The girl where I get coffee is, I bet, 23, and she always calls me “Dear,” every time. “What can I get you, Dear?” she says, and then, “okay Dear, have a nice day.” It’s very sweet, I like it. She says it and I like it, I think she really does think I’m “dear.” I’m dear to her, she finds me charming. She finds my double cappucinos — tall and non-fat — just so very me, that’s what her Dear says.

The man, too, at 76. He calls me “Honey” when he fills up my tank up and I like that, too; I do really like “Honey.” A friend called me “Honey” last night and it was lovely and I wish he’d do it more — you’re there, you’re reading this, why don’t you?

Another friend calls me “Baby” and “Sweetheart” — I love them both — and I just called still one other friend “Sweetie” this week (do you remember? It was by text) and I might do it more. I like to say “Darling” sometimes, and I like to hear “Sweetness” back. “Sugar” is nice, too, I also like that. If you want to call me something, feel free, you should be liberal with endearments. I just thought you ought to know that.

Scruffy wants out, he has fleas. It’s not why he wants out, but I just remembered that he did. Last night at dinner, we were sitting and someone called. They called C., they said, “do you know ‘Maggie’?” Scruffy had opened the back gate and they hit the road; they’re scamps those two.

Hmm. Endearment and miscreant dogs. It’s all I’ve got for you right now. Stay tuned.

There are challenges, I’ve learned, with this single thing and mothering and running a house where things break. One is that the margins are slim. Fewer things can go wrong before I, for instance, start to curse. There was one thing this morning, it could have sunk me. I was almost done in by it, but I wasn’t.

Plumbing’s the problem, this is a plumbing story. I don’t like it, plumbing. I don’t like pipes or things that need plunged, I don’t care for it at all. All of my next husbands, in fact, will always plumb.

When there were two adults in my house I believe I handled these things much less. When there were plumbing things to attend to, I mean, I attended less than half. Now, of course, I’m on rain or shine. When raccoons rush the door, when spiders loom above, when ladders must be climbed it’s all mine. Plumbing too.

I’m spunky, mostly — about the yard stuff and the garbage and the bugs I must kill now all alone. I’m Mary Tyler Moore, I pretend, if she were divorced with cute kids; I throw my hats in the air thrice a day. But Mary didn’t plumb, Mary’s toilet never clogged. It certainly didn’t clog over and over again, it certainly didn’t clog every day. Mary, harried and tired and a little down on sunless days wishing her book would take her to spas on the beach and finish itself, didn’t have stubborn fecal matters to address. But I did, this morning, and I didn’t throw my hats.

It’s not romantic to plunge fecal things. If you’ve got intentions of romancing me, then, stop reading five minutes back. (And if you don’t have intentions of romancing me, well, you ought to.)

The net of the story is that I plunged and fixed the fecal and the plumbing now works and we went on. The children have good color, the hamsters are spry. The dogs are fed and groomed and I drank coffee.

I’m just saying. Some mornings are trouble. And some are not. Regardless, everyone’s okay.

Maggie barked and barked today. And ate the remote to something — the RC Helicopter, we think — and then dragged a bottle from the recycle bin and smashed it on the ground, she’s like a rock star. It’s not polite, though, to gossip and Maggie’s not here to defend herself so that’s all I will say for now. (I mentioned the hamster didn’t I? Not Custard but the other one. The babies, the recent ones, are orphans.)

Yesterday two of my sister-in-laws had birthdays. I didn’t bake either of them a cake. I did have a lovely conversation, however, with H. and H. had one with G. and no one talked to Tony but, of course, it was late for him.

The weather looks gloomy this morning, should I still do a movie? I’d planned to, I will. I promised Jr. we’d watch Jaws on the big screen, that’s the one about the shark.

I’m in the final days of my book. I promised to have it done by next week. If you come over and play with the children and make me big cobb salads it might really happen.

Read this: Melissa Lion in The Daily Beast
and Buy this: The Imposter’s Daughter
and Go To this: Laurie at B&N

(Life is elsewhere.)

Scruffy and I are up early working. I’m thinking about men and women, Scruffy’s thinking about dogs. Or maybe he’s thinking about roast beef, or squeaky toys. Or maybe he’s thinking about cats. Regardless. I’m finishing a book, Scruffy’s bolstering me, I’m thinking about men and women, I’m writing it down.

Mad Men, you know, is back. I watched the opener twice, though not the hotel scene — I only watched that scene once. Did you watch? The Drapers are compelling. C. says I should write Howard an affair, but I refuse. Affairs are dull. They’re a cliche. Simple people have affairs, interesting ones don’t. I like how I’ve done it; H. flirts dangerously with the idea but before lines are crossed, opts out.

Don Draper, then. Right. He screws everyone. But yet, watch that opening scene. It’s middle-of-the-night and he’s alone at the stove, heating up milk in the dark for his pregnant wife. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it, how tender he is with her? She can’t sleep. She’s restless and anxious and he brings her warm milk and then listens. He listens and wraps an arm around and tells her a bedtime story and then she sleeps. (I think she sleeps. They may have cut away before it, but we know she will.)

So two scenes later when he’s banging a stewardess, do I care? Not really. Because of the pretty moments in the middle of the night with his wife. Because of the warm milk. It’s been haunting me since Sunday. Which, of course, hasn’t been very long.

Garrison Keillor, who has nothing to do with that, said that this is what he likes in a woman, (in Vanity Fair): “High-spiritedness, wit, a love of repartee and wordplay and allusion and jokes — in other words, an English major.”

I read it just now and remembered I’m an English major. So Garrison is probably in love with me, but I’m extremely busy.

Anyway. Scruffy and I are working, it’s early in the morning, it’s still cool. Later today it will be hot and then we’ll stop work and take a swim. You’re welcome to come by.

A. once famously said we weren’t to talk about health; or the weather or traffic or say how tired we are, it pretty much wipes out small talk. And by the way, I agree. Betty Draper’s father fined her for small talk. Conversation is an art, he said, but I’m not talking, I’m typing, so it’s hot, I have a headache, I’m tired, and the traffic must suck somewhere, I’m sure of it.

Once I cried because I’m ridiculous sentimental.  I was picking up Jr. at his music class and he sang a song.  Actually, first the tiny girl sitting next to him sang a song.  She sang “The Star Spangled Banner.” She sang it with perfect posture and she hit all those impossible notes. 

It made me cry so I tried to think of something funny because this was the last five minutes of a class when parents are to hover impatiently, or maybe indifferently take a call, but not cry. So I tried to think of something funny and got stuck on my shoe which isn’t funny, but then Jr. jumped into Kung Fu moves which made me laugh, which stopped the crying, too.

Then he sang “Oh What A Beautiful Morning” loud and strong and he, also, hit every note.

Megan came by yesterday and we had gin with tonic and swam in the pool. Then we talked about boys (and even to some) and about high school and boys again and we gushed over practically everything. She drove 68 miles to see me and she even skipped breakfast I think. It had been 18 years.

After she left and the kids were in bed I watched Mad Men again because I missed the part in the hotel when I watched it on Sunday. The part where Don catches Sal with the belhop — what unfortunate timing for the alarm!

This morning a bird in the side yard did an awkward thing with his neck. He was hunched over the ground, pulling on something perhaps a worm, but in the most awkward position regarding his neck, I found it unsettling.

I’m all over the board today, I know that, go easy. It’s just that summer’s winding down and I’m feeling nostalgic and I want everyone to hug someone and I want Thai coconut soup for lunch.

There’s gin left, I don’t want it. I’ll trade it for soup. I’ve got the Charlie Parker station on Pandora if you’d like to come by and hear. CJ did a nice job on the yard.

Oh, it’s hard to be clever when life’s so odd. I’ll just start with the bee. There’s a bee in the kitchen, it’s unusually large. It’s unacceptably large. It’s the biggest bee ever born and I assure you no one’s kidding. You want a picture, I know, and I would give you one except for this: there are technical things with my iPhone that I haven’t yet fixed and I do not have a camera here otherwise. (When roommates cease to be roommates, some things stay and some go.)

So there won’t be a picture, but if you call here and speak to Jr. or even G., each will adamantly swear to you that it’s the biggest bee ever. It’s the size of a large screwdriver or small baseball bat, it’s the size bees were in dinosaur times. And it’s in the kitchen on a window and besides that we’re down another hamster.

That’s a good segue, let’s talk about it then, the hamster. This is Custard’s daughter who we thought was Custard’s son until one of Custard’s real sons impregnanted her (the daughter). Now Custard’s daughter is a mother but that doesn’t preclude her desire for escape, you could argue that it fuels it. But regardless, she did escape, and Maggie the great hunter cornered and chewed Custard’s daughter but not enough to ruin her life, Custard’s daughter, post-Maggie, could still run.

The point? I saved the life but now can’t find the body. I don’t know where they disappear to in the house, but I would caution all of you to not come over again; the horrors of this house cannot bode well. There are baby hamsters, still, upstairs and Very Tall Vet needs to tell me how old the babies can be before I set them free in the yard.

Speaking of Very Tall Vet, his beautiful wife had a birthday party and for the most part I missed it. I was driving from town to town and first there was C. and T. and a photo booth we didn’t use, and then there was the golf course and red wine and my meandering delayed me. There were people, over wine and after golf, telling me stories and I loved every one of them so during the stories I forgot to look down, at my watch. And so another party will have to happen, stat, and I’ll wrap up the hamsters in bows and take them to Very Tall Vet’s wife for her birthday and that will be that.

Christian, I think, is mowing the lawn today, I owe him for last week — what a crummy gig he’s got, I seldom pay.

And there’s a filter basket to buy, plus fish food, plus a net that skims the pool because Maggie’s eaten all three.

If you want to go buy them for me, great.

I’ll talk to you soon.

I just argued with you about the day, I swore it was Thursday. I’ve reluctantly accepted my mistake which meant rolling garbage cans to the curb; it’s gone downhill from there. Scruffy, for instance, insisted on sitting on my arm, I’d like you to try to type sometime with Scruffy on your arm.

Before that, I noticed the front door is terribly scratched. My pretty front door, Scruffy’s scratched the nice dark stain. If you have stain, for the wood, please come fix the scratch.

Today I’m coloring my hair in Salem, I don’t know which one — an argyle pattern, I think, for fall. In warm autumn tones, perhaps yellow / green.

There’s little else to say, except I insist on Monday you drive to Powells. It’s on Burnside and you need to be there by 7:00. The very brilliant and beautiful Laurie Sandell is reading shortly after that, from her extremely wonderful graphic memoir, “The Imposter’s Daughter.”

If you go, I’ll buy you a doughnut.

[The Imposter's Daughter]

[Friend Laurie here.]

I’ve had a terrible weekend, I’ve added hamsters. Yes, I know it’s all my fault. I’m an educated girl, I know how these things work. I’m old enough to know that when sibling hamsters are left in a cage too close together too long, they will impregnate each other. Which they did. So now instead of one last living hamster, there are ten.

Oh, Custard, I didn’t tell you … I never told you because it was horrific, and because I was quite attached to Custard and it was too close to my heart to discuss. And also because I lied to my smaller roommates. So between you and me, but not them, Custard was rather brutally ended by Maggie.

Leaving one furry cute little fat guy who turned out to be a girl.

And now there are ten.

Today I’m finishing book reviews, I don’t know why I labor over them so. It’s concentration, it’s hard to do much else when the real book looms large. I shouldn’t go one single day without perfecting pages of the real book, but I have. It makes me gloomy. But the hamsters, let’s hope, will perk me up.

I’m having cappuccinos and my hair looks bad but I have a corner booth that’s cool yet in the sun, and the music’s nice.

If you can top any of that, let me know.