Has Anyone Seen My Pants? by Sarah Colonna Page B

chest in the middle of the night and coughed up hair balls.
    I unpacked my bag and got dressed to go to Malibu. I’d been missing my friends and now I was finally home for a weekend to spend time with them. That was what I needed.
    At around five o’clock that evening, while I sat at a table with four of my closest girlfriends, drinking mai tais and laughing, I got a text from Alex.
    “Are you here yet?” he asked.
    Wait, what?
    “I told you earlier, I’m not coming.”
    “Seriously? I thought you were joking. I’m so disappointed.”
    I can’t lie; part of me was extremely satisfied that he’d sent his earlier response because he didn’t think I was being serious. And another part of me was even more satisfied that I had disappointed him—the way he had disappointed me.
    Another text came through: “I really am disappointed,” he said.
    “Sounds good,” I replied.

It Ain’t Over till the Cat Lady Sings
    S o I had a cat, Mischief, for sixteen years. The same cat—not a whole bunch of different cats over that span of time. I mean, I’m not insane.
    Having a cat didn’t do much for my dating life. You see, when you’re single and you have a dog, people think you’re cool and you love to hike. When you’re single and you have a cat, people think you’re a loser and you love to watch the Lifetime network. I would just like to clarify that both of those stereotypes are 100 percent accurate. The only time I like to hike is when I’m filling out the “activities” portion of an online dating profile; in reality, I prefer spin classes. Sorry, I’ve seen a lot more chubby hikers than I have spinners. And if the Lifetime network didn’t exist, then as far as I’m concerned, neither should Sundays.
    Anyway, the struggle of being a single woman and owning a cat is real. However, I didn’t purposely go out and getmy cat. I didn’t put on my Shape-up Skechers one day and head out to the cat store. I inherited my cat from a boyfriend who died in a car accident. But I’m not going to get into that (again).
    I realize that some people disagree when you say having a pet is similar to having a child. Well guess what: I cared for Mischief for sixteen years. He relied on me for food, water, and shelter. I took him to get his shots. I cared for him when he was sick and I cleaned up after him when he pooped. Plus, cats don’t grow out of it and start using the toilet like kids—like most kids—do. I mean, I have seen a couple of YouTube videos with cats using the toilet but my point is, having a pet is similar to having a child except before they can grow up, go to college, and start paying you back for all the hard work you put in, they die.
    I’ve never liked parents who act like their kids are awesome all the time, so I’m not going to do that when I talk about my cat: my cat was an asshole. He had a deep, loud meow that he only let out late at night when I was trying to sleep, but even worse: when I was trying to sleep with a gentleman caller. I don’t know if it was some sort of protective instinct because he knew I used to date his dad or if he just had some sort of beef with my having company in general, but it usually ended with the guy saying, “What the fuck is wrong with your cat?” then leaving because he had to “get a good night’s sleep,” which for the first several years I always knew was bullshit because most of the guys I had sex with in my early twenties were unemployed.
    My cat also fancied himself quite the foodie. Although he would eat his perfectly fit-for-cats cat food all day long, the second I broke out any food for myself, he would approach me in a manner that seemed harmless, then out of nowhere his paw would come up and swipe my entire meal. He just took food out of my hand. It didn’t matter what it was either. He wasn’t one of those cats who thought he wanted your food, then once he got it realized that he didn’t. He always really, really wanted it. He obviously