Author Archives: Tata

It’s Alarming How Charming I Feel

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Through a combination of simple events and dumb circumstances, I have been coming into both itching and burning contact with vocal stupid people and spent a few weeks verbally shooting them full of holes. That takes a lot of time and energy and stirs up the kinds of emotions I have been trying to live without. This wasn’t doing Pete’s blood pressure any favors and I felt like anger was starting to lead me around by the nose again. Moreover, I started the week with a stiff neck, causing me to move like an exotic bird for days and on Friday pulled a muscle in my back. I stayed home and had a talk with me.

Tata: Say, what are you doing?
Tata: I have to defend myself. Stupid people are stupid and say stupid things. I have to tell them they’re stupid!
Tata: Why?
Tata: Because…I’m mad! That’s why!
Tata: Yeah. Are they going to get less stupid because you’ve informed them that they’re stupid?
Tata: No. I’m being stupid, aren’t I?
Tata: Yup.

The neighbor directly behind us is a smart guy. We agree on lots of things and he has that chicken coop I cannot quit staring at, he also has a wife who has never had a conversation with me. For no reason I can imagine, she feels entitled to insult me. She’s done it three times. Last week, I was contemplating my revenge options when I realized my next move might result in some very ugly outcomes.

I thought about it carefully. I thought about what you might do, you Poor Impulsives. I am completely confident in my ability to blow up our block in ten words or less, not to mention anything else.

But I don’t have to. I know I can.

So I removed myself from the company of the stupid people and spent the afternoon letting myself let the anger drain. It’s not easy. That drain clogs often and is full of hair you don’t recognize.

When somehow I was neither under rubble nor under arrest, I consulted with my friend Minstrel.

Okay, you and I are trudging across a desert under a blazing sun. Salt crusts our blistered lips. It’s plain I’m holding you back and you’d stand a better chance of survival alone. Vultures are landing nearby, clutching bottles of ketchup and A-1 in their talons.

Tata: Go on without me, but make me one promise?
You: What is it?
Tata: You’ll track down that bastard who did Playground In My Mind and feed him his still beating heart…?
You: I’ll…remember you for – well – most of next week. Probably.

At least, I can write jokes again. There’s a council meeting coming up and by this time tomorrow night, anything could happen. I might be speaking in tongues and knitting up a guillotine. Every movement needs its wild eyed DeFarge; fortunately, my neighbors think I’m quirky and have no idea they don’t know me.

And Still My Light’s On

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I have been avoiding writing this, so let’s get this over with. Last weekend, I noticed I hadn’t seen Claude here in – well, I wasn’t completely sure. I saw him on Friday, then – did I see him Saturday? I can’t say. As the week began, I was nervous and uncomfortable when I didn’t see him. The people he belongs to don’t speak English well, so I couldn’t figure out how to ask what had happened. There seemed to be only a few possibilities and I didn’t like them. On Wednesday, I realized I wasn’t going to see Claude again.

Goodbye, Claude.


On Thursday, I printed out this picture and walked across the street. I pointed at the picture and gestured around. Where’s this cat? The man called to a young woman who is either his daughter or his daughter-in-law, who told me the cat died over the weekend. She wasn’t at home when it happened, but a speeding police car ran over some broken plastic, which killed the cat. I didn’t ask any questions. I told her the cat was a sweet little guy and I’d miss him. She seemed very surprised that I’d taken a picture of him. She said he was eight years old.

So Claude is dead and I miss that guy.

Comic Book Characters Never Get Old

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As it happens, sometimes no actual belief in oneself is necessary for stuff to turn out spiffily. Yes, I made that up. Bite me.

Is it possible?

Pete makes bread in the bread machine all the time, but that involves slicing and I cannot resist an oblique angle. My slices always look like they came out of a homemade mitre box. So rolls seem like a better form for me than loaves. This is my second attempt and I expected to learn some new and exciting ways to sort of fail. It might look like I dropped the dough in coffee grounds, but no. That’s finely diced fresh herbs from the garden because fresh herbs in bread? I want to eat that.

Apparently, it’s possible!


I got lucky. In a couple of days, I’ll try again. If I can duplicate my results, my experiment will prove sound. Also: I can stop running around the dining room, shouting, “SCIENCE! neerrrr neerrr neerrr neerrr SCIENCE!” That is driving the cats quite mad.

No Reason Just Seems So

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Topaz well knows the fresh hell that is having two sisters.

La famiglia has been scheming to get us all to Disney for my fiftieth birthday. That is fine with me, so long as no one expects me to turn up, too. I was reminded of Brendan Behan.

I was court-martialled in my absence, and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence.

The whole notion has made me cranky and teeth-gnashy. Grrr.