This week went by pretty quickly. It was touch and go there for a while. We didn’t hold out a lot of hope when we woke up on Tuesday and thought it was Friday. But things have worked out – to the surprise of us all. Amylynn finished the first draft of her next book, Finish What We Started, with Carina Press. It’s a damn fine thing to be done with it since it’s due on 5/14. Moods have improved. Celebratory cake has been eaten.  It comes out in December. Don’t be concerned. You’ll be notified again. So here’s some funny stuff we noticed this week.

1. National Bike to Work Day. That happened this week. Did you bike to work? Would you believe us if we told you that we did? Boy, are you gullible. We disapprove of biking, possibly because we’re not very good at it. It’s a challenge to stay up on two skinny wheels. And then when you get off after a day of being forced to bicycle with your crazy family, your tushie always hurts. And it makes you sweaty. Work is bad enough without being forced to do it with a sore and sweaty tushie. If it helps, we might consider carpooling, instead of bike riding, if we can stop off at the bakery on the way.

2. John Oliver. Oh how we enjoyed John Oliver’s tenure helming The Daily Show when Jon Stewart was away last summer. Oliver’s new show is on HBO, Last Week Tonight, and it’s a delight, we’ll tell you. Best line so far? This from Kellogg, the people who make candy you put in milk. HA! Also, he promises that if you hang with him through complicated and touchy subjects, then we can all watch a hamster eat a tiny burrito together. Go watch it, it’s really true.  A tiny hamster, eating, we swear.  It’s totally worth it. Smart men are so attractive.

3. Speaking of attractive. The State of Arizona has respectfully requested that The Daily Show stop making fun of us. “We’ve been the laughingstock to some parts of the nation in ways that are not really fair.” The Sisters would also like everyone to stop making fun of Arizona, but sadly we keep doing really stupid stuff here. Jackassedry reigns supreme.

4. We weren’t in Brazil.  The police in Sao Paulo found a lion that was stolen from an animal shelter. They found him at a breeding farm. Okay, wait. First of all, it seems the Brazilians keep lions in animal shelters. Can you just walk in there an adopt one? Really? Also, what is this farm business? Are they trying to tell us that they breed them on farms like cows or chickens? You can say all you like about the US being the land of milk and honey and such, but we don’t see any lion farms around here. Don’t worry. We’re on it. Apparently, all we need to do is sneak over there and steal a boy lion and a girl lion and–VOILA–we have a farm. Keep an eye on The Daily Show. We suspect we’re going to be in the news yet again.  Sorry Arizona.

5. All Carl’s need apply.  Today we went to a store and “Carl” worked there.  After seeing him, we decided all businesses need to employ a “Carl”.  We can’t wait.  “Carl,” we’ll say, “go buy donuts.”  He’ll also be in charge of refusing the FBI entrance into our office fortress.  He will address all of us as “Your Grace”.  See?  Now you want a Carl, too.

You all know we fear being laid off from the Bank of No Forks any time now since we now have almost nothing to do (if you’re a person who likes the truth, you can take the word “almost” out).  Over the last weeks we keep receiving emails about personal growth – seriously.  They have titles like “Career Planning” and “How to Write a Resume”.  Generally, we ignore this type of communication because we want to keep pretending all is well – you know how we like our fiction . . .

Coincidentally, the president of Target resigned this week.  While we feel sorry for him and hope he got some career planning and resume writing in before he left, what we really want to know is where do we apply for his job?  If anyone can run Target, it’s the Quill Sisters.  We know where everything is, we have ideas for quality (For god sake, sew the seams straight on the designer capsule collections!), and leave the customers alone until they ASK for help.

We brushed up our resumes and sent the following cover letter:

Dear Target People,

We have attached our resumes for the now vacant president position.  Feel free to pay them no mind because our real qualifications include the fact that you will get two of us for the price of one (we truly don’t mind splitting the salary and bonus), we know nothing about technology and can’t be blamed by the media for any further security breaches, and we look great in “Target Red”.

If we don’t hear from you by Friday, we’ll just assume we have the job and will be in early on Monday, around 10ish.

Thank you –

The Target Sisters

Ava likes to share her mental disorders with her teenage children.  She thinks it helps them deal with being moody in a, “Wow, we’re moody with our teenage problems no one understands, not even other teenagers, but our mother is nuts and therefore, we’re going to be okay.” Or something like that.

In elementary school, Ava had a teacher who taught the class how to make paper snowflakes.  One of the instructions was to never cut off the “magic point” or the snowflake would fall apart.  It didn’t take Ava long to realize this part of the instructions was total horse poop.  You can cut the tip-off all you wanted and nothing happens.  The MAGIC part was actually one of the sides.  If you cut the entire side off – then it would fall apart.  How could a teacher mess-up such an important life skill?  She dwells on this ’til this very day.

Now you’re wondering why this old traumatic memory has returned to Ava’s life.  That would be Pinterest’s fault.  Not a day goes by without yet another set of instructions on how to make snowflakes.  Who knew the world was so lacking in the xmas paper arts that the instructions are needed daily under “Holiday Decor”.  But – there you have it.

Upon hearing of his mother’s distress from the past, the boy says, “Had you paid attention in Calculus! you would have been able to explain the principle covering this effect to her.”  (Note on the word Calculus! – every time the boy says this word he’s excited and we always picture it in our heads with a capital C and an exclamation point.)  Next he says “The rear differential being in the fifth house of the timed amoeba . . . blah, blah, blah.”  Okay, he didn’t really say that but who listens when someone is about to tell you a Calculus! principle?  You only kept reading because you wanted to know if Ava actually listened and now you know she didn’t.  No one tell the boy.

And, there’s the difference between the Sisters and their own children – emotional issues with paper cutouts and Calculus!  The next time someone asks the Sisters to craft something we’re going to use the Theory of Relativity and go take a nap while we get those too smart kids to make party favors from chemicals and Calculus!

The problem is we doubt either one of us could sit still or be quiet long enough…

The Bandit just turned nine. He was supposed to be born on 5/5/2005. What a cool birthday, huh? I had the C-section scheduled for that day and everything. Sadly, suggesting that he would be difficult his entire life, he insisted on coming on 5/3 foiling all my plans.

For his birthday this year, his uncle got him a cool crank radio. He was showing me all the nifty things the radio did – like requiring no batteries, charging cell phones with a solar panel, all kinds of weather channels and such. All very cool for a cub scout to have.

The one he was the most impressed with amused the shit out of me.

“When you don’t get very good reception you can raise this thing–” he extended the antennae “–and voila, the radio is clearer.”

“That’s awesome, little man.”

We accomplished some serious personal milestones this week at the office.  To start, not a single one of us took a nap, we didn’t even rest our eyes.  Additionally, we only had dessert twice between Monday and Friday – generally, dessert doesn’t happen any less than three times a week.  Lastly, we started the Game of Thrones, the finest HBO series ever made.  Here’s some other personal bests that didn’t involve us.

Why did they even let him in?

1. Perhaps he should behave himself. The American drummer from The Scorpions was in Dubai acting like a jackass. He’s been convicted of offensive behavior and will have to spend one month in jail over it. Apparently, he was insulting Islam, raising his middle finger, and being a drunken jerk. He was arrested and was a no-show at the next gig in Bahrain. What happens when the drummer just doesn’t show up? Does the drum tech go on? We’re going to have to ask Amylynn’s Honey – he’s a musician and he knows this stuff. In the meanwhile, if you’re an American drummer, just don’t go around flipping people off and you’ll stay out of trouble. Hopefully.

2. Flying teeth. A guy in Madrid held up traffic on the busiest highway because he stopped to find his false teeth when they flew out of his mouth when he sneezed while riding his motorcycle. Can you imagine everyone being stopped on I-10 in the middle of LA because some guy sneezed out his teeth? It’s insane. The best part of the story is that the police made him get back on his bike and get moving. There’s no word on whether he found them or not. How funny if you stop to change a flat and find some teeth lying around. BAH!

3. A new marketing ploy. The Red Cross calls Ava almost daily to get her to come down and give her O positive blood. The vampires are relentless. She’s done it in the past and they firmly believe there’s more where that came from.  The Thai Red Cross had Storm Troopers in giving blood. We love this.  Once we saw this, Ava decided that if they promised

We refuse to believe we’re related to this bit of yumminess. NOPE

her a Storm Trooper costume she’d be happy to show up down there. Red Cross, are you listening?  She also likes Darth Vader.  A lot.

4. We’re related.  It turns out that all of us are relatives.  It only takes about 64 generations past before sheer human numbers cause you to have to accept this fact.  Why do we bring this up you wonder?  We bring this up because it’s always easier to get a “loan” from cousins than the bank.  Unless the banker is a human and then – BINGO – he’s a cousin too!  Now, about that money . . .

5. Being cheated. Ava, once again, has been given a loaner Cadillac while her almost five-year-old Caddy is in for repairs. This time she’s feeling very cheated because they only gave her the $80,000 car instead of the $85,000 one they gave her last time. It would be fine except that they dealer told her with regret that this one doesn’t have parallel parking assist like the last loner did. WHAT? We didn’t know that the last car had this feature or we’d have spent at least one whole day in the parking lot at Bank of No Forks playing with that. Honest to God, it pisses us off because we are desperate for things to do there and that would have been awesome!

The girls at Bank of No Forks are our own worst enemies. Every Monday we all show up for work with dieting on our minds. There is grumbling by noon on Monday. Tuesday there might be a slip. Wednesday shit happens. Thursday we abandon all hope. By Friday we hate ourselves.

Take for instance yesterday. The Worlds Greatest Receptionist (henceforth referred to as WGR) and I went to fetch lunch. We got excellent chile lime salads. Very healthy. On the way back to the office, less than a mile away, she says, “I want cake. CAAAAAAAAAAKE.”

Me, being the good friend that I am say, “Where from?”

She can’t make up her mind. She’s straining to think of a nearby bakery.

I take pity on  her. “I know of one. The secret bakery.”

“The secret bakery? What’s that?” she says. I can see suspicion on her face.

“A bakery that is a secret.” I try to act nonchalant. She gives me a quizzical look, and I cave. “It’s a secret cause that’s the bakery Ava and I go to and don’t tell you about.”

So now she’s pissed. Betrayed, and rightfully so. I direct her to the place and she’s in love. We brought back three giant slices of cake to share with the girls.

Now its Wednesday. I thought we were doing very well, diet wise. Ava had been in an absolutely FIERCE mood after dealing with the Cadillac dealer first thing in the morning. (Just a hint to GM and the guys over at the dealer – we just finished watching Breaking Bad and I’d be careful if I was you. Don’t use any Truvia is all I’m saying.) I’m freaking out over the book I’m trying to finish on schedule. WGR was feisty probably out of solidarity with the rest of us.

I went to take The Bandit to the doctor. This is the first text I got while in the waiting room.

 How can this be ignored?

This is just a sampling. Another followed and another and another. Not long after this barrage, I got a text from someone else in the office. Someone who doesn’t usually participate in this nonsense. When she texted her wishes, I couldn’t very well ignore the nicest person in the building.

I got no less than fifteen text on the topic of donuts. You see all the donut emojis?

Don’t you love the pictures of the fruit with the “none a dis!” comment?

We’re a hopeless mess.

Honestly.

So I did. I found us donuts. I told the checkout person I lost a bet, I was so ashamed.

And we ate them.

Donuts filled with sorrow.

Normally, I don’t go for winkers. There’s something inherently suspect about someone who winks at you. Most men are demoted right to icky the minute they try that winking business.

Not this one.

Oh no.

We want you people to know that if this happened to us, we’d be the proud owners of a baby fox. How many of you would be able to let him go after that.

HE KISSED THE MAN’S TOES, FOR ZEUS’S SAKE.

We wouldn’t kidnap him. We’d lure him into the house with yummies and he’d be so happy he’d have to stay.

I really dropped the ball this weekend. I feel just awful about it. On Friday I had a half day at Bank of No Forks so I took my computer to my favorite eatery that also has glorious sandwiches and wifi so I could work on the book due on May 14. I sat against the back wall because it freaks me out that people might be able to read over my shoulder. Of course they can’t but I’m always certain there’s someone behind me with Superman vision who is silently judging my work. But enough about my psychosis.

by Holly Carlyle Photography

I was positioned so I could see the entire restaurant and I would periodically look up at the crowd. One guy caught my attention. He was a good-looking man in his late fifties or early sixties. He was fit and very big – way over six feet. Dressed head to toe in gray BMW motorcycle gear – a textile shirt and pants, and boots, he carried a helmet and some square thing that went over his shoulders. He sat at the table about ten feet in front of me and at an angle so I could really only see his profile.

I watched him while I wrote and he ate his glorious sandwich. I was pretty sure I knew who he was, and it was later when I discussed the event with my husband that I have become convinced that I watched Neil Peart, the drummer from Rush and writer of glorious travelogues, take a break from riding and nibble a late lunch.

Here’s where I dropped the ball. I did not go up and say hi. Upon further dissection of the event, I think my reticence was because, at the time, I wasn’t 100% sure it was him. The crazy thing is, if I was certain, I would have said something, but because I wasn’t sure I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of a total stranger. I didn’t have my posse with me so I was a lone wolf, so to speak. I’m much less obnoxious when I’m alone. No, that’s not true. I’m probably always obnoxious on some level. I’m much less brave when I’m alone. Isn’t that always the case?

Anyway, I know that Neil rides a BMW touring bike, that he travels practically everywhere on it, and that he likes to eat in yummy restaurants. He is six feet, four inches and handsome in a rugged way. My Honey, the rabid Rush fan, has told me way more than any woman who isn’t married to Neil needs to know about the man. Well, he didn’t tell me he was handsome; that’s something I made my own determination about.

I apologized profusely to my husband for not quietly and politely asking for an autograph from the man whose band inspired My Honey to be the fabulous musician he is today. I really regret that I didn’t get the opportunity to tell Neil that his writing is outstanding, as that is what I admire the most. Mr. Peart, if you were actually around this weekend, drop me a comment so I know I wasn’t crazy. Your writing is fabulous. You play the drums pretty good, too.