My brilliant and handsome husband had the good sense to release me from the shackles of my bondage. He and his friend took the children to the pumpkin patch today (despite protests from one of the 12-year olds: “I hate the pumpkin patch! It’s stupid! I won’t go!”) while I went out. And about. Alone. For hours.

I found myself wandering in a secret passageway I never knew existed at the local public library. Who knew there were stairs in that building? Today was a library book sale and I came away with a bag full of books that cost me only $12.50. I can not die until I am 127 years old because I have so many books stacked up waiting to be read. (Alas, I am going to temporarily give up Gilead, which won a Pultizer Prize. I wanted to love this book, but I’m just bogged down and everytime I read it, I literally fall asleep. I’m going to start a new book.)

Then, I went to Wal-Mart, where I wasted a great deal of time cruising up and down the aisles, doing a little Christmas shopping while I waited for my film to be developed. We don’t have our very own Wal-Mart here, so I had to drive a bit to get to one. I know some people think Wal-Marts are actually run by Satan, but I love Wal-Mart.

My love for Wal-Mart goes back to the days when I lived in northern Michigan. Hold up your left hand, fingers closed–we lived at the left base of your pointer-finger fingernail. One year, the snow began in October and we didn’t see grass again until March. Since we didn’t own snowmobiles and didn’t ice-fish, our entertainment involved shopping at the local Wal-Mart–which was a good thirty-minutes from our house. (Everything was thirty minutes from our house, except for the moose and wild turkeys and the kids who sniffed glue back in the woods on the edge of our ten acres.) I loved Wal-Mart (and I never disrespected it by calling it “Wallyworld,” either) because it made northern Michigan almost bearable. I even spent one wedding anniversary shopping at Wal-Mart.

Those were four long years. And that was before I had the internet, so just sit still for a minute and feel sympathetic.

Thank you. And good-night.

Dear One,

When you came into my life, suddenly, everything expanded. My constricted, tiny, slow-motion world turned into a blur, a whizzing magic show, full of wonder and lights. What joy I felt in those early days! You rescued me from the doldrums, from plodding along in weary monotony.

As the days passed–really, as the months screamed by in a flash, I spent more and more time with you. We grew so comfortable together, didn’t we? You and me; we made such a great pair. I depended on you. I counted on you. I even trusted my financial records to you. I thought you felt the same about me.

I’d spill my guts to you, often late into the night. I looked forward to our time together, learning new things, sharing information, dreaming of places we might visit. And you let me down. You utterly betrayed me.

I just can’t believe how suddenly you dumped me. In the past, at least I had some warning. But you? You just up and quit! How dare you! I was in the middle of a riveting spiel about something or another (I can’t remember exactly what, but I’m sure it was dazzling) and your deafening silence cut me off in mid-sentence. I am still stunned at your callousness.

I never expected it. Oh, I know, I should have. I’ve heard others moan about that kind of unreliability, but I never thought you had it in you. I believed you were different. My vulnerable faith has been crushed.

I thought I was doing everything right. I was really careful. I didn’t wander afar, nor did I let my eyes stray. I didn’t speak to just anyone, nor did I share things I ought not. You and I–weren’t we guarded enough? Didn’t we put up a strong enough fence around us? How did this gulf open between us?

Now, I just don’t feel safe. I don’t want to begin a tale for fear you will cut me off. I am wary of disclosing any information, personal or not. I’m even scared to go places I used to go. Who is watching? Who caused this devastation? Was it me? Was it you? Was it someone plotting against us? This turn of events baffles me.

I was true to you, too. Even after the first time. But now, you should know that I’ve begun to think of another . . . another computer, that is. I’m thinking of replacing you with a laptop.

So there. Take that. I’m taking my lightening-fast fingers and moving on.

(Okay. One more chance. But that’s it. I mean it.)

I continue to struggle with my computer and no longer pretend to know what the mustard is wrong with it.

So I will blog quickly before it turns itself off.

Remember the Seinfeld episode (season eight) when Elaine had the bright idea to sell muffin tops, rather than whole muffins? Well, my daughter is three and she will only eat the tops of muffins. I wonder if this is a genetic abnormality or merely good sense?

I hate playing boards games. Anna Quindlen said, “Maybe I had three children in the first place so I wouldn’t ever have to play board games.” in this article in Newsweek. That makes me feel so much better, because I never have the urge to sit and play Monopoly or CandyLand or any other game with my kids. Good thing my husband does that sort of thing.

My daughter said to her friend the other day, “You are buggin’ me really much!” And that’s how I feel about my computer. It’s buggin’ me really much.

Our guest arrived last night at 10:30 p.m. and I realized how lovely my house looks in the glow of candlelight. You couldn’t see the dust or the unmopped floor. My husband sat at the kitchen table and reminisced over a photo album (a magnetic album, oh the horrors of acidic pages!) full of college pictures. My husband was quite impressed with his young, buff college self. He sported a full head of hair then and a trimmer waistline.

They’ve headed up north this morning to visit another of their college buddies. I hope it’ll be dark when they return so they house still looks presentable.

The three-year olds played outside this morning and I was so happy for the peace and quiet that I didn’t even stop my daughter from using the hose. She sprayed herself and her buddy while I soaked in the almost-solitude. (The 12-year olds were in their room procrastinating, but I ignored them, too.)

I have to mention that I had the most awkward moment last week. I took my daughter to visit my mother at her little apartment. I called ahead to make sure it was all right. Imagine my shock when I spied a gray-haired mountain of a man sitting in my mother’s recliner. I studiously avoided looking at him and my mother acted as if she were completely alone. Then we entered the house and still, she said nothing about this man.

We chatted for a bit and headed through the kitchen to the bedroom to look at something, all the while ignoring this man. I could feel his eyes on me and I kept waiting for my mother to say, “Oh, this is__________,” but she didn’t.

Finally, when my daughter ran to the patio door to see the kitty, I was unavoidably close to the man, so, I looked him in the eye and stuck out my hand. He introduced himself and made incessant small-talk with me the rest of the visit.

I am not in the mood for another man in my mother’s life. See, here’s the history in a nutshell:

My mother was married to my father.

Then she married a freeloader who stole all her stuff. That lasted 5 years.

Then she married an illiterate alcoholic who hit her with a coffee mug, among other things. That lasted 18 months.

Then she married a beer-drinking, undershirt-wearing, couch-potato alcoholic who threatened to kill her and himself with a shotgun. She escaped a box at a time after a few years.

Then she lived with some guy for six or seven years, pretending for the first few years that she was merely renting a room. That man wore sweatpants to family gatherings, which was revolting.

So, you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t greet the next man in a long line of losers with the bare minimum requirement of enthusiasm. When is it time to give up on love? I say, when you’ve struck out five or six times in a row. And when you have kids, even grown kids.

At the very least, get a police check on the guy and make him take a psychological profile, too. And don’t bring him to family events. I can’t take it anymore.

I spent untold hours yesterday installing, removing, tweaking, downloading, and almost (but not quite) cursing. (Okay. Maybe one little “dammit!”)

The computer is running so far this morning, but it did give me the old “your computer has recovered from a serious issue,” as if that’s news to me.

I’m sorry my map doesn’t recognize Tokyo as a “valid” city. I’ll email the guys who created it–it’s still in the Beta stage, so maybe they haven’t gotten to that hemisphere yet. Or something.

For those who are curious, I already run AVG anti-virus software, as well as X-Cleaner, Zone Alarm, SpyBot and SpySweeper. And I never click on suspicious things. But despite my precautions, something’s happened. When I used the “Restore CD,” my Windows XP reverted to the older version. I am unable to install the newest updates (including the Service Pack 2)–the computer shuts down midway during the installation.

We do have another computer. The boys have a computer, which is identical to mine, only with sticky keys and an unfortunate location (their room). It shows no signs of illness.

My company arrives late tomorrow night, so today I am thinking about deep cleaning the bathrooms. And mopping the boys’ room. I don’t want to do too much too far in advance or daily living with children will undo it.

On a positive note, this is the first time I’ve ever had computer trouble. On a negative note, if my dad were here, he could fix this in a jiffy, but alas, he took his computer knowledge to his early grave.

Stupid computer. As of 3:17 p.m., it is randomly shutting down. I wiped the hard drive clean (again), reinstalled everything (again) . . . and still, the computer shuts down.

A virus? Perhaps.

If so, I hope the originator ends up in hell Chuck E. Cheese’s.

I know. I wasn’t even gone long enough for you to miss me. I have apparently cured my computer woes. Next up? A cure for cancer.

Actually, I’m going to watch television in a minute or two. Surely I’ll be able to find a reality show somewhere. I am at the mercy of the television programmers since I don’t have TiVo yet, like the cool kids do.

Tonight, I caught a glimpse of someone I wished to avoid in the grocery store. Someone I know, but not well. So, I traveled a tangled path through the store, swerving this way and that, peeking around corners before committing my cart to an aisle. I strolled ever so slowly to the checkstand, noting that the woman I wanted to avoid was already in the next line, about to pay.

I tilted away from the woman as I unloaded my cart and pretended to study the tabloids. I would have whistled an aimless tune, if only I knew how. I practiced the “If I don’t look at you, I am invisible,” method.

Then, she spotted me as she walked past the checkstands. “MEL!” She yelled my name and so I feigned great joy at seeing her. She gave me a message for my mother, asked me how I am (“busy,” I said, my standard answer which tells everything, and yet nothing at all).

That’s why it took me so long to get home from the store tonight.

Oh, and to answer a question or two. Ellipsis asked if the coffee really is better here in the Pacific Northwest, home to Starbucks. To my chagrin, I hate coffee. I thought I would drink it when I grew up, but alas, no. I adore the smell of coffee and despise the taste. I avoid steaming drinks entirely, anyway, as they make my nose run.

But I do like my chocolate with nuts. Unfortunately, I was so busy avoiding that woman at the store that I forgot to buy any.

Also, if I could choose a Superpower, I think I’d have to go with the Power of Invisibility. Wouldn’t that be handy?

My computer continues to malfunction. All paths lead to wiping the hard drive clean and using the magic “Restore CD,” to start fresh.

I am looking forward to this almost as much as I am looking forward to starting another school week with my underachieving twin boys who exert more energy avoiding schoolwork than they do working.

And I’m looking forward to that almost as much as I’m looking forward to preparing my house for overnight company arriving on Thursday and staying for the weekend.

If you never hear from me again, you’ll know I was done in–defeated, decimated, destroyed–by either my computer and its Blue Screen of Death, schooling-at-home uncooperative twins who just can’t remember to capitalize proper nouns or put numbers in their proper columns during long division or my house, host to millions and billions of microorganisms, thousands of sheets of errant paper, hundreds of toys, dozens of glasses stranded in bedrooms and four kids who make messes quicker than I can clean.

Or maybe I just ran off.

Send chocolate.

The task seemed straightforward. Create a water filtration device. Just follow the simple directions listed in the student guide. Materials needed? A 2-liter bottle and activated charcoal. (After spending three weeks thinking about buying activated charcoal, another week half-heartedly searching for activated charcoal at Target and the grocery store, and a Saturday morning actually buying activated charcoal at the pet store, we were finally ready.) The curriculum company provided the two kinds of sand and two kinds of gravel we needed. I had to scrounge up a cotton ball.

I will spare you the details, but let’s just say that when the directions say to loosely plug the opening of the bottle with a cotton ball, do not take them literally or seriously. And by “them,” I mean the sadists at the curriculum company who wrote the directions to the science project.

Because if you follow the scant directions, you will end up with pea gravel in your kitchen garbage disposal and as you fish out each piece of gravel from the bowels of the garbage disposal, you might also go berserk and yell, “I HATE SCIENCE PROJECTS!” in a very unmotherlike manner. (I’m guessing Michelle Duggar has never thrown a tantrum with her hand plunged into the dark recesses of her garbage disposal.)

The children did manage to learn the five steps of water filtration (aeration, coagulation, sedimentation, filtration, disinfection), despite my antics.

And by the way, when the directions say “one 2-liter bottle,” just realize that they actually mean “four 2-liter bottles.” One, four, what’s the diff, really?

I hate science projects. Just tell me and I will believe you. I don’t need to recreate a water filtration system to believe that it works. I am entirely convinced by the written word. No hands-on experiments needed.

Note to self: Avoid becoming a scientist when you grow up.

Cotton ball, schmotton ball. Did I mention how much I hate science projects?

Check out Toni’s blog. Her stat counter tells her she’s had 2900 visitors so far. She wonders when she’ll reach 3000. How about tonight? Run on over and tell her hello, won’t you?