If you are technical, I wish you’d stop over today. My darling B., I know, would but he’s in Florida, I think, and then promptly back to Europe. My web site was hacked by bandits (hopefully famous bandit hackers so I can tell the morning talk shows) and has never been the same. WordPress, where I enter all the pretty things to you, plus change how things look if I want or add nifty new tools, is a shambles. You should see what I work with, you should. It’s like a M.A.S.H. unit here with bombs going off, and no power, and me taking shrapnel out of a dozen different hearts. I’ve had a frustrating technical day, I’m Web 2.0′d out, I don’t know which gadgets do what anymore or which ones are legal while I drive.

Speaking of driving. Yesterday, on the phone, driving to school I remembered that Oregon won’t let me talk on the phone so I was forced to duck down below the dashboard and hope no one pulled out in front. It’s rude to just hang up, it was C., she had a story.

J.D. Salinger died, of course. I’m bored with that already. And bored of Oden and the Edwards’ and everything “i” and five or six different other things. I’ve seen the one-way cat three times today and Scruffy’s been gone for over an hour and there’s very little here to eat for lunch.

I’m working on projects, and they’re going slow, and today I wish my whole upbringing hadn’t been so conventional and devoid of quirks. I blame you, Mother. I blame you for my safe and comfortable childhood, didn’t you know I would grow up and write? Shady preacher men might have been nice, or tawdry affairs, perhaps a botched elopement with carnies from the circus? Really. Couldn’t you have fed me cat food once or twice? Or dressed me as a clown? Or taken to bed for weeks at a time while my eight siblings and I foraged for food?

Sigh.

It’s one of those days. Tomorrow’s another conventional quirkless day, I’ll pour wine for some judges, it will be quiet and somber, they’ll write down grades, my forearm will get sore. After hours of this we’ll chug what remains in the back room, some wines will get medals. It’s strange to do the same things with people missing, the last two years A. opened the bottles for Mike in the back.

Who cares. I just need a small dose of dysfuction today so what I write is more interesting for you.

(If you have medical marijuana, please bring some by, I’ll wear a clown suit. I am terribly bored.)

I’m trying to think of a new vice I can take up. Can you help? It’s been nagging me for weeks. I’ve tried to start smoking for years but the smell gets me. Morning whiskey is too Richard Yates, and terribly unoriginal. I’m already disorganized and chew my nails … what do you suggest?

I’ve called Bob, finally. Bob fixes the pool. I’m afraid for him to see it, really, it’s neon green and opaque. I should have called Bob months ago, he knows that, it’s why he’s not calling back. If you see Bob, please send him here. Tell him I’m desperate and looking for vices.

There’s something noble, I think, in the crumbling of a house.

It’s lunch time and today, like every other day, I want soup. I always want soup. You’d think, for as much time as I spend longing for soup that I’d make some once in awhile or at least keep some on hand. I don’t. Because I forget, until 11:55 every day, that I want it. There’s a stretch of about 15 tortuous minutes where the only thing on the planet that I want, the one thing in the world that I need is unavailable to me. Then I eat some crackers and peanuts and forget.

The bells are ringing, it’s noon. I’m very busy. Among other things I’m reading War of Art because Jay said to. If Jay said “jump off that very low-lying bridge” I would do it. If he told me to eat soup for lunch, I would eat it.

If you get a minute today, stop by and we’ll play cards.

Until then I’m going to leave the toothpaste cap off. Unless you come up with something better, that’s my vice.

The pool is green and murky. Part of me wants to egg it on. I want to see if it can grow something, see if something scaly can hatch and swim around. Part of me, though, wants to call Bob because he’ll fix it. He’ll dispense with the murk, he’ll fix contraptions that need fixed, he’ll make the pool blue again. Bob lives in Lafayette. I want Bob to fix the screen door, too, but that seems inappropriate. The screen door blew off the wall. There was a windy night, maybe Saturday, and the hinges ripped out and the doorframe splintered up. One time X. kicked a door in to open it because it locked itself and no one had a key, and that door did the same thing. It splintered the doorframe, it damaged a hinge. That was the door to where laundry goes if you want to come look.

That’s just noise, though, it’s Oregon who’s on my mind. Oregon, a couple weeks ago, told a bunch of us (the ones who live here) that we can’t drive and text. They said we can’t drive and talk either, (without a headset) but I rarely talk so that doesn’t affect me. The texting thing, well … that’s a problem, I’ll tell you why. It’s been shown in studies, I’m sure, and therefore accepted, that texting while driving (TWD) is safer when done openly with the gadget balanced in some fashion on the wheel, than when it’s done covertly below the seat which requires one’s attention to be almost completely away from the road.

Oregon, try this experiment. Right now drive to Safeway to get milk (non-fat, please, a gallon). And on your way there send me two texts. Type the first one wide open in everyone’s full view. You’ll hold the device near your vision, I bet, and you’ll still be facing the road. You’ll find this simple and safe, you’ll feel relaxed. The second text, however, please type out slyly. Type it so nobody sees, below the dashboard perhaps. Then tell me which text caused a wreck. Oh, really? The second one? Yes, that’s my point.

This morning I had Scruffy on my arm and the motorcycle police in back as I tried to covertly text. I am telling you Oregon, no one benefits from this. Certainly not Scruffy. He had to steer. T. says he stops driving to text. He stops and pulls over and texts from one side of the road. This is fine, I suppose, until sides of roads are all full and there’s nowhere to stop. Then what? K. has her children type the texts for her. This is fine, too, I guess, though my texts are sexually explicit and usually involve bugs. My kids might have trouble with spellings.

L. is meeting me somewhere very soon so I need to go now so I can walk. I’m not walking so I can text freely, without blame, but for the air, it’s nice outside.

(While I’m gone, there are dirty water glasses in the small house. They must be carried to the kitchen. Thanks, people. I owe you one.)

I’m mad at Oregon because they won’t let me drive while I text. And while I was driving today there were 20 signs about it. I get it, I get it Oregon. Okay? I heard you the first time, jeez.

I was driving today and saw the signs and I also saw 60 police cars. At least 60. They’re nabbing texters, I guess, which just makes everything worse. Now in addition to driving while we text, we’ve got also to peer around all the time checking for cops. Who’s watching the road in these conditions?

Martin Luther King (jr.) Day is really boring in Mac. No one does anything, though Ned and Ty got out their chainsaw. There’s no parade, no party, no confetti, no one throws beads from a float or lifts their shirt. So, deep heavy sigh, I’m bored. I can’t drive anywhere because that’s boring, too, now since Oregon won’t let me text. I could make a chocolate cake, I guess. I’d give it to you because I don’t like chocolate. I’d pretend to be giving for the sake of it (the sake of giving) but I’d actually expect something back. Before I start, then, find something to give me.

Scruffy got a bath at last and the screen door of the little house was blown right off the wall like in tornados. If you can fix it I’ll give you the cake. Promise.

Um, yeah, so it’s raining. And part of my gutter fell off, or maybe it’s called a drainpipe … something is not where it used to be and so the water is pelting what I’m sure is a soft spot on the roof and now the roof will collapse and we’ll all die. Everything’s a mess, it’s exhausting. This is the oldest most crumbly house in the world.

I’m bored and stressed out at exactly the same time. Right now! Is that possible? It must be, because I am. L. dropped off double-shots, so I’m drinking them, and I’m bored with work and full of anxiety. I’m sure it’s the double-shots.

Very Tall Vet’s wife had to do popcorn today. When the whole class brings back their library books they get popcorn and she was doing library, apparently, and texted me that she didn’t burn it. I was simultaneously happy for her and evilly jealous. I have not been able to pop a school popcorn bag without burning it, it’s a source of shame for A. and G. It smells the building up for days and everyone knows it’s their mother and then no one plays with them at recess or sits near them at lunch.

VTV’s children won’t have to live like that.

Chris Hitchens was mean to Gore Vidal, he called him a crackpot. I happen to like crackpots, I think there should be more. They keep us from getting bored, they give us things to talk about. If there weren’t pacts being made with devils and causing earthquakes, and if there weren’t crackpots around to point all that out we’d have no chance to be outraged we couldn’t tsk tsk and shake our head. We’d all be desperate for someone to say some kooky thing so we could go on again. Chris Hitchens, you need Gore Vidal.

I need him, too, I think, because I’m still equally stressed out and bored. I’m going to drink one more double-shot and then jump on the wagon. Cold turkey, hot rhino, lukewarm mountain goat, something like that.

(I’m really bored.)

Something has happened enough in the past month that I am now considering it a disorder. I’m spelling “too” wrong. After going about my business for a number of years spelling hardly anything wrong ever at all, ESPECIALLY “too”, now I’m frequently spelling it wrong. I have sent the following lines and variations on them to a random collection of people and I am horrified — “Me, to!”, “I want to, to!”, “I liked it, to!”

Why is this happening? I can’t think of one thing except coffee. This, to too, must be coffee. My neck hurts from coffee, I’m convinced it was coffee behind my speeding ticket and coffee’s the only thing I can think that would cause me to misspell “too.” Anna is right. Coffee is wrong. There are so many horrible things coffee is up to, we don’t even know half of them yet.

J. and I argued yesterdy about whether Bill is a racist because of the thing he said to Ted. This Game Change book is a bit of a headache for some, don’t you think? J. said though he doesn’t believe Bill is racist, the remark is a loaded one with racial implications that go way back. Do you know what the really interesting thing is? Once again, yes .. coffee!

The wind is blowing, and I’m always annoyed about that. The lampshade outside, the one that hangs down over the furniture where we sit and carry on long interesting debates into the night, has fallen off. I think it’s irreperable because the chain that turns off (and on) the lamp is not attached anymore. Stupid wind. The break left the bulb in a bare relentless “on” state so I’ll have interrogations now instead of debates. If you need interrogation, stop by.

I’m a tiny bit tired this morning and I’d ask you to bring me coffee, but what if Anna is reading? I’ll call you in a minute on a pre-paid, untraceable cellphone. Please stand by.

I haven’t disposed yet of George. I’d really rather not, he was so terribly dramatic about it. I thought he’d be maybe floating quietly in a far-off corner but he’s splayed out on the bottom, on his back. Right smack in the middle with arms and legs stretched out operatically. The living frog looks disgusted, I don’t blame him. It’s all slightly depressing for a Tuesday. If it were Friday I might have more nerve about it.

The dog barked just now for no reason, a loud long stream of them and it frightened me. Because I don’t understand why there haven’t been serial killers yet, this is a perfect place for them. I expect one to turn up any moment, I expect Scruffy to bark about it.

I forgot cereal at the store and made a horrible breakfast. I drank coffee with it and thought of Anna, of course, and also my neck. There’s no way that I’ll try to quit any drug on dead frog days. It isn’t wise.

The tree is still here and there is stuff all on the floor. I want to come move in with you.

It’s getting to be a smaller annoyance, but still is one. I sometimes search things on my blog — I steal material from it — and in the process I come across cute stuff I wrote for “X”. (“X” is a guy I was married to. He was formerly known as “A.”) I wrote many cute things about X, or for X, and when I look at the dates I’m reminded that, “oh, he was bonking a whore then. Likely at the same moment I was writing! Is likely bonking the whore now, at the same moment I am writing, whee!” It’s getting to be a much smaller annoyance, but still is one. Hard to swallow, it turns out, that someone you thought you knew one way, was the whole time a low-grade ass. Anyway.

Today was hard because a frog died. I’m funny about death, I guess. We’ve had lots of it. Fish, hamsters, then today Eric Rohmer. I’ve lost track of the hamsters. There’ve been a lot of them over time, and now there aren’t, so it seems a number of them have died and some of them have been heartbreaking — well, really just Custard — and some a relief. But the frog today, the frog was hard. They’re tiny little frogs, they swim in water. The toy store calls them “frogs in a box,” they were for G. for her birthday. They’re manageable little frogs and G.’s been loving and diligent about them, she’s managed them well. But here’s what happens when you’ve just one adult in the house: things slip. It’s unmanageable, the whole thing, it is. If you live in an old big house alone and you work and there are children, the whole thing is really very unmanageable and some things die. Here’s how George died. I think it was George, I didn’t have the heart, really, to ask G. to confirm. Let’s assume, though, it was George, I’ll publish a correction later if it was not. George died because we got a cat. We got a cat because the children wanted a kitten and they begged and begged and I got tired of the begging, we got a kitten and now he’s a cat. Pumpkin, the cat, didn’t eat the frogs but he kept eating all the frog food. If we were gone for a day, he’d eat the frog food. I’d find the empty packet but I was always in the middle of other things. So instead of stopping to consider a new solution for the food, I said to G., “we need to get frog food,” and then she’d nag me until we went. The frog food tablets are at the toy store, they cost $2.99. It was going on this way, it’s how I managed it. I should have brought a container to G.’s room to hold the frog food in and keep it safe but it seemed a little thing, it happened when I was managing other bigger things, I didn’t have the means to address the problem of cats and frog food. I addressed it by buying more.

But then the last time it happened we didn’t buy more. We were here or there, we were running around, we were going back to school from the holiday, we were thinking of other things.

One of the frogs managed to live without frog food. And one of the frogs didn’t.

G. came down the stairs today after feeding them and she tried to look so brave.

So now I must dispose of the frog, just like when the plumbing clogs I am the one who must fix that. I’d like someone else to dispose of the frog. I disposed of all the hamsters, I empty the garbage all the time, I’d like someone else — just this once — to dump the frog. When they’re at school tomorrow, I’ll scoop the frog out. I don’t know where, yet, to put him — down the plumbing, in the trash? Then G. would like another frog and I think that’s called for, they sell them in twos there must be a reason. I bet one frog gets lonely.

The frog was hard. G. won’t sleep in her room anymore, she hasn’t for months. Dead frogs certainly don’t help. She sleeps in my bed and I stay there until her eyes are firmly closed and then I sleep on the couch, most nights. I need my own spot, that’s all; that’s how lately, it works. It’s not ideal here. I examine their two small psyches every morning while they crunch the sugary cereal I’ve given into because the rules have all blurred. Their psyches seem fine. Mine’s jarred, though. I miss the frog.

Anna wants to convince me that coffee will ruin my life. I think she’s right about my neck. My neck hurts and Anna says it’s coffee but there are other things that I won’t blame coffee on, not yet.

The one-way cat just ran by. And it’s not just me, Jr.’s noticed it too. The black cat across the street only runs FROM Ned and Ty’s house, it never runs to it. Over and over, dozens of times per day, the cat runs one way. It confounds us, but very briefly.

At Anna’s we made a fire and sat outside their new not-quite-finished house. It’s fun to have two houses, I envy them. They have a house on one side of their river, that’s where we ate. They have a house on the other side of their river, that’s where we made the fire. There’s an owl that they raved non-stop about — big as buffalos, louder than fighter jets, swoops up field mice like a speeding bullet, etc. But the owl stayed away. The owl, I suppose, might be shy, they should give it a name. Like Fred. I think Fred, or even Freddie, is a fine name for an owl and if it knew it was Freddie, it might come out. That’s what I think.

A red pickup just drove TO Ned and Ty’s, i.e., in the opposite direction as the cat. It drove slowly and I can’t imagine what it was after because fractions of seconds later it drove back. This was not a one-way truck. It reminded me of tomato soup for some reason and now I’d like some tomato soup.

Two of my friends are going to Disney World very soon. I’m going to distance myself from them right now so I won’t have envy the way I do with the Rodgers’ double house. One of these friends wants to have breakfast with me, but if I agree I’ll have to pretend, while I eat, that I’m happy she’s going to Disney World and then on a cruise when I’m secretly seething and writhing at the rotten fact that it’s her, not me. I guess we’ll have to see how hungry I get.

If there’s a plan that you know of, I want to hear it. I’m low on plans. If you have some to spare, I’ll just use yours. Some days I miss my children terribly while they’re at school. My Holiday Tree is still up. I thought you should know that.

This (click on “this”) is the kind of story that makes things go round: Part-time criminal wins $17 mil, shady lady moves in to run his life. Then nouveau riche con is gone, shady lady makes video to prove she didn’t kill him, mom says he didn’t call on Christmas … sheriff says dude is broke somewhere, and also dead.

This girl is back. I used to read her, and then I forgot to, and for someone reason today, again, I did. And I learned she’s moved back to here, where I am (sort of) and she’s still writing like a rock star and if you have time and like words you should read her stuff from start to end.

There are noises in this house, way too many of them. It’s you, I think, you’re lurking around. You’ve pulled up in the driveway like ten times already today. And you slam your doors and stomp on the porch and then you get back in your car and drive off. Two times, I swear, you came all the way back here where I’m trying to work and you hammered nails into something. I heard it! Sigh. Just try to be quieter, please. And bring a Diet Coke.