The Cheeseblog

Hold a hand mirror up to your catt’s face. If he runs away, chase him!

No, no, no, he likes it! You can tell because he comes back for more.

Between where I live and the main drag where I go to the grocery store, liquor store, thrift store and bank is a 10 minute stretch of road dotted with four way stops. It can be a less than pleasant drive, depending on the time of day, in part because no one in this city knows what to do at a four way stop. There are several schools of thought:

One says that a four way stop is like a free for all where everyone drives at once and then the fastest car gets where it’s going and the other three get into an accident. Good times!

Another school of thought says that a four way stop is where the biggest vehicles get the right of way. You know, because they’re big. I mean, why else would you buy a Lincoln Navigator?

My favourite, though, is the inferiority complex school. The people who think that a four way stop is their personal punishment, like a hair shirt. They sit there, letting everyone else go. Then letting everyone else go again, because probably there is still something for which they should be atoning.

Did I say 10 minute drive? Sometimes, barring any unforseen trips to the hospital or carfixitplace, it takes as many as 15! I’ve never lived this far from a liquor store before. It’s traumatic! But I digress.

Along this merry route there is also an elementary school and its associative school zone. In school zones, the speed limit is 30 kph. That’s fair enough. At 30 kph you couldn’t really kill anyone, just maim a little. Depending on the size of the kid. Everyone slows down for the school zone. (that makes it a 20 minute trip if you’re going before 5 pm…grrr!) I have never seen a single person going more than 30 in the school zone, even during summertime. It’s bizarre, when you consider that we’re all idiots.

Because we are all travelling so slowly, we have plenty of time to look at things, like the 30 kph sign, the bumper sticker in front of us (If you can’t see my mirrors, smile as you go under!), the full moon, whatever. And every time I go through this school zone when it’s school hours – between 8 and 5 – I see the following sign, right by the side of the road on somebody’s front lawn:

“Please”
slow down.
Our children are worth it!

My quarrel, in this case, is not with children and their relative worth. I don’t have any children but I know that other peoples’ children are really important to them. I even understand why. I don’t even really mind that they are telling me to slow down, despite the many 30 kph signs and the fact that no one ever speeds there. EVER! It is possible that people only don’t speed because of the sign, in which case, I’m all over the sign. The problem, dear readers, lies in the first line of the sign: “Please.”

The word in quotation marks is “please”.

The above sentence is an example of the acceptable use of quotation marks in a sentence.

People, people, people. Creative spelling is one thing. I say (write, I guess, is more accurate) “catt,” yes. I say fancypants. These are my words. I don’t shout them across the street from an elementary school. They are purely self-expression. By using them I am only trying to achieve more clever communication. Really. I know, you’re all shattered.

Creative punctuation is another thing. There are few things I hate more than the incorrect use of an apostrophe. Its, it’s, its’. Rules! They exist for a reason. No, not a “reason,” a reason. FUCK!

If you say “please” instead of please, does that mean you really don’t want me to slow down? Or are you really not saying please, you’re just being fakely polite? You would rather just say “Slow Down” but someone told you that was rude, so you added “please” but you added the quotation marks so everyone would know you didn’t really mean it? What? WHAT? Teach your goddamn children well!

I was going to write a letter to the editor of the (really crappy and a whole other topic for a different day) Burnaby Now. But then I thought: No! I have a blog! That’s what they’re for!

I used to have Australian pen pals. They used quotation marks like a junkie uses junk. It was so confusing. I wonder if the school sign people are Australian OR if there is some rule I don’t know about. Does anyone know? Is anybody out there? Just nod if you can hear me…

This morning as I poured my second cup of coffee, I became aware of a presence in the kitchen that felt neither human nor animal. I turned on my heel and saw only a flash of plaid flannel disappear down the hall. The catt sat staring at the microwave.

“Hey!” I shouted, “Who are you?”

No answer came. I heard only a faint scuffling, the intruder by now at the other end of the house. I surprised the catt by stomping my feet and he complied by running at a great clip to the bedroom. I pretended to chase him, but waited in the kitchen and sure enough, my intruder came running back to me, frightened by the appearance of the catt.

He stood before me, taller than I, with a chocolate-coloured knit toque obscuring his face and a plaid flannel robe sheathing his body. He was panting slightly. I held a butter knife, slick with peanut butter, against his throat. He waved his hands around frantically.

“No, no,” he pleaded, “I fight for good; I am the toqued crusader!”

“I have never heard of such a hero,” I sneered, “Prove your worth or prepare to die!”

He wheeled to face the window and its North view. He indicated the mountains, covered with fresh snow.

“So?” I said, “Snow. So what?”

“I made it so,” he said, “I have appeased the snow gods on behalf of our city and have returned winter to the lower mainland! I have conquered the Evil Rain Lords!”

“I don’t ski,” I said, “What have you done for me lately?”

He pulled from his pocket a photograph of my winter boots.

“Where did you get that?”

“No matter,” he said, “Isn’t it true that without winter, you can not wear these boots?”

“No,” I argued, but he was right: my favourite part of winter is boots. Last week I pulled my beautiful boots from the cupboard and un-nestled them from their tissue. They still fit perfectly and are so lovely. But he went on.

“And without me, the Toqued Crusader, there would be no winter. I dress to kick the ass of Fearless Fall every year. I battle the Evil Rain Lords with my Waterproof Jacket of Doom. I strangle the Warriors of Warmth with my Wool Scarf of Horror. The Master of Melting is no competition for my Ice Cold Heart Blaster. And of course, my identity is obscured and protected by my Toque of Terror.”

“And?” I asked, “You are in my kitchen because…”

He sighed a little and knelt before me.

“Because I am lonely,” he began, “and tired. Fighting the forces of evil is exhausting , especially when you are a seasonal superhero. There’s all the downtime and I’m always in rough shape when September rolls around. I need a partner, a sidekick, someone to shape, support and inspire me. Someone to sing “Eye of the Tiger” when I get low. Someone to see the man behind the toque.”

“Do I get benefits?”

“Full medical, dental and extended health. Plus life insurance. Not that you’ll need it.”

I agreed and left my house immediately to became Douser of Fires, Cooler of Ponds, Typer of Memos: The Scarfed Destroyer.

We took the catt, too. But he doesn’t like to wear his cape so he has to stay in the car.

This afternoon, after a quick trip to the mall for toothpaste, I went to the local grocery, the place with good, fleh items, like deli meats and cheese, but more expensive everyday items like cereal and bread. I didn’t really have anything I needed to buy, I just ended up in the wrong lane leaving the mall and it being very rainy and dark today, I wasn’t keen to argue with traffic. (On my way TO the mall I passed an accident scene. A semi truck was pulled over to the side of the road with two police cars. The car it had struck was on its side, on the grass on the far side of the sidewalk, with no clear front or back anymore.)

The superstar-bestest-ever part of going to this grocery store is the parking lot. Maybe that’s true of all grocery stores – now that I think of it, superstore’s lot is pretty crazytaxi, too. But this one is underground, with, like, 8 levels and 10 signs that say “exit” but they lie, I know they lie because one time I was stuck there for four hours just driving around in circles. It’s better to go out the way you came. It’s safer. Plus, it’s all two way and the curves are really tight and no one can ever manage to stay on his/her own side of the line and I am forever terrified of a head on collision with some fucking pimpmobile SUV, which would make me all justified in my anger n shit but would still probably hurt a whole lot. DoublePlus, the ground is coated in some weirdy-pants substance that makes everyone’s car sound like they’re burning rubber when really they’re going so slowly they’re in first gear trying not to stall. Well, OK, I am. Everyone else is probably listening to their iPods, thinking about hockey.

There is a sizable dent in the right hand side of my car because of two separate incidents where I(and someone I love) took a corner too tightly and hit one of the many pillers holding up the parking lot. It’s kind of like loving the sinner but hating the sin, me and those pillers. ANYway.

I drive in, all fogged up from the rain & cold and on my way to the part of the lot I like to park in, I happen to stop at the stop sign. A man with the right of way zooms past me, squealing his tires (even though I know it’s not his fault, it still annoys me), heading up to the parking lot closest to the store. This is silly, because everyone knows there’s never any parking in that section, plus there’s always people up there in their cars, waiting for parking to be available. I’ve witnessed three accidents in the upper lot. Besides, we’re inside! Who cares how far you are from the door? Maybe he’s buying lots of things. There’s always more parking/less idling cars in the second closest lot, which is where I’m going, if the goddamn cars ever stop zooming past me. I hate being stuck at a stop sign. But I am, so I wait. Eventually, I cross the little intersection and park.

I am walking the 2 minute walk to the store and buddy zooms by me, going the other direction now. Guess there was no parking up in the closest lot. Ha ha. I feel I have now risen above him in my own self-estimation. (I automatically assume strangers are cooler than me. Ongoing issue.) I go in the store and head for the meat. I decide I want stir fry for dinner. I decide I want pork. I pick up some pork. I turn to leave and there he is, buddy tall guy in his red jacket. I think: he’d be cute if he wasn’t so tense and so inferior to me. He stands, blocking the isle, looking wildly around as though he has forgotten why he’s there. Maybe he forgot in the time it took him to settle for a second tier parking spot.

I pick up some pasta because it’s on sale. I get distracted in the Burt’s Bees section. I like their products but DAMN it is hard to rationalize spending $20 on moisturizer.

I move to the till. Buddy is at the till I usually go to, about to pay cash. I purposefully go to the other till, to prove my superiority, but then the checkout chippie at my till has a crisis of faith so I go to buddy’s till, just as he is leaving.

As I take my pork, pasta and change, I notice a bag sitting on the little shelf below the cash desk. It contains what has got to be 10 pounds of ground beef.
I say, “someone left their 10 pounds of ground beef.”
My checkout chippie says, “Oh it was that guy in front of you!”
I say, “The guy with the red jacket?”
She says, “Yes! oh what can I do, I can’t leave my desk!”
I say, “If I see him in the parking lot I’ll let him know it’s here. He’ll be back.”

After all, he only bought one thing. I’d notice if I got to my car and had no bag but less money – what am I doing? Where am I?

So I leave, expecting to see him running back, smacking himself in the head for being so forgetful and granting me a wry smile acknowledging his idiocy. But I don’t see him.

When I get closer to my car, I see him. Poor buddy had to park right across from me in the lot – such an insult to him! He is in his car and has started it already. He has a black lab in the passenger seat. It is cute – no qualifications, dogs are cute. I wave at him and he gives me a look that I can’t even begin to interpret in words. Suffice to say, it isn’t a wry smile acknowledging his idiocy.

He rolls down his window. A little. Like they say to if you’re in a dark alley and some guy with a knife approaches.

I say, “I think you left your meat in the store.”
He says, “Thanks,” hardly seems surprised at all, pulls back into the parking spot & runs back to the store.

I get in my car and drive home. I feel like I have won something, I guess because he was in such a crap-my-pants hurry but I still got out first. Ha ha superha. Enjoy your seven years of hamburgers.

I’m not one of those people with the catt pictures. Except today.

Our catt is not unlike other catts, I’ve heard, in that he will only drink water from the bathroom sink. At first, we tried to curb this habit. We threw him on the floor with great force. We put a “relaxation fountain” near his food dish so he could lap from a free-running stream. Unfortunately he was too distracted by the little motor in the fountain and gave it a wide berth whenever he came into the kitchen. None of it would do – sometimes the bathtub was all right, though – so eventually we gave up.

The catt drinks from the bathroom sink.

However, he doesn’t lap from the puddles in the sink. He drinks from the bottom of the sink only while the tap is running. Oh sure, his head gets wet. But he doesn’t care.

If you put the stopper in the sink, so that the water can collect and then turn off the tap, he stops in his tracks. He waits. Rubs his head against the faucet. When you turn the water back on – not too much, not too little – he sticks his head back in there and drinks for 10 minutes at a time.

All of this makes him very wet so he shakes himself like a dog (or like a polaroid picture). Thus, I have discovered something he hates more than enclosed spaces: towels. Towels are the enemy. Towels are out to get him, just like they got his mom! Towels are innocent-seeming tools of catt sattan. He likes me, the catt, but if I even think about bringing a towel anywhere near his head, he gets a little mean. Consequently, after a good, long drink from the bathroom tap, the catt looks like this:

…kind of drunk and heavy lidded with the weight of all that fur.

Also, I like to drum on the catt sometimes.