"He's Just Not That Into You...No, Really. He Couldn't Be Less Into You If He Tried."

Maybe spinsters have it right. Maybe the cat ladies aren't weird; maybe we're the weird ones. You know, the ones who move around mindlessly like gas molecules, hoping to bump into their perfect match, connect, and make something solid? Yes, our frail feline friends will always reek of cat piss, but perhaps we can learn something from them, something that transcends even the most putrid of odors.

So, in a moment of utter cynicism and misandry, I channeled my inner cat lady. We'll call her Gail. With her perpetually bewildered expression and flyaway hair, one would think she recently came out of a monsoon. But the truth of the matter is that she did not recently undergo the throes of an exotic storm system; she is just single (sometimes I wonder if there is even a difference), wild, and the proud parent of five calico cats. I asked Gail what her thoughts on the male sex were...she wasn't too kind.

I began by telling her about my work situation, that a girl who started a month ago was already having "steamy make out sessions" in the break room with a coworker. I told Gail that I had been working at the same place for three years now, and while women at the front would tell me what a nice smile I had, or how friendly or pretty I was, the only person who I would ever encounter in the break room was one of the older women doing inventory on gourmet sauces. Not that I wanted a steamy make out session, I said. I just wondered why that was always the case.

"Well," Gail said very matter of factly, "did this girl have big jugs and light hair?"

I thought about it, and nodded my head.

I then told Gail about my friend who had very recently been played by a boy. He told her he loved her, came to her house, kissed her, cuddled with her, and then...dropped her. And in the next few days, kissed another girl with whom I work.

She asked me the same question, and again, I nodded.

"Well there you go," she petted her cat on the forehead, then closed her eyes, smiling silently. "Boys love girls with boobs and especially girls with boobs and blonde hair. Blonder than yours, of course."

I talked to Gail for some time, until my nostrils were inflamed and couldn't handle the stench of canned tuna, mothballs and urine any longer. In that time, Gail gave me several not-so-kind words of advice on how to improve my chances with the XY population:

1. Be willing to be insane. Gail told me that people who date are crazy and stupid, because all men are out for one thing, and once they get it, your wrinkles become less soft, and imperfections become more pronounced. We're like toilet paper to them, essentially. They see us: pure, soft, and white, and they want us for their own. Then they make a mess, and use us to fix it. In the process, they get all of their shit (she laughed at this) on us, and then realize we're not as pretty anymore--as if it is our fault. Then, they toss us in the toilet, and watch us spiral down into the drain. And then, a few hours later, when they make another mess, they reach for another equally appealing two-ply sheet. Only to shit on that as well.

Gail said that insanity is doing the same thing more than once and expecting a different outcome. Spiraling down a porcelain drain is inevitable, I suppose. But no matter how few sheets are left on the roll of toilet paper, I suppose we all have that naive notion that we'll fare differently, and that we won't go into the sewer and become soggy playthings for rats. I know I do. Gail would call me a stupid girl.

2. Be bland. Men, Gail said, don't like the loud girl. They don't like the girl who can play the xylophone with her feet, or the girl who knows the anatomy of arachnids. They don't even really like the sporty girl who can chop 60 logs in one minute. They like the plain girl. The "nice" girl. "Nice," Gail said, is the adjective men and women give to those who induce yawns. They don't pose a threat, they will let you have the lime light, and you guessed it, they aren't neurotic.

I told Gail about my laugh, and how it's high pitched bordering on shrill. She told me to fix that, or read about the Holocaust. Either way, she said, I wouldn't be laughing, and therefore would appeal more to men. But, she said, I needed to make sure not to regale to Him my findings in my readings, or I would appear to be learned, or even worse...ethnic. "Talk to him about the Jews," sneered Gail, "and your nose grows exponentially in his eyes. Don't do it."

3. Be a Caricature. "Be the ultimate female," Gail grinned as she stroked her tabby cat, "and you will have men kissing the tops of your feet." I laughed awkwardly. "Make sure they're pedicured, though. No one likes to kiss a cow's hoof."

I asked her what she meant by the Ultimate Female.

"You know," she said, "the damsel. The girl who needs, who wraps herself around her knight. The one who wants to be rescued. I'm talkin' doe eyes, here. Dresses, soft hair, a beaming smile, yet an even more striking frown. Dainty. Men like a waif, after all. Why would a man want to save a hippo, and furthermore, how could he?"

I asked about the days where you don't feel like getting gussied up, and how she knew all of this was true. She cackled. "Look at me," Gail laughed, "I don't powder my nose, and I wash my hair once a week. I eat two sprinkled donuts every morning and my thighs are as thick, rough and uneven as a dirt road. And who do I have? These cats. I'm all the proof you need."



I was rather disheartened by that final comment. I admired the wild streaks of grey genius in her hair, the bold and unafraid wrinkles lining her face. But at the same time, I couldn't help but sense the tiniest shred of loneliness in her watery blue eyes. Yes, she had her cats and her donuts. But I felt like at one point in time, she had more. She thought she was that one sheet of toilet paper that wouldn't be used, I guess...but something had happened and she was flushed, never to find her way out of the gutter.

And I guess that's the difference between Gail and me. She was flushed once, and decided to forever cling to the sides of the dirty pipes in hopes of never having to stare upwards again, never having to see the cold eyes of a future love growing further and further away as she became more submerged. And then there's me. Yes, I've been flushed. I've been made dizzy and cross eyed by the whirlpool, but I know that eventually the water will slow, and I'll be able to focus once more. I'm not going to be the girl Gail described. I'm going to continue reading about mythology and epic poems, I'm going to laugh loudly, and put my hair up when I feel like it, naively hoping that one day someone will come along, see the oddly printed piece of paper, and tuck it into their pocket forever. Maybe it's silly, but sometimes it's all we have.