I found myself in a bathroom with the latest issue of TeenPeople, to which, for no reason I can discern, I have a subscription; and I came across a quiz, "How Sexy Are You?" So I took it. My results were "simply sizzling". According to the consulted psychologist Judy Kuriansky, Ph.D., "being comfortable in your own skin makes for one hot chick."

I went to bed in Loudon at one-thirty but didn't sleep until three.

In my dreams, four or five SUVs pulled up a large red rock archway which led into a Sonoran canyon. Everyone got out to explore-- but as the kids in the group ran off, I got a bad feeling about the place.

I slowly realized that this canyon was the home of Batboy, from the National Enquirer, who bitterly watched the happy tourists from a secret alcove with his shotgun and always shot to death the last person to get back into the car. I did not panic. I went from adult to adult in the group with a plan. When we were ready to leave, I called out, "Hey, where's Brad?" and the other adults started yelling, "Brad! Where are you?" until everyone was safe in the SUVs; then we drove off at top speed. Batboy was pissed.

I woke this morning with a sanitary napkin clutched in my fist and a 1994 quarter stuck to my thigh.

As I type this, I look over my shoulder at an episode of Rugrats, which my sister is watching, and the screen is blank but for the words "Chucky's a lefty."

a strange vague panic sets in.