This Test Predicts with 100% Accuracy Where on the Cat Lady Spectrum You Fall

We made it to Niles, Michigan today after strategically making it through both Ohio and Indiana without buying anything out of principle. It was still light outside until past 9:00, and we took advantage by playing cornhole outside by the RV.

As the sequence of events progressed throughout the night, I was reminded of how severe my cat-ladyism is, and I wanted to share my experience, strength, and hope with you so that you can see just how far into cat-ladydom you’ve gone, or how far you still have to go. May I present the following quiz:

Are You More of a Cat Lady Than Lindsay?

1) Kitten gazes at the outside world, longing for the sweet taste of liberty. I watch her and wonder what she’s thinking.

2) Her pitiful meows at the door interrupt the game of cornhole Tina and I are playing. She’s the saddest, most neglected kitten in the world, nay — the universe. We try not to pay her any mind so she won’t learn to meow when she wants something she ought not have. We do not succeed.

3) Guilty about depriving her, we put Kitten on her leash and attach it to a heavy chair. She sits there on the mat until a noise/a movement/Kitten’s overactive imagination sends her scurrying beneath the RV. We coax (read: drag) her out and take her back inside. We silently scold ourselves for allowing Kitten to be scared on or watch. We wonder if she will be traumatized forever.

4) Despite her escape attempt and possible PTSD, she meowed pathetically to go outside again, so we had no choice but to acquiesce. She “played” (ate grass) and watched us play cornhole (I won two out of three).

5) A tree with some birds in it piques Kitten’s interest. I take 40-or-so pictures while a group of RV campers in their 60’s chuckle at the cat on the leash and the crazy lesbians following her around taking pictures.

6) Kitten runs straight up aforementioned tree. Note Tina’s concerned face pictured at the bottom of the photo. Full disclosure, Tina is probably equal parts scared that Kitten might get hurt and worried about my wrath should that come to be.

Now count up how many of these points you empathized with, have done before, or would totally do in the future. That score gives you, with absolute accuracy, the severity of your cat-ladyitis diagnosis!

If you don’t have a cat because you’re allergic (because why else wouldn’t you have one?!), my condolences. Replace “cat” with “dog,” “horse,” “boyfriend,” whatever, and report your results in the comments!

0-1: You’re either a sociopath or an alien. Or both.

2-3: You have some real work to do to be a full-fledged cat lady (or cat dude!). I would suggest obtaining at least two cats as soon as practicable and continuing to read this blog regularly. And ask yourself, Am I willing to commit?

4-5: You own more than one cat-themed sweater and you plan hangout time with your feline friends. Might I suggest a subscription to Cat Fancy as well? I would challenge you to turn down invitations to hang out with friends in order to hang out with your cats. Be creative with your excuses!

6: Let’s be best friends! Well, second best, because you already know who takes the #1 spot.

A Tail of Two Mice

You know when you get to the end of a horror movie and find out it was the boyfriend all along? And looking back on various scenes, it totally makes sense that it was him, but the audience doesn’t realize it until he’s killed half the town? That was how it was with us and the realization that we had mice in the RV.

Skeet Ulrich is the murderous boyfriend in literally every movie.

Kitten had been perched in chicken-like repose, staring into the hollow compartment beneath the bench seats at the table. She regularly sees things that we humans do not, so I wrote it off as Kitten being Kitten.

Kitten singing.

As cats and humans alike were about to settle down for a long summer’s nap, a mouse appeared and scurried across the seat cushion in front of me and then darted behind the trash can.

Tina was in the bathroom getting ready for bed.

“Babe, stay in the bathroom…” I said with complete calmness, my voice level with the confidence of a rodent whisperer.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just don’t make any sudden movements.”

It’s worth noting at this point in the story that when I was but a young kitten myself, I caught a mouse using nothing but my hands and wits. It had gotten into the break room at the Borders bookstore I worked at (R.I.P. Borders) so I caught it and put it outside on the loading dock. There was a 20-minute video on YouTube of the whole ordeal, but I don’t know what happened to it. I mention all of this because #foreshadowing, duh.

Poor Tina was displeased by the fact that we had the unexpected guest. I had her open the bathroom door all the way to seal off the bedroom (it’s butts up against the shower when fully opened) and stuff a towel under the door. Thank goodness for the towel.

“It’s behind the trash can. I’m going to move it and try to grab it and put it outside.”

(Muffled whimper): “Ok.”

Fun fact: house mice can jump like mofos.

“I’m coming for your family and everything that you hold dear.”

If you’re like we were that night, you’re probably wondering how this little guy could be running around with Kitten chasing him without having been maimed or eaten by now. Welp, to answer that, here’s Kitten after she fell asleep, literally mid-groom, in a toe-touch position. Her feline instincts are more Hello Kitty than Lion King.

She fell asleep in the same position that Peter Griffin ends up in when he falls down the stairs in Family Guy.

In other words, Kitten is more decorative than functional.

Back to the jumping mouse. I pulled the trash can away from the wall and the little bugger ran straight toward the bedroom, which thankfully was air-, or towel-, as it were, -tight. So picture Tina yelling from behind the door while me and Kitten clumsily pawed at this tiny, slippery, jumping mouse.

Finally, I managed to scoop it up with my hands (which were covered in dish towels as primitive hantavirus protection), Tina opened the RV door, and I tossed it out as gently but far away as I could.

Can I just point out the relationship between the words “hantavirus” and “haunted?”

Phew! What an exciting adventure, right?! We figured that we must’ve picked up the little critter in the haunted field we had stayed in a couple nights before.

We finally completed our nighttime routine and went to bed. I was nearly asleep when I felt the RV moving. Though Tina was finishing up in the bathroom and causing some of the motion, I had a sneaking suspicion and got up to check things out. There was Kitten, leaping and diving near the sofa. It was as if… she was chasing something.

Lo and behold! Another mouse!

Without any time to prepare our defenses, the mouse slipped past me and Kitten and under the bathroom door. Never before had I heard screams like that, as if someone was being kidnapped by clowns.

She looks friendly.

I opened the door, snatched it up, and threw it along with the last kitchen hand towel outside into the night. Slamming the door shut, I collapsed on the sofa to catch my breath.

Those were the only two mice that we encountered that night. To prevent Tina from having a nervous breakdown, we bought mouse traps. At first, they were the catch-and-release type, and when that didn’t work, kill-traps.

We ended up killing one mouse which made me sad. After all, the poor things had just accidentally made their way into our living quarters and meant no harm.

But there’s an old adage that I reflect on which helps give me perspective on the situation and makes me feel better: happy wife, happy life without her setting the RV on fire and leaving you to join a nunnery.

21 Pictures That Will Magically Transport You Along on Our Badass Road Trip

Let me give you the past week and a half in a nutshell:

My partner Tina was offered a job as an emergency medicine physician assistant in Fresno, so we’re moving from Oakland to Fresno, the land of my upbringing, at the beginning of September. But only after…


…our 6-week Shavekorn Super Road Trip! It’s a 10,000 mile journey starting on the California coast in Monterey and ending back in Fresno at the end of August. We’re hitting 30 points of interests along the way, so follow along here! 

    We kicked off the adventure on my 33rd birthday. It’s a lucky number as 33 was also my basketball jersey number in high school and college. 

      Speaking of high school, my gorgeous sister-in-law was attempting to convince me of how awkward she was then. Then apropos of awkwardness, she sent this perfectly timed picture. This is a carousel at Casa de Fruta, en route to a family gathering in Monterey, part one of our journey. 

      Ummm….. I have questions about this.

      We stopped at Blackwell Rest Stop where I hung out with Granny Linzelby, aka myself in 40 years. I actually have a secret talent wherein I can impersonate faces. I used to do it all the time with book covers when I worked at Borders (R.I.P.). 

      Took this picture to be funny. Turns out the joke is on me.

      Eventually, we left, but not before a near-altercation with the below sheep. A single sheep in a herd of them in the back of a pickup truck was staring at me, as if she knew a secret I did not, and was laughing at me. 

      You don’t know my life, sheep!

      After we two of us had words, we headed out to the Monterey Bay Aquarium with the family. These guys are my third cousins. 

      We’re all crabby. Ha.

      I gave some broad a dirty look and informed her, “No flash!” when she disturbed my octopus friend. I’m pretty sure she was flirting with me (the octopus, not the rude photographer).

      Put those arms around me, girl. All eight of ’em.

      Side note: I’m obsessed with jellyfish now. 

      They look like the inflatable LED lamps we bought for the trip.
      I photoshopped those kids in front of my line of sight.
      Beautiful, but dangerous. Just like me.

      All of this talk about jelly made me hungry. On to our next stop we went to get settled in and have some lunch. Behold Indian Waters, Indio’s finest RV resort!

        Indio is about half an hour from Joshua Tree National Park, which all the cool kids go to and do hipster things like wear a long, flannel shirt, have man-buns, and play solo guitar in the wilderness (this really happened). 

          Don’t let the water fool you, it was fucking hot. That’s totally a mirage.

          I’m pretty sure that’s what it feels like to be on the surface of the sun. It’s actually pretty comparable to Fresno, weather-wise.

            Some magical plant that still survives despite the hellscape that is Joshua Tree.

            Do you know why it’s called Joshua Tree National Park? Hint: it has nothing to do with U2.

              This one lost an arm in a YMCA dance off.

              It has Joshua Trees.

                Just a few.

                  “Hi Joshua! It’s Joshua!” “Excuse me, are you talking to me?” “No, my friend’s name is also Joshua.”

                  ALL OF THE JOSHUA TREES!

                    Joshua Tree National Forest aka Solar Flare City caused my pasty shoulders to turn a subtle shade of third degree lobster. I started getting a little loopy, so we decided to call it a day. The heat makes people do crazy things, like craft what is presumably a vagina worship station.

                    Fact: Joshua Tree’s indigenous people were lesbians.

                    It was so beautiful, we didn’t want to leave. Everything looked as though it was part of a movie set. Totally unreal.

                      That mountain is clearly made out of paper maché.

                      On our way back to Indian Waters, we decided to stop at an outdoor art gallery. We saw a rather dusty dildo bouquet, or dildoquet, if you will. 

                        I thought long and hard about what to get you for Valentine’s Day.

                          I told you, the heat makes people do crazy things.