Two thoughts I hold equally:

1. Go your own friggin’ way;

2. Wait your freaking turn, you line-cutting bastard!

That’s philosophy like the pros do it. Note: I want to be the first major leaguer to have a Pennzoil-sponsored Socratic Method sweat suit while my brain is batting .327.

Sometimes change comes whether you’re ready for it or not, but when you’re really ready, change is the only thing you can live with. Today, I sat in his chair and told my cousin and hairdresser Carmello, “I’ve firmed up, lost weight and taken on a very exciting new project at work.” Carmello brightened.

Carmello: What are you doing?
Tata: I remembered I can handle big projects with large staffs and multiple moving parts and someone offered me the project I wanted. Also: I’m ready for fresh hair.
Carmello: Fresh hair cuts off the old energy, too.
Tata: Exactly. Can you give me a haircut that says I kick ass?
Carmello: How did you lose weight?
Tata: I quit drinking.
Carmello: GET OUT!
Tata: It’s just temporary. Once I’ve lost a couple of Schnauzers, I might start drinking martinis again.
Carmello: Most people would eat a Beagle if they lost a Chihuahua.
Tata: I also started wearing makeup to work whenever I felt like it.
Carmello: Why would you quit wearing makeup?
Tata: Air gets gritty in my eyes and there’s nothing like rubbing inflamed eyes and smearing makeup across the bridge of the red nose, but I’ve decided not to have that problem anymore.
Carmello: Does that incantation work on in-laws?
Tata: Not without nail clippings. I love the cut, Carmello. I’ll make an appointment in December, and another in February, and by springtime, I’ll be a vision of capable loveliness.
Carmello: Right. How was Pee Wee Herman?

Obviously, change is in the air.

What does it mean? I ask myself this question a lot. Like anyone else, I see some images and understand them, but more often than I’d like I see puzzles.

Any capable writer or actor can watch a stranger for a few minutes and tell a long story. After decades of training, I can tell you why that man in the hardware store rubs his left elbow, why the waitress stares at my blue nails, why last night’s dream about the tornado means you should clean out your closet.

I could tell you because it’s not difficult to figure out, but any story could be a tale.

Another question I’ve often asked myself: How can it be? This betrays a belief that I understand how things are and what they mean. Yet, we’ve established that’s not true. What is it I am really asking?

The other day, our youngest house guest put down a slice of pizza, declared his displeasure and demanded something else for dinner. I looked at his mother, a blood relative of Pete’s. She said, “What else do you have to offer?”

Maybe the question is What basic thing about this situation do I not understand?

Our house guests departed before we resorted to violence, but it was so close I’d started whispering. A week of sugary thoughts won’t sweeten my tart disposition.

Tonight, it’s raining and lovely Topaz sleeps on my lap. Drusy and Sweetpea doze on a chair, still jittery after strangers left their house. Tonight’s stranger may rent the empty rooms upstairs. The cats and I love quiet and carpet between our toes.

I could tell you why the cab driver quit smoking, why the woman on the bench clutches an old photo, why you never answer on the first ring. I could tell you everything I see. I don’t know what it means.

I’d like you to think about a question:

Do the police get to kill us?

If your answer is no, who is “us”?

Next week, the tiny town hosts restaurant week. For less than $20 per person, eight restaurants offer an appetizer, a main course and a dessert between September 28-October 3. Tonight, we had dinner at the tiny town’s new Peruvian restaurant. We ran in there for a quick lunch once between a biker funeral and shifts at the family stores, but tonight was the first time we sat down for a lovely dinner. I didn’t lick my plate or anything – but it was close and next week, I can try something else. Yay!

Siobhan: Didn’t you just buy jeans?
Tata: I bought three pair three weeks ago, yep.
Siobhan: Why are you buying jeans, then?
Tata: Remember last time we went shopping? I said, “I can’t go home without clothing because I have none.” Remember that? I’ve decided I can avoid Pants Emergencies through preemptive procurement.
Siobhan: Right, then. No more Pants Emergencies.
Tata: Speaking of which, don’t ask what I’m wearing.

Sometimes, I’m broke and eschew clothes shopping in favor of bill-paying. Sometimes, I don’t like what I see in the stores and make do with a little of this and a little of that. I don’t like owning more clothing than fits in a dresser and a small closet; I change sizes often and give things away the moment they constrict movement at all. Siobhan has threatened more than once to turn me in to What Not To Wear when I appeared at her door in a raincoat, a pajama top and –

Siobhan: Are you wearing a duvet cover?
Tata: Yes, but I stole it.
Siobhan: A stolen duvet cover! That’s still not at all clothing!

Siobhan really just wants the best for me.

Tata: When I turned up in a red vinyl mini skirt, what did you say?
Siobhan: “Where’d you get that? Off the body of a dead hooker?”
Tata: And that Halloween the gold coins wouldn’t stay glued to my boobs?
Siobhan: “Caramel sauce is not outerwear.”
Tata: Have I not worn bubble wrap to parties and a gold lame toga to bars? A red sequin dress with combat boots to an airport? My grandmother’s black velvet bathrobe to a funeral?
Siobhan: You have, and if you darken my door in sweat pants, it’s Clinton and Stacy for you!

So…yeah. I put on underwear, which is always a special occasion, and found a pair of Levi’s that actually fit at Sears for $12.98. Siobhan will believe that when she sees it.

Don’t kid yourself: I’m a freaking prize, especially if you have to live with me. I get up at a stupid hour, push myself like riot police and demand a lot from the people around me. Pete was having back trouble so I sikked a Pilates teacher and two massage therapists on him before he decided to join me on my bike ride to work every morning. He rides with me, rides around the park near the library and rides home and – hooray! – Pete’s exercising three or four more days per week. My powers: they work for Good! On the other hand, one of my friends allowed as how she got kicked out of the Jehovah Witnesses, was excommunicated and everything. I’ve been tossed out of bars, fired from jobs, asked to leave one high school, two colleges and a religious retreat; I’ve cheated on boyfriends, slept with half a town, including married men and women, and I’d do almost every wicked thing I’ve ever done again, but even I have never been kicked out of an entire religion. What’ve I done wrong?

Nails wet! Need new top coat! Nothing could be less important, of course, except that I am a middle-aged Italian-American woman with a white collar job in a temperature-controlled pressure cooker, and I never – never – leave the house with chipped polish. An hour into my work day, I may discover my sweater’s inside out or I’m wearing different jeans than I thought, but my nails are done, which may be the only thing about my entire day over which I have an iota of control. Omigod, what am I wearing?

Pete and I live very austere lives for Americans: we work six days a week, use eco-friendly products, hang-dry our laundry, bicycle all over the place, reuse stuff almost to the point of obsession; we compost and stay home for fun because our cats let us. Our means are modest, as are our needs: we save up, buy good gear and plan to use it for years, which is a healthy way to regard buying good shoes, but a terrible way to buy nail polish. I find myself perpetually in need of newer, stranger and more exciting colors, which I attribute to my failure to manipulate lactose-intolerant Pete into making me a tasty cheese fondue. So blue polish will now remind me of long-lost gruyere.

Your soap opera is written by morons and acted by amateurs and if you miss a day you hate that you love those morons and amateurs. Someone else’s soap opera looks like the community theater version of Camille. How can he/she watch that crap? It’s crap!

The other day, I was flipping the channels, but not really paying attention. I didn’t really know what was on. A blonde girl standing at a hospital desk said something odd to a gorgeous woman about my age, “Mom, can you help me with my knitting?” You’re having the same reaction I did: NO ONE ON A SOAP OPERA KNITS.* KISS MY BUTT! The gorgeous woman apologized, “Sorry, kitten, I’m not domestic goddess.” After a moment, she added, “I can tune an engine.” So now I love Crystal Chappell, and some badass writer on a show I’ll never watch.

*Except Kassie DiPaiva, who had a whole PBS show called Knit & Crochet Today.