Le monde de fromage de Kate

Yeah, yeah – today I fell down. Laugh, cry, I’m better than Cats… I’d like to point out that my Father has fallen down (really taken a tumble – ass over teakettle, so so speak) TWICE in the last month or so. Once hiking. Once down the stairs in Kansas in the middle of the night. Upon both occasions he ended up with bruises, scrapes and cuts (the second time, a fat lip, too) ON HIS FACE. I tend to get the bruises, scrapes and such all over the rest of my body; at least I don’t end up looking like I’ve been roughed up by mob thugs over gambling debts – KNOCK ON WOOD – not about the beat up by hooligans part, but the beat-up face part (let’s be specific – I do not have GAMBLING debts – they are regular, serious idiot consumer debts).

Where was I? Oh yes – it would seem I was falling down in the driveway. I was walking out to the car (perhaps this is all because it wasn’t MY car?), purse open (healthy back bag, I should say), flat shoes, completely sober and medicated to a perfectly acceptable extent. Then, in an instant, I start to crash to the ground. We have two large English Walnut trees in front of the house, so the ground is littered with big yellowish leaves and walnuts galore. I blame the nuts; IT WAS THE NUTS. Also, there’s a particular place in the driveway where it is uneven at the seam – very dangerous.

All of that isn’t really the point. Surprisingly, there IS purpose here (such as it is). The interesting thing about this stumbly tumble is the stunt woman factor. One might well ask, “What in the hell is the ‘Stunt Woman’ Factor?” Here goes: Sometimes, when I am in the process of toppling over, I feel like I’m experiencing it in slow motion. Rather, it’s not really SLOW motion – is there MEDIUM motion? It’s slower than “normal motion,” and certainly not “fast motion.” Yet “medium motion” seems like it would be equivalent to “normal motion,” and that’s not what I experience. I shan’t quibble over terms any longer. I shall call it “middling motion.” ANYHOO, I feel like I’m experiencing the fall in middling motion. For an unknown reason I will feel the impulse to “go with it,” as though it were a staged accident (theoretically you don’t get hurt if you “roll with it,” so to speak). Once I literally did “roll with it.” I could have just landed on the ground, but I rolled over two or three times. No one was watching – thankfully, I suppose – so I don’t know if it looked as usually idiotic as one of my normal tumbles, or if it looked just a LITTLE cool. Today, though, I fell first on my hands, throwing the contents of my purse helter-skelter, and causing many little scrapes and bruises on my palms, and I twisted my left ankle (ALWAYS the LEFT one – what is it with that foot? I think it has it out for me…), I somehow flipped and rolled onto my back (unfortunately not on my particularly well-padded ASS – what else is it good for, damn it!), and somehow landed head down in the leaves. I paused, ever so briefly, in reflection, and then pulled myself together. So now I have wee bruises on my back, too. And there were leaves EVERYWHERE – in my purse, in my hair, all over my clothes. Why, in the moment, did this seem like a the thing to do? I could have just landed on my hands and knees, which took a beating as it is. I just want to know: DID IT LOOK COOL? Somewhere, embedded DEEP in my psyche, is there a stunt woman who pictures each fall from outside my body – as though analyzing the camera angles (no offense, Karate Man)? Maybe I am a stunt woman and not a selective klutz (I won’t go into it, but I DO have moments of amazing grace – not to be confused with the song – just times when I have remarkable poise – that’s why I say “selective klutz”)? Hmmm. I’ve always thought that WAY down deep, in my nougaty center, I am just a huge geek. Perhaps – just perhaps – I’m SECRETELY cool. So secretly, surreptitiously, that even I do not know it. Double hmmm.

No, I am a huge geek.

Sometimes you run across something unusual: an item that actually does what it purports – nary a whit of false advertising. I own such an item – a “foot cutter” by Battalia. “What is a ‘foot cutter?’” one may ask. I will tell you: IT CUTS FEET. More specifically, it is an implement with a very sharp razor blade (German, in this case, though it’s a Korean product) that you use to remove calluses and hardened skin on your feet. I should point out that you are expected to run screaming in fright from any Salon that has the audacity to use this implement. I believe there’s even a health code prohibition of some sort regarding the infamous “foot cutter.”

But in the privacy of one’s home – well – I figured that I, Kate the Safety Dog, could control any infection concerns and follow all crucial instructions. When I got home with the item I found this to be a tad more difficult that I’d expected. For example, here’s one of the items under the heading “Direction”:

• Grab the handle and slice off the corn, callous or hard skin smoothly just like get a shave.

I pondered “just like get a shave” for a bit (as we all know my experience in this area is rather lacking). So quite a while ago, I used my “foot cutter” for the first time. I was tentative at first. I have disgustingly thick calluses on the balls of my feet and my heels as I am wont to gad about barefoot all the time. My left foot, in particular, has this amazing callus that’s about an inch thick on the ball of my foot, because I once ripped a huge, deep flap of skin open on this portion of my foot by catching it on the head of a nail (PEOPLE – when you take up the carpet to expose the hardwood floors again – a sound aesthetic choice – you have to CHANGE the tack strips so that they aren’t too high and don’t have FEET HAZARDS). Anyhoo, after this apt reminder to get a tetanus shot (and being ridiculed by a medical student for my, perhaps, over-zealous bandaging), my left foot healed with this bizarre, extra, EXTRA-dense callus. After a while, I blithely began to peel my feet like pedicure potatoes. What fun! Then, as you might conjecture, I got – shall we say – carried away. I discovered that the “foot cutter” is not called the “toe cutter” for a reason. Oh, it WILL very easily cut a toe; it will practically amputate a small one. It’s just that, PERHAPS, one is not intended to slice portions of one’s toes clean off. And yes, I did. This tool has a “sharp long lasting blade made in Germany,” so it was a nice clean cut. It then seemed like a good time to put the “foot cutter” away for a while.

Today, however, I got this overwhelming pedicurial hankering. I got out all my minty-fresh pedicure soaks and lotions and brushes and pumice wands and such. Then I thought, “If I avoid my toes I should be just fine with the ‘foot cutter.’” I carefully put in a clean, sharp blade. I warily proceded “just like get a shave.” And for a while, I was perfectly competent. Huzzah! Peeling strips of skin galore – disgusting, perhaps, but simultaneously gratifying. I did avoid my toes altogether. Unfortunately, I did not remind myself of the section of the “foot cutter” package entitled “Warning”:

• Very sharp implement, keep it beyond children’s reach.
• Not to be used on wounded or injured skin.
• Please cover blade and store in a clean dry place when not in use to avoid injury.
• The blade has a very sharp edge, so use it with caution when replacing.
• If the consumer used it strongly or by compulsion, it can be injured to your feet.
• Use gently to avoid any type of injury.

Ah. Six statements, each with either the word “sharp,” “injury,” or BOTH, that in essence assert that the “foot cutter” is, without a doubt, a deadly weapon that should probably be regulated and licensed (I figure I would not qualify for this license – I’d pass the written test, but the practical test – ooh boy). “Cutting” straight to the point (ha ha ha?); I sliced a substantial chunk out of the side of my left foot (a nice CLEAN chunk…). I then proceeded to stick my foot back in the bathtub full of very warm water. This makes for an impressive amount of bleeding from a wound that is neither life nor limb-threatening. Whoops. I admit – I had, perchance, “used it strongly or by compulsion,” and “it can [and WAS] be injured to your feet.” Yes, a “foot cutter” does, undeniably, cut your foot. Thank you, Battalia, for your honest advertising.

You are not mistaken; I am indeed blog tweaking.  It all started a few weeks ago when I decided to "streamline" my categories.  I accomplished this, naturally, by deleting one category, adding approximately thirteen more and then just flinging entries about left and right.

Well, lauds and honours and all wondrous rewards to the Mighty Guru of all Computerish and Many Other Things, Grettir the Strong (and brave and PATIENT).  He rescued my disastrous attempt at a theme change with "Style-catcher."  Beware of comprehensive plug-ins, say I!!  Then he helped me tweak bunches and bunches of things.  He even tried to rescue my purple (I spent hours futzing with it and got so overwhelmed with it that I just pasted an original style-sheet over it).  Unfortunately, since I am a messer-upper extraordinaire, I didn’t realize that I had two style template windows open and I saved changes to the WRONG ONE, thus undoing all his nice purpling and professional tweaking.  Tomorrow, when my eyes don’t hurt from comparing "browser-safe" hex codes and background patterns (that I now DETEST) I shall try to make my cheese pretty.

The funny thing about the purple is that I used it in the first place because I insist on having this banner at the top of every page:

And since purple is the complimentary color of yellow….

It’s a good thing I’m only selectively anal compulsive.

I have a grommet injury. It would be a completely unremarkable injury (especially pour moi), excepting I still – weeks later – have what I thought was a blood blister on my finger (it’s dark and bloody-looking, but it never turned into a blister – technically, I can’t say what it is). I could hold this finger in the air and say, “Look at my festive grommet wound,” but you might be offended (given that it’s on THAT finger).

Pathetically, I caused this injury while applying tiny scrapbooking grommets. It might have been impressive to have been wounded had I been using sail cloth, a gargantuan hammer and grommets the size of hamburger patties. Nope – tiny grommets and an elfin-sized hammer. I believe the wee cobbler in that kid’s song uses a hammer this exact size. You know – the “rap-a-tap-tap” shoemaker? Wait – is he a “wee little man” or is he a “wee little elf”? I know that there were elves who played an integral part in historic story-telling shoemaking by some means. Perhaps it was they who took over in that story where the shoemaker can’t get all the shoes made, so he falls asleep (perhaps he can’t finish his work because he has a substance abuse problem – hard to say) and the elves made all the wee shoes. At least he was grateful – that LUSH!

Anyhoo, it was rather a small hammer; but don’t think it didn’t pack quite a punch! I have the mysterious and enduring lesion to prove it.

Oh, the life of COMPLETE EXHILARATION I lead! Thrills all day, chills all night – it’s quite remarkable.

I give up. Beautiful Kenji, my 2003 Opal Silver Blue Metallic Honda Civic Hybrid, shall henceforth be known as “The Deli Sedan.”

One might think that I’d not fallen down or had any other sort of unfortunate mishap since May 3, 2005. Rest assured, this is NOT the case. I am covered with my accustomed number of bruises (mysterious and otherwise). I broke a glass last week. On another occasion I broke a plate (A CORELLE® plate – “break resistant” my ass – I believe that “break-resistant” by their definition means, “Will not break into normal pieces like other dishes but will shatter so that every single broken shard has a deadly knife-like point”). I have dropped the contents of full ice-trays at least three times recently. I’ve spilled plenty of…everything. I also got overly aggressive with some “no-pain, no burn” eyebrow “waxing” stickers. For a few days it looked like I had eyelid leprosy (now they are just suspiciously flaky). BUT I’ve decided that if I regaled my readership (and they say I’m not an optimist) with every tiny little accident that I suffered it would not be at ALL interesting (this is, naturally, operating under the premise that ANY of my calamities ARE interesting in any way).

Never fear, I do have something for you today. Amusingly enough, I was not the faller or spiller or bruiser or whatnot – it was my PARENTS! I was merely the unlucky victim. My Mother and Father had taken a deli tray to some sort of potluck festivity (using my car). When putting the tray on the backseat floor, my Father did not securely fasten the lid onto the sandwich spread (some variety of seedy, vinegary, mustard imbued concoction). My Mother attempted to clean this substance from the floor, where it had mostly soaked into the floor mat. This begs the question: Why was my Mother cleaning up the spill that was my Father’s fault, especially considering that she cannot move without the assistance of a walker right now? I suppose that’s a topic for another day (and it brings up some stories that just embarrass the HELL out of my Father) – tee hee.

The next day I got into my car, intending to keep a couple of appointments in Salt Lake City. I was assailed immediately by the strongest vinegar/mustard/mystery-substance odour that I’ve ever experienced. I called my Mother just to confirm that I was not being poisoned by anything and she explained what had happened. The stench, though, was so overwhelming that I had to cancel my appointments, turn around, and immediately drive to the nearest super-duper car wash. I had the mats and carpets shampooed after I had the exterior washed. I even condescended to use one of those tree-shaped “air fresheners” that I tend to dislike. Of the myriad choices I opted for the “vanilla” scent. Now my car is redolent of baking. That makes no sense, I know, but it’s as logical as, for instance, “piña colada” scent (“No, officer, we are not having a drunken fiesta – it’s just piña colada air freshener in the shape of a tree, naturally.”) Anyhoo, I left the windows open on the car as directed; I put the mats in the sun to dry as I was instructed. The car itself did smell better. The mat from the back seat, however, still absolutely reeked! I left the mats out of the car and let them air out for a few days but to no avail. Yesterday I went back to the super-duper car wash and had them re-wash the carpets and the mats. What do you know – when the mats were dry the back seat one STILL stunk to high heaven.

This is where I got creative (in this scenario creative=desperate). I tried special extra-strength pet odour/stain cleaner – the type that comes with two separate canisters. Don’t you just LOVE that? Are they asserting that the cleaner is made of two such potent substances that they CANNOT possibly touch until they are directed at the appropriate filth or some radical explosion will occur (like all those bright pink explosives in the movies – you’re done for when the fuchsia pink chemicals mix with the others you are DONE FOR! Rabies vaccine is the same colour, incidentally, so maybe they are giant rabies bombs). Super-explosive pet cleaner didn’t work. Next I tried extra-strength Febreze®. Numerous applications didn’t make any difference. I resorted, next, to the kind of cleaning product that I usually assiduously shun – super-toxic death chemical inventions that take up more space on the container with alarming warnings of death and destruction than with instructions. Yes, I purchased an automobile interior “cleaner/deodorizer” that alleged it would not only get rid of any stain and/or questionable aromas, but it would also prevent future stench. And if you think I’m being a chemical pansy (or an overbearing, tree-hugging ecologist) I should tell you that just the propellant for this stuff contains butane AND propane (does it function as a barbecue or a rocket or a lighter as well?). So yesterday, with this caustic death substance, I shampooed the HELL out of the car mat (using mountains of scary foam and scrubbing endlessly with the brush from the cap). I was theoretically supposed to remove excess cleaner with a damp cloth, but I’d finally loaded the thing with so many death-bubbles that I took a hose and sprayed the thing until it didn’t foam anymore. Fear not – I figured since they say you should wash your car on the lawn (if you insist on doing it at home) so that all the cleaners and gunk don’t end up in the ground water that rinsing that mat on the lawn would probably serve the same purpose. Perhaps we should not tell my Father? Then again, he was the spiller culprit in the first place.

Today I went to smell the mat under the delusion that it couldn’t POSSIBLY contain a single molecule of the mustard/vinegar/spackle (?) dressing. I was mistaken. I’ve decided that this is FOR CERTAIN the material one should use if they need to permanently tag an item with some kind of scent (and they don’t care if it makes you ill to smell it for too long in a confined space). I hit the thing again with oodles and oodles of extra-strength Febreze®. Nope. It was time for more hazardous chemicals. After I’d scrubbed the thing until I was utterly wracked with pain and still found an alarming number of the little mustardy seeds on the scrubbing implement, I gave up. I hosed the mat (on the lawn again) thoroughly, to say the least. It’s been in the sun again for hours. To tell the truth, I’m afraid to go and smell it, so I shall just leave you in suspense in regards to the success or failure of my pollutive efforts. You are welcome to contact me for the results later, as I’m sure all y’all are on pins and needles with unbearable curiosity about this matter. Oh, the life I lead.

Yesterday I dropped a bag of groceries on my bare feet. Had it been anyone else in the whole WIDE WORLD, it might have been a parcel of marshmallows, bunches of parsley and ten or so Kool-Aid™ packets – perhaps several teensy fluffy pillows? ‘Twas I, though, so it was a bag full of one-pound tin cans (at least nine). The sailor-like invectives flew in a blue cloud about the kitchen, as I bemoaned the inferior quality of those damn grocery sacks with handles and how they break at the most inconvenient moments. And I did the dance of the bruised (must be said as two syllables in Shakespearean fashion) feet. Yes, it might seem illogical or contraindicated to dance on your bruised (remember- two syllables) feet, but one cannot help it. Woe is me.

Here’s the best part: The bag did not break. I, through my extraordinary and UNEQUALLED talent, had managed to empty the bag’s contents on my feet, WITHOUT BREAKING A THING! I’m magic, a little. Some day I will learn to use my powers for good (like Oprah).

I got stuck under the bed tonight – most of me, that is (my legs stayed outside – they danced a jig and spitefully mocked the rest of my body – I’ve always hated my legs). Please don’t ask how this occurred, exactly; I’m not sure I understand it myself. I just have one thing to say about teenagers these days (how freakin’ old does THAT make me sound): they are DEAF. My fourteen-year-old nephew was in the room directly above me. I yelled (with appropriate diaphragmatic support, of course) and banged out “SOS” with a metal bed support on the metal bed frame for at a good half an hour (which was LOUD – I had to plug an ear most of the time I pounded). He didn’t hear a thing. I did manage to wriggle out, obviously, but I made HIM squeeze back under the bed to fix the contraption that I was trying to fix when I unscrewed the middle support and then I couldn’t get out easily without repairing it but all I could reach was a pair of socks and let’s just say that a pair of socks (even if they’re woolen) doesn’t work as well as a wrench when you need to remove a wing nut and a plastic thing-a-ma-bob to fix the thingy (trust me, that is the technical term).
Thank god a grand piano or something didn’t fall on me; I would have out of luck.

One might think I’d not had a mishap since the Ides of March, and I might choose to let them go on in blissful ignorance of the fact that I still manage, on a recurring basis, to damage myself in various tumbles and collisions galore. For instance, in the space of less than a month, I twisted the same ankle four (five?) times (impressively, I managed to continue damaging it even though I was wearing a brace on it during all but the original incident). First, I fell down the stairs with two heavy bags (prompting me to say many quite spicy cuss/swear-type words at the First Unitarian Church – though I acknowledge that if you’re going to let a blue streak fly in any house of worship that’s undoubtedly the best place to do it). In my defense, I was trying to discern whether a refuse can at the bottom was for garbage or recycling – let’s just say that in my concentration on the damn rubbish container I seriously misjudged WHERE the bottom of the stairs were. A week or so later I fell up some concrete porch stairs (thank you for keeping the snickering tacit, Grettir, and managing to express concern while gracefully smothering what I must admit would have been well-deserved laughter). Then, one of my favorite tall clogs inexplicably broke causing me to crash into a wood pile outside a grocery store. I claim amnesia or the Fifth or something concerning the rest of the wrenchings.

I guess the point is that I don’t want my penchant for inadvertent personal abuse to become tedious or mundane. So I’ll just share the calamities that have some interesting aspect to them. For instance, today I was walking out of a room with one of my kitten children (Ms. Fiona Maura MacArthur) and I fell down (okay – for no apparent reason) and flung the medium-wee cat in the air. She, naturally, landed soundly on all four feet (paws). I landed on my well-padded… ah hell – I should just call it my “landing pad.” The kitten child and I were both unhurt, but she did look at me very quizzically, as if to say, “You’re supposed to land on your PAWS!”

Undeniably, I fall and spill and damage myself and the objects around me quite regularly. But today I did something very special. Interestingly enough, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the pasta bar at lunch. I did get marinara on my white shirt (a noteworthy spot on the upper sleeve – I think that just has to be some sort of conspiracy) and some on one cuff – and this was before I ate a single bite.

The extraordinary event, in point of fact, had nothing to do with food or beverages or rough pavement or invisible people (I think) or anything of the sort. Today I inked a stamp on its felt pad and promptly dropped it stamp-side down onto my belly. It’s too blurry to read, but it says, “ANSWERED MARCH 15 2004.” You might wonder whether this episode really was out of character for me (given the questionable grace with which I conduct my day to day life). I have drawn on myself with ink pens (of various colors) on more than one occasion. I’ve written on myself with pencil, too. Nonetheless, I have never, in all the years I have used date stamps and stamps that say “DRAFT” and “COPY” and “FAXED 2/3/2001” and “COMPLETED NOVEMBER 2002” – rubber stamps that are self-inking or not – stamps that are red or blue or black, inadvertently stamped myself.

Make of it what you will. I just want to know what my stomach was asking me and by what means I satisfied its query.