Pete drove me to work this morning so I could walk home in the snow storm we could feel coming. He has known me a little, he has known me all my life, so he expected a call and a change of heart that did not come. I walked home into strong flurries while cars churned in paralyzed traffic, my face wet and my mind free. I have been very concerned with conversations. What is said. What goes unspoken. What we leave hanging in the air. This one between Sadly, No! correspondent Mister Leonard Pierce and a stranger plays on my mind.

He’s sitting next to me in the lobby of the Omni Shoreham, typing furiously into a Sony laptop. He has a striped shirt with a popped collar and an ‘80s haircut he cribbed from Shadoe Stevens. For a long time, he says nothing; even when some steak-and-brandy fatass rumbles through the joint and disconnects the cable to his computer, he just eyefucks him and mutters to himself. But after a while, we strike up a conversation, borne of the boredom of waiting. His name is Tony, and he’s a stockbroker.

Why is Tony so mad?

“That fuck-stick Romney dropped out. That just leaves us with McCain.”

You don’t have any affinity for the Senator, then?

“He’s a weak sister. He won’t have the guts to invade Iran.”

Iran must be ripe for invasion. It seems like we’ve been waiting forever. But what of Iraq?

“Iraq is over. Iraq is somebody else’s problem now.”

The problem of the Iraqis, I would guess.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Iran is the issue. Iran has the Islamic bomb.”

A bomb that follows a religious ideology is a terrifying concept indeed; but what about Pakistan?

“Pakistan is our ally. But even if they weren’t, Iran is the destination.”

Not according to my travel agent. But what makes you say that?

“Iran is where the money is.”

What money?

“Look, Iraq has been good to us. Everybody knows that. Construction, defense, telecoms, it’s a whole new market.”

It’s a real success story.

“You’re telling me. But compared to Iran, it’s nothing.”

A trying five years for nothing. But what do you mean?

“It’s a bigger country. It’s a richer country. It’s a country with a market class and a rich and developed economy. It wasn’t living under Stalinism like Iraq. Once we get our hands on those markets, we’re finally going to see a payoff for all the effort we’ve put into the wars.”

We?

“Well, America.”

America put in the effort, but you’ll get the payoff.

“Not if that fucking McCain gets in.”

Well, we can only hope.

“That’s the problem with the conservative movement these days. Too much hope.”

I could not excerpt because every line offers me a new reason to wonder what the fuck is wrong with Tony that the words sovereign nation ring hollow, that people’s lives are utterly meaningless, that he stupidly believes he’ll always find himself on the sunny side of oppression. He won’t, and he won’t understand what he is and what he’s done until he’s forced to choose which of his children goes to the crematorium.

No one does.

The other day, I stood in the family store as a man with a heavy accent walked around in circles. He wanted a particular Buddha head statue, and when one of my sisters bargained him to a standstill, he spoke to me again about the town. He said, “It has such potential.” I froze.

“NO,” I said. “It’s a small town, and it’s going to stay that way. Some our families have been here for more than 100 years, there’s no more land, and we have no stupid ideas about expansion.”

“I just got here,” he apologized, confused by my refusal to consider soulless prefab sameness. Some people will always fold and leave, but most people here like the small town feel, and temptation isn’t tempting. If you want that crap, go where they already have that.

“My great-grandfather bought one of the first houses on South Fourth. I will never buy coffee from Starbucks or eat at Papa John’s. Quiznos just went bust on the Main Street. Why should anyone eat that crap when Mom and Pop restaurants serve real food and support real families?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

“Thank you,” I said, “for supporting a local business.”

Tonight, I listen for the gentle whisper of snowflakes striking the ground.

It can feel like distant thunder.

Daria’s going to have some sort of seizure when she can’t call me five times a day. Today, she called me at the library. Later, she called the family store.

Daria: Have you seen those Olive Garden commercials with the rolled lasagna?
Tata: I have not!
Daria: I saw that and decided to make it myself. Where’s Pete?
Tata: Working at his own job. Whatcha doin’?
Daria: Making lasagna rolls, and I’m making up the recipe as I go. What temperature should the oven be? Everything’s already cooked. Some people say 350, some say 375.
Tata: You’re not cooking the lasagna. You’re tanning it. I’d go 350 for a Jersey Shore tan and 375 for Miami Beach. If it comes out looking like pasty Maine, your oven’s broken.

Any other week, I might’ve gone as Ipanema as 450 on that lasagna but last weekend, Siobhan accidentally set deep dish canneloni en flambe under a broiler, peeled off the char and served it to a crowd; naturally, I was concerned. And carcinogenic. Some time later, Daria called again.

Daria: Hey…a funny thing just happened. The lasagna rolls came out great and I thought, ‘I’ll just call Dad – oh no I won’t.’ You know we put his picture in a frame and put up the inscription from the Different Drummer in the living room. So I went out in the living room and told him about the lasagna rolls.
Tata: Did he critique your sauce?
Daria: He didn’t! I was surprised because I, you know, forgot.
Tata: Ten times a day, Dar. I think of something he’d find interesting or funny and – hoo boy.
Daria: Hey! Fifi took a bite out of a centerpiece apple – like, a week ago. You know what I’m eating that you’re not?
Tata: You found a brown bite mark on a piece of fruit and can identify which of your little children went macrobiotic? Break it to me gently. What are you eating?
Daria: Yep. We spend a lot of time at the dentist.
Tata: I bet you do.
Daria: Delicious lasagna rolls. Duh!

But it was too late for envy. I’d already eaten.

Two days.

Struggling a bit to get the 5,000 things done I need to do before I desert the joint for week. Today, I made arrangements for car service. Tomorrow, I have to call Grandpa and get my teeth fixed, work two jobs and Nair my facial hair. For crying out loud, I can’t let people see me in daylight with an unsubtle mustache! I’m too young for the jade green feather boa and matching faux shearling bolero jacket.

A little old lady’s got to have her standards.

Tonight, I emailed the cruise line and asked them for my heart’s one desire: to be able to sit daily on an exercise bicycle and watch All My Children. I realize technology is in a time of mad flux and that virtually anything is possible for a price, so on a sea-faring contraption, shouldn’t I be able to pedal my way to fitness while keeping tabs on fab thing Greenlee? I believe I should be able! We’ll see if the cruise line agrees.

Yesterday and today.

Working to get ahead of the week away from the family store. I feel kind of responsible for the online aspect of what happens to Anya’s and Corinne’s livelihood, though I know that’s silly. They could replace me in a flash with someone ten times as code savvy and they probably should but they don’t. I offer twice a week; they turn me down, so it may be more difficult than it at first appears to determine who is responsible for whom.

The other day, Pete looked up from reading a cookbook and made an audacious suggestion. “How about we make bread?” Bread takes forever! Dinner was so near! How could we make fresh bread? I stuttered and backed up, believing this endeavor could only end in tears. Pete persisted, measuring flour, baking powder, salt, a little sugar and a whole bottle of beer into a big bowl and smoooooshing it together until it looked relatively dough-like. Fifty minutes int the fuuuuuture, we had fresh bread. Later, he read me recipes like stories. Oh, those ingenious leveners!

I made the mistake of setting up to write this as Julia Child introduced Alice Waters on Julia’s series on master chefs. I don’t think I’ve had many clearer invitations from the universe to shut up and learn something.

I believe I might accept.

My hair has grown out for the last year, which means when I wake up in the morning or from a nap, there’s a nest on top of my head. One morning, I looked in the mirror and decided to call storm chasers: Hello, fearless IMAX guys? My hair is on the rampage. Last week, Pete and I began playing a new game called How Crazy Is My Hair? Here are the rules: my hair does whatever the hell it feels like, and Pete assesses the insanity. “Pete, how crazy is my hair? Is it Son of Sam-Crazy or Ed Gein-Crazy?” If I’m feeling movie madness: “Is it Errol Flynn-Crazy or Joan Crawford-Crazy?” And there’s always politics: “If my hair is crazier than Giuliani, I’m getting a restraining order against my head.”

It’s just a game. Or is it?

At 7:17 a.m., I dropped off Pete at his house and drove to work with the camera in the car. I should carry one all the time, really. Two blocks from the bridge over the Raritan, I fell in line two cars behind… behind… Flying Spaghetti Monster, that’s a truck full of portapotties. I pressed the ON button on the camera, aimed, zoomed, zoomed some more and took this crappy picture just as the light turned green. The truck turned right. I held my breath as it rounded the corner, then I drove straight over the bridge into town. That’s New Brunswick in the distance, in all its self-loathing glory; in fact, those are several of the same buildings pictured above from a different angle. No truck drivers were harmed in the making of this post. The same cannot be said of my head.

This afternoon, I stumbled into the dentist’s office because I wished I were on drugs and had two fangs filed down. This came with a heaping helping of my favorite moment in life: being paralyzed with fright as the dentist swings a needle the size of a telephone pole from somewhere near the ceiling to the gum and rams home the plunger! Twice! Then, for ten minutes, I grip the handrests and try not to punch my dentist square in the face as he drills, then drills, then drills some more on teeth so sensitve I haven’t eaten ice cream in seven years.

It goes to show you how different things can be from what you imagine and fear. Yes, I felt like I was going to throw up as that needle approached my face but my dentist is so good with the needle I barely felt the first one, which made the agony of the second one an invigorating surprise. Then he left the room to let the anaesthesia take effect. Fortunately, Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on the radio as I lost all feeling in my face. Beezebub has a devil put aside for me! For me! For me!Say that three times fast as your lips go numb!

Later, I stumbled home, trying not to offend people with the stupid expression on my face. It was exciting, all right. I couldn’t tell, as I walked home, if I’d rinsed off all the alginate or if my nose dripped. Eight long, freezing blocks later, I was home and as far as I could tell on General Hospital, Lulu had been kidnapped by Jax’s brother but Jax was being played by a wrinkly non-triathalon running/biking/swimming hunkalicious Aussie so I lay flat on my couch to see if everyone got better looking at a 90 degree angle. Next thing I knew, Drusy was standing on me and Pete was asking what we should do for dinner.

Poor Lulu. I wish I cared.

Yesterday and today.

Last night, Darla said PIC included little personal detail recently. I allowed as how I’m working really hard at the unnamed university job and at the family store. Further, when I get home, my brain is still tired from the December slog and it’s all I can do to seductively mumble at Pete “Gaaaaaaaaaah” before I either snore or toss all night. Thus, though I may be desperately attractive, in pixel form, I might be a trifle dull. Of course, I apologize – or I would, but no self-respecting bitch would, and I like Elton John.

Today, Pete and I drove out to Daria’s, where for no good reason, Pete, Daria and I dipped pretzels into crab, clam and honey-mustard dips while discussing our diets. It was time well spent, I’m sure. Pete toured the local Home Depot while Daria went through her closet for clothing I can marinate in umbrella drinks whle on vacation at the end of this month. Yes, pets, I’m leaving you for a week. No, your mother and I still love you, we just need this time apart. You’re still special!

Siobhan and I are going on a Barenaked Ladies cruise. No, I can’t stop singing If I Had A Million Dollars. The plan is to spend mornings on an exercise cycle, afternoons on a deck chair, evenings in a bar, and the whole time holding a chic glass containing alcohol and tropical fruit. At other points, I might visit islands and see the band, while holiding a chic glass containing alcohol and tropical fruit. If I end up in a life boat, there had better be a tiki bar. Will I drown?