One of the Worst Things That Could Ever Happen To Me (as far as first world problems go)

In our Artist’s Way group this week we had the assignment of writing a short personal ad describing ourselves.

“Porcelain-skinned beauty with sharp wit and sailor’s mouth seeks no one. And she hopes you’re not seeking her either, because the likelihood of you being amenable to her irreverent attitude, desert dry sense of humor, and exaggerated sensitivity resulting in daily panic attacks or crying spells is very slim. And besides, she probably needs to prove to herself that she can do it on her own anyway.”

Leslie is so pretty that sometimes I actually can’t stand it. In a good way.

This is not actually my personal ad. You probably gathered that from the first two words. My bestie Leslie wrote this. She is indeed a porcelain-skinned beauty. And apparently, she’s also an amazing writer, because I had to steal this. I love it so much, and the rest of it might as well be about me.

I too experience daily panic attacks and crying spells (which is why we’re friends, obvi). This past Wednesday night was a shining example.

I had been up at Spirit Rock at my dharma class, had meditated for a good 45 minutes, spent an hour strolling the hills by myself taking pictures, and then had a lovely drive home, listening to classical music in the subie. By all accounts I was relaxed, centered and equanamous.

It was an absolute setup for disaster.

Shortly after I got home, this happened:

Apparently Budapest (me, if I was a cat) decided she didn’t like the new pine pellet kitty litter I so thoughtfully bought in an attempt to not give her intestinal cancer. Guess where she decided the second best place in the house to pee would be?

In case you can’t tell, this is my sleeping bag hanging from a meathook in my bedroom.I can’t let it within five feet of the floor any more, for reasons that are about to become obvious if you read on.

My good friends know that I have an unnatural attachment to this sleeping bag. It was a gift from The One Who Shall Remain Nameless. It’s the most expensive, nicest thing I own. It’s my favorite color. It’s arguably the most comfortable item in the world. Every morning, I wrap myself up in it to drink my tea. Many afternoons, I curl up in it to take a nap. At night, I surround myself with it and read novels or watch bad sitcoms on Hulu. It’s probably the only possession I have that I am so attached to that I couldn’t let it go easily. It’s practically my boyfriend.

I’d say this sums it up nicely.

So, I’m sure it was no accident that Buda chose that spot to hunker down, look me stone cold in the eye, and unload a human-sized amount of pee right into the dead center of my sleeping bag.

The ensuing very un-Buddhist reaction on my part was no joke. I immediately burst into tears, dropped to my knees and started yelling “Why, Buda! Why?!?!?!” in true Scarlett O’Hara fashion. When that didn’t draw an immediate apology from her I got up, stomped around the house in utter histrionics, gesticulating wildly toward the cat, then the sleeping bag, then the cat…

Soon enough I realized I better deal with the situation promptly, so I made a big dramatic show of transporting the whole mess into the bathtub and then panicking (out loud) about whether or not to use laundry soap even though the tag specifically says “Never use detergent OR put in a top loading washing machine.”

I won’t drag this story out any more, but I did end up using laundry soap; I did end up throwing it in the washing machine; and I did feel like a major asshole for yelling at my cat and have been groveling and overcompensating ever since. Being a tiny little version of me, Buda is now acting super dramatic herself and flinching every time I look at her.

God love that cat.