For years Sunday brunch was simply a weekend gathering at Madison’s house.

Now it’s also a “play date” for our cats, giving them a chance to reconnect with their litter mates and do whatever cat siblings do when they get together. I know, this sounds obsessive, but since the mother cat died and they were bottle fed by Madison, it seems like the right thing to do since they were orphans and so attached to one another. As for what they discuss, I personally think they’re plotting global domination, and just biding their time for the right moment. In such a scenario I have no doubt Gypsy would be the ringleader since she’s the master of devious sneak attacks and never does the same thing twice. I think she may have been General Patton in a previous life.

Anyway, I arrive last at Madison’s house with my cat in her carrier. I say hello to my friends, bring Gypsy to Madison’s spare room and let her join her siblings, where they will play and wreak havoc for the next few hours. My other hand is occupied carrying a shopping bag filled with goodies from the deli, mostly desserts, as we have always considered Sunday the day when you blow off whatever diet you might be on and mainline sugar. What the hell, everyone in my family lives to one hundred and they all eat and drink whatever they want. I personally think red wine cancels out anything unhealthy you might eat. You wanna devour a whole container of ice cream? Fine. Have a glass of wine to cancel it out. Look, I work in a deli, am surrounded by food, and I don’t gain weight because the wine eliminates the calories. But I also drink white wine just to be safe. A girl’s gotta be careful, ya know?

Madison, Rory and Tish are already setting the table as I plop the shopping bag full of food on the kitchen counter. They all stop and stare at me but don’t say anything. “What?”

Rory heads for the kitchen and helps me unpack the shopping bag. “Well, how’d your date go? You didn’t show up with your dress on backwards, so I guess you behaved.”

“Smart ass.”

“Well?”

“The dress had so many buttons, hooks and eyes that I couldn’t get it off. You may as well have put me in a chastity belt.”

Madison laughs. “Damn, she figured out our motive. But seriously, how was the date?”

I do my best to look casual but my face betrays me and I can’t help but smile. “It was... really one of the best dates I’ve ever had. Despite the outfit.”

Tish looks up from pouring mimosas. “Details, now.”

“We had a great time, he was a perfect gentleman. Took me to a terrific seafood restaurant and a movie, held the door for me. Didn’t try to maul me. Liked meeting Gypsy and she approved. Oh, and actually came to the door to get me instead of honking the horn.”

Madison laughs. “That last part is a major upgrade over your previous dates already. Then again, it wasn’t raining.”

“Very funny.”

Tish folds her arms and smiles. “So, since you seem to be very pleased with the results of this first date, I would surmise our wardrobe choice had the desired effect.”

“Yeah, you can surmise all you want. Get this... and I hate to admit it, but he even complimented me on the dress, which shocked the hell out of me. Why any man would find that thing remotely sexy is beyond me.”

Tish sticks her nose in the air. “The man knows obvious class when he sees it. I can tell I’m going to like him. Now, we must continue with the debriefing.”

“Whatever. And I hate to admit it, after a while I forgot I was wearing that dress. I was paying so much attention to him and he was doing the same to me. No off-color comments, no hands going where they weren’t supposed to go.  And I never heard yo, Scaramooch, you wanna make out? So bottom line, it was a very welcome change.”

We take our seats and begin dishing out the food. “Did you invite him up when he brought you home?” asks Rory.

“You told me not to.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before. Answer the question.”

“No, I did not invite him up. And he did not ask to come up. He politely walked me to the door.”

Madison looks at the others, then back at me. “So, you kiss him, he kiss you, what’s the story? Don’t leave us hanging.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “Oh, give me a break. When it comes to dating post-mortems, you do play-by-play better than the Mets announcers.”

“Maybe I’ve changed, since, you know, you guys wanted to fix me. Perhaps I’ve become a lady who wishes her love life to remain private to some extent. Let’s just say we ended the evening on an enjoyable note so you may infer what you will from that.”

Tish nods. “In other words, you gave him a tonsillectomy.”

I stop eating for a moment and turn to Rory. “Oh, by the way, there was one little hiccup last night. Remember when you were cleaning out my closet throwing stuff to my cat? In particular, that red thong?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“When my date came to pick me up Gypsy came out to meet him wearing the damn thing around her neck like a collar.”

Her hands go up to her mouth as she tries not to laugh. “Oh my God. What did he say?”

“He said I’ll be your ass looks great in that thing.”

Her eyes become saucers. “Oh no!”

“I’m yankin’ your chain, Rory. I told him it was from a bunch of gag gifts you guys gave me so if he ever brings it up you all need to back me up on that story.”

Tish nods. “Actually, it sounds plausible that we would give you that. Though not as a gag.”

“Okay, stop it. Anyway, from now on, you wanna give Gypsy something to play with, stick to a catnip mouse.”

***

THEY FINALLY WORE ME down and got the play-by-play of the date that they so desired. Of course, it didn’t include any of the juicy details that had previously been the norm, though they still seemed satisfied that episode one of My Fair A.J. was off to a good start. But they’d better not send me to a speech therapist to get rid of my accent. I got your rain in Spain right here. Besides, it doesn’t fall mainly on the plain in New York. It pours buckets.

Rory pats me on the back as she gets up to start cleaning off the table. “I’m really glad it went well. Sounds like he could be your perfect man since he checks off most of the boxes. Of course, he’s missing the one element which turns you on more than anything.”

Tish furrows her brow. “From what she’s told us he’s gorgeous and she’s already hot for the guy. What are you talking about?”

Madison raises one eyebrow. “I know what she’s talking about. A.J.’s thing for men with British accents.”

“Ahhhhh.” (In unison.)

I guess I haven’t told you about that particular obsession. When I was a kid I decided to check out Star Trek, The Next Generation and it was the first time I ever heard a British accent. I didn’t enjoy this show since it wasn’t nearly as good as the original series. While I considered Captain Picard to be a wimp who would bore the enemy aliens to death instead of firing a photon torpedo up their asses, listening to Patrick Stewart talk made me tune in and listen every time the show was on. (Now if you gave kick-ass Captain Kirk a British accent, you’d have the perfect science fiction character.) After a while my favorite catch phrase was “make it so” and I even tried to do it with a British accent, but my Noo Yawk translation didn’t do it justice. It would be like Judi Dench trying to say fuhgeddaboudit. Anyway, ever since I’ve had this thing for British actors even if I’m not interested in the movie or TV show. And I’ve often told my friends that if I had to design a perfect man it would include a British accent. Alas, when you usually date guys from Brooklyn with names like Vinnie or Angelo, chances are you’re never going to hear a voice that seems to float on the air. More like one that lands with a thud.

I lick my lips just thinking about it.

“I forgot about that,” says Tish. “She’s the only person I know who binge-listens to Downton Abbey on Netflix.”

I shrug. “Hey, you guys play music when you’re doing stuff around the house, I listen to British shows.”

Madison gives me an incredulous look. “You’re still doing that?”

“Yeah, ever since the show started. I like Poldark too. But Downton Abbey is my choice for maximizing my listening pleasure.”

“I’ll bet you’ve never actually watched it.”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

I shrug. “I dunno. Some girl named Abby who lives in downtown London?”

They all laugh hysterically.

***

ABOUT THREE HOURS LATER it’s time to head home. All is quiet in the spare room, as the cats have apparently stopped playing. I crack open the door to find them all asleep in a ball just like they slept when they were kittens. Gypsy has one paw over Madison’s cat Bumper, a rare male tortoiseshell kitty that is blind in one eye and has a deformed leg. Bumper can’t jump and he is the smallest of the litter, and Gypsy has always seemed very protective of him. I often find them in this position when we’re ready to head out.

In a way those two cats are a lot like my friends. We all watch out for each other.

And right now my three besties are doing a damn good job protecting me.

Cat values.

It has even surpassed a British accent when it comes to a perfect man.

***

I’M STRETCHED OUT ON my bed reading a book, just about ready to turn in when Gypsy hops on the bed. She usually sleeps at the foot, but tonight she walks closer to me and lays down at my side. I stroke her head as I put the book on the night stand and turn out the light.

And then I feel her put one paw over my arm.