Puppy Love

I can hardly believe it’s been a year since my boy Edgar was diagnosed with lung cancer. (You hear that, kids? Don’t smoke!) One morning last June he just started coughing. By the afternoon, there was blood in it. An x-ray of his chest revealed a baseball-sized tumor in one of his lungs. Immediate surgery was the only option. At least, the only option I was willing to consider.

Fortunately, the tumor was isolated in just one of his lung lobes. It hadn’t spread. And because dogs have six lungs—that’s right, six lungs!—the doctors assured me he had five to spare. A few days later, Edgar was in recovery, down one lung and more importantly, one nasty tumor.

It cost $6,000 to save my boy’s life. Averaged out over the past year that comes to $16.44 per day. Pretty good investment, don’t you think?

At this point I could go on and on about how much I completely and totally adore this sweet, loving, loyal, wonderful soul. And how much he loves me right back. But I think the photo says it all.

Jenny

Stuck on you

We’re the kind of twins who are always together. We finish each other’s sentences. We finish each other’s drinks. Sometimes we do both at the same time, which occasionally comes out garbled.

It all started in the womb. For eight and a half months we were intertwined. Then one day, Shelly left. Our first thoughts were, “Blessed solitude!” Immediately followed by, “This isn’t going to work.” Six minutes later we were reunited. All was right with the world.

Over the years, we’ve tried to live apart. But it never really sticks. The past decade has gone something like this:

· Jenny moves to Arizona and rents an apartment.

· Shelly moves to Arizona and rents an apartment in the same complex.

· Jenny decides to buy a house.

· Shelly decides to buy a house as close to Jenny as possible.

· The houses close on the same day. They’re across the street from each other.

· Jenny sells her house, buys a new one and moves in with Shelly while she remodels it.

· Jenny moves into her new house. Shelly buys a house a half-mile away.

· Shelly moves to Texas. Ironically, she rents her house to a pair of twins named Jen and Shel.

· Shelly moves back to Arizona and lives with Jenny.

· Shelly moves to Ohio. Jenny files for divorce and moves into Shelly’s house—right after she kicks the imposter twins out.

· Shelly moves back to Arizona and lives in her own house with Jenny.

· Jenny moves to Mesa.

· Jenny hates Mesa and moves back in with Shelly.

And that brings us to the Present. Will the trend continue? Who knows. More importantly, who cares? We’ll always be together. As if bound by the world’s longest umbilical cord. And that’s just how we like it.

What a Ride

After 8 ½ long, grueling years Bernice finally became a citizen last week. And what better way to celebrate becoming an American than by riding to your own party in the most obscene, jacked up, gas-guzzling car of all time? And that is how nine lesbians (plus Charmaine) found ourselves in a lifted Ford Excursion limousine, complete with 20” wheels, full bar area, hardwood floors, wave seats, two flat screen TVs, satellite radio and complimentary copy of Beach Bunny Babes. God Bless America!

The beast arrived around 5PM and we have to admit it was even gaudier and more ridiculous than we could have ever hoped for. After taking a bunch of photos (nice cleavage, Charmaine) we were on our way to the Swizzle Inn for the party of the century. Along the way there was a hell of a lot of fun: drinking, singing, toasting, and a dance performance that made us wish there was a stripper pole in the car. That reminds us, we gotta tell the guy to install one of those.

The ride was only about an hour long but it was the best hour of all time. And we have the videos to prove it. (See previous blog entry.)

Charzie Rocks The Limo

Eat your heart out, Lady Ga Ga.

Our Brother-in-Law is a Superhero

This past weekend we were in St. Louis visiting our little sister. Actually, we were surprising her—she’s turning 30 next week so her husband, Doug, was throwing a surprise party.

Doug is a helicopter pilot for the St. Louis Police Department. So his job is to fly around, catch bad guys and have them hauled off to jail. Basically, Doug is Superman. Except he doesn’t wear tights. (That we know of.) Instead, he wears a bad ass helmet with night vision goggles and wields an infared camera that can find perps hiding in dumpsters from 1,000 feet overhead. (Good job, crook. Now you smell like poopy diapers AND you’re going to the Big House.)

We weren’t leaving town without cashing in on this action. So on Saturday night he strapped us into the back seat of his McDonnell Douglas MD500E and we went out looking for some hookers, pimps and drug dealers. Actually, it was more of a sightseeing mission, but we were secretly hoping those sights would include ho’s scurrying like cockroaches.

We took off into a cold, clear sky at 8:32 PM. The city was pitch black, save the millions of twinkling lights below. Our headsets crackled with voices of police dispatchers from across the city. This was the coolest experience of all time.

Doug maneuvered the chopper toward downtown. For a cop, he was also a very good tour guide, pointing out local landmarks below like Forest Park and the Anheuser Busch Brewery. But we were headed for the only landmark that mattered: The Gateway Arch. We could see it in the distance, a gleaming sentinel standing guard over the city.

As we approached, we were just a little bit higher than its 630 feet. We circled, going all the way around, over the Mighty Mississippi. When we got to the east side, Doug went slowly past, offering us a view few people will ever get to experience. Few people outside of Lois Lane, that is.

We continued on, hovering briefly over Busch Stadium (Go Cards!). Just when we thought we’d be heading back, Doug informed us it was time for the in-flight entertainment. Before we had a chance to reach for the barf bags, the nose of the chopper jerked 90º upward, as if heading for outer space. We were thrown back into our seats—a rollercoaster without rails. We soared up into the blackness for an eternity of about 10 seconds. Then, suddenly, stopped, as if God himself were blocking the way. The chopper paused, then dropped, tail first, leveled off and transitioned into a nosedive. Down we went, fishtailing toward earth. In that moment, even if we had been in real danger, death would have been worth it.

“That’s what we call the Negative G Pushover,” said Doug. Whatever. We called it a pants-crappin’ good time.

But the fun wasn’t over. Doug wanted to show off the chopper’s agility. So he took us into a series of circling hairpin turns called “Orbits,” a maneuver they perform when hovering over a crime scene. It was as if the chopper was tethered to the ground by the world’s largest push pin, circling continuously on a dime. Apparently this move makes many passengers vomit. It made us squeal with joy.

Twenty minutes later we were back on the ground with a great story and even better videos (see previous blog entry). What a ride. As we walked to the hangar, we turned and looked back for Doug. We can’t be certain, but just before he climbed from the cockpit we’re pretty sure we saw him stash his cape in the glove box.

What a view

It isn't every day you get to see the St. Louis Arch quite like this.

Teed Off

Today our girlfriends are playing in the 9th Annual Swizzle Inn Hussy Golf Tournament. The only requirements to play in this classy affair are fifty bucks, a decent set of clubs and a va-jay-jay. Despite having all of those things, we have chosen not to play for one all-important reason: Golf is fucking hard!

This concept was lost on our parents, which is why at age 14 we found ourselves signed up for lessons at the local public course. From day one, we could not understand why anyone would choose to spend an afternoon attempting to hit a tiny white ball into a hole the size of a can of tuna. At least if there was tuna fish in the hole, we wouldn't go hungry after walking 450 yards.

Countless dreadful Saturdays spent plucking balls from water hazards and backyard patios did nothing to improve our skills—or our attitudes.

It didn’t take long for us to discover that throwing a golf ball is a lot more accurate, and gratifying, than hitting it with a long metal stick (which incidentally makes a great projectile as well). Mind you, the round didn’t always start badly, but it inevitably ended the same way: with both of us bludgeoning the ground as if trying to win matching jumbo pandas in a game of Five Iron Whack-A-Mole. All while shrieking the “f” word—and we don’t mean, “fore.”

Have you ever witnessed golf cart road rage? If not, you haven’t played with us.

Fortunately we’ve grown wiser over the years. Which is why today we’re spending the afternoon writing a blog rather than completing a foursome with our hussy girlfriends. But we are cheering them on from afar. Go get ‘em girls. Bring home the trophy. Or at least some Chicken of the Sea.