Permanent Fixtures

Years (and two relationships) ago I was living with my ex. Being a natural born and bred snooper it was my inherent instinct to explore and examine every single thing that my ex owned. On this particular day I was going through his dresser. In the top drawer there were some socks a journal, which was about as compelling as a tube sock, and then a strange artifact, something I could only determine was some rogue remnant of the goody drawer. But this was unlike anything I'd seen before. It had a sort of cheap flimsy plastic handle, a bell and--inexplicably--feathers all around. After a moment or two of deciding that it was some sort of fanciful whipping device I pulled it out and took it to the other room.

"What is this?" I asked my ex, waving it around.

"No! Not that! Hurry up put it away, hide it, get it out of here! Go!" It was at this moment that I realized that what I was holding could only be the detonator to a bomb.

"Seriously what's the problem?" I waved it around. It was too late, the damage was done. In a far off land there is a command center, with an exterior similar to the pentagon, full of beeping computers, bar graphs, security officers, swivel chairs. There are radars and blips on them, and the moment I jungled the bell on this whipping device/detonator a blip appeared on a monitor. Behind the desk was not a man, but a feline who was, I'd imagine, wearing some sort of naval looking beret and a cute little kitty-sized pressed white shirt. This cat then, unable to type, used his telestenograph to send a message to felines everywhere. A signal, invisible and silent, was sent out to my ex's cat in the other room. The signal read:

"GO CRAZY NOW."

The cat zoomed around the corner, her paws barely touching the floor into the room where she attacked the object.

"Well, now you did it." He said, "Now that you brought a feather into the room you can never, ever put it away." He shook his head and walked away. I assumed he was merely being overly dramatic about what was clearly a simple cats plaything. I swished it around, let kitty bat it a couple of times and put it back in the drawer. I turned around and there she was, eyes fully dilated, focusing on me intently, determined.

"All done," I said. "Resume previously scheduled programming."

"Myow." She said politely as I was walking away. I sat on the couch. "Myow," she said again, this time more insistent. It was at this point I could hear my ex close the door to the work room and blast music from inside. "Myow. Myow Myow." I shooed her away but she came back. "MYOW MYOW." There was now agitation in her voice. Then:

"MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW MYOW."

This went on for hours, stopped, and then resumed in the middle of the night. I learned an important lesson then about cats. Feather toys must never, ever be introduced, unless you are willing to make them a permanent fixture of the home decor.

Since owning a cat of my own I've learned about another permanent fixture: a bottle of pet oder Resolve. Some kitties scratch, some throw up everywhere, some kick litter. My little angel does none of these things, he even uses the bathmat to wipe his paws after using the littler box. He, unfortunately, likes to pee places where kitty ought not pee. Squirt bottle training has taught him that this is bad, but not convinced him to stop doing it. He now simply waits until I'm showering or watching an episode of The Real Housewives to do his naughty deed.

I have now learned to pre-empt the behavior. Cats are creatures of habit and when in a routine will usually do everything in their power to uphold the routine. After breakfast, brushing, and 10 minutes of playtime, kitty likes to eliminate, usually on something expensive--which I have Googled and read extensively about. This behavior is called improper elimination. And so, to get the one up on my pooh-bah, I've introduced a new part of my morning routine, as recommended by Gucci's vet: The you-get-locked-in-the-bathroom-until-you-pee hour. I have horrible guilt about it but for a 7-year old, very stubborn cat it takes a drastic approach to training.

I've tried to minimize the amount of time he has to stay in there, especially because I don't like it any more than him. I don't like having to leave the bar and my friends saying, "Sorry, I gotta let my cat out of the bathroom," or, "I've gotta go, I need give my cat a pill." It may have been a tough pill for him to swallow but it was getting to be a harder one for me. I was now taking better care of that cat than I was of myself. On airplanes we're told to secure our mask before helping others, but in life when do we stop helping someone else and start helping ourselves?

From no helping to second helpings, I had to rush from defcon kitty to the breakfast buffet. With Lollapalooza in town the city has been taken over with hippies and those who would associate with them in order to hear overpriced indie bands and drink bud light from a solo cup. Those who have never seen Chicago after the last band plays don't believe me when I describe what is basically a wall of people coming down the street en masse for about an hour after the last guitar strum. For anyone in the food and beverage industry downtown this is about as close to the apocalypse and one gets. They come in dirty, smelly and sloppy drunk, order every thing fried on the menu and fall asleep in the booths, smoke Djarum cigarettes in the entryway, insist you turn off the top 40 radio station playing, ask if you can pour a half a pint of beer when a pint only costs $4.50. And they leave swiftly to go sleep for the next thirteen hours.

Now imagine them in a buffet setting with some random old people mixed in who happen to be staying in the hotel and think lollapalooza is where young people go to collectively laugh out loud. Then imagine my delight when there's no bartender on Sunday morning to make bloody marys, a hostess that has to leave early to go to church, and the entire restaurant is out of spoons. That's right, a buffet with oatmeal, cereal, yogurt but nothing but little tea spoons. I actually had to tell a guest that we were out of spoons when she asked for one yesterday.

Let me just reiterate so that the ridiculousness of this situation can settle in: we were a restaurant with no spoons, or I should say that we were a restaurant with about 5 spoons. And we had to share with room service. Working in a restaurant is peppered with these moments of absurdity. Something that seems stupid and easy to fix is actually a small catastrophe. I mean, think about what it would be like to operate a restaurant without napkins, or lemons, or a hostess, or even servers. We have been open for business under such conditions. Sometimes our managers actually have to run to Jewel to buy us more mint or limes in the middle of a shift. We've borrowed coffee from the hotel restaurant next door.

And what's more absurd: we're actually not that bad when it comes to ordering and inventory management. On average, I think our restaurant probably suffers fewer shortages, blips, 86'd items and inadequate supplies that other restaurants. I mean there's no way of really controlling what people order, what's going to take too long to deliver, or who's going to call off work because they're sick or have to go worship.

Normally a day like yesterday would not put me in the mood to go shopping, but unfortunately my uniform was a mess, I didn't have the energy to do laundry and needed another black shirt to wear when I came back to get trampled again the next day. So I went where the clothes were cheap, machine washable and easy to get stains out of: H&M. Their candyland of assorted colors and synthetic fibers is the go-to for a young mover and shaker who it likely to get caught in the line of fire of splattered sauces, dripping grease, spilled beer and all other manner of food fray. And in H&M I happened to run into someone I had a one night thing with one night a hundred years ago and forgot he worked at that particular location.

I, of course, looked like shit and had mayonnaise on my sleeve and couldn't remember his name. I asked him where I could find the exact same shirt I was wearing minus the food particles. As he grabbed a medium off the rack for me we just kind of stood around unsure of how to part ways, so I took the liberty of saying something stupid,

"So what are you doing after work?"

On my way home, H&M bag in tow I felt cool, confident and sexy. I had successfuly rekindled an old flame and secured wardrobe for the following day. And got home, let Gucci out of the bathroom and poured myself a glass of wine. I sat down, put on some Rolling Stones and closed my eyes long enought to feel content. I had a cute guy coming over to my apartment in a half hour, and because we had already done this rigamarole there would be no awkward feelings or need to talk afterwards. And this feeling of contentment lasted about two seconds.

There was about to be another human, with eyes and a sense of smell, in my apartment. Then, suddenly, I saw the apartment through the eyes of a stranger. Four pizza boxes, overflowing trashcan, cat litter Gucci kicked on the bathroom sink and everywhere else, tumbleweeds of cat fur, seven hundred shoe boxes thrown around, my bed was covered with aluminum foil to keep Gucci off and the cherry of the sundae of mess was me, who forgot to shower that day because I was too busy scrubbing the cat pee out of the carpet with white vinegar and Resolve. Then I looked at the computer screen, articles about cat pee, three browser windows full of them. Gucci's feather toy tied to the dresser. Half-finished USA Today crosswords everywhere. Suddenly, mayonnaise on my sleeve was the least of my worries.

It's not enough just to bring home the bacon, now I've got to bring home the boys. I picked up my phone and sent H&M boy a message:

I hope you're not allergic to cats.