Monthly Archives: June 2011

The Answer That You Want

Posted by Tata on

This song is downright catchy, but everything about it makes me all wut-wut-wut?

Eons ago, I used to go to the tanning salon every day. If I am ever diagnosed with a fatal illness, I’ll be back there every day until I go tits-up. Anyway, when you’re lying in a tanning bed, you listen to music the salon pipes in and most of it is pure corporate crap, indistinguishable from anything you hear a zillion times in the checkout line at Target. Which you’re currently boycotting because they support anti-gay political candidates. But you know what I mean, so: emotionally frilly and melodically ostentatious nonsense with no artistic core. It’s not music, it’s money. You know it when you hear it and I heard a lot of it while I sizzled contentedly in the tanning bed. I simply couldn’t believe a person would subject him- or herself to that without feeling like he or she had eaten a bag of white sugar. This brings us to Coheed and Cambria’s Blood Red Summer. I found this tucked into a gritty and energetic playlist on Altrok Radio, and I was puzzled to hear what sounded like a tanning salon/beach music-like product. You know what I’m talking about: that song that plays on the radio at the beach you wouldn’t tolerate for a second once you’ve kicked off your flipflops in September, but you’re so goddamn happy in the sunshine you think, Ahhhh, what the hell. Once you’ve let that song into your consciousness it will always mean goddamn beach sunshine happiness to you and now you’re stuck feeling wistful about a shitty song. That sucks. I guard against it by plugging my ears whenever I hear Kelly Carlson’s overproduced warblings, lest I be stuck with that mental image. So imagine my surprise when not only aren’t Coheed and Cambria bikini-clad spokesmodels, but they’re not women and they’re not smiling.

Now that is interesting.

Stumble You Might Fall

Posted by Tata on

As diagrams go, this one provides bad guidance.

Today, we visited Sweetpea at the vet’s office. She appeared dazed, but looked much better than yesterday. Her fur was smooth and almost pink again. It took her a few minutes to trust us and accept me. When she purred again, finally, I felt hopeful. We forced her to eat tiny spoonfuls of baby food; afterward, she nestled into the crooks of my arms but did not purr. I asked the vet if she would survive this episode. He burst out enthusiastically: she’s doing very well, she’s a day or two from going home. I nearly collapsed with relief. We steeled ourselves and left her with the people who care for her in ways we can’t, but soon, we will bring her home to our happier house.

All With Hope, All With Hope

Posted by Tata on

To press up, one pushes down.

I’m not going to sugarcoat this: I don’t feel like talking. Our household has taken a few hits over the past few days and we have yet to learn how serious they might be. The ground is shifting under my feet and I’m not sure if hanging on is possible or even a great idea. I may resort to Morse Code distress signals with castenets because if I’m uncertain how upset I should be that should be funny.

In fact, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Even so, I keep answering the phone. Yesterday, my mother was surprised to hear I’d taken a jicama to the checkout line in her grocery store and chaos ensued.

Tata: The cashier was a large, happy man who asked what it was and couldn’t find jicama in the computer, so he called the line supervisor.

Cashier: Passion! What’s the code for a jicama?
Passion: How much is an enema?
Cashier: Jicama! Jicama?
Tata: J-I-C-A-M-A. It’s produce.

Mom: Did she find it?
Tata: Yeah, it was $1.49 a pound. You should go buy one of those.

Today, Mom called to tell me she’d gone to the grocery store and I once again answered the phone!

Mom: I got a jicama. What do I do with it?
Tata: Take a very sharp knife and peel it. Then cut off the top and bottom.
Mom: Mine doesn’t have a top or bottom. It looks kind of like a potato but it’s shaped like an heirloom tomato.
Tata: Peel it. You can shave it onto your salad or cut it into a small dice and saute it with onions.
Mom: Is it a fruit or a vegetable? What is it?
Tata: It’s crisp and light like an apple or a pear, with a delicate sweetness. You will like it.
Mom: I will like it. That sounds good!
Tata: This is so exciting!

I didn’t tell her Sweetpea is in the hospital and I was coping by preparing mountains of delicious food, but she didn’t have to tell me she’s coping with frustrations of her own. She’s getting over pneumonia and wants to get outside and do yardwork, which could put her in the hospital, so instead she prowled around the produce aisle. I don’t have to ask how she feels. She’s got castenets.