I just checked my stats this week, and I’ve got some bad news.
Statistically speaking, we are not friends.
I mean, obviously I love you because you take time out of your day to come here and read about me—my favorite topic in the world, thankyouverymuch—but there’s no denying that I don’t know and have never met an estimated 99.993% of you.*
What this means is… well, nevermind the first four or five things that came to mind. The thing I’m here to discuss today is that you’ve never seen me wearing black, or under a black light, or even just 20 minutes late for drinks—always, always covered in pet hair.
If you did know me, and you had seen me in the aforementioned condition, you would know two things about me: that I live with many animals who feel comfortable using me as furniture, my actual furniture as furniture, and shed like they give no fucks because they don’t; and that I don’t own a single lint roller.
You would technically be correct on both counts.
I don’t own one sticky roller—I own many. They’re in almost every room of my house (there’s not room for food prep in my kitchen, let alone hair removal) in all different sizes. I offer them to guests upon entry and exit. I make sure the petsitter knows about it, because some people don’t understand that corduroy isn’t compatible with our family.
ME: Why does it take six sticky roller sheets for me to look like a crazy cat lady who doesn’t own a sticky roller?!**
HIM: (eyeballs me) Um…
ME: (thrusts spent and furry sheets) Six!
HIM: Okay… so you already used the lint roller—
HIM: Aaaaand… you definitely look like someone who owns a cat.
ME: Exactly. People—
HIM: But not a lint roller.
Fellow pet people, help me out here. Because I’ve accepted that my world will be fur and fur and more fur forever—I’m mostly okay with it, truth be told. Sure, I get a little grossed out when I clean off the vent and walk past a few days later to find it looking like I’ve never swept a day in my life—
But on balance, the fur life ain’t so bad—far more perks than losses, in my view. I just want to not look like a goddamned cat hoarder when I go out in public. You know?***
Husband, bless him, can always be counted on to pick at my insecurities like a kid with a scab.
And he didn’t have to wait any longer than our next trip to Costco for an opportunity…
HIM: Hey, they have four packs of lint rollers. You want me to grab some for you?
HIM: You know. (gestures) Since you clearly don’t have one.
ME: (looks down at top) Seriously, though. Look at all the hairs. I mean, what is my life even?!
STRANGE WOMAN: (turns to offer sympathetic smile, sees my furry clothes, quietly judges me)
* Apologies if I have and just don’t remember. I’m bad with names.
** One black sweatshirt, freshly washed, and jeans (jeans don’t collect hair, making them my go-to when I must leave the house; this catch-22 keeps me from ever making a good impression)
*** And yes, I’ve tried getting dressed at the last minute, carrying my clothes carefully from the dresser/closet to the front door and quickly donning them as I bolt out. Gave my neighbors a show and still managed to pick up stray hairs because that shit’s in the air. So it gets to garments even when they’re locked away. But also? I swear they increase their tripping/leaning efforts when I’m tryin’ to look nice.