So last night, H. … Jr. walks into a bar and whispers to the piano man.  Piano man nods.  Then Jr. picks up a mike, takes the stage, counts the guy off — 1, 2, 3, 4 — belts out Hound Dog.  Closes with “I’ll be here all week.”  Well not the last thing but still.  Kid’s got moxie.  Oh yeah, why are we in a bar?  I’m peddling him for rent money.  And also we’re family reunion-ing, at the beach.  There was eating involved, too, and I cut him off after three drinks.

Fun as all that was, this is not the time for family photo albums, I need to be clever … quick!  I’ve lost my clever, I need it back.  

Yesterday we climbed a lighthouse.  Because it’s the Oregon coast it’s, of course, cold and there’s rain.  So today, I guess, a long beach walk in the rain.  Oh, and I have to make pasta salad tonight, at the green house.  So if you know of one, tell me.  Not a green house, a pasta salad, if you know of a pasta salad, Jeez this is boring.  Want more?  I watched Surf’s Up last night, ate Cheez-its, haven’t read a paper in years.   

This is a creepy way to go.  I forgot to tell you someone did it to Aunt Betty on her way home last month.  Jumped in front of her train.  Made her two hours late. 

[Oh, also, I'm staying here.  Bungalow 12.]

I’ve nothing to say.  It’s not you, it’s me.  Really.  I’m not myself.  I’m wrapping up an exciting little thing for these guys.  Pub date to be announced.  Right here.  In all caps, and maybe in red.  Though red may not stand out on this background, maybe 3-D.  I’ll send you glasses.

D. has 500 cookbooks.  Is that right?  Really, 500?  I am envious, D., I’m turning green (so far just my nose).  500?  Give me some!  Give me 5, at least.  You won’t miss 5. 

When someone tells me they have 500 cookbooks — wait, D. didn’t even tell me and I’ve known her for years!  I had to find out through a shady third source, some guy who bumped me from CNN, Oh this is all going horribly! – Regardless.  When I come across this sort of information, however I come across it, I feel like the person who owns all the cookbooks ought to at least send a list of her top 10 and tell me why.  Or even 5.  That’s all.  Common etiquette should dictate it, that’s all I’m saying.

Soon I’ll have a piece published in a very big place.  (I can’t stop saying it!)  And so for an hour or two on that day strangers might come see my blog.  This means it must be edgy and clever before then, I have at most three weeks!  I’ll give you ten dollars to rewrite it, I’ll even say “please.”  Blueberries, too, if you want them.  Apply here. 

[Mirrors, Schmeers.]

It’s Hemingway’s birthday, I’ll be making a cake. Hem had 52 cats, I have one. I know what you’re thinking — ‘what kind of cake?’ Strawberry, I think. Strawberry cake and I doubt I’ll eat it, I hate cakes, I’ll throw it away.

Here’s to Hem.

(P.S.  I’m not annoyed with the Times.  I love them more than strawberry cake, I wish I could marry them!)

I hope the Times knows I’m annoyed.  It’s been 8 days now, and no fawning over my brilliant piece.  I’ll give them hours more, that’s it, then out to bid.  My wild tale of suburban angst and obscene gestures could be yours for the right price!  You can start now, click here.  Make me an offer I can’t refuse. The offer should include (but not be limited to):  a book deal, martinis, caviar, a personal chef.

Ants and spiders have taken over, I could be gone by the end of the day.  I’m going to remake the movie Frogs — a classic — but with spiders and ants.  I’m setting a camera up in the house, it will be documentary.  A. thinks I’m melodramatic, but mark my words.  He’ll come home one day and we’ll all have been eaten.  The ants will be fat and rolling grotesquely across the floor, the spiders will creep in to suck out their guts.  The rest of us, empty shells. 

I see it coming, I do.  There was carnage this morning in the living room, it was gruesome.  I can’t even tell you here, you’d have to assure me you were sitting down.  But even worse, when I examined the carnage close up I found there were trails of it everywhere.  Trails of carnage.  Dead bug bodies carted here and there and spun up tight in webs, and parts dribbled out over the floor.  And this one’s truly awful — in one spot miniature maggots writhed ecstatically around a dead bee. 

If you call, and I don’t answer, it means there’s very little time, call all the Emergency Teams in town.  Tell them to bring gloves, wear sturdy shoes. 

Gawker found scientific proof that you cannot get intoxicated from beer.  I knew it, I knew everyone faked it.  And Iain Gately wrote a book called Drink that looks like fun.  It came out on my birthday. 

I’m going to write a book today, too, I think I’ll finish it, I’ve had enough.  And then we’ll all soberly celebrate by drinking beer. 

A. and I went to dinner last night so he didn’t fix Slurpee, so Slurpee’s going to stare up at me all day again today with that fake-dumb look on his face and I’m going to want to slap him but I won’t.  Jr. tells me that the Slurpee video says it’s not safe to swim while Slurpee’s in the pool, so not only will Slurpee be mocking us with his dumb look, he’ll be risking our lives.

Tune in tomorrow. 

I hate slurpee, I hate his guts.  Seriously, I do, I hate him.  Stupid Slurpee.  Slurpee is the vacuum that cleans the pool and he won’t plug in for me even though A.’s declared it so easy.   

I’m in a mood today, not a bad one, but a mood.  It’s July 16 and nine years ago something sad happened to people in my life.  (And then we wrote about it.)  So I’m in a mood, as yet unnamed.

We had people over last night, and we ate burgers and drank wine and the moon was out and everyone laughed.  And that’s kind of how it was for C. nine years ago.  All of that, then she went to bed.  And before you go to bed you kind of run through the next day, at least I do.  I did it last night.  Get up, make coffee, drive kids, turn in piece, fix Slurpee … but what if in my moony dreamy groggy state, mid-morning, the phone rang.  Let’s not quibble over what the phone said, let’s just agree it was irrevocable.  The phone said something that changed everything instantly, and forever, and it meant no coffee, kids or Slurpee ever again. 

It happens, you know. 

Ta-ta.

A. thinks I’m a neurotic chicken-wimp and so he’s not calling me, but I have proof that I’m not a chicken-wimp and can prove my mettle when tested.  Here it is: 

A spider crawled down my cheek last night, then jumped on the couch, and I didn’t freak out. 

Okay, well I did a little.  I spazzed out actually, I think that’s less … and hurled it across the room, but I didn’t scream and I was calm again right away.  I went on with my work.  It was a big spider, too, a yellow one with long legs and little eyeballs, I think they were eyeballs, that stuck out in front of him like a shrimp’s. 

So there.  For that I deserve cash and new cars, or at least a microwave.

My new office is not my office anymore.  It came and went.  I had to pass, there will be others, I know, there are lots of fish. 

I’ll get back to you shortly …  

I believe my favorite mother-in-law, H. will enjoy this greatly, I did. The rest of you, too — Groucho, Dick Cavett and an off-color joke for Prince Radziwill.  You could do worse.  Six minutes.
[Click here.]

I’m out of clever, it’s gone. I woke up dull and I don’t know how long it lasts, maybe always. I’ve been rather stoic about it, I think. I ate Ritz bits and blueberries, none of it matters really, I’m dull.

Dull dull. M. wrote a sharp little thing that he sent to me and I haven’t read it yet because I’m dull. Maybe I’m water-logged, maybe it’s the pool. Or the little scraps of socks and underwear the kids have dribbled through the house making their Webkinz clothes. Or maybe it’s just Webkinz, their very presence, or maybe I was programmed, it was simply my fate and I didn’t know it, to go dull on this very day. Perhaps it’s been planned for all 20-some of my years and is a non-event, and you’re scheduled to go off tomorrow.

Anyway. I’ll still eat blueberries because there’s a lot in the yard. I’ll still make Scruffy an appointment to get shampooed because he stinks. I’ll still turn a review in tomorrow because it’s due. It will likely, though, be dull. I suppose I should go out and meet dull people, find new dull friends, I doubt you could interest me now, we’ll have little in common.

Dull, dull, dull, like potato bugs. I’m a potato bug. They’re briefly interesting when they roll up but then they just stay there and quickly revert back to, yeah.

Well. Later then, I guess. Here are dull things I have planned today: play The Pink Panther theme on the piano, drink a Red Bull, step on ants.

Call me back.