Kitties of the World Ain't Nothin' but Trouble

The culprit

Mr. Ginley and I sat watching TV one night last week, when suddenly, Maggie jumped off my lap and dove into a hole in the back of the couch.

I guess I first need to answer the question of why there is a hole in the couch, since it's only six years old. I guess you would have to ask that furniture store why they sell such shoddy merchandise. It was not an inexpensive couch, in terms of what we paid for it. But it was certainly not made like its predecessor, the battleship of a couch that lasted 25 years. The hole resulted from broken wood that caused the seat to separate from the back, thereby creating a gap through which small mammals can squeeze themselves.

Now, back to the story.

My first inclination was to let Maggie emerge from the couch on her own. But Mr. Ginley pointed out that there could be a nail sticking up in there somewhere.

So...we pulled out the couch and turned it upside down until the guilty party emerged.

Meanwhile, we peered over to see the space where the couch had been. And yes, it had obviously been quite a while since we'd vacuumed back there. After sweeping up and restoring the couch (plus the lamp we'd knocked over and anything else in the vicinity we'd had to move), we positioned blankets and a pillow over the place where the gap was.

Sure enough, Maggie came along and stared at the place where she knew the hole was. Then looked at us, then back at the couch. Fortunately, she abandoned whatever diabolical plans she was pondering, because the blankets remained undisturbed.

The next day, we went do Bed, Bath & Beyond and purchased, at some expense (but with a 20% off coupon), a cover for our couch. After a fair amount of wrangling and a few failed attempts, we managed to figure out how it was supposed to go.

Problem solved.

That night, as we sat watching TV, we heard a rustling coming from my father-in-law's old easy chair.

Mr. Ginley rose and looked all around it, then cocked an ear.

"Is she in there?" I inquired.

"Yep." He said. "But I don't think there's anything in there that she can hurt herself on."

So Maggie got her little victory, and we got ours.

And peace reigns again in the Casa de Ginley.

Inside Out

I sat with my arms folded, trying to keep a neutral expression, but I suspected I would still come across as a scowler.

Thus has it always been for me and probably always will be. I don't do well in crowds or, as in yesterday's case, a leadership seminar.

The large room was populated with lots of round circular tables that had writing materials in the center. I sat as far back in the room as I could and did as instructed, writing my name with a bright pink highlighter and placing it in front of me. I knew the person next to me, which helped a little. But I could not shake the feeling that, above all, I wished I could borrow Harry Potter's invisibility cloak.

When I was young, my mother told me I was just shy, and that I would grow out of it. She was never at a loss for the right thing to say, unlike me who is forever planting foot inside mouth.

"Go say hello to (whoever it was)," my mother would say, exasperated.  I would hang my head or look up at the sky or anywhere, mortified at my own inability to socialize.

In school, I would avoid eye contact with the teacher, keeping my hand firmly planted on my desk to avoid being called on, even though I generally knew the correct answer. Parent-teacher conferences wrapped up with, "I know she knows the answer, but she just won't participate in class."

And parties, unless everyone there is known to me, continue to be torture. Forever the wallflower.

As a result of my social ineptitude, I'm generally labeled as an antisocial curmudgeon. Having reached that age, it now suits me pretty well.

And yet...

There is this whole part of me, deep down, that is the eternal optimist. I believe most people have good in them. I believe we can all get along if we put aside the things we don't agree on. I love sunshine and rainbows and unicorns and all that shit.

And in that seminar yesterday, amidst all the random quotes and the usual rah rah, I found some nuggets that I took back to my desk with me to pull out and mull over. I believe there's a little something in just about anything that you can make something of.

And I guess if that statement only makes sense to me, that's okay, too.

Funny Business

Mr. Ginley and I aren't regular moviegoers.

Normally, we're perfectly happy sitting on the couch, tucking into treats and watching from the comfort and convenience of our own home.

Yet we've managed to go to the cinema twice in the last two weeks.

I will admit, the living room style recliner seats are pretty nice. And it helped that we didn't have any loud talkers or cell phone junkies around us. (They are the real movie spoilers.)

We were lured out to see Stan and Ollie, a tribute to the friendship of the movie comedy team of Laurel and Hardy. The movie centers on a tour they did together late in their career. The actors did a fine job of recreating the comedic team, and it made us want to rent a Laurel and Hardy movie or two (which we subsequently did).

I loved watching old comedies when I was growing up. Thankfully, these flickers enjoyed a resurgence of popularity in my formative years. My sister took me to Cleveland State University for one such film festival featuring W.C. Fields. My brother and sister-in-law took me to see the Marx Brothers at the Variety. And I saw Laurel and Hardy silent films with a former boyfriend at the Mayfield Repertory Cinema, with klezmer performed by live musicians. (Yes, it really worked, it was great.)

Early in his career, Stan Laurel was an understudy to Charlie Chaplin. It's easy to see that Stan also possessed the grace and the gentle, naive qualities that Chaplin exuded, although Stan took them and made them his own.

There's one scene in the movie Mr. Ginley and I saw that inspired us to rent some of the original films. Called County Hospital, it features Ollie in a huge leg cast. Stan comes to visit him. He brings eggs and nuts, which Ollie doesn't like. Stan proceeds to pull out an egg, crack the shell on the nightstand, and eat it. This doesn't sound particularly amusing, but the execution is brilliant and very funny.

Comedy has come a long way in subsequent years, but there's still so much to love about the early films. It could be argued that today's films rely too much on technology for their sight gags. And that foul language has taken the place of brilliantly finessed wordplay.

Or maybe I'm just being an alter cocker again, I don't know.

What I do know is that only Stan and Ollie could make pushing a piano up a massive flight of stairs hilarious, as they did in The Music Box.

It's fun to watch not just for the obvious story line but to see how perfectly their moves were choreographed. Good stuff.

P.S. Although Ollie is quoted as saying, "Here's another fine mess you've gotten me into," it's really "nice" mess. In case you were wondering.

My Life and Tomes

I'm getting to the reverse nesting stage of my life.

Rather than accumulate things like a responsible American consumer, I just want get rid of stuff I don't need.

This has been proving rather more difficult than I would have imagined, at least in some respects.

For example, I didn't have any trouble cleaning out my underwear drawer or my clothes closet of all the ratty stuff I no longer wear. And some of the gewgaws in the kitchen whatchamacallit drawer.

But books are tough.

"I can't get rid of that one, so-and-so gave it to me." Or, "Nope, those belonged to my grandfather." Or, "I haven't read that one yet, but I'm sure I'm going to one day."

Some have such lovely photos, I take time out to page through them and decide we cannot part.

I imagine myself in my dotage, surrounded by these tomes, and it comforts me somehow. Yet I realize it's more likely I will have taken up residence in much smaller digs by that time, with only a couple dozen of my favorite bound beauties.

In the meantime, I continue to take out books from the library.

I suppose if you're going to collect something, books at least are intellectual and relatively affordable, particularly if you procure them from used book sales (or Half Price Books).

Mr. Ginley, alas, shares my passion, which does complicate things a bit. He, at least, has managed to part with many, many boxes of books. I'm still working on it.

In the meantime, I'm thinking about what my next read will be.

Maybe a little Steinbeck would do. Or a juicy mystery. Or maybe I'll just rummage through my collection of children's books and spend the afternoon playing.

It's so nice to get lost in a book.

I'll think about which ones to get rid of tomorrow.

Say goodnight, Scarlet.