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.

Scruffy kicked things off today with a vile viscously thing launched from his inner reaches onto the passenger seat of my car. It’s not the first time something untoward has come from one end of him or another, it’s just particularly bothered me so far. I think it’s mornings. I’m annoyed with mornings this week and moreso, I’m annoyed with whoever decided on them. Who exactly decided on mornings, and when did this decision come about? Who said we have to start everything every day at 8, and all of us all at once? I think it’s ridiculous, why do we stand for it? Each morning in our house, whether we stay up the whole night or sleep to 7:45, there is a stressful mad rush. It’s the most fragile thing. Questions must be asked over and over — did you get your field trip form / math / check / lunch, coat, brain? At least one thing is left behind. I make a brave attempt at being chipper in the car, if the traffic light on 78th is out I pretend to find humor in it. Somehow we make it each day — whether we’re up at 5 in the morning, or 7 — and it’s always three seconds before the bell but I feel accomplished by it. Today, though, Scruffy barfed. And again, it’s one of a number of times in the course of his three years, but it particularly disturbed me, I can’t shake it. I’m delicate, I think.

There is a mystery, too, with WordPress and you’d never understand it unless I showed it to you, if you come over I will. For months and months, maybe a year, I have been working in a half-baked WordPress GUI. I was hacked two different times, and it affected my software but to reload it all required some trickiness and a backup so I just chose to ignore it. But now today, here’s my Dashboard clean and new, all pretty. No explanations, no acknowledgment. Sigh.

I’m going to Arizona for a day or two, I wish you could come. If you’re Mark, there’s an email on the way, I didn’t reply a long time ago remember that? If you’re Laura you should drive over here, it’s not all that far, and drop something — anything — off at my door. I’m peeking through the shades right now to watch for you. Some of the neighbors, I think, find me strange.

I thought Elizabeth Taylor was mean to Eddie Fisher but it could be said that Eddie Fisher was mean to someone, too. Still. Floss after meals.

First of all, I moved. Moving requires skill and organization, and a comfort with chaos and the rearranging of things.

It’s not my forte.

The internet, for one thing, is not where it used to be. It’s not there on my computer when I sit in my chair. Instead it’s one in a series of tedious phone calls I’ll have to make for a number of things no longer where they were. I hate making phone calls.

Another thing is my coffee is over there. I made a lovely iced coffee just minutes ago and I see that it’s not within drinking range, it’s over there.

Yesterday I went to a wind farm, that’s what they’re calling them now, it’s where they farm wind. It was in the middle of the top part of Oregon, by that river, and while there are a number of wind farms I went to one in Rufus with Scruffy and J. It was quiet and creepy and we had great fun, we stopped in the middle of the road and abandoned the car as if aliens had snatched us. (Though they hadn’t). They’re sinister-seeming, the wind things. They’re too tall and too white and too close together I think, and they’re replacing the wheat fields which seems mean to the wheat. The landowners get paid to let them be there so now combines are rusting in fields and the air has unnatural sounds. The wind they grow on wind farms doesn’t sound like regular wind.

Unrelated, I live in Washington now with Jr., Scruffy and G. I’ll tell you where later so you can drop things on my porch. We’re watching Mad Men from the beginning via projector on the wall. Moving I’m not crazy about, but summers are fun.

I’ll say more tomorrow.

I’m eating my yogurt today with a fork.

G. is furious with me this morning because she left her coat on the ground. She left it there yesterday and then it rained so she was forced to wear a different coat, the black nylon one with pink stripes. She claims this coat is not warm, she pointed out it’s a cold day. I hardly think the other coat is much warmer, I suspect it’s a fashion thing. Or routine thing. Or more likely, even, a morning thing. (There are certain things I passed down, a distaste for mornings is one of them.)

The coffee leaked today, from the pot. I don’t know how this could have happened since it has never once from this pot happened before. I’m drinking the part of it that didn’t leak out of a mug that’s been shaped like a pumpkin. Ironically, as I drank it, Pumpkin the cat jumped next to me and watched.

It’s rained here, now, for three thousand days straight. And honestly I don’t mind it. Yes, I complain — to checkout clerks and hair dressers, mostly — that’s what one does, it’s a courtesy. But really I don’t mind, except for the coat that was left in the yard.

The badminton net is up if you’d like to come play. It’s near where the coat was left. I still haven’t finished my yogurt.

Over on Twitter (ahem), Alice Waters is doing a webex from her kitchen and she’s probably roasting a chicken, that’s usually what she does, but the point is it’s making me hungry. I’m not watching/listening to it, too bothersome, I’m reading the tweets. It’s inspired me to make split-pea soup and now my kitchen smells good and I needed that. Wednesdays are gloomy this week.

I have a love-scorn relationship with Alice, by the way, did you know that. (I’m foregoing the question mark for a short bit: avant-garde.) She almost ruined me one year by insisting I hand-whisk aioli. It was the summer of 2008, and I barely survived it; the humility of all those thin runny attempts.

But since then I’ve found Mark Bittman and Mark says, “whisk, schmisk. psst: the processor.” The processor! And with Mark, guess what else. No guilt! Alice is the Catholic cook to his Unitarian and now my yummy Unitarian garlic aioli has been going strong for one whole year. And now today, Unitarian split-pea soup: Stock, peas, salt? Check. Chopped carrots / onion / hamhock / other annoying time-consuming crap? Meh, don’t bother.

You’ll notice I put in question marks just now. I reserve, at all times, creative license.

I’m down to one clean room in the house and I’m using it sparingly. Tim won’t Tweet and it has hurt profoundly in slightly vague ways. I’m on an adverb kick, it seems.

I want one good surprise today, that’s the other thing. Just one surprise and then you can go home. And if I’ve not eaten the whole soup I’ll let you have some.

I like Cynthia Ozick. I do, I like her, I’m just saying. I also like this recipe, though I haven’t yet tried it. For now I like the sound of it. And I like the cat, even though I didn’t think I would and I like certain memories, like the day Martin and Meghan drove from Sherwood to here for lunch. I like the way the lawn looks right now, completely scraggled. It was overgrown, and then the kids mowed it, but it was a battle with the overgrowth and now it’s scraggled. I like that. I like pickles this week, a lot, and I like trains. I wish I were eating pickles on a train. I like Charlie the Unicorn and I also like his two friends. They’re playful and start silly games and I’m sad today (the rain) so I’m trying to mostly like things. Balance it out.

Hmm. I like this one blanket, I got it for Christmas, it’s blue. I probably like it because it’s blue. (I like blue). I like the grill now because I’ve learned how to use it. Can you imagine? It’s not so hard, it turns out, though I understand there’s finesse.

Someone is doing Romeo and Juliet on Twitter. I don’t remember where I saw that or I’d give you a link, but basically the characters all Tweet. And perhaps I’ll have Ellen Jenks Tweet. I’ll have her Tweet and also blog. I remembered today there’s a whole slew of words I’ve cut out, I should use them. I’m thinking of marketing ideas. I want your cousin to buy my book, so I’m definitely targeting him. Just tell me where he lives, I’ll do the rest.

That kind of worked, I’m not so sad. I think it was the bit about your cousin. I like him. He’s a pretty okay guy.

Oops. The recipe is right here. => RECIPE

The only thing to eat in my house is a white cheddar rice cake and pickles. I’m going to save them, though, to take to Laura’s tomorrow for coffee. Pickles and coffee, no one’s thought of it. I really can’t see why.

Yesterday morning my grass was four-feet tall. It really was. Then Jr. and his sister and their friend cut it down while I read Vanity Fair. It took them almost three days. Though closer to one, I guess, since it was yesterday. I gave them each a little money, but I completely ripped them off.

Tomorrow is Caroline’s birthday, I wish it was mine. If it were mine I’d have you over to play Battleship. I think that’s what I want on my birthday. I’m not sure, yet, what Caroline wants on hers.

I have a light workday which means no excuse to skip workouts and eat junk food. Light workdays bug me. The birds are trying to get in the house for Scruffy’s food and Scruffy’s feet are green because of the lawn. My coffee’s cold.

In Vanity Fair I learned that the girl from the pancake shop who dated Tiger only ever got him to buy her one chicken wrap from Subway. I wasn’t sure what to do with that, I only know it has stuck. As well, unfortunately, as this. [Click on "this". I dare you to not watch it over and over again.]

Look for me at the beach. If you go.

Okay, I need you to do this, I mean it. I need you to sign up for Twitter and follow me. Right now! You think you have to write stuff, but you don’t. You can lurk, it’s not creepy. No need to be clever, you’re already tired of that on Facebook. You can sign up on Twitter, follow ME, then not do a thing. Oh, sure, after a time I’ll seem dull. Somewhat. So then you Follow others. Follow @Bug_Girl, for instance, or @Cuckoowasp, or Yoko or @bistromaison. Follow the Movie Guy, @whipnelson and @kerrynewberry. Your @mom might be Tweeting and if she is you should follow her, too.

Follow Lion and Martini, follow Ashton and Demi Moore. Just do it, okay? You should trust me. All the time.

You have to write a bio, but it’s short. And seriously, if you’re busy, I’ll write it for you. Just ask.

You see, I need your attention. I’m going to need it in coming months. I didn’t forget about my book, it’s still there. I still have a fancy agent, he still likes it, he thought perhaps it might need sexed up. So I sexed, and sent it back. And now it’s you I want to focus on, don’t leave! Pay attention to me. Lend me your hits and your Followers, be my Friends. I’ll have a new web site for Crane Flies soon and you can all come to the party. I have an illustrator and he’s brilliant, we might change the world.

It would help if there were food in the house, I ate bacon bits at 11.

I’ve got some other things to do now, but there was a fire in the kitchen yesterday, did I tell you that? A big one with flames on the stove. They were tall flames, I was scared. And then they inexplicably went away. That Movie Guy roasted pork last night and so at the last minute I tried to piccata. It was okay, I guess. If you come over, though, I’ll really cook.

#donebutwitherrorsonthepage #titleofmymemoir

My friend Laurie is nominated for an Eisner award for Best Reality-Based Work. You should threaten the judges with death and pain if they don’t let her win. That’s what I think.

Eric is reading my blog today from Starbuck’s in New York, he’ll win a prize. I’ve been working on business things and marketing and things that are fun but not terribly cute and so I’ve found it hard to be clever, but Scruffy hasn’t. He rolls the window down now all by himself and sticks his nose out. That kid.

I watched The Masters off and on and I’m happy for golf and its sponsors, they got one darn good fairy tale. My coffee was terrible this morning. The ants are still rampant, Eric says to burn them.

See? I’m wasting your time. It was Eric who prompted me — someone’s reading!, I thought. I should write!

It’s a day where I want soup and you know I hate getting it. I’d like to make some but then I won’t work, I’d like to leave the house but there are no soup drive-ins by me. So again, here we are, you’ll have to bring it to me. A bouillabaise, I think, if you don’t mind.

@BistroMaison and I drove through the back roads of Dundee to taste Lachini’s pretty wines on Saturday. Here’s how we read the map.

I get a supreme sense of accomplishment every morning when I drop the kids at their school, for the most part clothed and intact. It’s good to keep them around for that. I find similar affirmation when I manage to keep Scruffy fed, though the latter’s been offset this morning by the missing hamster. Yep. You thought they’d croaked didn’t you? Well they haven’t. There were four of them humming along smoothly for quite some time, actually. And then last night we found there are three. The unsettling piece is that the three look like they ate four. It’s the only thing that makes sense. There have the faces of indigestion and there’s no way for four to get out. They ate him. They’re animals.

I’ve lost not just a hamster but an unusually high number of other items this week. It makes me jumpy. My checkbook, for instance, I’ve lost that. If you have it please leave it on the piano. I won’t ask questions and I’ll offer you fountain drinks and pistachios if there’s time for that.

I’ve lost the battle of Odorous House Ants, too. Or — alternate spin — I’ve redefined it. They’re not going to leave, they’ve established that. So the challenge is to find some sort of joy. I left a glass out in the guest house overnight, it had a small trace of juice. In the morning it was filled three-deep with the tiny little things, plus a large trail of them leading back to the wall. I found joy in the pile of their dead bodies and then more joy in vacuuming them up.

I’ve got my coffee, Anna, I’m drinking it. I feel I’ll never quit as hard as I try, I’m weak. It’s just that there’s coffee and heated car seats and little else for me in the mornings and I must survive mornings they’re critical. When I can’t nail mornings anymore, I’m going to bag the whole thing.

I sound gloomy, I think, but I’m not it’s just my knee. My knee hurts and I should have said so right off but I was trying to be brave. My knee hurts and the portable heater is on and I want to turn it off but not get up. If you’ve got suggestions on how to do that, or again, if you’ve filched my checkbook, please write me here. I look forward to reading your words, use responsible grammar.