I spent the last four days at a hotel about 10 miles from my house. I was in Seattle, at the lovely Grand Hyatt hotel for the annual conference of the Association of Healthcare Journalists. Because Husband and I decided several years ago to become a one car family (she said with a hint of smugness), because we have a school-aged child at home, and because my sessions started early, I decided it was worth it to stay at the conference hotel. Added bonus: it’s a really nice hotel and oh, darn, they only had corner suites available by the time I made my reservation.

I come from a hotel family: my mom has been in the business for about 35 years, currently a vice president for the Handlery Hotels in San Francisco and San Diego. I know from good hotels and bad ones. I’m kind of a snob about it. A nice hotel is a fabulous thing: lovely smelling soaps, crisp white sheets, fluffy towels, and flat screen televisions. But I never sleep well when I’m away from home. I need the sound of Husband snoring, and the dog cramming her body as close to me as she can get (and also snoring). So I’m home from a successful conference after four days without the day-to-day drudgery of laundry and getting the mail and making meals, but I am more exhausted than if I’d stayed at home.

Next year, the conference is in Chicago, so I have no choice but to stay at a hotel. But if AHCJ comes back here, I think I’m going to just rent a car so I can sleep in my own bed, listening to the other mammals in the room snore while slowly getting pushed out of bed by my geriatric dog. Doesn’t that sound like heaven?