And yet another restraining order gets filed . . .

We need new ball gowns.

Sounds like we have a lot of white girl problems, huh?

It’s true, though. We couldn’t possibly be expected to show up at our book signings in March in the same old ball gowns we wore to the last signings. What would people say? You know who we’re talking about, all those people who pay so much attention to what we’re doing all the time.

So we’ve been shopping for dress patterns and we know exactly what we want which makes it so easy to make decisions. NOT. What it means is that someone (Amylynn) is very frustrated because someone (Ava) can’t make a damn decision (I’d complain here but that might be true – Ava). That’s what usually happens anyway. Not this time. We found a pattern we both liked right off and ordered them from Amazon. The drone delivered it the very next day.

We went shopping for fabric right away because that’s usually where the trouble begins. We also went to a store our mother had expressly forbidden us to go to. We’re rebels. You can’t tell US what to do.

WE FOUND EXACTLY WHAT WE WANT. It’s a miracle. Go buy a lottery ticket.

We took our four bolts of fabric (two of which were on CLEARANCE!) up front to be cut. How excited were we when this cute little boy came over to help us, smiling and useful?

Michael the Fabric Boy

“Hi!” Ava said, all delighted and stuff.

“I’m just going to  warn you now,” I said, launching into the warning judges make us say to all store clerks, waiters, and hotel staff. “We’re going to be a pain in the ass.”

His smile faltered.

I continued, “I’m just saying because we want you to have full disclosure.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ava told him with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Actually, things moved along swimmingly. The three of us bantered. He inquired as to what we were making. It turns out that he makes costumes – Elizabethan era. He wanted us to make our own buttons and proceeded to give us instructions that would take no less than six months and five friends to complete. Ava mentioned that perhaps he didn’t have a 40 hour a week job, books to write, a husband and children, and dogs.

Uh huh. We’re getting zippers.

He did mention that he had a girl friend and a cat. We think he brought up the girl friend because he was afraid we were trying to pick him up. Which is adorable. When you hit 45 and 50, any pretty 25-year-old boy actually looks about twelve.

I asked him to take a picture. At first he looked a bit alarmed, but he warmed to the idea. He even fluffed his hair and smiled. See, cute, huh?