I'm supposed to be packing for Thanksgiving travel but instead I'm mooning over my Bronte essay and listening to the Dream Syndicate, which I haven't listened to for a hundred years and makes me feel exactly like I'm nineteen and half and lying flat on my back on the living room floor of a very grubby boy-run rental house; and now I'm wishing for a bowl of butter pecan ice cream (there's none in the house, of course) and trying to decide what books to pack in my suitcase, and meanwhile rain is banging impetuously at the windows like it's Inspector Clouseau and my sons are standing at the bottom of the stairs trying to choke each other (in a friendly manner, of course).

Helpful words of wisdom: I can't think of any. Maybe you can.