A couple browses in the card section of the store for some time. I’m reading TBogg, knitting and listening to Ani DiFranco until he approaches the counter. He stands about 6’5″ and when she stands next to him, she’s pretty close.

Man: Can you recommend a good restaurant in town?
Tata: The Thai restaurant is very good. It’s two blocks to the right.
Man: I’m not much interested in Thai food. How about something neutral? Something –

He skips a beat.

Man: – American?

It is as if he slapped me. I do not react. Instead, I answer his question in a level voice and measured emphasis.

Tata: I believe you’ll find your options somewhat limited in that respect. Heading north, you’ll find a vegetarian sandwich place, the Seven Hills of Istanbul, Chinese and Japanese.
Woman: We could go to Charlie Brown’s.
Man: What’s that?
Woman: Steaks and burgers.

I’m such a local-business geek I forget that place is there.

Man: Is there anything else?
Tata: Heading south, there’s Glatt kosher, Italian, kosher Chinese, kosher pizza, delis and ice cream. There’s also a cafe that serves sandwiches.
Man: That sounds good. Where’s that?
Tata: It’s on this side of the street. I guess it’s about a block and a half that way.

He thanks me. They leave without purchasing anything. I’m sure unique and lovely things don’t interest him, either.

Yesterday, those of us who are, in fact, me discovered the little reservoir into which we, which is to say I, pour our .jpgs was a little on the Closed For Business-side. I contacted Tami, the One True, who is the little reservoir’s version of the Coast Guard, who contacted Jazz, who contacted Powerblogs. Today: voila! We skinny-dip again and pretend we don’t drink this water.

This is Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul.

You remember Larry. He remembers you.

For over a month now, my mind has been boggled, which does no one any good, especially me. I’ve been working too hard and getting nowhere. When I saw a car repair bill for over $500 I nearly fainted, and when I observe how desperately my kitchen floor needs a patient scrubbing I have to shut off the light and leave the room. I would like to blame my inability to think clearly on something frou-frou like that Mercury went retrograde all last month, with extreme prejudice, which it did. But that’s not it.

The war in Afghanistan is a fact of life I recognize I can do nothing about, and I see that we have lost it, though it’s a matter of time before that fact comes home to us in all its harsh bookend beauty. In the end, we will have accomplished nothing there. I see the war in Iraq is a fact of life I can do little about, and the horror of what we thoughtlessly unleashed for no reason invades my dreams. The situation in Darfur is a fact of life I can do almost nothing about, which is painful, and I can’t fix FEMA, Homeland Security, and whatever’s wrong with the Justice Department and Congress that makes the conservative Supreme Court look like an Emma Goldman Dance-Off. I was just about at my Brutal Shit Tolerance Limit when Hezbollah and Israel decided to blow each other up – so long as that meant not actually Hezbollah and Israel and in fact meant killing the defenseless Lebanese. Frankly, my brain saw I’d reached my limit and cut me off. But that’s not the end of it.

There are a lot of really well-informed people who understand the intricasies of human nature. Some of them are writing things we should read and consider very, very carefully. I do not know why the American people care more about Survivor than the people we’re killing – and I say “we” because this killing in conducted by our military and, if not, then with our blessing – but I see that it is true, and I am afraid for us.

No matter how coolly or passionately someone describes attacking Iran, it is crucial to recall that our armed forces are stretched beyond their limits. Our Treasury is beyond empty. Our future is mortgaged to the Chinese. War has solved none of our problems but created many more. We stand at a pivotal moment in history.

Look, I am not a genius. I’m barely sane. We have no right as a nation to do what we are doing. We are committing war crimes, and we will be called to account for it – at which time, “Not me!” and “Go ask the cowboys!” isn’t going to cut it. When the next 9/11 happens – and it will – we will not be able to say we are blameless. Our silence and our complicity will have caused the next disaster, and for what?

For nothing. World War III, coming to your doorstep, for no good reason.

Have you met my cat? He’s really very handsome. I have to get outside, go walking and see some sunlight. I have to work again today. Get out to the mall, people, and do your part to increase the Gross National Product. Amber and Rob are counting on us.

Because I am out of my mind, Jeff Buckley’s Sketches For My Sweetheart the Drunk is squawking on the CD player in the otherwise tranquil and sweet-smelling family store when the FedEx guy marches in. It is Friday. My sisters, those fools with excellent taste in household shiny objects, have been spending like sailors on leave in a Japanese housewares factory with a liquor license, and the boxes arrive in waves. Yesterday, I dragged half a dozen boxes half my size into the basement from the front of store because the FedEx guy won’t even try threading his hand truck through the needle-narrow aisle of the very breakable store. Today: fifteen, some as big as I am. I called my sisters at their super-secret lakeside retreat to tell them: for those December holidays, whatever they give me better come in carats.

On the other hand: I am positively a vision, drenched in sweat. My beauty and charisma, overwhelming on a brisk autumn evening, are dangerous when augmented by summer swelter and exertion. Stand back! If you come any closer, your safety cannot be guaranteed!

Yesterday, Highland Park had an event on its main street between 4-8, so Daria drove in from Flemington to give me a hand. We ran around the store, laughing for four hours, though it’s not all fun and games. A real estate agent comes to the counter and asks if we have postcards for the town-wide garage sale. Daria and I stare at one another. Then we stare at the woman, who in 100 degree heat is wearing too much makeup and not sweating. I smell Evil. Daria senses it too and runs around the counter to point at a pile of postcards inches from the strange woman, who says, “Make sure you talk that up and tell everyone who comes in about it.” Daria and I smile and nod and smile and nod until she leaves. We wave through the glass door. Then we turn around.

Us: Uh…no.
Tata: Yeah yeah, the weather’s having a profound effect on business. Raritan Avenue was deserted all day but the crazy people came in.

Daria’s standing in an air conditioned store, fanning herself.

Daria: Ya think?
Tata: This morning, a normal-looking young woman comes in. I’d guess she’s about 23. She wants a get well card for her boyfriend’s boss, whose father has been hospitalized for a sudden illness.
Daria: The boyfriend’s…boss’…father…that’s four degrees of separation and there can only be six.
Tata: And since I’m telling you this, one of us must be Kevin Bacon. Anyway, the get well cards aren’t what she wants. I help her pick out a blank card with a really striking image. I say soothing things because she’s irritable.
Daria: You were nice to her?
Tata: Yeah, I was shocked, too. She pays for it and tells me she’s left her cell phone at the post office across the street. I say, “Well, dahhhhhhlink, your day can only improve.”
Daria: Are you done talking yet?
Tata: Are my lips still moving?
Daria: Yeah, I don’t get it.
Tata: That’s because a couple hours pass and the phone rings. It’s that normal girl.
Daria: NO! What’s she want?
Tata: She wants to know what to write in the card.
Daria: Did you shout, “GET SOME FRIENDS”?
Tata: Miraculously, I did not! For ten minutes, I stammered out creative versions of “You’re in our thoughts at this difficult time”. This did not impress her. Finally, I said, “You know, you can just write, ‘With best wishes for your father’s speedy recovery.'” And she hung up all happy.
Daria: Oh. My. God! I can’t believe you didn’t tell her to go straight to Hell!
Tata: Siobhan and I are thinking of making a cottage-industry line of cards that do just that. Hallmark has failed to meet our “Go Fuck Yourself” card needs.
Daria: Wow…that’s like discovering there’s a flavor of chocolate you’d never imagined…
Tata: And because we’re, like, selfless about our selfishness, we skip printing them on paper.
Daria: What, e-cards?
Tata: No, I can just call people up, mention cute baby bunnies, and tell them you said they should go fuck themselves. In fact, after dinner I might do it for fun. Oh! You can pay me to call and pay me again to stop.
Daria: I’m impressed your plan includes repeat business. But I’ll kill you if you try it.
Tata: Siobhan handles the subsidiary death threat customers.
Daria: Why?
Tata: I’m not entirely sure she hasn’t killed anyone yet, and you go with your strengths.

I would like to work from home…

Tuesday Report, Belated Punishment Edition.

In one corner of the untidy bedroom stands a box I should have measured but didn’t. Suffice it to say this box is about 24″ tall, maybe 12″ wide and 8″ deep. At the end of June, this box was stuffed full of spare skeins of yarn I’ve been dragging from apartment to apartment, some for more than twenty years. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away because there was nothing wrong with them, and some were expensive. Then, I was reading Georg’s blog and found an interesting project. The box is now mostly empty. I’ve been knitting my heart out. I was knitting while Paulie Gonzalez was removing his hubcabs with a paper clip and when my family was arguing about smoky bars. I have been knitting while shouting at my sisters over the phone and between customers at the family store. I’m not a good knitter because I haven’t the attention span for patterns and counting but in my living room sits a pile of little shelter animal blankets, ready to be finished with a crochet hook. Georg is threatening to mail me a box of yarn she’s dragged around from place to place, which might defeat the housecleaning purpose of starting the project. Still, I can’t see that offering comfort to a distressed animal in such a simple way could be a bad thing for my mood, either. More yarn, more blankets. Less thinking about myself.

So. The box is nearly dead. Long live the box. I am late reporting this – and concluding my July project – because I foolishly assumed I would learn how to operate my camera in a month. Well, that’ll teach me to assume.

I’m interrupting my story because I can’t stifle myself. I tried. Here, hold the duct tape. I just realized the hard way I forgot to Nair my mustache. Yesterday, I got a mass email from Chuck Schumer, thoughtfully addressed to me by name. Frankly, I liked it better when Chuck called me “Occupant”.

Dear Domenica,

He’s talking directly to my checkbook, which somehow avoids eye contact.

Dear Domenica,

At the beginning of this election cycle, few believed that Democrats had a shot to retake the Senate.

Now, with exactly 100 days left until the midterm elections, conventional wisdom has been turned on its head. We need a six-seat swing to achieve a Democratic majority in the Senate and our candidates are currently polling ahead or within single digit margins in races for seven seats currently held by Republicans.

Few what? Emus? Judging by the administration’s desperate attempts to blow up the world, I’d guess the Republicans think Democrats stand an excellent chance of turning out voters mad as a nest of wet hornets – though winning the election may be another story.

As the arm of the Democratic Party solely dedicated to electing Democrats to the Senate, the DSCC is funding the vital tools necessary for victory. The donations you’ve made over the last few weeks will help us –

Whoa! Has my checkbook been cheatin’ with Chuck? That hussy has betrayed me for the last time, because I – sure as shooting – didn’t give the spineless weaselly centrist DSCC a dime, and commas are too good for ’em.

In the coming months, we’ll need even more support from committed Democrats like you to fight these well-financed Republican incumbents. But today, I thank you, our online community for getting our 100 Days Out campaign off to a blistering start.

Don’t thank me. Thank your proofreader, who overlooks a number of startling errors like that missing comma of direct address and that the DSCC hates the online community, which is surly and not terribly cohesive but enjoys a good joke. Like this one:

Click here to make a secure online contribution of $50, $75 or more –

I can’t breathe! After the passage of that bankruptcy bill, I know I’ll never have spare change again. Everything goes into savings because the alternative is finding myself enslaved by American Express, so appeals for cash from millionaires are better than knock-knock jokes, especially during a summer of record foreclosures. But it gets better.

Click here to make a secure online contribution of $50, $75 or more. If you donate before midnight tonight, a group of Democrats[sic] senators will match you 2 for 1, effectively tripling your donation.

I’d rather chew off my foot than send a donation that would imply I approve of the job the DSCC or the party or the Senate has been doing, but here’s a tip:

Hey Chuck! Next time, attach raising the minimum wage to a Congressional pay raise and maybe the Republicans won’t laugh in your face; even so, don’t come crying to me after you fuck the American people over and over and over.

Tata: Look, it’s wrong to deputize waitresses and make them the cigarette police.
Daria: They’re already deputized to cut off drunks.
Tata: By the time you cut off a drunk, he sees two of you and you’re sober. Even with a gun, he’s not much of a threat to you. A smoker with a gun gets pissed off and homicidal while he can still aim. That’s how that bouncer in the city bought the farm.
Tom: I loved going to bars in California and not smelling like smoke.
Tata: Look, I have nothing against smoke-free restaurants. Bars are a different story. Absolutely nobody is going to a bar to improve their health.
Daria: They’re the same story. What do you care, anyway? You quit smoking. It’s not your problem.
Tata: I like my bar dark and smoky. Anybody who doesn’t doesn’t have to go.
Daria: What about the people who work there?
Tata: They’re not serving drinks when they’re outside smoking to protect them from their secondhand smoke.
Daria: Now I’m not uncomfortable in bars with my asthma.
Tata: Now you’re never in bars, either, so what do you care?

Mom, Lois, Dara, Anya and Corinne sit still as church mice while Daria and I shout at each other. Everyone knows if Daria and I are rolling around on the floor punching one another that before anyone can say, “Nice uppercut, sweetie!” Daria and I will be off in a corner whispering, “You didn’t hear this from me, but…” So nobody says, “Keep it down, willya?” as we’re shouting the four feet across the dining room table and as suddenly as it started the squall blows over. It helps that Mom’s holding a bottle of wine and asking who wants refills. Tyler and Dan have taken a powder for the evening. The only male personage left in the room is Tom. Everyone else, including the infants, is female. After Lois, Dara and I clear the table and load the dishwasher, Lois takes out a new knitting kit Mom’s given her. Corinne has a book of incomprehensible puzzles and looks up from penciling in squares to explain how simple the puzzles are. Daria looks over Corinne’s shoulder and frowns.

Daria: I don’t have time for puzzles that don’t involve my phone bill.
Tata: From here, it looks like needlepoint patterns. Lois, do you know how to ball yarn?
Lois: No.
Tata: Your great-grandmother taught me. Here, I have a skein, watch. Take the end from the inside.
Lois: Why that one?
Tata: The outside end has cooties.
Lois: Did she teach you that too?
Tata: No. Grammy didn’t lie to children, even the naughty ones. You hold the very end between your fingertips and stretch your fingers far apart.
Lois: That looks awkward.
Tata: Yeah, pretend your in Mime School or something. Then wind the yarn around your outstretched fingers loose enough that it doesn’t cut off circulation but tight enough that after about twenty or thirty spins you take your fingers out, wrap them around what you’ve spun and turn the loop 90 degrees in any direction. Then you do this over and over until you have a ball. When you run into tangles, your impulse will be to pull tightly. Don’t – keep your hands loose and find the snarl gently. After the second or third skein of yarn you will find making a ball as natural as blinking an eye.

I do this all very fast and we move on to the skein for Lois’ project. She tries it out, slowly and uncertainly. It’s not complicated but it takes practice. In the meantime, around the table we talk about the year Mom lost the connection between eating and everything else and was too thin: 1967-1968. She’d been excited enough about Robert Kennedy to work in his campaign and then he was assassinated. Mom was devastated. The world seemed like it was on fire. In July, 1968 we moved to the house Mom lives in now. We are very much aware of teenage girls at the table as we talk about food issues.

Mom: You don’t remember all that, do you?
Tata: Sure, I do. Let’s go back in time, shall we? “Hey, Mom! Eat a sandwich!”
Daria: Shut up, Miss Anorexia.
Dara: What?
Tata: Oh, it was very glamorous when I was in high school to puke up your lunch. But then Mom caught me so I stopped eating. Our Grandma put a stop to that. She was a genius.
Dara: What did she do?
Tata: She sat across the table from me with a bowl of her amaretto mousse, eating small spoonfuls. “Domenica, this is so delicious – ” Nibble, nibble. “It’s too bad you’re not having some – ” Nibble. “This is so good I shouldn’t be eating this all myself but – ” Nibble. “I have really outdone myself this time, it’s so delicious – ” Finally, I caved and ate. Man, she was shrewd.

Dara was born the day before our Grandma died in 1991; to Dara, Edith is nothing but pictures and stories, as someday we will all be. Anya notices that it’s after 1 and, startled, we jump up, run to our beds and sleep at high speed. I’m the only one at the table certain I won’t be supervising small children in a few hours. My bedroom seems cavernous, my bed feels a mile wide; I am utterly certain I won’t sleep and then it’s morning.

Your family is your family, in whatever sense you live it or compose it. Some people are related to apparently nobody but this is only a problem of perception and logistics since at this moment in the history of mad scientists no human being can be a blood relation of nobody; all of us must be related to other people. Eventually, it will be discovered that all people are related to one another and when we take this recognition to heart, Thanksgiving dinner will be Hell on Earth, amen.

Daria: Don’t just stand there. Hand me the asparagus and sit down.
Tata: I’m gonna wedge myself in there? I’m lefthanded.

Everyone who is not talking stares at Dara, sitting next to Mom at one end of the table. Nobody stares at Daria, at the other end of the table because Miss Fifi sits in baby furniture on the floor at Daria’s feet. Dara, who lives in Virginia with Dad and may never have had dinner with this group, demonstrates that she is nonetheless a part of it.

Dara: Okay. I’ll eat yours, then.
Tata: Lois, just so you know: when I stab you with cutlery it’s because stabbing Dara would require an impolite boarding house reach.
Lois: Fine, but use your own knife. That one’s mine.
Tata: A thousand pardons, darling. Please pass the salad.
Lois: We’re out of salad.
Daria: What?
Anya: What?
Mom: (Running to the kitchen) Nooooooooo!
Anya: I see you eyeing the pesto.
Tata: You only think there’s some for you.
Anya: That pesto spoon didn’t touch the chicken, did it?
Dara: No, but –
Tata: If I lick the spoon the pesto’s mine mine mine!
Anya: If you lick that spoon you will never sauce again!

For most of my teens and all of my twenties I was more or less estranged from my family but things have changed. I am pleased to be part of any group in which sauce is used simultaneously as a verb and a threat. In fact, if I lick that spoon, Daria’s husband Tyler will clutch his chest and keel over. He is a little germphobic. How he survives in a household with three little germ factories and an actual, you know, woman is beyond me – moreover, he’s sitting at my right hand. At some point I don’t notice, he’s not there anymore and the little boys all go to bed. What I do notice is everyone stops shouting, “Don’t run in the house!” for the first time since I arrived at the inn. Anya’s husband Dan also fades into the darkness of the evening and the house without my noticing. My stepfather Tom, one of the most patient human beings who has ever walked the earth, earlier proposed we smother the little boys and absolutely nobody said in a loud chorus, “OK!” because that would be so, so wrong. Mom runs back from the kitchen with a full bowl of salad while we are all still there and all is right with the world. A brief period of contented chewing occurs.

Week 4 Friday Morning Report

Goal 1
Since last week, I lost 2 lbs.

Goal 3
No time for yoga but this also meant I was inpspired to stretch a little more every day. So some good came of being pressed for time.

Last Monday, I had a talk with myself.

Tata: You have a goal you really want to achieve and yet you cling to behaviors and structures that do not serve your desires.
Tata: Lady, what the hell are you talking about?
Tata: Our fat ass.
Tata: Yep. Still there!
Tata: Exactly. You’re eating a lot of fresh foods and minimizing white flours, which is great.
Tata: Pat me on the back. I can’t…quite…reach –
Tata: It’s not enough. Our weight’s held steady for weeks, despite the fanatical and fun efforts to exercise, even in crushing heat.
Tata: Are we almost done? My epaulets are wilting.
Tata: For the time being, why not take one step further? You want to lose weight. Why not eliminate a source of calories you hadn’t even considered?
Tata: Which one?
Tata: Wine.
Tata: I can’t give up drinking wine! Might as well tell me to breathe every other hour!
Tata: Wine slows down your metabolism.
Tata: What metabolism?
Tata: Right.
Tata: No, really. What metabolism? If it can’t get any slower why not pad the blow?
Tata: In other words, you don’t actually care if we lose weight?
Tata: I do. As long as I don’t have to actually work at it. Or give up anything. Or pay attention, really. And six weeks from now – POOF! We’re a size 2.
Tata: We’ll be a size 2 a year after we’re pushing up daisies, sweetheart.
Tata: Can’t we just skip to the “Tata – After” photo?
Tata: No. So whaddya say we quit sipping pino grigio after dinner on school nights?
Tata: Will I be rewarded with a sleek, athletic build?
Tata: How about healthy, and with all the curves of a mountain road under the wheels of a gassed-up Lotus?
Tata: What? No wonder nobody understands a word we say.

Common sense prevailed. I know! I can’t believe it, either. I mentioned this to Siobhan.

Tata: I’m not having a sip of wine until I next weigh myself. Don’t tell anyone. What would people say?
Siobhan: “She quit drinking BOOZE? It was as if a million vineyards cried out as one and then were silent.”
Tata: I could cause panic by changing one aspect of my life?
Siobhan: Remember your red vinyl mini-skirt and that little people band?
Tata: And look who we’ve got our Hanes on now. Point taken.

Nobody panic! Each body is different and wants different things to achieve results. Mine wants a month-long vegetarian art and yoga boot camp where there are no electronic devices to cloud the mind. Barring that – as it remains undelivered by the Wild Fantasy Fairy and how would the ashram fit under my pillow? – this aspect of my July project is complete. I’ll keep at it. Though the path is pretty clear, I can still find the poison ivy.

Our little boy-pack digging holes in sand at the edge of Lake Arcadia.

Anya paddling the two three-year-old boys, Ezekiel and Sandro. What you can’t see is Daria standing on the dock, freaking out. She is very protective, and they were too far out on the water to meet Daria’s immediate protection needs.

Anya and Corinne taking the boys on a grand adventure. We should have dressed the boys up like pirates or Revolutionary War soldiers.

This only looks like a picture of scenery. Actually, Anya, Corinne and the boys have paddled around to the channel behind the island and this is a picture of them being invisible.

These are my freedom-loving toes, overjoyed to be free in the cool sand. My toes and I agree: shoes are not our friends!

Standing in the kitchen, clutching a glass of wine for dear life, I’m watching a whole lot of things happen all at once. Daria runs through the kitchen, never missing a beat in the conversation she and I are having while keeping tabs on her son and humoring Miss Fifi, who I’m sure is grafted to Daria’s hip. Mom is supervising as she and Dara boil water for angel hair pasta. Each family group bought out a Costco: on every surface in the giant kitchen someone has shoved things aside and made piles of cookies, breads, crackers, pasta. There is a whole counter covered with hot dog and hamburger rolls and Portuguese muffins. The four little boys run from room to room in spite of the chorus of voices shouting, “Don’t run! Go outside!” Dan quietly feeds Miss Gigi in the dining room. Anya and Corinne pour wine and sort out disputes between the little boys and the teenage girls. Lois and Dara have a room at the end of the hall upstairs, next to mine. The little boys aren’t used to being separated from Lois at least and don’t understand why Corinne tells them to stay out of the girls’ room. Tippecanoe in particular seems crestfallen that he can’t play in his sister’s room. I give my sisters credit. It’s so loud I can’t think, and I can’t figure out why Dara is tossing butter with a giant mound of angel hair while Daria says, “Mantequilla aqui!” and I say, “Use the Italian cognate,” and Mom puts the whole thing on a back burner. Later, it will require four people to portion out the room temperature pasta for Tippecanoe, Tyler Too, Sandro and Ezekiel.

I can’t explain any of this. I look like the statue in the middle of a traffic circle while cars buzz by – a very glamorous statue with vibrant red hair. My discomfort with all the noise is not a secret.

Tata: Too many people talking –
Daria: Shut up! Are not! What a wuss!
Anya: Ezekiel, sit down at the table –
Corinne: Tippecanoe, did you wash your hands?
Mom: If I say beurre, is that more helpful?
Daria: It’s a romance language! She should be able to pick it up.
Lois: What kind of vegetable are we having?
Mom: Domenica, we have broccoli and asparagus. Tyler will grill or we can microwave.
Tata: Let’s microwave the asparagus, if no one minds.
Daria: Have you seen the chicken?
Tata: …No…
Daria: Dara and I made it by accident and it was GREAT!
Tata: I’m sure it is…what is it?
Daria: Two nights ago, Dara and I sauteed some chicken breasts, then threw on some red peppers, tossed on some mozzarella and painted up the whole thing with pesto. We didn’t even make it to the table. I was like, “Sorry I can’t stop shoveling this delicious chicken in my mouth long enough to make conversation but -” and she was like, “That’s okay, I can’t stop shoveling either.”
Tata: That sounds very delicious. Or like hypnosis –
Mom: I believed her. Note the large number of trays ready to go into the broiler.
Daria: And the pesto any one of us would drink through a straw.
Tata: Yep, and ever since I gave up Hollandaise a la mode –
Dara: What?
Tata: It went better over ice cream than in Italian dessert sodas.
Dara: What?
Tata: Mine is a different concept of dessert. Not for me the tooth-rotting sweetness, no! I want the salty and unbelievably fattening gravies and sauces. Preferably in a nice glass with a soup spoon.
Mom: I believe you, too.
Daria: Will you shut up, already?
Tata: What? Mom believes me!
Daria: She’s lying, Mom!
Anya: Does everybody have a bowl of buttery pasta and a little boy to feed?
Tata: Mom, I am so glad I only had one child and she’s old enough to cut her own angel hair –
Daria: Oh, good, Miss Mouth. You can cut Sandro’s.

One of these days, I am going to learn when to express gratitude and when to shut my trap. I cut up buttery angel hair wondering if our plan to subdue the four little boys is to starve their brains of protein until they just think they’re running around the house – and why am I cutting angel hair? Isn’t it small enough that the whole noodle can easily fit through the tiny nose of the average laughing little boy?