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.

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