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