It is hilarious to behold.

But my real point is this: yeah, I like my space, I like my downtime, but there’s only so much curtain-climbing and other-cat-harassing I can do before I start wishing for the digits that would enable me to call the ASPCA. 

Here’s the deal: the mental patient sent a query letter to a producer about one of her scripts.  He said, (I’m paraphrasing.) yes, please send it.

Anyone not a mental patient would be clear on what the drill is here.  Print, envelope, address, postage, done.  Right?

Oh, our sensitive mental patient, for her nothing can be so simple, not so hard on the heels of a recent rebuff from another producer.  Let’s call him, “The guy who made tonight a living hell who is probably just some jackass calling himself a producer because anyone can call themselves a producer. ” 

Or let’s just call him “this douche” for short.

The mental patient is hell-bent on addressing the potential concerns raised by this douche before sending the script out to someone new.

She doesn’t know who this douche is, but suddenly the script that was A-OK to send to this douche now must be contextualized.  The mental patient would like to clarify areas that confused this douche before sending it to subsequent douches–sorry–producers. 

The mental patient fully admits the confusion is not her fault but instead a result of this douche’s reading comprehension skills, but the mental patient is Catholic, so when there is any question about whose the blame is, she takes it.  Because of course she secretly loves it. 

Guilt.  She’s soaking in it.

Actually, her idea is pretty cute, but I’m not sure it’s necessary, she’s not sure it’s necessary, but, being the mental patient, given this kind of uncertainty, she will choose the harder path for herself, just to be on the safe side.

It must be lonely there up on your cross, mental patient.

Often her flexible work schedule allows her to embarrass herself and anyone in her vicinity by fawning all over me, my comrade in the tabby mafia, and the big tuxedo cat who’s hell bent on letting me know who’s the alpha cat.  Note to tuxedo: only one of us hasn’t been neutered yet.  You might want to slow your roll.

Not only did she remember she has a work deadline, but today she got the crazy idea she might write a novel over the course of the next 18 days.  Check out the source of this madness at http://www.nanowrimo.org/.  Everyone else involved with this has two weeks on her. 

When you’re dealing with someone who thinks she can write a cohesive narrative of 50,000 words in 18 days, you’re dealing with a mental patient.

The mental patient just got off the phone by claiming she had to get back to writing.

Let’s have a scavenger hunt!  See below.  Can you find any writing?

Before the phone rang, here’s what she did:

9:00 a.m.-11:30 a.m: Hit snooze alarm

11:30 a.m: Cracked open the Rockstar Roasted she’d put on the nightstand before passing out in a pile of cheddar-rice-cake crumbs last night.  (The intent here was to streamline her traditional 3-hour-long snooze alarm serenade by means of immediate caffeine infusion.  Alas, it took the poor mental patient two and half hours to reach the two inches past the snooze bar to get to the energy drink.  Needless to say, we are very popular with our neighbors thanks to the free symphony of beeping the mental patient provides on a daily basis.)

11:30 a.m.-12:00 p.m.  She shuffled aimlessly, then remembered her fondness for nicotine so indulged in a cigarette, after which she stared out into space,  jaw slightly slack.

12:00 p.m.-12:10 p.m. Put on a pot of coffee.

12:10-12:15 Made a list of things she won’t do today.

12:15-1:15 Checked email, refreshed email, opened and closed Microsoft Word, took out “lucky” notebook and scrawled a few ideas but only after laborious deliberations over which writing implement to use.  Refreshed email.  Refreshed email.  Refreshed email. 

1:15 The phone rings. 

1:15-2:15 More wandering, now with phone in ear.  She changes out of her pajama pants, and let me tell you, nothing says, “ready to take on the world” more than the track pants she’s been wearing every day for a week.

2:15 Into phone, she says, “Well, I hate to say it, but I gotta get back to writing.”

Also, nice touch giving Erica nee Juliet’s partner’s widow a V-shaped necklace.

But on the whole, V, I think, as they used to say in the mental patient’s writing group: “You’re taking too long to get into it.” 

I want to be in pain that I have to wait a whole week to find out what happens next.  You know what show has good cliffhanger endings?  Look at early seasons of Alias.  Look at True Blood.  Yes, I’ll say it: look at BSG.

I wanna be a rabid fan.  Trust me, it’s either that or find something else to do to amuse myself during your timeslot.  And I am lazy.  But picky.  And with more channels than there are flavors of Fancy Feast, why shouldn’t I be?

Tip #2 has a more cat-centric focus, and I beg you to forgive this breach of etiquette, but I am going to talk about the litterbox.

I know what you’re thinking: it’s crass, it’s unseemly, it’s something the mental patient likes to pretend does not exist.

Well, let me tell you, I personally would love to indulge her in this particular psychosis–a happy mental patient is a treats-dispensing mental patient–but in order for her to realistically pursue the “Litterbox?  What litterbox?” lifestyle, she would have to spend a little more time attending to its upkeep.  Apparently she has no sense of smell.  The rest of us are not so fortunate.  What’s a cat to do?

How can I convey the notion that that box is not going to scoop itself?  Remember, though I blog, I cannot yet talk.  That’s where Tip #2 comes in. 

Tip #2

Let the following be your wordless communique vis a vis the upkeep of your sal de bain:  Seek out an item of some value.  In my case, I chose a crystal letter tray, from which bills and missives cascaded onto the neighboring counter –which came as no surprise  given the state of my litterbox.

Placing my dainty paw into the crystal letter tray, I removed a few items to be spared from my cascade and relieved myself. 

Hint: I purposely chose things addressed to Current Resident so that the prank would make its point.  If her cell phone bill or her mileage reimbursement check had been spared, would she have been as quick to right the wrongs she had committed against me?

Taken as a whole, Sad Men frustrates me in various ways:

1) What’s with the bandwagon this season?

My main gripe this season can’t be laid mouselike at the feet of the show’s creators.  For the last few months, I’ve been irritated by the Johnny-and Janey-come-latelies acting like this show is somehow something they’ve discovered when Lord Buttercup has been suffering its peaks and valleys for a full three seasons now.

2) TV doesn’t hang in the Museum of Fine Arts

Yes, it’s indisputable, this show is beautiful to look at.  But is that really a reason to tune in?  The costumes are sumptuous.  The decor is a revelation.  But I would gladly give up some of this attention to period detail if I could trade it in for consistent narrative tension on an episode-to-episode basis.

3) An accurate portrait of a historical time period does not great watching make.

At least not for me.  I wasn’t alive during the time Sad Men portrays, but I’ve spoken to people who were and they declare it to be on the money.  But so what?  In episodes where all the creators have to offer is a window into a different time, I suggest they open a different window in that time, one that overlooks something actually happening. 

Yes, Don & Co’s setting sail into the world of starting over as their own bosses was great in the season finale.  But every season, I seem to find myself wondering, “Why am I watching this again?  Yes, it’s beautifully shot; yes, it’s not as bad as reading a history book, but couldn’t I be using my time more productively?  Isn’t there some more carpet for me to tear up?”

I’m still burning over the decision a few episodes back when taking us to commercial was the so-less-than-scintillating plot point: Sally gives Grandpa Gene his five dollars back.  Or what about the unproductive cul de sac otherwise known as, “Let’s get to know the brother of the schoolteacher Don’s banging”?

I’m sick of this quasi emotional rollercoaster Sad Men puts me on: each season starts with hope because the finale was pretty good.  Then that hope gets dashed against the rocks of boredom.  I begin to drool. 

A week goes by and I ask myself what else am I going to do with my Sunday night?  I tune in.  I begin to enjoy my outrage at the triumph of style over substance.  I laugh harder and harder at the coming attractions after each episode: they’re horrible.  They say, “Next week on Mad Men” (or similar), then proceed to show a bunch of shots that couldn’t possibly whet anyone’s appetite because they give no indication of where the stories are going which seems in keeping with the bulk of each season’s episodes.

Then, at some point late in the season, someone over at Sad Men gets the idea that maybe it might be neat to write some stories that would get people to tune in again to see what’s going to happen.

You might think that I’m just a provincial American kitten with a short attention span, and in part you might be right, but I’m more than that.  I’m not just a quick-fix-addicted TV junkie.  As sure as I’m Lord Buttercup, I believe that story is king and that offering viewers portraiture simply falls short of what we deserve.

Being a cat, I have no say in her comings and goings, but rest assured I will repay this abandonment thoroughly. With my debut blog cut short, I’ll be left to ply my trade as avant garde interior designer. Tip #1: if you didn’t think plucking your carpet to reveal patches of concrete throughout your apartment was a hot look, think again.