When I touched down in Portland at around 7 on Monday night, I was gearing up for a trip to IKEA to pick up the couch that Chandler had preemptively selected before even seeing her apartment. This was a high priority since, otherwise, I’d have nowhere to sleep. We had big plans for trying to squeeze in a million errands before the stores closed, after which we’d clean her new place into submission and pass out surrounded by bottles of Lysol and in a noxious puddle of bleach. Oh, to dream.
Not so. Turns out, her landlord didn’t realize she actually wanted to move in on Monday, so we were both homeless and, more importantly, without any projects. We love and thrive on projects. Womp-wah. Luckily, Chandler’s roommate from freshman year, Petra, let us crash at her campus apartment since she and her roommate were home anyway for winter break.
This was, of course, lucky news for us. But even luckier news for Petra’s cat, Boris.
My usual reaction to animals is to squeal and promptly go about sucking up to them. It’s not so much that I want them to like me, it’s that I need them to like me. I’ll shape my body into awkward positions to satisfy the whims of their physical comfort, straining my joints in directions they don’t bend in order to pet them just so. I’ve never owned a cat, or really even spent much time around them, so my basic knowledge of how to properly treat a feline comes from this insane woman (who I adore, by the way).
So I attempted to apply my knowledge. I’d always been under the impression that cats were a bit finicky and hard to win over. Not Boris. This chubby little fur-nugget was all up in my business— quite the, er, aggressive lover. Cute kitty cuddling quickly turned to weird kitty paw-kneeding, which progressed into filthy little love-bites. Eventually, that little fucker nibbled on my lower lip while I was trying to fall asleep—not hard as if to cause injury, but more like he was going in for some romance. I’ve never felt more violated.
Aside from being sexually molested by a member of another species, I’m also sick. Like, might-have-plague-sick.
Seriously, body, why?! I’m almost never sick, especially when I have important things to do. I’ve decided that this is all about willpower, so with enough over-the-counter medications and a healthy dose of denial, I’m willing myself into tip-top shape. There is work to be done, and there’s no time for weakness. Period. End of story.
We did get one important thing done on Day 1, however. Chandler had her car shipped from D.C. to Portland by a bunch of sketchy, disorganized Russian dudes, so after about three hours of phone-tag and confusion, we finally met them on the side of the road to pick it up. It was all very clandestine and creepy. We’re also pretty sure he pulled a slight of hand and finagled us out of $150, but we can’t confirm or deny. Either way, sketchy.