The thrill of the hunt

Gucci taught me something this morning while we were playing with mousey. Though kitty is far removed from his feral roots, he still loves to stalk prey, crouch down, hide behind a pillow and pounce on mousey when least expected. This cat has never hunted a living animal. He's never pounced on a mouse or killed anything but my desire to own cashmere pillows. And yet somehow he knows how to stalk and kill. I think this is part cat instincts, but there's something else to it. Because it's fun. Gucci does these things when we're playing. I think all animals--not just cats--enjoy the thrill of the hunt.

It is for this reason, I'm sure, that people join dating sites.

In the last episode of Shoulda Coulda Prada, I was wooing an old flame from H&M. For those of you who are not one of the 25 regular readers this is what seducing the H&M boy looked like:

"Oh, hi! Louis, I mean Kyle. No! Jason! Jason. Hi Jason. Oh? Really? Steven?"

"This is my cat Gucci, uh--just don't sit on anything that looks wet."

"I missed you t-- Gucci stop that, we don't do that in front of guests."

"Would you like some dinner? I think I have some leftover cat food that I can spread on a Triscuit."

So, to recap, my cat is largely to blame for the fact that I'm a bumbling idiot when it comes to dating. I left a date the other day saying, "Well this was fun, but I have to go scoop my cat's litter box or he's gonna pee on my comforter. Call me!" Long story short, I just don't have any game lately.

So when, much to my surprise, H&M boy agreed to a second date with me I was determined to do it right this time. Put on a cute outfit, make a reservation, wine and dine before taking him back to my apartment. Then I worked a nine hour shift and was too lazy to do any of that.

Everyone has a different style of courtship. There have been countless books, articles and blogs written about the process so its about time I let you in on my top secret methods. Here's how, lately, I woo a guy:

Date 2 with the H&M boy. I invite him over to my place,

"Lets meet here, I can't really go out my cat's bladder is infected."

This way I don't have to waste money on a nice dinner out, and I can just wear sweat pants. That's right breaking out the sweats on date two. After making out for a while I offer to let him have whatever's left over after I make dinner for myself. He seems really excited. I'm am a bit surprised by his earnest enjoyment of my offer for cheap and easy to prepare food.

It's at this point I assume I'm dreaming so I can do anything and it won't matter because I'll wake up soon enough. As an appetizer I offer him some wasabi peas that have been in my cabinet since before I lived there, likely left behind by a tenant in 1996.

For dinner I dump some spaghetti into boiling water and put lettuce in a bowl. The lettuce is dressed with my specialty: hot sauce and olive oil. On top of the spaghetti I pour a jar of Trader Joe's pesto and serve the lump of green pasta on a plate with cats on it:

To drink I pour him a mason jar of box wine. For desert I offer him a stick of gum from a pack in my sock drawer. Then, instead of a romantic walk after dinner I give him a cat teaser and tell him to play with Gucci while I do the dishes. Then I send him on his way covered in cat fur.

After I shut the door and Gucci strolls up, looking to escape again, no doubt.

"Well I think that went relatively well."