Sunday, January 28, 2007

crazy cat lady



Lately, as in, since my household went two-cat last October, I've been giving a lot of thought to the exact location of the line between conscientious pet owner and crazy cat lady.

To date, I'm happy to report, I'm leaning far more toward "conscientious" than "crazy" in the estimation of the only person whose opinion matters to me - that is, me.

And yet, when you find yourself monitoring cat bowel movements, or cleaning up after said bowel movements, or cleaning up cat pee (both events referred to, by cat experts, as "inappropriate eliminations," a euphemism that could apply to anything from accidentally deleting an email to shooting the wrong South American socialist dictator) you start to wonder... Wait, I can turn this into the beginning of a Sex and the City episode. "And then I asked myself, 'Does cleaning cat shit off the storage room floor make me a crazy cat lady?'" (This would be followed by a half hour of cat-related hijinx - Charlotte would embroider one, Miranda would sue one, Samantha would f...ind one - at the end of which Carrie would conclude, "And then I realized, it's okay to be a crazy cat lady, as long as your friends are all batshit too.")

I think any woman acquiring a second cat has a moment's pause. A moment when she pictures herself in an apartment with 30 cats, each of whom is named for an actual member of her extended family and for all of whom she's knitted slippers.

I can't knit, which could save me. But the slippers aren't really integral to this type of madness - it could also take the form of baking them little cat-size lasagnes, or raising mice to feed them. Just because you don't think you're God doesn't mean you don't think you're Napoleon, if you know what I mean.

Sheer numbers seem to be the obvious warning sign of impending cat mania, and as long as I stick to two, I think I should be fine. I will ask a friend - probably a dog-person - to intervene if I show signs of acquiring a third. Or a 15th. Dog people would happily step in. They never get the whole cat thing anyway. They think you'd be just as well off keeping your Christmas carp year round as getting a cat, for all the affection you get, but this shows just how wrong they are because 1) cats are VERY affectionate, they just need everything to be on their terms, like Israel; and 2) carp must be kept in the bathtub which means ownership of even one would immediately catapult you into crazy (not to mention smelly) carp lady territory.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

running (shoe) commentary

The adidas company, purveyor of fine running shoes, posted 9M 2005 sales of EUR 1.924 billion (up 9% year-on-year). Sales were up in all regions EXCEPT EUROPE (the all-caps are mine, adidas apparently doesn't announce its quarterly results like a 14-year-old girl writing in her diary, which is - as I'm sure you've noticed by now - the way I write this blog).

I should really save this insight and sell it to adidas for top dollar, but I've always been profligate with my insight, so why stop now? adidas' sales are not increasing in Europe because its salespeople at the Na prikope store in Prague 1 ARE CRAP.


Did you get that, adidas-Salomon AG chairman and CEO Herbert Hainer?

CRAP.

I should know. I've been shopping there regularly for the past 10 years.

I have never dealt with the same person twice in the Na prikope store, which is always a bad sign (management obviously does not know the secret to employee retention i.e. TAKE THEIR PASSPORTS) but the shoe-buying scenario is always exactly the same. I walk in and find the model I want to try (the falcon or the cheetah or the hungry housecat - this last doesn't exist but it should, in terms of land speed, few animals can match the velocity of a housecat that's been waiting since 5 p.m. to be fed while you've been out gallivanting). I pull out my telescope and scan for a salesclerk. I spot one, half hidden, eating a crocodile sandwich behind a cardboard cutout of Martina Navratilova. I ask if it would be possible to try this model in a size 38. And that's when the fun begins, because the clerk, male or female, old or young, mildly autistic or full-on retarded, always responds in the same way: he (or she) checks the tag on the display shoe to see if it's the size I want.

Dear readers, I am not blind nor do I have difficulty recognizing numbers and figures: I have read the tag on the display shoe myself. I know it is not the size I want. I know it is two sizes larger (or smaller) than the size I want, but I also know that if it's anywhere within a three-size spread, I will be invited to try it on, just to save our special little adidas friend a trip to the stock room.

Now that I've grown wise to their ways, I will sometimes, if the shoe actually is a 38, try it on. It's a start, but trying one shoe just isn't enough for me. I'm demanding that way - if I'm going to BUY two shoes (and that's generally the way I buy shoes) I want to TRY two shoes. I also question the value of trying on a shoe that the clerk has forced on every customer who has expressed interest in that particular model since it's been introduced. I imagine whole families taking turns: Dad forcing his size 44 foot in, the baby fitting both feet in with ease, the dog having an exploratory chew on the heel.

If (and it's not a given) I succeed in convincing the clerk to get me a pair of shoes in my size, he/she will return with one pair of shoes (remember shopping in North America where the clerk would return with the shoes you wanted in your size, the shoes you wanted in a larger size, shoes you didn't want but perhaps should consider in your size, a garden rake, and a box of roofing nails, just in case? Gosh, sometimes I miss North America!).

The clerk will then carefully remove the paper stuffing and lace ONE SHOE, which he (or she) will allow you to try. Should it fit, the second shoe may be forthcoming, if the clerk hasn't retreated behind the Navratilova cutout. (Sometimes, you can coax them out with bits of crocodile sandwich. I often bring a crocodile sandwich with me when I go shopping for shoes for just this purpose).

BEST CASE SCENARIO: The clerk has stuck around, for lack of anything better to do, you're given the second shoe, it fits, you say you'll take them, the clerk tags the box (with a pen, although I'm sure they're the same people who tag the front of my building with spray paint) to be sure to reap the rewards of his/her stellar salesmanship, and you get the hell out of there.

WORST CASE SCENARIO: The shoe doesn't fit and you - tiny fool - ask to try another size. Or another model. The clerk will look at you as though you've just demanded he/she give you his/her own shoes and go barefoot for the rest of the day. He'll (oh, whatever, let's assume it's a "he," being inclusive is exhausting) look puzzled and try to hand you back the shoe you've just tried. He'll look longingly back toward the display wall, hoping there's a size 38 SOMETHING that will keep you happy. Anything, anything, just DON'T SEND ME BACK TO THE STOCK ROOM!

I usually give up at this stage and leave.

But one day...