Do  you remember those baby goats we showed you a couple of weeks ago?

We really, really need one of those. They will provide us hours, literally hours of amusement. Believe me when I say you don’t want us bored.

I lived through my camping experience. It wasn’t so bad. I got almost an entire chapter written, so that was great. I didn’t find Bigfoot, so that sucked. The people who camped opposite us at the camp ground had a cat in a harness, so that was awesome. More on that later. No mama bears left me their cubs for safekeeping, so that was disappointing. Even though I never left the shade of our trailer’s awning, I still managed a sunburn, so that blew. I did see a herd of white tail deer, and that was nifty.

All in all I think things evened out.

Our little group was fairly large–13 of us in all–with another group of 5 hanging out for one day. We are all family and/or long time friends. That would also imply that we’re loud, funny and sarcastic. I just want to set the tone for you, dear readers.

This is Peko. It’s pronounced like pickle but without the “l”.  This name confusion caused a great deal of deliberation at the campsite. I’m not completely convinced that we ever resolved the issue completely. I am positive I’m right, though, because I told the woman when I took the kitty’s picture that he was going on my blog and I needed accurate information. Part of the problem could be that Pickle is a funny name for a cat. Peko not so much. This was a funny cat and he deserved a funny name. What made him a novelty was the simple fact that he was a cat. There are nine thousand and seven dogs at a camp ground. There was only one cat. He thoroughly enjoyed his walks around the place. What I think he especially enjoyed was riling the dogs all up into a frenzy.

I did have an exquisitely bizarre conversation with my father as we left to go camping. Remember, he had a stroke several years ago and now he lives with my brother full-time. Sometimes things can get a little strange–conversations can go off the rails. Honestly, you never know what to expect.

“Hey,” he said as we were getting ready to head out the door Friday morning. “Do you have any rancid meat in the house?”

I squinched up my eyebrows and sniffed the air. “No.”

“You don’t have any chicken parts lying around?” He must have read my bemused look correctly because he added helpfully, “Maybe some gizzards?”

“No.”

“Really? No rancid meat in the refrigerator?”

“What the hell, old man? Why would I have that?”

He shrugged. I finally deduced that he was looking for catfish bait. He proceeded to ask every single person at our camp site if they had rancid meat they were willing to share. The problem with that was he didn’t explain why he wanted it. I swear I should send him around with a manual for making sense.

I have some concerns here and I’ll lay them out for you.

1. I don’t think I want to ever eat catfish again if they are that enticed by rancid meat. Ick. I knew they were bottom feeders, but that’s a little too graphic for me.

2. What the hell is going on in my brother’s kitchen?

I popped into Amazon today to check how the books were doing.

This is what I saw for Miss Goldsleigh’s Secret.

I may or may not have screamed something that starts M and F, and is entirely inappropriate for work.

Wow.

We were made to be awesome!

I’m old. I’ve caved to the facts. I can no longer deny the horror of the whole thing.

I got my first pair of bifocals today.

45 sucks.

They’re totally making me nauseous and I have a headache. Fortunately the optometrist warned me this would happen for a day or so.

You shouldn’t worry about me. Just because I’m old certainly does not mean I am an adult. Or mature. Or no longer childish.

The tech at the store who was helping me get the glasses after the exam had a wonky eye. The right one worked just fine, concentrating on me and the computer screen. The left one, however, was all over the place like a chameleon.

I can tell you with one hundred percent accuracy that I am not mature enough to deal with that.

Did you all feel a disturbance in the Force this weekend? Maybe a ripple in the fabric of space and time?

It’s entirely possible that you did. I have proof that stars aligned or the Higgs Boson fluttered or, I don’t know, perhaps Zeus proved his existence. All I know is that something exciting happened and I was a part of it.

Here is all the proof you need.

Exhibit A – I was notified this week that I was going to need to work with the Bandit on a cake for the Blue and Gold Cub Scout dinner. It needed to represent Scouting. The idea made me want to throw up. I can’t even tell you how stressed out that made me. I can bake a fine cake, that wasn’t the scary part. What I’m not good at is getting it out of a pan–whole–and decorating it. Especially if frosting is involved. I’m not an accomplished froster. You know what I can do really well? I can eat the hell out of cake, and I can critique it like nobody’s business. Decorating? Not so much. Never the less, I present to you a cake that fairly well represents the cub scout hat in a whimsical yet totally identifiable way. In the spirit of full disclosure, My Honey did the little bear shape, but I totally went to the store to get the tube of black piping for his face. The rest is mine and the  boy’s.

Exhibit B – My pop turned 76 today. He loves pie. LUUUUUURVES the pie. What he’d really like is a strawberry rhubarb pie, but rhubarb is a summer thing. So I asked him if he’d rather have plain strawberry or lemon. As you can see he picked strawberry. I’ve never made a strawberry pie from scratch before, but it was freaking GORGEOUS AND YUMMY! The strawberry filling was deliciously not too tart, not too sweet. Home run city.

I’m not getting a big head or anything. There is absolutely no risk of that. I shall not run around like a crazy person thinking I can make banana’s foster or something. Although I have a fairly good idea of what it involves, no one, least of all me, thinks I should be around flames in the kitchen.

Anyway, I’m inordinately proud of myself.

Ava has abandoned Amylynn for the exciting town of Phoenix for an even more exciting robotics contest. That means Amylynn is left to roam about alone. She had to go to the church (the Starbucks in the Barnes & Noble) by herlslf. She thought no one would pay her any attention without her Sister. The two of us always assume we’re only recognized in a pack. The Barista knew her though. “All alone today? No one to share a dessert with?” Sigh. Sadly no. It’s no fun to get fat alone. Fortunately for all involved, there were plenty of things to keep us amused this week PA (pre-abandonment). Ready, set, go.

She seems trustworthy

1. Call off the dogs. We have been following the search for the missing Malaysian airplane along with the rest of the world. We’re completely fascinated that they can track every single thing you do with your smart phone, read all your emails, know what you watch on television and what you shop for online, but they lost an entire freaking airplane. How is that possible? How? They understand that it’s a rather large metal THING, right? Anyway, you no longer have to worry. It’s been located and by no less than Courtney Love, people. Yes, apparently, Courtney has nothing better to do than search for that plane. You know honestly, this revelation goes right along with the theory that we were operating under and that is that it was sucked up by an alien. There’s no other reasonable explanation. Thank you, Courtney. You’re Nobel Prize is in the mail.

2.  Office supply stores. We love them. We like to touch all the sticky notes and marvel at all the pretty colors and shapes. We adore the pen aisle. We want to fondle all the day calendars and notebooks. We sit in the office chairs and ogle the white boards. We don’t know why this is such a thing with us, but we also know we’re not alone. There are many, many people with an over-fondness for office supplies–especially pens. We have a lot of pens. What we can’t understand is why the people who work in the office supply store can’t comprehend that we want to molest their wares unbothered by their constant demands to let them help us. Leave us alone to caress the merchandise and I guarantee you’ll make more money. Back off! Jeez.

3. Personalized license plates. Normally these things annoy the hell out of us. We think there needs to be certain creative requirements when granting personalized plates. There is really nothing stupider than a Mustang with the personalized plate: SueStng. We know what kind of car you drive, bozo. Putting your name on the plate only gives us more fulfilling phrases to swear at you as you drive too slowly in front of us. But then we saw this motorcycle and it’s driver. You can’t see it in the picture, but her plate says: I wont. It doesn’t say what she won’t, but based on the fact that she will do lace and leather we’re imaging that what she won’t do is very intriguing indeed. Capital job with the license plate, anonymous chick. Brava.

4. This cover. Isn’t it cute? Seriously. Isn’t it? We can’t wait for you all to read this book. We just love it, if we do say so ourselves. The lovely art department over at Carina Press did a great job of conveying the fun of this book. And did you notice the pink high heel hanging off the title? That plays very prominently in the story. It’s available for preorder at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and ibooks already and will be released June 2. OK – back to the cover. Let’s have a group **SQUEEE** on three, ready?

5. Jingle jingle. A guy in New Jersey is going to spend a lot of years on probation for stealing $460,000 from the Public Works Department. Pretty straight forward example of embezzlement, right? Not exactly. Thomas Rica stole it all in quarters–pockets full at a time. Seriously. They believe he stole over 1.8 million quarters over the course of 25 months. He deposited all of these quarters in his bank. 1.8 million of them. I don’t know about your bank branch, but ours gives us the hairy eyeball when we come in with one roll of pennies. We do love us a creative criminal. Hey, Mr. Rica – can you spare a dime? Blahahahaahhaha

I’m going to tell you all something important. I am a clumsy person. I am dramatic, too. You add dramatic and clumsy together you get an epic fail.

There is this one thing I do all the time–well at least ten times–on accident, and one of these days it’s going to kill me. I’m going to describe it here in a minute, but the reason I’m telling you the gory details now is because I don’t want you people to think I’ve been attacked when I’m found dead in a parking  lot.

So picture this: I use my right hand to take the keys out of my ignition, right? Then, still using my right hand, I grab my purse off my passenger seat and slip it over my right shoulder–still holding the keys. Women generally use that same right thumb to slide under the purse strap to adjust it on your shoulder. Keep in mind that damn ignition key is sorta pointing out. That’s when I’ve repeatedly stabbed myself in the jugular.

Now you ask, probably out loud because this tale is alarming, “Why, you stupid woman, don’t you put your keys in your purse first?”

Oh, internet, you’re forgetting that if I do that, then I have to fumble around again in the parking lot, looking for these same damn keys which will now have fallen to the deepest darkest recesses of my purse in the matter of mere seconds, to lock the car.

You see, stabbing myself is inevitable.

One of these days I’m going to bleed out in a parking lot. Just wait. It’ll happen and then you can say, “Holy shit! That’s exactly what she said would happen.” It’s like I’m psychic or something.

They won’t let us have the chicken coop. Or more specifically, they won’t let us have chickens in the chicken coop. They being the men in our lives who are constantly telling us no. The whole matter is rather unpleasant.

I was at the book festival all weekend. That meant My Honey was alone with both kids. Then Sassy went to spend the night at a friend’s house, leaving the boy alone with his father. I’ll tell you I was worried about them both making it through the weekend alive.

It’s a legitimate concern.

Instead, apparently, they had fun. The Bandit told me all about some of their adventures. Some might call it tattling.

“Daddy wanted to go to lunch at Hooters,” he told me. “He said the waitress there have big boobies.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, laughing because I know how this conversation must have gone. The Bandit is still in the camp that smooching is gross and girls are icky.

“I told him, Dad! You’re married!”

“Honey,” I said with exaggerated calm, “I know that daddy looks at other women’s boobies. It’s okay.”

“Well, I’m not going to. Ick.” He seemed greatly offended at the idea.

My husband is laughing from the kitchen as I hear of his transgressions.

Later that night, we were all watching Thor 2 and a very exquisite scene comes on where a shirtless Thor is washing in a basin. Perhaps I was drooling, I don’t know. It’s possible.

I turned to My Honey and said, “You should have totally gone to Hooters, dude.”