I moved to New York in the summer of 2002 — so many of my stories start this way. It was the end of July, it was the hottest day of the year so far, something I’m sure it’s hard to fathom today, seeing as New York is today galumphing its way through more snow than currently lies on the streets of Minneapolis (and as I wrote this last, my brother texted to ask “Enough snow for ya?” in retribution for my “cold enough for ya?” text to him when the temperature there plummeted to -14F or so last week) — and I pulled up to my, let’s face it, pretty ramshackle railroad-style one bedroom in “East Williamsburg,” on a part of Grand Street that I liked to call the Auto Repair District, with one suitcase worth of clothes, my laptop, coffee maker, a couple plants and fans, and — of course — Scout.

Scout occupying the shower in my old place. 2004-ish?

I was fortunate to find a place that allowed cats without an additional deposit — the place I left in Ohio had required a pet deposit, and I want to say it was pretty high, but I can’t remember what it was now. I had carpeting everywhere, though, and there were spots that became Scout’s favorite scratching areas, and I didn’t worry about it too much because I’d given the landlord all that money as a deposit. Carpeting needed replacing anyway.

I digress again! I remember talking with the agent who showed me this apartment a month earlier, and going over the application, and telling him I had a cat. “How many?” he asked.

“Just the one,” I said, girding myself with all sorts of untruths about my cat’s meek and quiet nature and his lack of interest in destroying things, in case I had to fight for him. I needed to find an apartment on this visit, and despite its flaws I wanted this one. It was affordable enough (although it was, naturally, about $500 more than the two-bedroom place I had in Ohio, the one with the carpeting that Scout liked to rip up) and it could hold all my stuff. If I had to lie about a cat, so be it. People have lied about worse to get apartments.

“That’s fine,” said the agent — an Orthodox Jew who wouldn’t shake my hand at the end of our negotiations, which is part of the whole Orthodox deal, I know, but which succeeded in making me feel more less-than and unclean than I think anything else in my almost-40 years on this planet has (though I’m probably forgetting something. Still).

“We don’t take dogs,” he told me, outlining the building’s pet policy. “But one cat is fine. Two cats is OK.”

(Whew, I thought, considering that at 17 pounds, Scout was as big as two cats. See above picture.)

“But three cats . . . ” he paused for effect, or maybe he was just doing the math. “Three cats equals a dog.”

Related posts:

1. In which I get to hug all the cats

I own a number of things that I inherited from my grandparents — on both sides, I suppose, but mostly from the ones I lived with growing up. And by “inherited,” I really mean these are things I picked up from their house when we went through it to prepare it for sale after my grandfather’s death in 1997.

Some of the things are big and required movers to get from their place to mine. Most of them, however, are small items — and yet, though they are a fraction of the size of a piano or dining room hutch, hold much more of my grandparents in them.

Like these . . . I guess they’re saucers? My grandmother would use them as thread scrap receptacles when she worked on an embroidery project. When she got to the end of a piece, she’d snip off the end with her gold stork scissors and put it in one of these. There wasn’t a wastebasket near her spot on the couch, so this saved time. The next time she’d get up she’d bring the collection of thread scraps with her to dispose of them.

When she taught me how to work needlepoint, and then cross stitch, and later crochet and knitting, I’d use one of these saucers for my own thread and yarn scraps. I’d come home from school and we’d sit at opposite ends of the red and white upholstered couch, watching late afternoon TV — usually a syndicated epsiode of M*A*S*H — while we worked on our projects. I know the first thing I ever made was a cross stitch of my name, in a bubbly font decorated with hearts, using purple for the letters and pink for the hearts. SO GIRLY! I don’t think I was even 10 years old yet, and I chose the colors, but I was also embarrassed by them. I think my mom still has it somewhere; next time I’m home I’ll try to get a picture — especially since I think there’s a post on its own in this little side narrative.

I’m pretty sure these objects were not meant to be used as table top disposal units, and I am positive that my grandmother used them for this purpose instead of putting a small wastebasket next to her seat on the couch because the saucers were pretty and less intrusive than a clunky trash can.

So they’re mine now, and I keep them in the kitchen, in the cupboard with the plates and glasses. I’ve used them in ways my grandmother would probably not approve — one was just used this morning as a spoon rest for my coffee stirrer. They also make fantastic soy sauce bowls for when I bring sushi home, and though she probably would not have been a sushi fan, I think my grandmother would be happy knowing that these delicate, decorative saucers also have a practical use she hadn’t foreseen.

Now that I’ve picked up embroidery again, I brought one of the saucers out from the kitchen. Even though I have a wastebasket nearby, I like how it feels to put my embroidery floss scraps in a saucer first, because it was how I first saw them used, and how I first used them. And yes, a part of me feels like I am 70 years old and should order plastic coverings for my chairs and sofa and whatever else old ladies are supposed to do. But mostly what I feel, what I’m saying is — “I remember.”

No related posts.