These days, It’s feels criminal not to open any piece of writing without a brief accounting of all the world’s ills. No post about a new deal at Denny’s is complete without a reminder that the tides are rising higher every day. “Soon, probably before Christmas, we will all be dead,” is how I opened a draft of a post about coffee ice cubes a few months back. When I send a friend a text to tell them that something good has happened to me — it’s rare, but such events do occur— I always feel like I have to follow it up with a reminder that, “I’m definitely monitoring the situation with North Korea, though. Lots of bad stuff happening these days. Terrible times.”
In fact, right now I’m stifling the urge to remind you that there’s bad shit in the world — both because it’s ultimately useless to scream your frustrations into the void and because I’ve pledged to stop feeling guilty for experiencing joy (something that I’m not the only one guilty of feeling guilty for). And I did find joy one Saturday in August, when I spent six hours at a convention squarely aimed at every cat lover in the galaxy. (Including cat behaviorist Jackson Galaxy, who was there.)
I don’t have a cat, and that’s probably for the best. Because aside from my husband (who’s scared of felines on both a practical and theoretical level), I live with a rabbit and two guinea pigs whom, an acquaintance once pointed out, “a cat would rip right up.” Point being, I like cats, but I don’t know if I like-like cats.
What I love is CatCon, because for the price of a ticket, you get way more than a chance to attend panels and meet The Vampire Diaries’ Ian Somerhalder and original Catwoman Julie Newmar. You get a weekend of unbridled, unfettered, unapologetic cat-bliss that you’ll agree we all desperately need.
“We need to tune out and take a break from the four horseman of the apocalypse,” says Susan Michals, the con’s founder. “We need a mental respite. We need an escape.”