Author Archives: Tata

She Took She Took A Little Sip

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This interesting object that resembles a urinal but isn’t one was installed a couple of days ago in the unnamed university’s library just outside my office. It is a water fountain and water bottle filling station. I’d heard they existed and the unnamed university even had some up and working – somewhere. No one seemed to know precisely where or even what they looked like. Ta da!

These contraptions serve as water fountains for the passing thirsty, but also also the more stationary thirsty to refill bottles of all portable sorts. A bottle-bearer holds said bottle up to the sensor – the round thing that looks like a camera lens – and a stream of water pours from just above. The green screen keeps count of how many bottles of Poland Springs were not harmed in the refilling of this bottle. Outside my office, that number currently reads just about 30. I’ve refilled my quart Ball Jar three times and explained to anyone who’ll listen why this is great, great news.

And Back On the Road Again

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This really happened:

Ex-Brief Beau: Hey Ta! Were you in the drug store yesterday? I thought I saw your butt.
Tata: I think my butt was with me the whole time and neither of us was in the drug store yesterday.
EBB: I thought I saw your butt.
Tata: My current butt or the butt I had when I had a great butt?
EBB: Your current butt. I thought I saw it.
Tata: Nope, my butt wasn’t in the drug store yesterday.
EBB: Thank god I didn’t say something and make a fool out of myself.

Your Heart Pumps And Your Blood Will

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You do not need a tortilla press to make tortillas. A rolling pin or the bottom of a plate will do, so you can, too.

The thing about a hip problem is that it becomes a back problem. The thing about a back problem is that it becomes a gut problem. I can handle a hip problem, a back problem or a gut problem, but I can’t handle all three at once. Today, I threw in the towel and spent the afternoon in bed. This evening, I’m sitting under a pile of cats, hoping they let me in on their stretchy secrets.

In Madland, I Will Make A Deal With Her

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Romney shows you everything you need to know about him.

Vomitrocious! On the bright side, at least he’s not pretending he cares. Meanwhile, some nice older ladies have had enough banker bullshit:

The women, aged 69 to 82, who live at the senior home up Mission street from the Bernal Heights Bank of America branch, decided to hold their own protest by doing what they called a “run on the bank.”

Tita Caldwell, 80, who led the charge of women with walkers and wheelchairs, said that they’re demanding the bank lower fees, pay higher taxes, and stop foreclosing on, and evicting, homeowners.

Awesome. Rock on.

As they arrived, Bank of America closed and locked its doors, to the surprise and delight of the elderly protestors, who said that they had no intention of storming the bank.

The women waved signs, but didn’t march or chant, with one woman on supplemental oxygen adding that the group was too old for that.

That’s the kind of little old lady I hope to someday be.

On You Now Would I Turn

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The view from atop my elliptical. For three weeks, upside down books bugged me because I forgot them the moment I jumped off the pedals.

You are you, who are you, because no one else is. People think about you and about what you are doing. To a certain extent, you endorse the people you hang out with and the stuff people see you with. For example: if you buy your dealy boppers at Walmart, you perpetuate the structure that is Walmart and whether or not you like it your presence and your name and your money vouch for the way Walmart conducts itself. There’s no getting around that. Walmart is not your secret boyfriend. Walmart is the boyfriend who lures you into a sick relationship in which you destroy other people’s livelihoods and it’ll be a miracle if you don’t end up on a Bioography Channel women in prison special, but whatever. You look great in stripes.

Thus, the lovely and gifted Meryl Strep may regret making Margaret Thatcher seem human, because Thatcher is and always has been a vile piece of work. And now I have doubts about Streep.

Nothing Can Keep Me

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Lovely Topaz examines the shopping bags from the inside, where she seems a little blurry around the edges.

For Gift Giving Holiday, Pete gave me a very small camera. It fits into my pocket and takes bright pictures and is terribly handy. Some things only happen because I’m there to see them. I feel like I’m suddenly armed with an eyewitness and it’s you.

Sweetpea has her own ideas about art.

If Not In the First Move

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Once upon a time, Paulie Gonzalez rescued this critter in a raging snowstorm; today, Hobbes is King of the Couch at Mom's house.


WordPress seems kind of desperate to be helpful. It sets meaningless little goals like “Just two more posts until – well, WordPress will think of something…” Today, it says I’ve written 2,099 posts in Poor Impulse Control history and there’s just one to go. From there, nothing but blue skies, baby.