I was cajoled by my internet humor-writer friend otherwise known as the award-winning author and humorist to attend National Society of Newspaper Columnist Conference. I acquiesced and immediately regretted my impulsive behavior—this of course after I had purchased the tickets to Ventura, California. I mean really, I write the humor column for the b-town blog and I don’t recall winning any awards recently or for that matter have any other credentials that would allow me entrance to such an esteemed society. But times are hard and Karen said, “It doesn’t matter, they need people to fill the conference room, all the newspapers are shutting down or going Chapter 11, they need bodies man.” So I went.

The title says it all—if we had to live off the sea here in Cortez Bay—we would starve. Fortunately there are mussels on the beach and of course oysters—too numerous to count. Speaking of oysters . . .funny story that.

Cab driver drops me off at wrong marina—looks rather like a fisherman marina, which I point out. “Oh no, you got the right place here, yeh, this is it.” He says in a very assured tone. I climb out of cab and huff my bags out of the back before he even steps foot out the door. “Here, let me help you” he says salaciously. “Gosh, your strong for such a little thing.” Eye rolls on my part. This after I told him, I was a writer. “Oh, write them there romantic novels do ya?” “Ah, no, just this and that.” Could be dangerous territory, I’m not talking romance novels with this guy.

Echoes ring down the halls of the Serena Hotel, the three girls high-pitched voices on a ninety-degree decibel. The following morning we boarded a Cessna Caravan (the suburban of the skies) and arrived none the worse for the wear at a remote airstrip. At one point, a giraffe gracefully out-skirted us on the dirt runway making for an interesting and amusing landing. Bill Winters says that, landing on the dirt strip is one of the difficulties of running a safari operation because of the plethora of seemingly unaware four-legged creatures. Two Toyota Land-cruisers (custom modified chasse’s) await our landing, not only to make sure the runway is clear, but also to ferry us to our tented campsite.

Last Thursday I was perusing the Burien Farmers Market (open from 11:00 to 6:00) when I ran into my favorite flower vendor. They happily met me with kind smiles and inquired, “What you like today?”

Tom and I have reached our limits with running the Lake Chelan Boarding House for wayward teens. I don’t really like to cook and preparing meals for 15 plus people is my idea of purgatory. Our solution to this kitchen drudgery is genius—each of our three kids has their turn at a meal. How fun for them! Sort of like a new funny game. This of course includes, planning the meal, shopping, setting the table and of course, dish duty—no paper plates allowed and cold cereal does not make a meal. The first meal was rather tasty, teriyaki tri-tip, salad, and a fondue disguised as fettuccini.

For some people, Memorial Day is synonymous with the dreaded opening of a dust-filled cabin. For the last ten years Tom and I have made the trek to Chelan from Seattle in great anticipation of consistent sun—you know that bright shiny globe that sometimes peeks out from behind mostly cloudy Seattle skies. Insect corpses have fallen victim to some deadly musty cabin virus and line the windowsills. The shrubs reach skyward ignoring the not so funny five-foot bush height rule. Once the cabin is put in order by our willing offspring, we are ready to relax.

This week Tom and I are vacationing in the Bahama’s—a rough life if you can imagine. Our college-age sons are expected home soon and I need the endurance abilities of an Iditarod sled dog and the patience of Job to get through the summer with three teenagers. So a week-long respite is just the ticket.

I recently received a Facebook invite from my son. I’m on his “Friend” list and thus far still included in any and all types of invites. The party invite seemed vaguely familiar—I guess the words “Catholic School” caught my attention because I coincidentally received an invitation to my daughter’s Catholic school auction on the same day—by snail mail. It wasn’t nearly as amusing. We opted to go to my son’s party, it sounded a bit more intrigueing.

I’ve met with a publisher and she likes my book! “The Disturber of the Peace” (the current title) is a travel humor memoir of our year-long family adventure in France.