Read her take and advice here.

But instead. I am here. In a chair, In front of a laptop. At a desk with a mug of coffee, a bottle of water and a ream of paper waiting to be filled.

I suppose we all have our runaway stories. My kids have both done it- or at least attempted it.
Not sure what that says about me as a Mommy.
Granted neither one of them got far, they were definitely missed and certainly the reason behind the attempt wasn’t taken lightly.

I know I had my share of runaway attempts growing up. The worst part was when I’d thought I’d runaway from home- had packed my favorite stuff, taken some food and a book, managed to stay away for hours and hours and hours… yet when I came home, no one had even known I was gone.
That sucked.

I remember that woman back in the ’80′s who holed up in her kid’s tree house saying she was going on strike- as their mother. I thought she was nuts at the time- especially when her kids lured her down with a plate of homemade brownies- but later, when I was a mother and a wife… I pretty much got where she was coming from and started wishing for my own tree house.

Sometimes, that’s what it takes. A strike. A packed suitcase. A white flag on a stick.

Like the 41 year old SAHM who picketed in front of her house in Indiana, saying she was unappreciated and wanted some help around the house… her point was made, even though she got a bunch of hate mail from single working moms and husbands who still believe in the barefoot and pregnant role of house wife…

( of course, you can’t be all crazy and do what this mom did. because then you have to go to jail.. and while that sounds like a bit of peace and quiet, I don’t know how many of you would be comfortable using that toilet… and no, I’m not going to tell you how I know about using the toilet in a jail cell. )

At any rate, know this. Thinking of running away is perfectly normal. Disguising a little runaway as a guy’s golf weekend, high school pal reunion, girls’ getaway or spa retreat is also acceptable.
AS long as when you return home, you want to be there, you feel like you’ve been missed and you are in a hurry to unpack and settle in.

Little Runaway Interlude

While packing for my recent writing conference in Florida, I did the three things any smart gal does: check weather.com’s extended forecast, choose the prettiest shoes, and bring lots of books. I was ready for some sunshine, as Atlanta’s teaser of Spring went from 60 degree days to 30 degree days and I hate being teased.
The conference was called Sleuthfest, sponsored by the Mystery Writers of America, the Florida Chapter and was geared to the detective/police/PI/thriller/suspense market… more suited for the novel I’m almost done with, not really the one I wanted to pitch, but the agent list was very respectable and I had at least one friendly face in Florida to look forward to seeing, an author pal who told me most of the business gets done in the bar. SO that was one thing I could look forward to. He also promised to show me this cool place. Vizcaya.
One of the statues at the entrance. Boob Anole extra.

Of course, I enjoyed the workshops, learned some new stuff, made some new friends, got the requisite author photos and signatures,
Big name to watch out for and a great guy, John Hart.
Super funny and talented Brad Meltzer, who taught me the value of giving.
did some shopping and went to the beach where we saw this guy catch a snapper, though he had no idea what kind of fish it was until someone told him.All the things you cannot do on the Pier. And now you KNOW I wanted to do them all.


Yes, it was a great trip. Fun times, good food, a bed to myself. Coupled with the fact that my reading of a chapter of We’re Not Waving, We’re Drowning was very well-received by my peers and I didn’t choke on pitch day, nabbing me two agent requests, while two others came in electronically. I also scored some points with a positive and encouraging critique of the work in progress. It’s always good to know you are on the right path.
It may have cost a bit of money, time away from the family, and the bitch of a delay getting home on blizzard day… a delay in a terminal where some guy almost died- when no one could heimlich the chicken sandwich out of his throat.
I am dead serious. That guy is going to have the sorest most bruised chest when he gets out of the hospital. Freaked me out. All I could think about was Palahniuk’s book, Choke.

When the people near me invited me to join them for dinner before we flew out, I declined saying there was no way I could eat after seeing what happened with that guy.
“Are you sure?” they asked, “We could bring you back some chicken wings.”
“Great,” I said. “Chicken bones. Thanks.”

So, to wrap it up, I’ll say this. I’m glad I went, though coming home in high-heeled sandals to snow drifts and my son’s Hooters Snow Girl was a bit unexpected.

Anyone who has spent any period of time with me knows I am stubborn- though I prefer to call it “determined.”
I knew a guy once who made his Queensland Blue Heeler attack a deflated soccer ball hanging from a tree on his farm in Southern California with a simple whistle command. That dog ran and leapt into the air, snagging the ball and clamping his jaws onto the scarred leather. His hind legs hung two feet off the ground as he spun in slow circles.
We sipped our beers and watched, waiting for him to understand his predicament and give up, until the guy said, “He’ll hang there all day. Once he’s locked onto to his prey, until it gives, he can’t open his mouth.”

I’m like that dog.
I’ve been swinging under the publication tree for seven years. It’s what I want and it’s what I’ll get. Sure, along the way there have been a fair share of hits and accomplishments for my short stories and essays, but my deflated soccer ball is the elusive book contract dangling from the branch of the perfect literary agent.
And after a few years of hearing, “It’s not for us.” and “Great writing, but…” my jaws are getting tired.
But here I am. Sending out the novel to a bulldog of an agent, another who wears pink and two secret links, continuing to hope for the best.

Recently, I have been wondering about master bedrooms. One, why they are called, “master?” and two, why do people feel the need to make the bedroom more than a place to sleep? It seems that designers are taking the “let’s make this room look like a hotel room “approach and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to live in a hotel.

I’ve been looking at friend’s new homes and houses online and someday soon will even buy one of those lovely properties and increase my square footage overall and in the bedrom… so what I was wondering was- would it be weird to put 2 full or queen beds in the master bedroom, instead of one huge king-sized one that will cost loads and loads to dress in quality linens?

This is the thing- I love sleeping alone. I sleep best alone. neither my husband nor I snore and there isn’t much flailing going on, but when we share the queen bed, both of us love the moment the other vacates and we can sprawl in the center. Would it be so bad to use the “sitting area” of a master suite for the second bed?
Here’s how I see it.
You go to bed together, his or mine… and an hour later- or twenty minutes later, someone goes back to their own bed. Everyone gets to choose their linens, their mattress type and their pillow- no one gets bopped in the nose by a wandering elbow, or slammed in the ass by a drawn up knee- and no one had the covers pulled from them in the middle of the night. If I want to read until 2 am, I can and if he wants to hear his music on his headphones, he can.

I think this might be a really good idea. Or am I nuts?

Happy 2008, she says pouring another glass of wine.