I’m in a hotel and everything’s great about the room save the outlets.  Can you believe this?  It’s never happened before.  Lousy outlets.  They’re loose.  How can outlets be loose, don’t they make them all the same?  But they are, they’re loose, the plug keeps falling out.  And before that I was congratulating myself on how well it all was, but now the outlets.

I was in need of something, desperately, and I didn’t know what it was but it was this.  A room of my own.  Without reminders or baggage or someone telling me I’m not the same woman he married.  A quaint observation, by the way, don’t you think?  Is any of us the same after ten years and two kids and the usual knocks and worries and fleeting moments of bliss that fill our time? 

No.

So my hotel room doesn’t talk, it reminds me of nothing, there was noise I had to escape, and except for the outlets, I might find peace here.  However small.

Noise, yes, there’s been too much noise, too much buzzing in my head.  Here’s one that kills me, though if it hadn’t happened I’d fixate on something else.  My husband introduced his girlfriend — Racquel Dixon, a Craigslist trolling whore — to my mother-in-law, his mother, when he took her with him to New York in September. 

It’s going poorly, me getting over that.  I wonder if his girlfriend liked them, my in-laws — she got to meet most of them if not all.  Of course she liked them, they’re charming.  What’s not to like?  I’m sure my father-in-law kissed her cheek, I’m sure H. told her one or two of her wonderful stories.  H. has a brilliant sense of humor, I wonder if Racquel enjoyed it. 

I wonder if she (Racquel, the girlfriend) enjoyed screwing my husband in his mother’s apartment, in his mother’s bed.  Probably.  It’s a great apartment.  The location is fantastic, and I’m sure they screwed after attending a show of some sort, or a club.  They were probably screwing all the times that I called and A. didn’t answer.  I bet they looked at the phone and laughed.  Whee, what fun! 

And on top of it, no kids.  When A. and I stay at the apartment we usually have kids, our kids, the kids we had after we married.  But this time, what luck, A. and Racquel got good uninterrupted screwing time, completely alone.  

Bravo R. and A.  You pulled it off, you crazy loons.   And now, R. and I have both had sex with the same man in the same bed, in New York.  Talk about a small world.   Six degrees of women who’ve fucked A.  (In his mother’s bed.)

I made it all happen, too.  I deserve applause in this.  I encouraged A. to go, I watched the kids so he could do it.  I watched the kids so that my husband could screw his girlfriend in his mother’s apartment, in his mother’s bed.  I’m a pretty damn good catch, don’t you think?   

But fine, that’s all fine, it’s happened.  Kudos to Racquel Dixon for answering a sex ad.  Kudos to Anthony for placing one.  We’re all big, no one gets hurt, it’s just sex and lies for two years for God’s sake, right?  I mean we’re all grown-ups.  Nobody died. 

But the outlets, that’s a problem.  My plug won’t stay in the outlet.  I might have to insist on changing rooms.  You don’t think, do you, that they’re like this on all four floors? 

(I’m in a small-town hotel.  Four floors means I’m at the fancy one.)

The line, you may have guessed, is Bellow again.  Humboldt’s Gift. 

We told each other we wouldn’t speak of it, but that seems silly to me.  For ONE, it’s all I have to speak of, it’s almost impossible to think of anything else.  It’s why I hound you so with ants,  because there’s the unspoken thing, and little else.   It’s like I’m Monica Lewinsky right after Starr, and you and I are limited to talking about tea.  It would be hard, don’t you think?  After the dress and cigars and creepy interviews with old men, to just talk about tea?

Also, TWO, I’m not stoic like A. is.  I can’t not speak of things, or not talk of them, or amble through my days as if nothing’s going on – it makes me loony.  I am fascinated with A.’s ability to do it, I envy him, too.  I’ve tried for years to mimic it, but find myself after hours or days of being stoic, a raving nut.  A. is in that way a camel.  He can postpone emotion, like camels do water, for weeks.  I’m not a camel or a stoic, though I admire them both.   

Lastly, THREE:  This — what we do here, you and I – is technically writing and reading, not speaking.

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I cut Facebook ties with A.  I cut him from my Friends list (which automatically drops me from his) because I was stuck on his Friends list with his ex-girlfriends and would-be-girlfriends and almost-was-girlfriends and other people’s wives.  It weirded me out.  There’s not even an asterisk or smiley-face or yellow emoticon to designate me as his current wife, so yeah, I cut him loose.  You’re all free now to write on his Wall, I can’t see it. 

Scruffy’s crowding me and I’m in a sour mood.  Part of it’s the kitchen, I don’t want to clean it, I’m working.  But I hear it taunting me like it thinks it’s getting away with something. 

Also, I should have stopped for coffee.  There is coffee at my house, of course.  A. (“Facebook Gigolo”) made some this morning and it was good, but it’s in the kitchen and bad for creative energy.  There are spills and crumbs in the kitchen and 3,000 tomatoes, I can’t deal.  Then there’s Scruffy.  He’s not in the kitchen but he sits too close, no matter where I go; he’s a close-sitter.  And yes, my job, you may have heard my job’s not going well.  It’s much better today than yesterday, thank you.  Still.  I’d prefer a much easier job.  Like a tollbooth, today I wish I worked in a tollbooth, for lots of money. 

If you own a tollbooth send my resume here.

By the way, I’m a salamander on Facebook.  That’s the picture I picked because it reminds me of Stevie, who died when we saved him from the pool.  Maybe I don’t have new or ex-boyfriends coming to my Facebook because they think I’m a salamander.  If you’re my ex-boyfriend or you want to be, and you also want to Friend me but are worried about Salmonella, let me assure you that I, sir, am no salamander.  You’ll be fine. 

[Post script:  I tried your song, D., but it reminds me of Reservoir Dogs and then it makes me want to watch it.  Find me another one.  Chop-chop.]

Update:  Okay, I guess there is a Facebook thing to show wives, but you have to be Friends first and I’m currently not Friends with anyone I’m married to, so the point is moot.   

… and his comment.  Before I go one way or another I’ll, of course, want to see the present. 

Unrelated, the landscapers are here and I think they saw me naked.  I’m accustomed to watching animal porn and undressing all day without bother.  Don’t knock my routine, I’m on a streak.  (Pun intended.)

Oh, yeah, and the ants are back upstairs.  They’ve multiplied and seem mad.  Some of us will need to sleep elsewhere this eve.

Some birthdays.  My cousin Sara, for one.  Allen Ginsberg, too.  And also Larry McMurtry.  Which makes me want to reread The Last Picture Show and maybe watch it tonight. 

This is cute.  I know you don’t like links, A., but click on it … anywhere on this line, seriously.  It’s a parody of Goodnight Moon, its called Goodnight Bush. 

I have to go people.  But before I do, what did one hat say to the other hat? 

“You wait here while I go on ahead.”

A head.  Get it?

Because I’m having trouble with my head today (can’t get a thing to come out) I’m working on filling it.  Am watching The Today Show, for instance, and following the Tatum O’Neal crack story, the fire in a movie studio story, Ted Kennedy’s brain. 

I expect brilliance to seep out of me in a moment. 

I hope A. has a pleasant day. 

Unrelated, General Greivous of the Separatist Army is a really creepy-looking guy.  Don’t you think, A.?  He’s the one with the four skinny arms. 

I’m getting A. new ant traps.  I’m going shopping at Lowe’s after work if you want to come. 

If you can’t meet me at Lowe’s you can bring your presents to our house tonight.  He’ll be home.  He’ll have his present-opening pants on. 

Hey, I just realized that although TGW takes place over the course of a year, Howard does not have a birthday.  Ellen does but not Howard.  That is so like Ellen!  Anyway, he needs a birthday.  If you have ideas for Howard’s birthday, after you’ve purchased your presents for A.’s, please send them here (the ideas for Howard’s birthday). 

Update:  I just made Howard a Scorpio if that helps.

A., you guys, has a new battery.  For his phone.  I’m serious!  Call and talk to him, if you want to, for hours!

In other news:  the Dow’s down, the bull’s up, I’m eating lettuce leaves, and Chiquita I believe (I think that’s what I hear) is throwing up.

Julie Nipp had a party and I didn’t go.  Still.  I expect her to come to all mine, if she doesn’t I’ll be livid. 

A., you guys, is nuts (see # 4.)  What book is that, A., and why are you reading it at work?  Nevermind.  My job, most times, is fun, because I get to read and look up curious things, and do some research and make things up.  Today I’m reading on-line excerpts of Saul Bellow because when I get stuck I need good writing and he’s a standy. 

Here’s a great little bit from Humboldt’s Gift:

“To be loused up by Humboldt was really a kind of privilege.  It was like being the subject of a two-nosed portrait by Picasso, or an eviscerated chicken by Soutine.  Money always inspired him.  He adored talking about the rich.  Brought up on New York tabloids, he often mentioned the golden scandals of yesteryear, Peaches and Daddy Browning, Harry Thaw and Evelyn Nesbitt, plus the Jazz Age, Scott Fitzgerald, and the Super-Rich.  The heiresses of Henry James he knew cold.”

To be loused up by DiFalco was kind of a privilege.  Like getting the two-for-one milk coupon at Safeway, or the front mezzanine seats with M. and D.  (M. — I didn’t get them yet, I’ll email you about it.) 

I, sir, am no Saul Bellow.  Still.

Remind me to show this (Maurizio Savini) to my artsy, gum-chewing son.  I also meant to go see Tom Sachs in the city but now we’re not there.  He does big giant sculpted art, including but not limited to a Hello Kitty and (I think) a blue whale.  Oh well. 

A. and I didn’t talk Saturday night, for reasons mutually to blame or probably me more, but then A. decided on Sunday that he was done and we’d be chatty again.  I decided not.  I don’t think he gets it, that I seethe when he’s not talking to me.  He goes about his day and thinks nothing of it, moves on without care, or maybe with care but either way not talking, and I seethe. 

Not only that, I grandfather in all the other times he didn’t talk to me, or nonchalantly pretended there was nothing wrong when there was, and so the seething is compounded exponentially.  The second time it happened, for example, the effect was squared, the third time cubed, etc.  For perspective, Saturday was ”Going-to-Bed-in-Separate-Rooms-Without-Talking,” number 4,325.  Seems odd when we’ve only been married 3,616 days.  Still. 

Seething turns to ice at some point, I think.  The glacial kind that is only undone by centuries of carbon pollution and bad light bulbs. 

While we weren’t talking, though, G. and Jr. made pizza popcorn.  It was excellent I recommend it.  I’ll send the recipe if you’d like.  We munched it to What’s Up Doc? — not Bugs Bunny, but Streisand / Ryan O’Neal, and the riddle of the red plaid handbag.  (Nice mindless fun.  O’Neal is hot in boxers.) 

I still have a cold, send cough drops.  G. is watching The Electric Company.  The Times was boring today, one can’t go two paragraphs without an insult to Hillary.  If you insist on examples, glance through the book list the Pompous Writers suggest candidates read. 

Remind me please, when TGW has ushered in fame so swift and heady I can barely stand on my own diamond-studded heels, NOT to weigh in.  Unless it’s on badminton, I’ve got very important cultural views and opinions about that.   

[More Bubble Gum Art by Maurizio Savini here.]