05.02.13- Ranting, Respect and Rubbing One's Feet on the Human Doormat

An Urbandictionary.com definition of 'Cat Lady':

2.	cat lady
	A old woman who usually lives secluded from society with her hundreds of cats. Because she is forced to use all of her social security money of her cats, she eats only cat food and drinks only milk. She usually feels the need to name every single one of her cats with funny names and possesses the uncanny ability to recognize which cat is which no matter how similar they may look to one another.

What it seems to have missed is the cat lady must have been driven to being secluded from society from people who have done her wrong. What made the Crazy Cat Lady give up on humans and find solace in felines?
There are some days when I feel I may know the answer. And just for the record, I don't smell of cat pee. Yet.

"Look, Mr Snookums. Don't let the bastards grind you down."

Some blame the Cat Lady's kitten-dominated existence on a certain number of failed relationships (see Fig.1). While I have a fair few relationships that certainly found me wanting to spend my evenings in the RSPCA cattery rather than a restaurant booth, men aren't the main reason that sometimes I just feel like cutting off and spending time on my own a little more. Humans make my head ache. And there are so many of them who are just so bloody selfish. It disheartens me. I know that my last post was about looking for the positive, but some days can just get too full of cynicism and frustration and you end up thinking, "Why? Why the hell am I even basing my decisions and finding it hard to sleep because I'm worried that people won't like my life choices?"

Fig.1

Getting to bed last night, I was pulling my (cat) hair out. My good friend Roisin gave me a quote which kind of struck a chord with me though:

"The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud."
--Coco Chanel

Think for yourself. Absolutely. I'm at a stage where University is coming to an end and I feel pressure on all sides to do something useful. To be something admirable. To gain a good career, earn amazing money and get a good reputation. My dad is always suggesting to go into Law. I know English graduates are well-suited to Law careers, but I know deep down that this is absolutely not what I want. Yes, I could get a great income and establish a great reputation. But my career would be my life. And it's not a career I particularly give a shit about. What's the use in having an impressive bank balance, a flashy car and a nice house if you have to wake up every day dreading going to work? What's the point in living a life so materialistic that you lose touch with your happy, spiritual side (if you didn't know this about me, I am actually very spiritual and go to Spiritualist churches. There is something about their acceptance of all religions and of their exploration of the deeper meaning of life and appreciation of the small things that makes you feel more connected with everything and aware of your own purpose as an individual. You learn that the little acts you do matter without the stifling orthodoxy and segregation you can get with strict religion). If I lost touch with this, my life would be spent trying to fill the expectations of society, preoccupied with the endless pursuit of being the perfect career woman/mother/wife who is eternally thin/young. And my dream of being a writer would be sacrificed in order to please others. Yes, from the outside perhaps my Audi would make it seem like I had it all, but all the while I would be grieving for the dream I've always held of having books published one day.

The "starving artist" diet- apparently
more effective than WeightWatchers

No, most writers do not earn much money, hence the image of the "starving artist". Maybe I'd have to carry on working in retail alongside so that I don't take my work home with me and so that I could write in my spare time without the pressure of a demanding career. Poetry especially is near-impossible to make a living out of. Unless I did a J K Rowling I'd be working in a job unrelated to my degree and perhaps not earning mega-bucks, but if it gives me time to write a novel or a poetry collection or freelance then I'd be happy. My aim is to have a wage not massive, but just comfortable enough to have somewhere nice enough to live, have a car, support a family and go on holidays but to always have that opportunity to write open to me after I clock out of work. Seeing my name in print is something I value far more highly than seeing my name on the polished oak desk of a dismal executive office. And I'm fed up of feeling as though I'm disappointing people in choosing to do this. But it's time to make my own decisions about my own life. When I think this, the tension in my neck eases. The knot in my stomach unties a little. I must remember that people are only disappointed because they think they know what's best for me, not because I've done something personal to hurt them.
But only you can know yourself. I spent hours today in the University library researching graduate schemes. I don't want to go into accountancy or market research. My heart was sinking as I read it. I even for one fleeting moment looked at postgraduate routes into Medicine, and while I adore helping people and ideally would get a job where I can make a difference to peoples' lives (perhaps with special needs children or the elderly and vulnerable like I've had experience with in volunteering), then again my life would be consumed by a career that others want for me, not what I want for myself. I have absolutely no regrets about changing direction by doing a 3rd year at college. I was originally applying for Medicine and Biology was the bane of my life. I did not give a shit about eco-systems. I did not care about antagonistic muscles, nor chromosomes, or meiosis or how-to-make-lactose-free-milk (fuck it, buy soya). Taking up Classics instead was so much better and I did better in it by comparison. I'll never forget a Biology lecturer taking me aside, throwing my work at me, sighing and telling me, "Nat that was absolutely crap."

Medea. That's one ex you can't be
dealing with.

I want my lunch hours spent in your laboratory back, bitch.
Whereas in Classics, I was getting grades in the 90% range because I genuinely did give a shit about oiled-up Greek warriors, child-murdering mothers, mother-lovin' father-stabbin' dudes and Zeus' big fluffy beard. I actually cried reading The Aeneid but I was probably having a period.
Okay, I did enjoy Chemistry no matter how hard it was. I loved titrations. You should have seen my end-points. I neutralised that sodium hydroxide until I reached the sexiest end-point you ever did see. I just didn't love science enough to pursue a career in it. I just got so much more out of Chaucer and Marlowe and Shakespeare. I probably would have had a one-night stand with Chaucer had I been Medieval.
And after the taster courses in Medicine I'd done on weekends to please people, was I happy? No. So I went and applied to do English Literature instead. "Where's that going to get you?" I'm still asked. You know what? I don't particularly care. The skills I've learned in writing, in confidently presenting my work and the ways of thinking and analytical skills I have learned have been invaluable. I've made wonderful friends. I've had a blast going out and getting so drunk that Brynmill becomes Mordor and I've lost my own house at 2 in the morning because I've forgotten the way to Sandfields. I wouldn't have had this if I hadn't gone to University. Perhaps I'd still be the shy girl who would never be able to stand up and read out her own poetry to a roomful of strangers, or chat up a guy or look people in the eye in an interview. As Piaf said, "Je ne regrette rien."

I had a right reputation
for my end-points

And lastly, this cat lady does not want to be a doormat. If there's one thing in humans I value very very highly, it's the capacity to be a good friend in life. If you need me, I promise you I am there. If you need hugs on demand, my hugs are a bit shit because I'm a socially awkward penguin sometimes, but hell, they're there ready to be given. Want a catch-up? Cool, I'm there. And my friends are one of the most important things in my whole life. I wouldn't be able to live without them. Men come and go. My friends are solid (well they aren't liquid, harharhar, hilarious). And then there are those on the margins or the friends that drift off and suddenly you find the only time their name pops up on your phone is usually only for one of the following reasons:

• They fancy a night out but their usual group have pulled out and they're getting desperate.
• They want to moan about their love life but as soon as you make them feel better/things sort out, you are once again cast aside and ignored for eternity until their little snugglebum dumps them. Then you're expected to go and collect the pieces. Immediately. Armed with chocolate. 
• They fancy your mate.
• They want to be counselled, but otherwise don't ever bother with you again until the next crisis. And they don't actually care what you're up to these days because GOD, THEY TOTALLY JUST HAD LIKE, A TOTAL ARGUMENT WITH THAT BITCH, PLEASE SIT HERE AND LISTEN FOR THE NEXT 3 HOURS BEFORE THEY RING THE NEXT PERSON THEY HAVEN'T SEEN IN LIKE, MONTHS COS LIFE'S LIKE, SO BUSY.

Yet these are some of the people I worry about being judged by. A lot of them have rubbed their feet on the Cat Lady doormat and yesterday it just came to a head and I felt disrespected. These are the people who don't even utter a "thank you" for being their emotional crutch for getting over a broken nail. 

BUT, today's a new day (I'm writing this the day after because I was too tired last night. I am such a radical). For now, for this gap year of stepping back to look at the bigger picture, I'm happy with my job. I enjoyed work last night, I love my customers, there's plenty of opportunity to move onto other departments or work my way up or eventually do a graduate scheme if I really want to get success in retail. Or perhaps I'll find I want to teach. Or just do something completely different, like a bin collector. But next year I can chat with all my regular customers, work with the colleagues I get on so well with and have stress-free writing and art and going-out-with-friends time when I clock out. And that's okay because I'll be happy, and my company is always more bearable when I've got a grin on my face. I love the friends who do appreciate me and who I am utterly grateful to for their (non-sexual, non-leg-humping) love and who are some of the most important people in my life. I am not lying when I say I'd do a Bruno Mars and catch a grenade for them.

Mr Perfect: ready to make you a
sandwich and fix your laptop

Though personally I prefer just going to see them at the pub or for a meal or something.
So, this goes to you all my lovely friends:

I BLOODY LOVE YOU. Like loads.

And as for the elusive "Mr Perfect" that any future men have to live up to in order to fulfil outsiders' expectations, he can just go and iron his boxers in Hell. 

Aretha Franklin demanded R.E.S.P.E.C.T. So do I. If you care about me, genuinely, then surely having something to smile about in the absence of a Ferrari should be more important than how many brain surgeries I can perform or how many happy divorcees I can make. All I want of my friends is to see them healthy and happy. And I know that those who don't feel the same about me aren't the people who matter.

On another note, yesterday I made cookie dough brownies with my little brother and my Pikachu onesie arrived.

Bye.

Commanding respect in a serious outfit