Mr. Typist and I biffed off to Ocean Shores last
weekend for a little getaway, leaving Buddy alone for the first time since we
adopted him. We left him enough food and water to supply an army, and made sure
that he was tucked in safe and sound with all of his normal creature comforts.
Nonetheless, you would have thought we’d locked him in a windowless dungeon for a
year with no provisions. He would not shut up about it. Immediately upon our
return, he threw an epic fit. He howled, cried, complained and followed us
around obsessively for hours, jumping into our suitcases, sniffing all of our
clothes and braying nonstop about the brute trauma of being left to his own
devices for slightly less than 48 hours. He also gobbled down an entire week’s
worth of food over the two-day period, which Mr. Typist suspects he ate all in
one sitting.
The common theory goes that dogs and children are
the natural purview of extroverts, and that cats are the purview of introverts,
who need peace and quiet so that they can work on their novels or invent stuff.
Cats generally do not demand anything of us, but offer mutually beneficial, and
most importantly, quiet companionship. The trade-off is that that they are
fairly indifferent to our comings and goings, and aloof to our problems. But
not Buddy. Buddy is that rare breed: An extroverted cat. A cat who needs a lot
of attention, excitement and stimulation from his owners. A cat who insists on
letting every one of his fleeting emotions be known, every second of every day.
A cat who does not know stoicism and for whom every passing desire is an
essential need to be met immediately. I was quite gratified by his outrage at our
brief disappearance. Maybe not having us to boss around for a few days will
instill a little gratitude. So far I haven’t seen evidence of this, but I
remain hopeful.
I got new head shots done last week. I’ve needed
new ones for a while, and a photographer friend of mine generously agreed to
meet me in my neighborhood to do them. The problem is, I have had head shots
taken exactly one other time in my life, I almost never take selfies, and consequently,
I have literary no idea what to do with myself during a photo shoot. I’m not
interested in looking at my own face or learning about my best “angles,” and I
look ridiculous trying to do typical model poses. Also, I have a chronic case
of “Resting Bitch Face,” so some of the shots he took when I was just sitting there
unawares make me look like a corporate robber baron: Serious, mean and
formidable. I don’t want to look mean and formidable in my head shots. I would
like to look friendly and, I don’t know. Open? Cheerful? Warm? I have a lot of
shots to go through and the whole thing is just very uncomfortable for me. I am
now regretting that I never did anything to straighten out my overbite. Also,
my under-eye wrinkles are more pronounced than I thought. I guess I should
moisturize or something.
In terms of my day-to-day professional
appearance, I’ve settled on some version of vaguely presentable. I put full
make-up on for work, tend towards long, flowy, blousy tops that are easy to
move in, and try to keep my hair in check. During the weekends, I don’t bother
with more than a little light foundation and lip gloss, and the hair gets
shoved under a baseball cap. This is the most thought I will put into my looks.
It’s just not of that much interest to me. So gazing upon shot after shot of my
visage and trying to suss out which ones are “best” gives me a weird sense of
cognitive dissonance. However, I shall shoulder on, and should soon have a shiny
new head shot to post.
Oh, by the way, Ocean Shores was glorious. There
was almost no one there. And we broke even at slots!
Video warning: A few swears.
--Kristen McHenry
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