Should you traverse the countryside on Route 95 and pass through Providence for the first time, you will career like a roller coaster car up and down and swerving here and there at breakneck speed and surrounded by other vehicles failing to observe safety cushion rules and racing nearly door to door with you and yes, that is a motherfucking blue cockaroach the size of a freight train.

If you slow down for a look, you’ll be goo on a windshield.

I fought the frizz and the frizz won.

Pete and I drove to Cape Cod to see Grandpa. My passenger sunburn is sucking up tinctures and goos. After two hours on the road, I got bored with singing the Supersuckers’ greatest hits at the tops of my lungs so I took pictures of my hair flickering and flying in every direction. Some say they can see the fuuuuuture in my hair, as in a crystal ball or a pack of naked lady playing cards, but my hair is merely a reflection of your subconscious, telling you only what you already know: merciful dog, it is humid.

Your alias says you’re Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

The Atlantic Ocean has certainly missed me. It was just lying there when Pete and I walked to it, but it perked right up. Oh, the fragrance of the evening mist, the cool of the sand, the wafting aroma of fresh dog poop! The Atlantic stood up and said, Hey darlin’ , how you doin’? I was civil, because you always want to stay friends. But hey, we had a thing, the Atlantic Ocean and I, and of course Pete knows. I keep few secrets, and how could I keep from him my thing with the A. O.? And it’s not as if I look like I did then.

I managed to stay dry.

I’m feeling a little INSECURE:

ABC announced last week that production of All My Children would be moving from New York City to Los Angeles. If you thought you were surprised by the news, imagine how the cast and crew felt. There was no warning about the move and, according to Thorsten Kaye (Zach Slater), the cast has been given one week to decide if they plan to make the move to the West Coast.

One week to decide your whole life? That’s insane! It takes more than a week to plan a vacation to the opposite side of the country, let alone picking up one’s life. I’d have to imagine that there would be some sort of assurance that All My Children will be on the air for at least a few more years in order to get these stars to move. I’d be livid if I left my home in New York, moved to Los Angeles, and was told a few months later that AMC was being canceled.

What if the majority of the cast decides not to relocate? Will they cancel All My Children outright or try to do some sort of spinoff the way that Loving morphed into The City? Perhaps they’ll take the few stars that agree to move and have their characters move from Pine Valley to Los Angeles, thereby creating a brand new soap.

There’s talk that some of the veteran stars are planning a sit-in, so to speak, to prevent the show from moving. Can you imagine All My Children without David Canary (Adam/Stuart Chandler), Michael E. Knight (Tad Martin), and Susan Lucci (Erica Kane)? I know I can’t.

Last week on Regis and Kelly, Susan Lucci looked dazed as she talked about the decision to uproot AMC. You’d expect to see Susan as the show’s biggest cheerleader, talking about what an exciting opportunity and new challenge it will be to make the transcontinental move. But, no. That wasn’t her reaction. In fact, Lucci seemed to go out of her way to avoid saying that she would follow the show out West. In fairness, Lucci did applaud the move as a sign of ABC’s commitment to All My Children.

There’s no assurance that any of the show’s recurring players will continue on with the show either. Presumably many of the child actors will remain in New York, which either means there are a lot of recasts or “rapid agings” in our future.

So let’s TiVo it back a bit. Why has ABC made such a drastic decision? Quite simply, the cost of producing All My Children (and all soaps) is going up and up and the revenue coming in is, well, it’s not going in the same direction. When you can’t make ends meet, there aren’t that many options.

All My Children is going to get a new studio that is roughly twice the size of the one it uses now. On top of that, the new studio will allow ABC to broadcast All My Children in high-definition. If you can believe it, all of these changes will actually allow the show to save money. Don’t worry – I’m over here with an abacus trying to figure out it, too. With more space, All My Children can construct permanent sets that do not have to be dismantled on a regular basis. In New York, if a set isn’t needed on a given day, it has to be taken apart so that a scene that is needed can be put up in its place. This explains why some scenes seem to be overused: the show needs to reuse scenes whenever possible in order to cut the costs of assembling and disassembling the sets.

My instinctive reaction to news of Disney’s at-gunpoint order that the actors relocate to Los Angeles was a bit of blind panic, so I didn’t even notice the bonus union busting. That’s so awesome. If I hadn’t been keeping an eye on this decidedly East Coast soap for more than twenty years and didn’t love the characters I’d have to join a picket line or something. But hey, my favorite characters may not survive the move, so I may get five extra hours every week to plot revenge. Or get a life.

“Say, Ta,” you may ask, “How on earth can you care about something this trivial?” My pet, you ask the most delightful questions! I could just pinch you. The answer is pretty simple: I’m fussing over my soap opera because its current predicament is symptomatic of American society’s larger problem:

Feel like you’re working a lot harder these days, putting in longer hours for the same pay — or even less? The latest round of government data on worker productivity indicates that you probably are.

The Labor Department said Tuesday that the American work force produced, at an annual rate, 6.4 percent more of the goods they made and services they provided in the second quarter of this year compared to a year ago. At the same time, “unit labor costs” — the amount employers paid for all that extra work — fell by 5.8 percent. The jump in productivity was higher than expected; the cut in labor costs more than double expectations.

That is, despite the deep job cuts of the past year, workers who remain on the payroll are filling in and making up the work that had been done by their departed colleagues. In some cases, that extra work came with a smaller paycheck.

The higher worker output and lower labor costs have been good news for companies struggling through the worst recession since World War II. So far, some 70 percent of companies in the S&P 500 have turned in better-than-expected profits for the latest quarter.

But wage cuts and lost paychecks could seriously jeopardize the recovery of a U.S. economy that still relies on consumer spending for two-thirds of its power.

“You have a very severely harmed, injured consumer in terms of income slow down, job uncertainly, job loss, wealth loss, inadequate savings, high debt levels,” said Laura Tyson, an Obama advisor who headed the Council of Economic Advisors in the Clinton administration. “The consumer, I don’t see powering us out of this recession.”

After every story I read like this, commenter after commenter strikes another blow for corporatist oppression with the words, “Those jagoffs should be glad they have jobs.” No. That is exactly, precisely wrong, and what it does is seek to bring misery company. If someone’s unemployed, underpaid or overworked, then everyone else should be too, so that theory goes. And that’s just wrong. Okay, it’s not just wrong, it’s fucking wrong, and it’s the reason we need strong unions and elegant divas.

Tata: I’m not thinking the funny thoughts. Sometimes when I re-read PIC, phrase after phrase makes me howl, but not lately. Why am I not funny?
Siobhan: That thing where rocks aren’t tasty unless they are is funny, but blasting phyllo dough with fake butter spray is very funny.
Tata: See? So I’m not writing well.
Siobhan: I tell you you’re funny and you tell me you’re not funny?
Tata: You’re right. I’m fucking hilarious. What was I thinking?

It’s a sultry Tuesday night, a storm is taking its sweet old time rolling in and the cats are virtually two-dimensional. In the backyard, an adorable skunk spent the last forty-five minutes finishing the leftovers at our daily stray pussycat buffet. The tenant and his son, who come out in spots when the temp beats 65, complained about heat in the kitchen, then baked brownies. The son is supposed to be terribly allergic to cats, which doesn’t stop him from scooping up Sweetpea for a scritch under her chin. It’s August, and finishing a sentence is a little too much like work.

Miss Sasha: Hi, Mommy! What color should I polish my nails? I’m asking because you’re all those miles away.
Tata: Mmm…purple.
Miss Sasha: Purple it is! I love you! Bye!
Tata: I love you! Bye!

If I feel ambitious later, I might try staring off into space.

Is one born a glamorpuss or does one have being a glamorpuss thrust upon her? Who can say? Certainly, I cannot. For all my homemade, handmade, DIY desires, I love exotic and beautiful design. Dad brought back Marimekko treasures from his trips to Europe in the early seventies, and each seemed like it had come from another planet. Lacquered metal cocoa cups seemed outrageous in colors no one was using in America at the time, investing in them some magic that permits me to remember them decades later.

For crying out loud. They were cups.

Perhaps that’s why the object holding my hair in a giant, messy knot right now is essentially a resin chopstick bejeweled with rhinestones, which is only a little bit at war with the earthy ensemble I bicycled to work in.

Just after 3 this morning, a party next door spilled out the front door and into the yard. After some protracted I love you, mans and You’re my besht friends, Pete grumbled, padded down the stairs and outside, where he said, “Guys, guys, you can’t do this. Go the hell home.” So we inadvertently contributed to the number of drunk drivers on the road before sunup, because almost as soon as those people left and Pete climbed back into bed another wave of grad students up past their bedtimes stumbled off the porch. This went on for about an hour before the house was empty or everyone assumed crash positions, and we fell asleep. When the alarm went off, we groaned and complained, because not only were we tired but we were also pissed we literally could not get those kids off our lawn.

I may need a muumuu.

My office is reorganizing, which turns out to be a reason to do the Happy Dance. I used to nest in the middle of the room, where I was forced to eavesdrop on my co-worker who can’t trust her grown sons to call their own banks, not to mention feel the whoosh! each time someone ran past my desk to bang on the copier. Obviously, using my powers for Good has its limits. I was so sick of the running I was planning to put down tire spikes, and if you think I wouldn’t, think again. Fortunately for everyone, I ended up in a cubicle in a remote corner of the room, where no one notices my hair standing on end like a plasma ball. Two conversations, this week:

Mary: What’s with the pottymouth on Poor Impulse Control?
Tata: I am a foul-mouthed wench, duh!
Mary: Sure, but every paragraph? What’s up?
Tata: I’m testy with piquant hostiility.
Mary: Will you help me and my divine daughter learn how to can fruit?
Tata: Okay, if you don’t mind an attitude that might shatter glass.

And Wednesday morning, 8 a.m. in the ladies room:

Beth: I’ve been meaning to ask your help with something.
Tata: Who, me? I do three stupid things before breakfast every day.
Beth: I have this problem and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe you could –
Tata: Maybe I could eat cheese and wear at least some of it. What’s bothering you?
Beth: It’s just so weird and I don’t really know –
Tata: Spill it!
Beth: I glued my foot to my flip flop and I can’t get my foot unstuck and –

Beth curls her toes. They are stuck to nothing.

Beth: Oh! Never mind!
Tata: I need coffee…

No, really. I’m doing the Happy Dance.

Siobhan’s sister had a baby today, and there’s a distinct possibility this new human may get a familiar name: Fifi! Siobhan and I could have matching Fifis. You know what that means?

This may be the first child in history to sashay into pre-school with a feather boa.

Let the shopping begin.

Remember when I used to write a blog? It seems like only last week I wrote my often humorous musings on aging, politics, public transportation, food, gardening and green living, not to mention the surly extended family and the supercute grandson, at stultifying length and and interminable detail. Ah, those were the days. I was so young then!

Yesterday was the eighteenth birthday of my baby sister Dara. I called and sang “Happy Birthday, dear doofus” to her voicemail and was surprised when I wasn’t her one call from county lockup somewhere, but today, the night is still young and she might figure our sister Daria might be an easier mark. A bazillion years ago:

Daria: Daddy, if Domenica and I had gotten arrested swimming in the reservoir would you have bailed us out?
Dad: Hell no! I drink that water.

Okay, it wasn’t all that long ago, and our arrest records remain curiously clean, but everyone knows Dara’s an evil genius who forgets to plot escape routes from her crime scenes, and colleges care about that shit. So if there’s a lesson to be learned by the youth of America, who have spent every second of their brief lives under surveillance, it’s this: your fingerprints and DNA are probably on file in some government system. Your best bet for a life of crime is in computer science unless you can clone a good twin you can play for a patsy. Bon appetit!

I’m totally obsessed with the Tour de France.

Tonight for the first time we saw images of the cyclists peeing.