I love my Mini Cooper. I have adored her even though Hamlet’s witches put spell on her. Which is another way of saying she’s cursed.

Wherein I learn that writer Bao Phi, six years my junior, isn’t very young and that my grasp on American history is sketchy at best.

I remember the day I spent hiding from a spider that turned out to be a hairband. I couldn’t even leave the room for lunch.

A friend sought no dating advice whatsoever. I nonetheless shared valuable tips about finding dates at the Wings Over the Rockies Air & Space Museum.

Wherein I meet Mary Gannon and stay at the West Side YMCA and learn my novel is stupid — all in the same glorious trip.

It’s National Novel Writing Month – called NaNoWriMo in the hippest and unhippest of literary circles – and I’m writing a novel at warp speed.

Ring my doorbell, and you get LUNA bars for Halloween. The fudge-graham bars taste like heaven. If heaven tastes like a dirt pile, that is.