We told each other we wouldn’t speak of it, but that seems silly to me.  For ONE, it’s all I have to speak of, it’s almost impossible to think of anything else.  It’s why I hound you so with ants,  because there’s the unspoken thing, and little else.   It’s like I’m Monica Lewinsky right after Starr, and you and I are limited to talking about tea.  It would be hard, don’t you think?  After the dress and cigars and creepy interviews with old men, to just talk about tea?

Also, TWO, I’m not stoic like A. is.  I can’t not speak of things, or not talk of them, or amble through my days as if nothing’s going on – it makes me loony.  I am fascinated with A.’s ability to do it, I envy him, too.  I’ve tried for years to mimic it, but find myself after hours or days of being stoic, a raving nut.  A. is in that way a camel.  He can postpone emotion, like camels do water, for weeks.  I’m not a camel or a stoic, though I admire them both.   

Lastly, THREE:  This — what we do here, you and I – is technically writing and reading, not speaking.

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I ate orange scrambled eggs just now.  Do you know why?  Because they were fresh eggs, laid yesterday, at a farm!  And farm eggs are orange!  They were from Anna’s farm, I saw the chickens who laid them, I saw the roosters — who I’m told play no valuable role in the egg – who cock-a-doodled the hens who laid the eggs.  I saw 21 goats and saw Craig feeding them, I saw the St. Bernard from across the street chase the chickens who laid the eggs.

I love my eggs.  I love farms, I love people who have them.  Jr. and G. and I spent Thanksgiving at a farm — the Rodgers’ farm, in Mulino.  There was a tiny little problem when I got lost (yes I’ve been there before, but not from here, and plus they painted their house).  The rest, though, all good.  Anna made 72 different dishes, and Penny made 14.  Oh, and Natasha made blini — but they called them a fancier more Russian name — and, well, they were really good.  I ate the blini on my plate and then I had more. 

Everyone LOVED my short pumpkin pie cake.

I brought red wine and Craig said Anna can’t drink red wine because she gets mad.  So we put the red wine on a really high shelf but later, after we ate all the food, we let her have some and at least while I was there, she didn’t get mad.

We drove around the property — there are new greenhouses and some pretty purple plants and a deer fence and cover, lots of cover.  Did you call it cover, Anna?  I think its “cover” and it’s stuff she plants for the soil.  Not to eat, but to make better soil.  I think.  I don’t know, we were driving around with beers, we took beers in the car, because we were in Rodgerstown, it’s big, and the Rodgers’ make all the rules.  They have their own bridge after all, Craig built it.  And anyone who has their own river and builds their own bridge gets to make rules, I read it somewhere in a book.

Oh my gosh, I want to go back, I might go back right now for lunch. 

I made Anna sign up on Facebook, and Penny, too, and if you’re not their Friends, you are totally crazy. 

[Mulino (Rodgers') Farm]

My pumpkin cake is done.  It’s shorter than I imagined.  Much shorter.  I hope it won’t be self-conscious about that, and stay fidgeting in the corner all day.  I added more frosting, it will still make us fat. 

That’s all I have to say about cake.

About Thanksgiving, though, I’ll say: “have a fun one.”

Dear Readers.  Because this is a family site, I am going to employ a euphemism.  I am going to tell you a story about sex toys, but when it’s time to say “sex” or “sex toy,” I’m going to instead write “balloon.” 

Last night RSG and I went to a balloon party at Patti’s house.  First of all, Patti’s very nice.  She made food and poured wine and had several helpful tips about balloons.  Second, this was my first balloon party and I found it interesting. 

There were several balloons, and we passed them around.  They came in pretty shapes and colors and and did a lot of different things.  One balloon had pearls in it, another had ball bearings.  Some of the balloons had attachments, some reminded me of carnival rides, there were all different sizes.  Most of the balloons came with batteries, but a couple of them did not.  To be honest, I found the balloons with no batteries a little drab. 

(Patti made a yummy spinach dip, did I say that?) 

Rebecca was the balloon rep, she was selling the balloons.  Rebecca was very knowledgeable and answered all of my questions.  I had lots of them.  For instance, some of the balloons had accessories that I found confusing; the silver balloon – which the rest of the women called a good “starter” – optionally came with a cover.  The cover was rubbery, and had bumps, and then it was attached to a rubber circle (it was blue.  Many of the balloons were blue.  Blue is my favorite color.)  The circle was for attaching to someone else. 

While Rebecca gave a careful demonstration of how this might work, I still didn’t quite get the rubbery cover for the silver balloon.  It appeared to require balance or grace and I tend to be clumsy.

One balloon looked like lipstick and Rebecca suggested keeping that one for emergencies, in your purse.   

There were a lot of flavorful things you could put on the balloons, or wherever you wanted.  More likely in other places, and then someone else could get involved.  In fact, Rebecca had many useful suggestions about how to share the balloons — she encouraged us to invite others along when we take them out to play.  Except for at traffic lights — that is best handled with the lipstick balloon or the silver one, she said, and typically done alone.    

I bought some balloons, of course.  It’s rude to go to these things and leave empty-handed,  my mother taught me better.  So I bought two balloons, they had names — Bob, was one, and Betty, I think was the other.  Bob was the most impressive balloon of the night, I think Bob could take out the garbage if I wanted that.  I also bought some white chocolate balloon cream because who doesn’t like chocolate?  (Well, I don’t actually, but I tried some and it wasn’t bad.)

RSG and I had a plan, we thought a balloon party might be a fun thing to write up so while I was pressing levers and buttons, RSG asked probing questions and took notes. 

All in all, I think it went well.  My balloons arrive in 7 to 10 days. 

I don’t like dessert.  Did you know that?  I really don’t like anything sweet, although in the summer I’ll have a popsicle now and then and I get occasional cravings for black licorice.  Do you think less of me?  I used to worry that you would.  I used to eat my dessert when I was at your house because it was easier than explaining that I didn’t like it.  I’m the only one in the world, as far as I know.

I’m telling you this because it’s why I never make pies or cakes.  I’ve always wanted to make a pie, I like the word.  I like how they look, I like big dollops of ice cream on them, I like how people seem to enjoy them.  When Betty made me a pie on Cinco de Mayo, not this summer but last, I almost cried.  It’s darned thoughtful, a pie.   

But enough about pies, what I’m saying to you is I’m going to make cake.  I think it’s about time.  It’s Thanksgiving on Thursday and I’ve found a recipe for a beautiful pumpkin cake.  I’m going to Anna’s, I think she’ll eat it.  I’m bringing, then, brussel sprouts and cake.  And, of course, wine in case something terrible goes on with the cake. 

Is pumpkin cake all right?  (I’m asking Anna now, not you.)  Because if you’ve already got pumpkin cakes made, that’s fine, I’ll stick to the savories.  Or I might make it anyway.  My children, whom I’m thankful for, get out of school on Wednesday at some ungodly hour.  11:30, I think.  We can watch SpongeBob reruns on cable, or bake a cake.  And I’m thinking the cake.   

Pain comes in many forms, I’ve decided to make mine physical.  I’ll feel it tomorrow.  Scruffy, too, is out of sorts, I think.  He’s trailing me everywhere.  He tried to run with me on the treadmill, it wasn’t pretty.  For either of us.

I’m breaking down, I’m calling the ant guy.  I’ll do it after lunch.

Everything works out and no one dies.  That’s how Crane Flies ends.  Fiction is neat that way.     

Let’s see.  I haven’t gone through my pictures yet, I promised Todd I’d do it three years ago.  I need some Adderall first, I can’t focus.  I’ll mail him the whole card, there’s like 6,000 pictures.  Nudie shots of the neighbors, insects mating in air, that sort of thing. 

Sex addict books are the rage now.  I’m linking to this article mostly for RSG.  There’s a good factoid or two for our research.  

It’s cold out, I don’t mind it.  And Writer’s Almanac, today, has a lovely poem about dying and baseball.  Maybe it’s the other way around.  Wish I could stick around here all day and entertain you, but I’ve got work to do.   

A. has not been a saint, no one has (except, arguably, the saints).  That Friday line was hyperbole.  Just saying. 

I need a good book to read, do you have one?  I’m not asking M.  He wouldn’t know, he doesn’t finish his.  I’m asking you, everyone else.  I should ask Sylla. 

I am looking up insect orders today, I may have told you that.  Not insects I’m trying to order, that’s not what I mean.  I mean the Orders of Insects.  Dermaptera are the earwigs; Coleoptera are beetles, etc.  I may have been doing the same thing Friday, and told you already, I don’t recall. 

I’ve solved my thing with Scruffy.  It was so easy, I’m hitting myself — I moved to a chair.  It was really that simple.  The chair is small, he can’t see an opening, so he sits quietly alone on the couch.  It’s not mean, he looks perfectly fine.

Tedsy is her usual furry self.  I, for what it’s worth, wish safety came in numbers. 

There was a crime in Clifton, a man killed his wife.  I only tell you because I used to live in Clifton and I’ve never once seen it mentioned in the news, until now.  I always found it odd to say “Clifton,” and to live in “Clifton.”  I also lived in places called Phoenixville and Moonachie and for some reason I didn’t think those places sounded odd.  Clifton, though, to me seemed strange in the retelling.

The crane fly mates in the air, did you know that?  The male twists its abdomen around 180 degrees and has special gripping organs to help.  They die after mating, a lot of bugs do, but one of the ant or bee queens — ant or bee but definitely queen — mates once, saves the sperm, doles it out to her eggs for the rest of her life.  It does seem like less trouble. 

A. has been a saint.  Forget what I’ve told you privately, he has.  He’s been a saint.  I’ve been neurotic and panicked and aghast and alarmed and unkempt and seriously rattled.  All week.  And he’s been a saint.  Why have I been rattled?  Because I want.  to finish.  this BOOK.  I hate it.  I hate my book, it’s why I have to send it away — out, out of this house book, get out!  Every time I look at it, it gets worse how can that happen?  Even when I sneak up on it, open it quietly while it’s not looking, it still catches me at it and gets worse! 

Yesterday I made a grievous mistake, I read my “cut” files.  I save everything I cut, you know, my cut files are brilliant — yes, brilliant.  No, no, that’s not good, that’s terrible!  I read through the cut files yesterday, and they were brilliant and so much better than all the crap I kept.  So what do I do about that?  Sigh.  I put them back in, I guess.  Or I just send the cut files out with a synopsis and hope anyone who reads them is drunk. 

This book is a story about a woman, her name is Ellen.  It’s about a marriage, too, their name is Jenks.  (It doesn’t have to be Jenks, I’m not wedded to these names, if you want me to use your name I’ll use yours, send it in!) 

It’s a story about the maddening isolation of life.  Or maybe insulation.  You see?  How can I write a synopsis in these conditions, I still have no idea what it’s about.

It’s mostly about terror, actually – the terror of loneliness, of insects, of loss and love and connecting, and also not knowing how to ever connect again.  It’s about the terror of doorbells during the day, and home repair and back pain.  It’s about the terror of Repetition — (shudder) — of doing the same thing day after day, after day after day after day.  Yes, it’s mostly about Terror.  And also the futile pursuit of everything, we’re all chasing the wrong dream.  We are.  

Ellen cannot connect with her husband in a way that feels good to her, he cannot connect with her.  He comes home and pulls into the garage and shuts the automatic garage door behind him then clomp-clomps up the stairs.  “Do I have time to change?” he asks.  “Yes,” she says.  She is usually stirring something on the stove with a spoon, desperately wishing she were stoned. 

He smiles, she smiles, and that way they go on.  Later, sitting down, he will tell her about a client and the traffic.  He’ll be secretly thinking about Tara Bauer, the new sales rep on Team 2.  She’s never stirred a thing on the stove, he bets.  She wears nice clothes.   

Ellen will tell Howard things, too.  Mundane items, usually, concerning the kids.  She won’t tell him about her own work, it’s dull.  She edits technical papers for engineers, she wrote a proposal for a fish screen that day.  A fish screen, they go on dams – no plot, no character, no narrative thread, thus nothing to tell.  About that, anyway. 

On the other hand, Howard may, or may not, be interested in how she spends her days — at least one, and sometimes two of them per week at the Raintree Rehabilition and Care Facility with a former lover, Reed.  Reed lives at Raintree, in a persistent vegetative state.  Ellen misses him when she’s not there.

Anything else and I’m spoiling the end.  I can tell you it’s happy, though.  It has what my screenwriting instructor calls a “button.”  There’s a big surprise, and a button, and in the end you’ll feel good. 

There is a shrink named Dr. Head (Jacqui Head).  There are neighbors, there’s a feud.  There are an alarming number of spiders. 

Sigh.

Pre-order copies here.

Any idiot can face a crisis, it’s day to day living that wears you out.  Chekhov said that, not me.  I meant to say it, though, I meant to say it before him.

Because today … well, the ants have attacked again, and Scruffy won’t stop sitting on my arm, and the heat only works in two rooms.  The Scruffy thing is troubling, he sits too close.  We’ve talked about it, I’ve asked him repeatedly to sit over there, I’ve physically moved him numerous times, he always comes back.  Like the ants. 

An exterminator,  I know.  I’ll call.  I’ve had exterminators before, I don’t expect much.  They carry that little jug with the nozzle and walk around and spray.  It’s unimpressive, I want guns.  They came to Sherwood, they’ve come here to Mac before, too … the problem is I live in a decrepit old farmhouse that was built on an ancient ant burial ground.  I fear there’s little they can do. 

I want the ants gone and a housekeeper for Christmas, that’s all I want.  I don’t even care about world peace.  Heat would be nice, but maybe that’s next year.  If A. wanted me to not go crazy, he’d hire someone to be here every day to kill the ants and keep the floors clean.  I’ve a feeling, though, he’ll get me pajamas. 

What do you want for Christmas?  That’s rhetorical, I really don’t care.  I’ve got problems.  Didn’t you read this?  Sigh.