Protean Cake

Monday, May 19, 2003 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Not yesterday, but the Sunday before that, I started to write an entry about the mater for Mother's Day, which has evolved into a protean mass* rife with the auspices of an epic that may rival my languishing saga of Caleb Ranapiumata. Also, at this point, the second part of Silken Hell is a ripe protean mass, ripe to the point where it's beginning to stink. As it reads now, it's not particularly funny�the tale may not be worth the effort to finish it. And that adventure hasn't ended yet. I saw Missus Vaicaitis on Saturday; she brought back to me eight swags that were part of the eventual augmentations to the demon pelmets. Eight swags with bullion fringe. Which, per instructions, were made to be mounted above the dining room windows. But�zio cantante!**�the demned plaguey things hide the ornately carved molding of the window frames! So now they will be re-made to fit inside the windows, and they will hang from the same rod as the draperies, and they will look like fringed scarves.

"These are deep windows, I hope?" I asked.

"Oh, sure. Deep enough, I'm sure," assured Missus Vaicaitis, who's definition of surety is peculiar to herself and differs wildly from the generally accepted meaning.

Since the swags need to be an entirely different shape, I will have to cut them with a new pattern, which I will have to figure out and draw up. I will have to take all the fringe off the swags, tear them apart, and re-make every inch of them.

"Kak dva pal'tsa obossat," were my words to Missus Vaicaitis, a phrase I learned from an Odessan cousin, equivalent to "a piece of cake". And even though I gave Missus Vaicaitis the translation, I don't think she caught the irony. It is a piece of cake according to Missus Vaicaitis' dictionary.

"Can they be finished by the end of the week?" she requested.

"Uh, how 'bout the end of next week?" I replied, aware that my own definition of surety might require a sleepless night. Or two.

~

* When I describe to people how I write, I try to explain that I don't write in a straight line. I don't write consecutively, I don't begin at the beginning and continue to the end. I often make the mistake of telling people I write in circles, like a spider making a web, but that conveys a more orderly image than the messy reality. It might be more accurate to say I write in big hairy blobs.

** That's how polite Italian boys swear when they're too young to tell God he's a dog. Dio cane. When my former boyfriend Mario, who is half-Italian (also half-Apache, half-Mexican, and half-Irish) became a father he realized he needed to clean up his language for the sake of the bambino. He didn't want Jacob's first word to be merda. Consequently, the invocation of the singing uncle became a standard expletive in the Naccarati household. And a son of a bitch (figlio di puttana) became a son of a terra cotta Cupid (putto) or of a polecat (puzzola). I've tried to convince Mario that Dio frocio�God's a faggot�is an expression of self-affirmation and solidarity for queer folk, but he's not buying it.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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