Nemo & Neglect

The other day Andrew said something like, “I’m kind of impressed that you haven’t been crazier than you have. You know, mentally.”

Instead of being offended I was like, I know, right? Because I’m well aware that I lean towards crazy at the best of times, and I too figured that a hormonal hurricane wouldn’t do me any favours.

Yet, for the most part, the ol’ mental keel has been pretty even.

But…there have been a couple of things that make me think I may not be 100% together. You know, mentally. Like, I can’t watch heartwarming animal rescue videos at work any more because we have an open concept office – which is just a fancy way of saying everybody sees you when you ugly cry at your desk. If my husband were reading this over my shoulder he’d urge me to talk about the lizard meltdown. But you know what? I won’t. Because that lizard was adorable and I didn’t mean to step on it, and I would sob over that any old time. ANY. TIME. That little guy had a family that loved him, you know?

I’m losing focus. What I want to talk about is Nemo. Gemma (our girly cat) loooves these two stuffed toys – Nemo and Bunny – and she brings them to us every night, because she loves us. Are you getting this? She wants so badly to make us happy that she hunts her favourite stuffies and delivers them to the foot of our bed, meowing to wake the dead. She’s so proud. It’s become a bit of a routine, hiding Nemo and Bunny somewhere downstairs and waiting for her to bring them up, so I can gush and praise her. But Andrew never reacts. Never praises. He just lays there, reading Sports Illustrated online or listening to a podcast.

Why does this matter? It doesn’t. I know that some people don’t believe in the vital importance of stroking their cat’s ego. I also know that this doesn’t necessarily mean he will ignore Perry’s efforts to please us. But in the twisted funhouse that is my brain, I can’t help but picture him slouched in an armchair, smoking a cigar, reading the paper and ignoring our daughter as she tugs on the sleeve of his sports jacket trying to show him her report card. Because it’s also 1952 in the brain funhouse.

Unable to get his attention and praise, her self-esteem chips away until junior high blow jobs lead to dropping out of high school, which leads to a stripper pole and smoking meth in a dingy basement apartment with her abusive welder boyfriend, Blade.

I’m not overreacting; this is just how life works. It’s like, science. Have you ever known a hot mess who didn’t have daddy issues? Exactly. Really Andrew, would it be so hard to just give our poor kitty the fatherly approval she desperately craves from you?

Sometimes I feel really sorry for my husband.