Tata: The weirdest thing just happened in my office.
Siobhan: Your office? The guy sitting next to me is named Mamadou.
Tata: That has a certain regional flare. No, really. This was strange.
Siobhan: [bored already] What happened?
Tata: A woman over 70 sat in my cubicle and asked me to call RSU and demand they go outside to interview “the naked Indian.” Did I know what those words meant? No. I called anyway. The DJ was alone and most indignant. I let it go. Turns out there’s a block party on Stone Street and something about a petition. It was all nonsensical. Anyway, she says one of our former co-workers is standing outside the student center in a thong.
Siobhan: [bored no more] Umm…Is it warm out?

Calls to the car insurance company start with one of those directory trees and devolve. Inevitably, there’s an exchange like this:

Tata: Mr. Paulie Gonzalez does not live in the apartment.
Not-Listening Dickhead: You did not tell us that. It’s not noted on your records.
Tata: I notified you in writing and kept a copy.
Not-Listening Dickhead: It’s not in your records. Where does Mr. Gonzalez live?
Tata: He sleeps on the couch of a friend but he’ll be moving into the apartment when I move out.
Not-Listening Dickhead: So he does live there!
Tata: He does not live there. I live there.
Not-Listening Dickhead: He has his own insurance so technically it doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t.
Tata: Then…we might as well talk about our imaginary friends. I’ve outgrown mine but yours might need a paper trail.

There’s always one question I cannot answer.

Phone Representative: What’s your home phone number?
Tata: …
PR: Ma’am?
Tata: …
PR: Do you have a home phone number?
Tata: I think so. There’s this plastic thing and sometimes it makes an odd jingling noise. God! I hate when that happens!
PR: Ma’am, is your minder nearby?

There’s a lot on my mind. Unless my phone number spells something I’ll never remember it. A few years ago, my phone number spelled AIR YOSA, which doesn’t mean a thing but Siobhan used to call me and exclaim…

Siobhan: AIR YOSA!
Tata: AIR YOSA it is!

…so I didn’t need to pin my address on my coat when I left the house. My brand new phone number has no zeros in it but it does have a pile of ones. I’m doomed! Ones have no letters on the phone keypad. Seven and nine have extra letters. Couldn’t one have a few of theirs? Anyway, I’m sick of New Jersey Cure and their fixation on my ex-boyfriends. It’s time to take my excellent driving record to an insurance company that doesn’t kick me while congratulating itself for great customer service. Sybaritic chipmunks! They’d use metal spatulas in my non-stick pans if I let ’em!

I spent most of Saturday afternoon and some of Sunday searching for my cell phone charger. As far as I can tell, it’s gone straight to Heaven. This is because Mom helped me pack up on Friday. Daria was supposed to come but she woke up with strep and called in sick.

Daria: Ah feel ahhful.
Tata: You better stay home. I fear increased congestion.
Daria: Ah callt Bom. She’lb be dere ad den.
Tata: Hoorah! The cavalry!

Funny thing about two hands packing: at least one person doesn’t know what things are packed together. After about five hours, we’d moved almost everything to our well-insured motor vehicles, up Route 27 and to my new digs. Mom seldom likes my apartments but that’s because some of them have been real slums. When I turned the key and she saw for herself the new place was spacious and clean she was relieved.

Mom: I’m relieved.
Tata: It’s a nice place, isn’t it?
Mom: Yes. Let’s go get your TV.
Tata: Mom, have you noticed we have – like – freakish upper body strength?
Mom: As compared to whom?
Tata: To the people who are not us.
Mom: Don’t be silly. Here, hold this anvil.

Okay, I made up the anvil. The other day, Siobhan and I were moving a few small things. She lifts weights three times a week with a trainer. I handed her my barbell and she lurched sideways. There was actual lurching! So, I can’t recall what ridiculous thing Mom handed me but it was pretty heavy. This is in stark contrast to yesterday when two of my brothers-in-law turned up to heave a dresser from a truck to my living room. They were both sure I couldn’t lift one end of it. I shrugged and held the door open, thinking of my former mother-in-law. The Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) used to say she lifted the house to sweep underneath it.

Paulie has returned from Italy to an apartment that’s mostly his. I don’t know where anything is at my place. An hour later, I know where a few somethings are. An hour after that, I can’t remember what I knew an hour before. Friday night, I slept in the new apartment for the first time. At 2:41 a.m., I awakened to the sharp, persistent squeals of a carbon monoxide detector running out of battery power. I pulled the batteries out and went back to bed. Yesterday, I turned on the oven and the smoke detector went off. To amuse myself, I bought the cheapest cordless phone I could find and doubt somehow I’ll get my money’s worth before I throw it in a dumpster. This apartment is filled with screaming plastic gadgets and batteries on the floor like the cat’s taken up log rolling.

I have fallen hopelessly in love with my new apartment. This morning, it took twenty-five minutes to find my shoes.

“I have to infer from that (statement) that you would be happier if Saddam Hussein were still in power.” – Paul Wolfowitz

“My happiness was never going to be influenced by Saddam Hussein’s career path. Instead, my happiness is affected by the well-being of Americans and Iraqis who have suffered needlessly as a result of your war.”

R. J. Eskow at the Nightlight.

Tata: Excuse me just a moment.

I dial another university phone number from my cubicle. Voicemail.

Tata: Wuzzah wuzzah wuzzah mu mu mu mu mu I WUV OO!

And I hang up the phone. My co-worker on the other side of the wall cannot resist. He jumps up on his chair to stare at me.

Co-Worker: What was that?
Tata: Sharkey’s on vacation – again.
Co-Worker: Is he exceptionally stupid? You have his phone number!
Tata: You should see what happens when I frisk him for pocket change.

Daria hasn’t called yet today but yesterday’s conversation was truly inspirational.

Tata: Tata speaking.
Daria: I’m calling you.
Tata: Yup.
Daria: I’m going to call you back.
Tata: What? You never call me back!
Daria: I’m going to call you back! Geez!
Tata: Okay.
Daria: So don’t call me back, okay?
Tata: Okay!

She didn’t call back. That was the whole phone call. I have no idea what that was about but sometimes we need assurance that people are where we expect them to be. For instance, were I Roman Polanski I might call Charlie Manson every day to make sure he’s where I left him, and Goddess knows in the wake of those Roberts hearings someone should check on Clarence Thomas.

Tata: It’s so cold in my office I’m wearing a blanket.
Siobhan: Is it fleecy? [Pause] You’re not just wearing a blanket, right?
Tata: I’m wearing other garments, yes, but it’s funny that you had to ask.
Siobhan: I wasn’t worried at first, but then, well it just popped into my head that this might be the day you went round the “inappropriate work attire” bend.

And who wouldn’t frankly? I’ve been moving now since 19 August, and last week I snapped like a twig when I found my medicine cabinet in the old building filled with brown liquid that’d flowed down from the apartment upstairs. I could go no further without help; everything was too complicated. Dad and Darla drove up from their bucolic home below the Mason-Dixon line, sized up the drama and started fixing things, starting with the keys to the new apartment and the building, the windows, the kitchen, the broiler’s pilot light, the locks, the showerhead and the impassable pile of stuff in the living room. In less than twelve hours, they made more progress than I could have made in months, while I packed more things. I’m truly running on fumes here. Last night’s mission was to get very delicate things into the new apartment and grocery shop for both apartments. See, Paulie Gonzalez is moving into the old apartment and he’d take care of everything himself but he’s in Italy and can’t get to the A&P so I picked him up some Lean Cuisines. As Howard Dean is certain to find out, I make an excellent Ex.

Daria and I have a new ritual we observe each time I return from the grocery store. Look for this conversation to happen some time after lunch:

Tata: Okay, so I go armed with coupons, my A&P card and all that change we picked up off the floor of Paulie’s bedroom when we cleaned out his Swinging Bachelor Pad(tm) before he went to Italy and the change machine at the grocery store takes $.089 cents per dollar to count the change and still gave me $25.99 and his coins from Spain. So I work from the list I made with the circular and the coupons and – it’s a bloody miracle! – the things I have coupons for are on special anyhow, which means that the cartful of stuff for both apartments comes to about $350 and when it’s all done I give the cashier $198.10! I am QUEEN OF SAVINGS!
Daria: Tomorrow, I’m going to make a car dealer cry.
Tata: The whole dealership or just a few salesmen?

When this is all over, I’m going to need a transfusion and a financial advisor. You know, to carry me around like Kerry Strug.

There’s a message on my answering machine.

Miss Sasha: Mr. Sasha and I were sitting on the couch, minding our own business, watching something on TV. I don’t even remember what it was. As we watched, our brand new wine glass rack separated from the ceiling and SMASH! There was violence and broken stuff so I thought I’d call. Love you, Mom!

I call back and get voicemail.

Tata: Sweetie, call me back! I’m worried you might be drinking Beaujolais-Villages from jelly jars without irony!

Finally, we’re at two ends of one phone line.

Miss Sasha: Not only did we lose some very nice wedding gift stemware but we also lost a glass I was given in Charleston for doing an event. It was my first big event, and I earned this glass and I’m mad because I worked my ass off!
Tata: Don’t worry, darling, you’ll work your ass off again someday! How are the cats? No one was injured?
Miss Sasha: We cleaned the floor with the wet/dry vac and checked their paws and threw out the food in the cat bowl. They didn’t seem nervous but we were.
Tata: What is that racket? Why are you shouting?
Miss Sasha: Oh, I’ll go outside. My husband is laughing at the Blue Collar Comedy Show.
Tata:
Miss Sasha: You’re speechless, aren’t you?
Tata: I’ve pictured you in a tube top at a NASCAR race and I need an Excedrin.

In point of fact, Miss Sasha resembles Natalie Portman and would be perfectly beautiful in an ensemble crocheted out of used McDonald’s wrappers. However, I draw the mental line at visualizing my spawn swimming upstream and asking directions from bears. She changes the subject.

Miss Sasha: How’s the blog?
Tata: You know how I say I dated absolutely everyone and it’s become quite tedious?
Miss Sasha: Yes…?
Tata: I’ve decided to go boldly into a new phase of my life.
Miss Sasha: And what is that, Mommy?
Tata: I’m going to break up with people I’ve never met.
Miss Sasha: Will they show up at your place weeping drunkenly at 3 in the morning?
Tata: Not if their husbands and wives find me first!

From now on: no more dating! If I find someone I like, I’ll divorce him or her or it first and if that goes well, we can pursue something more intimate like organizing a food drive for a soup kitchen. After that, there’s nothing to do but set up the Nerf dartboard and aim for Rumsfeld’s nose…

Howard Dean
Chairman
Democratic National Committee

Dearest Howard,

We’ve been together a long time, haven’t we? I barely remember a time when I didn’t consider myself left of center but slightly to the right of Marxists, and you were there with me. We went through a lot during the sixties and seventies, didn’t we? Even when I disagreed with Jimmy Carter, I never sensed disagreeing with my President might have dire consequences for my children, if I ever had any, and I might not choose not to, because in his own fashion, Jimmy Carter respected my privacy – though not the privacy of our lower-income friends and relations. If it weren’t for those poor Iranian hostages and that bastard Ronald Reagan, I might have vestiges of my privacy rights worth talking about but sadly that’s water under the bridge between us.

During Reagan’s reign and GHWB’s odd visit, you and I suffered some tough years. We fought one another, your insecure friends and the whole world. It was hard to remember our love when every day brought new indignities like “welfare queens” and “ketchup is a vegetable” and I felt you let me down. With me, you were a man of principle. Your friends don’t know that man, do they? I often wondered if you cared as reproductive rights eroded and eroded more. You seldom spoke up when events went so wrong. I was deeply disappointed in your crowd, and always hoped you’d do better, but when Clinton was impeached over a blow job and your friends let it happen, I wondered if I respected you anymore.

With the election of our current administration, which was like a fire sale at the Evil Factory, and Al Gore’s valiant efforts not to become President, I started thinking about all the times you left the seat up and the cap off. When the Bush Armada sailed with diaphanous arguments for war and Congress stood on the pier waving bye-bye, I wondered why I still picked up your socks. When you and your friends let those vicious pigfuckers destroy our armed forces, the federal budget and a second sovereign nation for – we always knew – no good reason and no possible positive outcome, I felt my love for you flicker. Still, I hoped you’d see how wrong your friends were, bring me a lovely bouquet and whisper that soon everything would be different. Instead, every day you smile sadly and I shiver at the thought of Abu Ghraib. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it, too.

For years, I’ve been going through the motions. Your friends have been a terrible influence. The political center is now considered leftist and often termed extreme. The right has gone all Zsa Zsa, and demands outrageous gifts our budget cannot afford. Still, your friends say nothing. Karl Rove is the other woman, and I can take no more.

I’ve changed, it’s true. I will no longer make excuses for the spinelessness of the Democratic Party. I’m not going to tell my friends, “It’s got a headache,” or “It’s under too much pressure at work to vote against corporate welfare bills that plunder the treasury.” No. The time for compromise ended when Osama slipped through the net at Tora Bora, and I was just too stuck on you to notice. Howard darling, I’ve grown a bit since then. I’ve had enough. Though you mean well, I don’t believe your platitudes anymore. No more will I let you wheedle away my self-respect with arguments about unity in the face of our enemies because by joining with them in those ridiculous bankruptcy bills your friends have shown me the true face of my enemy, and it is the DNC.

I loved you, but it’s over between me and the Party, and that means you, too. I’m not going to say anymore that if your friends just start voting in the interests of their constituents things will be okay between us. I’m sorry. It can never be okay. Thousands of American soldiers are dead for no reason. Tens of thousands of soldiers are wounded. Perhaps hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and Afghanis are dead, but we will never know how many. Osama bin Laden is still a free man and there is no justice for any of us. Our government should be under indictment at The Hague and you say nothing. Civil war in Iraq is and always was inevitable, and your friends are complicit in the murders we will soon see in a country that – frankly – didn’t so much as insult your mother’s casserole. Two hurricanes later, our federal government has fallen over the precipice into the abyss of bankruptcy. Yet, Congress goes merrily on its way to the next ribbon cutting ceremony. Thank God for WalMart, you mumble, because soon we’ll all be working 39 hour work weeks in blue jumpers for minimum wage and without benefits.

In time, you’ll get over me. First, you’ll have to get over your friends’ relentless cowardice, and wondering what we could have had together – if only we could start over. Leaving you is breaking the habit of a lifetime but I have to do it. I’m still sitting on the left, in the same place I always have, the place where education bills aren’t boobie-trapped and workers matter and women matter and the poor matter and the minority opinion matters and equality matters and the environment matters and the common good matters. Hopefully someday we’ll sit together again as friends.

I’ll always love you,
Princess Tata

…make one!

Let the People Do the Talkin’ Rendition

Yes, I’m still moving. No, I didn’t get your message that you’d like to help pack my great-grandmother’s tiny Italian glass ornaments that’d break if either of us breathed on them, destroying these irreplaceable, delicate antiques lovingly transported across the Atlantic more than eighty-five years ago and denying joy to future generations. Why do you not call?

An important reminder: today is Gold Star Mother’s Day, when we honor women who have lost children to military service. Light a candle for all those who can never again look into their babies’ eyes. It’s truly the least we can do for people who have sacrificed more than we can imagine.

At about six months’ of age, Zorak sat outside my window and mewed pitifully until I brought him in. He was so frightened he ran straight up one of those old-fashioned 4′ windows. Nobody believed a cat could do that until a small crowd saw him do it the second time. Zorak, who was sweet and humble and crooked on the ground was a flyer. We came to expect to see him flying around the apartment near the ceiling and above our heads.

Zorak was a scaredy cat and he loved only me. He frequently tapped me on the left shoulder blade to shyly ask to have the spot under his chin scratched. He loved nothing better than to sit on my lap and have a chat. He is buried with his favorite toy – a plastic lizard – in my sister’s backyard under a yard pinwheel. Had I realized he was in trouble well before I did or if I’d just been a little smarter he might still be alive today. I miss him terribly.