STRANGER THAN FICTION: DOOMED FROM THE START

I've reached a social plateau.

If life were any more boring, I'd have to shoot myself in the foot. Or something like that.

For one thing, My Current Interest became My Current Disinterest this week. After one too many conversations about the merits of Star Trek -- The New Generation vs. those of Babylon Five, I decided we weren't headed down exactly the same path in life.

Not to mention that Mr. Interest wasn't overly thrilled with my continuing analyses of what went wrong in my last relationship. But who could blame the poor man for that?

I remember one particular luncheon conversation that ended with my asking, "So, what do you think?"

Mr. Interest replied: "I think it's time for you to go back to work."

This shows the depth of our relationship. We were doomed from the start.

Anyway, it's time to focus on myself as a strong female who can handle life on her own. Time to quit living by masculine ideals and come to know the woman I am. Time to work on my career, fitness and mental health. (Testify, soul sisters!)

Oh yeah, and time to spend more Saturday nights alone with bowls of ice cream and my VCR.

Ramses, my cat/son, will be there, of course. He becomes more human every day and recently learned the relationship between the deadbolt and the outside world. When I pick up my keys, he actually jumps at the doorknob, crying to get out.

It makes me think I'm not a good mother.

Ramses was a holy terror when I first moved to Cape Girardeau, but he has made a few friends now and expressed his liking for them by leaving teeth imprints on their hands.

My veterinarian says Ramses is going through cat puberty.

"Remember when you were a teen-ager?" Dr. Williams asked. "Didn't you want to do everything your parents told you not to?"

More or less, yes. But my parents didn't have the secret weapon I have.

Ramses' Christmas present is a free neutering.

While he hasn't ever sprayed anything, probably because he doesn't realize he's a cat, the time has come to take a little spring out of his step. Every plant I own is either suspended from the ceiling or on top of some very high object, thanks to Ramses. There has been more dirt dug up in my apartment in one day than in the entire 1994 election year, and Bissell and I were stuck dealing with it.

Ramses knows when he's doing something bad, because he makes sure I'm looking before he stops. For example, he isn't supposed to climb on top of the bookshelves and bat my knickknacks around.

So up he goes, looking over to see if I'm watching. I hear the sound of ceramic scraping against wood and glance out of the corner of my eye.

Ramses looks back at me. I have no reaction. He bats the objects around some more. No reaction.

Finally, like any other parent, I look up and yell, "Ramses Nieland Hall, you get down from there!"

Being the liberal-type parents we were, Ex-Mr. Dreams and I gave him two last names.

I recently got a roommate who likes cats, so Ramses is happier. I work days, The Roommate works nights, I rarely see The Roommate and Ramses is rarely alone.

It's OK, but having to share an apartment is the price of poverty.

Speaking of which, I'm looking for poverty stories, sent anonymously or otherwise, to incorporate into a future column. My whining did little to help my cause last week, so I'm using a different approach.

SEND THEM, GOSH DOG IT!

The address is: Southeast Missourian, P.O. Box 699, Cape Girardeau, Mo. 63702. Or call 335-6611, ext. 160 and leave them on my voice mail if I'm not here.

Or you'll never see your cat alive again.

Heidi Neiland is a memeber of the Southeast Missourian news staff.