Only the good die young

I finally met the guy who claims to be Miso's owner. He reminds me of Snoop Dog, in every way. Nice guy. Friendly. Calm. Also a partaker of marijuana. Miso seemed to like him. On my way home I saw Miso in the 7-11 parking lot behind my apartment building. Once Miso saw me he trotted after me and began following me home. My little boy. Maybe he needed some place to sleep? I had just fed him that morning three hours prior. Then some old lady on a Vespa cruising down the street began yelling at Miso as she parked. She called Miso something I couldn't understand. Just then an apartment door opened behind her and out popped pseudo Snoop Dog heading my way. "Is this your cat?" I politely asked. "Yeah" he replied smiling very friendly like. He then slowly reached down to pick Miso up. Miso looked up at Snoop Dog and gave a cute little meow before letting himself be picked up. "You should feed him more." I wanted to say. Outdoor cats need more food and water than indoor cats. But I think after five months of feeding Miso, the three of us have an unspoken understanding. Therefor nothing really needed to be said. "He follows me around a lot." I said anyway. "Yeah, I know." Snoop Dog gently replied and giggled friendly. Then he carried Miso home.

For as long as I live in this building I'll feed and shelter Miso kitty whenever he wants, and I'll continue calling him Miso. I have over 200 images of Miso from the past five months. Someone once commented, "Just get another cat." I'm sorry my dear, it doesn't work that way. One does not simply replace love, or it was never love to begin with.

The next day after meeting pseudo Snoop Dog, I saw him leaving his building as I was leaving mine. He waved. I waved back. Nice guy. I'm happy being Miso's fairy god mommy who lives across the street. I can never move now. And just as before, Sunday, Memorial weekend, for twelve glorious hours Miso spent the entire day with me eating and napping. I love seeing him eat. The next day, Monday, Miso followed me home and ate two more times. This may be the closest thing to being a grandma I'll ever get. On the way home Monday a few girls saw Miso following me and declared he was their kitty and called him Pedro. Pedro?! I didn't have the heart to tell the girls he was nobody's Pedro.

Summer is about to arrive in Las Vegas. By week's end the temperature will jump up twenty degrees into the mid 90's. Next week we'll be in triple digits until October. My thoughts are constantly on the cat and keeping him cool and healthy.

Anyway...

2am. A woman parked her car across the street from my apartment building. She got out of her car and proceeded to the stack of apartments next to mine. She rang my neighbor's doorbell at 2:00 in the morning. Our loud ridiculous ghetto church bell chiming doorbells. She rang the doorbell at least four times while pounding on my neighbor's security gate screaming, "Roger! Open this door Roger! It's late! I got no place else to go! It's been a long night! C'mon, I'm tired! Roger! Open this door!" She then rang his doorbell a few more times feverishly pounding on his security gate and waking up the entire building. Her psychotic breakdown felt like it was going to last forever when finally it seemed she accepted the fact Roger was not going to acknowledge her and so went back to her car and started the engine. She let the motor run for about the thirty seconds, then shut the engine off and simply sat in her car, her cell phone glowing in the dark. About twenty minutes later she started the engine again and slowly drove away. Twenty-two minutes later she came back, parked her car in the exact same spot across the street from my building, got out of her car and proceeded once more to Roger's security gate. With a rage and a fury she rang Roger's doorbell plagued with madness and pounded on his security gate until I'm sure her knuckles were both broken and bloody. One of our neighbors yelled at her to leave and get off the premises, to which she screeched, "My husband threw me out! I got nowhere to go!" The woman then returned to her car and just sat inside it. We can all guess the events that lead up to this woman's insane hysteria, right? 3:16am. A very sketchy figure slowly walked past this woman in her parked car. She got spooked, rightfully so, this is Las Vegas, and at last started her car and drove away.

Thank god for security gates. I'm with you Roger. I'm single. On occasion I try dating. I make real effort. And the men always (ALWAYS!) end up crazy, stalking me also. Single or divorced men over the age of 55 are mostly batshit crazy. They're either looking for a caregiver, a mommy, they're all terrified of being old and alone, and/or they're just scary AF possessive and jealous after only one date. And that's excluding men who don't work out at all, have zero clue how to pleasure a woman in and out of bed, and let's not forget the garden variety morons who shoot guns in the air on New Years Eve, and light illegal fireworks on Memorial Day in the desert amidst houses and dry brush otherwise known as kindle.

These are now my pre first date questions:

Do you own any pets?
How long have you had said pet?
What was the last book you read?
What was the last movie you saw?
Have you ever been to an art opening?
Do you know what an art opening is?
Do you own any plants?
Are those plants still alive?
Have you been diagnosed with Alzheimer's or any degenerative diseases?

Because seriously, men over the age of 55, especially in Las Vegas, think they're the catch of the century simply for having a withered dick and a pickup truck. And I just LOVE the guys you hang out with once, one time, months ago, who then randomly text me one day out of the blue and I'm supposed to act all excited to hear from them. Sure, I can act excited, we can hang out sometime. PAY ME.

"Age is just a number" they love to say. WRONG. Beware of people who say age is just a number. They merely want something from you. What if I was twelve years old? Is age still just a number?

Age indicates the withering of your body. The years left until you die. I can't walk up a flight of stairs in the morning without severe arthritis. I have it in my legs and both hands. Occasionally in my back and left shoulder. I know what it is to be a 50 year old woman. You can't fool me. Arthritis. Menopause. Vision and Memory loss. Sleepless nights pondering how death will come. Sure, I still look amazing. Pay me.

Of course I have no problems caring for my actual partner, my mate, so long as we have many, many good years together first. Many good years include camping, hiking, sushi, museums, art galleries, concerts, etc. At my age that excludes a rather large percentage of men right out the gate.

And how hard is it to meet a man who eats Asian food? Why would you date an Asian woman and assume she wouldn't eat the food of her mother land? I wish I could be one of those pervy women who are comfortable being a social pariah dating a younger man but you would need to rewire 50 years of conditioning and quite frankly who has that kind of time. Certainly not I.

A girl friend of ours married a much younger man because she wanted a baby and was then pushing forty. In her mind she thought the younger the man, the healthier the sperm. You and I know it doesn't work that way. A man only needs a 50% healthy sperm count regardless of age, and the rest is 100% relied on the woman. Pick your battles. As long as she's happy, we said. Which is code for "You're an idiot but that's not our problem." And now that their child is grown she wants to divorce him. She still makes three times his income. Guess who's paying a lifetime of alimony, bitch! I'm sure there's a nicer way of saying that. I just don't know what it is.

I love cats.

Correction, I love a cat. We had breakfast together this morning. I had my giant red cup of black tea, an apple and two hard boiled eggs. He had his usual big can of meat.

See you for dinner, kitty. Seafood?