Jimmy the Cranky Pussy Who's Mom is Weird

Why does every lesbian in Brooklyn have (a.) an assortment of visible tattoos, or (b.) a mohawk, or (c) both? I don't even have a leather bracelet. Pick up a copy of my new non-fiction tell-all, Vanilla, due out Christmas 2007.

Yesterday, I got together with my former old lady. During an enjoyable breakfast, we got to talking about our child of divorce, our baby from a broken home, our kitten, Jimmy Carter. He currently lives with Mommy Michele and her new girlfriend, step-Mom Amanda. He's doing just fine. He's a big guy, very healthy, a tabby who looks more like a tiger/leopard half-breed with the most darling white paws. Jimmy, however, isn't the friendliest dude in the world. Much like his namesake, he is misunderstood. Jimmy does not like to be touched. Strangers and frequent visitors to the home had best step off, no exceptions. If you're his Mommy, be careful, go slowly. Sometimes emotional transference is cool with him. In the event of such an opportunity, observe the following guidelines, strictly.

• Pet him only when he approaches you. Not the other way around.
• If he is in the middle of something like destroying your New York Times, cuddling on the keyboard of your laptop or sitting in the kitchen sink admiring birds he'd like to kill, leave him alone. He doesn't care if you're Jesus, or better yet, the real Jimmy Carter. Back off, bitch. Because a hiss is a hiss and a growl is a growl, don't interrupt him. Why upset you both?
• When Mommy Michele arrives home after work, he will lay flat on his back and offer his belly as a sign of love. This is the perfect time for petting. While he's prone and willing, show Jimmy affection. It doesn't matter if you're not in the mood, he IS. So get to nuzzlin'.
• The more you feed Jimmy, the more reciprocal his demeanor toward you becomes. When he sees his Mommy, he thinks, "Awesome! Food." When he sees anyone else he thinks, "Keep your distance unless you're packing tuna. I am a predator. You are useless to me!"
• Blame for his irascible personality may be placed on his Mommies. We waited a little too long to have him neutered. We were suspicious of his GINORMOUS kitty balls. (Oh my God, they were really huge. Everyone noticed them. Conversations revolved around Jimmy's jewels. They looked like he was hiding Chip and Dale in there. They were covered with soft baby fur, and we fell under their spell. We became obsessed with touching them, an act he loathed. Personally speaking, I found curiousity to feel his cat sack overwhelming. However, Jimmy's animal instincts were incredible. He'd swat at my hand and then show me his teeth. "Touch your own special place, Mom." Just like every man I've ever met, even a 5 month old boy kitty protects those puppies fervently.) But Jimmy wasn't old enough for the surgery, or so we thought. By the time his nuts got clipped, snipped and stripped, it was too late. An alpha male had set up shop.
• Jimmy Carter is a ridiculously handsome devil. Seriously. He is Clark Gable meets Paul Newman meets Tigger. I find that he is very similar to newborn baby because he's so cute, you just want to snuggle and pet him and hold him and love him and play with him and share good times. He is also like a newborn baby in that he doesn't give a rat's ass what you want to do. He ain't gots no social skills. Hiss = tired cry. Growl = hungry cry. Hiss #2 = screaming for hours on end for no reason whatsoever. Poop in diapers = peeing in the closet because he's lonesome. Spit up on your shoulder = eating all the cutips from the garbage then stuffing them under the couch for safe keeping.
• Ever seen that old SNL skit w/ Diana Ross where she's interacting with fans, and they're trying to shake her hand and they're sort of grabbing at her aggressively? Diana gets all creeped out by 'the little people' and repeats a quasi chant, "Don't touch me. I love you. I love you. Don't touch me." Jimmy is 92% diva. He makes Diana Ross look like Rosa Parks (???) He desires solace on his own terms. Don't mess with that. He's merely set boundaries. And through practiced hostile communication, he lets you know precisely what those boundaries are. Perhaps we should praise his candor.
• Don't hate Jimmy Carter because he is so handsome. Don't smack talk about him because he has a temper and fierce privacy needs. Elvis was the same way. "I love you. Don't touch me. Watch me try to do karate tipping the scales at 406 lbs. Colonel, did you eat my banana and peanut butter sandwich, you fat bastard? Dammit! I gotta pop a downer with some scotch ASAP! Why can't I stop sweating? Somebody, rub my belly!" But Jimmy and Elvis are just big pussycats on the inside. You can love Jimmy, but you cannot touch Jimmy. Jimmy loves you. Don't touch him.

I have a debilitating case of the Mondays. My mind is on lazy overdrive. Sneak a peek: Sleep, new music I want, why anyone thinks Jessica Alba is hot, what to wear to physical therapy tomorrow, more diligent commitment to working on my 5th step, the commercial I hate that I want to make fun of but can't remember, lunch, I'm dehydrated, glad I cleaned my bedroom, why there are no naps during work hours, why I never napped during NAP TIME, my Mom wants grandchildren, have to make appointment to color hair, the lady on the subway with the ugly ass feet who smelled--like what, I do not know--how to make gay funny the way Chapelle has make black funny, 4 more hours 'til emancipation, if I can use emancipation in a sentence I shouldn't have to work, work blows, cash for blogging, is there anything decent on TV tonight? I am exhausted. Thank God I have nice feet. It would be cheaper if my therapist would read my blog and then just call to discuss it for 10 minutes every other day.

As if I wasn't facacta (shout out to my Hebrew homies!) enough, my Windows Media Player is screwing with me. As a brooding, misunderstood and tortured adolescent, Peter Gabriel's Love to be Loved was one of my favorite "no one knows my pain, well, maybe this guy, kind of" tunes for optimum wallowing. (For additional information on brooding, sulking and the dark dampness of self pity, google "how to be Irish" and "artist.") Back to Pete and self indulgent whining. The bridge is the best...

This old familiar craving

I've been here before, this way of behaving

Don't know who the hell I'm saving anymore

Let it pass, let it go, let it leave

From the deepest place I grieve

This time I believe

And I let go

What do I know from happiness, eh? (Another Herrbew shout out.) I refuse to bust out with the Morrisey, though. I will not go there. No. Instead I shall pump it up with some Spice Girls...Spice Up Your Life! Works everytime.