I returned home from Nationals on Monday, the same day that my twenty-one year old son cleverly scheduled his hernia surgery. So the plan was that we drive from San Francisco to Reno, shop at Whole Foods, because we never leave Reno without shopping at Whole Foods, then drive the two and a half hours to Isolation, Nevada, pick up the kid and drive the remaining forty minutes to our secluded desert abode. Great plan and it worked right up to the pick-up-the-kid part. Kid can’t leave the hospital until he pees. For some unusual reason, he can’t pee with his father pacing back and forth at the end of his bed, saying “Do you have to pee yet?” every two minutes. Now I don’t blame my husband. He’s just spent four days at RWA Nationals surrounded by women. He’s driven for 8 hours. He wants to get home and unload the Jeep. Men have a thing about packing and unpacking their vehicles, but that’s a different blog. So finally I talk Gary into driving home with me, leaving the kid in peace to pee, and then I’ll drive back to the hospital and pick him up after he pees. It worked wonderfully. Gary was relaxed when we got back, the Jeep was unloaded, and the very sore kid was ready to go to sleep.

That was the day after Nationals. The day before Nationals I almost stepped on a rattlesnake. Oddly, one of my biggest irrational fears has been being bit by a rattlesnake and having to miss Nationals. My first RWA conference was in Reno and I stopped trail running about a month before, just in case. I did the same for Atlanta and Dallas. This year I was equally careful, right up until I was walking up to our pump to start it and water the trees. I was going through my “don’t forget” list when I hear the awful sound of the snake and realized he was right flipping in front of me. This story becomes quite convoluted at this point, involving a plumber who happened to show up just as I raced back to the house, hair standing on end (me, not the plumber) and my husband not being able to find the proper ammo for the snake gun….(Me, frantically, since I want that snake gone or I’ll never go to the pump again) “Are these .410 shells?” (Husband, distractedly, because he has the Y chromosome and finding things is impossible unless he really concentrates) “No. Those are 12 gauge.” (Me) “Colorful expletive.” Anyway, we find the shells, shoot the snake, and once again I am safe at the pump. Oh, and then we carry the snake home on a stick because I have to have my photo taken with it. My husband has a new camera.

And now today. Today was my first writing day since returning home from Nationals. I have to submit a proposal by Monday and line edits by Tuesday. I am pressed for time. I send my husband and son off to work and Reno respectively, drink a cup of coffee, look out the window—and see seven cows that do not belong to me happily raiding my haystack. Hay costs $10 a bale now with the increased fuel prices. I have to have 180 bales to get through the winter. I cannot afford to have 170 because the range cows are hungry. So off I go to chase mean cows on foot, crashing through the sage brush, hoping all the rattlesnakes are in bed, since it’s 5:30 in the morning. I get the cows off the property, go to start the pump and almost step on a bull snake. Bull snakes are harmless, but oy vey. Enough already.

So, how’s your morning? I won’t be back in to answer the posts until this afternoon. I’m turning off the phone and the computer, taking my laptop and a thermos of coffee into my bedroom and locking the door. See you in about six hours.

Oh, and I haven’t proofread, so please forgive any typos or insane phraseology.