NEW RELEASES
Really it’s a giant rolling duffle
We’re so busy getting ready for our trip next week to Atlanta and the Romance Writers of America National Convention. Amylynn made 479 National Convention Survival Packages to give away – more on that later. Ava has finished her gorgeous ball gown – more on 
that later for sure. Amylynn’s mom turned up a sumptuous ball gown too. Maybe there’ll be pictures. We’ll see if the planets align and cameras don’t exhibit some sort of paranormal event. We’ve put together an adorable box for a drawing for the swag room – a room of outrageous proportions where authors and publishing houses put all the giveaway stuff to take at will.
We had this genius idea that we’d ship all that stuff to Atlanta instead of trying to pack it. That seems brilliant, right?
So today we stopped off at our favorite mailbox store. We really, really love the guys at the mailbox store. They think we’re charming. We always bring the Amylynn and Ava Show hot and heavy when we’re there. We can’t help ourselves. We inquired into purchasing a box. We asked how much they estimated shipping would be.
Ava and our friend Susanna were busy screwing around with nail polish and lotion so they were missing most of my conversation with our mailbox guy. They did notice when I fell on the floor. What would you have done if you’d just been given the number of $210.00. You’d fall on the floor, that’s what you’d do. Clearly we nixed that plan.
This is where the story gets funny.
So I went home to get a suitcase so we could see if we could fit everything in there and just pay $30 for an extra bag.
So picture this – it’s in the middle of the afternoon and I’m racing around my driveway hurriedly shoving suitcases in my car when My Honey pulls in after a very hard day at work. I thought for just a second how that must
look.
“Oh no!” he says as he climbs out of the truck. “There’s no way you’re leaving me with those kids.”
“Yeah – it’s just not really going to work out.” After 13 years.
“All right then, I’ll see you at 6:00.””Uh huh.”
That poor man puts up with an awfully lot of nonsense with me.
I just love these.
Follow the jump to these awesome drawings of Disney Princesses (and a villain) in historically accurate dresses by Deviant Art user Claire Hummel a.k.a. *shoomlah.
This one is my favorite. I’ve always thought she was the best villain. And then Cruella followed by Ursula. I’ve always found the villains to be way more interesting than the heroines most of the time.
Should we start an escrow account for bail?
Ava and I are always comparing notes about children. Ours were born opposite. My oldest is the girl and her oldest is the boy and vice versa with the youngest.
We see so many similarities with the age that we don’t see with the sex of the children. What the hell are you talking about, you ask? We have examples.
On Independence Day we lit off some firecrackers in the back yard. Ava’s family did the same thing across town. In both instances, the youngest child was damn near gleeful when they learned that what we were doing was technically illegal. (If you’re the authorities then none of this is true. This blog is fiction. We don’t even have children. In fact, we’re two men named Bob and Phil.) The Bandit’s enjoyment in July 4th activities was seriously magnified by the prospect of police intervention. The same seems to be true of The Girl who Lives at Ava’s House.
This concerns Ava and I that our youngest children have no real concern about getting in trouble. Both are also consummate liars. If they pick a story, there’s pretty much nothing you can do or say that will make them drop their pretense. Both of our cases, the oldest child is easily broken. Both The Boy Who Lives at Ava’s House and Sassy will cave with a stern look. You flash an eyebrow at one of those kids, and they’ll sing like a bird.
When alcohol has been offered to them in a family situation – with Sassy it was dessert with wine in it (all of the alcohol had cooked off) and with the boy it was the smallest sip of champagne at a 50 Wedding Anniversary Party (he’s 15 for crying out loud) the kids freaked out. Sassy seems genuinely concerned that one bite of a French dessert will turn her into a raving dipsomaniac of homeless proportions. The last time wine was served at dinner The Bandit was stealing sips and TGWLAH was all over the champagne and peach nectar at the party.
Does anyone else see this? The oldest child is a rule follower and the youngest seems to be the perfect fit for the mob.
Respectability: a lost art
My Honey, Sassy, and I were lounging about flipping channels on the television. It was hot out (shocking) and we were feeling very lazy (not so shocking). The boy was off doing something boyish that probably involved a mess somewhere. We were lamenting the lack of anything good to watch, which is sadly typical. How can we have 7,000 channels and there be nothing good to watch. Seems unfeasible.
My Honey paused on one of his favorite channels – Palladia. It’s a music channel that differentiates itself from the rabble by 
actually playing music. Concert footage, interviews, Storyteller-like shows, etc. I’ve seen all kinds of interesting stuff on there. This time they were playing Woodstock.
They were on a scene were two guys are sitting in the mud eating watermelon with their hands. They’re the only people visible in the frame – I guess most everyone was already heading out. Jimi Hendrix was playing in the background and the guys were enjoying his set and their watermelon.
“Oh. My. God. That’s disgusting,” Sassy said with emphasis.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It got pretty muddy. There was a lot of rain.”
She made a puking noise. “They’re eating with their hands. And they’re filthy. Ugh.” I 
don’t know what she’s going on about. More than half the time I have to remind her to use a fork at dinner.
“We almost named your brother James Marshall after that guy.” My Honey pointed to the television while Hendrix was playing rather soulfully, his eyes closed in rapture.
“Until I came to my senses and realized what your father was trying to pull off.” I wasn’t naming my children after dead rock stars. My husband insists that we still did it – with a different guitar genius – but I know the truth.
“That guy?” Sassy is not impressed with Mr. Hendrix.
I perk up to defend him. I may not have wanted to name my child after him, but still. Show some respect. “Yeah. He’s arguably the most important guitarist in the history of music.”
“Hmmmmm.” She sounded doubtful.
Then they cut to more scenes of the clean up of Yasgur’s farm. Holy cow, what a freaking disaster. Sassy expresses sheer, unadulterated horror when a young man tries on a pair of abandoned tennis shoes. They don’t fit him, but his girl friend tries and they’re a winner.
For some reason, Sassy has always been fascinated with hippies and hobos – not that the two have anything to do with each other. Her father and I can’t fathom it. It’s an unexplained prejudice. This documentary does nothing to further a broader mind.
For lack of a better description, Sassy freaked the hell out during the next section. I had to crack up because at this point we were subjected to a stunning montage of naked, hairy men and women running amok. I suspect the famous brown acid was involved.
“They were having a good time,” was my weak defense.
Here’s the other Woodstock. Do we all feel better now?
“WITHOUT CLOTHES?!?”
By now, I was beside myself with hysteria.
“WHERE WERE THEIR MOTHERS?” She watched in horror, unable to look away at the hippy train wreck. “Well, that is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.” She spoke as only the truly righteous can from a tower of respectability like a Duchess or a Republican.
I’d like it noted when she went in to take her shower this evening, there was streaking down the hall. Respectability indeed.
July 5
This week’s 5 favorite things are all from Ava’s trip to Costa Rica. Even though Amylynn wasn’t there she still appreciates all that Ava went through as her family tried to kill her in the jungle in a variety of ways. Not that Ava’s being dramatic or anything. Ava’s not at all dramatic, so don’t be taking that easy explanation for why, when she broke her nail the night before they were leaving, she threatened not to go at all. She’s not dramatic. She’s crazy. Amylynn’s just saying this as a person of completely even temperament. Amylynn’s never been known to fly off the handle and declare crazy things for no rational reason. That’s what makes us exciting. And funny. Do note that we’re happy to tell YOU all 
about our craziness after the fact. How many other people do you know who’ll tell such ridiculous stories about themselves? Here’s some good stuff from the past week.
All Inclusive Resorts. The boy that lives at Ava’s house has found his calling in life – that of a permanent resident in an all inclusive resort. No one born before or after this 15 year old child has ever taken to being waited on hand and foot like this kid. He was actually seen to leave his ever present electronics alone as he wandered from café to restaurant to 24 hour Food Room requesting EVERYTHING they had. Clearly, he takes after Ed, and not Ava, 
because the all inclusiveness included alcohol and Ed wandered from bar to bar to bar requesting EVERY drink ever invented by man.
Feeding the Wild Animals is Forbidden. No one likes to be forbidden anything, especially Ava, especially anything to do with wild animals. Nevertheless, there were signs posted everywhere with this statement. Then, strangely a white sign with an empty circle and a slash through it. We’re not sure the Costa Ricans really understand that you have to put the forbidden item inside the circle, otherwise it’s open for interpretation and that’s when things go awry. Anyway, the family went on a river boat cruise – there wasn’t much to see but jungle foliage until the world’s finest tour guide (Hi Rolando!) produced some raw chicken and coaxed a lovely peter pan-esque crocodile to come up out of the water and show us his lovely white teeth. Next, he
If this was video, you’d hear the screaming
used bananas to get a family of white-faced monkeys to come on the boat and have a snack. One even ate a banana off of Ed’s head.
Zip Lining. This is actually an anti-favorite thing for Ava. She repeatedly said there was “no way in hell” she was zip lining and yet she found herself hiking (there is photographic proof) up a mountain to dangle precariously from a wire string back down. She’s not sure you need to know she’s never been more sweaty in her life, but there it is. Do with that information what you will. The trouble with the whole experience – aside from the hike and the sheer terror – is that you don’t see anything but the tops of a bunch of trees. Ava likes trees as much as the next gal, but that seems like a bit much to go through to see the top of them when you can do the same from the first class seat on the plane. You can’t even snatch a snoozing sloth from the branch of 
said tree, even if you were going slow enough to attempt it. Not that she had plans or anything. She still has trouble sleeping at night since the whole experience. The rest of the idiots in her family thought it was great fun. It was not.
Horse Back Riding. This was more up Ava’s alley. After all, a large furry animal is involved. She made friends with her trusty steed and offered to buy him a plane ticket home. He seemed to agree but the man who owned him said no – in very clear English, more than once. Okay – I get it Mr.
Do you hear the angles singing?
IDon’tWantAvaToHaveAProperSouvenirFromHerTrip stable owner. No need to keep glaring all hostile and such.
Dessert 24 Hours A Day. Maybe this really belongs under #1 but Ava always believes that dessert is its own separate category. Picture this – dessert all day and all night, dessert laid out like jewels on a giant buffet table, miniature dessert available in the café with cappuccino just for the asking, dessert filling an entire room in case you need a snack overnight (Ava slept in that room). Maybe the boy does take after Ava a little bit after all . . .
This stuff is why I read the news
I perused the news on the internet today. Here are a couple of things I learned.
Some moron paid $6,000 for a “clump” of Mick Jagger’s hair. What the hell is that? Honest to Zeus, there are people in this
He certainly has plenty of it here.
world with way too much freaking money. I’m probably going to be lambasted here, but Mick Jagger has never appealed to me. It is beyond my comprehension why ANYONE would want a clump of his hair.
Some Italian scientist is trying to convince everyone that the Loch Ness Monster is really just bubbles from seismic activity. He proposes that the sightings are always accompanied by earth tremors and bubbling. Apparently the loch is situated directly over a fault line. Have you ever heard anything more boring in your whole life? Really. Essentially he’s saying that this creature is really Earth fart bubbles. There are a lot of
This is a theory I do like
things I don’t believe in and really would like to. Things like ghosts and aliens and Bigfoot. Absolutely the Loch Ness Monster. This theory depresses me.
Another scientist want’s us to know that when it gets really hot people get crabby. Really. Like no one has noticed this outside of a research facility. And then someone thought this was groundbreaking enough to write an entire news story about it.
Happy Independence Day
It was tolerable when I didn’t allow myself to have any, but now that I can’t…
Ava and I are practically inconsolable. Yesterday, I actually watched the local news, not something I make a point of doing as rarely as possible. I usually only tune in if there is some specific local item that interests me. Otherwise, I just get all annoyed at the local coverage because they all think it’s super exciting, expose sort of news if they stand in front of a dark building where something happened six hours ago. No vestiges of the original event are actively taking place but they’re out there with their spotlights. It’s totally asinine.
ANYWAY, rant not withstanding, I did watch the local news yesterday because the teaser said the place with THE BEST WHITE CAKE IN ALL THE WORLD had burned down.
Down.
Seriously.
I couldn’t believe it. Apparently there was a three alarm electrical fire in the attic and it took 50 firefighters to get it out.
No one was injured and that’s a very good thing, but there was no mention as to how the bakery counter fared. This is another problem with news reports and it’s not limited to local. This happens in the newspaper and on the net all the time too. There are always vital pieces of information missing.
Had Ava and I been there, we can assure you that ALL the white cake would have been saved even if we had to vault over that five foot counter and save it ourselves. The firemen would have had to bodily carry us out while we screamed the whole time, “Not the cake! Oh, God, why the cake?”
If you think we’re being dramatic then you clearly have never tasted this cake. Pity.
Redefining
We’ve had some trouble with the boy’s attitude. His favorite statement has become, “I hate that” or “I hate you.”
It’s so pleasant, I can’t even tell you. Especially after a fabulous day at Bank of No Forks.
Sassy was super sick last night, sick as a pukey dog. Today she stayed home from summer camp. If she’s staying home from camp then The Bandit will also be expecting to stay home. Thus, My Honey stayed home from work today, so as I left the house I implored the boy – who was sitting on the couch in his underpants – not to give his father any trouble.
Before we get into the meat of this story, I’d like to reiterate that he was wearing his underwear when I left the house. That’s fairly significant because usually the boy refuses to wear any. It’s actually not a refusal to wear them, it simply doesn’t happen. He was still wearing only his underpants when I got home from work. Well, at least he had them on.
Anyway, there was an agreement that he wouldn’t be a hater. He’d make every effort to get along with his father and sister.
I called to check in on everyone around lunch time and got lunch orders. The Bandit didn’t want what the others decided on because, “I hate that place.”
I heard his father say, “I thought you weren’t supposed to be hating today.”
“Yeah,” The Bandit said quietly. “Is it OK if I just really, really don’t like it?”
Yes, indeed dude, it is.
I’m feeling quite nostalgic
It’s just over two weeks before Ava and I go to the Romance Writers of America National Convention in Atlanta, GA. We have so much to do before then, but I’m so excited I can barely stand it.
I can hardly think or talk of anything else.
I had my first dress fitting for the regency ball gown my mom is making for me. It’s going to be so beautiful – champagne colored satin with a beaded lace overdress. I managed to find some acceptable shoes. There was some concern about 
acceptable underwear, but that’s been handled. I won a gorgeous burgundy and cream pashmina to use as a wrap. I’ve hauled out my grandmother’s vintage evening purses and I think there are two that will work for Ava and I. I also pulled out the pearl and diamond jewelry.
Then I headed into the spider shed – that’s what I call the storage sheds outside. They’re rife with spiders and I’m terrified of them. That I went inside is a true testament to how badly I wanted what I thought was in there. It took three trips before I found what I wanted.
The first time I opened the double doors and stared at the mountain of shit clogging the way. I tried to peer around the bulk because I was positive that the trunk I wanted was in the far back. Isn’t everything you want in a shed in the furthest corner? Then I shut the door and went back into the house. I told myself it was too hot. There were too many spiders.
A couple of hours later, I went back out there. It was no less hot and there were no fewer spiders. I opened the double doors again and pulled down a bicycle trailer we haven’t used in at least nine years. I toted out a couple of tubs and a camping oven. I got another couple of steps inside the sweltering shed and tried to poke around and see around the nonsense. I could not immediately find the trunk I was looking for. I shoved everything back inside and shut the doors.
Back inside the air conditioning – it was 110 degrees outside – I contemplated whether what I was looking for was actually in that old trunk. Maybe it was in one of those 764 plastic tubs out there. Maybe we got rid of that old trunk. It was kinda falling apart the last time I saw it. That made the task even more daunting. Those tubs all look the same and who knew where the one I wanted was. The trunk was at least easy to identify. My Honey told me where it would be if it was indeed in there. I noticed he wasn’t offering to go out there and find what I wanted. Drat.
Another hour later, I stomped back outside. The wind was picking up and I heard a ripple of thunder. I hauled out that stupid trailer and the camp oven. I moved four camping chairs to the other side of the shed and lifted the lid of the first box I came to. Oh. My. God. It was the one I wanted. I had to lean over a bunch of stuff and dig around with the tips of my fingers but I found what I was looking for.
I shoved everything back inside and shut the door to the sound of thunder booming even closer. I raced back inside to check over my treasure.
A quilted box that held probably fifteen pairs of my great grandmother’s gloves. Back from a time when ladies wore gloves to leave the house. There are white and cream and black and teal and pink and brown… There are opera length and just to the wrist and everywhere in between. Cotton and kid leather. I have them in my possession because just like her wedding ring (which I wear everyday) I am the only one with small enough hands to wear them.
They’ll be perfect with my dress. Between the period dress and all my grandmothers’s stuff…I’m so excited.