There are about a thousand fascinating things to talk about – later. This morning, a gentle rain is falling, the air off the river hits the wide college lawns and picks up the sweetness of recently cut grass. Nothing hurts much and I have yoga class after work. I am nibbling grapes at my desk. For this moment: a reminder from the Guillemots to savor the little joys. I forget this sometimes.
Okay, that’s enough gravity. I can’t fight it without a sports bra.
The old laptop turned an antique two and began slowing waaaay, way down. The browser quit whenever I opened Haloscan. I was having a tough time being a belle of the Blog Ball, doing my own work and working on the family store’s website. If it’s possible, at this time two weeks ago I was even testier than usual. When I turned to trusty Siobhan for help wrangling a new laptop, things went side saddle.
Siobhan: I can’t! I’ve got errands until ten every night until I leave Friday morning at 4 a.m.
Tata: Your selfishness is unbelievable! Think of the poor salesdude in the Apple store confronted with me, an overheating G3 with Miss Sasha’s wedding video stuck in the disk drive, and a freshly minted credit card for this purpose alone. Imagine that psyche in terrible crisis!
Siobhan: Sob!
I promised her misery when she returns this Saturday but it made no difference. Siobhan’s been on blood thinners since the pulmonary embolism in February. Perhaps you recall this golden moment in Poor Impulse Control.
(Dreamy woo woo music. Enter careening clown car.)
Tata: Wait, when should I panic?
Siobhan: When I stopped breathing in the ER and sliding toward the floor, twelve years of voice training and fright combined in a potent cocktail of pride and self-preservation. I screamed, “I CAN’T BREATHE!” annnnnd – curtain! That would have been the moment to panic. My doctor keeps saying, “You nearly bought the farm!” and laughing. I’m thinking of killing him.
Tata: Can I panic when we’re the darlings of CourtTV?
Siobhan: Yes. It’s natural to shiver in the presence of Nancy Grace.
(End dreamy woo woo music. Even clowns fear Nancy Grace.)
Drinking while on blood thinners makes you either a cheap date or a patient with ER frequent flyer miles, so Siobhan’s been sober since before the last snowfall. Liquor manufacturers begged her to reconsider but rejoiced when she declared that for the first three days of her summer vacation everyone would have to raise their own hell, she was diving into a martini and swimming the channel. And while I am aware that she’s probably just sobered up today and started issuing apologies, that didn’t help me last week. So: fine! If she couldn’t go shopping with me, the least she could do was write flashcards for when I tried talking to the other humans in my funny Moonman language, which she did. It took all afternoon. Finally, I was prepared and growling; I went. The experience was in retrospect disappointing. The stuck disk remains stuck. The recalled and overheating battery remains in place. I bought a firewire cable and moved my own data, and for the first time in my computer-owning history, Apple can fucking bite me. But I have this ginchy new laptop that actually does what I need it to do. My brother-in-law Dan, recipient of the erstwhile fantabulous thermoMac if he ever returns my calls, can prise that disk from the bitey drive with a monkey wrench if he chooses. We fear no warrantee!
Biography Channel
A&E Televison Networks
To Whom It Concerns:
Whenever I mention my current favorite show in cnversation it is immediately canceled. It took awhile to catch on. It started with Soap, which everyone says was canceled when Jerry Falwell flipped his wig over Billy Crystal’s gay character but I know it was me. I mentioned it in sixth period Chemistry and whoosh! No more Soap. Even so, it wasn’t until my friends and I refused to go out on Saturday nights until after – shhhh! – Xena that I knew I could have favorite shows but their names could never cross my lips.
So it’s totally my fault that your fellow A&E stooges canceled Nero Wolfe. At the time, I wrote A&E a letter filled with naughty, unprintable words, though I didn’t hesitate to print them. It’s effortless with that SEND button, isn’t it? I apologize to your programming executives since I plainly forced their hands by inviting friends over and throwing weekly Nero Wolfe parties. I even got The Nero Wolfe Cokbook for Christmas one year. Obviously, the cancelation was my own fault.
You will be pleased to know I subsequently learned to tell people my favorite show was one I wanted canceled immediately. Most of the time, this strategy was successful. A number of unpleasant sexist and even racist offerings went the way of the electronic dodo, so I’ve thought of it as Using My Powers for Good. The name of my real favorite shows were my secret for the better part of a decade. Then I slipped.
Yes, it’s true. In March, my father became ill and I met his Canadian in-laws. They look just like us, you know. Anyway, with these cultured, intelligent people, I discussed British comedies we all loved. We had as marvelous a time quoting Monty Python as you can have while your beloved relative is dying. My guard was down, and I mentioned my favorite show was Midsomer Murders. The televsion was in Dad’s sick room, so I didn’t see any TV during his month-long decline. Naturally, when I came home, you’d canceled Midsomer Murders along with Poirot and Sherlock Holmes, leaving me with no British detectives all day Sunday. Fortunately, you replaced it with things called The Unexplained, Psychic Investigators, and Haunted History. Please know I am almost prepared to tell everyone I’ve ever known these are my favorite shows.
It’s tough, though. I hate you a lot for taking away shows that didn’t consdescend to me. But – for the moment – I still hate Cops more.
Yesterday at work, I wrenched the muscles and so forth attached my left hip, which was so exciting I forgot my right hip has been giving me trouble. Every time I moved yesterday it was like lightning striking inside my brain, and driving home was almost impossible, what with each pothole sending vibrations through my hip to my brain like small explosions. Walking from my car to my front door was an act of supreme determination, and once inside the apartment, I couldn’t sit, stand or lie down without suppressing the urge to scream. All this was terribly entertaining but even more so was this exchange the night before.
Pete: What’s wrong with your left leg?
Tata: Nothing. It’s the right one bugging me.
Pete: The left one doesn’t hurt?
Tata: Dude, I have an almost magical ability to recognize pain. The left doesn’t hurt.
Twelve hours later –
Tata: So. My left leg couldn’t hurt more if it were in flames.
Pete: Is it? Check!
Tata: It gives every appearance of not being on fire. No smoke. Few embers.
Pete: Do you want me to give you a massage?
Tata: More than life itself.
That I can stand today without passing out is exciting beyond belief and a tribute to Pete’s skill as a masseur. To celebrate my good fortune, let’s check in with Karama Neal at So What Can I Do? Why? Here at Poor Impulse Control, one person’s problems are hilarious but we take the common good seriously.
You’re going to shop. Buying gifts online and having them shipped to people you adore but don’t actually want to see is a fantastic use of modern technology isn’t it? It is! I’m about to buy Siobhan a present, and as Karama suggests, I’ll buy it at an online charity mall. Not only am I the bestest BFF of all time – especially if really nice people don’t count – I’m contributing to the happiness of people who won’t embarrass me with thank you notes.
I can’t give blood because I dated everyone and possess the blood iron count of a palid Mediterranean princess. Not kidding. We used to get tested, donate or try very often when Grandma Edith was a dialysis patient. The techs used to ask me why I was still conscious with an iron count that low so now I worry in rooms with sharp corners between my noggin and the floor. Anyhoo, Karama reminds us that blood banks are always short but especially short on supplies in the summer.
On a personal note: I apologize, I should have mentioned this months ago. When Dad was dying, we were utterly helpless for a while, bumbling about trying to find our way. One person who helped us and asked for nothing in return was Bud Royer of Royer’s Round Top Cafe. He shipped us pies – incredible pies – and puddings and delectible stuffed quails. His generosity bowled us over time and time again, and we can never repay him for his support for us while his friend, our Dad, was dying. I will never forget that Darla couldn’t be persuaded to eat a bite but tucked into a custard pie with a spoon and the closest thing to contentment was saw those dark days. Of course, she growled if anyone made for the flatware. Darla’s no pushover and we’re talking about pie, folks. Anyway, if you have occasion to ship pies, you will not regret ordering from Royer’s. I’m going to do that myself this week. I thank you for reading this far.
This morning, Pete said, “I’ve been having weird dreams.”
No kidding. I keep waking from dreams in which Morgan, beautifully dressed, smiles at me in my mother’s house, descends a flight of stairs, walks out the door and meets his future. It does not occur to me to try to stop him. I wonder again if I will survive knowing he’s marrying someone else. When I wake up, I don’t think about Morgan because my own life is so full now, but when I dream, he leaves again. And again.
Tata: I keep dreaming about people who didn’t love me. Or love me enough. My subconscious is holding a going away party.
Pete: (Thunderstuck) Exactly!
Tata: A Go In Peace – But Please Keep Going Fete. Hey, did these people treat you badly?
Pete: Now that you mention it: they could have been nicer.
Tata: Huh. There should be a clue around here someplace…
We drank coffee and ate fresh bagels on his front porch. Perhaps you recall that I sometimes forget to inhale, which my co-workers find hilarious after I draw that first panic-stricken breath and cough like a giant walrus. I have them trained – I think.
Tata: BARK BARK BARK!
Co-worker: Forget to breathe?
Tata: (wheeze wheeze wheeze) …yes…
Co-worker: AH! I knew it! Forgot to breathe again. Mathilde, you owe me five bucks.
Mathilde: Merde! Couldn’t you have tuberculosis instead?
Anyway, this morning, I remembered to breathe in the middle of a good swig of coffee, which meant the barking had a certain spray quality. I clamped a hand over my mouth and ran for the edge of the porch, where I sprewed recycled coffee into the shrubbery. You went to college. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Pete, who is somewhat used to me now, said, “Breathing again?”
Tata: At last!
Later, I stood on Pete’s back porch as he worked on his car. A song has been playing in my head for days, and I hadn’t detected the message from me to me. As I stood there in the sunlight drinking coffee Pete made for me, I let the song in my head play, and suddenly, I heard the message:
“I’m happy. Hope you’re happy, too.”
I burst into tears because I was. Pete turned the garage corner as I was still wiping my eyes.
Pete: Didja choke again?
Tata: No. Not this time.
Friday it is, and I’m so exhausted you can be Edgar Bergen and I’ll play Charlie McCarthy.
I tossed a sheet on the floor because tossing a sheet on the floor was funny. Drusy claimed it. In fact, she promptly fell asleep and stayed there after she woke up. I wondered if she might need to see the vet, but she perked right up with a little air conditioning. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, was largely unaffected by heat. These kittens may not be as scrappy as our departed hero, who was a rock star, you know. Here, Topaz gives Drusy an affection sneeeef! sneeeef! sneeeeef! My heart just about stopped when that terrible picture appeared in the view finder screen contraption.
Topaz, our intrepid climber, claimed this box full of Dad’s spices as if she were a giant cat and the box a low-hanging tree limb, and from here stalked the nonchalant Drusy. Topaz has developed a gooey crush on Pete. Two nights ago, Pete walked through my door and before I’d even closed it behind him, Topaz was standing on his toes, exclaiming, “Ohhh, Pete! You’re dreeeeeeeamy.” Drusy’s not taking that lying down, except that she now lies down next to Pete, rests her tiny head on his lap and looks up at him with those peculiar green eyes.
I am getting very sleepy… so sleepy… I will open a can of tuna… and another… and another… I will cluck like a chicken… I won’t remember we had this little chat…
What am I doing with this can opener?
I couldn’t love the kittens more. My heart would asplode. I tell them so and rub their adorable bellies. Still, I can’t help thinking the recycling bin contains a few surprises.
This song has been on my mind, thanks to Altrok Radio.
Now it’s on yours.
In other news, Lupe loaned me the new Tori. I have not learned to love it yet. Tori finally made a Kate Bush album, which is okay with me. I like Kate Bush.
I don’t owe you an explanation, but here is one: art is life. Here is another: in life as in dreams, things may be what they represent, not what they are. Drusy is playing with a jar of cardamom seeds.
The boxes opened, the pans, jars and boxes neatly set up in rows resembled nothing so much as crooked houses on crooked streets leading to a villa. I rearranged a few things until I could see children ducking down alleys and a church parking lot, a pool and tenements. Maybe you see it; maybe not. We know I’m a crappy photographer and it wasn’t a permanent installation. I’ve put away the pans. I have no idea what to do with a gallon of frijoles negros except it could take me all winter to eat that much rice & beans for breakfast.
When your father, a chef and food writer, dies and you get one-quarter of his spice cabinet, I recommend you too try miniature urban planning.
Some items pictured won’t look familiar to the home cook. The reason for this is when Dad heard about interesting new products or additives, he wrote to their manufacturers for samples. I’m not kidding when I say he had a big bucket of Splenda left after a few years of road testing it all sorts of ways. So. I don’t know what to do with agar-agar or xanthan gum, but I will find out. Let’s hope they’re not explosive.
Over the weekend, a conversation about peppermint stick ice cream at Harp & Sword went a little pear-shaped. It was not my intention to criticize, or imply I had credentials other than taste buds and – you know – experience with eating dessert – I adore Minstrel Boy, and my suggestions were offered with respect and affection. I don’t claim to have Dad’s encyclopedic knowledge of food or contribute as he did to one. Nope. My point, which I failed to articulate, was that if dinner was a big hit you only need a small sweet, just to finish the meal gently. Dessert is an embellishment. So. If Grandma’s supernaturally fantastic peppermint stick ice cream is enough to send guests into paroxysms of joy, don’t weigh them down with a catastrophically rich brownie unless it’s a microscopic portion. It’s all too much! In other words: you can be so generous with dinner guests that they puke. Sure, that’d be funny – yakking always is if you’re not mopping it up – but is that the goal?
Oddjob, dear Oddjob dislikes almonds. In the boxes Daria packed, I found sliced almonds, marzipan and something called almond bark. I despise marzipan but recognize it as a better decorative medium than caulk, so I’ll use it. Somehow. This almond bark thing, though, I don’t know. It’s greasy to the touch and tastes like white chocolate. The first ingredient on the list is palm oil, a big no-no for friends with heart and cholesterol problems. Unless you don’t like your friends and want to duke it out chemically with your old nemesis Lipitor.
Some time ago, I used to get up Sunday mornings and stare at the TV until my vision came into focus after Saturday nights at the bar. If I were very, very lucky, I found Simon Schama’s History of Britain while I was playing “How Many Historians Am I Holding Up?” I like history but I’m no pushover. The History Channel never impressed me. Simon Schama, art professor and possessor of imperfect teeth, rocked my world with his stunning and muscular accounts of events I’d read about a thousand times. Holy crap, I loved his ability to shock me. I mean, it’s history. We know how it turned out. (Side note: movie about a big boat? Yeah? The boat sinks. Yes, I’m that kind of bitch.)
About a year ago, Schama came out with another series on BBC2: The Power of Art. On Sunday, Pete and I watched the last two episodes, which were FANTASTIC. 
Despite the torrential rush of television news, it can seem as if history has already happened and the day’s events are just drops in a great, meaningless bucket. I’m not saying that impression is good or apt, I’m saying it’s possible to feel that way, and it can be especially possible to believe that all the great art that will ever be already exists. It’s not? When was the last time you went to a gallery show of contemporary artists? (Mr. Rix: hush, you!) When was the last time you saw art at all?
“Art is the enemy of the routine, the mechanical and the humdrum. It stops us in our tracks with a high voltage jolt of disturbance; it reminds us of what humanity can do beyond the daily grind. It takes us places we had never dreamed of going; it makes us look again at what we had taken for granted.”
– Simon Schama
It is possible to reduce the history of art into glossy dorm room prints chosen for pretty colors and matching decor, but such reductions are truly vulgar, as Schama points out. Case in point is Jacques-Louis David‘s Death of Marat. From the program guide: Painting became an important means of communication for David since his face was slashed during a sword fight and his speech became impeded by a benign tumour that developed from the wound, leading him to stammer. He was interested in painting in a new classical style that departed from the frivolity of the Rococo period and reflected the moral and austere climate before the French Revolution. David became closely aligned with the republican government and his work was increasingly used as propaganda with the Death of Marat proving his most controversial work. That sounds neutral. David was controversial. Actually, that painting was so loaded a statement his family wasn’t allowed to bring his body back into France after David’s death. Let Schama tell it. As stories go, it’s a doozy.
Joseph Turner’s Slave Ship (Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying, Typhoon Coming On) (1840) is just a painting, you might say.
You might also say there’s nothing on TV.
Courtesy of the intrepid Suzette, we find that topaz and drusy are not just Topaz and Drusy, glamorkittens, they’re also jewelry.
Unfortunately, it’s a little hideous.
Yes, I remember when pothead baubles appealed to me. Well, sort of. That hazy recollection is part and parcel of a distant, THC-soaked epoch in which, like the Pleistocene, feathers rocked. I mean, it’s not as if we’re all busy rewriting our gloriously disastrous pasts, right? So that still-fragrant roachclip collection you’re concealing from your biographers – dude, bust it out. Meanwhile, at the eighties party for my teenaged sister, I happened to be wearing the ginchiest blue earring with a pink flamingo logo, and had this conversation several times.
Cousin It Girl: That is THE cutest thing! Where’s the other one?
Tata: There’s only one. We were all about asymmetry.
Cousin It Girl: Love that pink flamingo! What’s that blue pillowy thing?
Tata: It’s a condom.
Cousin It Girl: A condom? Why would you have a condom?
Tata: Sex was invented in 1994 so before that we had condoms for emergency water balloon fights.
Cousin It Girl: That is …quite… an accessory.
Tata: Sure, sweetie, and so much more hygienic than keeping it in your wallet.
Cousin It Girl: That’s older than my wallet.
Tata: Sweetie, you shouldn’t use condoms older than your wallet.
Auntie InExcelsisDeo: Or your children.
Recently, I have taken terrible pictures of the kitten princesses, mostly because they move with the speed of light but also because when they’re doing something adorable this adorable thing takes place on my lap. Yesterday, a kitty jumped into my lap and insisted on a vigorous scritching. This is not unusual but about a minute later I realized the pushy pussycat on my lap was not Drusy but Topaz. I can’t tell you how startled I was as Topaz, who detests leaving the ground except to fly through the air, preferably to break something, leapt about demanding a thorough ear scratching, meaty treats and car keys. Naturally, I googled.
I found a bunch of “treasures” someone will no doubt discover in Gramma’s jewelry stash and use as proof that she should no longer wield credit cards. Then: other jewelry designers combine topaz and drusy in more attractive ensembles. I don’t hate this bracelet, though I think I’m a few mumus away from my Mrs. Roper Years. On the other hand: I should talk. Pink flamingos. Sheesh.
Poor Impulse Control 