Tomorrow is a big day in our town. Huge. It’s the kick off of Fiesta de los Vacqueros. It means Celebration of the Cowboy. Now some of you who don’t live here may think, what? But I’m telling you it’s a big freaking deal.

Our school are not closed for President’s Day. Nope. We were forced to go to school on President’s Day but we talked out Lincoln and Washington and whomever else might be appropriate at the time. Then we’d get off Thursday and Friday of the next week because – RODEO! This has been going on since like 1925.

Our town loses its mind over rodeo. On Thursday the World’s Longest Non-Mechanized Parade closes down half of down town and for like 37 hours dancing horses and wagons and folklorico dancers march down the street. Every year it gets longer and longer and longer until you hope for death while you’re sitting on a cold curb getting more and more desperate to go pee because you’ve had fourteen cups of coffee.

The rodeo itself has cowboys — and vacqueros — from all over the world come to win a gazillion dollars in prize money.

Now that I’m an adult and I have a job, I’m expected to work during the Rodeo break. This makes be bitter. It’s not because I want to participate in the parade or go to the rodeo (they’re very dusty – ick), I just don’t want to have to wear pants and be a grown up. My Honey works for the school district, so he’s off, and the kids are off, of course. They’ve decided to eschew the parade this year. Instead they’re going to wake up late, eat waffles, and watch the parade on tv. I will be going to work and being pissy about it.

Every business has a rodeo sale and the entire town digs out their boots and hats and western cut shirts. Do not try to go to one of our ten thousand steak houses over this weekend. The wait will be ninety-seven hours. That doesn’t stop us, though.

No. My Honey’s birthday often falls on Rodeo. When he was a kid, his mother told him the parade was in his honor. No ego issues here. On Friday – during the middle of this giant hullabaloo – the entire extended family is going out for steak at one of our more famous steak houses.

Say a prayer for me. I’ll be the one in the cowboy hat glaring at the back of the line.

“We never get pancakes for breakfast.” This came from Sassy in the form of a complaint when I kissed her good night.

I laughed. “You’re going to need to apply for a new mom if that’s really important to you.”

“No. I’m just saying. You hit snooze a hundred times before you get up and then it’s too late to make breakfast.”

This is a true statement. Keep in mind I’ve only been in bed for five or six hours by 7am. I’m functionally exhausted.

“You can set your alarm and get up and make your own breakfast, you know.” I’ve mentioned this more than once. There is plenty of food to eat in the morning, but someone is busy fighting with her brother, playing on her phone, or watching The Golden Girls on television. Seriously. My 12-year-old LOVES The Golden Girls.

She rolled her eyes. It was dark, but I could feel it happening. “And your lunch making skills need to be addressed.”

“Really,” I said, my voice dripping in sarcasm. “What’s wrong with your lunch?”

“Well, the sandwich was good, but not what I was expecting.” This morning she and the Bandit got chicken breast sandwiches — made with love and a little variety. “I was expecting peanut butter.”

“And this was a problem?”

She patted my arm in darkness. I could feel herself working up to some criticism. “No, it was good.” I heard the qualifying emphasis. “But that apple–”

“What’s wrong with your apple? You had fruit in your lunch.” Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do? Put fruit in their kid’s lunch? I’m very confused. Mrs. Cleaver always put an apple in the Beaver’s lunch.

“It got icky.” That’s a relative term. Sassy is extraordinarily picky. Everything is either icky, fatty, or gross.

“Um hmmm.”

Yes, this looks very suspicious

“And then there was that thing that I was not alerted to.” She’s referring to a yummy morsel of coffee cake with raspberry jam in the middle.

“What the hell does that mean? You were not alerted? What am I supposed to do exactly? Do I need to put a menu in your lunch every morning?”

“That would be really helpful actually,” she said. “It was yummy — don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I didn’t know what it was.”

“Duly noted.”

I’m filing this complaint right in there with how she’d like her socks folded.

One set of Brights were at Costco today. We were sitting eating pizza at the food court and the subject of music came up. The Bandit was making fun of Amylynn’s Honey, that he thought Venom was a rock band when it was really a Spiderman villain. Honey got all crotchety, “Back in my day, Venom was a heavy metal band.” He pulled up a picture of the group on his phone to show the boy. “These are the forefather’s of my band.” The boy looked at the musicians. “I only see three. Where’s the fourth guy?” Amylynn laughed for five solid minutes.

1. Tattoos and $85 carrots. It seems that Whole Foods is considering some additions to their stores. You’re probably thinking juice bar. Maybe home-grown tobacco. Nope. They’re thinking about tattoo parlors. Uh huh. They’re thinking about leasing space to venders. Can’t you just see a bunch of hipsters wandering around with their carts full of organic Brussel sprouts that cost $37 and a skunky craft beer veering into a funky tattoo

They make spacesuits for fatties?

parlor and getting Mom inked on their scrawny bicep. We’re pretty sure the tat would be overpriced too. There is such a thing as organic tattoo ink. This is totally happening.

2. Mars. We’re watching The Martian while writing this blog which is timely because one of our Things this week was an article we read about NASA’s selection for astronauts for the manned mission to Mars. Here’s the scoop – it’s 34 million miles one way. They warn that the people they select will have to get along well with others in a very tight space, dealing with boredom and the same personalities for over three years. The candidates must be “amiable people”. NASA warns that “grouchy, moody types who value personal space” need not apply. The Sisters have formally withdrawn their applications.

3. What we aspire to. Get a load of this. We love Prince. He’s very tiny. Like a pocket musician. Since one of the Sisters is a bit shrimpy herself, there’s a certain amount of camaraderie among the other shorties. Also, he’s wildly talented with his funky brand of rock and roll. So talented he’s still touring after all these years. He needed a new passport photo to go to Australia and New Zealand. We don’t know where he had this taken, but we’re guessing it wasn’t Walgreens. This man is nearly 60-years-old. Clearly he has sold his soul to the devil to look this good. Look at those cheek bones. We only wish we could do our eyeliner this well.

4. … and 28 years later – Lots of stuff happened in 1988: Rihanna was born, crack appears for the first time, Rain Man wins the Oscar for best picture, Super Mario Bros. 3 comes out, and Ava and Ed get married on 2/19/88 in Los Angeles at the court-house.  All of those things are now classics, sorry Rihanna.

5. Funny…who knew! We love Stevie Wonder. Like Prince, he’s been around for a long, long time and the world is better for it. The other night he was on the Grammys. He did a thing with Plantronix in honor of Earth Wind and Fire. And then he gave an award. That’s where things got really good. We’ve included the video here. So funny.

This is how I feel

My friend texted me today. He wanted to know when the last time I posted on my Instagram account. Admittedly it had been a woefully long time. I have accounts on all the social media and I’m terrible about it. A person can only do so much. I’d say I’m lazy, but that’s insane. I’m so busy all the time. The list of stuff I have to do is outrageous. I feel guilty if I sit still and my laptop isn’t open.

• There’s an entire book to finish.
• There are two new covers to plan with a looming deadline
• 6 chapters we have to edit
• A printer needs to be found to print the six chapters and two covers into booklets
• A banner needs to be made
• I have to get everything ready for our appearance at the Tucson Festival of Books
• We have a dinner to plan for that same festival
• Friend from above (in the previous paragraph not heaven, although he’d like to think…) will be here in March.
• My Honey’s birthday is next week
• I need to write a newsletter in the next week
• There are blog posts nearly every day
• I have to work — really, really work — for nearly 10 hours a day at my regular job and there’s no time to do author-y stuff during that time
• Both of my kids are trying to get the flu and as you can see from this list I don’t have time to get sick
• My house is a disaster
• I need to get into see my own doctor but who has the time?
• My car needs to see the mechanic
• I have stacks of books I’m dying to read and they simply sit there and mock me.
• I’d really, really like to get some sleep

These are the things that come to mind immediately. I’m sure there’s more. Honestly social media doesn’t even hit the top 25 things I’m freaking out about.

Still, Kurt suggested I take a look at my Instagram account every once in a while. Fine, I popped in.

OH SWEET JESUS!

It appeared I’d been hacked.  Kurt was pretty sure I’d been hacked, too, considering my grammar is NEVER that bad — not even when I’m drunk. I really should have taken a picture before I deleted the new profile. Let’s just say it would be best described as boob-centric. Lots of boobs. Very large boobs.

Kurt considered the other possibility was that I had an alter ego who was a complete slut.

It’s not an outrageous suggestion. I mean, I’m not with myself ALL the time. Lord only knows what shenanigans I get up to when I’m not paying attention.

Here’s where you can find my real Instagram page if you’re dying to see the sadly ignored Instagram account of Amylynn Bright. I remembered why I don’t do much with my Instagram page. I have a pathological issue with having my picture taken. You can see why on the Instagram page. Gag!

I think I need a nap.

I was at Target this weekend. I’m sure you’re not shocked. One weekend I tried not to go to Target, but by 6pm on Sunday, the manager called me to make sure I was ok.

Anyway, I was there this weekend taking care of my Valentine’s obligations. I wandered by the book section, because of course I did. Right there, begging to be noticed, was the latest by Bill Bryson. I have been a huge fan of Bill’s for a really long time. I found him by accident with A Walk in the Woods. It immediately became one of my favorite books of all time, and that’s saying something because I’ve read A LOT of books. I’ve made so many people read it and they’re never sorry.

I was very excited to see The Road to Little Dribbling was coming. I had it in my calendar on its release day, but Ava and I were too busy to get to the Church and pick up a copy.

I tossed it in my cart with glee. I might seriously have a problem with books. I’m just saying. Even I recognize that it’s a problem. Still, I can’t stop myself.

I got to the front of the store and found a likely line. The second I got to the front, the cashier decided to get chatty.

“Hey!” He was super excited. “How are you today?”

I didn’t want to chat with someone I didn’t know, someone weird. I was not in the mood for new friends.

“I’m fine.” Short to the point. Dig around in my purse and avoid eye contact.

“You’ve got to be better than fine. You have a Bill Bryson book. You’re great.”

I turned to look at him. He was young-ish, but he had that kind of face that made it difficult to place. Besides, I’m not good at guessing ages. He had one of those uber-sculpted beards and wore a red flannel. I glanced down at his name tag. His name was Wolf. Seriously. As in the wild animal. Wolf.

“You know Bill Bryson?” I asked, my tone skeptical.

“I love him.” The kid’s eyes grew big. Imagine Wolf with big eyes and a beard. “Senior year, in math, we didn’t do anything–” Explains why he’s working at Target and not in an Ivy League school. “My friends and I found A Walk in the Woods in the library and we read it allowed to each other. He is just wrong in so many ways, it’s just right.”

“Um hmm.” I took my bag of chocolate and dropped it in the cart. “I’ve read all his books.”

“Me too!” Wolf’s eyes got even bigger – all the better to read you with, my dear. “So wrong!” He repeated that manta of Bill being wrong a number of times. I remember this slang. It was around when I was his age, but I don’t get how it relates in this situation. An example of how it would be used correctly is: My buying a Bill Bryson book even after admitting publicly that I have a serious book addiction is so wrong it’s right.

If over-exuberant animal named whippersnappers want to co-op our slang, they should use it correctly.

PS – I love you Bill Bryson.

Valentine’s Day is looming. We can think of no better term for it than that. Looming like a big spider waiting to trap you into under-representing your dedication and adoration for your significant other. We’re firmly in the camp that Valentine’s day is stupid. We’re not being pessimistic or anything, but we knew VD was a bad day way back in elementary school when some boy we hung our moon on gave us a crappy He-Man Valentine, and we knew deep down it was only in the specially decorated box on our desk because the teacher required that if you have one person a Valentine you gave everyone one. To make it worse he gave the prettiest girl with the

Do NOT pick up shoes on the beach in Canada

perfectly curled hair a Scooby Doo Valentine and maybe even a piece of chocolate. Valentine’s Day is a set up for bad expectations. NOT that we refuse chocolate if offered. We found a couple of funny things to share. Here we go.

1. Something’s afoot. We’ve already brought this to your attention twice, starting back in September 2011. We’re every bit as freaked out that it happened again as we were the first time. If you’re unaware, Vancouver is having the most bizarre problem. Human feet keep washing up on the beach. They’re always wearing tennis shoes with the exception of a few times when they were wearing hiking boots. That’s scary in an of itself. Where it slides into the realm of nefarious is that none of the authorities seem especially concerned that there have been 13 separate feet found since 2007. Where in Zeus’s name are the rest of the bodies? Where? The authorities have said,

This is a pretty damn big alligator to be throwing

AGAIN, that the foot seems to have disarticulated naturally. What the hell does that mean? If limbs are “disarticulating” how come no one ever finds hands? We don’t like it. We’re thinking about heading up there to investigate. And take in a hockey game.

2. What did the alligator ever do to him? In west Palm Beach, Florida a man has been arrested for using an alligator as a deadly weapon and not in a way you’d expect. Apparently Joshua James found an alligator on the side of the road and thought it would be hysterical to through the three and a half-foot reptile through the drive thru window at a Wendy’s. He’s been ordered to stay away from all animals except his mother’s dog, steer clear of all Wendy’s restaurants, and have a mental health evaluation – all of which seems fair. His poor mother is on the record as saying, “He’s a prankster. He does stuff like this because he thinks it’s funny.” Poor woman. You know even she thinks he’s an idiot.

3. Volunteer opportunities. There was an ad in our local paper asking for volunteers for various organizations. They drew us in with a picture of a teeny tiny bobcat being hand fed with a bottle. We thought, Oh hell yeah! Once we read the article we discovered that all that organization wanted was people to plants trees at their site and others to supply kitty litter. If that isn’t a valid representation of a bait and switch scam then we don’t know what is. There was another opportunity from the Ferret Friends, Inc asking for various ferret related items. We immediately thought of signing Ava’s husband Ed up for whatever they needed that involved ferret contact because that man hates ferrets. Then we laughed and laughed cause we’re mean like that.

4. This one might be fun. Even more volunteers are wanted for people to drive elderly and disabled people around – mostly to doctors appointments and such. We thought this could be really fun. We can stick a whole lot of people in Dave Durango. Think of the silliness that could be had. We could get them all to sing 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. If they’re up for it we could even visit a bar. Then take them for their blue hair appointments. It’s guaranteed to be a hell of a lot more fun than mortgages, that’s for damn sure.

5. Yeti? The Sisters are fascinated by all these people running around in the woods trying to find Bigfoot. We think we missed our calling. Can you imagine how hysterical and ridiculous a television show would be of the Sisters tramping around in the woods with Bigfoot hunters? Seriously, we missed our calling and the world missed a great show. We’d never get involved with trying to find a Yeti, however. Getting us out into the woods would be a miracle by itself. There’s not a chance in hell you’d get us in the snow where that Yeti dude is supposed to be hanging out. Fortunately, some skiers in the Spanish Pyrenees took this picture of a Yeti who may or may not be peeing in the snow. Thank you Spanish skiers! You’ve done the world a great service.

We’re a day late…

How cool is 2016? The Year of the Fire Monkey – Ava’s gonna love this. She has a real thing for fire.

The day careers that Ava and I have are very brain intensive. There are a million things to do on each file and every thread has to be held on to, remembered, and dealt with. All of that has to happen while negotiating landmines and making a bunch of assholes happy. Often this means after nine hours, by the time we get home, we don’t have much brain left. Especially if it has been a really intense week.

Now imagine doing that on consistently 5 1/2 hours of sleep. Some day’s I’m all in.

Today, I called My Honey on the way home from work. “I’m stopping at the grocery store to pick up a prescription. Do we need anything else?”

“Something for dinner,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Whatever.” He sounded distracted. “What sounds good to you?”

Oh my God, I thought. What sounds good? Sleep sounds good. “I have no idea. None. Don’t make me think.” There was a long pause where my husband was obviously waiting for me to have an aneurism. I pulled into the parking lot and had an epiphany. “How about a pizza?”

“That sounds good. Mix it up, though. Get something different.” He said this blithely, like he wasn’t at all concerned about my neurological function.

I waited for the bleeding to start in my brain. “Different? Like what? Can we all just sit in different chairs at the table? Is that different enough?”

Now he sounded annoyed and I wanted to cry. “No, I was thinking of toppings. How about pineapple?”

I thought that sounded reprehensible, but I was incapable of putting together a complete sentence as to why.  We ate a Hawaiian pizza and a Combo. I stayed up until 1:30.

I have no idea what’s wrong with me.

This is what my house is like all the time these days.

Though…should Daryl stop by for a visit…