I once heard the CEO of a big company describing how a TV crew had followed him round to shoot a “day in the life” segment. The resulting piece lasted two minutes, and his problem was that he couldn’t think what they had left out. I have the opposite feeling: All this time and space and I haven’t listed my favorite-ever Fray posts or talked about what gets a post pulled, didn’t even mention my son’s epic 3 a.m. nosebleed (very Halloween) or the party we went to, haven’t answered the questions about music and books, didn’t tell my great story about when the clocks change.

I’d love to have featured more posts, particularly the excellent discussion on rules for Fray reading that starts here with Keith M. Ellis; even though some of it is more serious than I was expecting. I just heard that my rules on choosing Fray posts have been featured in an Australian newspaper; apparently “Second Amendment” had to be translated.

Ender came up with a complete questionnaire  for me, and I’m going to answer it and put it down there in the box. But I’ll pull up one section:

“Q. Have you ever written a caution to posters who are behaving badly … and decided that it was too harsh? If yes, do you still have it, and can we read it?”

A. No, what I think is what you get. There was a famous open letter to a certain poster: I put it in the Fray, and people saved it and re-circulate it from time to time, saying “This is what she’s like when she’s really angry.” I have, however, occasionally written e-mail to other Slate people, saved it in draft, and thrown it away the next day. I hope that will please those who wanted more tough talking and anger.

One more question: How did I get my job? I knew someone at Slate, and he asked if I’d be interested. I’d recently gotten a work permit (I originally came to the United States as an attractively named “trailing spouse” on a non-working visa) and my children were both by then in school, so I said yes because it sounded fun and flexible. (My daughter, when she heard about the job, said, “Oh good, now can I go to daycare like my lucky friends?” No.) I’ve never asked him why he thought of me: I did read Slate a lot, and he knew that I had been a journalist and writer for years. I don’t think anyone knew then the actual requirements for the job:

1) Bossiness

2) Ability to track down the posters

3) Ability to read very fast

4) Superficial knowledge of many subjects (except sport. I’m sorry, it’s my weakness.)

5) Good memory (I like to surprise posters by remembering long-lost posts of theirs; they probably think I do it electronically, but I don’t.)

6) Imperviousness to insults (Most of the time—just occasionally it gets to me.)

******

Today has been pretty much nonstop: work, still finding problems, everything I do still taking a lot more time than it used to. I had surprising e-mail from a history professor saying Halloween has become much more of an event in the UK since I left there. I took an hour out to volunteer in my daughter’s classroom, more work, visit to the dentist. My children had been picked up from school by a friend (and a thank you in Slate should be enough for anyone, Kristin), and after sitting in her kitchen for a short but welcome recovery period, we had a quick dinner at home and then attended a band concert featuring my daughter the trumpet player.

I keep thinking about the Slate writer who e-mailed me today with his reasons for not participating in the Fray more. He said I should be positive, but my biggest regret about the job is that while I hope I have made the Fray a better place for posters, I don’t think I have made any difference to the writers. To set against that, there are some great Fray moments: the “ Seed ” Fray with its touching and honest personal accounts of infertility and donor babies; Thrasymachus’ posts after the 9/11 attack—try this one—were among the best dispatches from New York life in the aftermath that I saw anywhere. Then there are the endless great jokes, the smart, passionate discussions, and the extraordinary range of people who choose to post. It’s a cool place with cool people. Mostly.

On the front seat of my deeply non-BMW car (a full tank of gas and the cell phone plugged in and that car doubles in value), the last balloon-grape adrift from the Halloween costume bounces gently on top of the (thick) notebook in which I write the ISP numbers of Fray miscreants. I’m about ready for the weekend.