I was just making a list of the things I need to do in the next few months (and the things I’m doing whether I need to or not, like driving to central New York) and I feel a distinct knot of panic settling somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. The next month is particularly panic-inducing.

Someone (*coughcough* Will *cough*) suggested that I might have to curtail my reading for a while. Can you hear me wailing like the Wicked Witch of the West in the shower?

Remember how we’re out of chocolate chips and potatoes? Harbingers of the apocalypse? Clearly, I was not exaggerating.