If you’re following along, you know that yesterday I rented a Rug Doctor© and cleaned my living room carpet in anticipation of having some people over today.

Today, I returned the Rug Doctor© and picked up a few groceries at the store while I was there.  I returned home to finish preparing for company.  Somehow, overnight, every single plate and bowl appeared in the kitchen with dried-on sticky guck on them.  (Since when is “guck” not a word, Spell-Check?)

But I didn’t start in the kitchen.  I started at the front door, so first I moved all the furniture back into place in the living room.  Then I removed dog hair from the furniture and tidied up.  I worked in concentric circles, until I had narrowed down the mess to the kitchen.  (This took an unanticipated and shockingly long time.)

That meant I had finished cleaning the guinea pig cage and did Poop Patrol in the back yard and the Swiffering was done.  Then, I faced the towers of plates and dried on guck.

I took a drought-friendly shower and drove to Costco for provisions.  Miraculously, I had enough time to drop food off at home before heading to school to pick up the carpool kids.

All that and the afternoon and evening did not turn out as expected.  For whatever reasons, my friend’s friends weren’t able to show up, so the two of us sat and talked and watched her delightful and talkative two-year old.  He threw rocks into my fountain and picked a million tiny flowers and ate grapes for the first time in his life.  He walked my big dog until the big dog nearly pulled him over in her hurry to reach me.  He played with Little People and their vehicles and threw a ball.  He called the guinea pig a “dog” and the picture of a pig on the fridge a “rabbit.”

(Two year olds are so fun, especially when you are not directly responsible for their happiness and welfare.)

I would have done it all again.  The Rug Doctor, the guinea pig cage, the scalding dish water.  For one thing, my house is cleaner than usual and all that stuff needed to be done.

But beyond that, it was so great to talk to Carrien.  She is a remarkable person and I’m amazed that a blog friend turned into a real-life friend . . .  furthermore, it’s amazing to me that she’s living this brave, gigantic life in Thailand with her kids and husband.  She’s a superhero but in disguise as a mom of five who is changing the world in a remarkable way.

In another Christmas miracle, I had a chance to go to the Oceanside pier this afternoon for a brief visit.

Before today, I’d never been whale-watching.  This seems incredible since I grew up in Washington State, close to the Puget Sound where orcas swim.

It could have been Seattle today here in Southern California.  Yesterday, it was sunny.  Tomorrow, it’s supposed to be sunny.  Today?  The clouds threatened to rain.  The wind blew turning all the ungloved fingers red. It was cold.

I brought a wool hat that a blog reader knit for me.  (Best birthday gift ever, all those years ago!)  I wore the kind of gloves that look like mittens until you flip back the end and then they are fingerless gloves.

(I love her hair.)

We’d been out in the open ocean, maybe five miles from shore for an hour and fifteen minutes.  Some moms were leaning over the railing throwing up, but I was taking photos of  the shimmering sun on the waves, bummed out that we weren’t seeing any whales.

And then, the captain got all excited and told us to look at “one o’clock” and though I looked and looked, I saw nothing.

Time passed and my nose grew colder and then, suddenly, he told us the whale was at “eleven o’clock”. I couldn’t see it because I was on the wrong side of the boat.

But then.  The boat turned, the whale surfaced and I saw it!

So amazing.  Even the captain–who told us his dad built the boat we were on when the captain himself was in kindergarten–he was excited!

These were fin whales, the captain said.

And amazingly enough, not a drop of rain fell while we were on the boat.

If it’s Wednesday, that can only mean one thing.  We’re going to Wild Waves.

I’m getting a little sick of Wild Waves.  Really.  The last time we went, Zooma Falls tried to drown me.  Alas, I am buoyant.  I cannot be drowned.

The teenagers won’t go unless forced.  So, it’ll just be my 11-year old and my 6-year old and me.  And far fewer people than last week when it was as hot as the surface of the sun.  In fact, the high temperate is only supposed to be 78 degrees, so it might be a tad chilly.

By Tuesdays, I always think, hey, tomorrow I can _________________ (fill in with whatever chore needs attention most).  And then I think, oh wait, it’ll be Wednesday and I’m going to Wild Waves.  Originally, I thought we could do other fun family activities on Wednesdays, too, but no.  Just Wild Waves.

Although, one of these weeks, we’re going to Mt. Rainier.

School’s coming.  All too soon and not soon enough.

My friend, Mindy, picked me up from the conference yesterday shortly after 1 p.m. I’ve known Mindy since college when she used to have dirty laundry piled waist high in her room. I’d be amazed because Mindy would emerge perfectly coiffed and gorgeous from her haphazard room, like a three-tiered wedding cake popping out of a hurricane.

Mindy drove me to gaze at the ocean and to watch surfers catching those legendary California waves. On a distant rock, we could see the lumpy bodies of sea lions at rest. What a beautiful place.

We spent some time at her house, catching up on news both new and old. Her husband–also a friend of mine from collect–arrived and we laughed and chatted some more. I also met her almost-18 year old daughter (we are getting old, all of us with our children rushing toward adulthood).

Then, we went to In-and-Out Burger, that famous California fast-food restaurant. I give two-thumbs up to the burger, but alas, the fries disappointed me.

Somehow, time slid away from us and suddenly we were frantically checking the clock and I was saying from the back seat, “So, are we close to the airport?” I wasn’t really that worried until Mindy said, “Well, if you can’t check your bag, we can always send it to you.” Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that I might board the flight without my heavy orange-red suitcase.

We arrived without a minute to spare (literally, the woman said, “One more minute and I would have said, “No.”). It was 6 p.m. and my flight left at 6:33 p.m.

I used my fluffy hair as a shield so that my seat-mates wouldn’t think of talking to me. After six days of talking to strangers and vague acquaintances, I dreaded making any more small talk. (I am not talking about the Mt. Hermonistas, my three new BFFs you can see linked on Annie’s blog. Oh, and check out the video she posted. We find it hilarious, but maybe you had to be there? I make a brief appearance, so if you ever wondered what I sound like, now’s your chance! Click here.)

But, my hair only worked for awhile and then a man on the other side of the man next to me said, “MELODEE?” And I said (with a feeble wave), “Yes, it’s me!” before turning back to my book.

So, I’m home. I had to work at 10:00 p.m. until midnight, then my daughter woke up at 6:30 a.m. to curl next to me in bed and talk, talk, talk. She’s such a hoot. I really missed her–and in fact, missed everyone. (Absence makes the heart grow fonder, it’s true. Although I feel no more fond of the cats or the litter box than when I left.)

Last year when I came here, I spent a lot of time sitting with random strangers at meal-time, asking them all about their projects, their kids, their hometown, and their backgrounds. I sat next to strangers during chapel time, singing harmonies with them. I met a variety of people–including one woman who wrote a book with a talking llama as a character (she self-published, how not surprising)–and I am grateful for that experience.

This year, I came knowing another woman, Linda, who had the amazing experience of landing a book contract with Zondervan after coming to last year’s conference. Since we met, she started the blog, Spilt Milk, which is also the title of her book (out in 2009). Linda, an honest-to-God-real-housewife-of-the-OC, and I kept in touch over the year.

Linda brought her friend, Sarah, another OC-housewife and newish blogger. She has a blog called “the best days of my life,” which you will want to add to your blogroll and read daily (she updates daily, imagine that concept). She has a room adjacent to mine–the first night, I could hear her cell-phone conversation as clearly as if she were sitting on my lap. I held my breath, hoping that she wasn’t about to tell her husband about this frumpy housewife she’d met who was a friend of Linda’s. Fortunately, she never mentioned my name, nor mocked me behind my back. Which I always admire in a person, non-mockery of me, that is.

Anyway, we have bonded over our mutual weight-loss (she lost 60 pounds and has kept it off–well, she put it back on when she had a baby, then took it all off again). She’s a runner, a photographer, a mother of 2 little girls and a superb blogger. We got up for a 6 a.m. walk up to the cross at the crest of Mt. Hermon. We rock. Also? We’re tired.

Finally, last week, I received an email from a blogger named Annie. Annie knows someone who reads this blog (hello, you know who you are!) and that person told Annie that she thought I might be coming to this conference. So, Annie emailed me and asked and after I determined that she was definitely not a big hairy serial killer, I invited her to join Linda and me at lunch the first day.

And the rest is history. The four of us have been hanging out in our free time (between workshops, classes and meetings). I have laughed harder this week than I have in a very long time. Plus, they haven’t heard any of my stories. What’s old is new again! I accidentally made Annie shake with laughter during a prayer in chapel . . . the woman praying rambled on and on, running down a laundry list of topics she needed to speak with God about, including a dizzying request to “help us expect what we ought to expect and to lay down our expectations when what we were expecting fails to reach our expectations . . . let us expect what it unexpected and not expect what is unexpected and expect expectations that you expect us to expect . . . “

At that point, I opened my eyes and gazed at the back of the woman’s head and thought maybe she needed a hard thunk to get unstuck but I was too far back to be the thunker and then I shifted my eyes to the right and saw that Annie was also gazing at the long pray-er . . . who was, at that point, broaching the topic of Darfur with God and I am afraid that we burst into silent giggles. Because sometimes you have to laugh in church. It’s a rule.

Oh, so, anyway, Annie is hilarious and also, she writes a blog called “taking a step, towards my dream.“

Last night in the coffee shop, I suggested that we need to start a critique group. And also, we need to find a pair of pants that will fit us all. (If you get that joke, thank you.) We also discussed the question of hobos and why our children all speak about hobos as if they’ve seen them down at the local train depot. Where are the hobos, we asked? We talked about their bandana-bundles stuck on sticks and then, incredibly, the next afternoon ran across a man at the State Park who carried a stick with a red bundle dangling off the end. He looked pretty much like a suburban hobo which caused a great uproar among us.

In my absence my husband has been dealing with dental appointments, a wedding rehearsal, a wedding, a meeting, teaching a college class, watching our four kids, buying a birthday gift for the neighbor kid . . . all while being sick as a dog. I had a cold last week, a mild, wimpy cold, and he has a nasty cold this week, the superpower of all colds. Poor guy.

Okay, well, if I were more coherent and if I weren’t in a dimly lit hotel room (wooden paneling from 1980, I think) standing at a rickety dresser typing this (there’s no desk and I can’t cope with sitting on a bed with a laptop–I am inflexible), I would pause long enough to come up with an astonishing ending to this post.

However. Sorry, no can do. But do check out those blogs. (Just don’t like them better than me.) Ha ha. Yes, I’m funny. (But, as my dad would say, “looks aren’t everything!”)

Have I been here lately? I can’t remember. My life is spinning a little out of control, in a good way of course. (More about that later this week. If you’re lucky.)

First of all, you should know that I took my son’s dead iPod to Best Buy. I had purchased replacement insurance back in December–the salesperson told me it would cover “any damage.” At least that’s what I recall because why would I purchase insurance that didn’t cover accidental damage when the iPod was destined for accidental damage in the possession of my careless son? Anyway, the girl behind the counter said, “And what’s wrong with it?” and I said, “It went through the wash. I washed it. In the washing machine.”

And she said, “Um, that’s not covered.”

“Not covered? What is the point of insurance? What does it cover?”

“Well, if the screen went blank or the hard-drive crashed.”

I said, “Well, in that case, the screen went blank and the hard-drive crashed.”

She made an exception for me since I didn’t know the rules. Wasn’t that nice of her? And then I refused her offer to buy another insurance policy for the replacement iPod.

* * *

My 5-year old daughter poked herself in the eye with her finger this afternoon. I was standing nearby, folding socks, when she injured herself. She was mostly okay the rest of the afternoon, but while playing games with her daddy before bedtime, she excused herself three times to go lay down and rest. Then she’d come back: “I’m okay now,” and play awhile longer. At bedtime, she came in crying, her eyelid and cheek reddened . . . I examined her eyeball and it was barely bloodshot. I am hoping that a night of sleep will cure all that ails her.

I still can’t believe she inexplicably poked her own eyeball. How does that happen?

* * *

I stuck the new car tab onto the license plate today. Then, ever responsible, I replaced the old car registration with the new car registration. I checked the insurance card, too, and found it woefully out of date. This discovery propelled me through all the paperwork on my desk, on my kitchen counter and in the handy basket in the kitchen that catches all the mail that can’t be immediately discarded.

I never found the insurance card. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere in the glove compartment? I surrender. At least the new card is due in March. Until then, we will be on extra good behavior so the police have no reason to pull us over and demand to see our proof of insurance. (I haven’t had a ticket in fifteen years.)

How about you? When was the last time the police pulled you over? Don’t you hate that moment when you realize the flashing lights in your rearview mirror are flashing at you? Tell us all about how you broke the law. Come on. You know you want to. Confession is good for the soul . . . and far better than a sharp stick (or a finger) in the eye.