Julie Nipp has my camera.

Someone’s making an offer today … which takes some pressure off, we weren’t crazy about two mortgages.  And then again, well … it’s not easy to leave a place, and I’ve been trying not to think of it which means I have odd bursts of meanness toward A.  (Sorry about that, A.)

I can’t say Goodbye to anything.  I purposefully picked my last day of work, when I quit my day job, to be the day no one in my department was in.  I quietly packed up, then quietly snuck out.  I hate Goodbyes, hate them.  So I’ll probably do that here, too, just quietly sneak out.  Tell the house I’m not really leaving just going out for milk.

Sylvia Plath wrote in her books.  I love that, I love finding used books someone wrote in.  I can’t bring myself to write in mine.  Instead I jot things down in separate notebooks that I lose.  I’m going to try really hard to start marking them up.  C. does and I love getting them.

G. has dumped all of her candy out on the floor and is sorting it out now into little piles, remember how fun that was?  She got a quarter from someone, and a “God Loves You” thing from someone else.  Kit Kats were the most popular hand-out, followed closely by Reese’s Peanut Butter cups.

Be off now, write in your books. 

(R.I.P. Gimpy, 1995-2006)

Julie Nipp was late to school this morning.

Remember The Mystery Guest?  And how I loved and adored the trailer, and how I think all books everywhere should have a trailer and how Mark’s going to produce the trailer for The Good Wife, and Vince Vaughn will be Howard and Jennifer Aniston, of course, Ellen.  Remember, remember?  Like that one time, in my trailer?  Well, anyway, here’s a fun little ditty in the NYTimes Magazine, from The Guest himself Gregoire Bouillier.  It has nothing to do with trailers, it’s about being spawned from a threesome.

Also, this is killing C. and I.  We had the idea three years ago, just couldn’t coordinate ourselves quick enough to write it.  I think I have a file, though, with a title and notes and chapters … krike, maybe I did write it!  Maybe this is it!  Good God maybe I’m the one on the bestseller list and eating tea sandwiches while the gardener cleans up my dead tomato plants.  Nope, I just checked again.  It’s not me.  And now I can’t find that damn file.  Because maybe there will be a demand for second-rate hurried knockoffs, maybe this will be the “Senile Old Lady Writer Harbors Weird Secret that Curious Young Girl Gets Out of Her” year!  (Damn you, Diane Setterfield.  And I say that with the warmest tidings of admiration and praise.)

And before you turn back to your work or coffee or whatever it is you do Monday mornings, from my former colleagues at Popmatters, a peek at Stephen King’s new book.  Now go make lots of money.

Oh, P.S.  Can someone out there tell me if my links are too hard to see?  Thanks.

Steve Nipp loves Curious George. Robert Iger doesn’t.

… Ho-hum, Mondays. I’m never satisifed. First I was annoyed with the hot afternoons because it’s fall and I want to wear my sweaters. Now I’m annoyed with the rain, gloomy gus.

Today is the inspection on the new house and I was mean to Howard about it because it’s happening so fast and because I didn’t put the kids to bed on time and he does all the laundry. Sono spiacente, A.

Okay, I have to drive everyone to all their places now. If you see my wallet anywhere, write me.

 … Julie Nipp *hearts* Kelcey Marsh.  Julie Nipp is a dark and stormy night.  Once upon a time, there was Julie Nipp … Julie Nipp ate the Cheese-flavored Chex Mix.

(Heh, heh.)

“I like rock and roll, and I don’t like much else.” — John Lennon

I get bored a lot in my house on the hill, stuck up here day after day all alone like Rapunzel but with kids and shorter hair and married not just sleeping with the prince, who because of that, is not so desperate to get me down. Schopenhauer said “Life swings like a pendulum back and forth between pain and boredom.” Great.

Anyway, there are these girls in town who started a band, just like that, and they played Saturday night open mic, their first gig. Shannon, the drummer, owns the coffee shop across from my office. Julie Nipp, the woman I trade carpools with, is on vocals, and some long-haired, heavy-lidded 10-year-old (seriously) plays base — this kid oozes cool, the kind you get from 20 years playing smoky gin-soaked joints on the road. There’s a ringer on guitar who sat on the couch and played barefoot.

It’s all Kiss because Shannon wants to be Peter Criss (look at him without makeup, freaky!), which is hard on the voice, Julie says, because their songs are all written in boy keys. They opened with “I Love It Loud” and nailed “Rock and Roll All Nite” to close. Babies, grandmothers, sisters and brothers — everyone there, all walks of town. The first band scared G., so we moved to the back. Then when the Kissettes started I almost cried because I’m a wuss, and because of what I said before — art pour l’art. Also because in the middle of the room, my 7-year-old son and Julie’s 5-year-old son stood politely, hands folded in front of them, and watched her create something for everyone there … just for the sake of it. Sunday she was back in jeans and sweatshirt handing out cupcakes for her 5-year-old’s birthday party at Sunset Park.

You drive us wild, we’ll drive you crazy …