Tiger & the Bear Trap

I have often maintained that Tiger, the wonder cat, is not of this earth (see early blogs on this matter from last year).  Support for my belief continues to accumulate.


Just last evening, while doing a perfectly normal cat thing - scavenging the trash behind our backs  for that recently discarded bit of pork chop - he somehow managed to pry the under sink trash  cabinet door open, grab the beckoning bit of pork, and somehow (slip? - hard to believe) wedge his hind foot between the top of the door and door jamb, ending up dangling upside down screaming his precious little head off.


Curmudgeon to the rescue, I raced (think Tim Conway playing the old man on the Carol Burnett show) to his side and wrenched his paw free, oblivious to the pain of claws flying everywhere in his desperate efforts to free himself.


Whew.  But Tiger was limping and trying to hold the offending foot off the floor. The debate started.  Coach Curmudgeon said "let him walk it off."  The Curmudgeon's sainted wife, meanwhile, was running around in circles screaming "to the emergency room," "get him an x-ray," "where is there a cat MRI," or words to that effect.  So off to the Vet.  The doctor suspected a broken toe (not on the cat from Planet X, thought I), and offered to do an x-ray - "just a couple hundred bucks for us to be sure."  Ever on the alert, I cleverly inquired how that would change her treatment plan.  It wouldn't - she would still just wrap his foot, pump some painkillers in and have us watch him.


We set him up at home and retired, it having been an adventurous evening.  I suspect, as ever, he beamed home and was cured, because this morning he is as active as ever, jumping around, breaking things, sliding magazines off the coffee table - the usual.  He showed us!

Telephone Etiquette

The telephone was invented during my Grandparent's life.  Their generation viewed it with awe - "I'm gettIng a call!  How exciting!!"  During my folks's generation, it became  an essential tool of life, with its own personality - when it rang, you dropped everything and answered it.  There was excitement - who might it be?  Must be urgent - can't miss it.

My generation invented the answering machine.  The phone became controllable - one could "screen" calls.  This was right up a curmudgeon's alley.  Now we were getting somewhere!  No more did the phone rule our behavior - we could call that party back at OUR leisure, if at all.  But, as with all progress, there was a price - how long can you put off returning certain calls without insulting erstwhile phoners, like family members and such?  What is the proper etiquette?  Emily Post was dead - social chaos would certainly ensue.

Then came cell phones and caller ID.  Now we were cooking!  Complete control of the conversation - a curmudgeon's phone heaven, if you will.  But let's be honest, annoying calls still happened.

Well, I've just discovered the "Block This Caller" feature.  Yow.  Now the telephone is my ally, complicit in my personal phone etiquette shenanigans.  Go ahead, try calling me - you'll never know where you landed.

The Pop-In Part 2

There is a type of pop-in that deserves its own special mention.  This is where very good friends who live like 1/2 hour away are out for a Sunday jaunt and find themselves "in the neighborhood."  But, knowing the curmudgeon's opinion of the pop-in (remember, good friends and all) decide to do a drive-by.  


Here's where it all falls apart - during the drive-by, I happen to be out in front of my house, and SEE them.  Surprised, and fighting the temptation to duck out of sight, they get a belated feeble wave in, turn around and swing back for the now inevitable pop. Now we're all in a fix, aren't we?  How will they explain being so close but not simply using that nifty invention, the cellphone, to call ahead?  Should I be happy they're visiting or insulted they were trying to sneak by without stopping? 


 Man, the pop-in can be a brain-freeze.

Checks & Groceries

I try to do my bit around the house, "bit" being a well-chosen descriptor.  Nonetheless, in that spirit, I help out with the grocery shopping.  You get to know your store's layout, bring a list, and things go smoothly...until, whilst innocently waiting in the checkout line, some benighted shopper in line ahead of you still living in the last century drags out her checkbook.

I realize some of my faithful readers will cry "you said HER!" but I must patiently point out that in some 30 years of observing this behavior, the one constant is that it is invariably a woman.  With the speed of today's checkouts, the ceremony of looking through a purse, dragging out a checkbook, fumbling for a pen, writing the damned thing - all AFTER checkout is complete rather than simultaneously - wears pretty thin.

There should be special lanes for check writers.  Then they can waste each others' time at will.

Lawn Tchotchkes

What is it with people who feel lawns aren't complete unless they have a sufficiently gaudy display of tchotchkes?  Apparently well-mown grass, the nice patriotic touch of a flag or a discrete address plaque don't suffice.

And how many tchotchkes is too many?  Permit me to hazard an answer - one.  Is the size of the front lawn a factor in this calculation?  One would posit no, considering the answer just hazarded.  But the prevailing practice appears to be the smaller the space, the more's the merrier.  They sprout like weeds: gnomes, elves, sleeping cats, "design elements" that defy both good taste and categorization at the same time - the list is apparently endless.

Then there are the seasonal collections.  Ye gods, where do people store all this stuff?  After all, there is an inverse relationship between the size of the house & lawn and the size of the display.

Be on guard - these things sneak up on you as you drive around and are dangerously distracting.