This Week: Letting The Cat Out Of The First Date Bag
I have a confession to make. My name is Vickie and I am a Crazy-Cat-Lady.
Every day my cat and I exchange a million loving looks. Each evening in bed, access to my pillow is severely restricted by my cat. And I must confess that I don’t vacuum my apartment as often as I should because my cat doesn’t appreciate the noise.
Yes, I admit it. When it comes to Cat-Lady-Craziness, I’m a few ding-a-lings short of a landline.
The object of my crazy affections? Dave the Cat, an astonishingly handsome marmalade tabby with the heart of a lion and a penchant for belly rubs.
And my Crazy-Cat-Lady issue this week? Cat talk on a first date.
So yes, this Crazy-Cat-Lady had a hot date this week. Roger was handsome, funny and attentive; a super-nice guy. And it was all going so well as we sat in that cosy waterfront bar, listening to live music and giggling over white wine and mussels... As I gazed at Roger’s – rather impressive – muscles.
All of my pent-up nervousness began to dissolve; the first date jitters were finally fading. I was enjoying myself, and yes, I was actually on a good date – which is a rare commodity these days, I can tell you.
Then I did the unthinkable.
I may have done it because I was relaxed. I may have done it because I felt he could deal with the situation. But in all honestly, I probably did it because I’m a Crazy-Cat-Lady.
I started to talk about Dave the Cat. And before I knew what I was doing, Dave the Cat information was pouring forth from my mouth as if my life depended upon it. All the stuff about my cat that, well, erm, you know, makes me sound pretty certifiable and a bit cuckoo to non-cat-loving members of society.
As rippling Roger smiled nervously and looked down at his drink, I could almost swear that the music stopped playing and silence shrouded the room.
Oh the shame. The shame!
My only saving grace was that I hadn’t used my super-squeaky-boobah-boy-voice. You know, the one you use when you talk to your cat.
So that was that. The cat – quite literally – was out of the first date bag.
Shame, shame and thrice shame.
So I tried to backtrack, to bury my furry faux pas in a barrage of questions about his dog: A bullmastiff by the name of Wolf.
However, I couldn’t help but notice that the muscle-bound Roger failed to sound remotely berserk as he told me about Wolf. Not in the least bit batty or bonkers. In no way deranged or demented.
I guess that’s the advantage that male dog-lovers have over female cat-lovers on the dating scene. For some reason, when a single female of a certain age opens her mouth on a first date to discuss the fluffy prince of her feline dreams, she always sounds a little potty.
Strange, I know, but oh-so-true.
To many men out there, a single woman of a certain age discussing her babycakes-boobah-boy is a dating red flag. He will sometimes assume that a single woman loves her little lion because her little lion never questions or challenges her. That she has bonded so closely to her fluffy-wuffy-tigger-boy because she has detached herself from human relationships.
Well, I’m here to say that’s poppycock! And I’m blowing a raspberry as I say it. Not an easy task, I know, but I’m sure you get an idea.
Just because I adore my Sir Purralot, it does not necessarily follow that I don’t adore homo sapiens too. Okay, so I may not indulge them with quite so many belly-rubs each day, but I do like them. Especially muscle-bound ones that take me to waterfront bars.
In fact, there are many benefits to dating Crazy-Cat-Ladies. Consider this, for example: A study in Britain recently revealed that cat-owners tend to be more intelligent than their dog-owning counterparts. Owning a cat lowers stress levels, which means that Crazy-Cat-Ladies are pretty chilled-out dates. And here’s the biggy: We’re spontaneous. We don’t have to be home by 9pm to walk the dog. And, if you’re feeling romantic and you have an irresistible desire to whisk us off at a moment’s notice for the night, we will jump at the chance. Can you image a dog-owner being able to do that?
So, the next time you’re on a date with a girl of a certain age and her eyes begin to glow as she starts to tell you all about her Mr Pussykins, don’t jump to the quickest conclusion. Look at the bigger picture and realize that you’re privileged to be sitting in that waterfront bar opposite a real life, bonafide Crazy-Cat-Lady. You may thank your lucky stars.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to read the Purrsonals.