MaryJanice Davidson on airport snacks and dishwashers

It's not that everything about being a professional writer is wonderful. (It is, but I don't want you cutting me any less slack when I start whining about, I dunno, the muse or something.) It's the dichotomy between being an invited guest, and being the mom o' the house, or She Who Invites. (Or is it She Whom Invites? Eh, no biggie, it's not like I do this for a living.)

I don't just love the craft, though it's pretty great. A friend of mine once confessed that a blank computer screen was terrifying: "You have to fill it up! With words!" whereas I saw it as a path to anywhere. You could take that blank screen and make anything happen any time you want. It's a ticket. A doorway. An escape hatch.

But it's not just the process. I love the business/PR side, too. I love interviews, meeting fans, teaching workshops, giving speeches ... all of it.

It starts the minute I stumble off the plane. I had a nice seat in business class I didn't pay for, and a nap (something about the roar of plane engines knocks me out five seconds after the wheels are up).

I saw a pleasant-looking older woman in a dark suit holding up a sign: MaryJanice. One word, like Madonna, or Ebola. Amazing! Two MaryJanices at the same airport? What were the odds? In all my life, I've never run across another MaryJanice. Better go talk to this one.

"Hi, MaryJanice," I said.

"MaryJanice!" she replied, delighted.

"Yep. MaryJanice."

"Great, the car is right this way. Please follow me."

Oh. The conference. The thing I came to town for. Right. I won't deny I was a little disappointed her name turned out to be Pam. But she had a nice car.

She whisked me past the crowded check-in desk, handed me room paperwork and key cards, gave me a gift bag filled with snacks, went over my schedule. "Now I'll call you at 9 to make sure you're up, and I'll come get you at 9:30. Is that all right?"

More than.

"Oh, I see you've eaten your snacks. You poor thing, they must have starved you on the plane."

I nodded and looked (more) pitiful (than usual). If by starved she meant I devoured my lunch and the lunch of the person beside me, who was on a cleansing diet, then yes. They starved me.

"I'll bring you more snacks," she promised, and I've mentioned writing is a wonderful way to make a living, right? "And you'll have a nice breakfast before your speech." I'd have settled for a breakfast, but the wonderful Pam had promised me a nice breakfast. Nirvana. That's where I was.

In next to no time I was full and watching a terrible movie on HBO, and since I love terrible movies, that worked out great. Went over my speech, got ready for bed, out cold by midnight.

My phone rang at 9 a.m. on the dot: "Good morning! Can I bring you anything to eat?"

"Mom?"

"Uh, no. Pam."

Pam? I didn't know any — ah. Snack lady. "Snacks?" I managed.

"Oh, yes. See you in 30."

And I did. She had snacks, wanted to know how I'd slept, would I like juice or water at the podium while I spoke, would it be too much trouble to talk to the press afterward, she would be happy to drive me to the airport, a reminder my flight left at 7:30 p.m., here, you forgot to take these Peanut M&Ms.

Speech went great — I'd scribbled a few notes to remember my talking points, talked for an hour and took questions. It's a good time. I tell people the same thing wherever I go: If I can do this, you can do this. I didn't go to college. I'm nobody special. You can do this.

Later, back to the airport. More snacks. A free upgrade to first class. Superior snacks! My filet was a tad overdone, but I was too full of M&Ms to kick up much fuss. Got home late, family asleep, good to be home. I love traveling, but I love the bum I married, and the bums I gave birth to, more. And the dogs. I love them, too.

I was out within minutes of going prone. And minutes later, subjectively speaking, my husband was talking at me.

"Hon? Listen, I know you just got back—"

Oh, good, he knows I just got back. Probably wants to talk about how much he missed me and how his life had no meaning while I was gone.

"—and I'm going to be late tonight, so you'll have to take care of that, too. Remember? We talked about this before you left?"

"Nnngg."

"And I'm sorry, but the dishwasher is doing that thing again where it doesn't actually clean dishes, so please call the repair guys. And the kid's play is tonight, so I'll see you then. OK?"

His lips were still moving. Better look and/or sound engaged. "Ohhhh ummm?"

"I love you, too." Smek! A husbandly peck and he was off, presumably to go somewhere and do something. I squinted at the clock: 5:45 a.m. I didn't have to get up for 90 minutes. Mmm ... bliss ...

"Mom?"

It had not been 90 minutes. Ergo this was not happening. Ergo I didn't have to respond.

"Mom?"

"Mmmfff."

"Uh, listen, we forgot I have early rehearsal this morning."

We, huh?

"So, um, we have to leave."

Is that the royal we? "When?" I croaked, and I definitely didn't whine.

"Ten minutes ago?"

The child (wisely) retreated and I was kind of dressed in a remarkably short time. Teeth could wait. Hair could wait. Dogs could wait ... for a few minutes, anyway. "Argh, what's that smell?"

"The dishwasher's doing that thing where it doesn't wash dishes. Dad said he'd talk to you about it."

"I'd know if he talked to me about it." It smelled like someone stuffed laundry into it, lit it on fire, put the fire out with spoiled milk and let the mess sit overnight.

"And my play's tonight. He said he'd remind you."

"I'd definitely remember if you had a play tonight."

"Oh."

"What, oh?" We were in the car by now, and I pressed my face against the frosty window to wake myself up. "Aagghh, my face, my face!"

"Feel better?" he asked, rummaging in his backpack.

"No, but I'm awake." Painfully, horribly awake.

"I think Dad did that thing where he's talking to you, and you seem alert and awake, but you're not."

"Sounds about right."

"Here."

I took whatever — it — was without looking, more intent on getting him to school as quickly/safely as possible. I hit the brakes so he could clamber out (he was at the age where he was all legs and knobby parts, with a shock of dark hair that always needed combing, and a sunny smile that made me want to hug him even though I'd just given myself frostbite on his behalf), and looked down: a Twix bar.

"To give you strength for the drive home," he said, and his father's wiseass grin was on his small face. "We're glad you're back!"

"Yeah, the dishwasher thing must have been making you nuts."

"Not for that," he replied in the God, you're so dumb! tone perfected by all teenagers. "It's more fun when you're here, is all."

Well. Not much to say to that, except: HHHHNNNNKKKK! He, and every child in the vicinity, turned when I leaned on my horn. I waved like an inpatient during visiting hours at the asylum. "Thanks for the Twix! You'll be great tonight! Bye! Twix! Thanks!" Then: "What are you looking at?" to the dozens of staring teens.

Kids today. Always eavesdropping on private convos. I'd have given them a piece of my mind, but I had a mouth full of Twix. Next time, maybe.

MaryJanice Davidson is the international bestselling author of several books, including the Betsy the Vampire Queen series (book 14, Undead and Unforgiven, comes out in October). She has published books, novellas, articles, short stories, recipes and rants. Readers can contact her at contactmjd@comcast.net and find her on Facebook. She lives in St. Paul, Minn., and has been sentenced to a husband, two teenagers and two dogs.