Tata: I’m not thinking the funny thoughts. Sometimes when I re-read PIC, phrase after phrase makes me howl, but not lately. Why am I not funny?
Siobhan: That thing where rocks aren’t tasty unless they are is funny, but blasting phyllo dough with fake butter spray is very funny.
Tata: See? So I’m not writing well.
Siobhan: I tell you you’re funny and you tell me you’re not funny?
Tata: You’re right. I’m fucking hilarious. What was I thinking?
It’s a sultry Tuesday night, a storm is taking its sweet old time rolling in and the cats are virtually two-dimensional. In the backyard, an adorable skunk spent the last forty-five minutes finishing the leftovers at our daily stray pussycat buffet. The tenant and his son, who come out in spots when the temp beats 65, complained about heat in the kitchen, then baked brownies. The son is supposed to be terribly allergic to cats, which doesn’t stop him from scooping up Sweetpea for a scritch under her chin. It’s August, and finishing a sentence is a little too much like work.
Miss Sasha: Hi, Mommy! What color should I polish my nails? I’m asking because you’re all those miles away.
Miss Sasha: Purple it is! I love you! Bye!
Tata: I love you! Bye!
If I feel ambitious later, I might try staring off into space.