I’ll bet that Stephanie Meyers had no idea when she penned the Twilight series that she just may have written a story that could cause

I”ll admit – I totally don’t get this. Kristen Stewart is possibly the worst actress on the planet. -Amylynn

worldwide peace and unity – and yet, I think she just might have.

Over the weekend, the girl who lives at my house insisted I take her to see the final Twilight movie.  We had been to see Skyfall last weekend at the boy’s selection for his birthday and she felt it was her turn to pick.  Ed, rather conveniently, had something else already going on.  The boy tried his best to get her to switch to Lincoln but the girl wouldn’t even respond to such nonsense.  Just to aggravate her, he decided he was coming with us.

We arrived at the movie theater super early.  Being super early to a movie is a family trait because we have to sit in the very last row, dead center.  If we can’t sit there, we’d rather stay home.

As early as we were – there was a HUGE line!  There wasn’t even a line for Skyfall on opening weekend and James Bond/Daniel Craig is in that.

People from all walks of life were in that line.  I’m not kidding – young girls, young boys, teenagers – both kinds, hipsters, Gen X, baby boomers, late bloomers – you name it they were there.

Everyone waited patiently, no pushing, no shoving, very little whining (the little bit of whining was coming from me), people were actually holding places in line while others went in to get their $50 snacks.  It was a beautiful experience. Sniff.

And it got even better (or worse, depending on your point of view) once they let us in.  Everyone squished in to let everyone have a seat.  A fight over a seat had actually started when we went to see Skyfall but not here at Twilight lovefest 2012.  During the entire movie, you

This I totally get. More Bond. Yessiree.

couldn’t hear a pin drop.

I texted Amylynn: OMG, an old Italian/Mexican man wearing pleated dress pants just stepped on my foot!

I’m telling you EVERY type of person in the world was in there.  And as god as my witness, the audience clapped at the end.  It turned into a cheer.  When’s the last time you went to a movie and the audience clapped/cheered at the end?

But there you have it – Stephanie Meyers and her little vampire love store brought all kinds together and for two hours our hearts were one.

I texted Amylynn: I think that movie needs to be shown on the Gaza strip right away!

Amylynn texted back: I don’t know who you are but when the owner of that phone finds you, she’s going to beat you senseless for stealing her phone!

Except if they’ve seen Twilight . . .

You may not know this so I’m going to tell you. Seven-year-old boys are… loud, pesky, expensive, filthy. Pick a pesky adjective and I’m certain it’ll fit. If you already have or had a seven-year-old-boy then I’m certain you’ll agree with me.

The one who lives in my house, The Bandit, frequently leaves his father and I speechless. I don’t know why is father is speechless. I highly suspect that he was an equally challenging kid. His mother always has a story about his exploits. I think my very own brother was difficult, but I can’t really remember because when he was seven I was eleven. If you don’t remember, eleven-year-old girls have very little to do with their seven-year-old brothers by design.

My friend who has twin boys who’ve made it to seventeen remembers their seventh year as the “kill, crush, destroy” years. I think that’s pretty apt, don’t you?

The Bandit has chipped a front tooth. “Dude,” I said when I was informed of this, “you’ve only had that thing like a year. Is that how you take care of your stuff?” He did not look at all cowed. He just grinned at me with this chippy toothedness. “You’re going to have those teeth for like ninety more years. I suggest you take better care.”

His father has forbidden him to remove his shoes in the house. Why? Well, really I blame the schools and helicopter parents. Schools and

Inside the shoe you’ll see at least another 1/2 pound of chips

playgrounds now have their entire play areas covered with wood chips in case your little darling should fall down. Apparently, the wood chips are better at cushioning the kids falls. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I do see an increase in splinters. Anyway, every day when The Bandit comes home we get twenty-eight pounds of wood chips in our living room.

I ask you, how in the hell can he walk around all day with this much wood in his shoes? Where does he keep his feet? Wouldn’t you think this would be excruciatingly uncomfortable? Keep in mind that often he doesn’t bother to wear socks. That amps the uncomfortable factor up several more notches, wouldn’t you think?

I don’t know. I don’t understand him at all.

If I ever lose him though, we can just follow the mess trail.

I finally finished rewriting my first novel. Again. For the 763 time.

As I finished each chapter, I’d print it out for Ava and she’d read and critique and help me make sure everything was heading off in the right direction. Often she’ll write things in the margin that piss me off and I’ll yell at her. Things like “dumb” or “ridiculous” when I’ve written something dumb or ridiculous I guess, but I thought was perfectly fine. Inevitably, she’ll be right and I’ll take out the sentence or whatever it is that offended her so. Still, my artistic sensibilities will be bruised.

This isn’t going to feel like a segue but it is. Hang in there with me for a minute.

Every year, Ava gets a flu shot. I don’t get them. I’m young(ish) and healthy (relatively) so I don’t get one. Ava has taken it as her personal mission to harangue me into getting the damn thing, but I refuse. Every sniffle, sneeze, or itch is proof to her that I now have the flu and will spend the next four to six weeks in physical agony all because I didn’t listen to her and get the flu shot. She is anticipating with an inordinate amount of glee her opportunity to say, “I told you so.”

Ava is sorta evil like that.

So, one day at Bank of No Forks, she’s reading my latest chapter and she Instant Messages me. “I miss George.”

“Who the hell is George?” I IM back. George Washington? George Clooney. I do miss George Clooney, but I suspect that’s not to whom she is referring.

“You’ve forgotten George already?”

Curious George? Giant George? George of the Jungle? “I guess. Who is George?”

“He died of influenza in ’07” she tells me.

It takes me a minute to realize that she’s quoting from my own manuscript. My main characters refer to a non-character in conversation  and mention his passing.

“I’ll bet he didn’t get his flu shot,” she IMs

“I suspect not.”

At this point George has become very influential in my life. Ava refers to him at least once a day as a cautionary tale.

I may go back and rewrite him dying from Bubonic plague or something. Do they still have vaccinations for Cholera? Smallpox is extinct right?

This was quite a week. Ava and I threatened to quit our jobs more times in the last seven days then ever in recorded history and that’s saying something because we’re always threatening to quit our jobs. We figure we only need one resignation letter – short and sweet. Something along the lines of, “You people suck, we’re outta here” then we’ll both just

Imagine him holding a baby kangaroo and red velvet cheesecake.

sign it and shove it in the mail slot as we leave. Then we’re getting drunk. Or maybe we’ll get drunk first and then write the letter. That might be very interesting. We’ll have to give that

some thought. While that happens, here are five things to amuse you.

1. Channing Tatum. Isn’t he adorable. Well, not adorable like a puppy or a certain kitty cat we know, but still, he ‘s awful cute. We feel a little dirty thinking about him like that since he’s really just a baby. For God’s sake, some of us were in high school when he was born. Still, we did go see Magic Mike (it was one of our favorite things a while ago) and GI Joe. Amylynn refuses to watch the tear jerkers he’s in, but Ava says  he’s adorable in them, too. He’s front and center right now since People magazine decided he was the Sexiest Man Alive this year. Who are we to argue with the professionals?

2. Joey. This little dude was discovered via a Tweet from Amylynn’s uncle. The headline read, “Definitely the Cutest Baby Kangaroo Wearing Undies You’ll See All Day. Doesn’t your heart melt for this guy? Holy moly, now we need a kangaroo. Who knew they were this cute? Is it the adorable kangaroo underpants or the super long feet or those ears? We have no idea. Damn it. We really want a kangaroo. We’re going to name him Marvin.

3. Election Coverage.It’s over. It’s over. Regardless of who you voted for, or didn’t vote for (shame on you), we’re just happy it’s over. No more non-stop commercials interrupting every thirty seconds. Yea! Unless you live in AZ. Jeez, we can’t get anything done quickly around here.They’re still counting the freaking ballots. The reality is, it may never end. We say, lock them in a warehouse and fill ’em full of coffee and refuse to let them out until we know the winners. It’s not that damn hard. Calm down and pet the kangaroo.4. Red Velvet Cheesecake. We can’t remember if we ever had this as a favorite thing, but we don’t care. It’s so damn

The one we’re reading right now

good it’s worth repeating. If you like cheesecake or red velvet cake or the color red, then get yourself a piece from the Cheesecake Factory. Oh my God! It might actually be better than sex with Channing Tatum. Not that we’ve thought

about that or anything..

5. Susan Elizabeth Phillips. We found SEP late in our romance reading careers and we regret every minute we wasted not reading her books the minute they came out. Seriously – Susan is a master of character development. She’s so good she makes Amylynn want to cry because she’s certain she’ll never, ever be able to write that well. And funny! SEP is a genius with dialogue. We had the chance to meet her at the National Convention we went to in July and we seriously considered tucking her in our pocket and bringing her home with us. If you enjoy contemporary romance, pick up one of hers. Any one will do. There’s scads of them. You won’t be sorry.

So on Monday I got sick. Then on Tuesday I had a nervous breakdown. All of this has been chronicled here ’cause nothing – well almost nothing – is sacred.

I’m a whole lot less hysterical today. Hysterical like crying-jag hysterical, not funny haha hysterical. I’d like to think I’m always capable of funny haha hysterical. We’ll chalk the early part of this week up to getting sick and high hormones. That and Bank of No Forks sucks.

It’s a really good thing all that happened before today though, because today a whole bunch of corporate people were in the office. That

Here he is doing his Hugh Hefner impersonation

means we couldn’t bring Jojo Kitty to work and he was greatly missed. It also meant all of us ladies at the office slunk around and tried to be invisible. I had the plan that involved me asking no questions and exhibiting no personality whatsoever.

Turns out none of our plans were necessary since, even though the guys were there, for the amount of time they actually spent with us, I could have brought the cat in and they’d have never noticed. Especially since, 90% of the time, the cat sleeps on my desk and doesn’t move for nine hours. If one of them noticed, Ava and I could look at them with a completely straight face and say, “What cat?”

They’ll be there again tomorrow – all day. Sigh.

Another nine hours with no cat and no personality.

I even had to call my sister on the way home and apologize for being a bitch all day at work.

I have no idea what happened at 4:30 but it was bad. My noes is already sore and I’ve been through 693 Kleenix. Since that time this afternoon, I’ve sneezed approximately 3,556,259 times.

On that note:

I feel for the little dude.

Every year when we read the winning entry of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest we think we’ll remember to enter the next year, but we always forget. I’ve talked about this contest before.

To remind you, the point of the contest is to “honor” the author of the original worst opening line in publishing history.

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

-by Edward George Bulwer-Lytto

This year’s winner is delightfully, outrageously awful.

As he told her that he loved her she gazed into his eyes, wondering, as she noted the infestation of eyelash mites, the tiny deodicids burrowing into his follicles to eat the greasy sebum therein, each female laying up to 25 eggs in a single follicle, causing inflammation, whether the eyes are truly the windows of the soul; and, if so, his soul needed regrouting.

-by Cathy Bryant of Manchester, England

You’ll have to agree, that’s pretty bad. I think this one is actually better, though it was the winner of the crime category.

She slinked through my door wearing a dress that looked like it had been painted on … not with good paint, like Behr or Sherwin-Williams, but with that watered-down stuff that bubbles up right away if you don’t prime the surface before you slap it on, and – just like that cheap paint – the dress needed two more coats to cover her.

— Sue Fondrie, Appleton, WI

There are so many guffaw inducing winners here. Hop over there and read them all. You’ll laugh. I promise.

Maybe next year we’ll all remember to enter.