Daria and I, no idea where, about 1965. Also: the last time either of us saw our natural colors.

For a few days, Poor Impulse Control was dead as a doornail, though I wonder if doornails animate. Regardless: it has come to my attention that I handle frustration poorly. Don’t try to dissuade me with your usual and completely justified mitigating praise. No, I may have a problem with poorly timed outbursts. Just this morning:

Siobhan: Jesus Christ, I bought a house!
Tata: You forgot to fix my fucking blog.
Siobhan: I’m so sorry!
Tata: Congratulations! When do we paint?

Two weeks ago, a man with the same name as my father’s mother’s father contacted me to ask if we were related. I read his list of family names and recognized none of them, but I asked about his name and told him to keep in touch. He said he believed he was named for my great-grandfather, and did I recognize this other list of names? It was my branch of the family. I was glad I was sitting down when I read it. We’ve chatted most days since then.

This morning, a woman found me by googling an eminent common relative, though she and I are not related. Mom was surprised and pleased but cagey with information. Siobhan, mysteriously still speaking to me, wondered what that meant.

Siobhan: Your mom is an only child who wants a bigger family but doesn’t want to invite them to dinner?
Tata: My mom wants relatives she can keep to herself on papers that burst into flames upon her demise.
Siobhan: But your mom is so nice!
Tata: Geez Louise, do I have to write my next bitchy line?

I might be a little TENSE.

Tata: You are totally falling down on the job!
Miss Sasha: What? Which job?
Tata: The new pictures job. How on earth can I gloat to the other grandmas if I have infuriating outdated pictures?
Miss Sasha: Omigod, I’m sorry!
Tata: Oh, and there must be gloating. Gloating!
Miss Sasha: I’ll get right on that.
Tata: See that you do!

He’s so cute I plan to be intolerable all day.

Yesterday.

The doctor’s appointment went well. Pete went with me because memory loss and flu symptoms are a match made in Dubuque. In the parking lot, we met Siobhan’s cousin with whom she and I were in a radio comedy troupe, and in the doctor’s office, Pete and I met another erstwhile comedienne and her 18-month-old protege. Cue the ceremonial dropping of the cow, signifying the end of the sketch.

My doctor is a glamorous, no-nonsense Dutch lady. “You’re much too sick to find this funny!” she shouted as I clutched the blood pressure cuff and gasped for breath.

Today.

Tata: I’m usually the one still standing when everyone else is sick, so I figured I was due.
Dr.: That’s funny thinking. You know those people who after four girls try again to have a boy? The odds are still 50-50. From now on, you get a flu shot, and don’t be a hero.
Tata: I still have a headache and – Pete, what’s wrong with me?
Pete: Where do I begin?
Tata: Nausea and… oh, my lungs are kicking my ass. I should be better by now!
Dr.: How long does a genuine flu episode last?
Tata: A week? A week and a half?
Dr.: At least two weeks! You’re going to be sick for some time to come, and you’re just gonna cough, okay?

Properly chastened and coughing up a storm, I allowed as how I understood. She prescribed cough medicine and a rescue inhaler, because flu makes hot house flowers of us all. Then Pete drove me back to work, where today, one of my co-workers has begun to cough.

I feel as if I’ve really been through something. No wonder dozens of people die from flu every year in the U.S. Thus, we promised the comediennes we’ll go on highly athletic bicycle trips in a month or two, with spouses and at least one junior expedition member. I will have gallons of Calamine.

Mom sent this so you will sit up straight and learn the capital of Vermont.
Bitch is the New Black on FunnyOrDie.com

I do not endorse. I observe.

A thousand years ago, when dinosaurs and free-range physicians roamed the earth, the unnamed university required persons staying home from work more than one day to bring a doctor’s note. In those days, all one did was phone up one’s doctor, cough a bit and one would be invited to cough on other sick people in the doctor’s waiting room. After a dignfied period, one saw the doctor, who tapped, prodded and called patients by first names. Soon, one left the doctor’s office with prescriptions and a note. If one was short of cash, arrangements would be made. I know a doctor’s family that used to accept chickens as payment.

Today, I have an appointment with my doctor, a Dutch lady with a lofty teaching position at some other branch of the giant, unnamed university. She has many times come to my rescue, but I hate making appointments to see her. First: she has no time and too many commitments. Second: her office staff takes it as gospel that the job is to protect the Good Doctor from patients. A month ago, I ventured over there to ask about the invigorating vertigo. She said, “Make an appointment for a physical. We’ll have a blast.” I marched no further than 20 feet and said, “She says make an appointment for a physical.” The Keeper of the Book said, “We don’t have any. Call next week.” So our party is postponed until I feel well enough to deal with the office staff. Does my doctor miss me?

Today, I’ll ask why I still have a headache and why the flu won’t leave my lungs. I don’t know about you, but I need those. One thing I don’t need is a note. Everyone in the library’s basement could write an affidavit attesting to my constant coughing, which is nice and all, but no one has that much insurance. I hope they take chickens.

Sunday, just about midday, I coughed up breakfast, then spent a day and a half either unconscious or very close. I could barely open my eyes, so mostly I lay still or sat still. With my body out of commission, I thought about Melissa Ethridge, dreaming herself well. I thought about the passions of the saints and the phrase “lying in the light of the Lord,” which I would bet is a normal physiological reaction to high fever. Ever wake up in a dark room and wonder who turned out the flood light? Yeah, that can have consequences. I don’t want to find a flowing spring off the Raritan with my bare hands, but if I do, I’m keeping a manicurist on call.

When I couldn’t move, I slept. I lay awake and drifted. I listened. I listened to TV, to the talk of cats, to the sounds of my neighbors, to quiet and birds, to Pete. For the first day, I wanted to hear the predictable, soothing rhythms of reruns and soap operas. Later, I wanted to listen to the cool and the quiet. Sometimes, I lay quiet while Pete watched cartoons, which was sweet, but I also heard a commercial that soured my mood. It’s stuck in my mind now, and I’m pissed.

Reese’s has a new candy product out, which is apparently a whipped, smoother, fluffier candy resembling its other candy line products. Actually sounds pretty good to me.

Reese’s Whipps has a TV campaign stating, “Whipped and proud of it!”

Who reading this is not familiar with the phrase “whipped,” and its connotations? Does anyone need me to explain why I have a problem with this ad slogan being used in ads pumped across “family time” TV shows?

There’s a word missing before “whipped.” A very important word. For the .04% of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, whipped refers to a man who is bossed around by a woman due to her sensual charms.

The word we all know coming before whipped is also a name for cats. And it rhymes with wussy. Hey, if you think this post is drifting toward the vulgar – now you are getting my point. Don’t direct your anger at me; I’m the cultural observer here pointing out the trash. So help me take it out. My firm wouldn’t touch creative like this with a 10-foot Hershey bar.

Fuck me running. How on earth did that get past the grownups at the ad agency?

Another thing I’m sorry I heard was an Oprah Show report by Lisa Ling about a woman who strips to provide for her three children. By the end of the report, I was so angry about the loaded language, ignored economic realities and mob mentality I wanted to conduct classes explaining to Oprah viewers what a railroad job they’d just seen.

I hate Oprah. One of the absolute worst aspects of any Oprah show is the part where Oprah poses question after question to elicit shame. In this case, when the subject didn’t exhibit – har har! – any shame, and her 13-year-old daughter was actually proud of Mom, both Oprah and Lisa Ling were openly scornful.

I could go until I turn blue about how much women hate other women, but I couldn’t possibly do this moment justice: the subject was describing how some club clients just want to talk – about their own wives and children, about her children. She mentioned she kept a picture in her shirt.

“What shirt?” snorted Ling. The audience cheered. It was a good thing I’d already felt physically ill, so I noticed the nausea right away.

The message board is an embarrassing woman-on-woman hatefest. Nothing is said about the men who abandon families. Nothing is said about the man whose jealousy and possessive behavior kept her prisoner in her home for five years, then left her and her children to starve. Nothing is said about the society that scorns working poor women with two jobs and no time with their children, but hates women who take sex work and have time to correct homework. Nothing is said about how what women really hate is the window into their own economic vulnerability if that man at home ever gets up and leaves.

I wondered how the producers found that woman. I wondered what she thought would happen. Whatever it was, I wish I’d changed the channel and slept easy.

Mr. Wintle, ever the instigator:

The damn liberal left has no regard for people’s health or safety.

Lately they’re trying to put up these (noise) polluting windmills. Watch this video to see what happens when one fails. They say nuclear is dangerous. It’s nothing compared to wind. Anyone within a 100 yard area could have been killed by this accident and it remained unsafe for minutes afterwards.

You have been warned!

Flu. I enjoy the dry heaves as much as the next gal, but this is ridiculous. Back as soon as I can sit up with eyes open.

Yesterday’s WikiHow article title caught my eye. How to Not Be Annoying does not just fracture syntax in five words. No, the article goes for broke.

Most of the time, an annoying person doesn’t realize how his or her behavior is perceived by others. If you suspect that you’re annoying others – or you’ve been told you’re annoying and think they might be right, here’s how to avoid the little things that often get on people’s nerves.

I don’t know WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!

Steps

1. Think first. Think about what you are going to say before blurting it out.

Oh, come now. If I’m busy thinking, I’m not blurting. And then where will we be?

4. Respect boundaries. Everybody has boundaries – you need to learn what they are and try to avoid crossing them. Boundaries vary widely from culture to culture and even from individual to individual.

* Do not go around poking people constantly. In fact, don’t touch them at all if they don’t like it. Of course if they grant permission, then by all means have fun, but otherwise cut it out before you start.
* Mind your own business. Avoid butting into a conversation by (for example) saying, “What are you talking about?” If you hear someone talking about something with another person, and you only catch the last sentence, leave it be.

I take offense at the suggestion I quit playing my favorite game: I’ve Never Heard Those Words Before. For instance, sometimes people talk and talk and finally I hear something exciting – “Children’s shoes appeal to my pancreas,” say – well, you can bet your sweet patootie I’m going to blurt out, “WHAT are you TALKING about?” But let’s go back to Step 2.

2. Build self confidence. Being insecure can lead to annoying traits. Until you have built your self confidence up don’t try too hard.

3. Break counterproductive habits. If you laugh loudly at everyone’s jokes, even if they’re not all that funny, read up on how to avoid laughing at inappropriate times. Try a different approach – be genuine and be yourself. If people find you annoying when you’re being true to yourself, then you need to find new, more accepting people to be around.

Last week, I annoyed a Quaker. He almost said a dirty word. They don’t, you know.

5. Be humble. Just because you’re confident doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re better than anyone else. Don’t do or say things that might let you appear to be arrogant, like bragging about your wealth or success.

* Don’t correct bad grammar/spelling or inaccuracies of others because most people don’t like being corrected.
* Don’t excessively tell people that their beliefs are wrong; gently and nicely mention that you disagree.
* Don’t complain all the time. Remember the world does not revolve around you. If you complain too much, others will find you depressing and avoid you. Read up on how to be optimistic.

The world does revolve around me. Not me, but Me. Certainly. What are you talking about? And by the way, is there a Ronco Confidence Meter, like those insulin testing kits, so I can measure whether a new outfit makes me radioactively overconfident?

8. Be conscious of your surroundings. Be aware if you are standing in doorways while having a conversation, driving 20MPH in a 40MPH zone, or if your children are being obnoxious in a public place. Consider how your actions are likely to affect the people around you, and you will gain their respect.

In this article, the word respect is a hotlink. I am not clicking that. Since meaning there is up for grabs, I fear a Blues Brothers-style dance number will break out in my office. Cue Aretha in three, two, one…

9. Be polite and hygienic. Don’t peek down people’s shirts for instance, don’t pass gas, don’t talk about looking down people’s shirts or passing gas. Take care to brush and/or floss after meals so as not inflict your breath on others or allow strings of food to flap back and fourth when you speak, and don’t talk about specific instances of impolite or unhygienic actions that offended you in the past.

Fantastic. You’ve just described C-SPAN in Smell-O-Vision.

9. Learn to read facial reactions and body movements. Pay attention to the facial expressions and body language of those around you and work to immediately identify and stop whatever you’re doing that is annoying others.
10. Think of others. For some it is easy, but for others, it is not. Try to put yourself in others’ shoes and treat others the way you would like to be treated.

I’m so altruistic I never stop thinking of others. I worry and wonder and hope and dream and just know they’re thinking of Me! Because, frankly, who would not? I’m Me! And who can help but think about that!

Tips

* It is easy to be annoying if you talk too much. Think about what you say before you say it. Remember the famous quotation, “It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.” Not talking at all is no fun for anyone, so you should try to strike a balance in conversation.
* Don’t know if you are annoying? Ask a person that you would find likely to give you an honest and constructive answer. Be prepared for criticism and be willing to accept it gracefully. The person may not be ready to give it all immediately, so give him/her time by explaining your situation, thoughts, and feelings to make it clear you can handle helpful criticism. Don’t take this to an extreme, either, as it will probably be quite annoying, itself.

I suppose those tips might be helpful if they weren’t so…um… But this is my favorite:

Warnings

* If you are unable to stop being annoying, be wary that some people will not be able to stand you anymore. They may physically assault you causing serious injury or even death.

This just gets better and better. Threats before breakfast! Also: though I didn’t read this article very closely, I corrected egregious punctuation problems. The writer will either thank me later or quit respecting my boundaries. I’m learning so much!

Life is confusing. For instance, we talk to each other like real people, though few of us have met. It is not our way! And we like surprises. You, I suspect, are surprised that I remember I proposed a lengthy project dignifying the City of New Brunswick photographically in a manner it perhaps no longer deserves. New Brunswick is a $2 whore in a $10 dress no matter your perspective, unless you sit on the edge of the river and ask, “Um…can someone explain to me where that tunnel under Route 27 is goes besides the other side of Route 27?”

Since I came back from vacation, I’ve had an exciting turn of vertigo. At first, I thought I could as they say still feel the boat motion on land. It’s a cheap souvenir maritime travelers enjoy for a day or two after travel’s end. One goes along all bipedal and suddenly – whoa! – the landlubber feels a stray swell in Dubuque. As the week at home wore on and vertigo did not wear off, I made an appointment to see my doctor, who has laughed at my medical problems for a couple of decades. As she should.

Today, in 11 degree weather, I marched across the river, taking four steps forward and one to the side and therefore forming my own silent conga line. Up on a hill slightly visible in the photograph above is my doctor’s office, where my doctor was surprised to see me this morning because I like playing to tough crowds, but the crowd in her office looks like it was searched for weapons and plague bacillus. Anyway, some time later, after exhilarating tests involving turning my head really fast and trying to make me throw up, my doctor pronounced me afflicted with yet another comic ailment: situational blahbitty blah vertigo, which will go away all on its own. In the meantime, I should enjoy all the festive directional merriment. Yahtzee! And no one should be surprised.