Fang’s ashes have not returned from the crematorium after a week. The vet’s office says sometimes it takes awhile. That’s okay, though. What with the weather we can’t exactly take a box of dusty pussycat out to my sister’s backyard, dig a hole and ignore the mudslides. The delay, I think, works in our favor, Ned’s and mine. We’re certainly going to cry our eyes out at kitty graveside one of these afternoons. Might as well be a sunny day!

I may need a new black dress and Sunday-go-ta-meetin’ shitkickers.

Last night, Siobhan and I set out in the torrential rain to size up yet another appliance store. This hunting and gathering process has convinced me every extended family needs at least one retired member to whom all power of comparison shopping is delegated. This ambassador to agrees to:

1. Scope the circulars as they are published;
2. Familiarize him- or herself with consumer outlets within a fifty-mile radius;
3. Listen carefully to the shopping needs of the family.
4. Conduct personalized research, including making excursions to small businesses and opening negotiations on behalf of the family and individual members;
5. Bargaining salespersons into submission.

It is a delicate and time-consuming business to negotiate with a retailer for my washing machine, Daria’s deep freezer, Todd’s My Little Convection Oven, Anya’s stand mixer, Corinne’s husband swatter, Dara’s ground-penetrating radar, Auntie In Excelsis Deo’s sheet metal quilter, Grandpa’s GPS and Miss Sasha’s in-ground mother-in-law minder. Mom seems very busy despite her curious lack of gainful employment and works on her own very peculiar conception of time, which does not really synchronize with any other human’s. I want Tom to retire and become the family’s ambassador to appliance-selling America. With extreme prejudice. Since he’s selfishly continuing to teach high school and not thinking at all about what’s truly important – my needs – Siobhan and I donned our wetsuits, jumped in her Ford Excoriator and shoved off.

Our first stop was closed for Yom Kippur. We decided there was little risk of Yom Kippur sales at the potentially Teutonic Kohl’s so we sailed in and out of the jughandles of Route 18 and docked near an exit. We were searching for an inexpensive microwave but discovered Kohl’s extensive collection of ridiculous kitchen appliances did not include what I needed. I mean, who really needs a S’Mores Maker? Can you say you need that? How about a quesadilla machine? Did you know your frying pan works just as well and you already have that?

As I whined to Siobhan, Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, has taken to clawing the couch. It’s not a lovely couch and it was already secondhand when Daria gave it to me. Still. It’s a couch we sit on, and I object. Siobhan suggested we sail over to PetSmart, which we did. Thirty feet down the center aisle, I found a puppy. These words do not do justice to the heart-stopping happiness that is meeting puppies because puppies are the kings of enthusiasm and when you meet them they lick your face and jump and jump and jump and clicketty clicketty clicketty and bonk you on the chin and wag wag wag wag and you go “Ttttthhhhhhhwpppttt!” and you are very very very happy. Siobhan does not love dogs and disappeared around a corner while I squeezed my new four-legged best friend on a leash held by someone I’ll never see again. Five minutes later, I made a new best friend on a leash held by a little girl who wanted her puppy to wear costumes. Then I met another enthusiastic puppy friend. By now, I’m lugging a 14-lb. tub of cat litter and a cardboard scratching whatsis for the other team and we’re at the register surrounded by doggy happiness. A woman walks in with a miniature Yeti dangling passively over one arm.

Tata: Siobhan! What’s that?
Siobhan: It’s a dog.
Tata: Are you sure? Which end is up?
Siobhan: The one that’s not wagging.

So apparently we’d wandered in on puppy training night. Now, if you have to leave a store in an epic downpour, you might be better off if your merchandise is not specifically designed to be absorbent. It’s just a thought! Siobhan looks at the stuff I’m carrying, sighs and says, “I’ll go get the truck.”

A funny thing happens when I am happy and alone for a few minutes: I forget I am a middle-aged woman with credit cards and a day job. I forget I’m arthritic and prone to depression. I forget people can see me. When Siobhan pulls the truck around, I am half-way inside the waterproof doghouse sitting on the sidewalk. It is SO INTERESTING! It’s clean and I think with a towel or something soft this could be nice for an outdoor dog –

Siobhan honks. I…oh, look at me. I get up, grab the tub of cat litter and wade out to the truck. You will not be surprised, I think, to hear that Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, shows no interest whatever in clawing the cardboard.

Larry: Thank you, no.
Tata: But! But! But! I’ll pour fresh catnip on top!
Larry: Aghhh. You’re my besssshhhhhht frien…
Tata: Yes, my dearest. I know.

Sharkey emails. He’s bought me a ticket to a Supersuckers show on a Saturday night in December. This is his way of saying, “We’re all going. You’re going. And by the way, you’re GOING!” I threaten to pay him back. He says I’m like a cat shivering in the rain and that makes him feel generous. I don’t know whether to thank him or have myself blow-dried.

Last night, I suggested to a dear friend that he consider rehab. Surprisingly, he didn’t tell me to go fuck myself. This morning, I woke up happy despite the rain. I love the rain and wish it didn’t damage people so. On the news, North Jersey looks like the Gulf Coast minus the floating bodies. Miss Sasha and I called each other back and forth all afternoon on Saturday. The baker’s rack went back to Pensacola but we finally know most of its mysterious epic. Skip this if you hate convoluted stories in which people triumph through dogged determination, judicious use of bad language and not knowing when to quit:

Long ago, which is to say two Wednesdays into the past, Mr. Sasha wrapped the baker’s rack, addressed it and took it to a UPS store. Mr. Sasha, bless his heart, grafted together two of my addresses and improvised a third. Over a week later, a postcard from UPS arrives. All the significant numbers and information are somehow obscured by the postmark but I see clearly that UPS intends to send it back if they don’t hear from me early and often by Monday morning. I don’t even notice how completely off the address is. After all: the postcard arrived, did it not? At 8:32 a.m. last Monday, I discussed the package with a lovely woman who answered the phone and was just as mystified as I was. Illegible postcard. Odd, large package. Locked building. I recall telling her my address as part of the verifying process. She assured me the package would be delivered on Wednesday. Just after 11 a.m. the package was sent back to Pensacola, so it comes as no surprise that on Wednesday, the package did not arrive and on Thursday, it continued its naughty not-arriving.

Last Friday, Miss Sasha received notice of some sort that the package had returned. Then she and I spent Saturday afternoon trying to figure out how that postcard miraculously came to me when it was addressed to an imaginary street in a different town. Plus, the box was damaged in shipping. When Miss Sasha proposed that UPS send it back to me per the agreement I’d made with the phone representative the manager of the store sneered at her. Against all odds, she did not call him “you pigfucker”. She called customer service, where another representative assured Miss Sasha the store manager would be happy to send me that package.

So. The repaired package is on its way to me. I will believe it when I see it. I can’t give my heart to furniture when I’ve been burned before. The new thing that happened was that at no time did I have to call someone and – as Grandma taught all us girls – tell someone what they were going to do for me. I didn’t have to because:

Tata: Okay, Mommy will handle this on Monday.
Miss Sasha: No, I will handle this now.
Tata: Wait, what just happened?

And why do I refer to myself in the wacky third person while talking to my adult daughter?

The good news is I went to Sears on Sunday, determined to boost the Gross National Product by one electric screwdriver, possibly a microwave and a small TV for the bedroom. Reading this, two of my exceedingly thrifty sisters are now deeply horrified that I skipped scouring the classifieds for used appliances and went straight for the gigundo retailer but they understand I’m just as short on patience for appliance failure as I am on money. Nobody fixes TVs anymore and repairing a microwave is asking for trouble. So: Sears. I stared. I stared. I wondered if I were dreaming the price tags. I wondered why I was still standing there, dumbfounded by consumer electronics. Then I bought the screwdriver.

Monday night, I installed the roman shade in my kitchen that will prevent me from being arrested if I decide to brew coffee topless. Suddenly, everything was a different kind of okay. I have the correct tool for the job. I can solve some of my problems without waiting for someone to help me. I want that baker’s rack, and its precise measurements for the microwave I will buy. And I want all this today.

A week or so ago, I made the terrible mistake of listening to NJ101.5 during afternoon drive time. Usually, I have about one minute, maybe two before I pull over and slap the SEEK button. Perhaps you’re acquainted with the ham-fisted groupthink that passes for political logic on this talk radio show; if not, suffice it to say you’re not going to listen in and get any smarter. My head nearly exploded when a caller said something like, “After the hurricane, Habitat for Humanity went and built all those people houses just because they were poor. I don’t see anybody building me a house.” So maybe I made it about thirty seconds. Hallelujah.

It’s thinking like this that makes me wish I were capable of moving out into the woods alone and never had to talk to another selfish fucker or even risk coming in contact with another selfish fucker. At all. The eye that sees only competitors and not fellow travelers is bound to be envious, materialistic and unhappy. It’s even worse than that. White people – not all white people – who see prosperous Black people think things like ‘Why should they have what I don’t have?’ Oh, yes they do. The basic assumption there is that white people should have and Black people should wait until all whites are prosperous before expecting their own prosperity. Think I’m wrong? Let’s refer back to our head-splitting caller. Her basic assumptions are many: the crisis is over, housing has been accomplished, nobody is homeless, Habitat for Humanity waved a magic joist and all the poor Black people of the Gulf Region were sittin’ pretty in luxurious pre-fab digs and nobody expects to pick up a check. And our caller doesn’t own a house, so why should those Black folks?

That is what she was saying: “I deserve more because I’m white.” Listen, princess, nobody gives a shit what you expect or think you deserve in life. Tell it to your next Ladies’ Auxilliary Klan Meeting, where I’m sure this will go over like Tiffany’s rice crispy cakes and Annie’s diaper-covering 2T white sheet set.

At least, a person might think this would be a more isolated cattle car on someone’s train of thought but it’s not. Plenty of people have opted out of donating to the Red Cross or Mercy Corps because they can’t be sure “the right people” will be helped. I wish those fuckers would dream big, donate to the Humane Society and save some abandoned hounds but in this tiny-brain thinking, every living being is competition for money and stuff, and why should the tiny-brain give anything to anybody?

This argument is almost always followed by the words that make me want to lose my mind: “Nobody ever gave me anything.” Smarter people than me could put forth carefully reasoned arguments about why this isn’t true and detail the ways in which society contributes to your well-being. If you went to public school and can read and write you should shut your mouth before you say something even more stupid. But let’s cut to the chase. I recently perused a list of remarks left with the staff of politicians and one struck me as perfect, stupid and a propos: “I don’t want a welfare state. My Medicare is just fine!” Sadly, that misguided, selfish bastard is probably a registered voter. And he or she should fuck off.

Being a parent is a daily crushing blow to one’s self-confidence, but having parents is a daily battle not to commit parricide. My blog partner GD Frogsdong on his weekend with Momma and Poppa Frog:

Last night I wrote a step-by-step instruction for my mother on how to work the TV remote. I even drew up a picture and labeled the buttons “1”, “2”, “3”, etc., with arrows and stuff so she would be able to watch Regis and What’s-her-name-don’t-tell-me-her-name-I-don’t-really-care.

I got a call at work at 8:55 this morning.

“Frog? I’m sorry to bother you but I followed your instructions and the TV doesn’t work right.”

“What did you do?”

“I did exactly what you said.”

“What is on the screen?”

“It’s blank.”

“Is it blue?”

“Yes.”

“Press ’03’, then press the button labeled ‘Sat’. Make sure it lights up. It’s the number 3 button on the diagram. Then press ‘245’.”

“Okay…….it’s still blank.”

“Press ’03’. You have a picture back, right?”

“Yes.”

“Press the botton labeled ‘Sat’. Did it light up?”

“Yes.”

Okay, not to make this any more tedious than it is, she couldn’t quite get the concept of pressing the Satellite button until it lit up. Had to go through this entire routine three times before it lit up and she could watch Regis and Babette. Other than that, things are insane at my house. Crazy people are staying there. Is your mother a martyr? Mine is. “Mom, I’m cooking dinner.” “You don’t have to cook for me. I can have a cookie and that’s all I need.” “Mom, please eat something real.” “No, I don’t want you to have to wash a dish.” “Mom, it’s okay. We have plenty of dishes.” “That’s all right. I’ll just sit here and look at you.”

My father is the exact opposite. “You got any chocolate chip cookies?” “No.” “Well, it’s not raining too hard. And the store is close. You could walk to the store and be back with the cookies in fifteen minutes.”

Suddenly, I’m reminded that I chided Miss Sasha for moving to Florida during hurricane season but it sounded a whole lot like, “It’s so rude of you to set up house a thousand miles from where my son-in-law should be lugging my furniture from a truck to my living room.”

For breakfast this morning, I had leftover Thai food from Trout’s birthday dinner. Breakfast foods do not appeal to me much at any time, day or night. There’s no way I could be one of those Lean Cuisine dames who stand outside a bakery and recount last night’s disastrous dinners for the single and pathetic.

One: Last night, I licked clean my vegetable crisper.
Two: I ate Jell-O straight from the box.
Three: I drank mint mouthwash with a Manischewitz chaser.
Four: I ate a reasonably balanced pre-prepared meal that somehow makes me more trustworthy and better breeding stock.

Christ on a cracker, the last thing you want is to share a kitchen with these arrested adolescents who are waiting for some man to jumpstart their lives and culinary skills. Common sense tells you that the man who can cook is going to want something in return; I suspect a pastry chef. How’s your choux?

I tell people I can’t cook. Here’s the secret: I’m not exactly lying. I’m sort of lying. I can’t cook when I’m angry or sad, and never for crowds. For your own safety, do not eat anything I’ve cooked if we’re not speaking. It’s not that I’d poison you – much – but I somehow cannot combine ingredients properly and make delicious food when I’m standing in my kitchen alone, plotting your demise.

Tata: Oh, see how you are? I should have known you’d be such a bitch when I asked to borrow your toolbox and you said you were using each and every tool in your freaking beadloom project and I’m so gullible I forget all about your glass allergy and believe you when you explain about plastics! Was I born last night? No! Could you need a table saw to do beadwork? I don’t think so!

And then rice pudding sets up in my fridge as a solid. I don’t mean like a lovely custard that ripples when touched; I mean solid like sidewalk and just as tasty. I can’t explain it but I’m sure it’s related to the ex-boyfriend who lied and told me his mother had had a heart attack when she was actually in India visiting relatives. He was positively diabolical. All his friends thought I was the one breaking into their bedrooms and dismantling their vibrators until they caught him trying to set fire to the house they were all sleeping one off in and he actually had the nerve to blame the dog. I turned up one Sunday and the housemates were all outside, shuffling and nervous.

One: He told us you were crazy!
Two: Remember that night you were over using his computer? He kept calling me to find out when you left!
Three: Oh, his mom’s fine and you should never offer to bring desserts to funerals unless you want to cause more.
Tata: So for two years you all thought I was a psychopath who was breaking into your rooms and stealing your stuff?
One: Pretty much, yeah.
Tata: Well, you’ve all been very nice for people who might’ve had me arrested.

By then, I was kind of picking up the clues that I shouldn’t cook – or in fact, spend any time near cutlery – when I’m upset. Still, anyone, no matter how sanity-impaired, can make a salad, and I have one for lunch. I may defy convention and have another for dinner. I may be so bold as to have another tomorrow. Maybe. Maybe not. You can’t be tempted lick clean a full vegetable crisper.

I talk to the Narrator. You can call that God, or Allah or Fred MacMurray for all I care. Guessing is guessing. My bet is the Narrator’s busy. This does not mean I shut up. I’m walking through KMart.

Tata: Kurt Vonnegut is either about a million or in his eighties. Most of the people who survived the firebombing of Dresden are dead now of old, old age. The least you could do is wave some magic stick and make your characters remember the important stuff. Where are the large kitchen garbage cans?
Narrator: What? Try Housewares.
Tata: It’s raining a lot since yesterday. I’m broke, I’ve had a headache for three weeks, and I’m trying to read Dad’s coming-of-age novel, which can be a little weird. Still, I hesitate to complain about anything since I’m fortunate enough to have a job, a roof over my head and doggedly devoted friends.
Narrator: Yeah…consider getting your oil changed.
Tata: I’ll..do that. Thanks.
Narrator: Where is the stage manager? I could swear Martha Stewart’s new line had colors with a pulse.
Tata: Shoot, you’re barking up the wrong tree there. Last week, I bought red Martha sheets and when I washed them they turned a weird I File my Nails While You Lick Me Orange. Did you know orange could lack passion?
Narrator: Who told you you were smart? I’m going to smite them.
Tata: Let’s change the subject, shall we? Does anyone know the lyrics to “Louie Louie”?
Narrator: Maybe…nope, that guy’s dead. That other guy doesn’t remember last Thursday.
Tata: Hey! If you’re going to answer questions, why are the cruel, selfish bastards in charge?
Narrator: Who said I was answering your questions? CLEAN UP IN AISLE 9.
Tata: Oh, come on. What could you possibly be narrating? Who are you talking to?
Narrator: I love that John Cusack. Ever seen Better Off Dead?
Tata: Sure. It’s one of my favorites. I absolutely hate these garbage cans.
Narrator: Everybody wants some! I want some too! Everybody wants some! Baby, how ’bout you?
Tata: Talking to you is like chatting up a stoned bowling team. What a nightmare!
Narrator: You’d know, Mata Hari!
Tata: I’m making cosmic similes and you’re making like Don Rickles.
Narrator: I want my two dollars!
Tata: Okay, I need a shade for my kitchen window so I don’t get arrested for making breakfast naked.
Narrator: Puddin’, I could use some Snakpaks. Turn right.
Tata: Forget it. Turn left. One aisle up are the blinds and window shades. Bamboo would look all wrong. I hate the blinds. What do you think of the Roman shades?
Narrator: Whoops. Earthquake in Pakistan.
Tata: What? Are you kidding me?
Narrator: During the course of this shopping trip two whole galaxies self-destructed. What on earth – pardon the pun – made you think Pakistan was safe?
Tata: It’s my planet and I’ll cry if I want to! Hey! You are listening to me! Why can’t you fix that starvation on earth thing?
Narrator: Aluminum blinds are for the birds, baby!
Tata: We agree! Look, I’m going to need an electric screwdriver to put this up. Are you coming with me to Sears tomorrow or what?
Narrator: Maybe. I’ve got a 10:30 with Chuck Schumer.
Tata: Face the Nation?
Narrator: Rock, paper, scissors.
Tata: Well, at least you didn’t say Wesson Oil Twister. By the way, I love my new apartment but the wiring is totally inadequate for the modern go-getter’s needs.
Narrator: White Cheddar Cheez-Its!
Tata: I’m thinking this explains the platypus.
Narrator: Doritos? Keen!

My student worker, whose name sounds like those bells on your toes, was overwhelmed by her obligations and quit until Christmas break. Ned’s cat Fang, a 18 pound force of nature I used to carry around on my hip like a baby, died this week after more than sixteen years of mousing, ruling the roost and smoking Ned’s Marlboros when no one was looking. Miss Sasha sent me a baker’s rack for my kitchen, where boxes and bags still form an impressive pile and where that baker’s rack would have been put to good use if UPS hadn’t dicked me over twice and probably sent it back. I say probably because I don’t know. I was at home when the truck should have arrived and nothing happened. It’s an interesting experience to know that something, somewhere is wrong because nothing is happening.

Earlier this week, I woke up in the middle of the night with that creepy feeling that someone was in my bedroom with me. No, not the queasy feeling you’ve been dating drummers again, I mean the one where you feel fear before you open your eyes. The air doesn’t feel still. I opened my eyes, ready to spring up and move, if I had to but there was no one there. I lay down, closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Maybe fifteen minutes passed and it happened again. And again. And again. Figuring the bedroom was giving me the creeps I lay down on the couch and turned on the TV. An hour and a half later I had no idea what I was watching and fell asleep again, for a bit. I’m not one of those big thinkers with wacky certainty about who’s who or what’s what in the realm of the metaphysical. More than ten years ago, I opened my bathroom door one morning, stepped through a small blond woman and thought nothing of it until I realized later that my small, blond, female housemate was still asleep in her bed and in fact not really porous enough to walk through. Generally. Anyway, this week I:

1. opened a window and demanded he leave – the man I saw walk through the front door while I was painting – because it’s my apartment and who signed the lease, huh?
2. looked in the basement and found directly below my bedroom is the wall of electric meters, which is a rational explanation for that lit-up-with-fear feeling.

So: bases covered. My apartment needs a white witch and an electrician. Let the smudging and insulating begin!

In the meantime, insomnia gives a gal plenty of time to survey the culture. Adding to my instability, here’s an incomplete list of haunting-related shows.

1. Ghost Whisperer. Haven’t seen it, but Jennifer Love Hewitt is just as cute as tiny buttons, isn’t she?
2. Medium. Please. I’m begging. Make Patricia Arquette stop WHINING!
3. Dead Famous. These two people should have a look at their own show because they don’t know bupkis. During an episode where they were searching for the ghost of Buddy Holly it played out like Richie Valens was standing around shouting, “Hey! You’re looking for a ghost, right? Ghost here!” Atrocious. Don’t encourage these wankers.
4. Ghost Hunters. Wow. They look rational, don’t they? How on earth did these guys from Rhode Island get a TV show without screaming like little girls every week?
5. Most Haunted. I cannot get enough of this British TV show. Our plot:

a. Haunted location. Stories. Crew visits.
b. Crew member: “Would anyone here like to communicate with us?”
c. A noise. Something falls down. A table shakes.
d. Crew runs screaming.
e. Repeat for 1 hour.
f. Staff psychologist tells them they’re all wankers.

What’s not to love?

Many times, when cats move house they freak, hide, don’t eat or drink for days on end. You will be pleased to know that Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, arrived at his new digs a week ago, skulked out of the cat carrier and straightened right up. He climbs in and out of bags and boxes like he’s got his own National Geographic special and a camera crew. Last night, I turned a corner and found him staring at me at eye level from atop a sideboard, which was a little unnerving since Larry’s not much of a climber. Larry is fat, happy and busy. I guess some things are happening.

If the government can legally prevent you from terminating your pregnancy then the government can legally prevent you from becoming pregnant.

GDF at Blanton’s and Ashton’s – What’s the noble cause? tips us to a cogent review of the Indiana GOP’s attempt to criminalize mommies. It’s a doozy.

Tata: The weirdest thing just happened in my office.
Siobhan: Your office? The guy sitting next to me is named Mamadou.
Tata: That has a certain regional flare. No, really. This was strange.
Siobhan: [bored already] What happened?
Tata: A woman over 70 sat in my cubicle and asked me to call RSU and demand they go outside to interview “the naked Indian.” Did I know what those words meant? No. I called anyway. The DJ was alone and most indignant. I let it go. Turns out there’s a block party on Stone Street and something about a petition. It was all nonsensical. Anyway, she says one of our former co-workers is standing outside the student center in a thong.
Siobhan: [bored no more] Umm…Is it warm out?

Calls to the car insurance company start with one of those directory trees and devolve. Inevitably, there’s an exchange like this:

Tata: Mr. Paulie Gonzalez does not live in the apartment.
Not-Listening Dickhead: You did not tell us that. It’s not noted on your records.
Tata: I notified you in writing and kept a copy.
Not-Listening Dickhead: It’s not in your records. Where does Mr. Gonzalez live?
Tata: He sleeps on the couch of a friend but he’ll be moving into the apartment when I move out.
Not-Listening Dickhead: So he does live there!
Tata: He does not live there. I live there.
Not-Listening Dickhead: He has his own insurance so technically it doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t.
Tata: Then…we might as well talk about our imaginary friends. I’ve outgrown mine but yours might need a paper trail.

There’s always one question I cannot answer.

Phone Representative: What’s your home phone number?
Tata: …
PR: Ma’am?
Tata: …
PR: Do you have a home phone number?
Tata: I think so. There’s this plastic thing and sometimes it makes an odd jingling noise. God! I hate when that happens!
PR: Ma’am, is your minder nearby?

There’s a lot on my mind. Unless my phone number spells something I’ll never remember it. A few years ago, my phone number spelled AIR YOSA, which doesn’t mean a thing but Siobhan used to call me and exclaim…

Siobhan: AIR YOSA!
Tata: AIR YOSA it is!

…so I didn’t need to pin my address on my coat when I left the house. My brand new phone number has no zeros in it but it does have a pile of ones. I’m doomed! Ones have no letters on the phone keypad. Seven and nine have extra letters. Couldn’t one have a few of theirs? Anyway, I’m sick of New Jersey Cure and their fixation on my ex-boyfriends. It’s time to take my excellent driving record to an insurance company that doesn’t kick me while congratulating itself for great customer service. Sybaritic chipmunks! They’d use metal spatulas in my non-stick pans if I let ’em!

I spent most of Saturday afternoon and some of Sunday searching for my cell phone charger. As far as I can tell, it’s gone straight to Heaven. This is because Mom helped me pack up on Friday. Daria was supposed to come but she woke up with strep and called in sick.

Daria: Ah feel ahhful.
Tata: You better stay home. I fear increased congestion.
Daria: Ah callt Bom. She’lb be dere ad den.
Tata: Hoorah! The cavalry!

Funny thing about two hands packing: at least one person doesn’t know what things are packed together. After about five hours, we’d moved almost everything to our well-insured motor vehicles, up Route 27 and to my new digs. Mom seldom likes my apartments but that’s because some of them have been real slums. When I turned the key and she saw for herself the new place was spacious and clean she was relieved.

Mom: I’m relieved.
Tata: It’s a nice place, isn’t it?
Mom: Yes. Let’s go get your TV.
Tata: Mom, have you noticed we have – like – freakish upper body strength?
Mom: As compared to whom?
Tata: To the people who are not us.
Mom: Don’t be silly. Here, hold this anvil.

Okay, I made up the anvil. The other day, Siobhan and I were moving a few small things. She lifts weights three times a week with a trainer. I handed her my barbell and she lurched sideways. There was actual lurching! So, I can’t recall what ridiculous thing Mom handed me but it was pretty heavy. This is in stark contrast to yesterday when two of my brothers-in-law turned up to heave a dresser from a truck to my living room. They were both sure I couldn’t lift one end of it. I shrugged and held the door open, thinking of my former mother-in-law. The Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) used to say she lifted the house to sweep underneath it.

Paulie has returned from Italy to an apartment that’s mostly his. I don’t know where anything is at my place. An hour later, I know where a few somethings are. An hour after that, I can’t remember what I knew an hour before. Friday night, I slept in the new apartment for the first time. At 2:41 a.m., I awakened to the sharp, persistent squeals of a carbon monoxide detector running out of battery power. I pulled the batteries out and went back to bed. Yesterday, I turned on the oven and the smoke detector went off. To amuse myself, I bought the cheapest cordless phone I could find and doubt somehow I’ll get my money’s worth before I throw it in a dumpster. This apartment is filled with screaming plastic gadgets and batteries on the floor like the cat’s taken up log rolling.

I have fallen hopelessly in love with my new apartment. This morning, it took twenty-five minutes to find my shoes.