Knead It

During elementary school my family was friends with the DiVittorrios, an Italian family with a very large brood. I am talking 8 kids (or was it 11? I can't recall exactly but there was a shitload of them.) The girls bunked up in one room and the boys in another or on the pull out couch. The father was a tailor and all I remember about the mom was how short she was and that she baked really good bread, from scratch. Which, let's face it, is a great talent to have when you are feeding that many mouths on a tailor's budget.

I remember distinctly one visit to their house. My sis and I were hanging out with Susan and Diane (two of the daughters who happened to be in our respective classes) in their bedroom. We were probably not watching TV or listening to music because their parents were mighty strict. I can only imagine what would have happened if I had busted out with Madonna's "Like a Virgin" at that house. As strict Catholics, that kind of impropriety was forbidden.

The beds were neatly made with blankets folded at the foot of the bed in case the sleeper got a chill in the night. At least that is what I thought the blankets were there for. I realized upon sitting down on the edge of the bed that was not entirely the case. I felt something distinctly squishy flatten beneath my bum. Uh oh. It was too late to repair the damage. Susan yelped out far too late, "Oh! Don't sit there!" When we lifted the blankets we were faced with multiple mini loaves of rising bread, a couple of them flattened to pancakes. (Mmm, pancaaaakes.)

It was then that I learned: Always check beneath the sheets before sitting on a bed.

Why in the hell am I telling you this, you might be wondering? Well, here is gratuitous kitty story of the day. (There are many but count yourselves lucky I am only recounting one.)

I left the kittens to get acquainted with their new digs about an hour after we got home. They seemed cautious but very friendly and playful. I felt like 10 minutes out of the room wouldn't harm them any so I popped out to check my email. When I returned, only Dash sauntered out from beneath the bed to greet me. I kept calling out to Dottie as I searched the room. I checked all the nooks and crannies (there are not that many hiding places). I started to worry she had snuck into the closet where I had, just the day before in anticipation of their arrival, shoved all the boxes of crap I had lying around from remodling my room. It was a mountain of crap with cds falling out of their cases and shoes piled up. I took out the heaviest box and plopped it on the bed. One after another, I cleared the way and came up empty. No Dot. Hmmm.

Then I saw movement. On the bed. Under the sheets. Under ALL the sheets. She had stealthily made her way under every blanket and sheet into a safe cocoon. And I had narrowly missed her by an inch with that heavy box I so haphazardly plunked down earlier.

The upswing of almost squishing my new kitten like a rising loaf of bread? Now I know her hiding place. One lesson learned (again). A million more to go.