It’s Saturday. My superhot evening plan is to go grocery shopping. Not everyone gets cranked about trolling the frozen foods section but I do, and I wield coupons without mercy. Just before nine tonight I walked out of my apartment, put my car in gear and saw the nearly full moon. “Crap,’ I thought, ‘car accident. Please don’t let me be the idiot.’

Last night, I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open by 9:30. Through sheer determination and serial viewing of screwy Law & Order: Criminal Intent episodes, I managed to sit at only a slight angle until about 11:30, when I gave up and quit resisting gravity. That meant I quit resisting wakefulness at 5 this morning, which was way too soon, so I took a sleeping pill and resisted consciousness until noon. I toss a pot pie into the oven and brew some coffee. Sometimes living alone doesn’t suck.

Today, I stared at the pieces of my IKEA computer desk for about an hour until I knew what to do and assembled it. An hour of staring. Ten minutes of assembly. I am a genius! Miss Sasha calls half an hour later.

Miss Sasha: He’s a fool!
Tata: Well, everybody does smart things and stupid things. Not everyone understands this.
Miss Sasha: What?
Tata: I just put together my IKEA computer desk without instructions. Know what I’m doing now?
Miss Sasha: No…
Tata: I’m kneeling on my stove. Guess why! Guess!
Miss Sasha: Ow! Fishing for change?
Tata: I dropped my one and only potholder behind my oven.
Miss Sasha: D’Oh!
Tata: I’ve got red spots all over my face, Guess why! Guess!
Miss Sasha: Mom…
Tata: I made really delicious polenta and spashed it all over my face. I’m speckled!
Miss Sasha: Mother! Your kitchen is too dangerous. Brick it up immediately.
Tata: Being smart doesn’t help you if you’re arrogant about it. Humility is smarter than stupidly shouting about how much smarter you are than everyone else. Because you’re not. He just doesn’t understand that, which isn’t brilliant.
Miss Sasha: Did you buy a microwave?
Tata: I wanted to wait and see what would fit the baker’s rack.
Miss Sasha: What?
Tata: Friday, when I got home from work there was a perky little post-it on my door from UPS. I have to sign for it in person.
Miss Sasha: That’s evil!
Tata: Yep! By the way, I cannot reach that potholder with kitchen utensils and the velcro on my Ace Bandages. Next, I’m gonna try the rusty industrial ice tongs. And it’s a good thing I like being upside-down.

Sometimes I wish I still smoked. I did some of my best thinking while I was avoiding thinking about lung cancer. Perhaps if I were smoking and not-thinking while I was dangling upside-down behind the stove with rusty industrial ice tongs I might not have panicked when the call waiting I didn’t know I had beeped.

Don’t. Ask.

Last week, I dropped my mouse into a glass of iced tea. Today, it works again. Hooray! I feel lucky! I stare at the phone, wondering what this plastic gadget’s new noise means. I push a button. Nothing happens. I push a button. Paulie Gonzalez glumly says he missed his flight and his dad is determined to buy a too-small house while Paulie’s in Rome. Since I can’t truthfully tell him his dad’s going to come to his senses before the next open house, I mention I’m kneeling on the stove and Leo Sayer’s Thunder In My Heart is stuck in my head. Disaster is all relative.

We talk for a while and the phone beeps again. I’m pretty sure I look like a cartoon x-ray of myself.

Miss Sasha: You put me on hold for like fifteen minutes!
Tata: I what? I thought we got disconnected!
Miss Sasha: You’re retarded!
Tata: There can be no other explanation, can there?

Paulie’s next flight leaves just after 10 p.m. I call him from the cleaning products aisle in the Pathmark on Route 1 to tell him I put the TV, my boom box and about a dozen framed pictures on the IKEA computer desk and boy, do I hope I put that together right. Also: that Just the Two of Us is playing over the loudspeaker and I further hope Bill Withers isn’t waking up in a ditch somewhere.

Paulie: You wouldn’t believe what you can get done in an airport.
Tata: You’re at Newark Liberty? You might have to leave the airport for that.
Paulie: What I got shined was my shoes. No scuffs!
Tata: You sound fine. I gotta go. There’s a creepy guy lurking near the depilatories and I’m almost out of Nair.

You can tell it’s Saturday night and the inmates have taken over the asylum. I’m reading cans of clam chowder when about half of the overhead lights go out. It seems like they should go back on again but they don’t. Maybe an hour later, I’m picking yogurts. I have coupons and inner conflict. There’s a break in the overhead music.

Voice: Happy birthday, Kathy.

I cackle. A boy stocking shelves nearby hears me cackle and cackles himself. There’s another break in the music.

Voice: Thank you.

Awesome. I live for stuff like this, and watching the register tape print as the coupons tick off the dollars. As I stuff the groceries in the car, I see the moon looks a little less full. I must be imagining that, I suppose. I’m driving down Route 27, keeping a good distance from the other cars; I’m watching in the distance for pedestrians. I’m slowing for the traffic light on Raritan Avenue at Fifth when it happens. The car behind me bumps me solidly. I look around. There aren’t even any other cars nearby and I didn’t see her there before. Where did she come from?

We pull over. I move my head. It feels fine. Am I hurt? I am not. I mouth in the mirror to the other driver, “Are you okay?” I get out and look at the back end of My Mechanical Nemesis. There isn’t even a scratch in the paint. I walk toward the driver, who rolls down her window. I laugh. She is so young she doesn’t ask me if I’m injured. She’s just embarrassed and blunt.

Dummy: Nothing happened here, right?
Tata: Everyone does this once. Just don’t ever do it again.

I get back in my car and realize Miss Sasha had a car accident on this very spot four years ago on graduation day. The other driver and her look-alike passenger both resemble Miss Sasha. It’s a little eerie. White Wedding plays on the radio and when I get home to my uncomfortably tight parking lot I find a parking space across from my apartment.

It’s like winning the lottery.

Johnny, surly bastard, married a hot veterinarian and fell in love with animals. Their house is a petting zoo. A few months ago, someone brought a badly injured Chihuahua to the clinic. His leg was amputated and the hot veterinarian brought home the rehabilitating Captain Jack.

“The Captain has a new game where he grabs Giancarlo [editor’s note: the giant polydactyl cat] by the scruff of the neck and drags him up and down the hall. Incredibly, Giancarlo permits this and even seems to enjoy it. Sometimes Jack misses with his teeth and ends up grabbing Giancarlo by the face, in which case he gets a clout on the snout. He then uses his other new game. He’s learned that he can’t box Giancarlo, because when he lifts up both front legs, he of course falls down. So he lies on his side, the side with the leg, and goes at it with both front legs that way. The sight of his stump wiggling in the air is either totally hysterical or slightly sickening. Or both.”

This lends new meaning to “pick on someone your own size.”

“This is Maxfield, the patriarch of the cats. A lot of the others, the youngers, have never been outside, but he used to be an outdoor/indoor cat back in Methuen, and, though he got hit by a car the last time we let him out, he often tries to escape. Sometimes he does. Every time we expect to see a coyote go by burping up orange fur, but he always makes it home in one piece, although his fur is always matted, at which point we call him ‘Mats-field.'”

I try to keep up with my friends’ pets, which are invariably interesting characters. I talk to them often via answering machines. Sharkey has a snake named Scout. He used to have another one named Boo, but Boo bit the dust. Siobhan has the smallest cat in the world. There is no smaller adult cat. My mother has a giant cat Paulie Gonzalez found as a kitten wandering around in a blizzard. The three of us gave the shivering furball two baths before all the motor oil came off. They stood outside the bathtub. Paulie pressed his back against Mom’s less than sturdy bathroom door to prevent a jailbreak. I rolled up my sweats and climbed into the tub with the very upset kitty, who mewed piteously while I soaped him up and rinsed him off.

Mom: He’s got webbed feet for swimming and catching fish.
Tata: Mom, you’re thinking of bears.

Turns out Mom was right, and these giants do catch fish in the wild. Miss Sasha has three cats. My niece Lois has two cats, sister Anya has two cats, and Darla has about five. We used to have dogs, lots of dogs. Now we have purses full of Pet Me, Mommy! Trout has guinea pigs. Jazz and Georg’s house is an animal sanctuary. Dom has wacky roommates he finds sleeping on the stairs.

Consider adopting a pet from your local shelter. If you do not have furry friends, I hope someone’s licking your face.

Fang’s ashes have not returned from the crematorium after a week. The vet’s office says sometimes it takes awhile. That’s okay, though. What with the weather we can’t exactly take a box of dusty pussycat out to my sister’s backyard, dig a hole and ignore the mudslides. The delay, I think, works in our favor, Ned’s and mine. We’re certainly going to cry our eyes out at kitty graveside one of these afternoons. Might as well be a sunny day!

I may need a new black dress and Sunday-go-ta-meetin’ shitkickers.

Last night, Siobhan and I set out in the torrential rain to size up yet another appliance store. This hunting and gathering process has convinced me every extended family needs at least one retired member to whom all power of comparison shopping is delegated. This ambassador to agrees to:

1. Scope the circulars as they are published;
2. Familiarize him- or herself with consumer outlets within a fifty-mile radius;
3. Listen carefully to the shopping needs of the family.
4. Conduct personalized research, including making excursions to small businesses and opening negotiations on behalf of the family and individual members;
5. Bargaining salespersons into submission.

It is a delicate and time-consuming business to negotiate with a retailer for my washing machine, Daria’s deep freezer, Todd’s My Little Convection Oven, Anya’s stand mixer, Corinne’s husband swatter, Dara’s ground-penetrating radar, Auntie In Excelsis Deo’s sheet metal quilter, Grandpa’s GPS and Miss Sasha’s in-ground mother-in-law minder. Mom seems very busy despite her curious lack of gainful employment and works on her own very peculiar conception of time, which does not really synchronize with any other human’s. I want Tom to retire and become the family’s ambassador to appliance-selling America. With extreme prejudice. Since he’s selfishly continuing to teach high school and not thinking at all about what’s truly important – my needs – Siobhan and I donned our wetsuits, jumped in her Ford Excoriator and shoved off.

Our first stop was closed for Yom Kippur. We decided there was little risk of Yom Kippur sales at the potentially Teutonic Kohl’s so we sailed in and out of the jughandles of Route 18 and docked near an exit. We were searching for an inexpensive microwave but discovered Kohl’s extensive collection of ridiculous kitchen appliances did not include what I needed. I mean, who really needs a S’Mores Maker? Can you say you need that? How about a quesadilla machine? Did you know your frying pan works just as well and you already have that?

As I whined to Siobhan, Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, has taken to clawing the couch. It’s not a lovely couch and it was already secondhand when Daria gave it to me. Still. It’s a couch we sit on, and I object. Siobhan suggested we sail over to PetSmart, which we did. Thirty feet down the center aisle, I found a puppy. These words do not do justice to the heart-stopping happiness that is meeting puppies because puppies are the kings of enthusiasm and when you meet them they lick your face and jump and jump and jump and clicketty clicketty clicketty and bonk you on the chin and wag wag wag wag and you go “Ttttthhhhhhhwpppttt!” and you are very very very happy. Siobhan does not love dogs and disappeared around a corner while I squeezed my new four-legged best friend on a leash held by someone I’ll never see again. Five minutes later, I made a new best friend on a leash held by a little girl who wanted her puppy to wear costumes. Then I met another enthusiastic puppy friend. By now, I’m lugging a 14-lb. tub of cat litter and a cardboard scratching whatsis for the other team and we’re at the register surrounded by doggy happiness. A woman walks in with a miniature Yeti dangling passively over one arm.

Tata: Siobhan! What’s that?
Siobhan: It’s a dog.
Tata: Are you sure? Which end is up?
Siobhan: The one that’s not wagging.

So apparently we’d wandered in on puppy training night. Now, if you have to leave a store in an epic downpour, you might be better off if your merchandise is not specifically designed to be absorbent. It’s just a thought! Siobhan looks at the stuff I’m carrying, sighs and says, “I’ll go get the truck.”

A funny thing happens when I am happy and alone for a few minutes: I forget I am a middle-aged woman with credit cards and a day job. I forget I’m arthritic and prone to depression. I forget people can see me. When Siobhan pulls the truck around, I am half-way inside the waterproof doghouse sitting on the sidewalk. It is SO INTERESTING! It’s clean and I think with a towel or something soft this could be nice for an outdoor dog –

Siobhan honks. I…oh, look at me. I get up, grab the tub of cat litter and wade out to the truck. You will not be surprised, I think, to hear that Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, shows no interest whatever in clawing the cardboard.

Larry: Thank you, no.
Tata: But! But! But! I’ll pour fresh catnip on top!
Larry: Aghhh. You’re my besssshhhhhht frien…
Tata: Yes, my dearest. I know.

Sharkey emails. He’s bought me a ticket to a Supersuckers show on a Saturday night in December. This is his way of saying, “We’re all going. You’re going. And by the way, you’re GOING!” I threaten to pay him back. He says I’m like a cat shivering in the rain and that makes him feel generous. I don’t know whether to thank him or have myself blow-dried.

Last night, I suggested to a dear friend that he consider rehab. Surprisingly, he didn’t tell me to go fuck myself. This morning, I woke up happy despite the rain. I love the rain and wish it didn’t damage people so. On the news, North Jersey looks like the Gulf Coast minus the floating bodies. Miss Sasha and I called each other back and forth all afternoon on Saturday. The baker’s rack went back to Pensacola but we finally know most of its mysterious epic. Skip this if you hate convoluted stories in which people triumph through dogged determination, judicious use of bad language and not knowing when to quit:

Long ago, which is to say two Wednesdays into the past, Mr. Sasha wrapped the baker’s rack, addressed it and took it to a UPS store. Mr. Sasha, bless his heart, grafted together two of my addresses and improvised a third. Over a week later, a postcard from UPS arrives. All the significant numbers and information are somehow obscured by the postmark but I see clearly that UPS intends to send it back if they don’t hear from me early and often by Monday morning. I don’t even notice how completely off the address is. After all: the postcard arrived, did it not? At 8:32 a.m. last Monday, I discussed the package with a lovely woman who answered the phone and was just as mystified as I was. Illegible postcard. Odd, large package. Locked building. I recall telling her my address as part of the verifying process. She assured me the package would be delivered on Wednesday. Just after 11 a.m. the package was sent back to Pensacola, so it comes as no surprise that on Wednesday, the package did not arrive and on Thursday, it continued its naughty not-arriving.

Last Friday, Miss Sasha received notice of some sort that the package had returned. Then she and I spent Saturday afternoon trying to figure out how that postcard miraculously came to me when it was addressed to an imaginary street in a different town. Plus, the box was damaged in shipping. When Miss Sasha proposed that UPS send it back to me per the agreement I’d made with the phone representative the manager of the store sneered at her. Against all odds, she did not call him “you pigfucker”. She called customer service, where another representative assured Miss Sasha the store manager would be happy to send me that package.

So. The repaired package is on its way to me. I will believe it when I see it. I can’t give my heart to furniture when I’ve been burned before. The new thing that happened was that at no time did I have to call someone and – as Grandma taught all us girls – tell someone what they were going to do for me. I didn’t have to because:

Tata: Okay, Mommy will handle this on Monday.
Miss Sasha: No, I will handle this now.
Tata: Wait, what just happened?

And why do I refer to myself in the wacky third person while talking to my adult daughter?

The good news is I went to Sears on Sunday, determined to boost the Gross National Product by one electric screwdriver, possibly a microwave and a small TV for the bedroom. Reading this, two of my exceedingly thrifty sisters are now deeply horrified that I skipped scouring the classifieds for used appliances and went straight for the gigundo retailer but they understand I’m just as short on patience for appliance failure as I am on money. Nobody fixes TVs anymore and repairing a microwave is asking for trouble. So: Sears. I stared. I stared. I wondered if I were dreaming the price tags. I wondered why I was still standing there, dumbfounded by consumer electronics. Then I bought the screwdriver.

Monday night, I installed the roman shade in my kitchen that will prevent me from being arrested if I decide to brew coffee topless. Suddenly, everything was a different kind of okay. I have the correct tool for the job. I can solve some of my problems without waiting for someone to help me. I want that baker’s rack, and its precise measurements for the microwave I will buy. And I want all this today.

A week or so ago, I made the terrible mistake of listening to NJ101.5 during afternoon drive time. Usually, I have about one minute, maybe two before I pull over and slap the SEEK button. Perhaps you’re acquainted with the ham-fisted groupthink that passes for political logic on this talk radio show; if not, suffice it to say you’re not going to listen in and get any smarter. My head nearly exploded when a caller said something like, “After the hurricane, Habitat for Humanity went and built all those people houses just because they were poor. I don’t see anybody building me a house.” So maybe I made it about thirty seconds. Hallelujah.

It’s thinking like this that makes me wish I were capable of moving out into the woods alone and never had to talk to another selfish fucker or even risk coming in contact with another selfish fucker. At all. The eye that sees only competitors and not fellow travelers is bound to be envious, materialistic and unhappy. It’s even worse than that. White people – not all white people – who see prosperous Black people think things like ‘Why should they have what I don’t have?’ Oh, yes they do. The basic assumption there is that white people should have and Black people should wait until all whites are prosperous before expecting their own prosperity. Think I’m wrong? Let’s refer back to our head-splitting caller. Her basic assumptions are many: the crisis is over, housing has been accomplished, nobody is homeless, Habitat for Humanity waved a magic joist and all the poor Black people of the Gulf Region were sittin’ pretty in luxurious pre-fab digs and nobody expects to pick up a check. And our caller doesn’t own a house, so why should those Black folks?

That is what she was saying: “I deserve more because I’m white.” Listen, princess, nobody gives a shit what you expect or think you deserve in life. Tell it to your next Ladies’ Auxilliary Klan Meeting, where I’m sure this will go over like Tiffany’s rice crispy cakes and Annie’s diaper-covering 2T white sheet set.

At least, a person might think this would be a more isolated cattle car on someone’s train of thought but it’s not. Plenty of people have opted out of donating to the Red Cross or Mercy Corps because they can’t be sure “the right people” will be helped. I wish those fuckers would dream big, donate to the Humane Society and save some abandoned hounds but in this tiny-brain thinking, every living being is competition for money and stuff, and why should the tiny-brain give anything to anybody?

This argument is almost always followed by the words that make me want to lose my mind: “Nobody ever gave me anything.” Smarter people than me could put forth carefully reasoned arguments about why this isn’t true and detail the ways in which society contributes to your well-being. If you went to public school and can read and write you should shut your mouth before you say something even more stupid. But let’s cut to the chase. I recently perused a list of remarks left with the staff of politicians and one struck me as perfect, stupid and a propos: “I don’t want a welfare state. My Medicare is just fine!” Sadly, that misguided, selfish bastard is probably a registered voter. And he or she should fuck off.

Being a parent is a daily crushing blow to one’s self-confidence, but having parents is a daily battle not to commit parricide. My blog partner GD Frogsdong on his weekend with Momma and Poppa Frog:

Last night I wrote a step-by-step instruction for my mother on how to work the TV remote. I even drew up a picture and labeled the buttons “1”, “2”, “3”, etc., with arrows and stuff so she would be able to watch Regis and What’s-her-name-don’t-tell-me-her-name-I-don’t-really-care.

I got a call at work at 8:55 this morning.

“Frog? I’m sorry to bother you but I followed your instructions and the TV doesn’t work right.”

“What did you do?”

“I did exactly what you said.”

“What is on the screen?”

“It’s blank.”

“Is it blue?”

“Yes.”

“Press ’03’, then press the button labeled ‘Sat’. Make sure it lights up. It’s the number 3 button on the diagram. Then press ‘245’.”

“Okay…….it’s still blank.”

“Press ’03’. You have a picture back, right?”

“Yes.”

“Press the botton labeled ‘Sat’. Did it light up?”

“Yes.”

Okay, not to make this any more tedious than it is, she couldn’t quite get the concept of pressing the Satellite button until it lit up. Had to go through this entire routine three times before it lit up and she could watch Regis and Babette. Other than that, things are insane at my house. Crazy people are staying there. Is your mother a martyr? Mine is. “Mom, I’m cooking dinner.” “You don’t have to cook for me. I can have a cookie and that’s all I need.” “Mom, please eat something real.” “No, I don’t want you to have to wash a dish.” “Mom, it’s okay. We have plenty of dishes.” “That’s all right. I’ll just sit here and look at you.”

My father is the exact opposite. “You got any chocolate chip cookies?” “No.” “Well, it’s not raining too hard. And the store is close. You could walk to the store and be back with the cookies in fifteen minutes.”

Suddenly, I’m reminded that I chided Miss Sasha for moving to Florida during hurricane season but it sounded a whole lot like, “It’s so rude of you to set up house a thousand miles from where my son-in-law should be lugging my furniture from a truck to my living room.”

For breakfast this morning, I had leftover Thai food from Trout’s birthday dinner. Breakfast foods do not appeal to me much at any time, day or night. There’s no way I could be one of those Lean Cuisine dames who stand outside a bakery and recount last night’s disastrous dinners for the single and pathetic.

One: Last night, I licked clean my vegetable crisper.
Two: I ate Jell-O straight from the box.
Three: I drank mint mouthwash with a Manischewitz chaser.
Four: I ate a reasonably balanced pre-prepared meal that somehow makes me more trustworthy and better breeding stock.

Christ on a cracker, the last thing you want is to share a kitchen with these arrested adolescents who are waiting for some man to jumpstart their lives and culinary skills. Common sense tells you that the man who can cook is going to want something in return; I suspect a pastry chef. How’s your choux?

I tell people I can’t cook. Here’s the secret: I’m not exactly lying. I’m sort of lying. I can’t cook when I’m angry or sad, and never for crowds. For your own safety, do not eat anything I’ve cooked if we’re not speaking. It’s not that I’d poison you – much – but I somehow cannot combine ingredients properly and make delicious food when I’m standing in my kitchen alone, plotting your demise.

Tata: Oh, see how you are? I should have known you’d be such a bitch when I asked to borrow your toolbox and you said you were using each and every tool in your freaking beadloom project and I’m so gullible I forget all about your glass allergy and believe you when you explain about plastics! Was I born last night? No! Could you need a table saw to do beadwork? I don’t think so!

And then rice pudding sets up in my fridge as a solid. I don’t mean like a lovely custard that ripples when touched; I mean solid like sidewalk and just as tasty. I can’t explain it but I’m sure it’s related to the ex-boyfriend who lied and told me his mother had had a heart attack when she was actually in India visiting relatives. He was positively diabolical. All his friends thought I was the one breaking into their bedrooms and dismantling their vibrators until they caught him trying to set fire to the house they were all sleeping one off in and he actually had the nerve to blame the dog. I turned up one Sunday and the housemates were all outside, shuffling and nervous.

One: He told us you were crazy!
Two: Remember that night you were over using his computer? He kept calling me to find out when you left!
Three: Oh, his mom’s fine and you should never offer to bring desserts to funerals unless you want to cause more.
Tata: So for two years you all thought I was a psychopath who was breaking into your rooms and stealing your stuff?
One: Pretty much, yeah.
Tata: Well, you’ve all been very nice for people who might’ve had me arrested.

By then, I was kind of picking up the clues that I shouldn’t cook – or in fact, spend any time near cutlery – when I’m upset. Still, anyone, no matter how sanity-impaired, can make a salad, and I have one for lunch. I may defy convention and have another for dinner. I may be so bold as to have another tomorrow. Maybe. Maybe not. You can’t be tempted lick clean a full vegetable crisper.

I talk to the Narrator. You can call that God, or Allah or Fred MacMurray for all I care. Guessing is guessing. My bet is the Narrator’s busy. This does not mean I shut up. I’m walking through KMart.

Tata: Kurt Vonnegut is either about a million or in his eighties. Most of the people who survived the firebombing of Dresden are dead now of old, old age. The least you could do is wave some magic stick and make your characters remember the important stuff. Where are the large kitchen garbage cans?
Narrator: What? Try Housewares.
Tata: It’s raining a lot since yesterday. I’m broke, I’ve had a headache for three weeks, and I’m trying to read Dad’s coming-of-age novel, which can be a little weird. Still, I hesitate to complain about anything since I’m fortunate enough to have a job, a roof over my head and doggedly devoted friends.
Narrator: Yeah…consider getting your oil changed.
Tata: I’ll..do that. Thanks.
Narrator: Where is the stage manager? I could swear Martha Stewart’s new line had colors with a pulse.
Tata: Shoot, you’re barking up the wrong tree there. Last week, I bought red Martha sheets and when I washed them they turned a weird I File my Nails While You Lick Me Orange. Did you know orange could lack passion?
Narrator: Who told you you were smart? I’m going to smite them.
Tata: Let’s change the subject, shall we? Does anyone know the lyrics to “Louie Louie”?
Narrator: Maybe…nope, that guy’s dead. That other guy doesn’t remember last Thursday.
Tata: Hey! If you’re going to answer questions, why are the cruel, selfish bastards in charge?
Narrator: Who said I was answering your questions? CLEAN UP IN AISLE 9.
Tata: Oh, come on. What could you possibly be narrating? Who are you talking to?
Narrator: I love that John Cusack. Ever seen Better Off Dead?
Tata: Sure. It’s one of my favorites. I absolutely hate these garbage cans.
Narrator: Everybody wants some! I want some too! Everybody wants some! Baby, how ’bout you?
Tata: Talking to you is like chatting up a stoned bowling team. What a nightmare!
Narrator: You’d know, Mata Hari!
Tata: I’m making cosmic similes and you’re making like Don Rickles.
Narrator: I want my two dollars!
Tata: Okay, I need a shade for my kitchen window so I don’t get arrested for making breakfast naked.
Narrator: Puddin’, I could use some Snakpaks. Turn right.
Tata: Forget it. Turn left. One aisle up are the blinds and window shades. Bamboo would look all wrong. I hate the blinds. What do you think of the Roman shades?
Narrator: Whoops. Earthquake in Pakistan.
Tata: What? Are you kidding me?
Narrator: During the course of this shopping trip two whole galaxies self-destructed. What on earth – pardon the pun – made you think Pakistan was safe?
Tata: It’s my planet and I’ll cry if I want to! Hey! You are listening to me! Why can’t you fix that starvation on earth thing?
Narrator: Aluminum blinds are for the birds, baby!
Tata: We agree! Look, I’m going to need an electric screwdriver to put this up. Are you coming with me to Sears tomorrow or what?
Narrator: Maybe. I’ve got a 10:30 with Chuck Schumer.
Tata: Face the Nation?
Narrator: Rock, paper, scissors.
Tata: Well, at least you didn’t say Wesson Oil Twister. By the way, I love my new apartment but the wiring is totally inadequate for the modern go-getter’s needs.
Narrator: White Cheddar Cheez-Its!
Tata: I’m thinking this explains the platypus.
Narrator: Doritos? Keen!

My student worker, whose name sounds like those bells on your toes, was overwhelmed by her obligations and quit until Christmas break. Ned’s cat Fang, a 18 pound force of nature I used to carry around on my hip like a baby, died this week after more than sixteen years of mousing, ruling the roost and smoking Ned’s Marlboros when no one was looking. Miss Sasha sent me a baker’s rack for my kitchen, where boxes and bags still form an impressive pile and where that baker’s rack would have been put to good use if UPS hadn’t dicked me over twice and probably sent it back. I say probably because I don’t know. I was at home when the truck should have arrived and nothing happened. It’s an interesting experience to know that something, somewhere is wrong because nothing is happening.

Earlier this week, I woke up in the middle of the night with that creepy feeling that someone was in my bedroom with me. No, not the queasy feeling you’ve been dating drummers again, I mean the one where you feel fear before you open your eyes. The air doesn’t feel still. I opened my eyes, ready to spring up and move, if I had to but there was no one there. I lay down, closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Maybe fifteen minutes passed and it happened again. And again. And again. Figuring the bedroom was giving me the creeps I lay down on the couch and turned on the TV. An hour and a half later I had no idea what I was watching and fell asleep again, for a bit. I’m not one of those big thinkers with wacky certainty about who’s who or what’s what in the realm of the metaphysical. More than ten years ago, I opened my bathroom door one morning, stepped through a small blond woman and thought nothing of it until I realized later that my small, blond, female housemate was still asleep in her bed and in fact not really porous enough to walk through. Generally. Anyway, this week I:

1. opened a window and demanded he leave – the man I saw walk through the front door while I was painting – because it’s my apartment and who signed the lease, huh?
2. looked in the basement and found directly below my bedroom is the wall of electric meters, which is a rational explanation for that lit-up-with-fear feeling.

So: bases covered. My apartment needs a white witch and an electrician. Let the smudging and insulating begin!

In the meantime, insomnia gives a gal plenty of time to survey the culture. Adding to my instability, here’s an incomplete list of haunting-related shows.

1. Ghost Whisperer. Haven’t seen it, but Jennifer Love Hewitt is just as cute as tiny buttons, isn’t she?
2. Medium. Please. I’m begging. Make Patricia Arquette stop WHINING!
3. Dead Famous. These two people should have a look at their own show because they don’t know bupkis. During an episode where they were searching for the ghost of Buddy Holly it played out like Richie Valens was standing around shouting, “Hey! You’re looking for a ghost, right? Ghost here!” Atrocious. Don’t encourage these wankers.
4. Ghost Hunters. Wow. They look rational, don’t they? How on earth did these guys from Rhode Island get a TV show without screaming like little girls every week?
5. Most Haunted. I cannot get enough of this British TV show. Our plot:

a. Haunted location. Stories. Crew visits.
b. Crew member: “Would anyone here like to communicate with us?”
c. A noise. Something falls down. A table shakes.
d. Crew runs screaming.
e. Repeat for 1 hour.
f. Staff psychologist tells them they’re all wankers.

What’s not to love?

Many times, when cats move house they freak, hide, don’t eat or drink for days on end. You will be pleased to know that Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, arrived at his new digs a week ago, skulked out of the cat carrier and straightened right up. He climbs in and out of bags and boxes like he’s got his own National Geographic special and a camera crew. Last night, I turned a corner and found him staring at me at eye level from atop a sideboard, which was a little unnerving since Larry’s not much of a climber. Larry is fat, happy and busy. I guess some things are happening.

If the government can legally prevent you from terminating your pregnancy then the government can legally prevent you from becoming pregnant.

GDF at Blanton’s and Ashton’s – What’s the noble cause? tips us to a cogent review of the Indiana GOP’s attempt to criminalize mommies. It’s a doozy.