A Cat's Tale - about stairs and other stuff

Ø  It’s a long way up – The Tenth Step – a Cat tale

Our cat has a favorite step on the large staircase in our home. It is the Tenth step. He resides there quite often and if you are on your way up, or down, and he has position on the Tenth step, he has just that, position. He fully expects, near demands by his very presence there, that you step over, or just beside him on the remainder of the tread. You dare not disturb him, for if you do, you will get a glare, a scowl, a piercing hex of a narrowed-eye sure to have some lurking future malice linked to it for a time unbeknownst to you. But when your time comes in a slip, a stub, or trip, or stumble over nothing but air, he’ll be there too watching with a little smirk, like the Cheshire Cat with his grin “ha, gotcha” written on his face.

He’s not really a big cat by weight, but he has lot of hair. A Persian. A “long-haired” cat, it is not fur. So he takes up space and it’s hard to tell where body is, and what is just hair. Persians have that wide face and head, “smushed” in, like a cartoon cat after running headlong and smashing into a wall (smushed, being the past tense of smashed – not “smush” in the Jersey Shore context). We noticed after only a couple days in this house that he preferred that Tenth step.

There are eighteen total steps from the living room entry floor all the way to the second floor hallway. As a matter of fact if you start in our basement and just count the stair steps (not walking steps in between) from there to the floor in our full attic, there are forty-five stairs, and I know because I have taken things stored either in the attic or in the basement from one remote location to the other several times. Now why we have stuff, and why I’m taking stuff, and why we store stuff in those places . . . well, another time maybe. There are 14 steps from basement den to the kitchen, 18 steps from the living room to second floor hallway, 13 steps (oooohh spookey) from the second floor up into the attic (and those top three are angled steps so kinda tricky, and it’s narrow too). For that matter the stairway to the basement is actually more narrow than those to the attic. And the top “step” at the doorway from the kitchen is not really so much a step per se, but a 1” rise from the top staircase step onto the hardwood kitchen flooring. You have to count it as a step though, because you do have to take that step up or down. If you step between the two onto that 1” variance of surface you will fall on your ass going down (bad cause you’ll keep sliding and banging on the walls like you’re in a trash shoot) or you’ll fall on your face into the kitchen going up. I know, I’ve done both. I actually fall “up” stairs way more than down, what the hell? Falling up stairs makes you just look like a dumbass, an uncoordinated stooge. Falling down is, um, more natural or something. People might laugh at you either way, but more often they’ll laugh when you fall up, than down. People help you “up” when you fall down. People don’t help you “down” when you fall up, but if they’re not laughing at you too hard they might help you “up” when you fall down going up!  (Made myself laugh at that – LOL).

The Cat. The Tenth Step. Now I believe cats do have a certain psychic sense and connective ability with a dimension we humanoids can’t quite grasp. We can at times kinda sense it, or for a very brief moment connect, but it’s so fast we blow it off as our imagination or some other hokey bullshit. And you have every right to call me crazy and think I’m full of shit, that’s cool by me, think and believe what you want, but it is part of this story, so read on believer or non-believer the story is about to get better.

When we first were moving into this cool old house, being smart family cat owners, we knew to bring the cat over when it was quiet, when there wasn’t anything in it yet, just the house so if the cat got a bit freaked out for any reason you weren’t looking for days under and around furniture or boxes or whatever. So we get to the house and let the cat out of his cozy carrier and he slowly, curiously, but with more confidence than caution, begins his discovery. We watch him awhile as he pokes around sniffing, peaking around corners, crossing in and out of rooms, jumping up onto shelves and counters. He seems pretty cool with it, unusually cool with it. Like he’s at “home” cool with it. Now if you know cats that is kinda weird, unexpected really from our human perspective. He went about like he owned the place and lived here all his life (or for one, or many of his nine lives). So him seeming content and happy and in cool discovery mode we all go on about what we were doing; measuring, figuring places to put furniture, taking pictures, girls debating and negotiating over the bedrooms, inside, outside, upstairs and down. All the while the cat is doing his thing one minute in a room then not, in the hallway, then on top of a windowsill, all about. After an couple hours we’re getting ready to go.

“Where’s the kitty?” and the calling for him and looking for him begins. And it continues. There is no furniture or boxes to hide in or under. We look in closets. We look in cabinets. We look in every room. We look all around outside. We look everywhere on every floor, in every room, in drawers of built in cabinets. We look in the clothes dryer, we look in the washer, even in the fridge! We begin walking around the neighborhood calling for him. Some neighbors even begin the search, he’s an indoor cat, so the thought of him outside is not good and now its dark. The girls were still in the house still looking. When we get back, none of us have seen or can find him and its now been over an hour. We look all over the house for like the fifth time, everywhere and nothing. We’re sure he slipped outside. Two of us get into a car and start a slow drive beyond a few block search radius, one sits in the back yard and calmly calls for him, one walks around the outside of the house and around the block calling. Thirty minutes later, we all gather, and no luck. Devastated, we go inside to gather purses, jackets, tape measure and to turn off lights, and there calm as can be on the tenth step is our cat, Bijan.

To this day we have no idea where he could have been in that empty house, or whether there is some other Outer Limits tenth dimension on that tenth step, some wormhole, or Narnia doorway, or whether he was simply hiding somewhere really well and he just likes hanging out on that step. But I can tell you this, it may just be that it's a good place to rest since it’s a little more than halfway up the eighteen total steps and I have found myself slowing, even stopping there at number Ten to take a brief break before the rest of the climb, especially if I started in the basement!

One of those days - A Christmas Story?

Ø  I knew I was in for one of those days – A Christmas Story

It started with a stubbed pinkie-toe on the bedpost, in the dark, of a very early and cold morning. I held back the welling profanity at my lips because everyone else was still asleep. A few crippled steps later and I step in some wet slimy stuff (that turns out be dog puke I find out once I turn a light on and go back to check) and now I do swear and storm into the bathroom. I clean up after the pet, get myself ready for the rest of the day totally aware of these signs and expecting more to come. Today is my Karma payback day no fucking doubt about it. So on it goes: take the dogs out for their morning break and the screen door slams me in the elbow “funny bone”, it wasn’t in the least bit funny, and I swear again startling the dogs now a tangle in their leashes around my feet. It’s freezing outside (and still dark) and they seem to take forever to pee. Back inside and during breakfast, I drop the sugar spoon into my Cream-o-wheat and it splashes onto my work shirt. The smoke alarm begins to scream at an ear piercing level damn near rendering me immobile wincing in some weird mind-melding torture, and its going off because I’m burning my toast! Seems I must have bumped the setting knob from my perfect toast setting of 3-dash all the way to 7-dash-dash (as high as the thing goes – why? Why a 7 dash dash setting at all, hell it burns at 5-dash-dash, what the world is the reason for those other extreme settings – arson maybe?) By the time I get around to eating, every things cold – and its cold outside, and dark, because it’s still early. Now I’m wondering, actually thinking carefully and seriously, if this is some omen and I should just take my ass back to bed. Really, what next, was it even safe to try to go to work? But was it safe to stay home? Shit can happen anywhere, anytime. I decide to head to work. Everything is hunky-dory until I’m almost there. When, CRUNCH ! I get rear ended sitting at the last stoplight before getting to our work parking lot (that parking lot is a freaking hazard too, but that’s another story for a different day). I pull over and the car behind me follows along and I can see there’s some damage to the headlight and hood of this little black car. Then I notice the big white decal or painting on the hood – the Batman logo! The windows of the little car are darkened and I can’t see in, but I’m fuming and pissed, but kind of amused at the little “Batmobile” sitting there crunched. I’m already late and now this, what a screwed up day, how much more can I take, I’m sure to be dead before the end of it at this rate! I get out and still no sign of movement inside the other car, and now I’m getting even more steamed because I have to go back to this guy? He’s not getting out? WTF? I take a glance at my rear bumper and it is fine, a big somewhat rusty, heavy steel solid bumper. A bumper that is a real bumper. A bumper that stops shit. A hit me at your own risk bumper. Just as I’m getting to his hood, checking out his poor busted headlight, smashed plastic grill, dented hood crumpled just to the edge of the Batman logo, the door begins to open slowly and the loud Christmas music is pouring out and a large hand grabs the top of the door jam, and out comes a very rotund, apologizing but smiling, happy round faced black dude wearing a Santa suit ! Now I am smiling and assuring him there is nothing at all wrong with my car, apologizing to him for what has happened, refusing to let him call in the accident since there is no damage to my car and he’s worried about a ticket and his insurance. He tells me he’s on his way to Walmart, he explains to tend the Salvation Army kettle and ring his bell for the day. As I help him back into his car and he’s telling me “bless you” and “Merry Christmas”, I realize this is one of the coolest moments and experiences I’ve had and how my day had just become “one of those days”, one I’ll never forget and one I’ll tell about the rest of my life! 

Holy Holly Berries Batman, Santa is a jolly black dude that drives a Hyundai Batmobile!

Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays !

Would you like some Toast?

Toast, not so simple –

You don’t generally give it much thought I expect, Toast. But really there can be a lot to think about with simple Toast. What type of bread? The extent of “toasting” you want – light to dark? What do you put on it or what don’t you put on it? Are you having your Toast to dip it into something? If so, what do you want to dip it into? Do you eat the crust or not eat the crust? How many pieces do you want to have? Do you cut it? If you cut it, how do you cut it? You see what I mean – it’s just not that simple, Toast. I like the word “toast”. It has a nice sound to it for me . . . “toast”. It invokes comfort and warmth, good feelings (but mind you cold, hard or soggy Toast can change my feeling really damned quickly about the Toast as a substance, but not the sound of the word, that always makes me a little happy, “toast”). Try it , just say the word a few times. See, a little happy thought, a wee break of a smile on your mug, eh?

And a little digression here – a “toast” (verb, not noun) given in memory, celebration or cheer of someone or something has a good will emphasis – happiness or adoration. And let’s not get side-tracked by “toast” in the verbal form of the destructive – “my laptop is so toasted”, or that of impairment – “that was a great party, we we’re so toasted” – this one may bring an aching frown or a big smile!

Back to the “Toast” you eat. Comforting, warm, happy-place Toast, and back to the topic of how the Toast thing isn’t a simple choice.

First, the bread choice, Wheat, White, Whole Wheat, Multi-grain, Raisin, Sourdough, Rye –Light or Dark or swirl, Pumpernickel (with Caraway seeds), Sunflower Seed, Flax Seed, and I could go on and on because there a hundreds of “breads”, but those listed above are for the most part the kind of daily consumption breads we get for home use or have choices of when you get Toast at a restaurant. And how many slices are you going to have? Two because your toaster has two slots, four because your toaster has four slots (or two anyway because even though you have a four slot toaster it’s still your choice, or one piece for that matter. If you get four slices at a restaurant do you eat all of them because they came with it, or leave some, or just order the number of slices you want? Lots to think about, no?

Second, the toastie-ness desired. Very light, all the way to very dark, burnt really. And the consistency of the bread at a done-ness level. See, very light and the bread is still soft and pliable, but at a certain point, depending on the bread of course and the toastie-ness level you like, bread gets hard, and that point is in the middle somewhere depending on the bread, because you can have hard toast that is dark, but not crispy black burnt dark. Consider this, have you looked and actually noted the number of “darkness” choices you have on your toaster? Mine has numbers 1-7, but there are hash marks in between, so I have twenty-five selection points! For toastie-ness level ! Two - Five, 25! Really? You can’t choose, it takes trial and error to find that selection point just right for you, and it probably won’t be the same for other users, so you have to remember your spot, or mark the mark with your own personal mark – follow me?

Before we get to step three, I have to ask, is it just me or does everyone “jump”, even just a little bit, when the toast pops up (given of course you use a pop-up kind of toaster and not the toaster oven, just sit there and look pretty toaster. And is a PopTart toasted in a lay there flat not gonna move till you grab it toaster oven really a “pop” tart?). I always get a little startled, a little flinch, even though I’m anticipating the “pop” . Whether I’m looking at it or even looking away, the “pop” makes me twitch, more so if I’m looking at it though,  because then it also has the popping up appearance and not just the popping up sound, like a toast Jack-in-the –box! (may have to do a blog about Jack-in-the –boxes’ someday too – those with clowns finda freak me out).

Third, what do I put on it. Butter (Salted or Unsalted. Whipped or Stick. Low fat – again, REALLY, low fat butter, getthefuckouttahere). Margarine (historical note: 1998 was the 125^th year anniversary for the margarine U.S. Patent), or maybe cream cheese, or yogurt, or peanut butter, or Nutella (I LOVE this stuff – but not on toast, on a crescent roll or tortilla). Some people of course want their toast “dry”, so nothing on it.

Next, what else do you put on it, or not. Jelly, jam, if so what flavor? Marmalade, apple butter, some other fruit spread? Cheese? When does it become a sandwich if you have bread, butter, a fruit spread and something else, like cheese, or ham, or bacon, etc – then it’s a toasted sandwich, right? If you’re going to dip it, say into an eggyolk, or a soup for lunch or dinner, or into a hummus for an appetizer, do you also need to decide to cut it? Cut it corner to corner, in half top to bottom, in quarters, in strips, into cubes to put gravy over it?

So you see, any way you slice it, or not, Toast is not a simple no brainer decision. I’m hungry for Toast, now what to do, hmmmm?