Life – Page 45 – Deborah Makarios

October 9, 2015

My Cat is a Fibre Snob

Let us be honest: cats are weird. There are cats who like to sit on people’s heads; cats who are obsessed with toothbrushes; there are even the famous cats who like to hide in boxes.

My cat (hereinafter “the Cat”) is a fibre snob. Like most cats, she likes to sleep on our bed (or, as she thinks of it, her bed), but she is very particular about what exactly she sleeps on. It was some time before I noticed the trend behind her choice of sleeping location: she prefers wool.

She is particularly pleased when there is a wooly dressing-gown available with the capacity to accommodate her furry middle-aged spread, but if there is no wool in evidence but that of a solitary bed-sock which has wandered off from the herd, she will carefully settle herself on that – even if she overflows it on all sides.

I suppose I should be grateful that she hasn’t shown any interest in occupying said socks during construction – unlike her son (hereinafter “the Kitten”).

But I am quite certain that should I ever be fool enough to take her to a yarn shop, she would within seconds be ensconced in the most expensive yarn present, with a self-satisfied purr emerging from her smug little face. Qiviut, perhaps, or vicuña.

Of course, it could be argued that I am to blame for this snobbish attitude on the part of the Cat. I don’t think I’ve knit anything acrylic since long before she joined the family, nearly six years ago now. And while it is nice to know that she approves of my fibre choices, it is a little annoying that everything I knit ends up as a mixed-fibre piece: lambswool and domestic short-hair; merino/possum/tabby blend…

That’s the downside of tortoiseshell/calico cats: they have hairs to stand out on everything. Knitting something dark? The cat sheds white. Knitting something light? The cat sheds black. And if you think to outwit them by knitting something with flecks, well, they’ve always got the orange to fall back on.

So there she sits, on my dressing-gown or my jersey or the Caped Gooseberry’s bed-socks, shedding madly, legs primly tucked under her in the classic “cat of paradise” position (i.e. no legs).

Incidentally, have you ever wondered what’s actually going on under all that smoothly arranged fur? They look so sleek, so well-arranged, so put-together. Like a swan cruising serenely through the waters.
Well, wonder no more: the internet hath provided.

The secret is out.

October 5, 2015

Texture: Love and Loathe

The odd thing about textures is not that they vary so greatly, or even that some are perceived as pleasant and others less so. The odd thing is that some people will love those which others loathe, and vice versa.

Myself, I cannot stand the texture of foam mattress stuffing. Just the thought of it rubbing against my fingernails makes my skin crawl. Why this should be, I cannot say.

What textures do you love – or loathe?

October 2, 2015

Decluttering My Eyeballs

Warning: if you have a phobia about eyeballs, you probably shouldn’t read this post. Have a complimentary kitten picture, and move along, nothing to see here.

Still with me? On we go.

I didn’t do terribly well with my decluttering in August, and I was hoping things would improve in September. Well, yes and no.

Here’s my list:
one small spray-can of glasses-cleaner
one glasses-cleaning cloth
one glasses case (when I find it, although I may have inadvertently decluttered, i.e. lost, it already)
one pair of glasses
and, if I have all this terminology right:
fourteen and a half dioptres of myopia (eight from my right eye and six and a half from my left)
and six and a half dioptres of astigmatism (five and a quarter from my right eye and one and a quarter from my left)

This was not accomplished, you will doubtless be happy to hear, with secateurs. No; all I had to do was lie on a table and let my eyeballs be carved by lasers: first a flap on the front of each eyeball, and then a divot out of the underlayer of each cornea. Of the hooky metal tool used to lift the flap, I shall say nothing. Nor of the rather unpleasant smell, heavily reminiscent of the drilling of teeth.

The experience, I freely admit, was not a pleasant one, although I did get a barley-sugar for my pains (or more likely my trembles) afterwards. Nonetheless, I think it well worth enduring for the results. From being slightly less blind than a bat (and not even equipped with sonar) I am now possessed of excellent sight in one eye and passable sight in the other, which will improve as it comes to terms with being the shape of a football, instead of, er, a football.

The discomfort was over in hours, and aside from eye-drops and eye-shields (which I shall declutter in due course), I am free to resume my life. An interdiction on reading for the first 24-48 hours was easily surmounted by the acquisition of a stack of audio books (yay for libraries); and a month-long ban on eye makeup doesn’t affect me as I don’t wear makeup anyway. Swimming is also verboten for a month, and I am looking forward to resuming this fun-filled form of exercise – all the more so as I will now be able to find my way from changing-room to pool unaided.

It is really quite a novelty, this clearness of sight. I’m not sure quite when my eyes started to need spectacular assistance (sorry! sorry…) but it must be nearly a quarter of a century now. I could not remember what it was like to wake up and see clearly, instead of waking up and fumbling for glasses or lens case. It really takes some getting used to. I keep finding myself staring at things, not because I’ve never seen them before, but because now I can’t not see. The leaves on the tree across the yard. The edge of the curtain outlined against the street light. Remarkable.