I imagine that wild cats, before humans domesticated them, had a fearsome foe in the wild. You know what I’m talking about: feet. Giant, disembodied feet that chased and stomped the poor kitties. Otherwise, why the hell else do I find claws, teeth and bodies mauling mine on a daily basis?
Mr. Cuddlepants is my nickname for Phantom. One of many, actually. It is a somewhat patronizing nickname; although, it’s also suitable. You see, Phantom loves to cuddle his mommy and, as his mommy I love that he loves to cuddle. But he has certain requirements. He only cuddles in the bedroom and usually only if I have a specific blanket on the bed. When I say cuddle, what I really mean is that he kneads in proximity to me. See, he was separated from his kitty mommy too early, so he kneads and sucks on blankets like a kitten would. Often, this kneading leads to claw marks on his human mommy, but I try to deal with it because I like being close to him.
While Phantom remains curiously aloof with other people, we have a strong bond. In fact, my roommate has never even heard him purr. If you visit, he’s friendly. He’ll come right up, smell you out and then promptly leave when he’s figured you out. There’s no doubt that he’s a smartypants. There’s a reason why he looks so intelligent and I always describe his cunning and his badassery.
Yes, I’m still talking about a cat.
He is mentally and physically at the top of his game, boys and girls.
But, behind the bedroom door, he is Mr. Cuddlepants, a little boy who loves his mommy and shows it in a very specific way.
I forgot how much I love the Anti Joke website. Seriously.
Q: What is red and smells like blue paint?
A: Red paint.
Around the time that my sister was in the hospital, my grandma started making people T-shirts. I guess she acquired a printer that allowed her to print on fabric so she would give us all t-shirts as presents. Although these specific gifts were a fad, Grandma cross-stitches these days and gives us all table runners and towels and pillowcases like it’s going out of style. Anyway, she gave me The Cat Shirt. The Cat Shirt featured a fuzzy grey kitty surrounded by pink and purple flowers and I fuckin’ loved it. But it was bad. It was like the Tween version of the 3 wolf shirt. And the shirt itself was a white tee, which is almost never flattering, but was too big on me anyway.
But that didn’t stop me for wearing it on a weekly basis for, like, 3 years. It was bad guys. I wore it all the time until when, one day in sixth grade, I was working on a video project with a group of girls. We were doing a skit about bullying and our group of four split up into pairs and I, of course, wound up being one of the uncool kids and.. it was, in part, because of The Cat Shirt.
I stopped wearing The Cat Shirt after that and I forgot all about it, until, the other night, I opened an email from my aunt. In that email was a collage of family photos and there I was, standing next to Grandma, in my cat shirt. I was covering my face in an effort to escape having my picture taken or perhaps having my picture taken in The Cat Shirt. Nevertheless, photographic evidence exists.
I don’t know if I am embarrassed more by the fact that I liked The Cat Shirt as much as I did or because I still would have, had I not realized how uncool it was.
