Those Who Live In Small Houses…
I don’t know anything about architecture except for the following limerick:
There once was a young lad named Yorick
Who at times when feeling euphoric
Could produce for inspection
Three types of erection
Ionic, Corinthian, and Doric.
(Don’t laugh, it’s the only thing that kept me sane when I took that class on classical civilizations years ago.)
So I can neither confirm nor deny the reasoning behind the slanted ceilings on the second floor my house. Did the builders, 90 some odd years ago, decide that making the second story of the house three feet taller would be beyond their engineering capacity? Or perhaps it would be beyond their fiscal capacity? Or perhaps they got to a certain height and it was a Friday after noon and the beer at the local bar was calling them and they just looked at each other and said “Fuck it.”
To me, that is the most plausible scenario. That is the scenario that best feeds into the “better angels of our human nature”. (Which is a lyrical way of saying that the majority of bipedal hominids on this big blue marble are a bunch of rat-bastards,)
I have questioned the slant of our roofs in the past when contemplating the cosmic occurrence of ice-damns and lack of closet space. Sunday morning, I was forced, once again, to wonder about this odd structure that leaves so much dead floor space in my house. I call it dead space because it nearly killed me.
I would like to blame the cat for it. The cat that has recently insisted on crawling into the corner and eating the carpet. The cat that has left carpet shavings all over the place.
It was the quest to clean up the carpet shavings, in order to maintain my title as Domestic Goddess, that led me to crawl into the corner on my hands and knees. And it was demonic possession that led me to stand up suddenly.
And it was those lazy assed rat bastards a hundred years ago that took off early on a Friday afternoon and made my ceiling approximately the height of a kyphotic dwarf that caused me to smash the top of my head and drive the top of my spinal column down into the approximate region of my anal sphincter.
Falling to my knees and assuming the tornado drill position while counting the stars that swirled around my head was both entertaining and completely involuntary. I stayed absolutely still for a few minutes to give my shattered skull time to heal and then I glared over at my cat who was in the opposite corner, starting a new excursion to the carpet-bar.
He paused for a moment and gave me a quick appraisal before returning to his all important work.
He obviously failed to see what the problem was with the architecture of the second story, after all, he’s never had any problems with it.