Tuesday, July 21, 2009

I'm just not that kind of cat

I'm a little concerned because every day I'm becoming more and more like my cat. And not Tiger, the sweet, compliant, easy-to-please one. I'm starting to resemble Puss, the feisty, particular one who knows exactly what she wants and gets grumpy if she doesn't get it.

Puss is the one who likes attention, but only on her own terms, which means that she must be sitting on my left side. Not the right. Not on my lap. Only the left side will do. She's the one who rejects all but one of the six varieties of canned food produced by Friskies. The one who insists on breakfast at seven and dinner at five. The one who likes to be stroked while consuming her meals. I blame it on her previous owner, a single 82-year-old man who doted on her for more than a decade.

I realized the resemblance when I went to Nordstrom's last week to purchase a new pair of shoes for a corporate gig. I knew exactly what I wanted, something halfway between sensible and slutty. I marched in and told the salesman, "I'm looking for a black pump with a peep toe, a quarter to half inch platform, a sling back and no more than a three inch heel." He marched me over to the perfect pair.

When he brought out the pumps, he also slipped in another box "that I thought you would like." I was delighted. I thought my salesman was like Pandora, the music application that can select tunes you'll love based on past selections. It turned out that it was Pandora's box, not Pandora. I lifted the lid and the foul odor of rubber tires rose like a fresh peel-out on asphalt. Why would he bring me such hideous and stinky shoes?

"These Tory Burch beach sandals are such a good value I thought you'd like them," he explained. "Only $55." I wanted to tell him that I liked quality, not status, and that status symbols without quality were not status at all. I wanted to yell out, "What kind of fool do you think I am to pay $55 for rubber beach shoes that smell like a tire?" Instead, I said, "No, thank you." I was so disappointed in the salesman. I thought he "got me," but he didn't have a clue. (I didn't know that buying shoes could be like dating.)

But there's clearly no doubt that I, like Puss, know exactly what I want. No wonder my doctor, who treats me like an equal, always asks, "And what do you think about this? I know you always have ideas." "Do you mean I'm really opinionated?" I asked.

I once feared that I ran the risk of becoming a "passive patient" because I trust my doctor so explicitly. When I confessed this fear to my (ex) husband, he said, "That's one thing you don't have to worry about." I guess that was a compliment.

Sometimes I think that I'll surprise my doctor one day and just coyly shrug my shoulders, tilt my head and mutter, "Whatever." But even while writing this I realize that's unlikely to happen. Apparently, I'm just not that kind of cat.


Bonnie, Original Heart Studio said...

Love the way you weave your stories. Makes the trip here worthwhile. :)

pasadenapio said...

I'm not that kind, either. We're in good company!

Jean Spitzer said...

Your doctor must enjoy you. Much better than a patient who just nods and then does precisely as they please.

Ronni Gordon said...

It's good that you stand up for yourself. But did you get the first pair, the pumps that sounded just like what you wanted?

altadenahiker said...

A few people write so much in their own voice, you actually hear them speaking as you read the words. I heard you! (And don't let me ever try to sell you anything.)

Susan C said...

Bonnie, Thanks so much

PIO, I like being in your company

Jean, I think my doctor does get a kick out of me

Ronni, Ha! Yes, I did end up buying those shoes (Cole Haan) and paid too much, but they'll last me forever (right?).

AH, Oh, good! I've been trying to write like I speak since I'm (ostensibly) working on that one-woman show.

Kevin said...

Standing up for yourself as Ronni pointed out is a good thing. Thanks for sharing.

Petrea said...

You do write like you speak. Hiker's right, I hear you talking to me.

Nelle said...

I guess I need to change my nickname to Puss too. LOL
So do you like the other shoes, the ones you knew were just what you wanted? How is Baby J?

Robin said...

Great Blog! Love the slogan, Can't die haven't found the perfect purse, lol....Keep fighting! I'm a Melanoma Stage 4 Survivor of ....drum roll please 22 years now. Yes, I was a baby when diagnosed, actually right after the birth of my baby. Where there's faith, there's hope.