Okay, Mad Men, you didn’t ask, but you should have. I’m not a girl who’s going to leave when you don’t get the promotion, or your jokes gets stale and your stories repeat, or when Don is less hot, and Roger’s lost his power and Peggy’s outfits are not quite so cute. I’m with you guys. Let’s talk it out, let’s work through it. Let’s admit, though, we might have a problem.

First, cards on the table: Daniel Mendelsohn. His review (I read it late, over a year after he wrote it) well, it rattled me. What I’m about to say I might very well not have said, in fact, if his critique hadn’t happened, but it did, I’m who I am — old teachers, pets, boyfriends and critics all shape me for better or for worse. And here are some issues I have, with last night.

Betty’s cancer scare — introduced, heightened, milked and resolved in 30 minutes — felt very soap operatic. Don’s emo chat with Roger felt very, um, lame. Peggy should not be wearing loose-fitting cotton shirts, and she wouldn’t, that felt very dumb. Megan should not work with her husband because it feels very Jabot Cosmetics, where everyone on Young and the Restless always worked whether they wanted to or not. We get that Don’s too cool to hang with Harry; wait, or is he? White Castle and pot looked more fun than a grump.

The funny Michael Ginsberg did not, so quickly, need hint of sad backstory introduced, and Betty was right to eye-roll Henry. No man on earth who lands a trophy wife, and who is wealthy and handsome with a big beefy job, is going to unconditionally love her when she’s fat. Except maybe Johnny Sack, who was sweet to chubby Ginny in that upstanding mob man way, right up to the end.

Oh darnit, Mad Men. When you make me wait two years, I think it’s fair of me to expect a lot and be a bit off-put when it seems like you don’t care. Wine and dine me before Sunday and maybe I’ll let it go.

There. Mondays are unforgiving.

Once you’re out of the habit of writing a certain way each day, it’s a challenge to get back. It’s like other things – running, which my friend Tim does, or playing the cello, which a. did one year, or painting bold stripey art like Mark Rothko, who’s dead. I’ve been out of the habit of writing a certain way each day.

I’ve been writing mostly as ghost, for one thing, and it’s odd to write and be invisible and then go on about your life. It’s a bit like being a spy, or Walter Mitty, I lead a secret life of words, I’m Mittyesque.

James Thurber, by the way, had a daring batch of hair and so I pinned it to a board. His first marriage to Althea Adams was troubled, they divorced. I’d like to know what became of her.

Last fall, I lost a laptop. (See previous post). And with it, a great deal of work. It was traumatic and to survive that sort of thing — three years of clips and drafts and emails and notes, and no backup — well, I’ve mostly avoided thinking of it. Hemingway, you know, lost all those manuscripts in Paris that Hadley left on the train. Ralph Ellison lost work on the train, too. And they wound up okay, sort of. (One killed himself, one didn’t write much else.) If they were here, we’d make a funny Facebook page together, but they’re not so we won’t.

My friend Leanne wrote a book called Brontasaurus, and it’s smart and moving, the things a book should be. You ought to read it. Buy it, and then read it. And then if you want to have lunch with me, I think Thursday I’m meeting my friend Laura and if you ask me nicely, you can come.

The title of this post is from Chekhov, by the way: The Lady with the Dog.

Was it something I said? Did I leave your toothpaste cap off? Did I cut you off yesterday when our lanes merged? Did I talk too loudly on my phone / take the last Diet Coke / make an inappropriate joke about your mother? Did Scruffy pee on your new white carpet again? Tell me, just tell me, just say it.

My laptop is gone. The universe took my laptop. I’m not sure why. The universe knows I’m a writer. He knows I don’t do back-ups, he knows — he was there watching (I know you were there, Universe!) — that I wrapped up a huge piece of work yesterday. He knows I put off sending the work to my agent, and didn’t get around to it last night, he knows I have six years of files on my laptop — Universe, I know you KNOW!

Whatever. There are fliers around — A. from a previous marriage helped out with that, again (see “dear hawthorne,” below, about Scruffy.) The fliers offer rewards. The universe doesn’t care.

Today I’m rewriting book reviews, Universe. Thanks. Today I’ve arranged to have my chakras all aligned (and please stay out of it!) Today I’m eating clam chowder to prepare to redo six months of work on a thing. Today my hair is dull and listless. (I don’t think that was necessary, Universe — you’ve made your point, but okay.)

If you see a small laptop with a copy of everything I’ve ever written — yes, Universe, you know I loaded backups from old laptops on it, and you know I then lost the disks — please tell it to come home. I will buy candy for everyone, I’ll give you my soul.

Until then I’ll be right here, rewriting book reviews on a strange laptop I barely even know wishing I had crackers to go with my soup. [Sigh.]

(And … cut.)

Dear Everyone in the Hawthorne District in Portland,

Will you marry me? I mean it, I’ll buy a ring. And you can stay home and watch Cake Boss, and I’ll pay the bills. I’ll take the garbage out, too, and buy you presents. I love you, I really do. Do you wonder why, the rest of you not in Hawthorne? Well, I’ll tell you. It started Wednesday. No, no, it started in August, before the beach. There was a week we went to the beach (it was cold, we saw a shark) and before then I got a house. A sublet. I’ve always wanted a sublet, I got one, I’m happy. It’s Andy and Sharon’s place, they’re in a band (which makes me cool) and they’re on the road and they’re subletting to me. We listen to records and drink lemonade out of mason jars. We’re thrilled. But this is about Scruffy. If I had a crush on Hawthorne from the mason jars (and I did), then the Scruffy thing knocked me off my feet.

It’s not a huge deal, I guess. You know Scruffy, he runs away. He runs away and comes back, it normally doesn’t concern us. Last Wednesday we had a meeting to go to and we left. We left Scruffy in the fenced backyard, we left him there with Shadow. (Shadow is a dog, too, he’s Andy and Sharon’s). Shadow is great, he stays in the fenced yard. Scruffy is bad, he finds gaps. Wednesday night we came home late and Scruffy was gone and I said, “enough.” Actually, I screamed it dramatically, and capitalized it, and threw my hands up in the air toward the skies. Or maybe I didn’t, who cares. The point is, I’d had it with Scruffy. New neighborhood, a city, busy streets, I gave up. I bid our sweet Scruffy, adieu.

Then A. stepped in (yes, A. you remember him, perhaps, we were married once.) A. made fliers, he printed them up, he drove here and put a flyer in every shop … and then came the calls.

I’m just saying, Hawthorne … you guys are really cool. The calls, the concern, the sightings, the casual way you all called Scruffy “Scruffy.” Hawthorne, you are my soul mate.

We got Scruffy back because Wendy from Laurelhurst chased him for dozens of blocks, made him safe and contained him. Before that, though, Amy called, and then an 831 number whose name I didn’t catch, and Lisa who had spotted him and hoped he’d been found.

He’s here, he’s grounded, we’re taking Shadow for a walk now while Scruffy sleeps. We’re walking to Red Box to rent “The Perfect Game,” so the kids can review it for my side job (I’m tired of working).

Meanwhile, I feel like Scruffy’s rescue is a perfect nod to 9-11. Thank you, Hawthorne, thank you heroes, thank you America for coming together like that. Thank you, even, to A.

(In three days I’ll be at Mr. Olympia Las Vegas, follow me at @muscleclamp or @powerboynatural on Twitter! I hope I win.)

Wow, Jennifer Egan! Congrats. First the NBCC, now the Pullitzer for “A Visit From the Goon Squad.” Lucky!

I can’t get caught up in all that, I have the dishes to unload. And Tim is waiting to hear from me, and J. is waiting on something, too. Plus everything is a draft right now, I need finishes.

I’m wearing my glasses today. They look dumb but I fixed WordPress, I think. I think I did and I’m sure it’s the glasses.

There’s cold pizza if you want some.

I’m in an under constructionphase. It will likely last years. There are things wrong with my WordPress install, I can’t add or edit Pages, for instance, and I’d like to. I really would. There’s an upgrade and I’ve tried to load it, but that’s not going well. I threw things at the wall. I’d like it if you could do some of this for me, or maybe all of it. I’m not in the mood to care about file names or anything with .php — I’m in a different mood.

On another note, how are you? I have a cold, I’ve been sneezing. My throats a bit sore, too. I’m almost out of gas, I hate stopping all the time to get more, and I’m long overdue on the vaccuum.

Do you want to have lunch? I haven’t lunched for awhile, not in any real sense of the word. I’m craving a jar of pickled cauliflower. (I don’t mean I want it for lunch, I want it right now.)

The state of our union will soon be announced, I’ll be happy to hear it. If for no other reason than an excuse to postpone getting gas.

Sometime later, I’ll be back.

In the summer, when I moved from the small town, I thought I’d given up lunch. In Mac, lunch is commonplace. Do you know that you’re lucky Mac? In cities, I suppose, too. Yes, it’s only suburbs that are devoid of everything, though in my own suburb down the road, lives a woman who’s made a whale and a dolphin from colored rocks. It’s nothing to shake a stick at.

The point, about lunch, is that yesterday I went and I should make this a habit. I met the great Ms. Martini and we lunched at an inviting little space called Higgins and if the Great Martini had lived in Mac and we were having lunch, I’d have had moules frites at Bistro Maison. But stop that, be in the here and now for God’s sake, me. Here and now I am in front of a fire and it is cold outside and earlier I was at lunch.

It’s hard to tell you about lunch because there are other things we’ve missed. There is work, there are people I’ve forgotten to call back, there are my roommates who look nice with their haircuts. There, of course, is the dog. There is Larry, who wrote a book called No Ordinary Joes and I went to his party and Jack Ramsey was there, and it’s quite good (the book). There is Leanne who is publishing like mad and gave the most charming reading with a Dickman twin. When I have a giant party I’ll invite you and make them read. There is Tim who won’t stop running and there are the Biggio-Haminas who knock out dreams like ten-cent bubble gum. They have a wine bar now, and their own big blue sign. Oh, damn, I should have links for these things, I know, but I slept poorly last night, my energy’s down. (Update: I later added some links.)

The Great Martini, at lunch, inspired me today. She writes a column and goes to school and is writing a book that sounded smashing and creative energy simply seeps from her.

My roommates and I sing a song in the mornings, it’s about camels and snakes and we sing it twice. The first time is crossing the camel humps before 99th street, the second time on the snakey turns of Hazel Dell Road. There are cameos in the song from some mice and a lizard, we also wrote a fairy tale where someone dies of amnesia.

You see, I am just blurting things out. I am reading the new Sedaris book to my roommates. It’s a collection of little animal stories, there are lesbian chickens and squirrels dating chipmunks and a murderous rabbit; the cow was notoriously cheap.

Patti Smith, for Just Kids, took home a National Book Award tonight. Patti Smith is a rock star, she should not get book awards, too.

I have two movies overdue and a TV show coming on, so I think I will go. If you want to have lunch, let me know.

I’m exhausted today, I think it’s mental. And I must, now I realize, type some words here each day or I’m apt to forget where I am. For example, it’s October. The Great Pumpkin is here in two weeks (a little less) and I’m not ready for that or any of it. I thought we were somewhere in June. There are things to carve, fake blood to buy, candy corn to eat, this is stressful.

And I’ve had dreams, they’re unsettling ones. Not the kind I remember in the morning, just ones that unsettle. In the morning I’m unsettled and then I unsettle the rest of the house and so gym clothes are forgotten, and the book report book is left, and the piano sheets — yes, forgotten too. Today is a day of forgetting.

I’m drinking something, a Doubleshot right now, a light one — 70 calories — it brings to mind L. There are a lot of you L.’s, but only one who left Doubleshots on the porch. This one I have now was in the Country Store, and I had to go get it. The Country Store is by a field and there are old-timey gas pumps that I’ve not seen people use. There’s an ice cream selection for the kids, and sometimes cucumbers.

I don’t have a phone yet, have you called me? I’ve found it invigorating, in some ways, without one. In my odd little way, I wouldn’t mind forgoing it. At stoplights, for instance, I am forced now to watch lights and the cars and in lines at the store, I interact. When the kids are home from school, sometimes we talk now, we went for a walk yesterday and looked at the trees. We also went to the bank and while waiting for Kevin, I learned the interest rates of CDs. These things can happen because there’s no option of texting or apps. I read a book made of paper last night, even – right out of my hand.

The list, as they say, goes on.

I had a panic this morning that my laptop was gone, that it had been stolen, I told you I’m unsettled. I ran through each stage of grief before I found my laptop, alive unstolen and well. It feels much later than Wednesday. Remind me to get a pumpkin.

I don’t know why, but I’ve imagined my robbers as young-ish and dumb, and for some reason with dark hair. Not dumb like they can’t add or spell, but dumb as in going through one of those dumb-choice stages. I had one. Or maybe two. Dumb stages, I mean, when I was young.

One was with Nicole, who’s last name I can’t remember, but we had fun together and then were sometimes very dumb. We went to a small Catholic college, which was often dull on the weekends, and one night we did something dumb. It involved cheap bubbly, and the campus store, and a security camera. It was dumb.

Anyway, so they’re young-ish, I think, and one of them is taller, and they walked down the street around midnight and checked the cars. Mine, of course, was unlocked, I hate to lock. Last night I locked it. Sigh. I hate locking. I called them on my phone yesterday, they didn’t answer, I was hoping they would. I wanted to politely just ask for my SIM card. The wallet was ugly, all but one of the cards were expired. I think there were old appointment reminders, my license was somewhere else. But the SIM card. All those photos and notes and, you know.

Hey Robbers, are you out there? No hard feelings, you can keep all the stuff. But could you please leave my SIM card on the porch? Or wherever. By the garage door, on the rail. Somewhere where I’ll see it.

My son forgot his gym clothes, I’m going to take them to him right now. If you know me, or even if you don’t, will you please send me your cell number? Or better, a funny note. I’m suffering text withdrawal, I’ve got nothing to do with my hands. I might take up smoking. Click here.

I’m mad at you, Vancouver. You guys, Vancouver has been bad. It stole my wallet and my phone. I’ve searched my memory and I’ve found nothing, not one thing I’ve done to Vancouver to warrant this. Therefore I’m mad.

If I used to have your phone number, and we called sometimes or sometimes had text, will you send me it again? Please? Drat. I hate to be all sour grapes, but McMinnville never stole my phone. Or my wallet, for that matter. Some friend Vancouver’s turned out to be.

The New York Times didn’t call but I know that they get busy. And now if they call, well, robbers please do what they ask.

I’m eating coq au vin for breakfast, I made it on Sunday so it’s at peak taste today. I must think of this as I grumble about robbers. I’m not trapped in a mine with my co-workers and I’m eating something French, plus Shelly O. and Todd adore me! Take that robbers. You can have the stupid phone. Ha, good luck with the battery! You can have my orange wallet too, I never liked it.

But I had G.’s birthday video on there. And the crabbing trip last year, and some funny skits by A.O. Stupid Vancouver. I’m mad at you today.