The Rules that Bind Us

A few of my libertarian friends vociferously protest the rules that I simply see as requirements for the smooth operation of polite society. Generally, the volume of their protests is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol they have consumed. In my opinion, these blowhards are just vocalizing their own issues with authority and authority figures by cloaking it in arguments about big government regulation.  But even these socially inhibited individuals agree that there are some unspoken rules that we inherently understand and abide by, without any overt instruction.

I mean, every guy I know scores a perfect score on the urinal game (beware, there is a trick question in there). I am pretty sure that neither my dad, nor any other authority figure in my life, provided instruction on the proper use of or behavior required to properly behave in a public men's room. 

The following public restroom rules are simply understood by 95% of all sober men:

1. No talking at the urinal
2. Even if you recognize the shoes poking from under the bathroom stall, you don't say hello to your friend sitting on the toilet
3. Regardless of the smell emanating from the stall next door, ALL comments are kept to yourself
4. Friendly conversation is only appropriate in the area preceding or immediately surrounding the sink
5. Greetings at the sink should be extended as if you had no idea the other person was in the restroom with you (see rules 1-4 above)

The other 5% of men are either CEO's / drunk / or were raised by wolves. Apparently power and/or alcohol erase the vulnerability issues experienced by the other 95% of men who must endure the Sr. VP discussing work / family / weather from inside a stall while flatulently pinching off a loaf.  Invariably, you are trapped at the sink, in a panic, waiting for a pause in the conversation or an opportunity to escape. At the same time you must mask your disgust or smother your giggles (see rules 2-5 above) - after all, some things will always be funny.

And before I get flamed by my female readers, I understand that the rules above are distinctly male rules. For us, going to the bathroom is NEVER a social occasion. Bathroom conversations are to be avoided, even when you are trying to make a "romantic" connection (see Larry Craig Police Report - silent hand gestures)  From what I hear, the ladies are much more concerned about the post toilet hand washing habits of those who share their restrooms than they are about the issues listed above.

But, I digress. There are other places where there are unspoken rules such as being quiet in airplanes, respecting personal space, and not speaking on elevators. I understand that some of these are distinctly American issues, however, elevator behavior is a lot like the urinal behavior described above.  If you are the only person on the elevator, when someone else boards, you both move to the farthest corners and unless you know one another, there is generally no speaking. When others board, everyone shifts in order to maximize their own space. Besides the space and talking similarities to urinal behavior, people also tend to not look directly at their fellow elevator occupants, but rather they may look at the reflection in the door, or try to catch a quick glimpse - seemingly while doing something else. Perhaps I am "painting with a broad brush" here and making sweeping generalities, but this has been my experience.

Recently, I was on the elevator at work with four other passengers. We had spread ourselves along the back of the elevator car, into the corners, leaving the middle of the car open. On our way down to the lobby, we stopped on the sixth floor and one more person stepped into our comfortable, equally shared space. However, when our new traveling companion stepped onto the elevator, he remained facing the back of the elevator - blatantly and defiantly staring at the folks spread along the back wall. He rode down to the lobby without turning around, unable to see the floor progression, not knowing if his destination had been reached. There was quite a bit of throat clearing and uncomfortable shifting for the duration. For me, thoughts of concealed weapons, knives, gunfire, and general anarchy flashed through my head as I studiously tried to avoid looking at the man standing in my personal space, unmoving, facing me, not blinking. 

And like some uncomfortable bathroom experiences, it was not until I was back in the fresh air and re-established my comfort zone that I was able to rationally think about my feelings. As the unexplained and unexpected tension eased, I got the giggles and realized that there is some humor in almost all harmlessly uncomfortable situations - particularly for people like me who believe that the unspoken rules are there for a reason. Without them, polite society would cease to exist in the men's room and we would end up all peeing on each others' shoes.

I has anal gland?

Hey, this is Roxy. Glenn is my person. He's not so bad to live with. He does what I want because he knows that my revenge will be silent, stinky, and well placed. And , after three years together, he has learned that I am a strong, independent, beautiful feline. As a wise man once said: "When dogs look for god, they look at their master. When cats look for god, they look in the mirror." That may be a slightly inflated interpretation of the truth, but it was written by a man, not a cat. All I know is that a well placed hair ball can ruin a person's day.

Before I met Glenn, I lived in the big wide world. I was pretty and I was a bad girl. Not biker-cat bad, mind you, more like single teen mother bad. Kind of like those whiny bitches on MTV, but I was hot - smokin hot. And you know, its hard out there for a sexy kitten mom trying to make it for her family in a drainage culvert. Then some social workers came along, tricked us with some free food, grabbed us, and took us to some place with cages, bad lighting, sharp needles, and lots of other single mother cats - and dogs. While we were there, my babies were taken away and given to people, one at a time until it was just me.

Then the big darkness came. When I awoke, my beautifully furry belly had been shaved and my abs were killing me. There was another pain in my ear, and my hips were aching. I felt like hell. But the people brought food twice a day and scooped the box. Compared to raising children on the street, what's a little discomfort? It was warm, dry, and cozy.

I was rescued by a veterinarian assistant, "socialized," and then a person showed up with a plastic cage, shoved me in, and relocated me to a downtown condo. I promptly set up camp under the bed, to wait it out. But like the previous place, there was always food, the litter box was clean, and there were lots of things to shred in the dark. After a few days, I got bored, and came out for some loving. I mean that is my reason for being - and I turned it on. All the charm and sex appeal at my command. He fell for it. I was prancing around on the sofa table, getting my purr on, when my heels got caught in the lamp cord. Clinging by my front paws, I tried to pull myself back up, only to pull the lamp down on top of me. I promptly moved back under the bed and stayed there for 4 months.

One day, I ran away for about 20 minutes, but decided that I really did like living under the bed better than living in a parking lot - again. Plus I think Glenn was trying to get rid of me. He had never left the door open before. So, once again, I put on my cute kitten face and meowed at the door until he let me back in. That was a close call. Since then, I have avoided all open doors.

Fast forward 4 months and the furniture started disappearing one piece at a time. Then there were boxes piled up everywhere, my hiding places were gone, and I was shut in the bathroom to wait. Two days later, the plastic cage showed up and I was once again forced into it. Another trip to the vet and then we were in our new home. Oddly, all of my furniture had been replaced by items that were only two inches off the floor. There was nowhere to hide, so I made some rules.

Rule 1: No touching on the floor
Rule 2: No touching on the stairs
Rule 3: No company
Rule 4: No touching by company
Rule 5: No treats, no snacks, no toys
Rule 6: No moving of pillows or blankets on the bed
Rule 7: Food (fresh / crunchy) and water required twice daily
Rule 8: Brushing once a week is acceptable
Rule 9: No loud noises, including surround sound.
Rule 10: No touching

Seemed like a good compromise. As time has gone by, the rules have been relaxed a little. Touching is now sometimes allowed on the couch and the bed only.  When I do not feel as if I am getting what I need, I just stand on Glenn's lumpy chest until the pressure of my tiny triangular feet begin to work their way down between the scrawny little chest muscles he is so proud of and he can't take it anymore.Then he lifts my legs off and moves me to the side. Of course I am right back up there, until he gives me what I want - ATTENTION!

So now that you know a bit about my story, something really embarrassing happened last week. I was standing on the chest, watching a bit of TV when Glenn grabbed my back legs. I was so taken aback that I lost control. A thick, musky, fishy smelling liquid sprayed from under my long beautiful tail. Steamy, oily, brown globules landed in Glenn's face, in his hair, and dribbled into the cracks between the sectional sofa.

I have never heard such noise. I mean, I have vomited hair balls and semi digested cat food onto the white shag area rug too many times to even count over the last 3 years without more than a grunt of exasperation and a questioning of my impeccable aim. There was retching, vigorous washing, some sort of foaming scrubby stuff, and lots of fabric spray. I think he actually washed his hands four times. Did I mention he is a bit OCD when it comes to keeping things clean?

I don't know what all the fuss was about, but after watching him slather on a second application of Febreze and wash his face one more time, I retired to the end of the sofa, gave myself a lick, and tried to figure out what all the fuss was about. Tasted fine to me.

But now I know, I has super power.
XOX
Roxy

Inspired by the wildly popular website I can has cheeseburger? from LOLcats. This website is part of the reason the internet is currently ruled by cats.

Smokin Hot Cat (aka Roxy)