When was the last time you were with people who were genuinely happy?

Last Thursday, I had the occasion to cover the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Blaisdell Center for Futures Rehabilitation Center. There were so many people, all of whom were happy to be there — but none quite so much as the folks who will be enjoying its services.

The cheer that went up when the ribbon was cut was impressive, almost as impressive as the visitors trying out the sensory room. That room is meant to instill a sense of calmness and security.

I must confess, as I watched Rep. Martin Causer stare in wonder at a fiber optic sensory curtain as Sen. Cris Dush played a miniature xylophone on a sensory pad, I was left with the giggles.

It’s a beautiful facility, and frankly, it made me a little jealous. I’d love to have a place to go like that, for camaraderie, activities and learning opportunities.

While I’m aging, perhaps quicker than I’d like, I’m not in the Senior Center ballpark yet, and I’ve never been one for the bar scene. When I was in college at Pitt-Bradford years ago, a group of students would meet at “the pit” in the Commons Building, eat lunch and watch soap operas between classes. That’s about the closest thing I remember to that “get together and hang out” sort of place.

While I’m on the subject of aging — well, sort of — I want to mention a disturbing piece I came across in The Washington Post. Did you know that public restrooms are disappearing? I’m not joking.

In the United States, there are eight public toilets per 100,000 people. In Japan, there are 11. In the U.K, 15; in Canada, 18; Australia, 37; and Iceland, 56. This according to The Washington Post piece by Luz Lazo.

Even more disturbing, in some tourism hotspots, like New York City (where there are four), Miami (6), Anaheim (25) and Washington, D.C. (10), there are even fewer.

For folks with young children, or women who have had children, or people with a medication or disability that makes “the need to go” more frequent, that becomes a big problem when planning to travel. Which is why when I take a road trip, I try to plan a route with a Sheetz or another known convenience store along the way. The best advice I was ever given: Never pass up a chance to use the restroom.

And now I can add this: try not to sneeze in New York City.

Which brings me to yet another point. I’ve heard from quite a few people who enjoyed the story of my daughter’s cat, Little Buddy, stealing our mail and sorting it into his litter box. He’s started to open the mail now, and chew on the letters inside.

So we’re trying to pay bills online rather than turn in a “cat ate my bill” payment.

We have a second cat, mostly feral, who occasionally lets people pet her. And lets my daughter hold her like a baby because, well, who really knows what goes on in a cat’s head?

I tell people this cat, named Nermal, is a malevolent gargoyle. Her favorite perch is the peak of the garage roof, at the very edge. She growls at just about anything from there.

One thing we can’t understand is her apparent tendency for magic. Yes, David Copperfield, Penn & Teller, Las Vegas headlining magic.

There’s no other explanation I can give as to how she will be absolutely nowhere in sight, but we can unlock the door to the house and let ourselves inside and suddenly, Nermal is in the kitchen.

She wasn’t there. And then she was inside.

Is she invisible? Is she crawling in on the ceiling? I really don’t know, but I swear that little gremlin laughs as we try to get her back out the door.

Now to tell you the rest of this story, I have to interrupt to tell you another one. Movie quotes live in my head even as important things — like the names of family members — vanish. Long ago, in some movie I’ve long forgotten, a character said to a large, caged cat, “Get back! We don’t have any cigarettes!”

This is what I’ve said to Nermal as long as she’s been trying to run into the house. I must say it a lot, because I recently heard neighborhood children pondering why the cat would be smoking. I suppose it’s a good thing, though, because they seem quite concerned about the state of her lungs from her habit.

I can just hear them in school. “My neighbor’s cat sits on the roof and smokes cigarettes.”

If they ask me, I’ll tell them in a former life, she was a Pink Lady named Rizzo. Of course, their teachers and parents are probably too young for that reference.

Maybe I need to reconsider that Senior Center membership after all.

(Marcie Schellhammer is a reporter and editor at The Bradford Era. She can be reached at marcie@bradfordera.com)