From the 7 Feb 2011 New Yorker‘s Briefly Noted review section:
Bird Cloud, by Annie Proulx (Scribner; $26). Proulx’s memoir chronicles her years-long quest to build a “final home” in the harsh Wyoming landscape that has provided a setting for much of her fiction. The project is plagued by obstacles, and Proulx’s enthusiasm is fickle. “I still do not know where things went wrong or even if they did go wrong,” she writes. Among the litany of setbacks: a “fishing room” must be combined with a laundry room; a floor is stained an undesirable shade of adobe; a mover packs boxes of manuscripts incorrectly. (If she sees this man again, she vows, “I would kill him.”) Proulx, who winters in Santa Fe and vacations in Capri, does not mask her contempt for the locals, many of whom go to astonishing lengths to indulge her whims. At certain moments—as when she casually drives into a five-foot snowdrift and has to be shovelled out—one imagines that the feeling is mutual.
Having once met Ms. Proulx I feel a nice accuracy in all that this review implies. That woman is something dire. A vulture.