Remember the problem I was having with names?  It was mainly that, except for Ellen, all my female characters were named Jane. Well I just changed one of my Janes to “Anne”.  I have a friend from high school named Anne, hopefully she won’t think it’s her.  I have “Anne” marrying an airline pilot named Jayson in Positano, so I don’t think she’ll think it’s her.  I think my friend Jane, actually, will think it’s her.  Especially since Jane married an airline pilot in Positano. 

All other resemblances to real life persons or events are unplanned and coincidental.   Seriously.

In other news, Nathaniel Rich is totally copying me.  I was so way into Darger before him.  (Side note to A., Henry Darger is the artist in that book I won’t let you unwrap.) 

Also, Max Brand wrote a novel a week, isn’t that something?  C. pessimistically pointed out that he also suffered chronic heart disease and died young … from his heart stuff.  Still.

And, one more, Anthony Lane is quite fun when he’s catty. 

Toodle-loo.  

Here are some things you should know.  About this thing of mine, this “blog”.

1.  Almost all headings are random lines from The Good Wife or some lesser book. 

2.  The categories (to the right) are often useless.  I have, for instance, over 200 posts that are “Uncategorized”.  I’m hiring summer interns to fix that, apply here.

3.  I recently suffered an upgrade which inserted a lot of “A”s all over the place — it’s a bit confusing since “A.” is also a character here who is frequently discussed.  This is another thing the interns will fix, please bear with me during this difficult time.

4.  Anything you say to me can and will be posted against you, for the whole wide world to read, though I will change your name and/or gender if you’d like.

5.  The Good Wife is my book, I’m close to finishing it.  Since it’s all I’ve been writing I’ve been posting random passages from it, they are meant to amuse you.  If they make you cry, please tell me stat. 

6.  Sometimes I’m tired and a bore.  If that’s the case, read M.’s and my archived writings here.  It is actually all mostly M., he’s brilliant, and soon we’ll go into business for ourselves writing funny things for big wads of cash. 

7.  If you’d like to find out about employment opportunities with either Teresa DiFalco dot Com or Fortune’s Ankle, click here.

8.  Thank you.

9.  Have a nice day.

Birthdays are fun, with their cakes and ice cream and singing.  I like A.’s birthday, I wish it was back. 

But sailing on, here’s a little ditty I think A. will like.  I apologize right now for the cursing, it’s art remember.  I’m cursing for the sake of art.  By the way, in the early part of A.’s birthday, he read to me from Calvin Trillin, it was sweet.  Fatherhood, I think, is the book, H. gave it to him.  He read a passage about how writers are ruthless in getting material –going so far sometimes as to provoke family members into arguments or scenes that will render it. 

Sick, isn’t it?  But bills.  They have to get paid. 

Anyway, here’s a passage I’m working on right this second, it needs a decent bit of work.  Ellen has a fear of doors — the knocking and ringing of them and what happens here doesn’t help. 

Monday the doorbell rang and it rattled Ellen, even though Howard was home.  A doorbell was rare in their cul-de-sac, up on their hill, there was little foot traffic.  Neighbors didn’t borrow sugar and church memberships had peaked, their ambassadors had stopped coming round. 

Ellen opened the door to an unshaven man in sleeveless t-shirt and jeans.

She smiled at him, Ellen smiled when she was confused.  She tried to pull an image or name out of her head — who was this man, how did she know him, it was clear she should. 

“So, listen, if you have a problem with me you should just talk to me directly.”

“Hi,” she said, still smiling.

“Where’s your husband?” Sleeveless t-shirt said back, more directive than question, he wasn’t smiling.  Then she placed him.  It had been weeks; she’d forgotten.  Howard.  He must have called the town, must have reported him, they’d written a ticket, now Sidewalk Blocker was here. 

“Where’s your fucking husband.”

“Fuck” in the middle of the day, on her porch, in the sun.  It did nothing to ease Ellen’s fear of doors. 

more »

I’m getting A. new ant traps.  I’m going shopping at Lowe’s after work if you want to come. 

If you can’t meet me at Lowe’s you can bring your presents to our house tonight.  He’ll be home.  He’ll have his present-opening pants on. 

Hey, I just realized that although TGW takes place over the course of a year, Howard does not have a birthday.  Ellen does but not Howard.  That is so like Ellen!  Anyway, he needs a birthday.  If you have ideas for Howard’s birthday, after you’ve purchased your presents for A.’s, please send them here (the ideas for Howard’s birthday). 

Update:  I just made Howard a Scorpio if that helps.

Reentry is brutal. 

We have the habit, A. and I, of planning it so there’s maximum pain.  We have the habit of seeing how long we can make a day.  We have the habit of coming in late at night and committing ourselves to schedules in early morning.

We were in New York, we’re back, the ride was long and it doesn’t really feel like I’m here, depending on where “here” is.

A brief recap:  (It is all out of order.)

There was a play with M. and D., it was fabulous.  There was post-play discourse at a jazzy cellar wine joint until well into the next day.  There was lunch at Michael’s with C., and the Blue Ribbon Bakery, and the Vanguard and Pommes Frites.  There was Forbes Gallery and 12 Chairs (Israeli salad, smoked salmon panini, same thing every time).  There was A.’s girlfriend letting me into C.’s building on King (forgot to tell you that, A.).   

There was a three-day wiffle ball tournament, there were motorcyles and mosquitos.  There was H.’s apartment in Stuyvesant Town (H., did you see the poem?), and the compound in Rockland.  There was Nicky’s Pizza and Bagel Boys and Tony feeding the masses. 

Uptown, there was the restaurant by H.’s office with the bocce court and sleepy kids.  There was Jon Heder and the Marilu.  

There was a picture of Jimmy I like, I’ll post it tomorrow and I’ll probably post others.  Right now, though, there’s a messy office, and house, and so much work all over the place. 

Scruffy’s friends Lily and Belle were just here, and Bill, too, who’s visiting JJ and D. from where else?  New York.  We know Bill, A., we met him in Cancun.  Bill from the Essex House days with D., he’s here ’til Thursday — if my energy comes back we should have him here tomorrow, your birthday, I’ll make him bring presents.  

(Oh, yes, that reminds me dear readers.  Tomorrow is A.’s birthday, he’s 28.  Send sappy birthday words in big fonts to A., here.)

Ciao — as the hip kids say – mein.   

Now it’s freezing.  15 Celcius if you must know.  It’s 13.3 C where I’m going so cold there, too. 

I have a cake to pick up and a dog to drop off and there may or may not be a game, which dictates when to pick up Tessa.  I feel like Mrs. Dalloway. 

I’m working for a short time more and then the kitchen must be cleaned and last-minute things done to prepare us to leave.  I know what very few of them are.  I have until night. 

I’m at 128,394 for those of you counting.  Those are words, I’d like to have 80 (thousand).  There’s one whole terrible scene, it’s probably about 3,000 words, it goes on and on and I can’t seem to cut it.  I keep reworking it, like there’s a chance.  I don’t know why I’m so determined, it’s about a pipe that bursts, does that sound interesting to you?  No, of course not, still it’s there it won’t go away. 

Here’s a thing about bugs to hold you until I come back.  I don’t expect you to hear much from me in New York. 

Howard swatted the spiders down for three days straight but grew tired of it.  They were back within the hour, it was futile.

The exterminator was impotent.  “Spiders are your friend,” he told Ellen, very serious, standing on her porch with his bottles and tiny hose.  “They keep out the pests.”

“I don’t want so many friends,” Ellen said and then he told her a story about his neighbor and a fence, but she missed the point.

One Thursday she stepped out the front door and walked face first into three of them.  She batted them off but their stringy, sticky ooze clung to her face.  It was too much, she stopped going outside.  She watched the yard grow wild through the sliding glass doors, she opened the wine now by 4:00.  She let the kids out to play, watching them from behind a screen.  Everywhere she moved, every moment, Ellen felt things crawling on her, felt tiny spindled legs shuffling over her shoulders, rappelling off her knees, ambling daintily — plip, plip, plip — from her neck to her back.  She tried to dismiss it, she recognized paranoia.  But then on the few times she gave in and looked, there one was, pale yellow and thin-legged sidling nonchalantly up her calf.  Even the pretty ones terrified her.  She swatted, then smashed furiously with a sandal, her heart raced ridiculously high. 

Terror, Ellen thought.  I am terror-filled.  No good can come of the pure hateful relish I bring to their murder. 

See you later cats and dolls. 

The sun is here, which means I want to lie in it.  I don’t have paper manuscripts to work from, only screen.  So that sucks.  Still.  The sun is here and I want to lie in it.

H. is taking off Friday to play with us, then swooping the kids off to Suffern so A. and I can make out.  In the city.  A play with M. and D. Thursday night, Friday night jazz maybe.  Though I always pick, so I’ll let A.  Unless it’s something I don’t like, then back to me.  

Someone is bound to be playing at The Vangaurd someone always is, so there’s that.

Sun and jazz and the moon over Manhattan, makes it hard for a girl to work.   

Actually yesterday.  Ugh, the phone, can you get that?  Is it you?  Is it important? 

While I’m talking, on the phone, watch this it’s funny I promise.

[Watch this.  By clicking anywhere on this line.]

Which reminds me, I completely forgot a coffee date last week.  It was tentative, but still. 

There are deadlines and finish lines, I’m distracted with those.  And also the floor, which is new, in the back room, plus Scruffy’s eating underwear again (my mother’s!) and there’s A.’s new web site which is the talk of the whole town. 

There’s all that so where is there time for something else?  Hmm?  I’m serious, I’m asking.  There’s rain here, and the split pea soup at The Sage and that’s all I’ve really noticed about today.  Though I did travel.  I drove to Sherwood and in Sherwood they colored my hair and let me buy eyeglasses and two birds crashed into a plate glass window and died.  I forgot about that part until just now.  It was terrible I’ll never go back.

In Sherwood while they were coloring my hair I read the magazine Real Simple, April, and in that issue is Meg Wolitzer who writes like a dream so please read The Wife and The Position and when you’re done buy her new book.

(Those last three are the exact same link so only click on one.)

There, that’s just about it. 

The room with new floor now needs paint.  So if you’re bored … come by.

A. asked, now I’ve answered, it was “legerdemain”, i got that easy, but not “scuttlebutt.”  I choked on scuttlebutt, thought perhaps it was irregular, couldn’t visualize it at all.  Humiliating.  Laryngitis, xenophyte, even tinntinnabulation I knew on a dime.  I didn’t get those, though, I got scuttlebutt. 

Off now ’til Monday.  Unless I’m not.