Tuesday morning, during my breathtakingly brief commute, I saw a pack of five helicopters hovering, apparently unmoving, overhead and not far off. I tried to gauge where the attention of their occupants might be focused but could only guess. Times being what they are, I noticed the helicopters were not exactly alike, and didn’t appear to be military – either way: let the creepy feeling begin. Inside the library, a co-worker explained a five-alarm fire (later, we heard four) was working in Franklin Township on Whittier Avenue. I couldn’t place the street, which bothered me. In the meantime, housefires generally do not attract news helicopters. Something else must be up, we sensed, and I say “we” because my co-workers and I worked like huskies that morning, though we talked about nothing else.

A co-worker received an email that a member of his historical society died in that fire, which was very upsetting. Shortly thereafter, a friend who’s an EMT in Rhode Island emailed that a fire fighter from his old firehouse had been killed. An EMT friend from North Jersey passed along news from an EMT listserve. The local newspaper had nothing, then a vague, three-sentence write up. The university was silent on the subject of the fallen student volunteer. It was as if this local tragedy created a blast zone in which no one could hear or speak. I expected Wednesday to be the day everyone caught his or her breath and started screaming, and that’s what happened.

Funeral arrangements have been made for the fire’s elderly victim, Betty Scott, email to that effect circulated. The university’s newspaper – for once written in complete sentences – found its voice and wept for all it was worth. The story was horrific, a scenario we all fear. There’s no making it an easy or peaceful event we can live with. It is just painful, that’s all.

This morning, during my embarrassingly brief commute to work, I came to the intersection of Seminary Place and College Avenue. Directly in front of me, the steps to a building I never really look at were covered with solemn bouquets, a handwritten banner, flags. This was where he lived. With nothing else to do, I turned right and drove to my parking lot.

Yesterday, I arrived at my apartment, scratched the cat and turned on General Hospital, as is my dumb habit. To my utter horror, the episode depicted the funeral of a young police officer. I am not ashamed to say I cried my eyes out, thinking, ‘It’s not that we are seeing too much of this. We are not seeing the real thing enough.‘ The televised 9/11 funerals and memorials come to mind with a freshness and an ache that even now surprises me. The soldiers who die and slip into unreported obscurity should pain us all. The absolutely unmourned civilian casualties of our wars should haunt us night and day.

I am speaking very carefully here. These emotions and thoughts are mine. I have no wish to steal and use the difficult deaths of these good neighbors for my own purposes. Their lives had meaning and purpose all their own. Mine is to point out there is nothing unconnected in the great world.

Johnny ducks in for a spot of good news:

It’s relaxing not needing to play music or I’ll die, but it would be fun. I just found a surf guy on craigslist who’s trying to put something together this summer. That would be a gas and a half. I’ve already got the Nehru suit. It would be a nice change to be in a band where it isn’t a race to see who can fuck the singer first, because there is no singer.

I like friends with zero impulse control because by association I look positively restrained. Before the head swells, one must use it to take a humbling look at the facts – or in this case, an email from Sharkey, asking the musical question, “What the hell am I wearing?”

Seriously.

I required oxygen and the assistance of a very handsome rescue worker who could bench press me without breaking a sweat.

Tata: No wonder your dad didn’t take you camping. That’s like waving a GO! flag at pedophiles. Can I use it on PIC as an example of photos our mothers MUST EXPLAIN?
Sharkey: Mom MADE the outfit!
Tata: I can’t breathe! Your mom made you a polyester leisure suit? Out of an Italian tablecloth? Even felons get natural fibers.
Sharkey: Wasn’t I a lucky child? No wonder I can’t remember my childhood, I’m blocking out the fashion.
Tata: We must prevent your mother from entering fabric stores at any cost. Dear God, what if she buys gabardine?
Sharkey: Yes, you may use the picture. Knock yourself out, cupcake.

Ordinarily, calling me “Cupcake” would be cause for a head injury but I’m still cackling after half an hour. No photo posts to Poor Impulse Control without the delicate resizing efforts of Siobhan.

Siobhan: Crap! That made me laugh really hard, too! My gut hurts now!
Tata: It’s fantastic, isn’t it? His mom MADE that suit!
Siobhan: I think I just passed out for a few seconds. My mom made me polyester clothes, too.

Attention Miss Sasha: in the mid-seventies, when I attended junior high school, college-bound femmes were supposed to stick strictly to academic subjects so when I registered for a semester of cooking and sewing classes it caused a riot in the Guidance Department. Oh, yes. Apparently, women pursuing advanced degrees were condemned to a life of staring mournfully at a cold and empty kitchen and wondering what measuring cups and frying pans were for. Since I listened to nobody, which is a great way to pursue learning experiences, I tried desperately to use a sewing machine well. We made polyester skirts and were supposed to wear them to school. Mine was beyond hopeless and looked accidentally like something Andy Warhol made on purpose, leaving me with the impression that I was somehow too smart to operate machinery.

This is also why when you called me up with your cooking school homework I made up the answers, because I wanted you to pursue your own learning experiences without my sage counsel. So, sweetheart, braising is not actually what causes bacon to turn blue.

I lied. I hope this is not interfering with your career in the food service industry.

Well, I was a little moody yesterday, wasn’t I? Fortunately, I’ve just discovered the salad dressing I dribbled across my lap a few weeks ago left stains in the shape of the Galapagos Island Chain on my black pants. So all is not lost.

On Sunday night, the National Geographic Channel premiered its special The Gospel of Judas, which I watched with rapt attention. The part of my adult life not spent with booze and loose women – perhaps an hour or two, all told – I devoted to studying the Bible, the history of its formulation and what people do with it. And dancing. I can’t explain that. In any case, I’m no scholar and I know just enough to snicker at the literalists, but you know as long as they’re all about the good works and not bigotry, I snicker respectfully.

The first hour-fifteen of the two-hour show described the discovery of the manuscript, its journey through the antiquities black market and its authentication. There’s a whole lot of historical reenactment that’s – let’s take a step back, here – a bunch of men with historically imprecise hair and loose-fitting garments. Also: the actor who plays Peter turns up as Crixis in the NGC’s Spartacus, which is just funny.

Certainly, the viewer wants – me – I want to know the provenance of the document. The language of the program itself is very cautious. One of the Coptic text experts comes clean about having seen the document while it was in the hands of an antiquities dealer – and if you don’t know how these breathtakingly important documents change hands this section of the program could provide a bit of a wild ride. It seems simple, right? You dig something up in Egypt, it looks old, you take it to the Egyptian Antiquities gurus you see on the Discovery Channel all the time. History is saved! Nope. A bunch of the Dead Sea Scrolls burned under cooking pots. The story of the Gospel of Judas’ strange journey merely hints at what’s floating around among private collectors, sitting in bank vaults and turning to dust in a dresser drawer.

Finally, the script gets around to the contents of the text, by which time I’m talking to the television like it’s Jeopardy’s lightning round. “What is carbon-14 dating?” and “What was the Gnostic Heresy?” and “Who was Emperor Constantine?”

Tata: I’ll take GET TO THE POINT FOR $1000, Alex.

Yes, I really said that and if I didn’t there were no witnesses because Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, knows which side the cat food is buttered on…or whatever. Anyway, the text is in Coptic, and the scholars suspect the original was Greek, as a lot of the gospels were. The papyrus was carbon-dated at about 360 C.E., which is not a sticking point. The text is the same text derided by an early Christian bishop in 180 C.E., so copies of this gospel were in circulation for about two hundred years or more before this copy was made. So: hooray! Genuine artifact. About the text itself?

I’m not sure what the hold up is. I’d like to read it myself, as I’m allergic to taking anyone’s word for what scripture says. Well, I have to live with what the translators say but meaning is another story. Hopefully, a book is forthcoming.

Our story: Jesus laughs a lot. Jesus makes a big fat distinction between the god who created this world and God, the One and Only worthy of worship, which theme one also finds in the Gospel of Thomas and much later in the Cathar Heresy. Only Judas gets it. Jesus asks Judas to turn him in and bring about his execution. Here, there is a giant omission on the part of the NGC program: Jesus has said he is the fulfillment of prophesy, but the prophesy is also very specific about the way the messiah is treated and dies. Jesus needs Judas’ help with the timetable, and Judas agrees. The gospel ends with the apparent betrayal. This is another reason this gospel was considered heretical: for the early church fathers, the important part was the death and resurrection, not so much the actual teachings, which were carefully scrubbed of militant, observant Jewish piquancy. Mmm, lemony!

This is very exciting stuff. It’s no more or less important than any other book that got left in or left out of the Christian Bible. What interests me is that the four official gospels offer no real, human reason why Judas would do as the text says he does. The handed-down story doesn’t wash, especially when you figure in prophesy: the messiah has to die a dreadful death. For Jesus to be the messiah and not just some wandering rabbi – of which there were heaps and piles, historically – that ugly death thing was the target. For there to be a Jesus, there had to be a Judas to bring it about; without Judas you would never have heard a peep from Jesus. If you read the four official gospels, Jesus reads as a solo part, but it feels wrong – to me. It feels to me like a pas de deux scrubbed of a compliant partner. Maybe it’s Judas. Maybe it’s Mary Magdalene. I don’t know. What’s more: I never will.

The last ten or so minutes of the program featured Biblical scholars of several interesting stripes. One jovial fellow said Matthew, Mark, Luke and John were all he needed, he didn’t need anything else. In a stroke of hilarious and masterful editing, the next second, Elaine Pagels blurts, “How would he know?” I’ll tell you, I spit some pinot grigio then!

In related news, Miss Sasha reports that it’s now safe to blab our excellent news. The Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) proposed to his equally fab girlfriend and she accepted. Miss Sasha helped pick out the ring. Everyone’s thrilled. My whole family is overjoyed because we adore him. The fab girlfriend says I should give him away at the wedding. All we were waiting on, it seems, was for the Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) to inform the excitable Auntie InExcelsisDeo – one of his best friends – in person.

Damn it, another glorious wedding! This one’s destined for the record book.

Today, I took a vacation day from work because despite the fact that I have the best job I could ever hope for in the most pleasant office I’ve ever heard of, being sentenced to a country club hooskow and not a super-max prison still means you’re on someone else’s clock. My life is pretty good. My job has purpose. Do I have a great desire to spring from my bed and sashay into my office, brighten everyone’s day with my sunny countenance and disturb everyone with my warbling as birds land on my fingertips?

No. I want to stay in bed until 10, throw open windows and curtains and hope the birds outside don’t go all Hitchcock on my lazy rump. What I need is a month alone, fresh fruits and vegetables, fragrant banana and date breads, crispy grilled fish and long, sun-drenched afternoons of reading and repose. But hey, I’ve got dental! A person of my startling vanity needs dental like lightly carbonated bottled Italian water – which is to say: desperately.

Friday, Siobhan and I joined Dom, Theresa, Sharkey and Terry for dinner at an Italian restaurant for dinner, where once again the words, “I don’t want birthday presents” were ignored just because. Sharkey is a fine-smelling, fastidious gentleman. This is something we both appreciate about him. I brought him a hand soap and lotion set ideal for the kitchen of any fine-smelling, fastidious gentleman, and because Dom has been mocking Sharkey for years for the fastidiousness, I figured we’re all already over the abuse and could just enjoy the herbal-scented soft-skinned fastidiousness of our manliest man-friend. Then we went to a filthy bar in Bound Brook to see a band.

In 1996, I started seeing Sharkey in the bar, and when I say “the bar” I mean one particular filthy bar in New Brunswick, where he and I eventually worked – but this is years before that. One September night, I looked across the barroom and said to Lala, “If that guy has a brain, there is no God.” Weeks later, I was sick and depressed, and let me tell you that did great things to my looks, when one morning, my horoscope said the universe was giving me a new playmate. Before lunch, Sharkey walked across the library’s flagstone patio toward me, hand extended, saying, “I’ve seen you at the bar. My name is Sharkey and I thought I should introduce myself.” I stared at him and giggled. He’d look odd in high heels and a cotton tail.

The Rail is a terrible, filthy bar with a strange layout and a teeth-optional clientele. When Siobhan and I follow Sharkey into the bar a band called Dirty Dick is playing so loud we walk through, out to the back and hope some day our hearing returns. The Rail was or is also a train station and trains on the Monmouth line fifteen feet behind my back interfere less with conversation than the band inside the bar, and when I say “the bar” I mean the bar I wouldn’t set foot in without six of my bar-fighting friends. I turn around and a guy whose face is full of metal is three feet from my face and I’m overjoyed. His name is Mike, he is always smiling and he hugs me so hard my feet leave the floor. We are joined by our friend Jason from New Brunswick who bartended with Sharkey and me for years. I am content to sit quietly with these people because I love them so and have for such a long time, but that makes for lousy company. So we shout about Monty Python and our plans and meet people and the second band tunes up and starts to play. Matt, Mike, Chris and Erol are McMe, the latest incarnation of a series of kickass bands by mostly the same guys and a few other guys here and there. The sound is muddy and the mix is bad but it doesn’t matter because we know many of the songs anyway. After their set, my throat is scratchy, so Siobhan and I say goodnight. This is important because the carefully considered recording at Altrok studios was ahead of me and being able to talk in recording is – you know – key.

Yesterday, I dressed up in sweats that barely touched my frame, drove down to Freehold in a pounding rain and Sean recorded the piece I’ve been fretting about for over a month. I hate the sound of my own voice and feel sorry for people who listen to it day after day. Some people really enjoy recording. Also: some people enjoy having sex in giant animal costumes, and I’m not one of them, either. Suffice it to say, as little as I enjoyed the recording, the playing back, the editing and the playing back some more, three CDs are sitting on my lap and I’m going to mail the mp3 to Feminist Studies for their podcast project.

In any review of my own work, I don’t see where I succeed. I see my failures. In the playing back, I heard things I could do differently but even so perfection is not attainable. The recording is not what I would have hoped for, but that is exactly the feeling that prevents me from taking on projects anymore. The piece should have been recorded in front of an audience because I am best in front of an audience but live recording has its problems and I have stage fright. So it’s done. I’m so glad it’s done.

Now, for my next project I will buy an air conditioner and I will succeed. Will too!

What?

I claimed the couch. The couch is my couch. It goes without saying the claws are my claws and they are sharp and I must sharpen to keep them sharp. Therefore, I will sharpen my claws on my couch. As you were!

Interesting note: the weather changes drastically from day to day, even hour to hour here. A day that begins with frost on the windshield may end with windows thrown open wide. A few days ago, we had such a day. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, leapt to the windowsill for a good sniff and a stretch in the sunshine. I happened to glance in his direction and saw him raise his front paws and dig them through the screen and I growled, “Stop it. Don’t do that.”

I’m sure it wasn’t that he understood exactly what I was saying. I mean, it’s not as if the pussycats care what we want, is it? No, I think the glance over his shoulder, his loosening his claws and putting them back down on the sill meant, “I considered, and I’ve reconsidered. Perhaps I’ll tear this screen to shreds at a time more to my liking. I’ll have a delicious, fishy snack now. Hop to!”

Miss Sasha called me up to blab but I was napping.

Miss Sasha: Mommy! Are you awake?
Tata: Gnvpj wpgh dphp cpape…
Miss Sasha: You’re asleep. Cluck like a chicken!
Tata: Cluck…
Miss Sasha: Tell me I’m the most beee-yoo-tiful girl in all the land!
Tata: Mmmm…pretty…bok bok…
Miss Sasha: Give me power of attorney!
Tata: Pressing your luck zzzzzz…
Miss Sasha: I’ll call back.

This morning, I remembered hearing her voice in my sleep. That can only mean one of two things: either she has news or I’m on my way to a nursing home. I leave a message at a nice, uncomfortable hour.

Tata: Good morning, sweetheart! The birds aren’t up yet so I thought you’d want to hear from me. Call me back or I leave my vast fortune to a pack of stray cats. Kiss kiss!

My phone rings ten minutes later so I know it’s good news and not that she’s re-written my Will with disappearing ink. Which she will if genes have anything to do with it. In the meantime, our cheeky ingenue is so overjoyed it’s hard to hear what she’s blabbing.

Miss Sasha: So blab blab and then he blab blab so I said, “You’re going to need a blab blab. Let’s go shopping.” Then we did and picked out a blab blab blab and he asked blab blab blab blab blab and said, “If not, I throw you into the Everglades with the alligators.” I said, “Blab blab, that is kind of blab.”
Tata: That is AWESOME! I am SO HAPPY!
Miss Sasha: Me, too!
Tata: I have to hang up on you now so I can destroy the dreams of publishers everywhere!
Miss Sasha: Your cruelty is inspirational. Love you, Mommy!
Tata: I love you, too!

Hours pass. I’m much too selfish to dwell on other people’s good news so I forget all about the phone calls. Miss Sasha calls again, a note of panic in her voice.

Miss Sasha: Mommy! Are you awake?
Tata: Yup. Whatcha want?
Miss Sasha: It’s a secret! No-blab blab until no-blab gets no-blab blab blab and tells no-blab blab no-blab’s self. Did you tell anybody?
Tata: No, darling, I didn’t tell anybody.
Miss Sasha: Mommy!
Tata: I didn’t tell anyone.
Miss Sasha: Mommy!
Tata: Didn’t know it was a secret but I blabbed to no one.
Miss Sasha: Did you call no-blab?
Tata: I didn’t!
Miss Sasha: Okay.
Tata: I thought about blogging…
Miss Sasha: No! Not until no-blab no-blab blabs to no-blab! Probably on Monday.
Tata: You expect me to keep a secret over an entire weekend?
Miss Sasha: Yes!
Tata: It’s a good thing three of my four sisters went to Los Angeles today. I can’t even blab blab blab blab by accident.
Miss Sasha: Let’s put it this way: if you blab, I’ll leave comments that’ll snap your butt like a wet towel.
Tata: That’s an excellent comic threat. Mommy’s so proud!

Back in the seventies, when talk was cheap unless it was impossible, Dad took the change on his dresser and bought a few shares each of a utility stock for Daria, Todd and me. Because we were young, stupid and interested in other young, stupid people, we forgot all about the stocks until about ten years ago, when our names turned up on one of those lost property lists and we just about had aneurysms trying to remember a time before Travolta.

Don’t get excited. Dad’s pocket change is still pocket change. What makes this interesting is that now the utility sends me annual reports and I, with my tiny handful of shares and even tinier capacity for listening to grownups talk, try to read them.

The timing of this year’s report is also interesting. Last week, I looked over the utility’s website for information about green energy programs. The site seemed strangely dense to me, by which I mean it was particularly opaque and lacking information I could clearly and simply grasp. I just plain didn’t understand what I was reading, I thought, so I wrote the utility’s investor relations department a letter asking simple questions like, “Where are descriptions of your green energy programs?” and “What do you mean, you’re proud of being the third largest nuclear energy producer in the country when there is not now and never will be a safe place on the planet to put nuclear waste?” This letter has not yet received a response.

So I try to read the annual report. It comes with voting materials. Every year, stockholders are supposed to elect a board of directors. The candidates all look alike to me: they’re all old white men. Even the women are white men. The lone black man looks like an old white man. Is that ideology or bad lighting? The first time through the annual report, I look specifically for green energy accomplishments. You’d think these folks would be anxious to crow about how they’re helping us move toward a healthier planet – but no. I find nothing, so I look for green energy proposals and still find nothing. I’m starting to think I need stronger glasses or a stiff drink and can’t decide which would help more but it doesn’t matter because I have neither.

So I’m supposed to vote on stuff. Fourteen people want to be on the board. I immediately decide I can’t smell sulfur well enough from this distance to decide who’s more and who’s less evil, so I skip over that and hope someday the utility fields a slate of less voracious lower mammals. Herbivores, even. I might be able to distinguish them from the old white men.

Question 2 is about ratifying independent auditors. The board thoughtfully tells me it wants me to vote in favor of this proposal. I’ll…read that proposal again. Nobody in their right mind wants you to watch them, and hire other people to watch them. So I’m suspicious.

Question 3 might as well be written in Welsh.

Question 4 starts out sounding like more impenetrable hooey about scientific…wait! It’s the environmental questions and answers I’ve been looking for, but it’s only a proposal for a report and the board recommends I vote against it. Wait, what? The question is long and worded like any blog entry at Hullabaloo, which may only be inches over my head. The board responds that it’s doing plenty on environmental issues. I would transcribe the proposal, the resolution and the board’s response but I suspect I’d need a legal team by suppertime. Anyway, the arrogance of the board’s response is freaking unbelievable. It reads a lot like, “Hush, shareholders! Don’t you worry your pretty little heads about it.” By the time I slogged through the whole thing and got to the end of it, I wondered if I should go outside and picket my own damn house for investing in an eeeeeeeevil empire.

Question 5 seals the deal: executive compensation. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what I’m reading until I get to one line I hear clear as a bell: “In our opinion, [the utility] already provides Mr. [Old White Man] very generous compensation.” A list of unbelievably shameful, gigantic numbers with lots of zeros follows. Jill’s recent Brilliant@Breakfast post about horseshit executive overcompensation packages bleeding the middle class and the poor dry came to mind and I felt a little like I might faint. I didn’t faint. The board advises me to vote against this proposal.

There just aren’t words for how special this makes me feel. It’s as if everything I speak, write, protest and vote against came to my house and asked for my blessing before it fucked over its customers, of whom I will never be one. So I’m going to read the annual reports again, read the questions again and I’m going to vote against this douchebaggery but I have bigger questions now.

If you’ve come this far, you’re interested in the political ramifications of decisions in daily life. That – and melted cheese – is what Poor Impulse Control is about, and so I find myself with a decision to make and I just don’t have the knowledge to make it. I have no vast fortune to make or lose here. Do I hang onto this stock so I can vote against this company’s firmly 1970 policies? Should I sell this stock and invest my pocket change into companies more in line with my politics? I think there must be companies that treat their employees decently and don’t fuck up the planet to turn a profit but where? How does one find them?

I am kind of moving toward the idea that this company is so completely backward I can’t justify associating with it in any form but I don’t know. The idea of being an environmentally conscious fifth column is appealing.

What’s the buzz? What do you think? I’d love to hear better ideas.

Part I.
Part II.

All in all, it’s a great day for screaming and yelling. We meet Ivan in the parking lot of a strip mall called the Pacific Pavilion and the most “Pacific” thing about it is the California Tanning Salon. It is the kind of place swearing in traffic was invented for. Paulie and I drove there last time in his 1960 Catalina and we thought we were late for dinner so Paulie was extra creative with traffic rules. Suddenly, we both realized we were about to pass the one and only entrance, so he spun the wheel to the right, launched the giant Pontiac at the strip mall and slammed it into Park. We sat there, panting, for a few seconds, unable to truly believe we weren’t in a smoldering heap, until I said, “Well, then, should we start searching for the transmission?”

Tonight, Siobhan parks and we bounce out to stretch our legs. Ivan bounds the length of the parking lot to meet us. He is more than a foot taller than me so it’s nice seeing his thorax again. I’m shivering so we climb back into Siobhan’s Ford Excoriator which is full of other people’s stuff so Siobhan sits in the driver’s seat, Ivan sits in the passenger seat and I fold in thirds and sit upside down between them, hoping it’s not flattening my hair. We sit this way until Lisa yanks open the passenger seat and uses my right leg like a first-class lever.

Diners at the Moroccan restaurant arrive in parties of two or more and are seated in sections that challenge Western notions of personal space. Though Mila is still en route, we are seated in a section with two tables and the other party in our section is young women and an older couple. We make every effort to avoid eye contact with the other party; when Lisa and I overhear someone say, “…it was like that time I had my uvula removed…” we glance at each other but not at them.

Ivan hands around packs of pictures. One is a roll of his kids, who are beautiful. I have photos of them in my living room. Another pack is from a costume party everyone at the table went to but me. They’re all members of the SCA, and I used to hang out with them for fun and know half the people so I take the pictures and three pictures into the pile I get a bad feeling, and five pictures later, there’s Morgan. Ivan can be such a bitch sometimes. I hand the pack to Siobhan and look away. Just as I mention to Lisa there’s a whole empty section a party of more than twenty twenty-year-olds piles in like they’re one giant organism.

Half a dozen waiters circulate around the room, bringing water to pour over our hands, and napkins. Soon, appetizers arrive along with glasses of water. Warm, fresh pita and pickled carrots share plates with savory hummus and an eggplant pickle so delicious I take bites and do the Happy Delicious Thing Dance. Siobhan calls Mila twice before she resorts to going outside for better cell reception. Mila is adorable, always lost, and hopelessly late. When she finally arrives, she sits and rests a hand on Ivan’s knee. At the front of the restaurant, a handsome man in a fez switches on a synthesizer and from now on, everyone’s shouting over dance music and ululation. And then there’s the belly dancer swishing all over the place. For about twenty minutes, waiters dodge swirling fabric and awkward diners the belly dancer pulls to their feet. Soon the narrow restaurant aisle is packed with writhing bodies and mysteriously unspilled trays. The pack of twenty-year-olds are wriggling without the slightest hint of self-consciousness in a homoerotic frenzy.

Tata: THAT’S NOT AT ALL GAY!

A waiter leans against our booth, shakes his head and mutters, “Egyptians,” on his way back to the kitchen. I have no idea what this means but he is smiling. Our entrees arrive. The only way to eat on the minimal table surfaces is family style, so we each take spoonfuls of flavored rice, fish, lamb and chicken. By now I’m very close to full so I stick to rice and grilled vegetables with dollops of gravy. Everything is nicely spiced but it’s 11 p.m. and I’m tired now, and this is three and a half hours already of extreme togetherness and I’m looking at two more, so Mila and I get up and dance with the majority of diners. The twenty-year-olds are tanked and the guys are all over each other in a way I see is hypermacho. But it’s still gay, and I can’t stop laughing.

Dessert is served, after which we pay the check. We get the hell out. Siobhan drives home for an hour. I love Lisa dearly but if I have to do that again I’m moving to Borneo. There’s one more thing:
1 April Lisa
2 April my brother Todd
5 April Scout
7 April Sharkey
8 April Miss Sasha
9 April Lupe
And I’m pretty sure at least one someone’s going to email me a “Doofus, you forgot my birthday” greeting.

I predict more delicious dinners, shiny shiny gifts and utter exhaustion. It’ll be fun!

Part I.

Siobhan: Did Lisa tell you who’s coming?
Tata: If she did, it sounded a lot like, “Join my guests or I keeeeeeell you.”
Siobhan: Ivan’s meeting us there.
Tata: Damn it.
Siobhan: He and Mila broke things off two weekends ago.
Tata: Is Mila coming to dinner?
Siobhan: Yep. I feel her pain.
Tata: Which pain?
Siobhan: The In Love With A Married Man pain.
Tata: That shit never ends. Still, you can’t help who you fall in love with, and the people I’ve been in love with, I still love them. I think of Morgan every day, that still hurts and it’s been – what? – ten years?
Siobhan: At least you’re mad at Ivan for something he’s doing to himself and not something he’s doing to you.
Tata: Didn’t you have an epic tale to tell me?
Siobhan: I do!
Tata: Okay, I want to hear it, but first, try to remember I want to buy an air conditioner in the next two weeks, before they become ungodly expensive.
Siobhan: Noted.

We are hurtling up Route 287 North on Saturday night toward some road that connects to some road that is the hell on earth we call Route 46. Because we are realistic and truthful, occasionally we point at motel signs and remember some old paramour and it is a space-saving device in that we don’t have to keep their stuff. Shoot, I’d have to dedicate a wing just for band tshirts. This trip is over an hour and Siobhan’s story takes more than half of it to tell. The condensed version:

Siobhan: So last night, I went out to the Frog & the Peach for Ann’s birthday with Gary, Ivan, Agnieska and Kevin. The banter was excellent. I laughed really hard for hours. But that’s not the point.
Tata: It isn’t?
Siobhan: No. On my way over I stopped at the PNC Bank on Franklin Boulevard to use the MAC machine because I had no cash. I stuck my card in, punched in my pin and the machine went dead.
Tata: Lights out?
Siobhan: Exactly. So now I have no MAC card and valet parking at the Frog & the Peach is $8. Why you should have to pay for valet parking at the Frog & the Peach when a glass of water requires a down payment is beyond me.
Tata: To, you know, maximize the feeling of high-priced extortion.
Siobhan: It’s not classy, it’s cheap. I don’t know why but as I leave the PNC Bank I call my Dad and tell him what happened. He says he’ll go over there first thing in the morning and get the card. I tell him no and I’m about to tell him why when I see an accident and police in front of me so I tell him I have to hang up because I lost my headset and don’t want to get an expensive ticket so I hang up.
Tata: Uh huh.
Siobhan: He calls right back. I’m like, “WHAT PART OF ‘I HAVE TO HANG UP’ DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Tata: Did you pick up to yell that?
Siobhan: No, I yelled it at the phone.
Tata: Crafty!
Siobhan: I find a ten in my bag I don’t remember having and pay for parking.

Siobhan proceeds to describe the menu options in minute, flavorful detail and how she chose items that would fit her Atkins lifestyle. I’m only half listening because the best time to describe a restaurant’s menu is not on your way to another place that does not serve seared scallops, and I will want those.

Siobhan: Agnieska says, “I had a hard time getting here. My apartment complex is on fire or something.” I ask her, “By any chance, do you live in Highland Park?” She says, “I do! How did you know that?” I say, “I just got off the phone with Ta and a groundhog got his head stuck in a sewer grate.” And Agnieska says, “I know that groundhog!”
Tata: GET OUT!
Siobhan: His name is Pudgy.
Tata: Of course it is. Agnieska used to hang out with our friends the Halo.
Siobhan: The waitress comes to take our order and Ivan says, “To start, I’ll have the salmon…then, I’ll have the roast duck…and to continue my aquatic bird theme, I’ll have the cheesecake.” So I said, “Few people remember the young cheesecakes can swim.”
Tata: I can’t breathe!
Siobhan: This morning, I go first thing to the PNC Bank. I wait-wait-wait in line at the information desk and tell them their machine ate my MAC card. She says to go to the teller where I wait-wait-wait my turn. The teller turns and says she can’t help me but Debbie can. Debbie says she’ll be happy to help me. “Is it a PNC Bank card?” she asks as she’s walking into another room. I say no. She’s holding my card. She says, “It’s our policy not to return ATM cards our machine confiscates from other banks.” I shout, “YOUR MACHINE DIDN’T CONFISCATE MY CARD. IT BROKE.” Debbie’s waving my card in my face like a cape at a bullfight, saying, “It’s our policy…” And the security guard with the gun walks over. I glared at him and left. In the parking lot, I called my bank and they just didn’t believe it. Then they gave me free checking.
Tata: You’d have to be stupid to work in a bank on that corner with that attitude. It’s inevitable that kind of bitch karma’s going to result in someone taking that very personally. Don’t ever go to that branch again.
Siobhan: Not if my ass is on fire and they’re holding a hose.

Part III.