C. has a brilliant idea we’re beginning to work on. It involves, though, reading old posts. There’s a story thread, i agree with her. It’s ripe to be mined, we’ve found that there’s humor. But still, while thinking of it like that I must first read the sincere parts. And those feel, if not painful, then at the very least … well, weird.

I’ve begun at the beginning, which is March of 2006. And ew, my writing is stiff then, I hadn’t found a groove. But worse — there’s a woman who very genuinely believes that she’s married. There’s this “A.” person dropped all over the page, decorating anecdotes and such. Sometimes she speaks to him, sometimes it’s flirtatious. Sometimes (ouch) it’s cute. She seems, in other words, smitten with this “A.” She seems to very much like him. Who’s “A.”? I wonder as I’m reading what I wrote.

On the sidebar I can click on posts by particular month and September 2007 looms large — that’s the month “A.” admitted he began soliciting Craigslist sex. (There is ample evidence to suggest it was much earlier, but that’s nitpicking). So if I start reading there, that September, everything is colored with — Oh, he screwed a stranger that day. I wonder if he “hosted” or “traveled.” I wonder what the place they screwed in was like and how he felt driving home. I wonder how it felt, afterward, to kiss me.

It’s funny, of course –clueless (dim-witted?) suburban wife makes dinner, works, shuttles kids here and there while an hour-and-a-half away her photogenic spouse bangs craigslist chicks. Then crash, tinkling glass — it all falls apart and well, it is funny. Much of it, anyway. There were clothes on the lawn, there were things destroyed, there were words posted on a blog then taken back. There was some hiding from paper servers, awkward dating and not-dating. There were ants and a heater going out, there were sometimes comatose hours in a chair. There was screaming and not screaming. There was seething over the trite fact that the screwing was done with girls who couldn’t spell. It’s funny if i pretend it’s fiction, which I can do now. Most of the time.

But i still think it was trashy of “A.”, and also the girls he screwed. I still think they all kind of suck.

There are things I’m very grateful for. That there is coffee for sale at five in the morning, is one. I’m grateful for Yahoo’s Most Viewed News, and my fake-furry lined boots in the winter, and that my commute’s not too bad, and the animals. Not all of the animals, not everyone’s, or the jungle’s or forest’s, just mine. They’re quirky, ill-behaved creatures who eat too fast and fail at small-talk. And their bathroom etiquette is, well, could be improved. Still. This morning at 5 am (less than an hour ago) when I left for coffee in sleepwear and boats, no one laughed or moved eyebrows or traded looks. They climbed onto the back of the couch and stared out the window until I came back and you could tell by their demeanor that there’d been little gossip about me while I was gone.

These are the kind of people I can live with. The gruesome hamsters, even, summon affectionate eyes when I peer in their cage.

J. is in Parsippany, which is silly. But that’s where you go for corporate meetings when it’s where the corporation is.

I’m here, you know that, and can’t sleep. Nothing angsty, don’t fret. It’s mostly timing and the stars.

The Batman alarm just went off, it’s in Jr.’s room it’s incredibly loud.

There are projects going on. Not glamorous, necessarily, but at least new. I don’t know. It’s raining. I suppose that’s all I’ll say.

Oh, follow me on Twitter.

I sounded cranky, a bit, yesterday. I wasn’t, though. Hmm.

I can’t believe that M.’s not twittering. Can you believe it, KM? M., you need to Twitter. It’s your kind of thing, really. Later you can thank me.

I do practically everything, now, on my phone. Did you know that? Except work, and sometimes even that. Also, I might want an iPad.

It took me awhile to get Twitter and I’m not skilled, yet, at tweeting, but oh the treats I find from following. Today, for instance: the New York Public Library’s quirky blogs, the iPhone app for Disquieted (new art exhibit at PAM), this guy.

Anyway. Whatever. Scruffy is making weird noises again, he’d be perfect except for the noise. Jonathan Franzen said no writer with an internet connection is producing good fiction (read it on Twitter!) and so I turned off the wireless this morning. I think I made good fiction. I saw that Colson Whitehead (I follow him on Twitter!) received a Pen/Faulkner nomination for Sag Harbor, which I’d forgotten about. I just read an excerpt and it’s very pretty, very pretty. Colson must keep off his internet while he works. Now, to buy it on paper, or beam down to my Kindle?

I’m feeling gadgety today. Soon, within weeks, I’m speaking to my great friend’s class of sixth-graders, or maybe eighths, or maybe both, about writing. And we do a good deal of it differently, I think, than people imagine. Not so much the old Thomas Wolfe way of standing at the dresser hand-writing page after page and letting the finished ones drop to the floor. Nope. There’s Randy Jo Stewart, for instance. She’s launched her cleverly brilliant career on Facebook and Twitter and is writing her book proposal, I hope, right now. She’s built a following and has a chunk of work for agents to review. Before the year is gone, she’ll cut a deal.

Okay, I know. This is a dull, scattered post. I’ve been writing in 140-word snippets too much, a long skinny blog page is imposing. There’s rain, I’ve told you that before. The pool is once again blue (also told you that). I’m going to go back to fiction, I have kept you long enough.

Where the hell have I been? Do you wonder? I’d like to address that if I may, I’ve been doing stuff. Oh nothing big, really. Don’t call your fancy friends. A few minutes ago, for instance, I ate a sandwich. I’m doing that sort of stuff. That’s where I’ve been.

And here, you might as well know it, divorce sucks. It’s unnatural, it’s lame, takes up some time, it’s blah blah THIS blah THAT. It’s retarded. Oh wait, we’re not saying retarded, there are summits about it. We’re saying “intellectually disabled” last time I looked. Please correct.

Still.

So I’ve been doing things, and I can’t find my power washer (have you seen it?) And the pool is BLUE again, and the mosquito larvae have died and there are other things but are you interested in them, really? My good friend is funny and she’s on Facebook and you should Friend her plus follow her on Twitter. You’ll kick yourself if you don’t.

And, I guess, that’s all there is to say about that. Or Tiger or health care, for that matter.

Now I know there was a botched abduction and the aliens are talking to me on Amazon. Seriously. Plus the doorbell rang this morning at 4:00, I think that all of it’s connected.

For instance, my Amazon Express Checkout Payphrase today is: “Teresa’s Gallant Bid”. Do you see what I mean? What do you make of that? Exactly.

There’s a link, on the Payphrase that takes you backstage where you can see bunches of Payphrases and even create your own. That feels like cheating, though. I’ll take my chances, like everyone else, and accept whatever they dole out.

Um. Well. I suppose that’s all I have right now. You’re not disappointed are you? I’m looking for great fiction recommendations, but only stories told in third-person. If you’re not busy, you could send me some. If you are busy, well, then don’t worry about it, it can wait. I’ve seen very few of the Oscar films, if you want to go to matinees of them, ring me up.

I mean it this time. That’s all.

My Amazon Express Checkout Payphrase today is this: “Teresa’s Doubtful Accuracy.” Which, thank you Amazon, will be the title of a book.

Are you following me on Twitter? Because you better be, I mean it. L. is going to Florida soon, so are the H.’s and I think I have cancer in my back. I suppose that’s not funny. My back hurts, though, it does and maybe it’s not cancer but instead an alien abduction gone bad. Botched in the night with me unaware.

I’m desperate for material, there are things in the works but who wants the works? Not me. Perhaps I’ll see Elvis the monkey today, go visit him at lunch. He might be dead, I find that with the animals who live here, when I don’t visit them enough they wind up dead. With Elvis it’s possibly been years. He lives in a glass cage where they make burgers, it’s just a few blocks up the road.

It’s raining, but I don’t really care. The pool’s still green, I’ve come to like it. I need to write a press release right now and grants so if you don’t mind very much, I’m going to go. Call me back.

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.