It’s late when the phone rings. I can’t really tell who is talking to me at the other end of the line, where ambient noise volume must be turning the caller’s brain to Wheatena. Someone in a very loud place is talking and talking at the tops of lungs I don’t recognize.

Tata: Hello? Hello?
Voice: Blabbity blabbity blab blab!

Finally, I break in.

Tata: Who is this, please?
Voice: It’s DARIA, YOU IDIOT. I’m at that convention in Chicago and the surprise entertainment is ELTON JOHN! He’s playing Honky Cat! I’ve been deaf for three songs! Gotta go!

Click!

After I closed the family store yesterday, my flatware drawer came apart in my hand at home. After more than two weeks without a day off, with Siobhan away and my whole family out of town, I’d had enough – or I thought I had, until I looked into the cabinet to see what’d happened and why. This is the kind of thing I’d prefer to fix myself but…no. Not this time. So I called the super’s office and left a message.

Tata: Hello, dahhhhlinks, it’s Ta. My kitchen cabinets have seen better days. I can tell by the last repair job done with a wooden spoon and whitewash. Oh, and the runner holding my silverware drawer is a paint stirrer toenailed upside-down in a manner that suggests only a miracle let it support weight the eleven months I’ve lived here. Please send someone with power tools. Thank you!

It’s been twenty-four hours without a return call. Think he hurt himself laughing?

A couple browses in the card section of the store for some time. I’m reading TBogg, knitting and listening to Ani DiFranco until he approaches the counter. He stands about 6’5″ and when she stands next to him, she’s pretty close.

Man: Can you recommend a good restaurant in town?
Tata: The Thai restaurant is very good. It’s two blocks to the right.
Man: I’m not much interested in Thai food. How about something neutral? Something –

He skips a beat.

Man: – American?

It is as if he slapped me. I do not react. Instead, I answer his question in a level voice and measured emphasis.

Tata: I believe you’ll find your options somewhat limited in that respect. Heading north, you’ll find a vegetarian sandwich place, the Seven Hills of Istanbul, Chinese and Japanese.
Woman: We could go to Charlie Brown’s.
Man: What’s that?
Woman: Steaks and burgers.

I’m such a local-business geek I forget that place is there.

Man: Is there anything else?
Tata: Heading south, there’s Glatt kosher, Italian, kosher Chinese, kosher pizza, delis and ice cream. There’s also a cafe that serves sandwiches.
Man: That sounds good. Where’s that?
Tata: It’s on this side of the street. I guess it’s about a block and a half that way.

He thanks me. They leave without purchasing anything. I’m sure unique and lovely things don’t interest him, either.

Yesterday, those of us who are, in fact, me discovered the little reservoir into which we, which is to say I, pour our .jpgs was a little on the Closed For Business-side. I contacted Tami, the One True, who is the little reservoir’s version of the Coast Guard, who contacted Jazz, who contacted Powerblogs. Today: voila! We skinny-dip again and pretend we don’t drink this water.

This is Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul.

You remember Larry. He remembers you.

For over a month now, my mind has been boggled, which does no one any good, especially me. I’ve been working too hard and getting nowhere. When I saw a car repair bill for over $500 I nearly fainted, and when I observe how desperately my kitchen floor needs a patient scrubbing I have to shut off the light and leave the room. I would like to blame my inability to think clearly on something frou-frou like that Mercury went retrograde all last month, with extreme prejudice, which it did. But that’s not it.

The war in Afghanistan is a fact of life I recognize I can do nothing about, and I see that we have lost it, though it’s a matter of time before that fact comes home to us in all its harsh bookend beauty. In the end, we will have accomplished nothing there. I see the war in Iraq is a fact of life I can do little about, and the horror of what we thoughtlessly unleashed for no reason invades my dreams. The situation in Darfur is a fact of life I can do almost nothing about, which is painful, and I can’t fix FEMA, Homeland Security, and whatever’s wrong with the Justice Department and Congress that makes the conservative Supreme Court look like an Emma Goldman Dance-Off. I was just about at my Brutal Shit Tolerance Limit when Hezbollah and Israel decided to blow each other up – so long as that meant not actually Hezbollah and Israel and in fact meant killing the defenseless Lebanese. Frankly, my brain saw I’d reached my limit and cut me off. But that’s not the end of it.

There are a lot of really well-informed people who understand the intricasies of human nature. Some of them are writing things we should read and consider very, very carefully. I do not know why the American people care more about Survivor than the people we’re killing – and I say “we” because this killing in conducted by our military and, if not, then with our blessing – but I see that it is true, and I am afraid for us.

No matter how coolly or passionately someone describes attacking Iran, it is crucial to recall that our armed forces are stretched beyond their limits. Our Treasury is beyond empty. Our future is mortgaged to the Chinese. War has solved none of our problems but created many more. We stand at a pivotal moment in history.

Look, I am not a genius. I’m barely sane. We have no right as a nation to do what we are doing. We are committing war crimes, and we will be called to account for it – at which time, “Not me!” and “Go ask the cowboys!” isn’t going to cut it. When the next 9/11 happens – and it will – we will not be able to say we are blameless. Our silence and our complicity will have caused the next disaster, and for what?

For nothing. World War III, coming to your doorstep, for no good reason.

Have you met my cat? He’s really very handsome. I have to get outside, go walking and see some sunlight. I have to work again today. Get out to the mall, people, and do your part to increase the Gross National Product. Amber and Rob are counting on us.

Because I am out of my mind, Jeff Buckley’s Sketches For My Sweetheart the Drunk is squawking on the CD player in the otherwise tranquil and sweet-smelling family store when the FedEx guy marches in. It is Friday. My sisters, those fools with excellent taste in household shiny objects, have been spending like sailors on leave in a Japanese housewares factory with a liquor license, and the boxes arrive in waves. Yesterday, I dragged half a dozen boxes half my size into the basement from the front of store because the FedEx guy won’t even try threading his hand truck through the needle-narrow aisle of the very breakable store. Today: fifteen, some as big as I am. I called my sisters at their super-secret lakeside retreat to tell them: for those December holidays, whatever they give me better come in carats.

On the other hand: I am positively a vision, drenched in sweat. My beauty and charisma, overwhelming on a brisk autumn evening, are dangerous when augmented by summer swelter and exertion. Stand back! If you come any closer, your safety cannot be guaranteed!

Yesterday, Highland Park had an event on its main street between 4-8, so Daria drove in from Flemington to give me a hand. We ran around the store, laughing for four hours, though it’s not all fun and games. A real estate agent comes to the counter and asks if we have postcards for the town-wide garage sale. Daria and I stare at one another. Then we stare at the woman, who in 100 degree heat is wearing too much makeup and not sweating. I smell Evil. Daria senses it too and runs around the counter to point at a pile of postcards inches from the strange woman, who says, “Make sure you talk that up and tell everyone who comes in about it.” Daria and I smile and nod and smile and nod until she leaves. We wave through the glass door. Then we turn around.

Us: Uh…no.
Tata: Yeah yeah, the weather’s having a profound effect on business. Raritan Avenue was deserted all day but the crazy people came in.

Daria’s standing in an air conditioned store, fanning herself.

Daria: Ya think?
Tata: This morning, a normal-looking young woman comes in. I’d guess she’s about 23. She wants a get well card for her boyfriend’s boss, whose father has been hospitalized for a sudden illness.
Daria: The boyfriend’s…boss’…father…that’s four degrees of separation and there can only be six.
Tata: And since I’m telling you this, one of us must be Kevin Bacon. Anyway, the get well cards aren’t what she wants. I help her pick out a blank card with a really striking image. I say soothing things because she’s irritable.
Daria: You were nice to her?
Tata: Yeah, I was shocked, too. She pays for it and tells me she’s left her cell phone at the post office across the street. I say, “Well, dahhhhhhlink, your day can only improve.”
Daria: Are you done talking yet?
Tata: Are my lips still moving?
Daria: Yeah, I don’t get it.
Tata: That’s because a couple hours pass and the phone rings. It’s that normal girl.
Daria: NO! What’s she want?
Tata: She wants to know what to write in the card.
Daria: Did you shout, “GET SOME FRIENDS”?
Tata: Miraculously, I did not! For ten minutes, I stammered out creative versions of “You’re in our thoughts at this difficult time”. This did not impress her. Finally, I said, “You know, you can just write, ‘With best wishes for your father’s speedy recovery.'” And she hung up all happy.
Daria: Oh. My. God! I can’t believe you didn’t tell her to go straight to Hell!
Tata: Siobhan and I are thinking of making a cottage-industry line of cards that do just that. Hallmark has failed to meet our “Go Fuck Yourself” card needs.
Daria: Wow…that’s like discovering there’s a flavor of chocolate you’d never imagined…
Tata: And because we’re, like, selfless about our selfishness, we skip printing them on paper.
Daria: What, e-cards?
Tata: No, I can just call people up, mention cute baby bunnies, and tell them you said they should go fuck themselves. In fact, after dinner I might do it for fun. Oh! You can pay me to call and pay me again to stop.
Daria: I’m impressed your plan includes repeat business. But I’ll kill you if you try it.
Tata: Siobhan handles the subsidiary death threat customers.
Daria: Why?
Tata: I’m not entirely sure she hasn’t killed anyone yet, and you go with your strengths.

I would like to work from home…

Tuesday Report, Belated Punishment Edition.

In one corner of the untidy bedroom stands a box I should have measured but didn’t. Suffice it to say this box is about 24″ tall, maybe 12″ wide and 8″ deep. At the end of June, this box was stuffed full of spare skeins of yarn I’ve been dragging from apartment to apartment, some for more than twenty years. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away because there was nothing wrong with them, and some were expensive. Then, I was reading Georg’s blog and found an interesting project. The box is now mostly empty. I’ve been knitting my heart out. I was knitting while Paulie Gonzalez was removing his hubcabs with a paper clip and when my family was arguing about smoky bars. I have been knitting while shouting at my sisters over the phone and between customers at the family store. I’m not a good knitter because I haven’t the attention span for patterns and counting but in my living room sits a pile of little shelter animal blankets, ready to be finished with a crochet hook. Georg is threatening to mail me a box of yarn she’s dragged around from place to place, which might defeat the housecleaning purpose of starting the project. Still, I can’t see that offering comfort to a distressed animal in such a simple way could be a bad thing for my mood, either. More yarn, more blankets. Less thinking about myself.

So. The box is nearly dead. Long live the box. I am late reporting this – and concluding my July project – because I foolishly assumed I would learn how to operate my camera in a month. Well, that’ll teach me to assume.

I’m interrupting my story because I can’t stifle myself. I tried. Here, hold the duct tape. I just realized the hard way I forgot to Nair my mustache. Yesterday, I got a mass email from Chuck Schumer, thoughtfully addressed to me by name. Frankly, I liked it better when Chuck called me “Occupant”.

Dear Domenica,

He’s talking directly to my checkbook, which somehow avoids eye contact.

Dear Domenica,

At the beginning of this election cycle, few believed that Democrats had a shot to retake the Senate.

Now, with exactly 100 days left until the midterm elections, conventional wisdom has been turned on its head. We need a six-seat swing to achieve a Democratic majority in the Senate and our candidates are currently polling ahead or within single digit margins in races for seven seats currently held by Republicans.

Few what? Emus? Judging by the administration’s desperate attempts to blow up the world, I’d guess the Republicans think Democrats stand an excellent chance of turning out voters mad as a nest of wet hornets – though winning the election may be another story.

As the arm of the Democratic Party solely dedicated to electing Democrats to the Senate, the DSCC is funding the vital tools necessary for victory. The donations you’ve made over the last few weeks will help us –

Whoa! Has my checkbook been cheatin’ with Chuck? That hussy has betrayed me for the last time, because I – sure as shooting – didn’t give the spineless weaselly centrist DSCC a dime, and commas are too good for ’em.

In the coming months, we’ll need even more support from committed Democrats like you to fight these well-financed Republican incumbents. But today, I thank you, our online community for getting our 100 Days Out campaign off to a blistering start.

Don’t thank me. Thank your proofreader, who overlooks a number of startling errors like that missing comma of direct address and that the DSCC hates the online community, which is surly and not terribly cohesive but enjoys a good joke. Like this one:

Click here to make a secure online contribution of $50, $75 or more –

I can’t breathe! After the passage of that bankruptcy bill, I know I’ll never have spare change again. Everything goes into savings because the alternative is finding myself enslaved by American Express, so appeals for cash from millionaires are better than knock-knock jokes, especially during a summer of record foreclosures. But it gets better.

Click here to make a secure online contribution of $50, $75 or more. If you donate before midnight tonight, a group of Democrats[sic] senators will match you 2 for 1, effectively tripling your donation.

I’d rather chew off my foot than send a donation that would imply I approve of the job the DSCC or the party or the Senate has been doing, but here’s a tip:

Hey Chuck! Next time, attach raising the minimum wage to a Congressional pay raise and maybe the Republicans won’t laugh in your face; even so, don’t come crying to me after you fuck the American people over and over and over.