Our Two-Timing Cat

One day, the neighbor’s cat wanted to come in our house. He didn’t ask, or anything, just shoved his little body in between Tom’s legs and the door. This was the beginning of our love affair.

Daddy said it was ok, so we started seeing each other a couple times a week. Despite his belonging to another family, what we have is real. He usually waits on his porch across the street and comes running when he sees Tom and me get out of the car. We’ve never fed him; he just comes over for lots of attention.

Daddy says his name (from the neighbors) is Fluffy. He’s the only cat I’ve ever met that comes when you call him.

(email readers click to the blog to see the video)

Finally, he worked up the nerve to get in our bed.

I particularly like this shot of the cat sleeping on Tom's PJs

…and made himself at home in Tom’s pajamas

I was sick today and Tom let him in the house before he left for work, so… we slept together. Like a typical philanderer, he was gone before I woke up. (Daddy had stopped home and let him out.)

It’s not the dream pet relationship that I wished for as a little girl, but as I’m a half-grown up right now, it seems to work well to have a half-cat.

Of course, the other day, Tom saw Fluffy coming from a different neighbor’s porch, so we might have to face the fact that our pet is three-timing us.

Meet the Neighbors, Part II

As I was saying, we moved …our stuff.

First we had to drop my sister’s stuff off at her new place in Bayside… or Flushing? eh, Queens, anyway. Speaking of neighbors, Tom mentioned more than once that he’s jealous that Amy lives so close to Dunkin’ Donuts.

On our way to Huntington, we made a quick bagel stop and by the time we got to my dad’s, our Super-Movers had unloaded almost all of our stuff.

As they finished up, we (re-)met the neighbors.

Bill, from next door on the left just said a warm hello and welcomed us.

I have to admit that the first “welcome back to the neighborhood” kind of sent a shiver of panic (is that a thing?) down my spine… or up it? Spine idioms are hard.

Then Jay, from across the street, who is my age and was just visiting for the weekend …because he’s doing enough with his life not to live with his parents.

Oh and hey! Running into someone from high school! So glad that I had decided that it was pointless to shower on moving day, that I’d rock my holey Bearcats sweatpants and my Jen’s Pink Lady Bachelorette Party “NOT too pure to be pink!” t-shirt*, and that I’d throw my greasy hair back in some claw-clip/bendy-clip monstrosity.

I’m starting to get a glimpse of the awkwardness that awaits me.

Next was Jay’s dad Andrew, who offered to help my dad clean up the house (which my dad refused, sigh).

And finally, Jean, from next door on the right. Her daughter Alex, a photographer/filmmaker, used to take photos of Amy and me. Alex also happened to be home because she was using her parents’ house as a set for her latest project for the LA Film Festival (doing something with her life).

Also, Jean informed us that Alex is pregnant with twins at the age of 42 (go girl!) and that she’s considered a geriatric obstetrics patient… ugh, I better get on this whole “kids” thing, one of these days…

and I’m gonna be 40! …someday!

…ok maybe I have a few good years left.

*No offense, Shea, that shirt is awesome.

Meet the Neighbors, Part I

Sunday at 9am, our super-efficient movers arrived. These guys were, like, serious. The one guy wrapped all our furniture in blankets and some special… movers’ wrap?… before the two of them carried it out, and the whole thing took less than 1.5 hours.

Ok, so you’re like… um, yeah? That’s what movers do? Know-it-all. 

I only hired movers once before and they definitely didn’t wrap my then Ikea furniture and they were way more expensive. Anyway, I was impressed. They’re called Bee Moving, Inc. if you’re interested.

Before I left, I ran into this older lady from down the hall that I sometimes see when I’m leaving for work in the morning.

Lady: You’re moving? Getting out of this dump?

Me: Oh, yeah… we’re moving in with my dad to save some money, so…

Lady: Good, you’re young. Get out of this dump.

Me: Um, yeah… kind of…

I didn’t know what to say to that. 

For the record, I’ve never called this building a dump but it is kind of crappy. But I’m young/sometimes-broke and living in the second-most expensive city in the US (and working in the first-most) and I’ve only ever lived in crappy apartments, so I’m used to it. I’ve just always been grateful that this building doesn’t have mice or rats (like my Hoboken and Morningside Heights apartments, respectively).

And I didn’t want to be all… yeah, the building in which you are continuing to live is a dump… but she seemed pretty determined that it was and I didn’t see the point in arguing.

There’s more to this moving story but to jump ahead a little, my dad is having a plumbing problem so we’re camping out in Brooklyn for the rest of the week, then next week we’re crashing at my mom’s while she’s away.

Everyone I’ve mentioned “plumbing problem” to has had a similar reaction, so I won’t be offended if you made this face…