A week ago, the massage therapist watched me limp toward him. He pointed at my feet and said something remarkable.

Dude: Stop that.
Tata: Um…um…
Dude: How are you feeling?
Tata: My whole self is pretty good, but as far as you’re concerned I bet I feel less like a hip and more like two wire hangers and a canned ham.

About a week ago, my brain started to feel like a radio stuck between stations and broadcasting from Eastern Europe, but that’s okay. I’ve always wanted to see Prague. My confusion was compounded by Siobhan’s departure for a sparingly glamorous vacation just as it became apparent the Vespa dealers in New Jersey have all lost their minds. The guy in Neptune, for instance, actually said the words, “Yeah, but the color doesn’t matter,” as Fox News blared from the showroom flat screen behind his head. The dealer in Montgomery was pleasant, but allowed as how orange was a safe color for me, though of course it’s safe from me. Finally, the dealer in Metuchen put a quote in writing, then pretended he hadn’t, no backsies. I laughed all the way home, applying my reddest lipstick.

I’m going to make that man cry. Siobhan’s vowed to give up camping for good. So, of course, I feel better.