Stupid Animals and Annoying Broken Hearts

I am fickle, I am selfish. I spoil my dog, and let my houseplants die. It made me angry would no one would adopt my foster cat, Oliver, but when I found out that somebody had it made me sad. Last semester, the Semester of Heck, I felt like Oliver. Nobody wanted him; nobody seemed to want me either. The thing was, he was hardly a perfect cat. His personality was somewhere between "dog" and "chubby stoner", but all his bizarre habits and quirks became my favourite things. He was my cat, and the longer no one wanted to adopt him, the more attached to him I became. For many reasons I had to go home for the summer, and for a handful I couldn't take him with me.

I tried to find him a home, but I guess I'll admit that part of me didn't want him to be adopted. I figured that if no one had wanted him from January to April, what was another four months? I'd save up money, cut myself off from the yarn stores and the book stores, and adopt the fat cat myself. It lasted for a month, and then I found out that someone had adopted him. Logically, I want to be happy. Someone wants him, he doesn't have to wait another three months for a home, his new place is probably bigger and nicer than our apartment. That's what my lovely and more balance room mate says. I try to tell myself that too. But I was selfish, and I wanted him for myself. Relationships with pets are a funny thing- they're supposed to be easier to work then ones with humans, particularly since they can't talk. But there are those funny times when they seem like something more, when it seems like a dog or cat can read your mind. You're probably reading too much into some dumb beast that's rolling around in some the remains of some other dumb beast while you have all these silly thoughts, but whatever. It works. Oliver was like that for me. I hope his new home loves him, takes care of him, and lets him wake them up at four in the morning by a paw to the head. And that they don't let him get too skinny. That was one of the things I liked best about him.

Other Goings On

In my absence, besides temporarily dropping out of McGill, I somehow made my way to MAC and am now in possession of a reasonable stash of make-up.

Yes, I know that those two ideas seem incongruous, but bear with me. I never wear make-up. Well, hardly ever. I was never really taught the correct way to go about the application of various facepaints and the like, so on the rare days when I tried, I would religiously blend and blend until I may as well have been wearing nothing at all. Even my prom in high school. I did my make-up myself because I had spent a ridiculous amount of money on my dress, which ended up amounting to tinted gloss and mascara, with the barest of eyeliner. I did my hair too, which with all my skill was left to dry in all of its curly, thatchy glory. I was Boadicea at the top and Audrey Hepburn from the neck down. I shaved my legs, yo. I tried my best.

Anyway, I figured I could at least try and learn the ropes. So, I begged my most fashionable friend to be my wingman at the MAC store. Fortunately, the salesperson was a kind, earthy type in a pixie cut, instead of the vampiric, cult-eyed foundations mavens you sometimes see working the aisles. She gave me a nice, basic look that doesn't make me look like a lady of the night, and I am almost capable of repeating it at home. I would grade myself at a B+. Now, I just need to get my hair cut again and I'll look semi human.

And yes, I know that cosmetics are just another tool of the patriarchy, or something. Women's Studies students, take the lead here. But it's a useful tool to have in my arsenal, and I'm too damn lazy to match my actions up to my feminist ideals. I even wear heels sometimes, the horror. But they are Fluevogs, which I think should be given a pass- I need to support my countryfolk.

My adorable foster cat Oliver is still looking for a home. I want him to find a good place before I have to go back to Guelph. He went to one adoption day, but I guess no one wants an adorable love magnet with a yen for food. Maybe his size puts people off- he's a little girthy, but the boy is a big cat. I swear he's about the size of my old Sheltie, Brydie. I would adopt him myself, but my parents have a new puppy, and just hate cats as a united front. He's calm, and patient. He's never malicious, and he wants nothing more than to be around us. He'll lay on the couch and watch TV with us, or on my bed as I work in my room. Like a good child, he loves his parents equally and will spend one night with me and the other with Katie, sleeping at the foot of our beds. He's come up with many clever ways of getting more food. Waking us up at separate times so he'll be fed twice. Opening the latched cabinets to eat his food. Tearing into a bag of Temptations cat treats like it was a freshly killed zebra carcass. But he has sweeter moments too- rolling on his back to show off his orange belly, or nuzzling my head while he purrs. He's simply an awesome cat, so if you know anyone in the Montreal area who could give him a fabulous home, get in touch with me.