I’m not broody or tragic, I’m nowhere near it, never never mind.  I love it when you listen to me, I do!  B. sent the consummate someecard (I asked for one yesterday) and now the whole day has changed. 

Maybe someecards will pull us out of all this, it doesn’t hurt anyway to try them.

I’m exhausted and cold, the conditions here are harrowing, plus supplies are running low.  I wanted a banana this morning and there were none.  Well, one, but the color was off. 

So today no Updike, nor Balanchine, but instead Shakespeare, why not.  I feel broody today, broody and tragic.  Not broody like a chicken, understand, but the other kind of broody:  contemplative.

I have been trying to drink my Diet Coke and coffee (stirred not shaken) through a straw like C. said to do.  It’s not so bad, I’m used to it now I might add it as a habit.  But I have tea here with me – staining agent — and no straw.  The straws are downstairs too too far for me to go, and I just hope my beautiful new white teeth can withstand it.  I’m trying to gulp the tea down right past them, I’ve told them to remain haughty and aloof and pretend the tea isn’t even there, it’s nothing to do with them. 

Here’s something troubling me.  It’s irksome, really, I’m about to be serious.   We, you and I, are in the midst of economic crisis.  It will be here for awhile and may get worse, and people are going to behave poorly.   They’re going to be put under stresses they hadn’t imagined and they’re going to make poor decisions, this is what happens. 

And we know this.  You and me, we’re pretty sharp.  We know that friends will lose jobs, and we might too.  Bills may back up, our breathing may become labored, we might lose sleep at night.  Our health, then, may suffer, we may snap at our spouse, we may do awful things to people we love, we’re in desperate times we may feel desperate. 

And even if we’re fortunate, and our jobs stay fine and our bills stay paid and we can have a bottle of wine with dinner and the occasional small comforts, we will still feel desperate, to an extent, because it’s in the air.  And we’ll be susceptible to bad behavior.  We know this.

I know this and you know this, and if you didn’t know it I just told you.  We know these things to be true, about our nature, we know we know we know.  So then going into it, if we know, why can’t we just choose to not?  Why will we still make poor decisions, even if we know how that will go?  Because we will, we’ll choose poorly even knowing.  We’ll think we’re special and not like other people who make poor decisions, our poor decisions won’t affect us that way.  Our poor decisions will seem to us wise. 

But they won’t be, and we’re going to make them this year some of us, so just be wary.  Lay low.  Try not to make any decisions at all if you don’t need to.  It’s the year of the Ox, whatever that means.  And Germany is too far away.

I’m a sucker for spam.  I don’t open the ones that grow penises, but I do almost all the others.  You’ve lost all sympathy, now, for my laptop troubles, well so be it. 

I like the ones from somebody’s name, Anna Smith for instance.  She’s popped up in the past few days.  She’s offered cheap loans, a vacation and creditor help.  Dr. Suzanne has been hounding me for months to stop being fat.  Anything with a “Hey,” or ”Re:” is a sure thing for me I open all of them, they seem friendly.

They’re like lottery tickets to me.  The very next one, I’m convinced, brings offers of love, happiness and a three-book + movie deal.  Not today’s, though.  Today I have a cure for stubborn bra straps, a mandate to wear skinny jeans, and a Look 15 Years Younger.

G. is home sick today, though she’s not sick.  Mental health day, I guess, I should take one, too.  She’s just learned Heart and Soul and has been playing it since 9am … PST … three-and-a-half hours ago.

So I’m off Updike already, today’s heading is Balanchine.  Because there’s a Balanchine thing right now, did you notice that, M.?  I’ve been sloppy with periodicals recently.  I pick them up, read half of stuff, put them down somewhere else, but I’ve come across two Balanchines.  They were both (I think) in The New Yorker, one was the review of a book.  The book, though, was someone else who was writing of ballet in general and naturally brought up Balanchine.

I want someone to send me a someecard.  Go here: www.someecard.com, and send me an occasion-appropriate someecard.  Spare nothing.  And then I’ll go about my day productively, I’ll inspire others, I’ll lead the next generation somewhere great.  I just need one snarky card.

The rooms in the house are still cold, G. is still playing that song, and I am reading my spam.  If you’ve got better ideas, send them here.

A very dear friend sent me an achetas domesticus and I want to kiss him for it.  Thank you, B. 

But even given that, I’m still reeling from Updike.  I don’t know why.  Mailer died, I didn’t care … someone else did, too, and I cared so little I forget who it was.  And it wasn’t as if I slept with the man or lost my innocence while reading his books.  I read hardly little of him at all, actually.  The Rabbits, of course, but not all four.   And I had to order Couples, by the way, I spoke prematurely when I said I was re-reading it.  I reread excerpts on Amazon then ordered it local at 3rd Street Books.  I’m responsible that way. 

Everyone is laid off, everyone in the world.  Did you read the news tonight?  It’s horrible.  A father killed his family because he lost his job, a mother beat her two-year-old to death.  How much stress does recession cause, I wonder.  The trick is to have something else come in your life that trumps it then, ta-da! – no recession stress. 

Tonight I watched Stardust Memories with the kids.  They’re 7 and 9, it’s time they met Woody Allen.  Jr. identified him in the first scene, correctly, as the voice of “Z” in the animated film Antz. 

Stardust was Allen’s Fellini nod, I love it.  We didn’t finish because bedtime popped up, but they were riveted.  Yes, it’s PG, and yes, they say “masturbation” and there are a couple of times where savvy viewers know Woody’s either about to have, or has just finished with sex, but really it’s not so bad.  I’d much rather all that than a Beverly Hills Chihuahua. 

This is odd.  I live at a dead end on a barely populated street and I just heard a car go by with loud music.  Ned and Ty, it’s possible, hosted a party without me and their guests are driving away musically loud. 

I did library all alone today, it was awful.  Thinking back I don’t know why I wasn’t completely terrified.  All alone, with all those details, and all those questions, all that tugging on my shirt.  The second-grade I read to, that’s not a problem, I can do that all day.  I’m a captivating reader, you should hear me sometime.  Fourth grade, though, they get assignments.  And today, of all days, it was bibliography.  I came nearly undone. 

But then I had a cricket in the afternoon.  A lovely friend gave me a cricket and it was sweet and thoughtful and I’ll take anything sweet and thoughtful from you, too, if you’ve got it.  Cough it up. 

Tomorrow is Wednesday, I believe.  It might rain.   And I’m doing Updike lines this week, if you must know.

Well I wasn’t thrilled about Updike.  Not today.  Not when the heater doesn’t work, and I’m cold and tired and cranky because I can’t drink coffee for 24 hours.  Not today.  I’m rereading Couples, as a nod to him.  And here, for you, is a piece of his poem, “Perfection Wasted.”  It’s a beautiful poem, C. put it in her book. 

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market –
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage

There’s more, and it’s all good I just didn’t feel like typing it out.  Because it’s thirteen degrees in the room where I work, and I can’t have coffee and so I’m cranky.  Are you wondering why I can’t have coffee?  It’s because at the dentist yesterday, they used a fancy laser-machine to make my teeth really white.  And so no coffee.  Or tea.  Or red wine or Diet Coke or sex.  Or maybe it wasn’t sex, I forget.  But anyway, still 24 hours to go, and without coffee to start off with, I have little use for much else. 

More later.

I have to tell you this before I forget: my Stripper name on Facebook is “Dallas Slidethighs.”  Hmm. 

Today my dentist said I looked gorgeous.  Even before he did his work, and it so completely turned around an otherwise rotten afternoon that I vowed to tell everyone I see from now on that they’re gorgeous.  Do people tell you you’re gorgeous?  They should, it’s like a magic blue happy pill.  It makes the drill not even hurt. 

I was in the chair for long enough that I got to watch TV.  I picked CNN so they’d think me a serious sort of gorgeous.  I saw the new President a lot, and the new dolls they made named after the First Kids, and how badly Caroline blew it, and Joe Biden making gaffe after gaffe.  Well I actually only saw one gaffe, and I couldn’t hear it, but the young President Obama very noticeably cringed.  He needs a nickname, by the way, this new President.  

There’s a book out that you absolutely must read.  I haven’t yet, but I swear to you it’s great.  It’s about one of my all-time favorite screwed-up marriages — Edmund Wilson and Mary McCarthy — and written by their son.  One of my two kids will turn out a writer, I’ll bet you twenty bucks.  And that could be interesting. 

If my typing looks shaky, it’s because I’m shaking.  It’s 12 degrees in the house.  I have on my big feather puffy-coat, and a sweater and a shirt, and I’m under blankets with two pairs of socks.  It’s something to do with the filter.  You have to pull the filter out of a slot and clean it, and maybe there’s more than one of them, slot and filter.  But the point is I haven’t dealt with this yet, poking around for the slots and filters, and arranging them in dishwashers and then pushing Start.  So because of that I’m cold.  I’d have you bring hot cocoa but my teeth are sensitive from the dentist.  Maybe tomorrow. 

* It’s Bellow, still.  This one from ”Ravelstein.”

There’s usually a treat on TV when you’re awake at odd hours.  For me it was 4:00 (morning, not afternoon) and the treat was Neil Simon getting the Mark Twain Prize at Kennedy Center.  I watched it in 2006, it was good then, and it was also good early this morning.  Lost in Yonkers is now in my Netflix queue.   

The Goodbye Girl should be, too, it’s one of my favorites, but — you’ll think this strange — I have to be in an exceptional mood to watch it.  Because for some reason it makes me very sad.  It shouldn’t.  Remember?  He calls her at the end.  Still, it does. 

Now the news is on, it’s not nearly as fun.  I’m taking no delight in our local sex scandal (except the word “probe” in this headline).  Because the thing about sex scandals is they’re linked so closely with stupidity; I’m in no mood for stupidity. 

If I didn’t have to work today I’d watch movies.  And if Jr. didn’t have a makeup lesson (piano) I’d have him watch movies with me, after school.  Sometimes all that can be done about a thing is to watch movies. 

If you must know the news, since I’m watching it — a man was stabbed in an apartment, it’s shred day or something like that, and while they didn’t report this, I’m sure someone broke someone’s heart somewhere.  That’s usually going on.

Tip your waitress. 

That’s Philip Roth’s “The Swede” I’m referring to. 

Odd things have happened in 48 hours, and I think it’s all timing.  If they’d happened two months ago I would have laughed at them, but happening yesterday and just prior, makes them odd. 

I had my hair done today, I might enter a pageant.

John Smith wants to know about pills, blue or red.  I do like trilogies, so I think I’d take that one, then, the one that keeps going.  I’d also take all the opposite pills as Alice, just to see what they do.  

I haven’t made it yet, in 2666, past page one, I expect to though.  It is not a lost cause.  Some things are, but not that.  Yes, everywhere he looked, they were in love with him — he was a great character, Swede Levov.  Don’t you think? 

Rimbaud grew lice in his beard.  Edmund White digs up the most charming things.  He (Rim) also bonked Paul Verlaine and soiled the sheets at friends’ houses with muddy boots.  Who cares.  I’m going to work for an hour and then drive away.  You’ll have to be clever to find me.

I’m depending on the kindness of strangers.  There was one this morning:  a man said my tires looked low.  These types of things, now, are starting, I was waiting for them.  I didn’t know what the first one would be.  Truthfully I thought it would be a light — the one in the foyer I assumed, the one that’s way high up and needs a ladder to be changed.  I thought it would be that, but it wasn’t, it was my tires. 

My kind morning stranger told me my tires looked low, and then he told me to drive to Les Schwab.  He said they’d take care of it in less than five minutes, he was right, but I was ten pounds low!  My air guy disapproved.  Ten pounds.  How would I have known I was ten pounds or twenty pounds or God forbid, 100 pounds low?  I wouldn’t have, except for my stranger.  Because before today I’d never looked at my tires, I couldn’t be bothered.  I feel bad about it now, of course.  I was dismissive of them and in retaliation, they loosened their air, I deserved it.  Going forward I’ll give them the respect and attention they deserve and I will drive to Les Schwab, like my air guy said, every month to six weeks and have them checked.

They will not go ten pounds short again on my watch.  No way. 

There are things that are going to break, things that I never imagined.  Emergencies are going to flare up, my tires are going to be low and in the short term I am relying on the kindness of strangers.  

Milan Kundera has the best book titles of anyone I know, and one of them is “Life is Elsewhere.”  It is; life is elsewhere.  Last night it was in the Irvington District in a roomful of smart, accomplished women, and one man, with lots of wine.  This morning Life was at Les Schwab.  This afternoon it will be in Newberg with John Bozarth, he’ll buy me lunch, and immediately following that Life will be at 3rd Street Pizza for a little boy’s birthday. 

Tonight, of course, it will be here, where I am now, with books and a keyboard and some chapters polishing off. 

My tires are pumped up and beautiful now, they look radiant, their confidence shines.  Stop by and admire them, if you want, I’ll make you popcorn. 

Organs are fair game again, yes, they’re so rarely out of fashion.  I apologize to you, for my momentary ban.  Please, by all means, bring me your hearts and lungs and rectums.  Please, please, please for crying out loud, on this day of all days, let’s talk about everything as if it all hinged on organs.  Which, arguably, it does. 

You start. 

I’ve had the coverage on because it feels unpatriotic to have a television remote within reach and not.  The sound is down, but I occasionally glance up and I have to tell you – I’ll be deported for this — that while I’m not unhappy, I like our new President, at the same time I’m neither moved or inspired.  Yes, I know, you’re rolling your eyes because I liked Hillary and you think I’m just being petty about that, but she wouldn’t have done it for me either.  It’s just that the goings-on of one little President may not amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, have you considered that?  It might, and it might not.  Hope, fear, yeah, whatever. 

The speech was fine, but they all are.  Teddy’s seizure was unfortunate, but seizures all are.  You see?  It’s cold today, but in winter it usually is.  I still have to drive into Portland soon, I still don’t want to, I’m still looking for a job that pays more than I’m worth, I still can’t find it.  I’m still looking for the cure for angst. 

That’s all.  I had fun at library today, I like stamping books.  Stamping the books at library and getting blue ink on my hands, that’s what inspires me.  The rest is noise.