I’m exhausted today, I think it’s mental. And I must, now I realize, type some words here each day or I’m apt to forget where I am. For example, it’s October. The Great Pumpkin is here in two weeks (a little less) and I’m not ready for that or any of it. I thought we were somewhere in June. There are things to carve, fake blood to buy, candy corn to eat, this is stressful.

And I’ve had dreams, they’re unsettling ones. Not the kind I remember in the morning, just ones that unsettle. In the morning I’m unsettled and then I unsettle the rest of the house and so gym clothes are forgotten, and the book report book is left, and the piano sheets — yes, forgotten too. Today is a day of forgetting.

I’m drinking something, a Doubleshot right now, a light one — 70 calories — it brings to mind L. There are a lot of you L.’s, but only one who left Doubleshots on the porch. This one I have now was in the Country Store, and I had to go get it. The Country Store is by a field and there are old-timey gas pumps that I’ve not seen people use. There’s an ice cream selection for the kids, and sometimes cucumbers.

I don’t have a phone yet, have you called me? I’ve found it invigorating, in some ways, without one. In my odd little way, I wouldn’t mind forgoing it. At stoplights, for instance, I am forced now to watch lights and the cars and in lines at the store, I interact. When the kids are home from school, sometimes we talk now, we went for a walk yesterday and looked at the trees. We also went to the bank and while waiting for Kevin, I learned the interest rates of CDs. These things can happen because there’s no option of texting or apps. I read a book made of paper last night, even – right out of my hand.

The list, as they say, goes on.

I had a panic this morning that my laptop was gone, that it had been stolen, I told you I’m unsettled. I ran through each stage of grief before I found my laptop, alive unstolen and well. It feels much later than Wednesday. Remind me to get a pumpkin.

I don’t know why, but I’ve imagined my robbers as young-ish and dumb, and for some reason with dark hair. Not dumb like they can’t add or spell, but dumb as in going through one of those dumb-choice stages. I had one. Or maybe two. Dumb stages, I mean, when I was young.

One was with Nicole, who’s last name I can’t remember, but we had fun together and then were sometimes very dumb. We went to a small Catholic college, which was often dull on the weekends, and one night we did something dumb. It involved cheap bubbly, and the campus store, and a security camera. It was dumb.

Anyway, so they’re young-ish, I think, and one of them is taller, and they walked down the street around midnight and checked the cars. Mine, of course, was unlocked, I hate to lock. Last night I locked it. Sigh. I hate locking. I called them on my phone yesterday, they didn’t answer, I was hoping they would. I wanted to politely just ask for my SIM card. The wallet was ugly, all but one of the cards were expired. I think there were old appointment reminders, my license was somewhere else. But the SIM card. All those photos and notes and, you know.

Hey Robbers, are you out there? No hard feelings, you can keep all the stuff. But could you please leave my SIM card on the porch? Or wherever. By the garage door, on the rail. Somewhere where I’ll see it.

My son forgot his gym clothes, I’m going to take them to him right now. If you know me, or even if you don’t, will you please send me your cell number? Or better, a funny note. I’m suffering text withdrawal, I’ve got nothing to do with my hands. I might take up smoking. Click here.

I’m mad at you, Vancouver. You guys, Vancouver has been bad. It stole my wallet and my phone. I’ve searched my memory and I’ve found nothing, not one thing I’ve done to Vancouver to warrant this. Therefore I’m mad.

If I used to have your phone number, and we called sometimes or sometimes had text, will you send me it again? Please? Drat. I hate to be all sour grapes, but McMinnville never stole my phone. Or my wallet, for that matter. Some friend Vancouver’s turned out to be.

The New York Times didn’t call but I know that they get busy. And now if they call, well, robbers please do what they ask.

I’m eating coq au vin for breakfast, I made it on Sunday so it’s at peak taste today. I must think of this as I grumble about robbers. I’m not trapped in a mine with my co-workers and I’m eating something French, plus Shelly O. and Todd adore me! Take that robbers. You can have the stupid phone. Ha, good luck with the battery! You can have my orange wallet too, I never liked it.

But I had G.’s birthday video on there. And the crabbing trip last year, and some funny skits by A.O. Stupid Vancouver. I’m mad at you today.

Dear New York Times,

It would be so thoughtful of you to reply affirmatively to my submission before Wordstock this weekend so I’ll have something to pretend not to boast about as I stew in the publishing glow of my more successful friends. Do you think you could do that? Don’t you think that might be nice? Just a line or two by Friday, nothing fancy. Good, thanks.

There is a squirrel outside, and I’m glad you sent notes to my mom. I tried to tell the whole Facebook about her birthday, but got impatient with Lists. Ironically I think Mr. Zuckerberg mentioned it today, lists. Creating them, adding people to them, doing it by iPhone, no more than 20; I’m busy you know. I did my best.

While you were gone, I wrote a little thing to Mac. It’s here. (Click on “here”.) There’s one small thing about it that’s hounding me, and this is because writers are obsessive regarding words, or maybe just weird, but my editor — a fun, friendly woman who I wish I’d gotten to know, and hopefully will — inserted a word in the piece that I wouldn’t have, it was “hubby.” That’s all. It’s like an itch now that won’t go away. She wouldn’t know it, of course, but yes, “hubby.” I have nothing against the word, personally, it just isn’t me. Either, in case you’re wondering, are cupcakes — I don’t like sweet foods — or yellow (it makes me look wan.)

I wear black most of the time and eat soured and pickly foods and J., by the way, is now telling me no more black. So maybe “hubby” is actually good, maybe I need to wear red more and eat ice cream, at least, and maybe this weekend when I am hoping to pretend not to boast of my New York Times news, I will say “hubby.”

The piece, by the way, left entirely too much out because it had to. There is no way, in a 750-word count to explain how lovely it was to escape to Adea on sunny days, or even rainy ones, and watch the Haminas at work and sometimes help. Or to tell you about the gifts my friend Laura dropped on the porch when I asked for them by blog, or about the running into people at stores and downtown, or going to tastings on a whim. I left out the back room at Nick’s, my corner office at Hotel O, Very Tall Vet’s gruesome animal tales, the lot of you who splashed in the pool at one time here or there, the backyard movies, the games at night, the stop-bys — sigh. You know about all that.

Christian Miller mowing my lawn!

And Lunches! It’s so easy to lunch in that town, I miss lunches. I miss the quiet of the dead-end street, too, and how we were all a bit kooky and no one cared. Here I’m unfavorably exposed, I’m on a corner with short trees, I’m out in front of everyone in bad light.

Oh well. Just an email, New York Times, a quick note before Friday, please. That’s all I ask.