The Arrival of the Mail Is Not That Exciting. Or So I Keep Telling Myself.

I started telecommuting this week.  It is glorious.  My commute is the ten second walk from the bedroom to the kitchen table.  The dress code is very, very casual.  And perhaps best of all, I do not have to navigate the mire of office politics (I was never very good at that game).

Things are, however, a little quiet.  You know what tends to be the most exciting part of my telecommuting day?  When the postman delivers the mail.

When I hear our metal mail slot open and bang shut, I tell myself: Self, you are not excited.  It's just the mail.  Stay where you are. 

But this is a lie.  I am very, very excited by the mail's arrival.  Like a small terrier who must bark at the mailman, I want to run to the front door immediately and investigate.  I'm afraid that one of these days, I will start barking at the mailman - and that event will signal thebeginning of the end.

So I have implemented a strict rule: telecommuters must wait a full two minutes before investigating the mail's arrival.  (I break this rule nearly every day).

Yesterday, however, I heard the mail arrive and then I totally forgot about it for at least fifteen minutes.  I congratulated myself as if this was some sort of noble achievement, like discovering the cure for cancer.  Today, I am hoping I can stretch the wait to a full half hour.  If that happens, I'm sure I'll be awarded a Nobel Prize for Telecommuting. 

Dog Leashes: Explained

I was recently taking a walk in my neighborhood when I had to do a 180 and completely change my route.  What made me do the 180?  A Rottweiler.  Although a leash was attached to the Rottweiler's collar, the Rottweiler's owner was not actually holding the leash. She was bending down, presumably cleaning up some doggie doo.  While I applaud this dog owner for cleaning up after her dog, I would like to explain a few things to her about leashes.

You see, here's the funny thing about dog leashes: they only work if there's a human holding on at one end.  Yes, attaching the leash to the dog's collar is Step One.  But guess what?  There's another step!  YOU HAVE TO ACTUALLY HOLD ON TO THE DAMN LEASH!

Now, I realize that the owner of the Rottweiler probably meant well.  Her sweet doggie probably graduated from an elite doggie discipline university.  He is obedient and likes to cuddle with toddlers.

But here's the thing: I don't care.

Rottweilers are terrifying beasts.  They are bred for their commitment to anarchy, blood lust, and destruction.  If I had to choose between petting a Rottweiler and a Pit Bull, I would probably choose the Rottweiler but that's not saying much. A Rottweiler is built like a tank but it can move like a panther.  Actually, now that I think about it, a Rottweiler is basically the canine equivalent of a panther.

In the future, I ask all owners of Rottweilers to not only put a leash on their dog, but to also hold on to that leash with all the strength that the Good Lord gave to you at all times that you let your demon-dog go out in public.  But really, if I'm going to be completely honest, please just leave your Rottweiler in the basement, chained to a concrete pole.  Your dog is terrifying and does not belong in a civilized world.

Thank you.

An Open Letter to My Bladder

Dear Bladder,

I just have one request: when I go to the movies, I would like to be able to drink a large soda and not have to get up until the end of the movie.  In the future, please try to do a better job. 

The Management

p.s. Exceptions will (grudgingly) be made for movies that are longer than two and a half hours.

My Printer Better Not Die

When my husband and I merged households, I decided we would keep my fancy printer/scanner/copier machine and donate his older but reliable printer to Goodwill.  It seemed silly to store a back-up printer in our basement even though we have tons of available space.  Oh, hubris!  Why must I court disaster?

I recently used my printer to scan an old photograph.  As I had many times before, I positioned the photograph on the glass, closed the lid, and clicked "Scan Photo."  The printer responded with one of the most awful sounds I have ever heard.   It was a metallic crunching sound that definitely fell into the category of "Sounds You Do Not Want Your Printer to Ever Make." 

The printer then displayed this message:

WTF?  That is my strategy when anything with a power button fails: turn it off, wait a moment, and turn it back on.  But holy crap, I expect better advice from the manufacturer!  I’m surprised the printer didn’t also suggest the following: (1) gently hit the printer; (2) hit it harder; and (3) get an ice pack for your hand and pretend the printer just needs a few hours of quiet time.

I assumed the printer had gone to Printer Heaven, but I turned the machine on and off anyway.  The printer made a few unhealthy sounds and then told me:

What the $&%#* is the “scanner lock switch”?  I didn’t even know the printer had a scanner lock switch, but now I’m supposed to release it.  Sighing, I flipped a random switch and turned the machine off. 

At this point, I assumed the printer was in self-destruct mode and was going to taunt me with a series of bizarre requests – rub my belly with olive oil; open the hatch port and whistle the theme song from Cheers; now swing a dead chicken around your head.  Things were going to end badly.

When I turned the printer back on, I braced myself, half-expecting the entire printer to explode.  My poor husband would come home and find me dead, lying in a pool of blood, fatally wounded in the forehead by printer shrapnel.

Instead, the printer made some happy sounds.  Cautiously, I tried to scan the photograph again and … success! It worked!  I fixed the printer all by myself!  

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to run to Goodwill and buy back my husband's old printer.  Apparently we do need a back-up printer after all.

LOTR: My Husband Has Questions; I Don't Have Answers

My husband Nathan loves Star Trek; I love Lord of the Rings.  Both series are beloved by nerds, but there's an important difference between the two.  The Star Trek universe makes sense.  Middle Earth?  Not so much.

Since meeting Nathan, I have learned the difference between Captains Picard and Kirk.  I know that Spock is half-human, half-Vulcan.  But the Star Trek universe is complicated, and there's a lot that I don't yet know.  When I have a question about a character or a storyline, Nathan always has an answer.  And his answers are disturbingly impressively detailed, with references to treaties and scientific principles.

I fell in love with the Lord of the Rings in sixth grade.  My dad swears I read The Hobbit plus the entire trilogy during my spring vacation.  I am choosing to have selective amnesia on this one because seriously, who is that nerdy? 

The first movie, The Fellowship of the Ring, was released in December 2001.  I had just finished my first semester of law school and was still feeling sad from 9/11.  The previews looked "eh", but my cousin Emily insisted we see the movie on opening night.  And oh my god, the movie made my heart sing and I felt truly happy for the first time since 9/11.  I saw the movie again during its opening weekend with my sister.  She claims we saw the movie five times in the theater during its first release.  Again, I'm choosing to have selective amnesia because seriously, who is that nerdy? 

I love the the Lord of the Rings movies deeply and without question.  When I'm cranky, they are a shortcut to happiness.  Recently, my husband and I rewatched the trilogy.  Nathan had a lot of questions.  And I'll be damned, but I could not answer any of them.

Nathan: Why didn't Gandalf have any kids?  Wouldn't Gandalf's children have special magical powers to help defeat Sauron? 

Me: I don't know.  I bet he has to be celibate in order to be a wizard.

Nathan: Where are the other continents?  Why aren't they concerned about Sauron's rise to power?

Me: Um...

Nathan: Why didn't Frodo just ride one of the eagles to Mt. Doom?  Wouldn't that be faster?

Me: Yes, but then there wouldn't have been much of a story.

Maybe if I had actually read the Silmarillion, I could answer these questions.  I may be a nerd, but I'm not that nerdy.  If I was stranded on an island and had to choose between Star Trek and The Lord of the Rings, I'd probably choose Frodo - but Spock would give him a run for his money.

Important question: 

Why doesn't this come in adult sizes?

The Trees In My Neighborhood Are Suicidal

A  huge branch recently fell off the tree in front of my house and landed on my front lawn. You can read about that jolly episode here. 

Last night, a similar fate befell my neighbor's tree:

Another branch broke and fell to the ground.  And by "branch," I actually mean half of the entire damn tree.  This is what's left of the fallen "branch."  At 11 p.m., a city truck arrived with a wood chipper. When I went to bed, two city employees were busy turning the fallen branches into tree dust.  And even though they had a big truck and a wood chipper, they could not remove the entire "branch."

I'm seeing a trend here, and I don't like it.  Did the trees on my block make a suicide pact? Did someone poison the trees?  Or maybe it's not that complicated.  Maybe the City of Pasadena is just not doing its job.

My neighbors and I do not own the trees that line our street. They are city trees, and it is the city's responsibility to maintain the trees and keep massive branches from landing on front lawns. 

Over the last six months, I have observed dozens of large branches lying in the streets of my neighborhood.  Why is this happening?  Wouldn't it be safer and cheaper to just maintain the damn trees and trim them when they get too big? Something tells me that the city employees working at 11 p.m. last night were not doing so as an act of charity.  They were getting paid overtime with my damn property taxes.

Here's the sad part: If I took matters into my own hands and hired someone to trim the city tree in front of my house, you know what would happen?  Some bureaucrat would go ape shit, send me a letter, and order me to pay a fine for damaging city property. 

I might need to start a new blog solely for the purpose of monitoring the trees of Pasadena.  

Neighborhood Watch, My Ass

When I saw a "Neighborhood Watch" sign as a child, I assumed the neighborhood in question was diligently patrolled and guarded by the neighbors.  I imagined pairs of adults roaming the neighborhood with walkie-talkies and flashlights ALL NIGHT LONG. 

Now that I'm an adult, I know better.

Case in point, my neighborhood has this sign, which claims the area is protected by an illustrious and noble "Neighborhood Watch Program":

Lies!  Shameless lies!  Let me tell you about my local neighborhood watch program: it doesn't exist.  Look, if I see a burglar lurking in my neighbor's backyard, yes, I'm going to call the police but that doesn't mean we have a formal program in place.  A program suggests an organization with leadership, fliers, and meetings.  It doesn't mean "we stuck a sign in the ground and hoped for the best."

At best, this sign dissuades the dumb criminals, who see the sign and think, Oh crap, a neighborhood watch!  I'll be caught for sure!  These are the same criminals who can maybe steal a lawn ornament on a good day.

But the smart criminals who are actually capable of stealing valuable property?  Yeah, something tells me they are not going to be deterred by the sign. 

An Open Letter to My Contact Lenses

Dear Contacts,

It's your job to stay in my eyes and help me see clearly.  Falling out of my eye for no apparent reason while I'm out in public?  Not cool, my friend, not cool.

Love,
Courtney

Missoni Mayhem: The Sacking of Target

Designer labels generally do not interest me, but I have coveted a Missoni cardigan for years.  But, alas, I never invested in one for two reasons: (a) the price tag, and (b) the delicate fabrics.  I knew I would ruin the cardigan sooner rather than later and then curse myself for wasting my money.  (As I wrote this blog entry, I spilled Diet Coke ALL OVER my white t-shirt.  See, this is why I’m not allowed to own expensive clothes).

When I learned about the Missoni product line being launched at Target on September 13, 2011, I was ecstatic.  At last!  A Missoni cardigan!  For me!  At Target prices!  A pink or blue one would do nicely.

My local Target opens at 8 a.m.  I pulled into the parking lot at 8:15 a.m. so I could leisurely shop for my new Missoni cardigan.  Talk about a serious strategic error.

The store had already been overrun and sacked.  It was as if an army of female eBay sellers had laid siege to Target during the night and then raced through the store at 8 a.m. for plunder.  (Isn't the word "plunder" great?  I wish I had cause to use it more often). 

Everywhere I looked, women were racing around with wild eyes and shopping carts overflowing with Missoni clothes, Missoni pillows and Missoni suitcases.  I tried not to look very closely because they looked crazy.  And by “crazy,” I mean they looked like they would not hesitate to tear off my arm if I got too close.   

My dreams of a Target Missoni cardigan were quickly crushed.  A mere fifteen minutes after the Missoni line was released, almost all the clothes were gone. 

Shit.  Maybe I could still get a scarf? 

Damnit.  The bitches female shoppers had already sacked the scarf aisle.   Maybe it was not too late to get a Missoni mug or Missoni picture frame?

&$%@#@**!!!!  I was seriously out of my league here.  If I had arrived when the store opened, I would have been trampled by the rabid Missoni fans and eBay sellers.  

Fortunately, I had a shopping list with such mundane items as "hand soap” and “vitamins.”  As I walked through the store, I pretended, Oh, I'm just here to pick up some household items, I didn't realize Target was releasing the Missoni line today, la de da.  In the baby section, I found some Missoni items that had been rejected by the eBay sellers.  I put a Missoni baby blanket, scarf and hat in my cart.  I kept them until it was time to check-out because I'm pathetic and wanted the option of buying a Target Missoni product.  But in the end, I ditched the baby items because Missoni for Baby just seems wrong.    

Oh well.  I didn't really want a Missoni Target cardigan.  Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go lie down and cry for a few hours. 

This Doesn't Look Good

I went to Subway to pick up a sandwich for lunch.  I go to Subway because it's (a) diet-friendly and (b) fast. 

I was less than happy when I looked up from my iPhone and saw this:

The bitch young lady standing ahead of me in line was holding FIVE bags of chips.  I knew what that meant: she was ruining my plan to just run into Subway for a quick lunch.

I thought about bailing, going back to my car, and driving to another Subway.  But Subway's success is built on speed. It's McDonald's best competition: you can get a Six Inch Cold Cut Combo on Wheat in the same time it takes you to get a Big Mac and fries, and it's a lot healthier for you (unless you pile on bacon, mayo and extra cheese).   I told myself to breathe and be patient. 

This was a critical error.  Ladies and gentlemen, I have found the Slowest Subway in Los Angeles County.  When I saw the armloads of chips, I should have gone back to my car and driven to a different Subway.  No, I should have gone back to my car, driven home, opened my own Subway franchise, and then ordered a sandwich.  That would have been faster.  Oh well, lesson learned (although I'm not 100% certain what that lesson actually is).

Happy but Depressing

I've noticed that some things make me happy and sad at the same time.  For example, this carousel at my local shopping mall:

It's a carousel, so it automatically makes me smile.  But it belongs at a carnival or a pier or anywhere that is not an indoors shopping mall; and so it makes me feel a little empty and hollow inside. 

Other things/places that make me sad and happy at the same time:

• Yard sales and flea markets
• Bowling alleys
• Warehouse stores like Home Depot and Costco
• Going to a Dodgers game during the 2011 season

I Can Sometimes Be A Little Cynical

I love my neighborhood.  It feels safe and friendly, and I wouldn't be surprised if I ran into the Brady Bunch or the Munsters (the Munsters would be the BEST neighbors, end of discussion). 

This morning, I took a walk in my neighborhood.  A police car drove past.  I thought, Oh good, I'm glad we have the occasional patrol car passing through, just to keep things safe.  Then I noticed that the police car had stopped in the middle of the street and drawn alongside... another police car?  

Two police cars in my neighborhood?  What the effing eff? 

I suppose this could just be a happy coincidence.  Police Car A was probably just recommending a donut shop to Police Car B. 

Or maybe they were searching for a serial killer??  Was it safe to keep walking around my neighborhood on this fine, sunny morning?  Should I go home immediately and barricade the house?  Holy crap, maybe there are two serial killers loose in the neighborhood! 

And yes, in case you were wondering, sometimes I can be a little cynical.

Chanel No. No Thank You

I am on a quest to find my "signature scent."  I have never been one for perfume but recently decided, Yes! I would like to wear perfume!  And smell pretty!  But finding a perfume that I would like to wear?  That has not been easy.

Shopping for perfume is not like shopping for anything else.  If you are shopping for jeans, you can try on dozens and dozens of pairs, until your butt and thighs start to chafe.  If you are shopping for some beach reading, you can open up book after book until you find The One.  Even if you are just buying frozen yogurt, you can still sample one or two (or five) flavors before committing to your dessert.

But perfume?  Perfume is IMPOSSIBLE.  You can't just sniff the bottle.  You have to apply some perfume to your wrists and then let it react with your natural body chemicals (or something like that) for twenty or thirty minutes.  And once you've applied some perfume to your wrists, that's it.  You can't layer your body with several different scents, or you will smell like a brothel.  (Ok, I have never actually been to a brothel, but I imagine that a brothel would smell like a dozen different perfumes that have been applied too heavily.  But that's just me).  So long story short, you can only sample one perfume a day - unless you are willing to run home and shower.

I recently watched the movie Coco Before Chanel.  It was excellent.  Since I had Chanel and perfume on my mind, I decided to try Chanel No. 5.  I understand it's the Holy Grail of perfumes - the most popular, the most famous, the most whatever.  I know it might take awhile to find my signature scent, but maybe Chanel No. 5 would abbreviate my quest.

I found a sample bottle of No. 5 at Nordstroms.  Cautiously, I sniffed the bottle.  Hmm, I thought, this does not smell good.  But, what do I know?  I am a perfume virgin.  Surely it would smell delightful on my wrist.

No, it does not smell delightful on my wrist.  Chanel No. 5 + Courtney's Wrist = Smells Like A Public Restroom.

Damn, the quest continues.

Goodbye, Old Friend

So this is it.  Borders is bankrupt and going out of business, never to return.  Today I said goodbye.

The books were steeply discounted.  As I wandered through the store, it felt like I was looting a dying friend's house.  Is there someone I could apologize to?  I bought a Kindle and my visits to Borders dwindled.  And when I did go to Borders, I furtively wrote down the titles of books I liked and then ... gulp... I bought them on Amazon.  I'm sorry!  I was just trying to save a few dollars!  I didn't mean to kill Borders.

I probably shouldn't have visited Borders today.  The store was gasping for a final breath.  About 99% of the books are gone, and the remaining books are scattered haphazardly throughout the store: an Anne Rice novel is next to a book about romantic relationships which is next to a book about the history of beef.  Depressing?  Absolutely.

Here is the last bag I will ever get from Borders.  I'm thinking about having it bronzed.  (That's a joke.  Well, not really.  Is it possible to bronze a plastic bag?  Or maybe I can have it stuffed and turned into a pillow?)

Goodbye, Borders.  Rest in peace.

There Was A Loud Crash, And Now We Have The Best Tree Fort In The Neighborhood

Last night, my husband and I were eating dinner when we heard a large crashing sound outside.  I normally hyperventilate in these circumstances and assume "there's a mountain lion on the roof!" or "there's a pack of rabid raccoons coming down the chimney!" But last night, I dismissed the very loud crashing sound and assumed it was something trivial.  Nathan was skeptical, but we continued eating dinner and forgot about the sound.

In the morning, Nathan discovered the source of the loud crashing sound:

Oh.  I guess it wasn't that trivial. 

Apparently a very large tree branch crash landed on our front lawn last night.  I hesitate to call this a "tree branch."  It's about the size of two large cars.  This "branch" could take out the brass section of a respectable marching band.  It's bigger than some of the trees in my neighborhood, and yet, it's just a humble branch.

When I was in high school, I told myself I would never be 100% adult.  I believe it's safe to say that I have kept that promise.  Case in point: this morning, when I saw the branch, I noted I would need to call the City of Pasadena to remove the branch.  (There's no way this bad boy could fit in our trash bin!)  But I also thought: this would make an awesome fort. 

The City of Pasadena is collecting the rogue branch today.  I know the branch has to go, but still, it makes me a little sad.  If I covered the top with an old sheet, it really would be the best tree fort in the neighborhood.

It's Magic! It's Gas! It's MAGIC GAS!!!

I cannot begin to tell you how happy this gas station makes me:

People, it's called MAGIC GAS.  

I'd really like to know how this gas station got its name.  Did the owner lose a bet?  Is he really into the Lord of the Rings?  Or, did he think his customers would actually believe the gas is magical if he calls it Magic Gas?     

And what makes the gas magical?  Is it sprinkled with fairy dust?  Does it smell like a unicorn?  Does the gas come from an oil well near Loch Ness?  These are important questions.

No Fresh Tomatoes

Although my husband and I live in a house, we do not have a backyard.  We have a backAREA that’s basically a pool (awesome!) and a lot of concrete (less than awesome).  We call it the backyard, though, because “backarea” sounds stupid.

I love gardening, and someday, I would like to have a vegetable garden with zucchini, pumpkins, carrots and tomatoes.  (And yes, I know tomatoes are really a fruit.  And no, I’m not going to call it a fruit and vegetable garden.  I want a vegetable garden with tomatoes, end of discussion). 

Right now, my vegetable garden is just a dream, because our large expanse of concrete is not exactly a gardener’s paradise.  But last summer, I convinced myself that I could grow tomatoes in our backyard.   I would be a legend: the Tomato Lady of Pasadena.  Foodies would travel from all corners of the globe just to visit my tomato stand at the farmer’s market.  Mark Bittman would want to be my friend.  I optimistically started my tomato garden.

It was an unmitigated disaster.

As you probably know, tomatoes do not grow well in concrete.  I actually did a science experiment about this in the seventh grade.  For the experiment, I planted seeds in four different materials: dirt, fancy schmancy potting soil, sand, and pebbles.  I charted the growth of the seeds every day.  It was supposed to be very scientific, but I felt bad for the pebble plant.  I could see that a seed had managed to sprout, and I might have rearranged the pebbles to help the seedling grow.   I might have lied about the results of the experiment.  (Sorry, Miss Taylor).  There's a reason I majored in history, not biology.  Anyway, I digress.  The point is that tomatoes need soil – not concrete – in order to thrive. 

Determined to grow tomatoes, I bought several books about container gardening and read everything about tomatoes.  I learned several things.  Lesson One: tomatoes need a lot of sunshine.  Okay!  My backyard has plenty of sunshine.  No problem. 

Lesson Two: tomatoes should be grown in plastic pots; terracotta and ceramic containers get too hot and will cook the roots of a tomato plant.  Cooked roots = bad, so I bought three deep containers made from plastic at Home Depot.  At least, I assume they were made from plastic.  Maybe they were made from something fancy, like fiberglass or biodegradable stardust.  I also bought some snazzy tomato-trellis thingees.

I visited several different nurseries in Pasadena in order to purchase the best tomato seedlings possible (as if I know what the best tomato seedling actually is).  I gently transplanted my seedlings and carefully positioned the tomato-trellis thingees.  I watered my plants religiously and did everything I was supposed to do.  My plants grew several feet high; the leaves spread out widely in the sunlight; and little baby tomatoes sprouted.  Victory!

Alas, Pasadena gets HOT during the summer.  Not East Coast/Midwest hot, but temperatures regularly climb into the high 80s and 90s.  And the concrete in our backyard?  It gets hotter than the surface of the sun.  Tomatoes do not grow well on the surface of the sun, and they did not grow well in my backyard.  My tomato plants died – slowly, dramatically, and painfully.  Little tomatoes would appear, with promises of sunshine and summer (have you ever eaten a tomato, fresh off the vine and still warm from the sun?  It tastes like heaven).  As I was picking recipes for my tomato harvest, the baby tomatoes would shrivel and die on the vine.  It was an emotional roller coaster.  Just when I was ready to accept defeat, the plants would rally.  Yes!  I would rejoice.  Tomato-palooza!  But again and again, the tomatoes turned brown and fell to the ground.  Between May and September, I harvested maybe four cherry tomatoes.

The four cherry tomatoes were delicious.  That said, I’m not an idiot.  This year, I moved the containers to a shaded area and planted some cheap flowers. I’m not dedicating my summer to some high-maintenance plants just so I can enjoy four cherry tomatoes. 

Fashion: Let's Bring Back the Renaissance!

I do not know much about fashion, but I know at least one thing: the fashion world loves to recycle old trends and styles.  Even though it’s the twenty-first century, we are told things like “you really need to wear these long hippie skirts” or “bell bottoms are back.”       

If fashion designers are willing to revisit the 1960s and ‘70s, I think they should look to even earlier eras for inspiration.  Why stop with the twentieth century?  Let’s bring back the Renaissance!   And English medieval fashion!  Every discerning girl needs a kirtle and a wimple in her wardrobe.  

I’m not actually advocating the return of Renaissance and medieval fashions.  I don’t see myself running errands wearing a girdle and velvet cape.  However, I would love to see the revival of fashion worn by the Roman nobility during Julius Caesar’s reign. 

If you think I’m crazy, watch an episode of the HBO series Rome. 
The dresses worn by the wealthy female characters make me gasp with jealousy (think flowy fabrics that are draped and cinched in the most flattering of ways).   But let’s limit the revival of Roman Empire fashion to women.  I don’t want to give men a blank check to run around in togas and gladiator sandals.  It’s bad enough when men wear short-shorts at the gym.  I would drop dead if 24 Hour Fitness was suddenly crowded with men in purple robes.

I also urge fashion designers to watch movies based on Jane Austen’s novels, especially the Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice.  Fashion designers, please pay close attention to the dresses with flattering empire waists – they are beautiful and very practical for long, melancholy walks across the heath.  These dresses need to be available at Nordstroms, ok?

I realize the revival of fashions from the 1800s are unlikely.  For at least the foreseeable future, J.Crew and Banana Republic will not be selling fashions worn by the ancient Roman nobility and Elizabeth Bennet.* [Insert dramatic sigh].  But a girl can dream.

*I should not have to tell you this, but Elizabeth Bennet is the protagonist of Pride & Prejudice.  I’d like to be her friend except (a) she lived in England during the 1800s and (b) she’s a fictional character. 

Warning: Attack Cat

I found this sign at a hardware store:

I wanted to buy it as a joke gift for a friend with two cats, but it costs $8.  That's too expensive for a joke gift.  I would spend $8 on a joke gift if a friend was going through a very dark period - e.g. just found out her boyfriend is a serial killer - but fortunately, that's not the case here.