Author Archives: Tata

And Countless Screaming Argonauts

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Let’s play a game. It’s called What Happens Next? Here is our game’s logo. I stole it fair and square from an image bank because I like the implication that thinking can keep you very busy!

Okay, you be you and I’ll be sitting on this glamorous bordello-red couch with patterned swirls while the pussycats make crunchy sounds with vivid green tissue paper but if you don’t play with them they might leave you alone long enough to play this game but only if you don’t have mackerel in your pockets, which you don’t. Our first question: got any gum? No? Okay, moving on, then.

1. Lucky you! Your new neighbors are a married couple named Ricky and Fred. They have two daughters named Lucy and Ethel. In this scenario, your marriage is suddenly:

a. far more exciting, as you and Ricky exchange shibari tips;
b. DOOMED! DOOMED! DOOMED! by teh gay death bomb;
c. irrelevant, but your wife sure is nice. Look! She took over rice crispy treats!

What happens next?

2. You share an office with a gentleman observing Ramadan. After a few weeks, he looks a little worn out. Do you:

a. construct a scale model of the solar system to determine sundown in your zip code;
b. offer him a pork chop and apple sauce, isn’t that swell?
c. make lively conversation to pass time. Have you seen the spring schedule at MOMA?

What happens next?

3. The best restaurant in your neighborhood is Oaxacan, and the food is so good you dream about the tamales. You only speak English but the staff, being from Oaxaca, does not. For lunch, you:

a. learn enough Spanish to get delicious tamales;
b. get frustrated and stomp off to McDonald’s;
c. Dos burros carne asada, dos tamales con puerco y dos horchatas. To go, por favor!*

What happens next?

Let’s look at our scores, shall we? If you chose a. in any situation, you’re on the right track. If you chose both a. and c., congratulations! Not only will you have a peaceful neighborhood, see good art and eat great food but you are cosmopolitan and get along well with others. Enjoy the tamales! You’ve earned them! I’m afraid that if you chose b., you’ve got a little work to do on polishing your karma. But when you do: tamales! Huh? Huh? Yeah.

*I am not claiming to speak Spanish. That would be douchy of me. You could take back my tamales for such a claim.

Friday Cat Blogging: Dancing Days Edition

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It’s as if I caught them in a motel room.

Topaz is so ashamed! After I took this picture, Drusy sprawled across Topaz in a most possessive manner and Topaz closed her eyes. I surmise that after I left for work catnapping transpired, though I suspect there may also have occurred noshing, scampering and playing with toys. This is some life. I’m keeping them in the manner to which I’d like to become accustomed, and if it weren’t for the fishy canned food I wouldn’t nibble on a bet I’d feel truly outsmarted.

Topaz found my arrangement of Dad’s cookbooks to her liking and declared this spot the one where she lounges and stares at me. Sometimes, she sits and stares at me. This is less unnerving than when she sits and stares at something I can’t see, but more unnerving than when, as now, she appears to be stalking me. As you may guess, I’m pretty big prey. I could be delicious, but we don’t know for sure. Either way, I’m wily and uncertain I want to be caught.

In a previous life, I was a Biblical Revisionary artist. Thus, I can possess that image of Nastassia Kinski without apology. You, however, are on your own.

The other day, I turned my house upside down but couldn’t find Drusy. It’s a simple matter: sometimes I count cats to make certain my furry captives haven’t dug their way out. Darla counts ears and divides by two, but I’m just not brilliant at math so I count up one Topaz and one –

– one –

Hey, where’s one Drusy?

Then I panic a little. The first time it happened, I panicked a lot for about 45 minutes before calling Siobhan, who assured me the pussycats might like me but they love the free food. Because I hadn’t seen a cat curled up inside the catcurledup furniture thing I didn’t look there, though that’s where Drusy was the whole time. When I found her she looked at me the way dogs look at ceiling fans. Thus, whenever she’s invisible you’d think I’d make a beeline for the furniture whatsis. I do not. So the other day when I found her curled up and photogenic I was surprised and pleased: one Drusy. Ahh.

On Arrival, Fighting For Survival

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My brother Todd cannot resist forwarding emails about interesting gadgets, geegaws and contraptions. It’s practically genetic. Dad was all about the kitchen whatsises. I have a pile of ’em and it’s going to take years to figure out if I can use them as cooking implements or installation art.

Todd forwarded the image of this ladder and I’m hooked on it. It might help you to know I’m so small I’m almost spherical, and I can barely see what’s on the first shelf in my cabinets. My kitchen contains an old 4′ wooden ladder the cats use to sharpen their claws and I use to find the vital wheat gluten; a dollar store stepstool that – hilariously – collapses randomly and a nesting chair Topaz sits on when I’m cooking so she can stare at me with those huge liquid eyes. In my kitchen, this thing would be both useful thingy and decorative objet. Todd’s email did not suggest a manufacturer or distributor of this item, so I can’t guess its price. Ah well. I could investigate further – perhaps in the spring, when I can afford to indulge my curiosity about whatever’s on the top shelf in my cabinets. Until then, I hope it’s incubating nicely.

Of Juniper And Lamplight

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This week, Pete and I are packaging jams and jellies we made for shipping. I feel nervous for our glassy little darlings as they travel to Arizona, California and Cape Cod, but go they must, to be followed out of the nest by others in a day or two, to California, Utah and New Mexico. We have family in these places. Some recipients will see the significance of what we’ve done. Some will make toast and wield a spoon with abandon. We cannot say which is which, but one never can, which is half the fun. Merry Joyous SolstiKwanzHanukkaMas to everyone; to all, a Happy New Year.

This morning, I was thinking of wayward and lovely Isadora Duncan. You will note that baby had the temerity to not be born when I wanted him to, which of course sets the tone for a lifetime of scandalous public behavior. Personally, I suspect he’ll arrive on the 18th, if only because that would inconvenience me terribly. Rejoice! The banks are packed and the stores mobbed; the madding crowd will render me predictably homicidal. But, you know, it is better to give than to receive and I won’t be changing any diapers, so I’ll suck it up and sally forth. This kid might pick my nursing home. I should invest, don’t you agree?

Got My Electronic Dream

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Some days, I sit down to write with a topic or a conversation in mind. On those days, blogging is utterly effortless. Oh, look at me, I think, I’m a natural! Blogging is my life, and I’ve revolutionized the way words can be used to describe my wonderfulness. You will be pleased to learn there are other days, when staring at the blank Blogger screen humbles me properly and if that doesn’t do the trick there are yoga poses specifically designed tame the rampaging ego. My teacher smiles when she says, “And now, Ta’s favorite: the seated forward bend.”

We can’t really gauge our true size in the world. We can’t. We overestimate our importance and understimate our potential; we march like giants and crawl as infants do. What are we and what are we doing? What are the effects of our actions? We cannot tell. This, like brevity, is the soul of lingerie. I mean, what else explains the persistence of boy shorts in the wardrobes of women with womanly hips?

Astrologically, today is a very special day. We don’t have to talk about the constellation – oh, tee hee already! – of signs, portents and other crap; suffice it to say, I’ve told Miss Sasha that today’s the day I’d like a grandbaby. It would be convenient for me. I’d like to get started on the project of both spoiling the little guy rotten and dressing him like Joey Ramone. Heaven knows I’ve been patient, but even my patience has its limits.

Well, it’s lunchtime and I’ve got dinner plans. Let’s hope I don’t have to make a stern phone call before tea.

We Sweep With Threshing Oar

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Last week was a little tough for me and this week threatens to be a little tougher. I’m following the writers’ strike with rapt attention; half the time, I literally shake my head in disbelief.

For instance, Peter Chernin is privately telling Hollywood that the producers plan to quit the talks any day now. That they have no intention of coming back with another streaming proposal “until we are close”. And that they’ll only give a better electronic sell-through formula “at the last minute” when a contract with the writers is virtually signed.

These quiet remarks by the Fox/News Corp No. 2 are the complete opposite of what the AMPTP is telling the WGA around the bargaining table.

This is lying and stealing, plain and simple, which you expect from a corporate executive in Chernin’s position. I have no sympathy for him or his shareholders. I have much sympathy for union members trying to make a decent living for themselves and their families, knowing that if their lines break, another union, then another after that will break, too. I hope we all see by now that we have to support each other and refuse to cross picket lines where we find them or what’s left of the middle class in America goes straight into the old circular file.

Even so, there’s good news. Minstrel Boy’s got a new niece to spoil rotten, which prospect made me joyous all weekend. One of my favorite magazines has – improbably – gone online. And when you’re sending out packages hither and yon, please give a thought to our care package project:

Black/brown t-shirts and black socks
crystal light packets
individual size beef jerky
nuts
energy bars
lip balm
sun screen
foot powder
baby wipes
hand/antibacterial soap
toothbrushes
floss
individually wrapped hard candy
phone cards
blank greeting cards/letter writing materials
sunflower seeds
assorted snack items

You can send some items, all these items, a case of any one kind of item. They will be grateful for what you send, regardless. Also: they especially want hand sanitizer and baby wipes.

Not on the list: I have heard that eye drops are also prized. Books are also great.

Donations can be dropped off or mailed to:
Airman & Family Readiness Center
706 Washington Ave
Bldg 10122
Vandenberg AFB, CA 93437

Got any good news you want to share with the class?

My Voodoo Working

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Johnny reports from the snack front:

I initially came out strongly against energy bars because every one I saw was some variety of chocolate. Chocolate this. Chocolate that. Chocolate the other thing. You broads with your chocolate give me a pain. If men ruled the world, there would be no chocolate. You’d be able to buy raw meat-flavored birthday cake, except birthdays would be outlawed, because you broads are the only ones who care about them. When was the last time you saw a man start to cry on his thirty-ninth birthday because he only had only one more year before he turned forty? You’ll see that the day you hear a man ask if these pants make him look fat. That said, carrot cake clif bars are pretty good, and they’re a godsend for busy important executives like myself, who can eat one for breakfast while sending out important executive emails like this one.

And speaking of what I eat, I decided not to eat octopus again after I saw this.

I’m almost certainly smarter than chocolate.

Bishops and Fishops and Rabbis and Popeyes

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Sorry to disappoint, Poor Impulsives, but pussycat pics will come somewhat later. Last night, Drusy walked around Pete’s shoulders against the back of the couch, then settled across his crossed arms. Pete’s more of a giant floppy dog guy than a tiny cat man, so at first he was perplexed and awkward. I said, “Unlike many animals and most people, Drusy is entirely open about loving us with every fiber of her furry being. It’s perfectly okay to kiss her back.” And that, in a way, is how things should be at my house: one giant, happy canoodlefest, as opposed to this salami party.

The College Republicans at the University of Massachusetts are hosting an event called “All I am Saying is Give War a Chance.” It is devoted to the “costs, necessities, consequences, and benefits of war.” The speaker is grizzled warrior Jonah Goldberg. Is there anything more outright ludicrous than a bunch of combat-avoiding, prime-fighting-age College Republicans and Jonah Goldberg sitting around in Amherst chatting with each other about the Glories and “benefits of war”?

In what perverse, backward fucking hivemind does this –

– offer an opportunity to this fucking coward –

ON AND ON [Jonah Goldberg ]

Of all the emails Cole has received because of this silly brouhaha this is the one the great scholar sees fit to post:

“I wouldn’t rush to pack your bags. But if you actually do get an oppurtunity to verbally castrate this weasel, ask him if he truly meant “In the weeks prior to the war to liberate Afghanistan, a good friend of mine would ask me almost every day, “Why aren’t we killing people yet?” And I never had a good answer for him. Because one of the most important and vital things the United States could do after 9/11 was to kill people.” ‘

He looks to be of military age. Ask him why his sorry a** isn’t in the kill zone.”]

For the record, I did in fact mean it. I wrote it here. As for why my sorry a** isn’t in the kill zone, lots of people think this is a searingly pertinent question. No answer I could give – I’m 35 years old, my family couldn’t afford the lost income, I have a baby daughter, my a** is, er, sorry, are a few – ever seem to suffice. But this chicken-hawk nonsense is something that’s been batted around too many times to get into again here. What I do think is interesting is that out of the thousands upon thousands of emails I’ve gotten from people in the military over the years, maybe a dozen have ever asked this question. Invariably, it’s anti-war leftists who believe that their personally defined notions of hypocrisy trump any argument and any position. Meanwhile, the military guys have been overwhelmingly friendly and very often grateful for the support we offer around here.

– to do this?

Lecture: All I am Saying is Give War a Chance

Sometimes, I hope there is an afterlife – not because I’m anxious to compare polyester tracksuits with the demon next door but because I want to be there when God patiently taps the fingers that created parallel universes and says, “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

Up With Your Rules

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This morning, everyone in the tiny cul de sac by the Raritan River believes that I am a hand-painted moron. I suppose I am. I mean, you absolutely haven’t lived until you’ve ducked out for a bottle of wine and locked your keys into your motor vehicle with the engine running right in front of your apartment, and all you can say is, “How is that even possible?” There’s also this:

Tata: Are you going to break into my car?
Tow Truck Dude: No.

He reaches into a tool box and grabs a hammer.

Tata: I am not using that on my JerseyChickMobile.
TTD: Well, I don’t want to break your windows!
Tata: Then DON’T, crazy man.

To be fair, the Tow Truck Dude would probably say you hadn’t lived until you’ve driven the wrong way around a roundabout to be greeted by an ice-scraper wielding little old lady with a ladder over one shoulder, blurting out hot ones like, “This isn’t even the FUNNIEST problem I’ve had all day,” and “If you’d arrived ten minutes later, my legs would’ve been flailing out that living room window.”

Satellite Faster Than the Speed Of Light

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During November and December, I fall into a glamorous torpor we can attribute to the cold and the dark. Last winter was a little different, as the weather was unusually warm and I was out in it, walking everywhere. This winter, I feel as if I’m drifting from job to job and task to task with little ambition and less focus. Frankly, the only reason I didn’t call out this morning is that next week, when it’s colder and darker, I might feel worse. Then again, at least I’m accounted for.

A British man who reappeared five years after he was thought to have drowned in a canoeing accident has been arrested on suspicion of fraud, police confirmed Wednesday.

Police, who are trying to piece together the movements of John Darwin over the last five years, have made a public appeal for information over his whereabouts.

Whoa.

Darwin, a prison officer and former teacher, was declared dead by a coroner in 2003, 13 months after he went missing.

But on Saturday Darwin walked in to a police station in central London and told officers: “I think I am a missing person”, a spokeswoman for Cleveland Police, the local force investigating the case, told CNN.

Few things are more suspicious than CNN’s punctuation but one of them is a guy who’s not sure he’s missing!

According to widespread media reports, Darwin told police that he did not remember where he had been for the last five years.

He was later reunited with his two sons, Mark, 31, and Anthony, 29, who released a joint statement saying the reappearance of their father was “a huge shock.”

The statement said their mother, Darwin’s wife Anna, who is believed to have moved to Panama last month after selling the couple’s home in Seaton Carew, had also been informed of the news and “was delighted to hear it.”

That’s Wifespeak for “I am SO going to kick his ass for what he did to our kids.” Oh, and Darwin’s dad’s going for the belt!

Darwin’s 90-year-old father Ron said the last time he saw his son was just a few days before he went missing, he told his local newspaper, the Hartlepool Mail.

“The people were in to put in a television and he was round for a chat, but the house was full. He said ‘tell you what dad, see you later,’ and I said ‘cheerio’ and that was the last time I saw him,” the newspaper reported the father as saying.

His father said he was looking forward to seeing his son and giving him “a nice hug and kiss.”

I have said that depression and medication wiped clean my memory and dropped at least four years of my life down the rabbit hole, and let me tell you: that story is often greeted with blank looks. This guy is in trou-ble! But back on Planet Claire, where you and I can check our wallets and know where our mail’s being delivered, a friend of Poor Impulse Control recommended Kiva.org and volunteered to try it out. You remember Kiva:

Kiva lets you connect with and loan money to unique small businesses in the developing world. By choosing a business on Kiva.org, you can “sponsor a business” and help the world’s working poor make great strides towards economic independence. Throughout the course of the loan (usually 6-12 months), you can receive email journal updates from the business you’ve sponsored. As loans are repaid, you get your loan money back.

Our test philanthropist reported over a month ago that his loan had already been repaid. He was startled by the rapid repayment and pleased with the whole experience. I’m sorry I neglected to account for results. You understand. I’m daydreaming of hibernation and dancing pic-a-nic baskets.