Pete took these beautiful pictures of my family being herded like cats on a beach in Cape Cod. Grandpa turned 96 and Miss Sasha’s baby Panky being seven months old meant Mom hired a photographer, issued a dress code order and refused to hear complaints from anyone. I do mean anyone. When Grandpa was done for the day, we got in the car and drove off while Mom was still threatening to cut off our inheritances. We weren’t fooled. While most people have some intention of dying and leaving their children something, if it means parting with her stuff Mom’s going to live forever.

Pete, lifelong observer of my family’s politics, dressed according to the dress code and appears in some pictures. This is because nobody ever gets to leave my family without getting a restraining against half the town, so he’s stuck with us. Mom had lots of pictures planned: Grandpa’s direct descendants, Mom’s and Tom’s children and grandchildren, smaller family units. So Pete had plenty of time to take pictures of the beleaguered yet cheerful photographer herding us like cats. By the time the little boys were bored, throwing rocks and digging for China seemed like an awesomely awesome idea. Pete loves Cape Cod. Plus: throwing rocks and digging for China – ya hunh!

Before the photographer arrived, we parked and wandered around on the beach rocks. I handed Pete the camera and asked him to take pictures of the chaos, and they are fantastically quirky. The beach, Tom told us, is one of the few spots on the East Coast where the sun sets over the ocean. Since the place was so special, we were all surprised when the photographer moved us across the street to a spot next to the salt marsh. The path was rocky and we all worried about Grandpa’s footing, but he managed with a cane and four nervous helpers. The spot where we stopped lay between two banks of rose hip bushes, all the more amusing because Daria’s wildly allergic to rose hips. So, you know, it’s not just a mildly hostile and odd image, it’s a brush with brushy death.

Mom wanted a picture of her grandchildren and great-grandson before the photographer arrived. They all sat on the rocks and Pete caught this wild image of babies crying, grandchildren arguing, children laughing, spectators like myself gasping for breath as the sun bobbed above the horizon behind them. My brother Todd’s little son was hysterical so Todd scooped him up and dropped him back down for the pictures my sisters frantically snapped off to Pete’s right. Here, Todd’s still trying to comfort the inconsolable toddler.

We spent two days with much of my family during which the screaming of children was pretty much to be expected. It was the incessant screaming of their parents that took Pete and me by surprise. Tonight, we watch the Olympics in near silence and listen for the padding footsteps of perplexed pussycats. For the moment, we are at home.

I’ve been tired and run down, and feel forced to conserve my energy. There are friends I want to talk with but just can’t right now, when I fantacize about splitting in two so half of me could be sleeping while the other paints the attic. Some years ago, a nerd pile-on determined that the universe had a color that is roughly similar to a neutral bone color, though initially the universe’s true hue was a peculiar light green. NASA, you vex decorators! I can’t take so much into account without a roller extender. A karma-conscious gal can’t tune into her aura with the spectre of future accent walls blocking her chi!

But enough about me! While you contemplate what you think of my color scheme, I’m mulling over this:

The government defines poverty as an annual income of only $16,227 for a family of three.

In 1985, I took a job at a fast food joint making $16,500. I had a baby, an employed boyfriend and a small apartment in Perth Amboy.

My current apartment, which is modest, is approximately $12,000 a year without utilities.

Where in New Jersey do people making $16,227 in 2008 live?

On Planet Green, a Discovery offshoot, you can learn a whole lot in a few short episodes. For instance, since Suzette’s waiting impatiently for fruit-based beauty product pointers, you can fast-forward by going positively retro.

Why go buy face masks when you can make them totally naturally yourself? Here are some basic face masks that you can make on your own, and in a matter of minutes.

All of these ingredients are simple to put together to make a great face mask. Just mash the given ingredients together and let the mixture sit on your face for 10-15 minutes.

Here are the items you should try combining:

Apple+Honey+Oatmeal
Avocado+Honey
Banana+Yogurt+Honey
Brown Sugar+Milk
Strawberries+Cream+Honey
Egg Yolk+Honey+Olive Oil
Oatmeal+Olive Oil
Cucumber+Yogurt+Strawberries+Honey
Blended Almonds+Honey+Egg White
Baking Soda+Water
Apricots+Milk
Lemon+Egg+Honey

All of these combinations make for wonderful masks and they help to green up your life and improve your skin simultaneously. Try them!

None of this is new. In fact, it’s deeply old because it works. The Egyptians slathered themselves and each other, alive and dead, in fruity goo. More to the modern point: smart vain people indifferent to corporate advertising have nurtured dewy complexions with yogurt, honey, berries, olive oil, milk, almonds, egg, oatmeal, cucumber, avocado and apple since fragrant time immemorial.* In fact, I distantly recall a Facts Of Life episode where Mrs. Garrett lectured Natalie on the stupidity of buying into buying beauty, sort of. Oh, irony! The best tightening mask I ever used – and still do when I can – is an aqueous suspension of magnesium hydroxide or Milk of Magnesia. It was recommended to me by a little old lady with the tiniest pores you’ve ever seen. She said glop the stuff on once a week, wait until it dries and rinse with cool water. It’s cheap and – bonus! – the teenage cashiers at your drugstore think you’ve got a glamorous eating disorder!

Back to Planet Green: some shows don’t interest me. They’re celebrity gossip in organic cotton, and who cares, really? But some offerings are really exciting. Renovation Nation pits host Steve Thomas against his own ideas. Homeowners are renovating green, often spending a great deal of time and money, and Steve, former host of This Old House, turns up to help and heckle. Sometimes, you can tell Steve’s not entirely convinced by the homeowners’ plans, some of which are really innovative – green tech is developing really fast right now in all kinds of directions. It was really exciting for me three days ago to see photovoltaic roofing heat water and collect energy for electricity. Before that episode, solar roofing seemed to do one task or the other but not both. So while engineering green moves forward in breathtaking leaps and bounds, some of the most charming developments are old-fashioned and humble.

I saw an interview with Dan Phillips on a Planet Green show but for the life of me I can’t figure out which. The interview I saw emphasized the unique and totally original nature of each house, reminding me of a book Daria had when we were kids called Andrew Henry’s Meadow.

If you read celebrity gossip, you know that Zach Braff remembers this book, too. Doris Burns published this book in 1965 about an intrepid little boy who gets tired of his family, takes his tools and goes for a long walk. He finds a meadow and builds himself a house. Other children see this and join him in droves in the meadow, where Andrew Henry builds each child a house suited to him- or herself with materials he finds lying around. Eventually, the worried parents find the children, see the special houses and take the children home. For their parts, the parents learn to see their children as people. The children go home, happy to be loved for themselves. When I saw the treehouse in the Dan Phillips interview my heart sang a bit. I will deny that sentimentality under oath. You’re a terrible person for mentioning it.

The other day, a woman in my office made a derisive comment about “the environmental frenzy” and I stopped in my tracks. She’s nearly ready to retire, which means she was born during or after WWII. Her earliest memories are of living in a 16-room house in Newton, Massachusetts, not unlike the one in current episodes of This Old House. An address like this and wasting money were signals to the community, in some way that matters to her, of prosperity, though she talks about rooms closed off and left unheated. She and I have even talked about the Newton project, which may be all about real estate for her. I’m not sure. As for the show, I recall the utter delight with which the guys toured warehouses full of reclaimed materials during the New Orleans rebuild. Reusing and recycling isn’t new. It’s the oldest trick in the book.

* Whatever you do, please don’t try picturing Burma Shave signs in hieroglyphics. You’ll be up all night with that one.

He’s a good man, a gifted daughter.
a lovely wife, a happy home.
But speak loudly and you’ll find out
he hopes you bitches leave things alone.

This is a dated image of Nastia Liukin, who placed second at the Olympic Trials. Her performances are always beautiful to watch and since the Olympics are mere weeks away, I thought I’d tell you something about this image you might not know: handstands are the zen position of the gymnastics world. By itself, this image looks like a person resting on her palms, but she is actually pressing her whole taut body away from her palms. Her abdominal muscles measure balance against the position of her shoulders, her hamstrings, her heels, the tops of her feet. It looks like a moment of stillness and yet every bit of the gymnast’s body is stretched, is loose, is in motion, is motionless – all at once, in delicate harmony. Liukin looks frail but her weight to strength ratio would impress Marines.

There’s another thing: a handstand is also a position of rest. To get there, a gymnast has just exerted some effort, especially on the uneven bars. It seems counterintuitive to say this active position is restful, but it is, and it is most restful when it is most stretched and dynamic. Below, Liukin on the first night of the Olympic Trials. On the second night, she had several problems any other mortal might have. This routine, though, flows beautifully to the funny landing and there’s a noticeable rhythm break about two-thirds of the way through. Even so, the score of 16.7 under the new scoring system is fantastic. Watch, and you will see how she pushes up to move down and presses down to circle back up. She is doing so many things even slow motion won’t help you see it all.

Get a load of this shit:

I sit 35 miles from the crater in the Manhattan bedrock that used to be the World Trade Center and even now, no day passes that is not in some way influenced by the disaster. And today I saw this commercial. Need to lose a few pounds? For full drink-spewing disgust, just let the ad at the top right run. You’ll hurl all right! Note the choice of words that make it sound like you can buy this shitty product to celebrate something, and what is that, exactly?

No, really. Put a name on it. What is it?

I dare you. Speak it. Look the demon in the eye.

Sunday, Pete was in the kitchen, spraypainting the radiator silver, while I re-tied the beans. Beans grow like you wouldn’t believe unless you’ve grown beans and even then they can surprise you. So there I was: folded in half and playing with string.

I straightened my back for a stretch and noticed a neighbor launching himself down his back steps with a box containing a brand new push mower and headphones. The lawns on Pete’s block could be trimmed with an erratic weed whacker so I was excited to see this display of common sense. Then I went back to tying up the beans. A short while later, a song echoed through the breezy backyards.

IT WAS THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT –

It does one’s sinuses no good whatsoever to stifle a guffaw while upside down.

TELLING ME WHAT YOUR HEART MEANT –

Pete stepped out onto his porch, where he could see the neighbor warbling unsteadily at the tops of his lungs. Pete stared, obviously very happy.

THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT SHOWED IN YOUR EYES!

After a few minutes, Pete decided to go caulk Rhode Island or something. I was weeding and tying up more beans. Fortunately, we have a lot of beans because I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

YOU’RE LEAVING NOW THERE’S NO DISGUISING IT –

Okay, so maybe I could have worked a little faster.

IT REALLY COMES AS NO SURPRISE TO FIND THAT YOU PLANNED IT ALL ALONG!

Every so often, the neighbor’s young, pregnant wife steps out onto her porch, rolls her eyes and goes back inside. I am positively trembling with joy. Finally, she shouts over the locally unheard The Very Best of Asia, “IT SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING’S DYING OUT HERE.”

In my own defense, I stood up to keep from falling down, but in doing so, made myself visible from the other side of the garden. Then I howled. She said, “THEY’RE LAUGHING AT YOU,” and went back inside in a huff. After a minute, I went back to what I was doing, but I wasn’t the only one.

SOLE SURVIVOR! SOLE SURVIVOR! SOLITARY FIGHTER!

I love that guy.

I avoid using phones if at all possible. It’s not that I have some tinfoil hat theory or think they’re giving me cancer. Nope: on the phone, I might be just plain stupid. Pete, who spends more time with me than anyone I didn’t gestate myself has, calls me every day at my desk.

Pete: I just called to hear the sound of your voice!
Tata: [Insert sound of post-pre-verbal stage person trying to remember what words are.]

I’m pretty useless on the phone; so much so that when the internet phone service message center became suddenly and explosively incompatible with my laptop, I didn’t even miss much. I can see who called but can’t hear the messages, which is fine by me because I don’t check them for many, many weeks and can’t muster the strength to hold grudges.

You’d think then a person who returns calls on a more or less monthly basis wouldn’t have a fishnetted leg to stand on where return phone calls were at issue but no. Everyone knows I’m either sitting at my desk or sitting on my couch or haunting a grocery store or weeding my garden or gift-wrapping for the populace. My whereabouts are seldom mysterious, and when I want to talk I want to talk RIGHT NOW. I’m waiting for a woman to email me back. She checks her email every two or three days. What’s the matter with her? Doesn’t she know I’m waiting?

This is a real New York Times article dug up from the archives. Someone who is not me did the digging, though this article is on microfilm less than thirty feet from my desk at work. Two days ago, a commenter on Shakesville thought she was tearing me to pieces by saying my personal hindsight was not 20/20 vision. I laughed out loud in my living room. Because I’ve written my every stray thought since 1971, I know what I foresaw because I can re-read it. For instance, I predicted everything from institutionalized war crimes to Abu Gharaib, messy war expansion and a failing VA. I predicted the out of control administration would make the lives of its constituents worse and our returning soldiers would have a really hard time adjusting to civilian life, if they could at all. I predicted these things not because I’m clairvoyant, need a turban and should wear all-seeing fruit on my head. Nope. These things all happened before and because we as a society forgot, they were certain to happen again.

Last night, Pete made the simplest, most fantastic dinner of a few seared scallops resting in bowls of fresh gazpacho, whole wheat baguette with dipping oil and mixed greens. It was so light and delicious I predict we will eat that way all summer when we can. Further, when we can’t, we will pine for it, because immediately after dinner, we made another pilgrimmage to Sears and Home Depot without feeling weighed down. I now possess a Brian Griffin Peanut Butter Jelly Time t-shirt, which may have been predictable but the $4.95 price tag sure wasn’t. Unexpected Joy!

A section of my commute across the river has become dangerous for cyclists and pedestrians. I’ve written three letters this morning, notifying people with of this public peril. A director’s assistant here at the unnamed university called and was surprised when I wasn’t deterred by “I’ll relay your concerns.” I’ll keep writing. I predict nobody will do anything and by the end of the day, I’ll be the pin-up crackpot at the Department of Transportation, and all of this is completely foreseeable if you’re paying attention – to me, at least. But if I were going to really predict the future, I’d say you should stop what you’re doing today, get to a garden store, buy some fruit and vegetable plants, and plan to grow your own food. Think I’m way off-base? Have you been watching the weather maps and the financial news?

The chaos that erupted outside Milwaukee County’s main welfare office Monday over disaster-related food aid had more to do with a weak economy and crushing poverty in parts of this community than the devastating floods that swept through the state earlier this month, local government and food relief officials said.

About 3,000 people turned out for the assistance beginning at 3 a.m. Monday, creating a line that stretched several blocks around the Marcia P. Coggs Human Services Center at 1220 W. Vliet St. At least one woman said she was trampled when a crowd rushed the doors as they opened around 7:30 a.m., and dozens of Milwaukee police officers and sheriff’s deputies were called to quell the scene.

“The food crisis in Milwaukee and throughout the United States is worse than many of us have realized,” said Milwaukee Common Council President Willie Hines, who with other elected officials called on the community to support local food pantries.

“We expect long lines for free food in Third World countries,” Hines said. “We don’t expect a line of 2,500 people waiting for food vouchers” in Milwaukee. No one was seriously injured, and there were no arrests Monday, but those in line described the scene as chaotic. Many thought they would receive vouchers immediately, and frustration mounted when some learned that was not the case.

Perhaps you yourself are financially solvent. Good for you! Perhaps you’re not. Ah, well. Neither is especially important to this particular bit of prognostication. Food banks are having trouble stocking their shelves. This phenomenon has meaning. The mortgage crisis means more people are moving out of homes and into rental properties. This has meaning. The midwest has been under water and crops have failed. This will resonate throughout the economy and the food supply. The average gas price nationally exceeds $4 per gallon, which will drive up the price of absolutely everything, including food. So: without getting excited or anxious, I predict that you will be much, much happier if you plant tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, eggplant, mint and basil – vegetables you need and love – everywhere you can find a sunny pile of dirt.

This afternoon, I walked around and around a store until I forced myself to pick something unobtrusive and in normal colors like gentle brown and quiet tan. I tried it on and was only moderately horrified. Even so, I hesitated. Finally, I took this monstrously overpriced gunnysack to the cashier, a woman of some taste and – judging by her blouse – terrible eyesight. I bit my lip.

Tata: If I were your former daughter-in-law and I showed up at your funeral in this dress, would you haunt me?
Cashier: Wh…what? No! [Confidentially:] Is she really dead?

Obviously, my lack of deeply inculcated religious belief of any kind is showing. I’m not reflexively as fearful of God as I am of wrath. But who doesn’t fear wrath? Thus, I watched the first half-hour of Planet Green’s Greensburg with the trepidation of the tornado-fearful and the impatience of a person whose imaginary friends might be symptoms. I almost changed the channel when the high school student said God sent twelve men to lift a truck off Grandpa, but Pete and I simultaneously grabbed at the remote when a whole town full of white people standing in front of huge piles of matchsticks said God was with them. Guess who was a carpenter!

I had high hopes for this show, but I can’t stand all this talk about blue-eyed Jesus. After they’re done being traumatized, I’ll have a look at the green rebuilding efforts. Generally speaking, I might be a little cranky about greenovating. Years ago, I was part of a college radio comedy troupe comprised of 40-odd odd people, mostly musical technophiles and dancing computer nerds. Recently, I asked the erstwhile comedians to help me choose a composting technology to cope with some tricky conditions. As a line of inquiry, it seemed like a fantastic fit: a complex problem that happened to be both hilariously smelly and potentially puke-inducing. Almost no one gave it much thought. I considered throwing a hissy when I didn’t catch on, but then I took a step back. Finally, I asked the group a question: without implying any judgment, I’d like to know why a group of homeowning nerds, most of whom have children and therefore a vested interest in the future, demonstrates little interest in green tech?

I’ve read a few answers and I still don’t know. If plugged-in ubernerds aren’t interested and buy SUVs, that has meaning. I have to think about this more. In the meantime, my sister Daria is full of crazy.

Daria: I didn’t even know the Marcal came from recycled paper until you told me. I turned over the package and there it was!
Tata: So look at you go!
Daria: Yeah, I had a coupon. I bet that store you’re haunting doesn’t have any recycled paper products unless you’re there.
Tata: What?
Daria: They see you coming and they all run to the back. “Here she comes! Get the paper towels!”
Tata: An entire grocery store chain is now humoring me?
Daria: Yup. They’ve got you on radar.
Tata: That explains this exotic and blinking ankle bracelet I don’t remember buying.
Daria: Did you think there was a jewelry maker named COURT ORDERED. DO NOT REMOVE?