Well I’m ever upper-class high society
God’s gift to ballroom notoriety
And I always fill my ballroom
The event is never small
The social pages say I’ve got
The biggest balls of all
Today I took a small(ish) kitten to the SPCA to get neutered. The fact that I have a small(ish) kitten, and one that has a need to get neutered is significant. Though significant is not the word Matil would use to describe this situation. Matil thinks this whole thing is a big huge pile of what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-to-mess-up-my-life-this-time-lady-? And of course I am totally worried: worried about everything from whether or not I am permanently damaging Matil’s psyche, to worry about making a baby cat feel unloved, to the worry of having misjudged Matil’s wants and needs so tremendously that I provided the one thing she would rather die than accept.
So here it is. I have an angry girl cat. And a goofy monkey-baby boy cat. I am not sure if they will reach an accord that allows for cohabitation. It has only been a few days and there has not been overt violence, but we are reaching a pretty tense Cold War climate. I am unsure where Matil learned to be so brutally disdainful (if that is even a word), but damn, that girl can give a seriously arctic shoulder.
I am following all the advice of everyone who claims to know about these things and keeping them apart, letting them smell stuff the other has marked up, making sure they are aware of each other – from a distance. And Monkey Boy is totally down for whatever. He is all things a baby should be: ridiculous, clumsy, easily confused/distracted/worn out. Matil is not impressed. She is not even doing the things she is supposed to, like be curious and sniff and stuff. She is just… miffed. I thought she was trying to commit suicide the other night, seriously as she sat glued to the window trying to open the screen. Last night she just sat next to my pillow and yelled at me all night. All.Night.
To this end, I was glad to be taking Monkey Boy to the SPCA to get fixed today to allow Matil a chance to scope everything out and see that the house was still hers, etc., etc. As of now she has moved from giving me stink eye from across the room to locking me down as a snarly little ball of fluff on my lap. She is not doing any of the exploring and familiarizing she is supposed to be doing. Though she does have some time, I will pick the little guy up, without his balls, at 5:00 this afternoon.
When I mentioned this benefit of taking the Baby in today to a friend of mine, his first response was, “Ouch.”
Another male response was, “I am crossing my legs.” Even my super-evolved step dad said, “Poor little guy.”
Richard: Jenna, my balls – Excuse my French – are in an iron vice. Corporates are twisting and squeezing like a bunch of dominatrixes on steroids, and now Lucy is presenting her own re-design without you. Could you tell me what is going on?
Jenna: What is going on is that you are going to have more choices.
Richard: With all due respect to Lucy, I’m far more anxious to know what you’ve been working on.
Jenna: Thank you.
Richard: I’m not trying to compliment you. I’m trying to pressure you.
Jenna: How long until your balls get totally squished?
Richard: Hopefully never, I’m rather attached to my balls.
It made me remember when I first got N and M and I was arranging to get them fixed. #5 was like, “Do we have to?” [Uh, YES.] And then he was like, “But they will never get to have the experience of having babies.” [Um… that is the POINT.] He went on, “Do they both have to get it done? Can’t just one?” [This man was clearly some vast distance from the point.] “I just hate to think of Norm losing his, you know, his… his balls.”
In my lifetime I have never heard a guy have any sort of reaction when he hears a female animal is getting spayed. Never, “Oh poor little thing, losing her uterus!” When N and M came home, testes-free Norm was ready to hit the town almost immediately and tiny little Matil had to wear that horrible cone for days as she bonked around the house, but the focus was still on Norms former juevos. The innate, visceral, testicle-inspired response from every guy I know about this is hilarious to me. Not that I should be surprised.
I mean really, they are such a funny anatomical addendum. There they are, just… there.
Unless you’re little Max.