Catnip

      I know when my cat Sid is mad at me, because I come home to find Q-tips scattered all over the bathroom floor. This is his day-time expression of rage. At night, he jumps on my bureau to jangle the necklaces on the wall, which can wake me from a sound sleep or even dreams of Alan Rickman. But in daylight, he steps out of the sink, where, if I'm around, I'll turn the water on for him, onto a small table where I store my sundries. He places his black lips around the head of one Q-tip at a time, flipping them out of their blue jar onto the floor. Sometimes the other cats are waiting to chase them around, skidding on the linoleum and folding the rug into a big omelet. It can be four Q-tips, or 20, depending on whether he got distracted and how many were in the jar.

      If you're not familiar with cat behavior, you might think it odd, but nothing is too odd for a cat. This is why middle-aged women and other do-gooders admire them so much. They're outrageous, independent, and deeply self-involved, and isn't that what we all aspire to?

      I've seen cats leap up to sit beside some delicate object on a mantelpiece — the place you foolishly thought that object might be safe — for half an hour before they nonchalantly stretch out a paw and knock it to the ground. Then they look down as if to say, “Oh, wow! Smithereens!” Sometimes they'll even look around to make sure you're watching. They never run away afterward the way a dog will. They look right at you, impassive and unapologetic, while you're tearing out your hair, as if to say, “Human, you have got some kind of problem.”

      Middle-aged women, the so-called “cat ladies” among us, are often long-time negotiators and compromisers, having raised families or held jobs where these traits are prized. So for us to master aloof destruction takes practice. I recommend starting out alone, or in the presence only of cats. You don't want performance anxiety to impede your progress.

      Make a peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich, cut it in half, and place it artfully it on one of your great-grandmother's best antique china plates. Sit at the dining room table and eat half the sandwich. You're going to need the carbo-loading. Next, look out the nearest window, holding your gaze steady with a small smile on your lips, while simultaneously lifting your dominant hand and swinging it briskly in front of you like a tennis racquet, sweeping plate and other half-sandwich off the table. You should hear a satisfying crash.

      Realistically, you ought to now go find a sunny spot on the floor and take a five-hour nap. Floors aren't that comfortable for the middle-aged, so a two-hour nap on your own bed is allowed. Then come back into the dining room and take a photo of the mess to post on Facebook with the note:

      “Look what that terrible cat did now!!”