Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Question: If you drive for miles and MILES down the freeway in a snowstorm behind a car with vanity plates reading, “Tropic,” can you blame the snowfall on Universal Irony? Or, better yet, can you blame the drivers of the “Tropic” car?

Confession: Yesterday I did a three’fer. First, in walking the five feet from one room to the adjoining one (in the dark, I grant you – but it was only five feet – RIGHT?) I hit the door-frame with my left cheekbone. I iced that one for a while (I try to keep the bruising OFF of my face as much as possible). It hurt.

Afterward, I had a doctor’s appointment, and I was going to be late (come on, one can FEIGN amazement), so I was running up the stairs from the basement. On the fourth or fifth stair, I somehow tackled BeBe. I, in truth, LANDED ON HER. Now, I’ve stepped on my share of cats (ACCIDENTLY – they DO stand right under your feet sometimes – and they get there so quietly – with “catlike tread,” you know), and have even squashed the wee paws of my own Kitten Children with my clogs that have huge solid wood platform bottoms. They have, thus far, survived without injury. BeBe, however, did not respond well to my substantial mass alighting directly upon her. She ran and hid under the bed in the guest room. In my defense, I must point out that BeBe is INVISIBLE in dim light (or, as one might logically conclude, in the dark), so I could NOT see her at all. I HAD to check and see if she had any serious injury, but she would NOT come out from under the bed. Usually, the rattling of tartar-control treats in a little Tupperware® container causes her to come running from ANY part of the house; if she’s beneath the bed she will pop out so fast you’d think there was a fire under there. But she was evidently too traumatized to respond even to the alluring clatter of TARTAR-CONTROL TREATS! I beseeched and entreated and cajoled, but she was having NONE of it. She’d eat a treat from my hand if I put it right in front of her (with a look on her face like she was doing me a HUGE favour) but that was it. Finally, I had to DRAG her from under the bed to see if her small limbs were intact. After a very cursory examination she ran away so quickly that I was left with the impression that she had no critical wounds. But MY knee hurt.

Lastly, I was in an examination room at the doctor’s office, waiting for my physician to finish with her previous patient. I somehow FLUNG the contents of my largish water bottle to the ground. On its way, it managed to THOROUGHLY soak the chair and chair seat (and my generous posterior in the process), saturate the paperwork on the OTHER side of me, and make a huge puddle on the floor. I used about a bazillion paper towels in the process of soaking it up. When my doctor came in, the floor had a large area covered in spread-out paper towels and I was sitting on a paper towel “cushion.” Upon entering, she asked, “How are YOU?” And I said, in a VERY tragic voice (as though announcing the heartrending deaths of EVERYONE related to me), “I just spilled my water all over.” I have a sneaking suspicion that I ended up with stronger medication than I might have if I hadn’t opened that way. (It was “medication assessment” visit – you know – where I go and say, “That didn’t really work either, but at least it didn’t make me want to hurt anyone or have overwhelming and obsessive thoughts of death.” That’s how it’s gone for the past four years, at any rate.)

Okay, SECRETLY I have one more question. Does this material really appeal to anyone’s perverse sense of amusement? At least then my hurts and wounds and STUPIDITY would have a purpose…

Nearly a year ago I asserted that today’s teenagers were not “fair dinkum.” I would like to correct that sweeping generalization. Let me say that about fifty percent of teenagers today ARE fair dinkum and the other half – well, let’s just say they aren’t going to win any humanitarian, philanthropist, “good Samaritan” awards any time soon. REPROBATES!!! Perhaps that’s a little strong (then again, perhaps NOT – DEGENERATES).

Let me attempt to explain how I came to this amended conclusion. Ironically, it was prompted by two separate incidents from the very same day. Let’s see – good first, then bad? Or bad, then good? Hmmm. The bad is probably more amusing…

As I mentioned the other day, William’s wee (SO tiny) little dog Zeke had gone missing. Everyone was very concerned, particularly because he was not wearing his collar, and if someone took him in they wouldn’t necessarily think to search for a microchip. Moreover, if you weren’t looking closely you could step right on him (oooooh!), not to mention the threat of cars and trucks and SUV’s of death AND cougars (we DO have cougars here – don’t laugh – and Zeke would be a perfect, bite-sized hors d’oeuvre for a big cat like that). Therefore, many flyers were distributed and posted and so forth. As luck would have it, a teenager (guess YOURSELF whether this individual is a wretched troublemaker or not) found itsy-bitsy Zeke (he really is a diminutive, miniscule, teeny lil’ pooch – I’m myopic and if I weren’t wearing my glasses he’d probably be almost invisible) after he’d wandered clear down past Geneva Road. He’d been out all night; he was freezing and terrified, as well as filthy and wet. This teenager bathed him, tried to get him to eat, and attempted to comfort the little nipper. Fortuitously, this individual attends the same school as Sarah and William, so they saw one of the posters and called Shirleen immediately. ALL LAUDS AND HONOURS TO THIS TEENAGER AND ALL ACCOMPLICES THEREOF.

As for the OTHER half, I SPIT ON YOU! I BLOW MY NOSE IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION (Well, I am at the moment beset by allergies, so I must blow my nose in SOMEONE’S direction – why not in the general – nay, PRECISE – direction of good-for-nothing rascals)!!! Here’s the bottom line: I was trying to rescue a bird from the wood stove chimney, and I almost had a BIG FAT ACCIDENT – not my usual little smidgen of a mishap, but a SERIOUS CONCRETE CALAMITY.

See, the bird was in the chimney. I’d wondered why my Kitten Children were paying unusually close attention to the wood stove (Fiona stands up on the stove behind the chimney when it rains as though it were the most scintillating phenomenon in the world, but it was NOT raining), and then I heard wings beating. I opened the flue and removed some of the lining bricks from the inside of the stove thinking that if I could get the bird INSIDE the stove that I could get it into a box and then outside. But the bird didn’t listen to my knocking and beckoning and such. I realized that I’d have to get on the roof to get a better view from above of what was happening. Besides, that chimney is completely overgrown with grapevines, which probably caused the befuddled entry of the wayward bird down the chimney in the first place. I collected my tools: leather work gloves, medical gloves, a container of suet, a flashlight, a ladder and a pitchfork. I put on my sunglasses and a germ-barrier mask (oh, the things to which you have access because of cancer patients…) – you know – because of the avian flu (NOT “flue,” like where the bird was stuck or “flew,” no doubt what the bird wished it had done) and I was ready to go. I quickly recognized that I needed some extra height to get to the roof using the ladder I’d found, so I set up on the front porch. This may sound ill-advised, imprudent, a tad reckless, and – oh – to call a spade a spade – REALLY, REALLY STUPID. But I thought I could get away with it. I donned the gloves (medical gloves on the inside, naturally), and first put my other supplies on the roof. Then I attempted to climb up myself. This involved some tricky maneuvering past the rain gutter, as I had to perch the ladder dangerously close to the porch edge in order to avoid the overhang. Just when I though I’d figured it out – I had one hand ON the roof, the other grasping one of the big bolts that runs through the rain gutter (very secure, thankfully), the ladder started to teeter – and I don’t mean wobble just a bit – I mean it was lurching – and not TOWARDS the house, but OFF THE PORCH. I managed to glance down and saw that one of the legs of the ladder had somehow become wedged up on the bottom of the porch railing, and I was basically trying to re-balance it (or CATCH it, even) with one foot (the other I’d taken off to boost myself up). I was, in essence, hanging from the roof. I, at this point, intoned a little mantra of a quickly repeated curse word (appropriate for the occasion, I might argue). It was something along the lines of, “Oh, blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity.” I also said, “Help me, Help me,” but I admit I was too embarrassed to, in fact, scream for assistance, so it was more of a timorous little, “Hey – help me? Help me – I could fall and injure myself MIGHTELY, but I wouldn’t want to trouble anyone too much with MY insignificant problems.”

Enter the reprobates (to, I think, faint strains of Send in the Clowns). The bus for one of the junior high schools picks ups and drops off right next door. Just as I was perilously dangling and wobbling and swearing and whatnot, the school bus showed up and the students began to de-bus (you “de-plane” – therefore one should “de-bus,” yes?). They casually walked away from the vehicle in little groups, this way and that, hither and thither, having deep conversations along the lines of (please imagine the droll accent I would use to recount their banter if we were face to face):

I can’t BELIEVE she said that! And then he goes, “I broke up with YOU.” I about PEED MY PANTS. AND did you see that she copied my new outfit – she always copies me – it is so LAME. And she looks like such a POSER! But he is such a HOTTY!

So help me, not ONE of the little cliques even gave me a sideways glance! Shirleen said later, “But they are raised to stay away from crazy people who frighten them.” She thought the swearing might have scared them, too. But I must answer to both counts: THEY GO TO JUNIOR HIGH. As though they don’t hear CUSSING in JUNIOR HIGH. And as though JUNIOR HIGH is not the most FRIGHTENING PLACE IN THE WORLD. Are they really going to be daunted by an unsteadily suspended “Lady” – they would all call me Ma’am – that’s if they had manners – but I just KNOW they would call me “Ma’am” because I’m “old.” I am, as it happens, evidently unworthy of their slightest attention. I honestly think the ladder could have toppled off the porch, I could have fallen TO the porch and then “KERBANG, KERBANG, KERBANG” down the cement stairs (more math – as I’m a scientist – “kerplunk” + “bang” = “KERBANG” – which is a necessary term for HARD smash ups) and not a single little neophyte would have batted an eyelash.

I did, somehow, manage to steady the ladder with my foot and pull it off the porch railing. Then I proceeded to climb up onto the roof (after all that I was GOING TO DO IT NO MATTER WHAT). I assaulted the vines with the pitchfork and my bare (okay, gloved) hands. I had to throw one nest off the roof (it was right next to the chimney – it had to be done). Then, I took off the work gloves, opened the suet, and hurled it off the roof as a peace offering to the poor creatures whose beloved homes I had to destroy (you were wondering why I needed medical gloves – were you not? Suet is greasy, GREASY, so I used and then discarded those gloves to open the package). Work gloves back on, I yanked and whacked and pulled and pushed until the chimney was free of vines. I did leave a HUGE overhang of branches that I just pushed off the roof edge with the pitchfork (we later chopped the top off) because I didn’t want to disturb the nests down inside any more than necessary. When the chimney was clear, I took the flashlight – which, ironically, worked PERFECTLY on the ground and suddenly was exceptionally DIM and tried to see where my bird friend was caught. I thought perhaps I caught a glimpse of it on a small ledge that’s must above the stove chimney, but I couldn’t be sure. So then I started talking down the chimney – you know, the things you say to rescue wildlife – “Little birdie – GO DOWN! Little birdie – GO DOWN IN THE STOVE SO WE CAN RESCUE YOU!!!” The disembodied voice wafting from the stove apparently scared the hell out of Shirleen, who’d come over after picking up Zeke from his rescue champions. She came to see WHAT ON EARTH was happening on the roof. This was, indeed, providential, as I called down the chimney for her assistance (in holding the ladder) when I was finished de-vining.

So, as I’ve CLEARLY proven, some teenagers are fair dinkum, and some are VILE, DESPICABLE REPROBATES. Hmmm. Perhaps this is a good metaphor for ALL humanity; half fair dinkum (lauds and honours to YOU – and you know who you are), and the other half consists of base and debauched, slimy gobs of putrescent pond scum on legs. Now I am a scientist AND a philosopher.

In the end, don’t you think we’ve all learned something? I’ve learned, with a deep and abiding conviction, THAT DAMN BIRD IS STILL IN THE CHIMNEY. All my beseeching, imploring and Morse code tapping (ha – didn’t really do that – people these days don’t know the simplest Morse Code, our avian friends shouldn’t be expected to do any better) was for naught. I currently am devising a plan wherein I climb onto the roof again (with ASSISTANCE, I promise), give the bird one more verbal request to kindly move down into the stove (if it’s not dead already – how poignant!), and if it does not or cannot move, I thought I could knock it off the ledge with one of William’s Airzookas (the “fun gun”).

Need I say I am OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS?

One should LISTEN when the gem and rock shop (that’s literally ROCKS – stones, fossils, gems) man (I call him the “rock man”) tells you to always use water when drilling stone with a diamond bit. Though I am Kate the Safety Dog I could not figure out how to use water while simultaneously using a tool THAT PLUGS INTO AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET (I suppose I’ve read too many of those safety warnings that accompany hair dryers and radios that tell you not to take appliances with you into a tub full of water) so I just blithely drilled away. I WAS wearing eye protection (and feeling silly about it – even though I am Kate the Safety Dog), and it turned out to be very providential.

You see, if you DO NOT use water while drilling stone with the diamond drill bit, the stone and the bit shaft will reach incredible temperatures. Suddenly, the stone will shatter into two pieces with the diamond portion of the bit stuck into it (melded, perhaps, by the extraordinary heat?). The broken piece, inconveniently released from the vise, will shoot into the air, hit your protective eye gear (See? I could have put an eye out), land in your lap, burning you through the towel sitting there AND your silk pajama bottoms, and then it will disappear completely (perhaps transported by intense temperature to an alternate dimension). This makes one squeal and is dangerous.

Today, when I went to replace the diamond drill bit, I deigned to ask another “rock man” HOW to use water while using an electrical tool. He told me to spit on the bit (which rhymes – how fun). He also explained several methods by which water could safely be delivered to a stone you are drilling so that white-hot pieces of Tiger’s Eye don’t burn your extremities. We then had a very interesting discussion during which I observed that, though I wouldn’t have thought of using saliva as a drilling lubricant, it may even be superior to water because it is more viscous (take THAT those of you who think I’m excessively germ phobic). I now have figured out a whole system, which I shan’t explain here, because sometimes I get these ideas which I think are very clever (like long ago when I installed a stereo in our old Datsun and I built the speakers into tupperware containers with somewhat long speaker wires so you could set them wherever you wanted). Every man I ever told about that thought it was completely HILARIOUS. Bloody chauvinists. I maintain that it was extremely versatile and functional AND a most creative use of kitchen storage containers, indeed.

So, basically, please take care, One and All! Watch out for those winter road hazards, keep warm (and remember that a large percentage of your body heat escapes through your head, especially if your noggin is sizable), wash your hands regularly and thoroughly (this is the very FIRST rule in Healthcare Universal Precautions), get your PSA checked every year (if you are a man over forty, that is), be nice to everyone (I’m being sincere – Plato said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”), and, whatever you do, SPIT on your BIT.

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).