Tuesday, October 15th....

I arrive in Austin in late afternoon both anticipating and dreading the upcoming experience. It has been two years since I waded into a Bouchercon. I know that I will see people I love... and people I loathe. An out-of-control roller coaster awaits me and yet, here I am, willingly climbing on board. I must be insane.

No whining, I think. It's up to you whether you have fun or spend your time bitching. A thought strikes me at the rental car counter as memories of my convertible at home flash through my mind: a moldy child safety seat, fast food wrappers, cheap plastic toys, wet shoes, smelly towels and several feet of dog hair that cover the seats like fresh powder on the slopes of Aspen. Maybe I could start over with a new one?

"How much to upgrade to a convertible?" I ask the clerk idly.

"Twenty dollars a day more," replies the chipper young woman.

"Never mind, it's not worth it," I decide.

"Fifteen," she offers.

I hestitate.

"Ten."

"Sold." I receive the keys to a new Sebring. White, of course, to make it easier for the car thieves and road rage enthusiasts to identify me as an out-of-towner.

No matter. By the time my friend and B'con roommate Carol arrives half an hour later, I am waiting in the baggage area dangling a set of keys with a big smile on my face. "Hello, Thelma," I tell her. "Just call me Louise."

We speed toward the hotel (beyond the hotel, actually, then do a U-turn and speed back) and I tell Carol how I feel like Gulliver these days, earthbound and tied by a thousand cords of responsibility: children, parents, pets, work, a book-in-progress, a house-in-progress, a yard, friends I never see often enough, unreturned phone calls, unaswered emails... the list goes on and on.

Carol understands. She's been there. She is there. "Let's get drunk," she suggests cheerfully.

Things are looking up. The hotel clerk upgrades us to a suite for no particular reason other than we are there early for the convention and we look like two tired women escaping their lives. Solidarity. We march upstairs and hold a conference over the mini-refrigerator, finally deciding it will likely hold four six packs of beer plus food. Or ten six packs of beer and no food. (By Sunday afternoon, what it actually ends up holding is twelve aluminum containers full of restaurant left-overs, none of them eaten, plus a lone wheel of untouched Brie.)

Our toiletries take up the entire bathroom counter. "Let's go buy more!" I say. I use personal care products the way unneutered dogs use their spray: I like to mark a place immediately, leaving my scent, so it feels like mine, all mine. We hop in the convertible and one hundred dollars later have packed the car's trunk full of wine, bottled water, the food that will go uneaten and approximately two dozen bottles of exfoliants, bubble bath, moisturizers, anti-frizz hair care products and, of course, toe nail polish. Maybe we'll have a slumber party. It's important to be prepared.

We stop at Manuel's for dinner -- I practically live there over the coming five days -- and, at last, over frozen margaritas, talking to Carol, I feel the cords begin to loosen. "Sproing!" goes one... and my worries about my father in his rest home float away. "Sproing" goes another and I decide it's time for the graphic designer to take over my latest business project, I've done all I can do... one by one, sip-by-sip, word-by-word, as Carol and I catch up on our lives, the tension gives way and my worries fade. A strange feeling comes over me: I am free. For five glorious days -- 120 hours -- I am free.

Back in our hotel room, we fill the bathroom with enough supplies to stock a 200-room spa resort, then get in our pajamas, tipsy and content, to watch a girl movie on TV. Carol has not yet seen "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" and I want to see it again, having been somewhat less than sober the first time around. It's not rocket science, but I love every moment, especially when John Corbett wears his little round teacher glasses, though I do find myself wondering if -- now that the actress in the lead is rich -- she can afford to take out a contract on the life of the make-up artist who made her look so utterly drab for the first twenty minutes. The actress deserves an Oscar just for agreeing to that alone. It's the female equivalent of a male actor playing a mentally retarded person, I decide, being plastered up there on screen with your essence showing and nowhere to hide. Give her an Academy Award now.

The movie ends just as my eyes start to droop. I am the happy victim of margarita meltdown, I drift off to sleep quickly, unwilling to contemplate what could be in store for me over the next five days. It could be grand... and it could be awful. But whatever happens, I'm here now.