Nom de Plume

A new book titled Nom de Plume: A (Secret) History of Pseudonyms, by Carmela Ciuraru, is getting good buzz. In the book, the author lays bare the time-honored tradition of the pen name. Explicating her thesis in the New York Times Book Review, Ms. Ciuraru writes, “Many writers have been surprised by the intimate and even disorienting relationships they have formed with their alter egos. The consequences can prove grievous and irrevocable.”

Happily, when I became Cat Lady, I assumed more than a pen name and made peace with what at first appeared to be my alter ego—a personality who quietly challenged the prescribed trajectory of my life. Now, as I have blogged so often, Cat Lady is simply who I am, “take her or leave her” (in the case of ten cats who call Catland home, they like me, they like me!). Ms. Ciuraru also writes that many bloggers rely frequently on noms de plume, “but often as a means of generating publicity or branding a ‘persona.’”

I shun the limelight for a living, crafting my professional trade behind the scenes as an editor at an art museum. In the blogosphere, I have not pursued self-promotion with a vengeance and have yet to reveal my real name, although I like to think that, under the byline of Cat Lady, I have provided a window into my authentic self. I think you know where I am going with this train of thought.

I do not need a quill pen to convey my feelings on paper, but give me a feathered wand any day—my version of an open mike—and let’s talk about why “Cat Lady” can never be mistaken for a fake name.

Query of the Day: Is Cat Lady your pen name, or have you adopted another pseudoynym related to your calling?

Empathy on Paws

The title of today’s post probably fails the crucial test of telegraphing meaning to the casual reader. But you are not a casual reader—you are a Cat Lady! And I bet you already know what I mean by four-legged empathy.

For the first time in about thirty years, I had a dental emergency. As even my dentist said, “This was the real deal.” If only I had experienced phantom pain, a diagnosis that several online sources assured me I was experiencing. No, this was pain that Advil and a topical treatment could not cure. I was unable to sleep. Enter Lydia.

As I tossed fitfully in bed, Lydia tucked herself right beside me. I thought that the always observant Lucius would feel my pain, but he was nowhere in sight. Nor were the other men of the house: Leo, Linus, L.B., Alvar, and the one and only Cat Man.

Lydia rested one of her paws on my hand, trying as best as she could to help me create an imaginary comfort zone. She purred and cooed, attempting to distract and to humor me. At some point I decided that a glass of cold water might provide a measure of relief during the seemingly interminable night. Lydia hopped into the basin of the sink and proceeded to slurp water from the faucet. Like Cat Lady, like daughter (except I was taught by my mother not to slurp). I now know that should I ever have another state of personal emergency, Lydia’s my go-to girl.

I’m back at work, armed with a ten-day dose of Prednisone and penicillin. Lydia seems aware that I can sleep through the night and do not require her nocturnal intervention. She is also enjoying my temporary routine of setting out pills to accompany each meal. Give her a ritual, and she’s in heaven. I treasure her empathy, a touch of heaven on earth.

Query of the Day: Do your cats comfort you in sickness and in health?

To Text or to Tomcat: That Is the Question

Amid the tawdry scandal now known as Weinergate, I have found a reference to a feline.

No, thankfully, U.S. Representative Anthony Weiner has not posed naked with a cat, at least not yet. Perish the thought. While reading about the latest tweeting exploits of Congressman Weiner, I was reminded that he is following in the footsteps of indiscreet politicians who have chased women—century after century. What I did not know is that, in the late 18th century, Martha Washington named one of the tomcats at Mount Vernon after Alexander Hamilton, the famous womanizing politician. The tomcat Hamilton surely enjoyed prowling around the grounds of such a lavish estate, and might romping outdoors in an uninhibited fashion—as opposed to texting in the buff indoors—benefit the New York Democrat, too?

I am not Dr. Drew and will refrain from passing judgment on how to cure Congressman Weiner’s unabashed love of exposure. In fact, I am a fine one to talk. Regretfully, Cat Man and I were never able to trap our beloved tomcat, Tom, and have him neutered. We tried for three years steadily, but Tom always eluded our grasp.

Like Congressman Weiner, Tom was narcissistic and liked to look at his reflection through the glass doors in the den at the back of our house. Whenever I saw Tom admiring himself, I would wave at him, as if to say, “Yes, you’re a stud.” Tom typically responded by lifting one of his hind legs and spraying the glass. Tom was the biggest, “baddest” tomcat on our city block, and the six felines whom he fathered are testaments to his uncontrollable sexual urges. Because of Tom, Cat Man and I became the proud adoptive parents of T.J. (Tom Junior), Perkins, Miss Tommie, Leo, Linus, and Alvar. Tom impregnated his sister, Lillie, who is the mother of the first four cats cited in the lineup, above.

So, while Anthony Weiner is taking a leave of absence from Congress to “become a better and healthier person,” let’s do our part as Cat Ladies and strip neighborhood tomcats of their “sexting privileges.” Catch them if you can, and move those former feline sex addicts inside.

Query of the Day: Should tomcats be sent to kitty rehab?

Weekend Update

Ah, Gaga! I shouldn’t feel jealous that others are comparing themselves to and with Lady Gaga. Naturally, I am eager to cultivate my emerging “Cat Lady Gaga” persona, but I know I must keep an open mind.

This past weekend, when I noticed that my bedside table was about to topple over, I grabbed some of the magazines stacked on top. I realize I date myself by still reading publications in print, but after five days a week of staring at a computer screen on a full-time basis, I gravitate mostly to paper on weekends.

First up, The Economist. The “Schumpeter” column in the June 4–10 issue titled “The angel and the monster” hinted at possibilities. Sure enough, Schumpeter’s subhead reads “Mother Theresa and Lady Gaga are the latest icons of the leadership industry. Don’t laugh.” For all of you Cat Ladies who are following Lady Gaga, this article about “leadership projection” and star power is a must-read (even though there is nothing explicit about rescuing stray felines).

Next stop, Vogue. How did Penelope Cruz go from cats to Bardem? According to the cover story in Vogue’s June issue, Ms. Cruz was a Cat Lady before she became a famous actress. When she moved from her native Spain to Los Angeles, she did not know much English and quietly took up residence in a tiny hotel room. There, she lived with cats, not with hunks such as Javier Bardem. “Ms. Cruz clarifies: “I was very lonely. I wound find cats in the street and take them with me. I raised a lot of cats in that period.” “Cats, plural,” emphasizes Vogue’s writer.

No one would mistake me for Penelope Cruz (or Gaga, for that matter), but I can certainly relate to the blissfully simple two-word sentence “cats, plural.”

Query of the Day: Do you relate to “cats, plural,” or do you have a singular affection for felines?