Since the world’s falling apart and I don’t have time to do much about it, I thought I could at least cheer you up.  There are things, it turns out, to celebrate today.  Here are some of them:

It’s Banned Books week so you can go read Huck Finn.  It’s National Chimney Safety Week, so you could take your chimney to lunch.  It’s Remember to Register to Vote Week, so you can call your friends who aren’t registered and tell them to remember.  And it’s also World Dairy Week, so you can go hug a cow. 

Tomorrow kicks off Celebrate Sun-dried Tomatoes Month.  You don’t know how I look forward to this time of year, just for that.  

Okay, that’s it.  I’m really very busy.  I’ve been stamping library books all morning, my hands are green.  The fourth-graders use green ink.  I need to go wash my hands.

Oh, wait.  Last night, though, I almost forgot … Chris roasted a lamb.  Over a pit, like a fire pit.  Well actually John, from Saturna did, but it was Chris’ yard and Chris flew him in.  Okay, so first Chris flew John in from Canada, on Jake’s plane, then they drove a long way yesterday morning to get the lamb, then John cooked it over a pit while Jake and Chris picked chanterelles.  And a different John and Cindy made a bunch of other food and set up tables in Chris and Cindy’s giant backyard and there were 300 bottles of wine if there was one, and at the end of the night, in the dark, we fought about politics.

It was wonderful, I thought I should say that.  If we all lose our fortunes, hang onto just enough to have a party in your backyard for all your friends.  If it’s all we do for five years, have backyard parties, I promise we’ll be fine. 

(I’m lying.  But let’s still have backyard parties.) 

Um, China keeps, like, poisoning the stuff it sends us.  I think it’s mad at us.  I think we forgot to send a thank you note to China for its wedding gift.  Or we didn’t invite China to a party and it found out.   

Yesterday we went to Drift Falls Something.  There’s a covered bridge, and then an actual Falls part that you hike down into, one is 9 miles further than the other.  Both are shortly past where Matt / Matthew works, which we’ve confirmed now is Fort Hill Family Dining.  It says “Jesus is Lord” on the readerboard and it’s exactly 26 miles before Lincoln City, on the right.  There’s also a Fort Hill Family Dining Lounge there if you need it.  There’s a bullethole in the window by the second booth as you come in the door and that’s where we always sit.  

They make a great french dip but don’t go in all sure of what you’re having, go in with an open mind and let Matt do his stuff.  Let his powers wash over you.  You’ll probably still order what you were going to order, but at least you’ll hear him describe the specials and give you a detailed account of the sides.  Oh, Matt.  *Sigh*. 

You’ll end up ordering everything just so he’ll keep talking, I’m telling you.  Dogs, monkeys, men and women, no one’s immune to Matt’s charm.

Anyway.  So we drove to this bridge, a covered bridge.  It was kind of weird because it had a sign to it, like it was really something.  And it was, it is, it’s a nice bridge.  But you can only walk across it and when you get to the other side you’re at someone’s house and they look kind of annoyed that you’re there.  I kept saying “Hi” to people and no one said “Hi’ back, so my self-esteem’s fragile today. 

After the bridge we drove 2 slow gravelly miles toward the falls, and A. said, “I don’t think it’s this way, I didn’t see the 9-mile sign when we turned off.”  We had seen the “9-mile to falls” sign on trips this way before.  I said, “are you sure, A., that you didn’t see it?  Do you know absolutely, for a completely certain fact that it wasn’t there?” 

“Yes,” A. said.

So we drove 2 slow gravelly miles back, saw the 9-mile sign, then turned around and drove 9 slow gravelly miles back in. 

Then we walked down a hill and looked at the waterfall from a tall, scary, skinny suspension bridge.  Oh, well, let me back up a bit.  Friday my kneecap popped out.  Have you ever done that?  What happens is sometimes you take a bad step or lunge, or you do your karate kick wrong and your kneecap pops all the way out, and then back in.  It hurts really bad, but worse than that, it’s creepy.  It gives you the creepy ick-willies when you think of it, like sleeping on a bed of furry spiders might.  And the tall skinny suspension bridge did the same thing, gave me creep-icky willies.  So now when I close my eyes, my stomach spins erratically and I have my horrible crane fly fear and images of either my kneecap popping out, or tumbling for miles off the side of a tall skinny bridge smooshing my brains into rocks and tadpoles below, engulf me.

Um, we also saw Roger, this was before all the creepy stuff.  He’s going to drive A. and Jr. around in his plane next week, and on a Tuesday after that, any one we want, we’re going to drink wine. 

One more really quick thing, and I’ll let you go.  It’s October.  Practically.  And in a few hours it will be 85 degrees Fahrenheit.  Hot enough to swim or walk to the post office naked, for those of you inclined to do so.  It’s screwy.  And because I am hard-wired to wear sweaters in September, I am very uncomfortable and hot.  I tried to not wear sweaters, I tried to tell myself that September is the new June.  In June it was cold and rainy and I wore sundresses.  Now it’s 90 degrees in September and I’m wearing my black cashmere sweater.  Cashmere keeps you warm, by the way, in the coldest of colds, I love it for that, I like to be warm when it’s cold.  Cashmere can keep you warm in an ice-storm, C. taught me that about it; it’s quite a hearty little fiber.  And I’m wearing it today, because it’s September, and I love how cozy my sweaters feel in September; of course the one problem, like I said, is that it’s 85 degrees. 

On our hike we saw two banana slugs and some mushrooms and when we came home A. backpack-blowed the patio.  It looks pretty now so you can come over.  I’ll be sitting here in my sweater. 

WaMu collapsed while I slept, then I woke up and they’d been bought.  I understand they’re busy, but they have at least five of my dollars.  A call might have been nice.  Will my logon still work, for instance?  They might have called to reassure me of that.   

Since it’s T.S. Eliot’s birthday and the world’s up in flames, here’s a line or two from The Wasteland:

I too waited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

There.  Resume your lives.  I can’t work today, there’s no school and so I’m cheap entertainment for kids.  We’re going to write comic books and make marionettes unless you can come up with something else.  If we get sad we’ll watch Sarah Palin interviews and laugh our heads off. 

Here is The Wasteland in hypertext, if you’re the sort of weirdo who likes this kind of thing.

Or else, there’s this.

So today I am busy.  Queries, reviews, revisions, edits.  Ah, the glamorous life of a writer.  Scruffy still sits too close, but I have no time to worry about it. 

I also have nothing to give to you but an abridged list of search terms that have led some of you to my site.  In no particular order, here goes:

Protein buildup
Sean cassidy boner
How to figure out occupancy rates in Excel
Mexico house on top of a rock
Beets
Things that are long
Teresa DiFalco I love you

Cross my heart.  Real true searches.  Can’t make it up. 

Now excuse me, I’ve got stocks to fluctuate and property value to decrease.  

Hola, dear kiddies.  It’s my last night here at the ocean and it was gracious enough to be in technicolor.  Like the winding seaside drive in To Catch a Thief, everything looks almost like a cartoon.  The ocean’s at least four shades of blue, the sunsets are like fireworks.  The caps of the waves look fluorescent in the dark, and the handful of flickering ships way out there look like streetlights.  I keep forgetting there are no streets in the Ocean.  No suburbs or Costcos or Targets or Starbucks or streets.  Just the the beautiful dark scary wet. 

I’ve got my window open so it sounds like my Brookstone’s turned up really high.  On and on, it goes, that ocean-y noise.  I’m reading my book out loud, it’s easier to work with it that way, so anyone who walks by my room gets to hear it.  I should make them pre-order.  I’m also eating free popcorn, I loaded up at the front desk.  Popcorn, cookies, coffee, all free.

I have two hours more, I think, that I’ll work.  And then my boyfriend, tonight, is on Letterman.  I’d show you the picture of him squeezing my shoulder except the picture doesn’t flatter me, I slouched.  You’ll have to trust me, he’s totally into me, we are soulmates.  Well, I mean in different lives, past ones; souls before I met A.

Um, okay, what else.  Hi Anna.  I’m saying ’Hi’ because she reads me and I don’t see her much and she’s my favorite friend and I miss her.  If you’re smart you’ll buy garlic from her farm.

Toodle-oo.   

I’ve decided I want Maira Kalman to illustrate my book.  There.  So can you call her for me?  I can’t call her right now because I’m very busy at the beach finishing it.  Call her and tell her what my book is about:  suburban angst, the cat throwing up, the futile pursuit of happiness … you know, the clumsy yet beautiful thing we call ‘marriage’, that sort of thing.

I’ll need drawings of crane flies, they should be misshapen and misunderstood.  They should provoke fear but up close, also empathy.  There should be one nice shot of Ellen banging her piano, of Howard leaning against a wall like Bogart – I’d like him tired, long-suffering, lost.  There is the opening scene, Fellini night; I’ll need a dejected rendering of that. 

And, of course, Claire.  Maybe stepping out into the street around the giant truck or on the phone in the dark in Kandahar, her arms directing her words.  Oh, and Dr. Head in her powder blue suit and platinum hair and bright-colored lips; she’ll be fun, I think, to draw.  Oh my goodness, the possibilities.  I must take an art class right now, there’s too much for Maira to do all alone.  How about if we all draw one page?  I’ll give you the scenes for depiction, you can choose.  First let me eat my yogurt, it’s getting warm.

I know, I know, I’m supposed to be working, this is the last thing I’ll say today, I promise.  It’s just that I’m at the beach, and I’d forgotten how pretty the beach is and I’m trying to wallow in detail because detail — sounds, smells, fabric — is lacking in … well, whatever we’re calling it. 

I’ve got Californication on, first time I’ve watched … it’s lame so far.  There’s a cologne lingering on the second floor balcony that I recognize but can’t place.  There are the usual couples and dogs on the beach, a solitary runner.  There’s a brilliant sunset, it looks photo-shopped. 

I guess my room has a good view because there’s a couple standing outside of it right now, they won’t leave.  The guy is yammering on his cell phone.  His wife has her hand on her hip; she’s an older wife, past subtlety. 

Isn’t it funny, subtlety?  I’m wondering how that will change in years to come in my marriage.  I spend a lot of time pretending I’m cool with things, like they don’t matter.  Then, of course, they all band together like DNA strands and blow up.  (Yes, I know there are only two strands and the simile doesn’t work, whatev.  Write it better on your own blog.)

So I’m thinking if it were A. there on the phone, going blah blah blah (for the record, A. wouldn’t do that, not with the sunset, this guy’s a total jackass), would I put my hand on my hip?  Would I, A.?  Maybe the real question is how long would it take before I did?  I would try to be cool at first, but how long would I last?  And is it directly proportional to the number of years married? … I wonder.  Because she looked mad from the start and he seems completely checked out, and I’m guessing they’re going on 40 years. 

So I left and came back and he is STILL on the phone!  And, unfortunately, inches away from me.  Hey go stand in front of your own room, Pal!  Jeez.   

Oh wow … there goes the sun, like a big orange tennis ball right into the water.  I don’t keep lists, but if I did, ocean sunsets would be on one.  Hey, C., remember when we watched it every night?  That one month, that one year?  And I fired the nanny because she gossiped about you, but not me to her friends and I was jealous?  Heh, heh.  Memories. 

There are now 27 people outside my room, I can’t take this, I’m going to bed. 

I don’t even know where to start.  I’m at the beach right now, gazing at sunsets on water, and whales, and typing a word here and there when I feel like it.  Thanks A.! 

We came here yesterday and then A. left but so many wonderful little things happened in the time between; I’m steeped in giddiness.  A lot of Little Things are always better than one Big Thing because when the Big Thing is done, you’re bored to death.  Little Things, though, they feed on each other –one leads to another and then another one, they mate and multiply, then gain momentum; it’s ineffable!   

So yesterday a bunch of little things happened.  G. played soccer, for one, and that was thrilling.  We were knocked off our socks by noon, but that’s parent stuff and gets goopy so let’s do that offline.  G. played soccer and then Olga came.  Olga came so A. and I could drive to the beach, ALONE, and hang out … overNIGHT!  Yay!  And the sun was out and it was 70 degrees and A. followed me there and I swerved back and forth in front of him and then he waved and we called each other on our phones, it was fun.  FUN! 

We stopped at this little dive we like to stop at, the one with a bullethole in the window, and there’s a new guy working, his name is MATT.  Hey, Very Tall M. and Mrs. Very Tall M. – do you remember Amanda?  Remember when we told you about Amanda at Shari’s and how she has single-handedly reformed the entire service industry and is doing the best work out there of anyone alive in the world?  Well, we were wrong.  A. will argue, but that makes him wrong, too.  Amanda’s so over now, it’s MATT.  MATT, matt, Matt!  MATT is the thing going on.  He’s fresh and innovative, he’s alive, he makes you want to order all the sides, I want him on magazine covers!  

Go to his place, I mean it.  I’ll take you there if you want.  It’s on the right side of the road next to a gas station that has the same colors as Chevron but isn’t Chevron.  It’s before Otis, it’s about halfway from Mac to Lincoln City.  Go there and get a table in Matt’s section and you will seriously flip out.  He will change your life, he’s that good.  Go, go!

That was just the beginning.  Another thing is that my car has XM, which I always thought was stupid until I got it, kind of like my heated seats — actually, I think everything’s stupid until I have it, it’s part of my charm and petty jealousy.  Anyway, I have XM so I could listen to PRI.  (We do have NPR out here in Oregon, but not wayyyy out in Oregon, not on these tree-shrouded pocketed drives to the coast.)  So I listened to PRI, on XM, and a brain doctor (seriously!) was on.  She’s written a memoir about having a stroke and she was fascinating. 

I forgot most of it, but I remember this thing about sides of brains.  She was talking about the Right and Left sides of our brain and how the Right side likes to do things for the sake of doing … for the experience, for fun!  The Right brain wants to do things, and to live in the moment and explore.  But the Left side of our brain is always bossy and demanding and insists we be productive or accomplish or win an award.  LB makes us feel bad for watching movies or rolling down a hill or coloring all day.  But the Brain Doctor stressed the importance of telling your Left brain to just shut up.  An important part of living is NOT being productive; it’s doing stuff just to do it.  She said so.

Like sitting on a rock wall and watching the whales … for hours.  It’s not wasting time, it’s living!  So anyway, A. and I LIVED for almost 36 hours straight and we didn’t waste time at all, it was great.

We sat on a rock wall and watched the gray whales flip their sassy little tales up and we watched waves spray from this little nook in the rocks.  They rolled into this little cave-y spot and sounded like thunder and then there were big water eruptions like volcanoes and this happened over and over and over and we watched it for as long as we felt like. 

A guy played Led Zeppelin songs on his guitar, but there’s always someone doing that.  We went into three places that didn’t sell coffee and then one that did.  

We wandered into town, then back out, then we took a nap; a NAP.  And we read some books and went to a restaurant at whatever time we wanted to, we didn’t even look at clocks.  We went to hokey little gift shops and looked at EVERY SINGLE THING in them.  Why not?  We found a cool shirt, we talked to a guy, we went to a movie. 

And then later at the very end, A. wrapped a blanket around me and we sat outside on the deck at The Whale Inn and A. had a cigar and we wondered why we couldn’t see stars.

By the way, I think the VTMs told us to go to the Whale’s Cove Inn.  Was that where you said to go?  Because after the fact I noticed there was one, and it looked very nice.  But I called the first Whale place that came up and it was the Whale Inn and the guy was a kook, and I like kooks and we also liked that the room was crooked and walking across it felt like being at sea because we dipped and swayed and the ceiling was six different heights depending where we stood.  It was fabulous.   

We went to a movie, did I say that?  I think I said that.  We went to Burn After Reading and the critics were wrong, it’s fun, great fun.  Sometimes critics just need to chill out and tell their Left Brains to clam up. 

Oh yeah, then the most restful sleep in years came into our room, onto our giant bed and its crooked floor. 

And that was our day of a lot of little things. 

[The name of the book is My Stroke of Insight, and A. was reading Fish!, for work, to motivate his employees.  So we were all very positive, what with brains and whales and fish and all.  And everyone's whole again, and renewed.  Until tomorrow.]  

I’m doing everything wrong today; in a movie, next I’d be kidnapped.  

I’ve broken my routine, taken bad turns, left the kitchen uncleaned, accomplished little, absorbed disappointing news, and then just now there occurred a whole medley of these things.

I read the book review.  The one I normally read on Sundays, the one I religiously (definition #3) read on Sundays because on Sundays I have a very strict but comforting routine about the paper and it has never gone well when I’ve strayed.  Well, today is Friday and I read the review, the front page no less, it’s Philip Roth.

I normally wouldn’t even read a review of a new Roth novel, it’s not compelling.  Roth’s Roth.  He writes stuff, it’s mostly good, the male characters pleasure themselves a lot or have someone else do it for them, etc.  It can wait.   

But today, Friday – in part because I love the word “Indignation” — I did it, I read the front page, I read the Roth review.  And as I began, I thought, “Hey, maybe I’ll Kindle this,” and life was good.

I continued reading even when the reviewer, David Gates, warned me he was going to spoil a surprise but give me a few paragraphs before he did it to get out. 

I had warning.  And ample time.  I didn’t get out. 

In my defense, I think reviewers should be trusted with surprise.  They typically know where to draw the line, and David Gates insisted this particular surprise was necessary to the review. 

Okay.  And he knows even with his warning I’m likely to still read, and so he must have also weighed and decided that this surprise wouldn’t completely spoil the book for me.  Right?

Uh-uh.  Wrong. 

He shouldn’t have said it, now I’m mad and Roth should be mad, too.  And everything’s off and I’m about to be kidnapped, I’m sure.  Undercover operatives are convinced I’m a foreign spy using messy houses and bugs as my cover.  I sense them lurking.  I expect the compound to be raided — a helicopter might land! – momentarily.

Damn you, David Gates.  I mean it. 

Please send soup to me in the brig.