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.

Solicit this

(A.K.A. my Rant of the Week)

What’s with all the door-to-door soliciting lately? In the past two weeks, I’ve had the most motley string of vagrants ring my doorbell: a twiggy, middle-aged woman wanting to fix my windshield (which wasn’t broken), two pimply-faced high school girls offering to shampoo my carpets and furniture, and a scary old dude in a white cowboy hat urging me to buy magazines to help kids learn to make an honest living.

In my haste to get him off the porch, I refrained from asking two obvious yet critical questions:

1. Why aren’t the kids selling the magazines themselves?
2. The little shitheads aren’t stuffed in your trunk, are they?

Not long after that I was forced to close the blinds in my office lest I come face to face with what appeared to be a post-op lobotomy patient who was ringing my neighbor’s doorbell.

Is it just me? Or has door-to-door soliciting dramatically increased in the wake of the economic downturn? The “Do Not Call List” was great, but what I really need is a “Do Not Ring My Doorbell and Try to Sell Me Your Worthless Crap While Smelling Like a Butt Crack List.” If that’s ever invented, please call me. Or text me. Heck, you can even stop by and tell me in person—just don’t ring my doorbell.

Shelly

Shit Happens

After spending the morning at a PGA golf tournament in Scottsdale, we got back to the car to find an unexpected visitor trapped inside . . . along with his loose bowels.

More Atrium Antics

This type of shit is always happening to us. Not complaining, just saying.

Toasty Bits

How do you warm up at a very cold Missouri wedding? Duh, like this.

Douche. It’s what’s for dessert.

This past weekend we were in St. Louis, Missouri, visiting our little sister Kelly and her husband Doug. Six months ago they had a baby boy, Parker, and we were eager to meet him.

We had the perfect day planned: take Parker to the zoo, take Parker to an Irish pub for lunch, take Parker home, put Parker in his Ohio State Buckeyes singlet, watch the Buckeyes game with Parker, put Parker in his Cardinals t-shirt, watch the Cardinals game with Parker, put Parker in his Blues jersey, watch Parker throw up on his Blues jersey, take Parker out of his Blues jersey and watch the Blues game with Parker.

Then to top it off, we’d take Parker to Ted Drewes, the legendary frozen custard stand on Route 66. What we didn’t plan on was what happened once we got there.

After pulling into a rather tight parking spot, we piled out of the car, already imagining the glorious diabetes-inducing concoctions awaiting us. But our euphoria was interrupted when we were approached by the driver of the car next to us.

“Did you not just feel your door slam into my car?” he barked. (Apparently he’d just downed a mouthful of asshole sundae.) Doug said that no, we didn’t feel our door hit his car because it hadn’t. “You gotta be kidding me,” the guy retorted, “You didn’t feel that? Our whole car shook!” (Guess he got nuts on that sundae.)

Now, under normal circumstances, a conversation beginning this way would be quite alarming. But Doug is a police officer for the City of St. Louis—he takes down pimps, drug dealers and murderers for a living, so we knew this Lexus-driving yuppie cracker was starting a fight he couldn’t finish.

While this was all going down, Kelly was busy putting Parker into his baby carrier. Once finished, she came around the back of the car to see what the commotion was about. And the bazookas came out firing.

“Where’s the damage?” she hissed. When the guy timidly responded that there wasn’t any, she followed up with, “That’s because we didn’t hit you!” She then turned on her heels, her infant son sleeping peacefully in the carrier dangling from the crook of her arm, and added the cherry on top: “FUCKING DOUCHEBAG!”

Every eye in the crowded parking lot was now on us, and while we felt twinges of discomfort, our sister strutted away, savoring the blood of a fresh kill.

Meanwhile, Doug remained calm. “I’m having Caramel Almond Banana. And that douchebag’s license plate number is NFP-272. I’m running it tomorrow.”

The Twins

Don't Feed the Fish

Here we are at the best bar on earth, The Swizzle Inn, in Phoenix, AZ. No, the Swizzle doesn’t have an outdoor patio. But it does have a super sweet atrium plopped down right in the middle of the place. The atrium is completely walled-in and appears to have been decorated by a blind surfer on acid. In other words, it’s awesome.

Technically, the atrium is just for looks. During the day, sunlight streams in from the open roof allowing patrons to gaze upon the tasteful décor: a beat up surfboard, sunburned plants and an old paddle that exclaims, “Please! Leave this at Shit Creek.” Naturally, from the moment we discovered the Swizzle Inn its atrium called to us like a siren song.

So last Sunday, fueled by liquid courage ($1.50 Bloody Mary’s) and some twisted bar logic (“If they didn’t want people to go in, why is there a sliding door?”) we casually sauntered into the atrium. And oh it was glorious! A psychedelic fishbowl full of magical things, a place where all your hopes and dreams could come true! We immediately pledged never to leave. Which turned out to be a good thing because someone had locked the door.

Jenny

Never Fails

If given the choice, a cat will always—ALWAYS—throw up on the carpet instead of the tile. And here’s the proof.

Jenny

The Joy of Twin

When you grow up as a twin, there are certain things you just get used to. Like the glassy-eyed stares, audible whispers and brazen finger pointing. For God’s sake people, we’re not Siamese.

It’s cool though. I mean, it kind of comes with the territory. We can work around it as long as you don’t do something stupid . . . like ask ignorant questions. For instance (and I’m not making this up):

“Can you read each other’s minds?”
“You wouldn’t happen to be twin brothers, would you?”
And my personal favorite:
“Are you two lovers?”

Let me say this once and for all. We are twins. We look alike. We sound alike. We act alike. And we probably kiss alike, but we’ll never know because WE DON’T MAKE OUT WITH EACH OTHER (that 69 thing in the womb was a total accident).

So please, all you inappropriate gawkers out there, do us a favor the next time you see us: use your inside voice instead. Heck, that’s what my twin brother and I do. In fact, he just used ESP to ask me out on a date.

Shelly

Holiday Color

There are a lot of things I love about Bernice’s mom, Charmaine. She cleans our house, makes dinner every night and is constantly saying stuff that’s unintentionally hilarious. For instance, this weekend we taught her how to play Rock Band and at one point she referred to the various levels as, “Hard, Medium and Weak.”

You want to play Rock Band on the “Easy” level? Not at our house, you weak piece of shit.

But the very best thing about Charmaine (even better than her chicken curry) is that she’s a hair stylist. And not just any old hair stylist. The best hair stylist on the planet. So instead of driving to Scottsdale and spending an afternoon in a salon full of collagen-injected bimbos slinging glitter purses, I spent my Labor Day getting my hair cut and colored in the comfort of my own home, cocktail in hand, for free.

I know, I know. It was Labor Day, so it should have been a day of rest. But before you start feeling bad for Charmaine, just remember she’s retired, so technically every day is Labor Day for her. Also, she’s South African so she doesn’t really know what Labor Day is. If she assumes Labor Day means you should be laboring, who am I to argue?

Seriously though, I love you, Charzie. You’re a genius. Stay as long as you’d like.

Which reminds me, what’s for dinner?

Jenny

Meeting the Mother-in-Law

Last Sunday, my girlfriend Eileen took me to Greenwich, Connecticut to meet her mother. Eileen hadn’t seen her mom, Jackie, in more than six years, which to me is nearly incomprehensible. Then again, my mother isn’t a 78-year-old hypochondriac who leaves her front door unlocked at night so the EMTs don’t have to kick it down when they come to retrieve her soon-to-be-lifeless body. Now, having a death complex doesn’t make you crazy. Neither does calling your daughter once a month to say, “The next time you see me, I’ll be in my coffin.” But, it certainly doesn’t make you much fun to be around.

Nonetheless, after a half a dozen years of phone calls, Eileen decided to skip the guilt trip and make an actual trip. She told her mom we were coming to town—for only a day, mind you—as part of weeklong visit to New York City. Of course meeting the infamous Jackster has never been high on my list of fun things to do (I think it ranks somewhere between an aggressive dental cleaning and pooping in a Porta Potty), but I was cool with it . . . mostly because I’d also get to meet her dog.

About six months ago, Jackie called to say she got a puppy. We were shocked. What about your funeral plans? And your osteoarthritic knees? Did you consider a goldfish instead? Still, we found the news comforting. Jackie finally had a companion who actually LIKED being around her. Even better, as the months passed, her woeful tales of impending heart failure were replaced by the adorable antics of Biscuit, the golden retriever who knew how to shake, sit and lie down. He loved having his ears scratched and barked with joy whenever she came home from the grocery store. Jackie’s life seemed, dare I say it, normal. Until a few months later when she said to Eileen, “You know Biscuit isn’t a real dog, right?”

Turns out Biscuit is a battery operated dog Jackie bought at Target for $179.99 (a bargain considering the special adoption certificate he came with actually guaranteed his friendship for life).

When we pulled up to Jackie’s house last Sunday, the sun was shining but my girlfriend was understandably tense. Not only would her mother spend the next six hours talking about her imminent death, she’d probably do it while shoving batteries up her dog’s ass. I did my best to help Eileen see the bright side though. I mean heck, her mom may be crazy, but at least we know what to get her for Christmas—a coffin filled with Duracells.

Shelly

Answering the Call of the Wild

After years of silent struggle, I am finally coming out of the closet as a lesbian . . . who HATES camping. Yet, for the past three years, I’ve hauled a tent, air mattress, sleeping bag and two gallons of rum deep into the woods to hang with 3,500 of my closest friends.

Why in the world would she do this, you ask? Weren’t the 40 degree, rain-soaked, “summer” vacations to the Rainier National Forest as a kid enough punishment for one lifetime? Sure they were. But those trips didn’t include a contest where 350 pound women let strangers stick puffed orange cheeseballs under their breasts for sport! If they had, I might still be straight. They also didn’t include open air public showers (even Mother Nature needs somewhere to scrub her beaver), home-cooked vegetarian meals (do gray eggs come from gray hens?) or clothing-optional, vagina-rific, koombayah tambourine medleys around a fire pit.

There’s only one place that holds that type of camping allure: The Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival.

For one week every summer, women of all shapes, sizes and musical abilities gather on “The Land” to celebrate, ovulate and inebriate as one. And you don’t even have to be a lesbian to get in (you can convert once you get there). Just buy a ticket, pack your loincloth, and head north next August. Oh, and if you have a penis that’s not detachable, be sure to make a side trip to Thailand and have that lopped off first.

Once you get to MichFest, look me up. I’ll be the one who skipped a kitchen work shift to attend the “Anal Sex 101 – Backdoor Basics” workshop. Heck, if learning about the pleasures of vibrators, dildos, butt plugs and ass beads can’t make camping fun, what can?

Shelly

TGIF.

I agree, boy. It’s been that kind of week.

Jenny

Balls out

This was my view last night at 10 PM.

I know what you’re thinking: “It’s about time they locked her ass up.” But no, it’s not the Big House. It’s the Phoenix Sports Complex—a building that can only be described as part indoor soccer stadium, part Turkish prison.

And it’s where I found myself last night after agreeing to watch my friends play one of their weekly soccer games. In hindsight, I don’t know why I was expecting anything different. I mean most of my friends are cops and the team is sponsored by a bar. Your friendly neighborhood Rec Center frowns upon people who play soccer with ankle holsters under their shin guards.

I loved this place from the moment I set foot on the filthy carpet. It was dark, low-ceilinged and smelled like Deep Fat Fryer Gone Wild. Beers were $2 and came in what I hoped wasn’t a used plastic cup. But for $2 who really cares?

Liquid courage in hand, we climbed the stairs to the viewing area (I brought Bernice along for protection). There was another game in progress and the stands were packed. But not with housewives. Apparently Thursdays are Soccer Night for the Mexican mafia.

The place is set up great for spectators. You sit above the action on benches that run the length of the field. It’s a phenomenal view—if you don’t mind watching everything through penitentiary grade chain link fencing. The entire place is encased in wire: wall to wall, floor to ceiling. I couldn’t help but wonder if the fence was there to protect the fans from errant soccer balls or to protect the players from errant fans.

Before the warm beer could get warmer our girls took the field. I sized up the other team and decided we had a pretty good chance. They were all somewhat scrawny and the goaltender was the only one who looked like she was on work release. We could take these pussies!

The other team scored a few early goals, but then we found our stride. By the end of regulation it was all tied up, 6-6. The score was still knotted after a five-minute overtime so it went to a shootout. A shootout! Our team is full of cops! We couldn’t lose.

I was disappointed to learn this was a different kind of shootout.

Firearms or not, we proved to be the superior team. Our girls scored a few great goals when it really mattered and our goaltender was outstanding, ensuring the good guys won in the end.

Overall, it was a fantastic time. Great job to all you girls for risking life, limb and healthy ACLs to provide us with an evening of entertainment. Bernice and I will definitely be back to cheer you on again. Right after we buy a pair of Tasers.

Jenny

Pubic Indecency

You’ll notice there’s no photo posted with this blog entry. Be thankful for that. No one should have to see what I saw yesterday. As Jerry Seinfeld once said, “There’s good naked and bad naked.” Yesterday I discovered the worst kind of naked.

Nearly every time I’m at the gym I see the same elderly Chinese woman in the locker room. She never has any clothes on. Even worse, she’s always doing something you really don’t want to see anyone do naked. Like clipping her toenails. Or exfoliating her feet. All with what appears to be a muskrat attached to her crotch.

So yesterday morning there she was, buck-naked as usual. I hurried past her and shoved my stuff into a locker. When I turned around this was the scene: The woman was standing in a semi-squatting position, legs slightly apart, straddling her gym towel. Before I could slam my eyelids shut she started scrubbing her crotch with the towel, working it front to back, like two lumberjacks trying to take down an oak tree. This was no gentle towel dry. Her beaver was getting the kind of scrubbing usually reserved for someone exposed to dangerously high levels of nuclear radiation.

I stood there for a moment in stunned silence, not sure what to do. (Run? Scream? Run screaming?) But the solution was right in my hand.

I gouged out my eyes with my iPod.

Jenny

Old cat. New rug.

About two weeks ago our cat Clio suddenly decided it was okay to start shitting on the area rug in our home office. We just walked in one morning and were like, “WTF? There’s a turd on the floor.” Even worse, she peed on the rug. More than once. It wasn’t an expensive rug (we got it at IKEA) but I really liked it. The rug was lime green shag. Very retro and cool.

Clio has done this before. She ruined two rugs, a leather club chair and a beanbag—yes, a beanbag—at our last house. What kind of cat climbs into a beanbag and pees??

So now we have a new area rug in the office. This one isn’t from IKEA. It’s from PetSmart. We’ve constructed an area rug out of puppy pee pads. That’s right, folks. Our new rug is a bunch of doggie diapers placed side by side. How classy is that? Now when Clio pees we just pick up one section of the “rug” and throw it away. In fact, I had to do just that a minute ago. As I was writing this she struck again. I’m seriously not making that up.

And as you can see, Edgar uses it too. But thankfully he only sleeps on it.

Jenny

Thank you sweet Dee

My dog, Ellen Dee, passed away last week from intestinal cancer. She was two months shy of her eighth birthday.

In the days since her passing, I’ve struggled tremendously to deal with the emotion and finality of it. Ellen Dee was there for me during the hardest, most emotionally trying years of my life. She was always my strength and courage. She helped me do things that were scary, that I didn't think I was capable of, but that were so important and stretched me as a person—like pack up all my belongings, rent out my house and move away from my family (twice). I did things I never would have done if she hadn’t been there, but I did them because I knew no matter what happened, she’d always be by my side.

But until last night, when a friend sent me a quote that helped her get through the days and weeks following the loss of her beloved cat, Puddin’, I didn’t truly realize the real gift Ellen gave me. The quote said:

“Our animals shepherd us through certain areas of our lives. When we are ready to turn the corner and make it on our own…they let us go.”

The night before Ellen passed was my 40th birthday. I lay on the floor with her, listening to her shallow, painful breaths, praying like hell she would somehow get better. Around 3 am, she got up and went to lay in the hall, alone. I knew it was her way of telling me she was ready to go. And that I needed to let her go. But, after I read that quote last night, I also realized it was her way of telling me that I too was ready, and that I needed to go on without her.

Ellen watched me struggle through five years of bad relationships with people who were never there for me. So, when I met my amazing partner, Eileen, who not only adored little Dee, but was truly devoted to me, Ellen knew I was going to be okay. For the first time in her life, she saw that I had someone who loved and supported me. Ellen shepherded me through the storm, and now the sun was out, the seas were calm and her job was done. It was time for her to go, and time for me to make it on my own.

On July 24, 2009, Ellen Dee went to the biggest, best doggie park of all—the one in the sky. She ran all the way there, with a happy smile and light heart, knowing she had done the most amazing job in this life. I will always be grateful to sweet little Dee for being my courage and my strength for so, so long. And while I’ll always miss her sweet face, wiggle tail and air kisses, I know when I see her again, I’ll have lived a much fuller life because of her.

Thanks for everything Ellen Dee. I love you. The next time I see you, you’ll be chasing your squeaky football from cloud to cloud to cloud. I know because I’ll be the one throwing it.

Shelly

What's For Dessert?

When I took this photo, I thought of my friend, Mary. Not because her ass looks like two loaves of Challah bread trapped in a polyester prison, but because she’s the one who first introduced me to the term “hungry butt.”

Mary isn’t known for her tact, which is why I like her so much. What she is known for is an infamous party trick—the ability to pop her shoulder blades from their sockets, jutting them out behind her like the fins of a ’53 Cadillac. But Mary didn’t stop there. The space created between her shoulder blades was the exact same size as a case of Bud Light. Mary would squeeze that box of brew with her vice-like scapulas as she wandered the room offering a beer to anyone who looked thirsty. Or sober.

Mind you, she performed this marvelous trick without a shirt on, not because she was an exhibitionist per se, but because she claimed the garment prevented her from getting a proper grip. Um, whatever. Frankly, I didn’t even notice the beer at first because her double D bazookas were blocking my view.

Anyway, I had never heard the term “hungry butt” before Mary used it to describe the phenomenon of someone’s pants being devoured by their own ass crack. So when I stumbled upon this unfortunate munching, naturally I thought of her.

Mary, This Butt’s For You.

Shelly

Crap-tastic

So for the past week I’ve discovered that the lid of our guest bathroom toilet is squeaking. I notice this mostly in the middle of the night because the guest toilet is the closest toilet to my side of the bed—or at least the closest toilet that doesn’t require navigating around the dog bed (with dog in it) in the dark.

So you’re probably thinking, “Why does she need to lift the toilet seat to pee?” Listen up, I said LID not SEAT. I’m one of those people who must close the lid of the toilet when the toilet is not in use. It’s just more sanitary. Or at least it has the appearance of such.

Anyway, this afternoon I decide I’m going to fix that f-ing leaky toilet lid and I grab my can of WD-40. (It fixes everything, you know.) Feeling very proud of myself, I enthusiastically squirt the WD-40 onto the hinges and work the grease into the plastic pins that hold the entire contraption together. But to my great dismay this only makes the squeak louder. No, not just louder. Crazy loud. Like fingernails on a chalkboard combined with dental work from hell.

At this point I realize I’m in over my head so I consult the experts (Google). Apparently, WD-40 is the worst possible thing you can squirt onto plastic toilet seat hinges. A more appropriate plan of attack would have been to take the entire thing apart and lube it up with petroleum jelly. Great! I have experience here. Unfortunately, my toilet is of the unique variety (cheap as hell) that does not allow you to take it apart without breaking the shit out of it. So I tried slathering the lube on top of the WD-40 and guess what? It didn’t work. Big surprise.

Oh, did I mention the whole reason I really care this much about a squeaky toilet lid is because my Mother In Law arrives tomorrow for a six-month visit and this is her primary bathroom? Super duper awesome.

Well, new toilet seats run $20-50. So screw that. Instead, I just swapped the guest bath seat with the master bath seat (luckily they’re of the same shoddy quality) and Bernie and I have agreed to leave the lid up at all times. Unless we’re trying to scare off a burglar. Or it’s Halloween.

How To Get To Heaven From Mesa, AZ

That is seriously the headline on a church flyer someone stuck to our door yesterday. I actually saw the guy walk up because my home office overlooks the front porch. So when this strange dude in a blue shirt came to the door I did what I always do: I hid under the desk and let Edgar bark him away.

The flyer is for the Gospel Light Baptist church. They claim I can get to heaven (from Mesa, AZ!) in three easy steps. Thank God because I won’t do anything if it isn’t easy. Oh shit, I just took the Lord’s name in vain. I’m a hopeless sinner.

Anyway, here’s all you have to do to go to heaven (besides live in Mesa, AZ):

1. ADMIT THAT YOU ARE A SINNER. Fucking sweet, I already did that! (See final sentence of previous paragraph.)
2. BELIEVE THAT JESUS CHRIST IS YOUR LORD AND SAVIOR. It actually goes on to explain exactly what this means but it’s hard to understand because of the typos. Even a third grader could tell you that “shalt” and “believeth” aren’t real words.
3. CALL TO GOD IN PRAYER AND ASK FOR FORGIVENESS. Okay, here goes: “Dear God, please forgive me for swearing too fucking much. Also, for liking girls in 'that way.' But it's your own damn fault because I was born like this."

Wow. I feel so much better. Heaven, here I come! I wonder what Heaven is like? I hope there’s a good bar. I bet St. Peter makes a mean Bloody Mary. I’ll bring a nail for the olives.

Jenny

I know the feeling, boy

This is Edgar’s new favorite spot in the house. For some unexplained reason he suddenly loves to wedge himself under this particular dining room chair. We don’t mind, since neither Bernice nor I have much of an affinity for the dining room set. I mean, come on. Does it look like something we’d buy? Seriously. It’s floral. The furniture was actually given to us by the previous owner of the house. And since the alternative would have been a card table, we accepted.

Come to think of it, Edgar might be onto something. Depending on how my afternoon client call goes, I may just join him under there.

Jenny

Why I'm not at the gym right now

I don’t like things that skitter. And by “things” I mean vermin. These objectionable entities include rodents of all kinds as well as any insects with enough legs and/or wings to propel themselves away from the many instruments of death I am wielding (fly swatter, stomping feet, poison spray, karate chops, etc.).

So you can imagine my horror at the gym yesterday when I spied a black ant creeping around the free weight area, just inches from my feet. The little bastard thought he was so smart, dressing in all black so he’d blend in perfectly with the industrial rubber flooring. But his ant camouflage was no match for me. I can spot wretched pests from a thousand yards (cockroaches from over a mile). I looked right into his beady little eyes and screamed at the top of my lungs, “DIE YOU LITTLE FUCKER!!” and stomped the shit out of him. Okay, I didn’t really yell that out in the middle of a crowded gym. But I really wanted to which is basically the same thing.

Vermin successfully eliminated, I continued with my workout on the other side of the gym—can’t be too safe. I selected a pair of free weights from the rack and put my bright orange workout towel on the floor by my feet as I did my first set. When I finished, I glanced down and witnessed the unthinkable: ants on my towel. Lots of them, skittering in and out of the folds, getting their vile ant filth all over the towel I use to wipe my face! But even before my brain could fully process this event, I saw something infinitely worse. The ants were all over my shoes. And not just down by the laces. Up near the opening, by my exposed skin!

Now I should probably mention that about a year and a half ago I had an exceptionally bad ant bite experience while walking my dog, Edgar. We always walk at night because it’s cooler. Well, Edgar stopped to poop (as dogs often do) in a particularly dark corner of someone’s front yard. Well, unbeknownst to me, while I was patiently waiting for him to finish his business I was standing square in the middle of an ant nest. The reality of this didn’t hit me until I was being bitten by roughly 40 ants, all at the same time. Over the next few days my ankles swelled to the size of softballs and itched so badly I had to ice them at night just to fall asleep. Good times.

So when I saw the ants on my shoes at the gym I reacted as any sane person would, screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK!?” (this time out loud) and adding to the spectacle by hopping around while swatting at my shoes with the towel. (In hindsight, probably not the greatest plan since it too was covered in ants.) 

Why were there ants all over the gym floor? Where did they come from? Did they get a good workout? These and other important questions may have been answered but I sure as hell wasn’t around to find out. The last thing I saw as I fled the premises was some poor maintenance dude, hunched with bug killer in hand, futilely scanning the black gym floor for camouflaged ants.

Jenny