I take a break from fretting, painting, packing and moving for a barbecue at Dom’s girlfriend Theresa’s house. Dom, Sharkey and I are Groucho, Harpo and Chico this summer, with Theresa and Theresa’s constant companion Natalie playing Gummo and Zeppo. In real life, Dom and I have the similar names and go by the same nick. He is a huge, tattooed former skinhead. We gossip about art, artists, music and musicians. In constrast with many of my closest friends, he and I never got a room.

At the barbecue, I meet a friend of his, a fireman Dom calls Nine Toe. Nine Toe has apparently been hanging around the same people and places I have forever but we’ve never met. He introduces himself as Dom. It dawns on us and we are amused. For the rest of the evening, Sharkey introduces us to newcomers.

Sharkey: That’s Dom, Dom and Dom. And for convenience’s sake, you can call me Dom too.
Tata: Over in that corner, shout “DEBBIE!” and watch what happens.

Sharkey is a handsome fellow. Amusingly, Frylock of Aqua Teen Hunger Force bears a striking resemblance to our hero. I’m wearing the t-shirt because I enjoy a superhero whose magical power is common sense. And laser eyes, but that’s beside the point. In the grocery store on the way to the picnic, the 16-year-old cashier stares my Dragonball Z lunchbox. Then he spies my Aqua Teen Hunger Force, which because of my…ahem!…huge tracts o’ land, the average bystander might imagine announced my arrival, but no. Anyway, he gushes.

Cashier: That’s the best freaking show! Where’d you get the t-shirt?
Tata: Cartoon Network sells them.
Cashier: You sell them?
Tata: Sure. I wear one of these, they see a spike in sales.
Cashier: What? What did you say?
Tata: My friend looks exactly like Frylock!
Cashier: He he he he he he he he he he he. Send him over here!
Tata: He’s not the kind of man you tell what to do. Not unless you’re a lissome blonde. With a can of whipped cream.
Cashier: What?
Tata: Is this really an express lane? Express what?

Sharkey takes one look at my shirt.

Sharkey: My face is on your boob.
Tata: Dahhhhhhhhhhling, whose isn’t? I mean – we should dye your hair blonde for Halloween.
Sharkey: Wouldn’t my face be red?

Shoot. No redder than mine. I looked around in the grocery store and saw people my age who were really 900 years old. Maybe they’re not sure, but I’m not ready to be Margaret Dumont.

My sisters – those fools with excellent taste! – have once again left the jurisdicion and left me the keys to their store full of gorgeous stuff. The scents of ginger, basil and thyme lotions waft on celing-fan breezes. The Gipsy Kings’ Somos Gitanos plays on the CD player but usually music by Spencer Lewis, Sade or the Cocteau Twins gently caresses the ear. I can’t take it. I want one of everything in the store, and ten feet from the front door an eighteen-wheeler has rattled and belched for hours.

At first, I am a good sport. When the store is busy I pretend not to notice the giant truck virtually cuts off natural light. When I am alone, it becomes increasingly difficult to overlook the exhaust smell in the aisle, the throb of the engine and the exuberant shouts of political activists emptying the truck bucket brigade-style.

Don’t get me wrong: the activists work for a candidate whose political positions are similar to mine, but I’m literally doing headstands behind the jewelry counter to think about something else.

A little while ago, I went outside for a look-see. Broken palates and great wads of shrinkwrap lay on the sidewalk. I knew right away this could be trouble. This morning, I received a nervous call on the store phone from Sister #3 – Corinne – while I was talking on the cell to Mom.

Corinne: When you came in, by any chance did you notice – did you see maybe – a garbage can I left on the curb last night?
Tata: Mom, Corinne’s trying to talk to me again.
Mom: Are you sure? She’s more sensible than that.

I put the cell down and tried listening to my sister.

Corinne: …I left it there and forgot to bring it in…
Tata: Are you talking about a giant black garbage can that’s taller than I am?
Corinne: Possibly.
Tata: When you left it there, was it full of garbage, by any chance?
Corinne: Could’ve been.
Tata: And now that it’s empty you want me to drag this where?
Corinne: Behind the store?

I’m already dragging the thing but when I turn the corner I run straight into a fence.

Tata: Sweetie, how do I get behind the building?
Corinne: The alley by the antiques store?
Tata: And this is because curmudgeonly persons might issue you tickets?
Corinne: You’re practically psychic!

I hang up and find the cell. This has got to be eating up my minutes.

Tata: Mom, Corinne said she’d forgotten something outside.
Mom: And what was it?
Tata: She took out the trash and she wanted me to bring in the cans.
Mom: What about that had she forgotten?
Tata: That I couldn’t pick her trash can out of a trash can lineup.

So when I step outside and see packing materials right outside the store’s front door the tables turn. In the crowd of lively activists I pick out one. He is large, young and especially earnest-looking. I stare at him hard enough to burn a hole in his carefully trimmed goatee. Mere seconds later he looks up, possibly because he smells smoke. No words pass between us. We have a conversation of gestures and wiggled eyebrows.

Tata: Dude!
Dude: Note my shiny idealism!
Tata: Hey kid! Get your shiny idealism off my sidewalk!

Oh God. Suddenly, I’m an old woman.

He slaps the backs of three other strapping young activists. As one, they snap up the wood and plastic and move it around the corner. It’s gone. I should be happy. Instead, I every ten minutes for the next two hours I climb down out of the headstand or give someone change and march out the front door to glare at the activists, still unloading that truck. It’s a really big truck. I’m not just a cranky old woman I’m a made-for-TV-movie business owner and I’m on the wrong side of the plot.

That kid – I bet he’s the hero.

I am thinking of small things. There’s a rough patch on one of my fingers, and I’m looking through my Dragonball Z lunchbox for a nail clipper. Receipts, earphones, eyeliner, reading glasses, keys and more keys, my wallet, coupons for the next shopping trip, two bottles of OPI nail polish. The nail clipper turns up in a bookbag pocket and not in the lunchbox at all. The cuticle is clipped clean. A little hand cream soothes the spot. Annoying little problem solved. I wonder idly if there’s a single nail clipper in the filthy, wilting Superdome.

Miss Sasha and Mr. Sasha, who still has that new-husband smell, moved to Pensacola in June. As the Mommy and an inveterate worrier, I offered to knit them an inflatable boat. Mr. Sasha is in the Air Force, which thoughtfully tossed its charges out of Pensacola for Dennis but demanded they stay put during Katrina. Miss Sasha promised everyone was completely prepared and there was nothing to worry about, but that they’d probably be out of touch for a while. By Tuesday, calls still went to voicemail. I didn’t exactly chew my fingernails but I couldn’t stop trying to bite my cuticles. Regular scissors didn’t help.

Siobhan – who bears an uncanny resemblance to…someone – text-messaged Miss Sasha. Something to the effect of “Are you alive wtf call your mother.” In the new, punctuation-free future, we will all speak English that, like Biblical Hebrew, is a whimsical language filled with muscular imagery and ascerbic wit. For instance, Miss Sasha sent back the truly minimalistic, “Fine, thanx.”

Next, Miss Sasha called and chatted breezily about the huge rainstorm. They’d turned off their phones in case of power outage, she said.

Tata: That had the effect of scaring your family silly, by which I mean I am wrecking my manicure.
Miss Sasha: NO! NOT THAT!
Tata: You are SO GROUNDED.

In deference to my cuticle beds, Miss Sasha sent the family this email:

Mr. Sasha and I spent Aug 19-Aug 20 in New Orleans. We are so glad we got to see it before the storm but we now have pics that are weird to look at. We are fine, we didn’t even lose power. We are involved in many fundraising events. The Olive Garden in Biloxi was demolished and the Red Lobster that my company owns has been flattened by 2 tornados. At work we have been trying to gather cans, clothes and anything else that can help.

Here are some before pictures of New Orleans, I am sure you are all seeing the after. More Pictures are following of how are apartment is doing.

We love you.

Sasha and Mr. Sasha

About the pics-The Jester Bar. Most of streets like Bourbon St.(Darker), Canal St.(Looks like a HUGE main strip), and Decatur (we ate at Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, we have glasses from them). The road picture is I-10. The bridge across Lake Portchartrain. It is now very broken. I-10 goes throught the southern states like I-95. New Orleans is 200 miles from us, a 2 and a half hour drive (when Mr. Sasha drives!)

As we now know, the storm turned northeastward just before it made landfall, sparing New Orleans a direct hit. As we also know, there is no such thing as being prepared for a Category 5 hurricane. Miss Sasha says:

Yeah, just please tell people that Red Cross needs money BAD! and we have seen people everywhere sleeping in cars and in restaurant parking lots.

I am so glad that my guardian angels weren’t on Bourbon Street that day drinking Hand Grenades.

A way with words, that one has. Small things. I am grateful for the small things.