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