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When I saw “Cat Kung Fu” in the New Yorker, I had to laugh.
Our cat, Alex, is like that, though lately his preferred nemesis seems to be his little Pooky teddy bear. (I haven’t rematched him with the cow yet.) Whenever he starts attacking his toys, Thom and I chant, “Kill it! Kill it!” We’re so encouraging.
I love his expression in this photo. He’s all, “What? I love my teddy bear!” [claw claw scratch scratch]
Today’s Times has an article on fashion for shorter men. (Also picked up by the other similarly statured Jeff, as I knew he would.) Though I’m considerably short, I usually have little problem finding clothes that fit. The trouble is in finding clothes that fit well. The article has a related list of retailers, and I will vouch for two of their mentions, Gap and American Eagle Outfitters. I’ve shopped at both, more at the former, and found some good (if occasionally bland) items there. Most of the shirts I wear to work these days are from H&M. Maybe I should pay a visit to Jimmy Au’s.
Aside: pants at Gap stores are arranged with the shortest, smallest sizes on the top shelf. Every time I wanted a pair of pants I would have to ask a salesperson to help me reach it. And it occurred to me: yes, I know we are a left-to-right, top-to-bottom-reading society, but still, why would they put a product literally out of reach of the very people who want it? (I later wrote an e-mail to Gap corporate, and got a noncommittal “we constantly review our store designs; we’re looking into it” response.) Incidentally, Gap stores now carry just the middle of their size range — other sizes are available on their website only — so my issue is kind of moot.
In the latest New Yorker, there’s a David Sedaris story entitled “Turbulence,” which deftly links a bunch of things that I often find both enjoyable and frustrating: air travel, crossword puzzles, and well, other people. It opens,
On the flight to Raleigh, I sneezed, and the cough drop I’d been sucking on shot from my mouth, ricocheted off my folded tray table, and landed, as I remember it, in the lap of the woman beside me, who was asleep and had her arms folded across her chest. I’m surprised that the force didn’t wake her — that’s how hard it hit — but all she did was flutter her eyelids and let out a tiny sigh, the kind you might hear from a baby.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have had three choices, the first being to do nothing. The woman would wake up in her own time, and notice what looked like a shiny new button sewn to the crotch of her jeans. This was a small plane, with one seat per row on Aisle A, and two seats per row on Aisle B. We were on B, so should she go searching for answers I would be the first person on her list. “Is this yours?” she’d ask, and I’d look dumbly into her lap.
“Is what mine?”
If that doesn’t hook you in, I don’t know what will. Check it out.
