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!)

Four years ago, I wrote a post called “Don’t Tell Me Things Will Get Worse.”   Yesterday, it appeared at 5 Minutes for Parenting.  You can read it by clicking here.

I still mean every word I wrote.

Just in case you wondered.

What I would like to know is this:  when did we start wearing bags?  Didn’t we used to just carry purses?

I came upon handbags for sale in Nordstrom’s the other day while searching for Easter shoes for my daughter.  An assortment of leather bags, some with chunky chains attached, were on sale, so I picked one up, dug around to find the tag and fainted dead away at the price.

Four hundred dollars?  All the money I’ve spent on purses in my whole life–including the pale pink fake leather number I carried in high school–have not added up to four hundred dollars.  Seriously.  And what in the world are women putting in those gigantic bags?  Small dogs?  Small children?  Portable television sets with attached VCRs?

I did buy a pair of shoes from Nordstrom’s.  I only shopped from the sale rack and found a suitable pair of black flats to wear with my dark “skinny” jeans because that’s what Oprah told me to wear.  You think I kid, but I do not.  I take my fashion advice from Oprah and only Oprah.  (I kid.)

Before my purchase, though, I thought it best to doublecheck the regular shoes, the not-on-sale shoes, to make sure I wasn’t missing a better deal and a cuter pair.

So, tell me, who in the world is paying two hundred dollars for flat leather shoes?  (Are you kidding me, Nordstrom’s?)  I guess the same people who pay two hundred dollars for a pair of jeans.  The same people wearing bags the size of Delaware.

I may have crossed a line from trying-to-be-semi-fashionable to fuddy-duddy-cheapskate.  I know.  What next?  Will I start wearing one of those disposable plastic bonnets to protect my hair from rain?  Will I slide my fake leather shoes into rubber overshoes?  Will I carry a purse with twenty-seven zippered pockets that is advertised in the backs of old-lady magazines?  (Do they even advertise those purses anymore?)  Will I buy my polyester pants at K-Mart?

I bought a designer bag from Goodwill not long ago.  I probably grudgingly paid $6.99.  It’s black, roomy and constructed from nylon and I would tell you the label on it, but I can’t remember.  What I do remember is the day that I rifled through that bag and discovered a small pocket, sized for a cell phone . . . and in that pocket a neatly folded $20 Canadian bill.  I left it there as a happy reminder of the serendipitous moments of life.

Because if you’re headed toward polyester pants and plastic rain bonnets, you need little reminders of your past life . . . when you used to look for designer labels at thrift stores.

Have you ever been talking to someone and right in the middle of your story you realize that you are rambling?  And that you are boring, deadeningly boring?  And then you wonder why you even launched into this somewhat overly intimate story?  And you can see your victim’s eyes darting about in the classic signal commonly known as I’m trapped by this lunatic who won’t stop over-disclosing to me?

But you can’t stop because you’re in the  middle of a ten-part story and why in the world did you start and so you rush to the end of the story and then you decide you will never again venture into public where you might bore people with your ridiculous stories about things that happened to you twenty years ago?

And so you renew your commitment to being  a hermit?  Only you call it Enjoying Solitude so no one will think you truly are missing a screw?  Even though you are missing about seven screws, but that’s another long story which you will avoid telling?  Because there are good reasons why our head rattles loose from time to time but honestly, none worth voicing aloud?  Especially to fresh-faced twenty-something members of the human race who have no time for 45-year old women who are starved for human interaction?

No?

Well, maybe that’s just me.

Forget I mentioned it.

Take daughter to school.
Clear all carpets for carpet cleaner’s arrival.
Wake up teenagers.
Buy:  Doorknob, lightbulb, school binder, five subject spiral bound notebook.
Figure out what to make for dinner.
Launder clothes.
Wonder why I didn’t get more done.
Consider shopping for more shoes.
Help teenagers with algebra.
Pick up kids, drive kids around, tell kids to be quiet.
Take kids to activities.
Fix dinner.
Meet with Community Group.
Work for three hours.
Drop into bed and wonder again why I haven’t finished writing that novel.

I love the word “launder.”

That is all.

What’s on your To Do List?

I am a lifelong snoop.  I’m the kind of person who cranes to see into lit living rooms if I happen to be strolling outside at dusk and spy a house with open curtains.  I eavesdrop.  When I babysat as a teenager, I’d check out the medicine cabinet and open up every single kitchen cabinet, just to explore.

Is it any wonder that I am a big fan of the memoir?  A memoir answers the questions that are often impolite to ask.  What was it like growing up in a crazy family?  How did you survive the wreckage of your parent’s divorce?  Why did you get divorced? (I am always inappropriately curious.)

Lately, I’ve been reading only memoirs.  Here, in no particular order, are the ones I’ve read most recently:

Blackbird by Jenny Lauck.
This book describes a “childhood lost and found.”  Written from a child’s perspective in first person present tense, you don’t just read the story.  You swim in it.  If you click that link above, you’ll find Jenny’s website with information about her and her books.  She is a Buddhist now.

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
My friend, MaryKay, told me about this book a long time ago.  I finally came across a used copy in a thrift store (I am so cheap sometimes) and read it.  Without flinching, Jeannette relates her childhood raised by eccentric, unstable parents (her father a gambler and alcoholic and her mother a mentally ill artist).  What amazed me was the sense I got that Jeannette never really felt self-pity.  Anyway, excellent read.  You will not believe the situations her parents put their children through.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Has everyone in the world read this book?  Again, it took me awhile to find a cheap used copy, but finally, I joined the masses in reading this bestseller.  (Julia Roberts is playing Elizabeth Gilbert in the movie version.)  I found myself almost immediately repelled, unfortunately.  Not by the writing, which was lovely and amusing and palatable, but by the writer’s description of having a crisis on the bathroom floor.  (I’m not really spoiling anything since I’m the last person on earth to read this book, plus, this happens at the very beginning.)  But when the writer experienced her emotional crisis (she didn’t want to be married anymore and didn’t want to have a baby), she prays and that prayer leads her to divorce her husband (in a nasty, drawn-out, horrible battle), have an affair and then embark on her trip around the world that is chronicled in this book.

I just don’t relate to a complete shirking of responsibilities and vows and obligations.  Also?  Her current book is about marriage and seriously, really?  Don’t even get me started.

But the book itself was well-written and all that.  I just don’t love feeling judgmental while reading but I couldn’t help myself.

Lit by Mary Karr
Have you read Mary Karr’s memoirs?  She wrote The Liar’s Club (about her childhood), then Cherry (about her adolescence) and now Lit (picking up where Cherry left off).   I really loved The Liar’s Club–I read it quite a few years ago.  Then, in preparation to read Lit, I read Cherry.  And I am reading Lit right now because I’m going to a conference where she’ll be speaking. (Personally,  I did not love Cherry but I needed that bridge from one book to the next.)

I am enthralled by Lit.  I can’t do it justice, really, other than to declare how much I adore her memoirs, but here’s an article in the New York Review of Books that can speak for me.

Thin Places by Mary DeMuth
A few years ago, I met Mary at a writer’s conference.  She taught a workshop I attended.  I have been watching her writing career ever since.  She is a novelist, but also writes non-fiction.  Her most recent release is a spiritual memoir called Thin Places.  This memoir recounts the various times in Mary’s life when she’s felt closer to God, “places where she was acutely aware of God’s presence.”  Since I’ve been in the midst of a memoir-reading marathon, this particular one (in comparison) felt more like a devotional book with short chapters recalling non-sequential events in her life.  (All the other memoirs I’ve been reading are more or less in chronological order.)  But I loved the insight into Mary’s life and her descriptions of her life and family.

Mary’s writing is lovely as she shares vulnerable experiences in her life. And she is a fun person to know in real life, too.

I’d like to give someone a copy of Mary’s book, Thin Places.  If you’d like to win a copy, leave a comment with your favorite memoir.  If you don’t like to read memoirs, just state your favorite book.

* * *

(I received a copy of Mary DeMuth’s book to review, but no other compensation for any of these books.)

Last summer, my husband and I decided to go to a movie.  I scanned the movie listing on my iPhone.  “The Hurt Locker has gotten really good reviews,” I said. I really wanted to see it.

“What’s it about?”

I read him the description and he declared he didn’t want to see that movie.  So, instead, we saw some forgettable movie.  Seriously, I can’t remember what we saw instead.

And then, before I could see it, “The Hurt Locker” disappeared from theaters.  I hate it when that happens.

In recent months, “The Hurt Locker” garnered various nominations and my regret over not seeing it escalated.  I strive to watch all the movies nominated for Academy Awards . . . and so, after “The Hurt Locker” was nominated, I rented the movie on DVD and watched it at home even though I hate watching movies at home on DVD.  I get interrupted too much.

Every time we’d hear something about “The Hurt Locker”, I’d tease my husband.  He ought to trust my judgment about movies.  After all, he is the man who dragged me to “Welcome to Mooseport” one year.  I have never taken him to a dud of a movie (to my best recollection).

So today, we went to the local independent theater where “The Hurt Locker” is showing again.  Watching it the second time around was even better than the first.  My husband loved the movie.

And when it won “Best Picture” and “Best Director” (among other awards tonight), I rejoiced . . . and not just because this gives me ammunition for years and years of teasing.  But mostly because it gives me ammunition for years and years of teasing.

Husband = Zero.

Wife = All the rest of the points.