,
you could be building bridges but you build walls instead.

But as it goes, this is progress and feelings are not fact,
And all that has seemed to crumble, is actually intact.

Suddenly cloudless, sun in your heart, gratitude seeps back in,
Allowing the beauty of life and life's beauty become inspiration.

The mountains you have lived on and conquered are now flat,
And challenges become achievable goals and you think "I can do that."

There are moments of struggle, confusion and this,
and you realize this life, and your happiness, you refuse to miss.

Hatched

Wrapped in pale hues of pink and lavender, hair wrapped haphazardly into an unraveling ribbon, she listens for the sounds of home, footsteps on the worn floorboards, the rhythmic hum of a dishwasher, the distant voices without words. A sad baby doll with a torn dress and torn skin, lays across her lap motionless waiting for life to be handed to her, waiting for her to play.

She is a small pile of herself in a large room made of wicker and white porcelain, decorated neatly with portraits of flowers and stenciled green ivy that crawls from floor to ceiling. She has memorized the way the walls move, their cracks, their faults, their asymmetry. She presses her cheek to the cool molding and closes her eyes, she feels closest to herself here, and she pauses.

The light from a dusking sun whimpers into her room and leans against her door, slowly dropping to her unkempt hem. She can see the warmth but doesn’t feel it, and raises her hand tripping the light. She watches it fall from finger to finger and welcomes company in its movement, in its dependability.

The day dips its head below her window, and a shadow of herself stands beside her. She takes her hand, fingers to wall, and she sighs against the silence and the night that is making itself known. She is home.

How I Got Fried

I am one of those non-writer writers who walks the aisles of Borders for nothing more than free new-book smells and to look like I am well-read. I have an intense and frequent inclination to buy any "best-seller" so long as the cover image is appealing and has more pages than I have patience. I also often buy journals, filling the pages with scribble that is neither publishable or shareable even with a toddler, only to rip them out and throw them away along with the Bick pen I bought with the hopes that it would be the captain to my book-writing ship. Not so much.

A blog seemed much more reasonable for many reasons. Not only will I spend less time pretending to be a well read scholar at local bookstores, but I will have more time to focus on the art that drives my passion, writing. Further, I have awful handwriting. I am sick of explaining to people, including my parents, that it is not dyslexia, nor carpal tunnel, nor any disorder or lack of education. It is and will always be just really bad penmanship. The only downside of the keyboard as far as I am concerned, is that my most used keys are turning slightly orange from my excessive use of face bronzer. Seriously an issue, bordering addiction.

The orange hue that my face, and skin, has at unseasonable times of the year, is nothing more than a love for makeup, and self tanners, and the tanning salon, and the beach. I don't do it for bodybuilding fitness competitions (although if you saw me, you might just think it was), and I don't do it for pageants, or any other tan-centric sport. I am aware that it makes me look vastly bridge and tunnel, and I know that in December, I will be asked where I just got back from. I am fried because I am. I have been through enough in my life, even at 26, that I look the way I feel, simply, and sometimes sadly, fried. There is something slightly intoxicating about appearing burnt, and feeling the same way. A few too many times, I have found myself too close to the fryer, and I am left with a lot to say about a lot, and so here it is...and here I am...Fried Weiss.