Yesterday, I was elbow-deep in a wild gift-wrapping extravaganza at the family store when Pete’s friend Sabrina called from Newark Airport to say she was at the car rental counter and her driver’s license expired in February. Oh sure, we’d chatted about her flying in for Pete’s birthday weeks ago, but time passed and I forgot all about it. I spun around behind the counter and observed three facts: the customers kept wanly saying Take your time, the gifts sat in a field of festive ribbon curls and the airport was more than 40 minutes away. I said, “There’s a train right to New Brunswick. We’ll pick you up by the bridge.”

Since then, no one has used his or her inside voice.

It has come to my attention that while I go about my business other humans in my immediate vicinity can actually see me. This is very odd. Perhaps I’m blinking in and out of the visible light spectrum. I’ve given this some thought and I believe I stopped regularly reflecting light in 1999, shortly after I retired my favorite red sequinned dress to the back of my closet. For some time thereafter, I put in bizarre cameo appearances right in front of friends, in bank lines or in the empty seat at the table and disappeared, just so. Ten years of refusing to reflect light except at odd moments will cause a diva to make interesting wardrobe choices. For instance, at this very moment, I’m wearing a sleek slate gray fleece, blue jeans and a baby blue microfiber fleece throw. In my office. Obviously, the reason no one is playing a pro-level game of Point&Laugh is that I am temporarily invisible – but not for much longer.

I’ve decided to reflect light again. This will involve cleaning out my closet, emptying my dresser, scouring consignment stores and clearance racks, and a fresh haircut. The process will take months and coincide with spring planting and cleaning. By the summer solstice, I expect to be that shiny thing on the Eastern Seaboard wreaking havoc on international flight paths. Sorry, travelers! You know the old saying: you have to suffer for my beauty!

But as much as this is all about me, you matter too – especially where I am concerned. Every morning, I’m on the exercise bicycle before the sun rises and every evening. On Wednesdays, a masseur works on my hip for an excruciating half-hour. Because the masseur said I might be listing to starboard due to scoliosis and I simply refuse to add another issue to my resume, every evening I’m upstairs toning my abs with pert aerobics queen Denise Austin, whom I despise and therefore work harder. I’ll show her! Anyhoo, despite all this and the coming of spring, which will really help, the days of easy motion with the hip are behind me. I’m not going quietly, but I am going in style. Of course, I want to know: what do you think of my canes?

My mother, who yelped when I mentioned the need for a cane, came around immediately when I mentioned the flask. She decided it would be perfect if the other end was a switchblade. Perhaps the Swiss Army makes canes with cork screws and tweezers.

At this moment, i could probably use a cane for shopping. The last few times I walked to work I wasn’t sure I could make it all the way home, so cycling is probably my transportation method. Once I get off the bike, though, things can get dicey, but what if I had a super cool emerald crystal cane or a slick folding cane to go with quirky vintage outfits?

I am going to rock that. You’ll see.

You too can look like an extra in a Desmond Child & Rouge video; you and your friend the hovering antique French lighting fixture.

Why am I dressed like Bea Arthur?

Get a load of this Facebook crap:

Some tips on weathering the 2010 Classic-Era Melody Reunion on February 27, 2010:

Wherever you are, I’ll see you there, and I’m sure another slew of vaguely disconcerting pictures will make it onto Facebook. Enjoy!

“Recognizable faces get recognized; others not so much.” My sister Daria, recognizable in her Melody Bar days as the cocktail waitress who arrived after hotel bar closing time in heels and a mini skirt, read me this over the phone and steam shot out of my ears. I was broke with a baby in the mid-eighties so I dressed in a leotard, off-black stockings and a few silk scarves. It was that kind of art/biker bar, ruled by armed hairdressers. Nobody was looking at our faces. I can’t gussy up to look 22 again, and neither would I give that fool’s errand a try.

All kinds of people have been after Pete and me to go to this thing and now that they’re there and we’re here, it’s perfectly safe to be blunt: the bar closed, we’re not kids anymore and the past is gone. Nostalgia is for people who think the best parts of their lives are behind them, and we won’t live that way.

Spring is coming. Today, I have wild ideas. The future’s so bright, etc., etc.

Tata: You’re jealous of this dinner Pete made and you’re not eating.
Daria: I am?
Tata: You are. Listen to this gravy!
Daria: That gravy does sound delicious! And you’re just the bitch to tell me I’m not having that!
Tata: It seemed important to tell you. You can’t go around not knowing!

Ignorance was indeed bliss until a moment later when Daria discovered her middle child was not playing on her front lawn and I hung up on her efforts to get me to drive 35 miles in a snow storm to find her kid who is plainly sitting up in his room in dripping boots, duh. Don’t ask me how I know that, but I’m as sure of it as I am that kid will never graduate college and his parents should put bail bondsmen on speed dial.

Recently, I’ve noticed that even though we’re under surveillance pretty much all the time, people are pretty stupid about covering up their petty crimes. Like, by not even covering them up. Several people of my acquaintance had this conversation in a public space with witnesses two weeks ago.

Guy: I know this guy. He gets movies before they come out. You just can’t care about where they came from or the condition of the movie and I have to get them back to him before the movie’s in theaters.
Dumb Person: I want to borrow movies!
Guy: Make a list. I’ll ask if he can get them.
Dumb Person: Here’s my list.
Guy: (Making his next startling admission…)

Meanwhile, I’m emailing Siobhan.

Tata: I can’t believe it. They’re talking about this like they don’t know some of the people around them are rule-following halfwits!
Siobhan: Maybe they want to get caught!
Tata: They’re bad at crime!
Siobhan: Why don’t you go explain it to them? Maybe they’re learn something.
Tata: What, and give them the confidence to do something else truly stupid? No thanks!

Today, I got a letter from the cable company indicating that someone had pirated a movie via my wireless account. Personally, I don’t care who steals from NBC, just that they be good enough at crime to leave me out of it. I explained that I had certainly never seen the stolen movie and was frankly too much of a glamorous doofus to steal The Forty Year Old Virgin. What I did not say was that if I were doing something like that, I certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to steal it on my own wireless account. But then, no one has to be bad at crime.

Since I have a good idea who might’ve done it, it helps me that people are.

Sometimes you bumble through life – dum dee dum dee dee – doing your own thing and stumble on proof that thing you’re doing? You’re doing it at an advanced level. There’s no other explanation for this:

When you accept everything you’re told without question, you open the door to being manipulated. If you want to avoid being someone else’s puppet, follow these steps.

Think for yourself – like me!

Step 1:

Ask questions, particularly the question “why?”. Ask everyone (not just the so-called experts), and try to answer your own questions as well. When you get an answer, try to think of exceptions, and then ask yourself why those exceptions exist. Never be satisfied until you arrive at an answer that has very few exceptions.

Three-year-olds get to ask “Why?” all the time. Everyone else who asks a second time better duck.

Step 2:

Look for selfish motives. Some people will become very annoyed, and perhaps even offended, that you’re questioning something they accept without question. Whenever people want you to think a certain way, it’s because it benefits them in some way. But that benefit is not always obvious or direct. Many times, people want you to adopt their perspective because it makes them feel more comfortable and secure (safety in numbers). Sometimes, people’s beliefs make it easier for them to feel like a good person. These people don’t want those beliefs challenged because it’s as if you were challenging them personally – it seems to them that you are questioning their “good-person-hood”. Sometimes, people are trying to look out for your best interest, and truly want you to be in step with their beliefs without looking into their statements any further. And sometimes, people just want to be seen as authoritative and trusted, so they’re personally invested in whether or not you buy into the things they say. That’s why they take it personally if you don’t automatically buy in.

One of my sisters has internalized the lessons of Dr. Phil without mulling them over even a little. This means when I say, “Fuck that guy,” my sister’s eyes spin in her head like a cheap slot machine. She’d like to think this makes me a bad, bad person but her default thinking is Dr. Phil’s: anyone who doesn’t agree with him is dumber than a dumb bunny and lower than a tick on a snake’s belly. I can only stare when she says this with a Weehawken accent.

Step 3:

Stop being a people pleaser. People who don’t think for themselves are often scared of disagreeing with others, and scared of “rocking the boat”. A freethinker, on the other hand, bases their self worth on something other than what people think of them. These people may still experience rejection, discomfort, and anguish, but they will continue to think for themselves.

In cases where someone says he “just wants the best for you,” you may be accused of distrust, and it could make you feel guilty. But keep in mind that anyone who truly cares for you will be willing to explain their point of view and why they feel that way, and allow you to decide for yourself whether that is enough evidence for you.

In my book, that makes him a controlling dipshit, but don’t take my word for it. What do you think, desperate people pleaser?

Step 4:

Do the research. Look into the statements made by others. You’ll be amazed at how many times you’ll find lots of evidence to contradict the statements of others. Yet, these people spout this erroneous information as if it were the Gospels, never questioning the accuracy or truth of what they’re saying. Use Google or go to the library, and search for information to prove or disprove the statements made. Remember where you get the “evidence” from. Be aware that, just because you saw it in a book or on the internet, that alone does not make it the truth. Once you’ve found evidence, one way or the other, you can speak up about it. “Yes, you know after we talked last time, I was so interested that I looked that up. That’s amazing, isn’t it, hard to believe, but true!” Or conversely, you can say, “I know that sounds amazing, and I hate to burst the bubble because it’s fun to believe that could be true, but I looked it up, and it looks like it isn’t true. I feel bad to be the bearer of bad news, but I just don’t think that’s true. You can look at ____________ (wherever you found your disproving evidence) and see for yourself.” When you’re breaking the news that your friend is passing along a false tale, let them know in a humble and compassionate way – don’t just come in crowing and congratulating yourself for debunking a myth. You may look smart to others for a minute, but to your friend, you look like a jerk.

Miss Manners frowns on telling your friends they’re lying halfwits, but sometimes you can’t help yourself. Because sometimes they’re lying halfwits. How can you help yourself when you finally figure out that you’re sitting at the world’s largest encyclopedia and you can look up facts? Because you’re smart!

Step 5:

Live outside your comfort zone. Not only will some people be very perturbed by your refusal to take their statements at face value, but you will also learn to question your own assumptions, and that can make you feel lost and confused, like walking into a dark room. It takes courage to face uncertainty. Be Bold.

If you’re boring – be interesting! If you’re dull – be weird! But not too weird. Then you’d challenge my idea of you.

Step 6:

Beware paralysis by analysis. When you’re thinking for yourself, you’re taking full responsibility for your life and your actions, because you can’t say you were trusting someone else’s judgment. This can be very nerve-wracking, and lead to excessive self-doubt. Remember that thinking for yourself doesn’t mean being sure. It means making decisions based on your own analysis, rather than someone else’s. There will always be some degree of uncertainty, no matter what, that you must learn to accept and cope with.

Wax on = wax off!

Look, someone can teach you how to think like they do, but only you can teach you to think for yourself. And if you’re just learning, it’s about fucking time.

Etienne appeared – POOF! – in a cloud of dust, tossing off flaming emails – IN NJ UNTIL TOMORROW COME AND FUCKING SEE ME. I laughed the whole six blocks Pete and I drove to his aunt and uncle’s house, which was filled with cats and other people surprised to see me. Etienne squeezed the stuffing out of me and raced to the car, anxious to meet Pete, whom I’d described as “my shiny new husband.” Pete managed to drive the car to the diner we call simply The Diner, though in this part of New Jersey, diners dot the landscape, while jet-lagged Etienne described his flight back from London where he served as his grandmother’s sister’s man Friday. Lunch conversation limped and loped along until Pete and I decided we had to get home and get ready for work at the family store, and somewhere about then, I remarked that I couldn’t remember where Etienne’s grandparents’ house was. On our way back to Etienne’s, we decided to find it.

Tata: Pete, turn left here, go to the second stop sign and make a right.
Etienne: At the light, make a right.
Pete: Make a left here?
Etienne: At the light –
Tata: Make a left at the light and we’ll be in front of the grocery store and the family store.

Pete turned left. Etienne suddenly recognized where he was.

Etienne: Turn right.
Tata: Go up one block and turn left!

Pete made a straight.

Tata: Okay, turn left.

Pete made another straight.

Tata: Any time now, you can turn left and turn left a second time.
Pete: Was I actually supposed to turn or keep averaging out your directions?
Tata: TURN LEFT.

Pete turned left and left again.

Tata: Etienne, what was the name of the street?
Etienne: Garner.
Tata: There it is. What number?
Etienne: Number 16. It’s that one!

Etienne’s grandfather designed the house and built it in the Modernist 1950s, and the family moved in in 1958. It is a study of small windows and odd angles. The enormous and yet graceful carport sits at a 45 degree angle to the front of the house and the front door was a honey color I remembered from distant childhood. We sat in the car, staring at the house for a long time. Then Etienne said, “Guess I better tell them I’m here,” and bolted from the car. Pete and I sunk down in our seats and waited for the police to arrive, but Etienne, though buffeted by life in ways you and I wouldn’t wish on our enemies, is special. We saw the door open and Etienne disappeared inside. A minute passed, then Etienne waved to us to park the car and come inside.

Pete: No, no, we can’t go in there.
Tata: I’m going!

Pete beached the car in a snow bank. I stomped my feet clean of snow and Pete followed. We’d walked into a foyer with an observant Jewish family on the sabbath and they were smiling. I couldn’t believe they let us in – I mean, would you? The foyer had been renovated to add windows and change the shape of the ceiling. Etienne could see that right away, but I recognized nothing until we came to the living room, which I remember filled floor to ceiling with Etienne’s grandmother’s paintings and sculptures, and the back window wall that overlooked a creek and what in summer looks like a small forest. We turned toward the kitchen and both Etienne and I became confused. The renovation had removed part of a wall, but once we were in the kitchen we were overwhelmed by the beauty of the cabinetry and the odd, odd angles. In the renovation, another wall at the side of the house had been removed and an addition had been added that was so respectful of the original design that at first my eye passed over it. Through a doorway, I could see the rest of the family still sitting at the lunch table, so I made a few excuses to leave, but the family was genuinely happy to walk Etienne around and show him one last treasure: a painting on the wall of the stairs to the basement. Etienne’s grandmother’s art was still in the house. We were overjoyed.

I laughed all the way back to Etienne’s aunt and uncle’s house.

I do three stupid things before breakfast every day, which makes me an authority on the forehead slap, a world class practitioner of Let Me Rephrase That Last Dumbass Remark, and a gold medal winner in the all-around I Meant To Do That. Thus, I can spot a talented fuckup from a safe distance. Ladies and gentlemen, someone at Mexico – One Plate At A Time – some writer, producer, guest or star – has gone pro. From season 5, the episode called Modern Mayan:

Rick finds wandering through the ancient Mayan ruins of Uxmal a humbling and inspiring experience. The Mayans built a great civilization with pyramids, temples, plazas and breathtaking expanses. And their spirit lives on—and it’s experiencing a rebirth in the Yucatan today—in revitalized food, art and architecture. We get a glimpse of the rebirth at Los Dos, a cooking school in Merida, run by David Sterling, which specializes in classic Mayan food updated for this century. Rick joins David at his beautiful school as he teaches his chilled version of Sopa de Lima topped with a panucho of lime-marinated chicken salad. Then we look at the high-style of the Riviera Maya from the rooftop of the ultra-modern Hotel Básico in Playa del Carmen. Back on the ground in Merida, the cuisine of Nectar Restaurant soars. This ultra-modern dining room with its open-air kitchen is run by two chefs that study with some of the most inventive rule-breaking chefs in the world. Rick samples their Consommé of Cochinita Pibil and Oat Risotto with Recado Negro. Energized by Mexico, Rick takes us behind the scenes at his fine-dining restaurant, Topolobampo, to show us his own thrilling modern Mayan dish, Cilantro Salmon with Smoky Tomato-Habanero Lasagne.

I shut off this episode and flounced around my living room in a flamboyant huff. Now: this may come as a shock to you because it has often come as one to me, but every minute of every day, I live in a woman’s body. I have to think about what that means every day, all the time. I can mostly understand the cultural experience of certain kinds of men – not men of color and not gay men – because the dominant culture forces that default white male perspective on those of us who are along for the dominant culture’s ride, but I am always aware that woman-ness is a filter that picks out big honking chunks of cultural detritus that might fuck me up. That filter translates the words classic…updated for this century into a white man is about to appropriate the work of indigenous women and turn it into a paycheck and a high-end reputation. Fuck that guy! Words aside, the images were even worse.

This is what the cooking school guy saw. They’re very nice pictures full of beautiful fruit. I saw this:

Wrought iron window guards on the outside of the cooking school, which after I saw them covered in ground glass in Ecuador, read as If you break into my house you will die. Inside: a cooking class taught by a transplanted white American man of white American students and the show’s white American host, while two indigenous women dressed in what the TV viewer must assume is native costume make panuchos. The teacher rambles a bit about how this preparation is thousands of years old, then escorts the whole class into the kitchen to learn his updated way. The teacher describes his method for making his sopa di lima, which sounds like it might be tasty, if the prep sounds arcane. In the shadows, the two women hand him lima juice, other ingredients. The students assemble soup plates and updated panuchos and are seen heading toward a dining room.

The next shot: teacher, students and show host are seated at a long dining room table, toasting their sopa while the two women stand in the doorway with hands clasped humbly.

In art school, you learn stuff like Whose eyes am I seeing this scene through? and What is happening in this picture? Goddamnit, I hate when I’m forced to join someone else’s war on the poor, which is exactly what happens in this final shot. It’s one thing to hire a capable staff you treat decently and trust not to spit in your chicken stock. It’s quite another to employ people so you can rub their faces in their servitude. Those clasped hands told me the whole story. Those women could have been somewhere else, doing something else, but no. They are a set decoration, there to visually reinforce for the American viewing audience that the appropriation of their work and their culture is right and just. Rick Bayless is often tone deaf about class, imperialism and economics, but this is freaking ridiculous.

Crap. I feel like I have to break up with my supercute new boyfriend before French class because he said the superstupid words freedom fries and I knew what he meant.

Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? There are certain, mathematical ways to apprehend the harmony one hears in the chorus: it’s perfect. It’s the vaulted ceiling of related guys what sing together. But that has nothing to do with the goosebumps you feel when the Neville Brothers sing the word free.

Are you?

Over the weekend, which seems like weeks ago, Darla came from Canada via my sister Daria’s house in Flemington. Pete had a cold. Darla had a cold. Topaz had a cold. I was putt-putting along until I stopped, fell over sideways and burbled a lot. I spent most of Sunday and Monday in bed and on the couch, and I’m not leaving the house any time soon. For one thing, I am the western world’s leading source of fresh, flowing snot. I like to think I contribute to society in exciting, unexpected ways.