Nothing you could say could tear me away from my cats (my cats)
Conversation with my friend Dana, who, like me, is over 30, single, gay, Jewish and would totally pack it in and become a cat lady if her landlord weren’t such a dick about it:
Me: You and I can’t even lose faith in dating and become nuns. It’s like we have no options at all.
Dana: We can invent a gay Jewish nunnery.
Me: Will there be cats there?
Me: Then I may have already invented a gay Jewish nunnery. It’s known in some circles as “my apartment.”
Dana: There aren’t nearly enough gay Jews there. It’s a Jessery.
Me: It’s always been a dream of mine to have my name forever associated with a vow of chastity.
Dana: As your blog name attests.
Me: Damn my self-fulfilling prophecy. Oh, in the Jessery, you’re allowed and encouraged to say “damn.”
Dana: Of course. Your house, your rules.
Me: Actually, those who don’t take the name in vain of the lord I don’t believe in are not welcome.
Me: But not “Sister Act 2.” Unless, instead of helping troubled misfit inner-city youths clean up the ‘hood, save their school from closure and discover their sensational singing talents by performing hip-hop twinged gospel hymns, the nuns and I just hoard cats.
Dana: It’s a lot easier to hoard than to herd.
Me: It’d be cool if Lauryn Hill wanted to reprise her role and come jam at my convent, though.
Dana: That’s an idea.
Me: Maybe she needs my ministries to inspire her to make a new album. I miss her. I’d be willing to make an exception.
Dana: So selfless of you.
Me: I know, right? I’m practically a saint — a gay Jewish saint who doesn’t want to help anyone but Lauryn Hill. And cats. Not in that order.
Dana: You’ve found your niche.
Me: If I believed in heaven, I’d also believe that there were a special place for me there.