I’m pretty sure I thought of something I could blog about.  But then all the things I can’t blog about crowded out the one good idea I had.  So.  That leaves us sitting here breathing in an awkward silence.

. . . sigh . . .

Oh wait.  I was going to tell you about going to Grand Rapids a hundred years ago.  Or last week or two weeks ago.  Whenever it was.

I never adjusted to the time zone.  I arrived at about 10 p.m. and called my long-time friend, Diane.  She’d mentioned that she could pick me up from the airport but I’d arrived in Grand Rapids before she did.  She was driving in a caravan of three vans from Missouri (with a few dozen college students and some university colleagues).  I caught a shuttle van, instead, riding with two other women.  One in particular was quite friendly and it turned out we three were all in town for the same conference:  Calvin College’s Festival of Faith and Writing.

We made small talk.  I was so tired.  I felt like I’d traveled all day by camel through the desert heat.

At the Ramada Inn, I stepped to the front desk first to check into the room.  I offered the name I had been given, the name of the woman who’d reserved the room.  For, yes, I was to stay in a room with my friend of 25 years and two unknown women, colleagues of my friend.

When I uttered the name of the other woman, one of the shuttle-van women stepped forward and said, “I’m in that room, too.”

Which led to a very odd stretch of time in which I checked into a hotel room with a complete stranger.  And then I claimed the bed near the window, cranked up the air conditioner to banish the stuffy air and tried to avoid eavesdropping on her conversation with her husband and small children.

At long last, my friend arrived and it honestly felt as if no time had passed at all.  We picked up the conversation we’ve been having forever:  “Your hair is cute like that!”  and “I’ve gained weight . . . no, you look great!” . . . that sort of thing.  Then we sat on the bed and scrolled through photos of our kids on our iPhones to share with each other.

Then the fourth woman staying in the room arrived and asked if we could please turn the air conditioner off.

The time zone thing.  That continued to be a problem, too.

I normally work until midnight, then I stay up another hour.  Sometimes, two.  Not on purpose, really, but right now it is past 1:30 a.m. and I am busy writing blog posts and who can even remember what else.

In Grand Rapids, the time is three hours later.  So, we went to bed at 11:30 p.m that first night.  Which, in my West Coast body was only 8:30 p.m.  So I could not sleep.

I am a finicky sleeper, the older I get, so I mostly pretended to sleep so I wouldn’t disturb my slumbering roommates.  And the room was stuffy.  That did not help.

At 1 a.m., I had just begun to drift off to sleep and I received a text message from a West Coast friend.  Not.  Good.

Then I was awake until 2:45 a.m.  I woke up at 5:30 a.m., certain it was 7 a.m. but it was not.  Then at 7 a.m., just after I’d fallen asleep again, it was time to wake up.  In my West Coast body, that was 4 a.m.

But whatever.  The first night was the worst.  The other nights were a little better.

The conference itself was inspiring and refreshing and fun.  I heard Stephanie Kallos (Broken for You), Mary Karr (Liar’s Club, Cherry, Lit), Michael Perry, Kate Dicamillo (The Tale of Despereaux), Eugene Peterson (The Message), Sara Miles (Jesus Freak), Ed Dobson (The Year of Living Like Jesus) and Joshilyn Jackson (Gods in Alabama).  I loved it all.  Mary Karr rocked.  So did Kate Dicamillo and Joshilyn Jackson.  Everyone, really.

There were more.  I’m pretty sure there were more.

I also talked and talked with my long-time friend.  I cannot believe it had been ten years since we’d last met in person because we picked up exactly where we left off.  That’s a good friend.  She knows all my stories better than anyone else.

She’s a university professor and so I experienced the long-forgotten delight of sitting in a hotel room with a handful of college students who have their whole lives stretching out in front of them.  I was aware of being forty-five and yet being a college student myself seemed like only one step away.  One giant step, but only one step.  Time warp, for sure.

Oh, and a highlight of my trip was spending a morning and lunch with Judy of Anybody Home.  I’ve known Judy through my blog and her delightful blog for years now.  Years.  Which is weird to think of.  Anyway, she picked me up and took me thrift store and antique store shopping.  We got some good bargains and had a lovely morning of exchanging stories.  She drove me around her hometown and pointed out various houses where she’s lived.  She took me on a tour of her house and her amazing basement craft area.  We had lunch.  I love Judy.  She feels like family to me, maybe because we share Dutch blood or Midwestern roots or a love of a bargain.  I don’t know but it’s something of a small miracle when you find a connection with someone so far away through the magic of the Internet and words on a blog.

I left my house on Wednesday morning.  I returned on Sunday afternoon.  The days in between were a blur, a happy blur of books and ideas and friends.  But not much sleep.

And now I don’t even know how long I’ve been back (two weeks? ) but it’s as if I never left.  The carpet needs to be vacuumed, the teenagers are behind in schoolwork, my shoes are jumbled in a pile in front of my dresser.  I have stacks of books by my bed–even more than before–and I am still perplexed by the impossible task of finishing writing my own novel in the scraps of time torn from my life.

In the meantime, I need to sleep.  I am still trying to catch up after the torturous Eastern Standard Time zone.

The end.

How to spend a Saturday:

1)  Sleep in.  Ignore aching hip and wacky dreams.

2)  When husband returns home with lacrosse-playing son, make plans to see movie.  Without kids.  Later.

2)  Shop for Zhu Zhu pets with daughter.  Buy Papa Murphy’s pizza for later.

3)  Stop by Baskin-Robbins to buy ice-cream for very insistent and maybe, slightly spoiled daughter.

4)  Return home to realize kids must be shuttled around, thus we cannot get away to a movie. Cancel hot date.

5)  Accept husband’s suggestion to go out anyway.  Alone.

6)  Buy Yankee candles on sale with a coupon at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  Buy dustpan to replace the one shattered breaking up a cat fight.

7)  Browse books at Goodwill.  Find six to buy.  Tell self that it’s not that bad–$16 for all.  Plus, discover new-looking Black & Decker food processor to replace old broken one.  Only $5.99!

8)  Answer phone.  Agree to bring husband a Heath Bar Blizzard.

9)  Buy two Blizzards.  And onion rings.  Write diet blog confession in head while driving and eating onion rings.  And slurping up Georgia Mud Fudge Blizzard.

10)  Deliver teenage boys (and one friend) to church for an overnight event but first, stop by store to buy potato chips and Mountain Dew for event.

11)  Return home.  Clean kitchen.  Again. Order replacement part for food processor and curse $11.95 shipping and handling charge.

12)  Attend online meeting about registering teens for virtual high school classes next fall.  Take notes.

13)  Put pizza in oven.

14)  Squint at computer screen while writing blog post.

15)  Climb under blanket and read until midnight. (Or watched saved episode of ’24’.)

Between every number on this list, do laundry: either fold, sort, wash, dry or put away.

The End.

I flew to Grand Rapids, Michigan, last Wednesday.  I had the displeasure of being crammed into the airplane within earshot of a snotty preschooler with a bad attitude and a screamy infant boycotting sleep.  I arrived in Chicago desperate to breath cool fresh air, but the Chicago airport was stuffy and teeming with people in a hurry.  And it was impossible to find a doorway leading to the great outdoors.

I waited two hours for my flight to Grand Rapids.  That flight lasted less than an hour and deposited me in a tiny airport.  I rode a shuttle bus to the Ramada when it became apparent my friend was still on the road and couldn’t pick me up as we’d planned.

No matter.  On the shuttle were two other women who were also attending the same conference.

* * *

. . . to be continued.   (It’s not all that exciting, really, but if I don’t publish this portion of the story, my toilet paper post remains the last thing I’ve said and . . . really?  REALLY?  I’m so busy but I’m going to write about my jaunt to Grand Rapids.  Eventually.  Maybe even tomorrow.  But tonight, I’m going to bed because I’m spending my morning with a two-year old.  It’s complicated.)

The problem with taking an hour-long nap at 7 p.m. is that you might still be awake at 1:30 a.m. and not even feel like yawning.  Which will turn out to be a bummer seven hours from now when you have to get yourself together and take your daughter to school and then drive straight to your hair-stylist’s house to get your highlights touched up and your ragged hair trimmed.

However, you will be glad your hair looks okay because that is one less thing to worry about when you fly to Grand Rapids on Wednesday.  By the way, do you realize how long it takes to travel to Grand Rapids on a Wednesday?  You will leave your house at 8:30 a.m., fly out at 11 a.m., and finally touch down in Grand Rapids at 8:51 p.m.  By the time you get to your hotel room, it will be 10 p.m. or later, but your brain will still be in the same time zone you left, even though your body temporarily resides in Eastern Standard Time.  Good luck getting to sleep!

But back to your hair.  At least it will look okay, freeing you up to worry about more important things like your weight.  And whether or not your creativity has atrophied to the point that you can no longer carry on a coherent conversation or think thoughts worthy of all the trouble it took you to get to Grand Rapids for that particular conference.

So, in summary:  Please do not take a 7 p.m. nap or you’ll throw your entire week out of alignment.  Good luck with that.

We’re mid-Spring Break.  In other words, the teenagers have procrastinated and have a ton of school-work to do to get caught up.  The 12-year old has played computer games way too much.  The 7-year old has set a new hula-hooping record (six and a half minutes).  I’ve slept in two days and taken one kid to the dentist.  So far.

Tomorrow, I have to get up painfully early (for Spring Break!) and take two more kids to the dentist.

We attempted a visit to a park today, but the rain began.  Again.

My husband cooked fried chicken for the first time ever.  He’s from Houston, Texas.  This was bound to happen sooner or later.

I haven’t yet told my daughter that I’m going on another trip in a week.

We were audited by the I.R.S. for 2008.  Of course, I misplaced the W-2 forms in the past year, so I’ve been on a hunt through all the files and piles of paperwork because, seriously, they better have made a mistake.

What else?  What?  Is that not enough?

Tonight, when I entered my blog URL into my browser, I got a virus warning.  WHAT?!  So, I sent a note to my blog-guy.  The warning disappeared later but I have no idea what’s going on.  [Edit: This has been fixed.]

Okay, that’s all for now.  I have to sleep so I can go to the dentist.  At least I don’t have to sit in the chair myself and have my gums poked by those horrible metal dental tools.

I have a special gift of taking things personally.  This was a problem for me in the early years of my marriage because whenever my husband would say something, I could take it personally and thus, give him the Silent Treatment for no good reason at all.  Other than my giftedness.

He said something yesterday and now that I’m 45, I just looked at him, considered whether to Take It Personally, and then decided to stop it.  Just. Stop.

“I considered taking that personally, but I’m just too tired.”

And that was that.

Though I do admit that I pondered his words and I considered beating myself up–how can one just refuse to Take It Personally when one is gifted?

(What did he say?  I know you’re wondering . . . I was complaining–I am also an exceptionally gifted complainer–and he said, “You know, some moms actually like doing all that stuff.”  And I . . . decided not to take that as an insult.  Because, really, he’s right.  Right?  Some moms go happily berserk creating things and planning things and wrapping things and filling a hundred and twenty eggs with wrapped candy for the backyard Easter Egg Hunt.  But me?  I do that stuff but it makes tired and wears me out.  And so I said, “You know, holidays were a lot more fun before I was the Mom.”  Which is true.)

Frankly, I thought I would love doing all the mom-stuff more than I do.  Then again, I never thought I’d be such an old mom, nor did I think I’d be a full-time working mom.  Life surprised me.

But I’m not Taking It Personally.

I’m back home.

And now it feels like I never left.  Last weekend was warm sunshine, the brightest greenery, red tulips, the tallest trees, and only myself to consider.  I came home to cold rain, dirty dishes in the sink, and laundry piled high.

I had a rental car in California.  I gave myself plenty of time to drive to the airport which is a good thing because on the curvy rolling highway an SUV (with two surfboards strapped to the roof) tipped over and slowed us all down.  I arrived at the San Jose airport and dropped off the car.  Then I purchased a “People” magazine and a burrito and enjoyed an hour to myself.

Finally, I meandered down to C-8 where I joined a crowd waiting to board the plane.  I didn’t rush to the front of the line which was a mistake because every single overhead compartment was full by the time I tried to get to my seat at 17A.  The flight attendant finally tucked my back into some little secret compartment.

Then I had to ask my seatmates–a woman and a man holding a baby–to let me into my window seat.

I assumed they were together, but when I asked “Are you going to or away from home?” they had different answers.  She was going to Seattle on business.  He was going home to see the baby’s mother.

And thus began our two hour flight with a fussy one-year old baby.

The man seemed competent–just before the plane took off, he hurried to dump powdered formula into the bottle and added water.  The baby was happily drinking a bottle when we lifted off.

But, the bottle was quickly drained and the baby fussed off and on, sometimes squealing in distress and sometimes outright crying.  The dad did what he could, but I heard that whoever packed for the baby forgot his pacifier and the poor little guy couldn’t fall asleep.

Two hours later, the plane bumped down in the cold rain of Seattle.  Between the time we landed and the time we reached the gate, that baby fell asleep.  It was 8:37 p.m.

I think I speak for all of us when I say we were all glad to be off that plane.

I’m glad to be home.

I was up late last night reading This Boy’s Life. Six hours later I woke up to walk in the dark with three dozen others up the hills to watch the sun slide up over the ridge beyond Grass Valley.

Last year, we rather infamously led an unfortunate group of followers down the hill.  Last year, at the first Y in the road, we chose left when we should have chosen right and thus, we emerged from the network of trails far–very, very, tragically far–from our target.  When we realized the error of our directionally-challenged ways, we jogged out of sight to avoid blame.

This year, we chose right instead of left and still failed to return to the spot we’d begun.  However, our error was smaller.  For one thing, no one was following us.  For another, we covered much less ground.

Despite the lack of sleep, I feel pretty refreshed.  I’ve had several good conversations with friends.  I’ve had encouragement from actual living breathing novelists.  One of them even supplied a solution to a problem of narration that has plagued me.  (Thank you, Angela Hunt.)

This afternoon, four of us trekked over to the Henry Cowell Redwood Forest (I think that’s the name) and looped our way around the path circling the most majestic redwood trees.  I understand why some poets have conjured up the image of a forest as a cathedral.  (I hope I have not just made that up.  Didn’t someone do that?  Did I just make that up?)  I’d post some pictures except that my blog is broken.  Some day I’ll fix that.

Not that pictures do justice to those monster 2,000 year old trees.

Tomorrow, I’m heading home.  It seems like I just arrived, but my regular life waits for me.  My daughter, especially, misses me.  She’s only seven, so maybe she won’t miss me so much for many more years and then I’ll miss that.

So anyway, I was reading yesterday, thinking, someone ought to start a reader’s retreat . . . a writer’s retreat is fine and all, but a reader’s retreat would be awesome. But then I realized that a “reader’s retreat” is just another name for a vacation . . . if you don’t have kids.  A vacation with kids is pretty much just regular life in another location resulting in twice the work.

Anyway, a reading vacation sounds lovely, doesn’t it?  Two weeks on a chaise lounge reading while someone brings a never-ending supplies of ice and Diet Coke and brownies.   Can someone make me a reservation?

I’m in the California redwood forest right now. Doesn’t that make you want to sing that song:  “This land is your land . . . this land is my land . . . from California . . . to the New York Islands . . . from the REDWOOD FORESTS to the Gulf Stream waters . . . this land is made for you and me.”?

It doesn’t?  I can’t think “redwood forest” without singing that whole song in my head.

So, I’m at this writing conference and wondering (as usual) why in the world I came since I don’t actually have time to write anymore.  You all know that because I hardly have time to blog.  But spring has sprung here in northern California and my friend, Sarah Markley, is here (you can read her at http://sarahmarkley.com) and we were assigned to this huge cabin.  I may never leave.

Except, of course, that I left my kids and husband at home and what am I without my kids and husband?  Wait.  What am I without my husband and kids?  Well, I am weirdly devoid of dirty laundry and noise.

My daughter tried to convince me to bring her with me.

Then this morning, she suggested maybe I should go every other year, like maybe NEXT YEAR, not this year.

Then she asked if I’d leave her a note and “did you remember to give me a little present every day while you’re gone like you did last year?”

I did.  Of course.

I’m trying to see how many times I can say “of course” in the course of this blog post.  I’m only half-listening to myself since I’m at a table with two other women (Sarah and Shannon Primicerio . . . you should google her . . . she writes for teenage girls) . . . and this is an awesome place for eavesdropping.

Anyway, so I flew out today at 1:50 p.m. and this time, I chose a seat on the mountain side of the plane and was rewarded with the sight of four or five mountains:  Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helen’s, Mt. Shasta.  The foothills looked like they’d been sprinkled with powdered sugar.  So, remember this:  when you fly to California from Washington, sit on the left side of the plane.

I arrived at the baggage claim at the very second my shockingly orange bag emerged.  I walked up just as the bus to the rental car place pulled up.  I gave a coupon to the rental car guy and he took $22 off my total . . . then when I walked into the parking lot to retrieve my economy car–I’d reserved the smallest one available–the woman told me that they were out of really tiny cars and so I’d have to settle for a red Volkswagen bug.  Total cost for four days?  $66.

I have a thing for Volkswagen bugs.  I have always wanted one, ever since my high school best friend’s dad bought her a yellow one.   I had no car.  I had a twelve speed bike.  I loved that bike.

So, I drove the through winding hills–no thanks to my GPS which refused to speak to the satellites–and relied on my iPhone to get me here to Mt. Hermon.  That took about 45 minutes.

I arrived at 4:30 p.m. . .  . or something like that.  Our cabin is big.  I have my own bedroom and my own half-bathroom.  I KNOW.

(I smell fire.  I hope that’s a fireplace and not someone’s laptop exploding.)

I met up with Sarah (did you click over to her blog yet?  Sarahmarkley.com.)  We ate dinner.  We heard a speaker speak and sing.

Sarah and Shannon have been awake since 3:30 a.m. and 4 a.m. respectively.  They look a little droopy.  I am used to staying up until 1 a.m. to 2 a.m. . . . but my eyeballs feel a little gritty.

I just hope I can sleep tonight.

Okay, well, there you go.  I know.  You’re surprised since I am not usually here.  Ever.

I hope it made sense.  Because I am not reading it over.  Okay, well, I’m reading it over but only once.

On Friday, I’m flying to San Jose.  Then I’m driving a rental car to Mt. Hermon, California, to attend a writer’s conference.  This will be my fourth year going.

Every year, I decide there is absolutely no possible way I am going.  I realize that it’s a luxury that I don’t deserve, that it would be a waste of money, that I couldn’t possible spend so much money on going away from my family for so many days in a row.  Also, I don’t want to make a fool of myself.  That is no small matter.

The first year I decided not to spend the money and go, someone literally telephoned me a month before the conference to tell me that he owed me some money . . . the exact (substantial) amount that I needed for the conference.  This phone call was a complete surprise and the money felt like a gift parachuting directly from heaven into my lap.  So I went.  How could I not go?

Every year since, I’ve talked myself out of going.  Then my husband has convinced me I should go anyway.  This year, I actually told my friend that I decided not to go.  Then I had a short conversation with my husband and emailed my friend twelve hours later to say I’d be going after all.

Instead of leaving on Thursday, though, I am leaving on Friday.  And instead of returning on Tuesday, I’m returning on Monday.  I have chopped off the beginning and the end of the conference . . . mainly because on April 15, I am going to another conference–this one in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

I’m just a jet-setter.

So, as I prepare for this trip, I am busy and distracted and apprehensive and nervous and excited.  Kind of in that order.

Meanwhile, my 7-year old daughter has been cracking me up with declarations like these:

“Oh, Shaylyn’s handwriting is gorgeous!”

“My heart just breaks when I think of people not taking care of their dogs.”

Having an articulate child who is so in touch with her feelings is such a gift to me.  Also?  She is already a good fashion consultant and I am alternately ashamed and amused to admit that I have taken her fashion advice on more than one occasion.

Good grief, I am distracted.  And so I’m going to sleep.

p.s.  I can’t stand Justin Bieber.  He was on The View–and I’d seen him on other shows before–and that just reinforced how much young, very young, cocky pop stars with hair in their eyes annoy me.  Of course, I am not his demographic, but I am the parent of his demographic and I will never contribute a dime to his career.  (Oh, funny . . . as I am typing this, he is singing on David Letterman.  I just conjured up Justin Bieber!)