My day at Hedgebrook was a day in which I was completely out of my element. It was a day to be surrounded by talented, gifted and pure, non-cynical women who wear Birkenstocks, don’t perm their hair and refuse to sport designer labels. I came to learn to be a better writer. But I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. That would take more than one day. And these women were really good. Many were professional, published authors. Others were just naturally amazing. We were given an assignment to inspire creativity. We were to write instructions for something and the woman to my right quickly jotted down with ease and off the top of her graying head, a moving diatribe detailing the pain and angst of being married to an addict. She cleverly called it “How to Stay.” Are you freaking kidding me? Her first draft was like one of my 20th drafts. WTF! Then she gently pushed my hand and indicated that I should read what I wrote. Not a chance, lady. I’m not that deep. I don’t wear organic cotton clothes, I don’t meditate and I don’t make my kids' lunches from scratch. These were real ladies and real moms. Not me. I’m a lazy, surface mom who buys organic crap food because it makes me feel good about myself. In case you don’t know, organic crap food is the stuff in boxes with cute names like “Annie’s Home Grown” or “Happy Times.” The manufacturers make the junk food we used to eat as children like pretzels and cheese-its but with organic cane sugar and organic wheat. Sometimes it’s even Gluten Free! But it’s still junk food. It was created to relieve the guilt about being indolent. Let’s face it, anything in a box is junk food (unless it’s seaweed or kale chips and good luck getting my 5 year-old to choose those snacks over a ginger snap, even an organic one). There is one thing I could have written. I could have written about how to screw up. I’ve done that a lot. But then I didn’t know if I could’ve communicated that in a flowery language with powerful metaphors that would tug at the heartstrings of my fellow Hedgebrook attendees. More importantly, they would’ve probably called the department of children’s services if I admitted things like how many times my daughter fell of the bed after I nursed her and drifted to sleep or the time I almost got into a fight with a woman in a Vegas parking lot because my adrenalin was pumped upon rescuing my son from a locked car when he was 7 months old. Yes, I know how to really screw up. I’ve done it so many times, it wouldn’t fit into one essay anyway and we only had 5 minutes to write. I’d need about 5 months. As a matter of fact, I’ve gotten so good at screwing up, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until years later. I am an expert. A genius. A renaissance screw-upper. The hard part is going to be keeping this talent hidden from my kids.