Self is happy to report that Denver is a bee-yoo-ti-ful city. And the weather here is perfect. What need did self have for that ridiculous coat and scarf, which makes her look like a refugee from the East Coast?

Right now, self has not yet seen the insides of her fantastic room at the Sheraton, which she is sharing with the fab poet Luisa Igloria, because straight from the airport she had to run to the Calyx table at the Bookfair for her 3:30 Book Signing (Not to worry; nobody showed), and guess who self dragged along in her wake? An O’Reilly loving Republican from Georgia who was so tickled pink at the thought of having met a writer (shared a ride on the way in to Denver from the airport) that he insisted on accompanying self to the Bookfair, told the security guard he was self’s agent, and wanted to buy her book.

Then, in the next table was Patrick Somerville, playing a banjo.

Then, across the aisle was Anthony Varalho, fiction editor of Crazyhorse, who, when self went up to him to tell him how many many times she had tried joining their contest, told her: “I know who you are. We’re reading together tomorrow, aren’t we? For the Writer’s Center?”

Self, will ya quit gabbing and behave like a proper, honest-to-goodness writer?

Around the corner was a table for Claremont Graduate University, and self sidled up and said to the young lady there: “My son has just been accepted to the Ph.D. program in Social Psychology at your university.” Then it was more gab, gab, gab, more exchaning of e-mails.

By the time self checked her phone, she saw she had missed two calls: one from Zack and the other from hubby. And she still hasn’t seen the inside of her hotel!

Now self has to check her on-line class. More later, m’lovelies!

“I’m Leaaving, on a Jet Plane … “

Here is self, about to leave for Denver in about a couple of hours. But first she has to get to San Jose Airport, in about an hour. And hubby is hogging the bathroom. See? This always happens: whenever self has to go anywhere, a reading or a conference or what-have-you, either hubby or son have to be first into the showers. Then self has a mere five minutes to slap her face into some sort of semblance of … of … a face!

Well, things are not so bad. Self could be heading to Chicago, which is colder than Denver.

She could be eating polvoron, which would be terrible for her figure. As it is, she’s already eaten six, but she is secure in the knowledge that hubby will finish the rest.

And now self barely has time to feed the li’l crits, get dressed, and give the garden the once-over.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

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