That there’s some clickbait for ya.

As of about 28 minutes ago, the title of this post was going to be “Goodbye, Kitty’. I have been rolling around the talking points of this eulogy in my head for DAYS.

Before I go on, I should let you know that no actual cats perished. I will explain in a bit. And then you’ll go ‘A-ha!’

Or maybe you won’t. That’s probably the likely outcome. Let’s be real.

So. February 14th raised its heart-festooned head, and this was the day, every year, that I trot out my cherished “Hello, Kitty” ring that my wonderful husband had purchased for me. (Like my Gramma Mac used to say, it only comes out “for special”). February 14th is its birthday, so that’s for special, I’d reckon.

I wore this bijoux throughout most of the day, and only when I lied down to binge-watch ‘Parenthood’ (WHEN will Joel and Julia get back together, FFS??), I thought I took it off to scratch my finger. And I didn’t realize that I hadn’t put it back on.

Until much later. Like the next day later. (Still haven’t gotten to the Joel and Julia reunion)(Shit).

At that point, I was officially gutted, and literally any remnant of joy and whimsy drained out of my life.

I know, I know. It sounds melodramatic, but it’s me. Again, I’ll explain later. Just wait already, OKAY? Jesus.

Why was I so emotionally destroyed over this misplacement? For many reasons:

. Losing something valuable made me feel like I don’t value the gifts I’ve been given, and it made me feel careless

. Not remembering when or where I took it off made me feel brain-addled and doddering,

. Trying to sift through all my shit made me feel that I might be a borderline hoarder, and

. Looking under beds and furniture, and finding the mounds of doghair and dust dwelling there made me feel like I live in a hovel.

Before you start up with all that crap about if this event made me feel a certain way, then I allowed myself to feel a certain way, bupp bupp bupp. Don’t want to hear that thankyouverymuch, and sometimes, Dr. Freud, processing of feelings is very revelatory. My feelings are my feelings. Back off, armchair therapist.

I think the thing that gutted me most of all was NOT REMEMBERING. Because most of the time, I pride myself on how much and how accurate I DO remember. Poof. Riding that wave is now officially over.

I guess now is the time to share the backstory of all this.

More than a few years ago, I became smitten with Hello Kitty. Nothing overt like toasters or pencil cases – just small things that only I really cared about. Like a HK toe ring. And a HK mint box used as a pill-holder. And some cutey-patootey adolescent-sized gonch (Canadian term, look it up) that I somehow managed to shimmy into.

And then (cue angel harps and God rays of light) I was looking through a magazine, and I found a BEE-YOO-TEE-FUL Hello Kitty ring. Super classy, if that can be such a thing. I mentioned this reality a sum total of ONCE to my darling husband. I said how it would be fun to have this ring. So shiny. So kitschy. (So less shimmy-ey than those gonch).

And this man, this love of my life, proceeded to move heaven and earth to procure this ring. For me. For me!! This ring, you see, has unquantifiable karats of meaning and symbolism to me:

Firstly, my DH seldom buys me jewellry.

Yet, his ears perked up and he listened to me. I’m going to repeat that. He listened. To. Me. He engaged an out-of-country envoy (I see you, MB) to pick up and ship this darling little gem.

The hubster navigated through the circuitous process of custom brokers, and through the unreliable process of delivery people. And – AND!!! He managed to make it all happen, in the grandest of grand gestures, so it was it my grubby little hands ON FUCKING VALENTINE’S DAY, people. Is he incredible, or what? 10,000 Fabulous Points to him.

And then, more than a few years later, I misplaced it. ON FUCKING VALENTINE’S DAY, people. Am I the polar opposite of incredible, or what?

In the shame of this moment of realization, I felt like I had taken a giant sledgehammer to all things romantic and lovely. I felt like I had disrespected the sanctity of the grand gesture. I felt lazy that I couldn’t find it. I felt stupid that I took it off and didn’t put it back in its little kitty box.

I felt, I felt, I felt. I felt everything.

And then, I felt nothing. It was over. It was done. It was gone.

And in writing about this experience, I would have to acknowledge my MAJOR fuckup. And I’d have to acknowledge that I am perhaps getting stupider and more careless as I slide down the hill toward decrepitude. Who wants to admit THAT?

So, today, prior to sitting down and burbling out the words rambling around in my head (would I try to be funny? or would I just sound pathetic, no matter how G.D. amusing I might be), I decided to give, (again as my Gramma Mac would say) one more kick at the can.

I completely dismantled my bed. (I did manage to find an errant ear plug, so small victories). I brought in the vacuum to get rid of the afore-mentioned fur mounds.

In the spirit of going all Encyclopedia Brown, I once more got down on my hands and knees and also looked once more under our bureau.

There, nestled just inside the front corner of the dresser was the ring. The fucking ring that has been python-squeezing my psyche to within an inch of its sanity.

Hello Again, Kitty.

You’re an asshole.

*OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. Not ALL cats are assholes. I’m sure that Grand Master Bootsy or Mittens or FluffyBaby is a lovely sentient being and feels like it fills a real need. These are YOUR feelings.

I’ll just reiterate that I haven’t had much success with cat things as of late. My feelings.

Foul-mouthed flaneur. Story-teller. Maker. Professional contrarian.

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