This afternoon, I walked around and around a store until I forced myself to pick something unobtrusive and in normal colors like gentle brown and quiet tan. I tried it on and was only moderately horrified. Even so, I hesitated. Finally, I took this monstrously overpriced gunnysack to the cashier, a woman of some taste and – judging by her blouse – terrible eyesight. I bit my lip.

Tata: If I were your former daughter-in-law and I showed up at your funeral in this dress, would you haunt me?
Cashier: Wh…what? No! [Confidentially:] Is she really dead?

Obviously, my lack of deeply inculcated religious belief of any kind is showing. I’m not reflexively as fearful of God as I am of wrath. But who doesn’t fear wrath? Thus, I watched the first half-hour of Planet Green’s Greensburg with the trepidation of the tornado-fearful and the impatience of a person whose imaginary friends might be symptoms. I almost changed the channel when the high school student said God sent twelve men to lift a truck off Grandpa, but Pete and I simultaneously grabbed at the remote when a whole town full of white people standing in front of huge piles of matchsticks said God was with them. Guess who was a carpenter!

I had high hopes for this show, but I can’t stand all this talk about blue-eyed Jesus. After they’re done being traumatized, I’ll have a look at the green rebuilding efforts. Generally speaking, I might be a little cranky about greenovating. Years ago, I was part of a college radio comedy troupe comprised of 40-odd odd people, mostly musical technophiles and dancing computer nerds. Recently, I asked the erstwhile comedians to help me choose a composting technology to cope with some tricky conditions. As a line of inquiry, it seemed like a fantastic fit: a complex problem that happened to be both hilariously smelly and potentially puke-inducing. Almost no one gave it much thought. I considered throwing a hissy when I didn’t catch on, but then I took a step back. Finally, I asked the group a question: without implying any judgment, I’d like to know why a group of homeowning nerds, most of whom have children and therefore a vested interest in the future, demonstrates little interest in green tech?

I’ve read a few answers and I still don’t know. If plugged-in ubernerds aren’t interested and buy SUVs, that has meaning. I have to think about this more. In the meantime, my sister Daria is full of crazy.

Daria: I didn’t even know the Marcal came from recycled paper until you told me. I turned over the package and there it was!
Tata: So look at you go!
Daria: Yeah, I had a coupon. I bet that store you’re haunting doesn’t have any recycled paper products unless you’re there.
Tata: What?
Daria: They see you coming and they all run to the back. “Here she comes! Get the paper towels!”
Tata: An entire grocery store chain is now humoring me?
Daria: Yup. They’ve got you on radar.
Tata: That explains this exotic and blinking ankle bracelet I don’t remember buying.
Daria: Did you think there was a jewelry maker named COURT ORDERED. DO NOT REMOVE?

I’ve been a little distracted, for which I apologize. Let’s revisit this moment from Miss Sasha’s wedding.

In the lobby, we line up and march in. Sharkey’s got me by one arm and good thing because I keep trying to sprint in silver brocade slippers with an adorable kitten heel. I sit down next to my former Mother-In-Law, who couldn’t be more marvelous if she were dipped in gold. Sharkey slides in next to me. My five-year-old nephews Tippycanoe and Tyler Two march to the priest with all the dignity ring-bearing little boys in suits can muster just before they need cookies and naps. The Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) delivers the bride to her groom in an arcane series of steps. Yesterday, I described this to my sister Daria.

Tata: This. That. This. That. This. That. I said to the priest, “We will never, never remember all this.”
Daria: It’s that complicated?
Tata: This Virginia Reel had better have a really good caller.

He sits down next to his mother. The bride and groom turn to face the priest and then it happens. Simultaneously, every member of my family sits up straight and starts twitching. The priest talks. The choir sings. The priest talks. The choir sings. The priest talks and talks. The back of Miss Sasha’s wedding dress has my complete and undivided attention. A bow in the middle of her back appears to have unsnapped and it dangles. I whisper to Sharkey, “The whole left side of the church is trying to fix that bow telepathically.” Meanwhile, my former Mother-In-Law is narrating in the way only older people get away with.

fMIL: That is a lovely dress. Of course, she’s a beautiful girl. It’s too bad about the rain. Your cousins look marvelous in their gowns. Which one is your sister? Have you ever been in this church before? That’s your mother’s choir, isn’t it? They’re not with the church. What beautiful voices! Isn’t that Tom with the choir too? Is he singing? I’m so glad, that makes it special…

I am not at all encouraging her by asking questions. That would be rude.

A year later, the best man comes to escort me to the altar, where I am inexplicably trusted with something ON FIRE. Up the steps, off to the left and my wrist corsage gets caught on a flower arrangement behind me. The assembled gasp. I yank my arm free, though I fail to break anything. I light the candle and CLOP CLOP CLOP back to my seat. Everyone laughs.

fMIL: That really lightened the mood!
Tata: Thank you, darling!

This morning, my former mother-in-law passed away in Florida, on her own terms and at peace. My family, which never separated itself from the Fabulous Ex-Husband’s ™ after the divorce, will turn out for services in the coming days. We admired her greatly. This story illustrates why:

When Isabel and Ray fell in love in New York, it probably didn’t seem like it could work out. Isabel was from the wrong side of the tracks and Ray’s small family revolved around his mother, who wanted things just so. When Ray brought Isabel to meet his mother, they sat in the cramped kitchen until Isabel could stand it no more. She walked to the closed parlor were everything was covered in plastic slipcovers, pushed open the doors and said, “Why don’t we talk in here?”

From then on, the parlor doors were never closed again.

* * *

Travel in light, Poor Impulsives.

Pete and I have been working up to tiling the bathroom. I’ve never tiled before but after some instruction, I did the simple stuff while Pete cut tiles. We worked like a dog team for hours and tiled two-thirds of the shower in bright white with one slim, light gray stripe. The improvement over what we’re replacing is vast. Also today: I cut our lettuce down and tomorrow, I’ll plant three kinds of lettuces for the coming weeks.

Flying Spaghetti Monster! I can’t lift my arms!