I’m in the store again: Indigo Girls is playing. The memorial service for Anya’s and Corinne’s grandfather is in half an hour. My sisters have been red-eyed for days. My brother-in-law, leading candidate for this week’s Most Valuable Player, called a little while ago to find out if I lay dead by the fused glass sculptures or if the store had burned to glowing cinders – but really tasteful ones you’d display proudly. In any case, I am not lying dead – I’m almost certain. If I were dead, would I be scanning my new exercise DVDs? If there’s an afterlife in which I’m still short and round it’s a vision that needs a little adjustment on the horizontal hold.

I’m just saying.

Other than Gilad, whom I love, I do better with virtual exercise instructors I despise for their fluffiness or inane comments. Denise Austin’s video workouts used to make me spit with rage and taut like stretched rubber bands. This became very confusing when my perky young shrink reminded me of Denise Austin. If things were going well in therapy, I fattened up; when things went badly, my friends named my clearly visible abs for French philosophers: Jean Paul, Jean Claude… I was with the brain doctor so long discontinuing our business relationship was like a traumatic break up for both of us. Unfortunately, Denise Austin’s Shrink Your Female Fat Zones uses a stability ball, which I learned to loathe in physical therapy, and I wonder if there’s hidden meaning in her pink outfit.

Crunch Workout’s Cardio Dance Blast! looks like fun. Instructor Marie Forleo annoys me with her faintly racist comments; the dance steps look simple enough that when I get up before 6 a.m. I might keep up before a first cup of coffee. The downside is the workout is 38 minutes. I’d have to pry myself out of bed ten minutes earlier than I already do. This seems like an afternoon regimen. Note: the support dancers are in several sizes and shapes. Unfortunately, the heavy girl is wearing ill-fitting low rise two-tone jeans, which means all of my pet peeves manifest in one pair of pants. I don’t know how long I can keep from shouting about the wardrobe department. Upside: shouting is aerobic exercise.

The store has been very busy, by the way. Watching the 38 minute workout took three hours. Also: watching lovely young women in tight garments samba is hungry work. You would think I was underfed the way I am scarfing down the snacks. I just counted my fingers and yes, I still have ten.

My last recent acquisition is Crunch Workout’s Cardio Salsa with Giselle Roque de Escobar. The program starts with pert Giselle shouting at – you know – you that you’re going to have a great time and burn tons of calories with these salsa moves. We take a sudden turn toward the Telemundo when Giselle introduces the young, fit and strangely stoned-looking Latin drummer and the camera zooms at his delts. Zooms, I say! Zooms back! After that, the director gives you a moment to recover from your motion sickness before you start moving. I can’t wait to try it. This is a 40 minute workout, so either I’d have to get up earlier or wait until I’m having one of those Carmen Miranda afternoons we don’t discuss in front of the children.

What the hell, those are fun, too.

Note: dancers are once again wearing outfits that make no sense for their body types. There’s a woman dancing directly behind Giselle in cropped low-rise jeans in a dingy blue-gray. Her belly is pale and though about three-quarters of the way through the workout it becomes apparent she’s strong and toned, she’s large and looks like a jiggly white backdrop. It’s very distracting. I want to assault the person who insisted on the exercise pants with the droopy crotches. Please! If a group of women should look less dumpy and more caliente, this is that group.

It’s been a busy afternoon but light for me. This is proof that I am merely fortunate. On a more serious note, Jazz and Georg lost gentle cat-friend Colin today. He was a sweet fellow with a patient nature, and his complex care would have been too much for lesser lights. Jazz and Georg gave him a good life, better than he would have had anywhere else, with anyone else.

I’m fine. Still, it seems like it was a tough day for the surviving.

Just outside my apartment there’s another door. It is my favorite door in all the world, surpassing even that door the Pope opens every century so guilt-ridden people can spend a week trampling millions of their closest friends and saying, “Excuse me,” in every language on earth. There’s no vaginal symbolism gooping up that picture, no way. I enjoy that mental image but this door outside my door is better. It opens onto a bad sheetrocking job nobody bothered to tape and mud-up.

This is nothing short of a golden opportunity.

When Dad and Darla visited, I pointed them to this door and told them I had a plan involving larceny and one of those drugstore cardboard figures, preferably holding a beer. They liked that plan.

I had another, but it’s kind of generation-specific. Swinging gals about my age – now the first group of grandmas to join the KISS ARMY – might recall a game foisted on us in 1970 by Hasbro: Mystery Date. I never played this game myself but I was emotionally scarred enough by the commercials to remember it. Anyway, girls and girly-guys try to figure out where the dreamboat’s concealed behind a door. Plan B is a life-size cardboard cutout of a teenage boy in an ill-fitting suit. Dad and Darla felt that had too many comic limitations.

I had a third plan: Superman in 2-D. As in: Closet superhero. I would however settle for pretending I’d hung Aquaman out to dry. They liked the idea but felt not even epoxy would adhere a seven-foot cardboard Christopher Reeves in blue tights to bare sheetrock for longer than a few minutes once anyone under 50 opened that door. Plus, I couldn’t find one on EBay. Dad had an economical plan.

Dad: That wall needs a map and a sign: “You are HERE.”
Tata: Map of what?
Dad: Doesn’t matter!

My co-workers are accustommed to my behavior. This morning, one stood at the edge of my cubicle and offered me a gift from that place of apparent safety. The present was even better than he knew: it’s the book jacket from On Drink by Kingsley Amis. The cover photo is priceless. Amis is holding a glass of dark liquid at approximately Windsor knot-height. The expression on his face dares you to say, “No, sir, that’s no beverage,” so he can tell you you are indeed full of excrescence and this is certainly a beverage. I like this photograph and will hang it up on my cubicle wall. When I am introduced to strangers I will pretend he was my grandfather and that photograph of that other guy holding up a glass of dark liquid in my cubicle was his Evil Twin, Alessandro, also my grandfather. I like the blurb:

Kingsley Amis, one of literature’s most versatile craftsmen, here shows another side of his talent, as portrayed on the front of this jacket – his mastery of the art of drinking. Calling on his many years of experience, and with an eye toward both economics and enjoyment, he presents this witty, informative handbook for the drinker, both amateur and professional.

From a brief dip into alcoholic literature, our bibulous guide moves to a selection of prime drink recipes – the fruit of untold diligent years of research into the field.

I had to share – though few jargon innovations irritate like the puke-inducing caring and sharing twist on interpersonal relationships of the mid-nineties. One night, a superhot bartender and I walked all over New Brunswick in search of a condom we never actually found. He said, “That’s okay. We had a nice evening of caring and sharing.” I laughed. I love him dearly but I thought, ‘When you want to throw your clothes at the ceiling fan and play Ride ‘Em, Cowgirl, a beer and a conversation about throwing your clothes at the ceiling fan and playing Ride ‘Em, Cowgirl doesn’t cut it.’ So I’m sorry I shared, but it had to be done.

This morning, I printed a Google map of my street. It’s small, which I will think of as understated. My co-workers paid no attention as I walked around the office, cackling and stealing Post-Its to compare contrasting colors to find which amused me most. I settled on orange. I wrote “You are HERE.” I drew an arrow, in case the explorer who finds this map is as confused as predecessors like Stanley and Livingston, who couldn’t get away from that damned six-sided lake. The Raritan River is about 200 yards to the left and straight down, like a giant, filthy hint. The fun lies in taping the thing to the sheetrock, closing the door and never looking back. Maybe. If I find a life-size cutout of John Ashcroft and the Venus de Milo all bets are off.

All kinds of people come into the store, stare at the beautiful merchandise and blurt something delightful.

Customer 1: What do I get a goth kid for Christmas?

Customer 2: I bought a pair of earrings here last week and lost one. Do you have a match?

Customer 3: Where can I find a shaman?

These are problems. I can solve them.

1: We have stained glass dragons. Your budding goth boy will want a matched set, possibly as many as five. For no reason. That I’ll tell you.

2: If you get a third piercing you can wear all your shinyshiny unmatched earrings.

3: Phone book. Sheesh!

It’s a warm night for January. People say the same thing: “I walk by here all he time. Tonight, I thought I’d come inside.” Sun-60 is on the CD player because I felt like hearing Should Have Seen the Moon. An hour ago, I looked around for snacks I heard calling me (“Ta! Ta, darling! We’re French fruit cookies!” “Ta, we’re cheesy crackers you wouldn’t buy on a dare – and you’re bored!”) so I put on lipstick and vacuumed the store in self-defense. On Tuesday, I picked out some beautiful sparkly ornaments on after-holiday special, boxed them up and promptly forgot what they were. In about an hour, I can go home, sip pinot grigio and watch the two-hour CSI. My terrible memory makes whatever’s in the box a present and a surprise.

Some people say today is Joan of Arc’s birthday. Happy Joan of Arc’s birthday to me. When Joan of Arc was my age, she’d been dead for 22 years. I am still learning how to decorate.

Sometimes Siobhan and I go out to dinner. Historically, we’d pick different items off the menu, then I’d want whatever she’d order. I adapted to Entree Envy by ordering whatever she ordered, which proved unsatisfying as well, when there were other yummy flavors we could not then sample. Recently, I’ve taken a different tack.

Tata: Siobhan, what do I want for dinner?
Siobhan: You want the crabmeat-stuffed flounder and steamed broccoli.
Tata: I do! I want that!
Siobhan: I’ll have the scallops…
Tata: Damn it!

Fortunately, my memory is like Gerald Ford’s trick knee – for Chevy Chase. Most restaurants serve slowly enough that by the time my plate arrives my order is a surprise.

Tata: Crabmeat stuffing! I love broccoli!
Siobhan: Couple of scallops?
Tata: Scallops, too?! I could drop dead of happiness!
Siobhan: Your funeral will have a two-drink minimum, won’t it?
Tata: And lox. I wish to be mourned with delicious canapes and a zydeco band.
Siobhan: We talk about your funeral a lot.
Tata: Can’t leave everything to the last minute. Who’ll hire the jugglers?

On second thought, maybe I should have eaten the cookies.

Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, is staring at me intently. He wants me to assume the Scratch Mr. Cat position, which I will – in a minute or two, or so. This week started out as the last few days of my vacation before preparations for the next semester. Two days ago, Daria called me mid-morning.

Daria: You know how you like to be needed in a drama?
Tata: I…what?
Daria: Anya’s and Corinne’s grandfather is dead. Their mom just found him. They need you at the store.
Tata: They need me and you’re calling?
Daria: Shouldn’t you hang up on me and go shower?

Daria trusts me to leave the house smelling like an expensive dessert, which I do. I tucked a few errands into the drive but made a bad beeline to the family store and spent the day fielding phone calls from family members so distressed they couldn’t form sentences. In between, I shopped for home accessories.

Today, I went back to my day job at the university. Tomorrow, I’ll sit at my desk, then go mind the family store. I expect to run hither and yon until after the memorial service Saturday, and Daria’s planning food, baskets and condolence cards. I’ll blog intermittently, since my new assistant is in training and my attention span’s even briefer than usual – but don’t despair. I’m not turning into a nice person or abandoning you or behaving myself. Nope.

I’ve just aimed my broomstick at the express lanes.

How can it be – and yet it is.

When I sat down to write, I thought I’d tell a story about Christmas or New Year’s or Hanukkah or Yule. This afternoon, my mother’s side of the family exchanged gifts finally, and I’m so exhausted I can barely type. Tomorrow, I’m going to get up and go do the radio show, a few errands and hopefully spend the afternoon watching soap operas. After nearly two weeks with my family, I can’t wait to watch the underfed and overexercised bitchslap each other.

Last night, Paulie Gonzalez and I had dinner with Paulie’s recently widowed father, Aaron. Aaron lived for a couple of decades in Las Vegas, but before that he lived in one of those towns along Route 9 near Woodbridge, where he was involved in politics. Aaron has moved back from Vegas and become involved in the local politics of the town I grew up in, where developers cannot build disgraceful condo villages fast enough, and where yuppies and senior citizens just voted down athletic facilities in a township where there is no other after school activity for kids besides robbing your house.

Over dinner, when I listened to Aaron nonchalantly describe the workings of the town council and the planning board, the blood rushed to my head. After about half an hour of trying to figure out why anyone could talk casually about unsustainable overdevelopment and suburban sprawl, about stupid planning and putting the new high school out in the middle of nowhere, then building McMansions behind it and refusing to build basic athletic facilities, I lost it. I admit I spoke my mind in a small family restaurant in the harshest of language, which Aaron has never seen before. We’ve only known one another for a few months, really, and he didn’t know I came from that town. On the other hand, I don’t live there now, so what I think of those council fuckers selling out the town’s future to the lowest possible bidder couldn’t possibly matter less.

On Friday, I was driving on a road I’ve traveled for more than 40 years. A frightening chunk of woods was just…gone. Sky and bulldozers. Aaron may be more realistic about it than I am but his manner infuriated me. He and I did not disagree fundamentally on the moral bankruptcy required to put a ShopRite on a street few people travel because the farms around that street will be sold to developers or the town will take them. I felt my face burning and pressure mounting inside my head. Finally, I know this bullshit is unstoppable by me, anyway, and at least Aaron works to mitigate what looming disaster he can with experienced planning. He knows more about it than I do. I know the town and its disgraceful, naked desire to be white Princeton – just without the brains.

God. Words fail me. In the seventies, my town was one of the best integrated towns in the whole country. Watching this change is not unlike watching children play with daddy’s loaded shotgun. Watching people who don’t care about the place prostitute it is disgusting. I feel physically sick thinking about the next soulless townhouse cluster filled with people with good credit, hating the poor people they can’t escape and can’t wait to punish, resenting a town for making them talk to their neighbors.

The rush to destroy the woods and sell off the farms is stupid and short-sighted. Aaron mentioned a location where a development will be, no doubt about it. He talked about getting developers to build small connecting roads. I asked what purpose those roads serve. You know, to connect. I drew three lines and said, “There’s nowhere for this traffic to go but 287, which is an astounding failure.” Aaron said, “Yes, that’s exactly where they’ll go.” I said, “They can’t. Route 287 is a failure.” Aaron said, “We build them their own exit.”

I said, “You don’t understand. In forty years, 287 has been rebuilt three times. The first builder took the money and went somewhere tropical. There is no time day or night when you can drive on 287 without encountering a pointless traffic jam because the road is so badly designed. There’s no widening possible. There’s no adding exits that will help. Route 287 is a failure. And you are saying it’s this or Route 27, which we agree is a failure. And you’re saying building in a town without a center and no proposal for public transportation is what will be. Evil is afoot and you are complicit in its designs.”

Aaron said, “This is the United States now. It is morally bankrupt, as you say. If you took a poll and asked how many people would prefer killing the homeless to providing for them you’d be shocked by the results. Senior citizens in numbers will destroy school budgets. Nobody cares that kids have no place to go and nothing to do. In a town that has traditionally produced state level track champions, the new high school won’t even have a track or a football stadium. These young couples are the first to turn down what planners call ‘tot lots’ then five years later complain their kids have no playgrounds. It happens everywhere. If the planning committees turn down too many developers’ proposals the developers take the towns to court and get whatever they want. That’s New Jersey.”

It’s not just Jersey. I accept that this is painful reality. The more I think about it, the more painful it becomes. I’m just one idiot with a love of one place and a microscopic attention span. Still, I can’t help thinking that this gluttonous consumption of open space, woods and farm land is not the bankrupt inheritance we want to leave to our children.

You know, the ones whose education we don’t want to finance, whose formative experiences we regulate so strictly they can’t play in the backyard alone, and whose friends are only people we vet.

Look for them to punish us for this selfishness in the future when there’s nothing left.