Miss Krystal's Kitty Whiskers

Until very recently, I was a dyed-in-the-wool crazy cat lady.

It's not my fault; as I say, my Mum is cat-mad, and her mother before her. Probably the women in my family have been mad feline fussers for centuries now. Probably we are actually part cat- God knows I shed hair like one, don't much care for being dirty, and have long fingernails the thickness of sheet metal that completely contradict zero interest on my part to look after them at all. As of yet, no whiskers, but I'm sure that will change in another 3 years or so when I hit 30.

I can hardly remember any cat I've ever met that I didn't like. When I was very, very young, my Mum taught me how to approach a new cat: slowly, with hand outstretched, and at their eye-level. Only when they chose to come closer to me, and had been given a few minutes to have a good sniff, explained Mum, should I pat them. As I grew older I learned that there are a few things cats almost universally love: getting scratches on the spot where their spine meets the base of their tail, having their noses rubbed, and a very gentle tug on their tails as they slink past.

I love that a cat's respect must be earned. Which is totally fitting, since most of the time mine make me feel like a glorified handmaid whose sole purpose in life is to feed them when they're hungry, cuddle them should they be feeling particularly magnanimous, but otherwise, to just sod right off- especially if I've just vacated a pre-warmed seat for them to jump into.

I also love the way cats play with complete abandon. My normally very dignified and often quite pompous bobtail Willow was only twelve months ago an ungainly little ball of legs and tumbles, falling all over herself to chase her rattly ball. Or climbing the clothes-horse like a regular chimp, just because she could.

Cats are the most self-serving, narcissistic creatures we congratulate ourselves for 'domesticating'; just because they don't scratch our eyes out on a daily basis and occasionally plop themselves in our laps for a bit of a purr, doesn't make them any less calculating. I love the sheer audacity of cats: even when they are caught in the act of doing something naughty, they will still look at you like you are a complete halfwit. 'Do you mean to say I shouldn't have my face buried in your dishwater? Perhaps you shouldn't have made it so tasty by flavouring it with spaghetti sauce from the pan. I am merely cancelling out your wastefulness here.'

And not an hour later, when I am in bed and peacefully snoozing, I will feel a little paw on my nose; not unlike someone knocking on a front door. This is Daisy's code for: 'Mummy, be a good human and lift up the blanket so I can take advantage of the bed you have spent time warming for me. You may scratch my belly also, but put some effort in or else I'll just get sick of you and jump off and guilt you for not being properly devoted to me.' And what can I say- I fall for it every single time. 

All said, R-Patz had it almost right: fluffy kitty bellies are like my very own brand of heroin, albeit a more health-conscious choice and a little hairier. So without further ado, here's a fun little tribute to everything I love best about my meowing machines, and the crazy cat-lady that lives inside me.

 

If you've got any stories about the cats in your life, I'd love to hear them!

Have a brilliant day poppets,
Mel x

snip snip spaghetti

Well, here we are, Wednesday again! I do hope it's been a wonderful one for you; for me it is effectively a Sunday and heralds the start of another potentially awesome week of being a carnie artist and lording it at my marvellous market shoppe.

I must say I am feeling particularly chirpy and excited about this coming week, mostly because I can finally put my lovely readers out of their misery, and share the brand-new print I've been teasing you with these past few weeks!

Like almost every little girl, I loved the story of 'Rapunzel' growing up, and like almost every big little girl, I was absolutely delighted by Disney's gorgeous interpretation a few years back. Being a total geek, I've always been fascinated by the symbols and themes of traditional fairytales, and increasingly frustrated by the cotton-wool approach of so many modern interpretations. 'Tangled' is so unabashedly fun and charming in so many ways (not least the casting of the adorable Mandy Moore as the voice of Rapunzel) that you'll find few complaints from me there, harmless as it is.

In fact, this particular tale was watered down pretty much in its conception: by the time the Brothers Grimm got to it, Rapunzel was already snug in the mould of damsel in distress. Does it not strike anyone else as remotely dumb that she didn't just hack her plaits herself? Why wait for some silly prince to come along and knock her up before she decided she wanted freedom? (Oh yes, by the time the wicked witch threw her out, Miss 'Punzel was already up the duff with twins. But then, there's only so long storytellers can maintain their heroines' maidenhood with a story that is essentially about a girl trapped in a giant phallic symbol).

Even as a little girl the sorts of heroines I loved best were always the deciders of their own fate, and the sexier for it. Always pretty, but in an interesting and flawed sort of a way. Rapunzel is traditionally portrayed as golden-haired, but I much prefer the mysterious, exotic look of a raven-haired girl, and so decided my interpretation needed dark roots, 'dirty' roots even- I like to imagine dying her hair was the first thing she did when she escaped her tower prison and began her own little Rapunzel Rebellion. (This was mostly inspired by an enraptured viewing of old Green Day video clips showing on the blinking television set in the cheap 24 hour diner where she took refuge that first night of freedom). The regrowth is starting to show now that she's been on the road a few weeks. So too is her rose tattoo healing- she wanted something badass but decided that getting a tattoo was really quite outrageous enough, and would still have given rise to a right cracker of an argument had the old witch been there to see it, which made Rapunzel smile and enjoy the whole sadistic pleasure of being inked. And besides, Rapunzel isn't too tough to admit she really does have a soft spot for roses!

Like a typical teenager, Rapunzel gets bored waiting, with nothing to do. It must have been ages ago that she ordered. Maybe a little snip might give the waitress a hint . . .

Thoughts?

Mel x