SHE WROTE: Moot and the Morning After

We're back, most of the jet lag over, and San Diego was a real ride. Met some wonderful people--Harley Jane Kozak is possibly the nicest writer I've ever met, although there are a lot of nice writers--ran into some old acquaintances--Catherine Coulter is still going full speed ahead and Julia Quinn's got a new project that I can't talk about, sigh--and then, of course, there were the Cherries. We went to dinner on Friday night and that was so much fun—Lynn Kerstan told me some of the stuff she did after she left the convent but again, I cannot share—and then the next day the conference started and it was pedal to the metal all day. Bob taught without a break but he lives for that stuff so I said “Poor baby” once and then went to the bar to laugh some more (over Diet Coke, it was the middle of the day, people). We did an ox and dachshund keynote where we never really caught each other’s rhythms, probably because we were doing two different speeches, and at the end I had that weird out-of-body does-any-of-this-make-sense experience, so I said, “And now here’s Bob to sum up,” which was kind of lousy because I was supposed to sum up but since I couldn’t figure out what we’d just said in the speech, hey, it was his turn. Then we went to dinner with the people who’d won us, and they were so much fun, except toward the end, my brains started leaking out of my ears so if I said anything bitchy or annoying, I apologize. Really. Then the next morning Bob and I had a tense breakfast, and then Inkgrrl took us to the airport (and thank you again for the ride, babe) and we spent the rest of Sunday fighting with a time-out for us to catch flights back to different cities on the other side of the country. I know it’s his turn to write, but we’re still snarling at each other and I’m the one who does Charm and Joy while looking for a shovel to whack him with, so I’m up again. I suppose you’d like the details. No, no, that might traumatize you and send you into therapy. Let me just summarize by saying Bob is wrong, wrong, wrong. Again.

And then I came home and Moot had thrown a party (how did you all know?) and the place was a mess. Scales everywhere, footprints in the butter, evidence of moral carnage . . . I didn’t even KNOW alligators wore black lace. But she looked pretty happy, so what the hell. Of course she always looks pretty happy. It’s one of the perks of being a plastic gator.

And I swear she’ll be in my luggage on the tour. Unless Bob deep-sixes her which is always possible because he’s just not a little plastic alligator kind of guy. I think.