Someone who contributes to this blog is an idiot. Often my humor is self deprecating, but this time I’m serious.

Ava came up with this fun, fantastic idea for the Leave A Comment on Your Favorite Blog day. She picked the day and came up with the original blog introducing the idea. All I had to do was add my own little take at the end. I came up with the idea to have a running countdown on the right sidebar.

This is where the idiot part comes in.

I was counting down to the wrong day. As Bugs Bunny would say, “What a maroon.”

So here’s the deal. Or the proposal. Or the covenant perhaps.

We will continue to do our best to entertain you with the minutia of our lives.  We’ll regale you with absurd stories of our families and our own lunacy. I’ll continue to tell you keep you up to date on my burgeoning writing career.

AND YOU PEOPLE WILL LEAVE COMMENTS.

Alright. The goal is not to threaten you. No, the Sisters are begging you. Writers are ridiculously fragile people and we always assume that no comments means that no one likes us.

For Zeus’ sake, give us our Sally Field moment.

I have adjusted the countdown to correctly take us to Monday – Columbus day.

I was trying to hustle the kids out the door before we were late for school.

“Grab my backpack, Mom,” Sassy called from the kitchen where she was filling her water bottle. One of these mornings I’m going to lose my mind over that damn water bottle. She always waits to refill her bottle as we are actively walking out the door.

I reached down and hooked my hand under one of the straps and yanked it up to my shoulder. Well, that’s what I meant to do only when I yanked my arm came out of my socket.

“My God! What do you have in here? A kindergartner?” I asked her. Her backpack had been looking a bit bulky lately but I had no idea the extent of it.

“It’s just my stuff.” Sassy sauntered out of the kitchen screwing the lid on her thermos.

“Sassy, you’re going to hurt yourself carrying around all this stuff.” I unzipped the first outside pocket. I pulled out three granola bars, about 15 hair ties which is odd since she’s always got her hair hanging in her face, 27 flavored chapsticks, a handful of markers, her Fancy Nancy diary, and some random change.

“I need all that stuff,” she insisted.

Zippered pocket number two held three 24 packs of unsharpened #2 pencils, 2 boxes of Crayola markers, 3 large pink erasers, a box of colored pencils, 3 full boxes of Crayola Crayons, and a whole bunch of wadded up paper consisting of memos from her teacher and some graded work.

“Don’t take everything out,” she insisted.

I ignored her and opened the final pocket. Holy mother of Zeus. There were six spiral notebooks, one three ring binder completely full of loose leaf paper, a hard-cover copy of a Wimpy Kid book, a Junie B. Jones book, the charger to her Nintendo DS, and 47 empty candy wrappers.

Seriously, this backpack had to weigh at least 25 lbs. I started unpacking all this nonsense.

“Don’t, Mom. I need that stuff!”

“For what? Are you selling school supplies on the black market?”

“Huh?” She let me know she didn’t know what I was talking about.

“What’s the street price for a box of Crayolas?” I asked her.

“Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about as usual.” She rolled her eyes and cocked her hip to the side.

“This is a slippery slope, my love. You start out with colored pencils and before you know it, you’ll be carting around copier toner.” I piled all the unnecessary office supplies on the kitchen table. “I love you, honey, so I’m going to help you here.”

She blinked at me, annoyed, and sighed deeply. “I need my stuff, Mom.”

“This is for your own good,” I told her and handed her a back pack holding 1 folder, 1 novel (I can’t go to the other room without a book in my hands, I can’t expect her to), several pencils and her lunch box.

“At least let me have some paper,” she begged and reached for the stockpile.

“Nope.” I shoved her out the front door. “You’re going cold turkey, baby.”

“Moooo-oooooom.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

Good Lord, what an evening.

The Bandit lost one of the lenses of his glasses.  So, understandably, I had to kill him. Who had under two months in the poll?

This weekend I had a real mother of a migraine. It’s still hanging in there actually. After crawling all over the floor looking for that damn lens, I can feel the headache throbing over on the right side of my skull. My Honey and I lifted the sofa and searched everywhere in the living room, but we didn’t find it.

One good thing happened. It started out bad, though, so hang in there till the end.

This weekend I was doing a mountain of laundry. It was so big it reminded me of a laundry monster from Sesame Street. One with no sense of humor and filthy language. I swapped a load into the dryer and we went off to dinner. When we got back the dryer was making a horrendous clanking noise – like someone had dropped a handful of rocks in with the clothes. With the Bandit around, one never knows. I unloaded the dry clothes into a basket and discovered with mounting horror that it was my wedding rings and a ring from my paternal grandmother making all that noise. What I didn’t find was my anniversary ring and my great grandmother’s wedding ring.

It wasn’t long before I found the anniversary band in with the clothes in the basket, but still no sign of my grandma’s ring. I tried to remain calm. I mean no disrespect to my husband whom I love and respect dearly, but of all the rings I could lose, that one is the worst. It’s totally irreplaceable. It’s a thin, unassuming band and there are a million just like it out in the world. The difference is on the inside of my grandmother’s band there is an engraving that reads: Bessie Lee May 31, 1917. My grandmother wore it every day of the 74 years that she lived after my grandfather, Lee, gave it to her. Then I’ve worn it everyday since I got it 15 years ago or so. It has been worn every single day for almost 100 years thus the engraving is very difficult to read but I know it’s there.  It made me sick that I might never find it.

I swallowed down the panic and called My Honey. Mr Calm began disassembling the washing machine and I all but crawled into the dryer. We investigated the lint trap and I tilted the machines and shown a flashlight under both of them. I moved every single thing in the laundry room and then crawled around all over the floor in my bedroom where the laundry basket sits.

Apparently, the rings were in my pocket from when I’d done the dishes then stripped off the shorts and shoved them in the washer.  My take away from this experience, of course, is that I should never do the dishes or the laundry ever again.

Cut to this morning. The Bandit had an accident in bed last night so I stripped the sheets from his bed and tossed them in the washer this morning.  When I came home from work, I went to switch them to the dryer. I opened the door to the dryer and, plop, the ring landed right on top of my foot.

Whew! But still. I think it was pretty mean of my grandmother to mess with me like that.  I wonder which of my ancestors is holding onto my little boys glasses.

People, especially Ava, are always asking me why I love elephants so much. This article from Sept 25, 1912 explains everything.

At the circus grounds before the beginning of the big Barnum & Bailey show, a few bystanders saw a most remarkable display of elephant sense and sympathy.

Two of the big fellows were standing on the grounds, slowly munching a bale of hay, when suddenly one of the elephants took a step or two and held up his foot as if something had hurt him.

He then touched his companion on the back with his trunk, and when the other big fellow looked around he found the hurt elephant still holding up his foot and waggling his head from side to side in pain.

Immediately, the second elephant walked over to the assistance of the first one, and taking the hurt foot in his trunk, he removed a large sliver.

Very carefully the first elephant stepped down on the ground, and found to his relief that the pain was gone. The other big fellow then rubbed his trunk on his back, taking the sliver out.

After a glance of mutual understanding and sympathy, the two biggest animals of the jungle amicably returned to their hay, and the bystanders who were watching them received a lesson in animal love which they will never forget.

I also love the anthropomorphism in this article.  I do it all the time, but still.

Can you believe September is almost over? Us neither. But the best news is that there were five Fridays this month. That alone could have been one of our favorite things. Here are the other fascinating things that held our attention for at least ten minutes.

1. Fabulous names. One of the Sister’s kids has a friend in their class with a very unusual name. We’d be kidding ourselves and you, Dear Reader, if we didn’t confess that we are a little preoccupied with it. In the tradition of disguising names on this site we’ll tell you that Debby Dracula isn’t the name but it’s in that same vein (instead think green – green, female ogres and giant, green monsters with bolts in their necks). This little girl is a charming little sprite of a thing who bounces when she walks and wears adorable pigtail braids. Unfortunately, our offspring refuses to cooperate when the Sisters ask for a little spying. “What do her parents look like,” we want to know. Who names their child this? We wonder if the school administration would get upset if we staked out the parking lot?
2. Arch West’s funeral. Arch Clark West was the creator of Doritos. Even the Sisters sometimes stray from their devotion of bleached white flour and butter crème frosting and will indulge in a salty snack and Doritos are in the top five options. Mr. West died at 97 years old so we don’t want to hear anymore nonsense about junk food lowering your life expectancy. Mr. West is a fine testimonial. His family sprinkled crumbled Doritos on his grave during the service. That makes the Sisters think of lots of stuff we’d like sprinkled over our graves. Can crème brulee be sprinkled?
3. Antique Road Show. This show is always such fun to watch. People drag in some of the wackiest stuff and are either blindsided with the value or are totally crushed. It’s very exciting. It makes you wonder what some of the crap you hauled over from your grandmother’s is worth. The other day, a lady brought in some of her father’s Chinese jade antiques. It was the highest appraisal in the history of the show coming in at somewhere between $700,000 and 1.07 Million. The reality netted her $494,615 after commissions. Still, not too shabby, eh? We’re telling you – there’s nothing in our houses we’d hold on to if it netted that sort of change. That’s a lot of Doritos, people.
4. Disney World. Walt Disney’s Florida location is turning 40 next month. This is a controversial topic for the Sisters. While one Sister couldn’t possible care less, and another Sister holds the Florida location near and dear to her heart, the third Sister knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Anaheim location is the REAL happiest place on Earth. Not that all the Sisters don’t wish Mickey’s other house a wonderful, happy birthday. If anyone from Disney reads this blog and would like us to write a glowing review for all the internet to see, feel free to contact us. The Sisters are ready to
   

   Nice replacement for my Target plates - click for more

   be swayed on the glories of Orlando. We need eleven tickets and we’re willing to fly coach.

5. Garage Sale. The Federal Government is considering having a 22 billion dollar yard sale. See – Congress is beginning to think just like the rest of us lowly Americans trying to make ends meet. A yard sale! Next they’ll be looking under the couch cushions in the congressional lounge to balance the budget. Or a bake sale. What if the members of Congress had to sell wrapping paper like our schools? Enough sermonizing. The Sisters are interested in the Lincoln Memorial and perhaps we’ll take a look at some of that past presidential china.

So MY AGENT has book number two. The working title is Miss Goldsleigh’s Secret. Along that same vein, and in trying to sell them as a series which they most definitely are, the first book’s title was changed to Lady Francesca’s Secret. MY AGENT told me to start writing book three so last night I wrote the first several paragraphs of what will be titled The Duke of Morewether’s Secret.

Do you see the theme? If you know anyone at Avon or any of the other “Big 6” you should tell them that this blog is hysterically funny and certainly my books will be equally so, and they would be exercising incredible foresight in offering a three book deal now before the bidding war starts.

I’m just saying.

Last week the Sisters three met over sandwiches and cheese cake and we built my W plot for this third book. The W is a fiction writing technique to get the goal, motivation, and conflict all lined up so that you don’t end up with an 85,000 word book with absolutely no conflict. I know someone who did that on their first draft of their first book (ahem) and that’s why it took her two years and three drafts to get it finished.

I absolutely love it when the three of us get together and do this sort of thing with one of our projects. Since the three of us share the same brain, it’s great when we all get together and it can function as one unit. I really wish one of these days we’d videotape these sessions because so much gets lost as we talk over each other and the ideas are tumbling out so fast no one can write them down fast enough.

If there’s one thing the Sisters can do, it’s come up with an outstanding story. Too bad we don’t have all the time in the world to sit in coffee shops and write to our hearts content.

Now, it’s up to me to write the Duke’s secret. You wanna know how I do it? I think this person (I don’t know who it is or I’d happily give them all the credit because it’s genius) has totally nailed it with this graph.

Television was slim pickins tonight. Dancing with the C List Reality TV Stars was on. Unfortunately, Sassy enjoys watching it. Frankly, it makes me shiver, but apparently Sassy is not alone in her appreciation. Yes, we were watching it while eating dinner. Go ahead and judge.  If you think that is the worst thing you’re going to read in this blog tonight, then Zeus bless you.

Chaz Bono’s dance came on. My Honey rolled his eyes –  let’s face it, not all of us can be the ideal, tolerant parent at all times.  He explained why Chaz Bono is a “star” these days and Sassy didn’t get it.

“He used to be a girl,” My Honey explained.

“I don’t get it,” she told him.

“He was born a girl, but he wanted to be a man, so he had surgery,” I tried to explain. I was making a pointed effort to get all the pronouns correct.

“I don’t get it.” She shook her head and poked her rice with her fork. She never actually eats her dinner, she just repeatedly stabs at it with various utensils. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Some people are very different than us,” I told her and motioned for her to eat something. “Lots of people are different than us. It makes the world interesting.”

“What kind of surgery?” she asked and moved her fork towards the beans and gave them a good, stern poke.

And here we go. Excellent dining table conversation. I endeavor to remain unembarrassed. This shouldn’t be an embarrassing topic, and I really want to be able to answer all sex related questions from my kids with a calm, non-judgemental tone.

“Well.” I poked at my own beans. “They changed the things that were girl parts and made them boy parts.”

She stared at me with unabashed curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“They took away the girl parts and made her boy parts in exchange.” I’m beginning to think this might end up being a take away conversation.

‘Oh my God!” I see the realization dawning. “They gave her an Adam’s apple!”

Yes. Yes, indeed. That’s exactly what they did.

I saw this and I laughed and laughed.

Now, the reason I think this is so funny is because it is a great visual for my favorite joke of all time.

Are you ready?

There are these two cows standing out in a field.

One cow says to the other cow, “Man, what do you think of that Mad Cow’s Disease?”

The other cow says, “What do I care? I’m a helicoptor.”

If you don’t get that joke, then I don’t know if we can be friends.

I would rather have been scrubbing the toilets. In fact, I offered to do just that, plus mop the floors, do the laundry, and any other wretched disgusting thing that could be thought up. But no.

He made me participate in yard work. With a hoe and a rake. Outside.

This is the series text messages between me and Ava.

Amylynn: M is making me do yard work. I want a divorce.

Ava: Yard work? I’m not familiar with that. What is it?

Amylynn: I’ll tell you what it is. It’s horrible.

Amylynn: If I get sunburned out here, there will be hell to pay.

Amylynn: I’d rather go hiking in Iran.

Ava: If it’s horrible and it’s not Bank of No Forks then it’s clearly someone else’s job. Tell him that. Tell him to go get those workers. And JC you could get really sunburned out there.

Amylynn: Come get me.

Ava: Did you tell him that your writing is “polished”? People with polished writing skills can not do yard work.

Amylynn: I won’t be able to write today. My hands will be too blistered.

Ava: Based on your current predicament and a conversation I just had with Ed, I’m certain we married badly.

Amylynn: Wanna switch for a week.

Amylynn: You hoe and rake and I’ll argue with Ed.

Ava: Hoe? Rake? What the hell is that????

Amylynn: I already told you. It’s horrible.

Amylynn: I just ripped open my thumb.

Amylynn: This counts as exercise right?

Ava: I never thought I’d say this, you need a divorce right now! This is just too, too much.

Ava: Not only does it count as exercise, you get ice cream afterwards.

Amylynn: Oooooo! I have a coupon for that.

Ava: New plan. I send Ed to your house to argue and hoe and we go for ice cream.

Amylynn: You, madam, are a genius.  

Yard work really, really blows.   I actually did rip my thumb open. It stings, but no one seems to care.

After a bit of sunstroke, My Honey and I were seated on the front porch in the shade sipping ice water. It’s still 100 degrees here. On September 25. Sigh.

We were discussing what we needed to do to make our front yard less “Section 8 housing” like. I said a tree. I’ve been wanting a tree in our front yard forever, but alas, My Honey pointed out the sewer line running smack down the middle of the yard made that darn near impossible.  We both agreed a fence would be nice. My Honey upped the ante with an eight foot wall.

I think we’re going to settle on a moat.