Author Archives: Tata

Here Despite Your Destination

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In the mornings now, I awaken with a jolt, some wild ride whirring to a bumpy stop. I have been far away, hunting for some treasure, some glittering clue to the nature of my travels, but I don’t know what it means. Sure, I open my eyes and pad off to the bathroom, but being awake is a distraction and I know somewhere I have work to do that waits until I fall asleep again. By lunchtime, I’d make to do lists if I had any idea where to go or what to do.

Time feels like it’s turned inside out. I’m off to bed, hoping I’m dressed for the ride.

Cases For My House, My House

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It's Sunday, so you get a picture of my yaahhhhhd.

Alas, the carrots I planted failed to germinate. Today, I replanted with fennel and cantaloupe and hope for the best. We’ve been gently irrigating with a weeper hose attached to one of the rain barrels. The thought occurred to us a few weeks back to add organic fertilizer to the stored water. The fertilizer we found is liquidy sticky fish glop, which I dumped into two of the rain barrels. Today, I planted new window boxes and the fennel and cantaloupe, so the smell of rotting fish was hanging in the air as water dripped down my arms. It was gross, but maybe that’s just me. I mean, it’s kind of a fine line between fish sauce and fertilizer. It’s possible that gardeners look like unripe morsels to plants.

Army Had Just Won the War

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Drusy keeeeeesses me.

While I’m typing, Drusy walks across my keyboard and finds the other side of me is not more to her liking than where she started, so she walks back. That side does not excite her so she walks back, but again she is not satisfied and again steps across the keyboard. And walks back. She flops down lightly with the front half of her six-pound body leaning on my return key. Whatever I was typing has been launched up the page as my cursor plummets to the bottom, but Drusy’s eyes are so green I don’t remember what I was writing anyhow. She rests a hand on my arm so I hang on her every word.

And She Almost Knocked Me Dead

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Ever see a round jar stand in heroic profile?

Last night, I sliced and macerated rhubarb. Today, I made rhubarb-sage preserves from the recipe on Hip Girl’s Guide to Homemaking. Today, I picked and chopped sage leaves, which I added to the pan of sugary rhubarb and some lemon juice. It was raining, so I simmered and stirred a little more patiently than I might have on a sunny day. I cheated a bit and sprinkled in some powdered ginger. The batch in the pot seemed very small, yet it filled four 4 oz. jars and one jar for us to sample because what if it’s not delicious BUT IT IS! It’s bright and not too sweet and unbelievably easy to make and not at all a production. I’m giddy!

Get There From Here

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Well, I suppose it was bound to happen: a mental health website found Poor Impulse Control and linked to that last post. Fine, fine. I could use the traffic. I guess. Hard to tell what good that sort of scrutiny might do a glossy glamorpuss like me, now that I’m completely secure. Which I am. Obviously. Here’s how I have come to this conclusion: a bazillion years ago or last December, the unnamed university posted a position at my current level that would head up the unnamed university’s anti-hunger campaign. I lack ambition – one of my most endearing qualities, perhaps even exceeding my humility and moral sloth – so when I applied for the position I didn’t entertain any thought of actually having the job. No, I wanted to talk with someone over at the campaign about how spazzy and off-putting that campaign is. Small wonder, then, that rather than call and demand from me pearls of sweet-smelling wisdom, someone sent a brief email dripping with disdain and if possible electronic goo. I laughed. The campaign’s spring food drive is chugging along without any publicity or donations in my building. I feel like I should do something to save this situation from its inevitable failure, though I’m not sure the campaign designers would listen. After all, in email form, I apparently reek.

So yeah: what’s a fucking do-gooder to do when do-gooders are fucking up? That’s philosophy, yo.

Gonna Make Your Life So Sweet

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Between the seedlings we bought and the seeds we germinated, the garden is starting to look very promising. The windowbox at right hosts a thicket of young radishes; in the greenhouse sits another windowbox the same size planted with cabbage and kale. I worked at this all afternoon and I’m so bleary I’m struggling with words. In fact, I have no idea what I’m talking about. So: ocelots. I haven’t been able to construct much of a sentence since we drove to the pinko health food store in Princeton and found a car in a handicap space with a Bush/Cheney bumper sticker and another that said SAVING AMERICA FROM SOCIALISM. In the parking lot OF THE HEALTH FOOD STORE. I guess you could overlook the organics, the grassroots political organizing, the employees’ Che Guevara t-shirts, the holistic medicines and natural body products for the crazy-expensive prepared foods, which smell good enough to be a crime. I mean, sheeeeeeeeit. I’d egg that car, but it’d be a cage-free organic brown egg and those fuckers are expensive!

Sing It Sing It Sing It

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I love this with my whole black heart.

Visually, the business of great awkwardness tipping over into solid cool underscores every great story you’ve ever heard and is put to good use here. Watch the drummers and consider the metronome. Also: what the dancers are doing is wildly unlikely at that tempo. Awesome.