Remember how I traded in Dave Durango for Leanidas of the 300? That was back in November.
My love affair with Lea progresses nicely. She’s beautiful and she smells good and I love her sound system.
Sometime in January, I got a letter from the Department of Motor Vehicles claiming that they didn’t have any insurance on record for Lea. I followed the instructions and sent them my insurance card.
I assumed all was well.
Yesterday I received a letter in the mail that Lea’s registration was suspended due to lack of insurance and they
implied that I would live to regret my apparent disregard for their policies. Then they demanded I send proof of insurance along with $50 ransom.
I called the number on the letter and sat on hold for 45 minutes. 45 long minutes that didn’t even include hold music. Apparently, the DMV doesn’t feel inclined to tell you that your call is very important to them. I guess we should find some honor in the fact that they won’t lie to you just to try to make you feel better.
I told the woman who finally came on the line to help me that I’d already sent the insurance card. Additionally, I told her that I didn’t appreciate Lea’s registration being suspended. I confided that I enjoyed speeding and this whole registration business was cramping my style. Lastly, I told her I was not giving them $50.
She suggested that I could try the computer system and download the insurance info again. I scoffed. That worked out so well for me last time.
She played her ace by advising that I come down to the office and wait in line. I told her that, actually, my father didn’t have anything to do these days except wait around in lines and complain bitterly to anyone who would listen. I informed her that he was often disgruntled and, should we give him a good reason, he could apply this disgruntledness to just about any cause. I’d be willing to pack him a sandwich and send him down there if she thought that would be a good course of action.
I want you to know that the employees of the DMV are not intimidated by threats – certainly not those of grumpy old men. Apparently, they breed them down there.
I uploaded my insurance info again via their website. I received confirmation that Lea’s registration has been cleared. I did not send $50 because I won’t cave in to terrorist threats.
I sped like a fully registered idiot the whole way home.
March 11 – 12th
We’ll be in Booth 111 right by the Arizona Daily Star booth. You can’t miss us!
There’ll be lots of books and giveaways and the chance to meet us and some other great authors.
You’ll hear us squealing every single time a doggy walks by.
We really hope to see you there.
The Quill Sisters heartily hope you find someone to snuggle with.
Sorcery. That’s what this is. It’s also, totally genius. Think of the time and effort it would relieve the Sister of if we had this.
We know that we’ve told you before how we have to eat M&Ms and Skittles in certain color order. It’s one of our few peccadilloes that is charming and not bat-shit crazy. They make machines for that kind, too. It’s called electroshock therapy.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the internet, we present this to you.
The other night around 2am, while my family was sleeping soundly, I was hungry. It had been quite some time since dinner and my tummy was growling. I decided that I wanted some cereal. It’s one of my favorite foods. Just love me some cereal.
I filled up a bowl with Frosted Mini-Wheats and went out to the living room to watch television. Things were going along just fine when suddenly I was choking on a tiny sliver of wheat. A mini wheat, if you will. I have no idea how
this happened. One minute, chew chew chew and the next GAH! I managed to get to the point where I was coughing, which any medical professional will tell you means that I’m not actually choking anymore, but doesn’t do a lot towards making you feel better when you can’t seem to get a full breath.
So here I was, slowing dying in the living room, coughing so hard I actually peed a little, and the whole time I’m trying to defend my bowl of deadly cereal and milk from the damn cat.
I thought to myself, between desperate hacking, that there was very little dignity in death by cereal. I also figured it was apt that I’d die from eating something I had no business eating. I considered that I should try to crawl down the hall to wake up My Honey to let him know that I needed assistance, except that I’d have to put down my bowl and then Quentin would get the milk for sure.
This was how my family would find me in the morning, dead on the floor in the living room, a tiny fleck of wheat lodged in my throat, and dairy-free bowl on the floor by a contented cat with milk breath.
Clearly I lived to tell the tale. As I see it, the moral of the story is: Don’t eat cereal by yourself.
My Honey says it’s: Go to bed at a normal time.
My guess is that neither of these things are actually going to happen.
I’m going to start this post by telling you that the Sisters haven’t had any sugar all week. We’re easing in to our 2017 diets. We’ll see how that works.
Anyway, that being said we need to discuss cake. Way back in April of 2014 we heard of a cake. A mystical cake. A cake we needed to become personally acquainted with.
Huffington Post declared it, “the greatest cake America has ever made.” That’s a hell of a compliment and two women who love cake more than anyone we’ve ever met were intrigued, as we’re sure you can imagine.
The pit fall was that the bakery that made this divine comestible was in Pittsburgh and from our house that was 2,051 miles away. It’s not like we could very well hop in a car on Tuesday and fetch ourselves a slice. We checked into shipping it. Things went badly. The cake on-line was about $50 and, way back in 2014, they didn’t have free shipping like they do now. The shipping cost another $80. We don’t want you to think that we didn’t seriously consider ponying up the money and doing it. This was the GREATEST CAKE AMERICA HAS EVER MADE people. We needed to know.
Our financial advisors will be happy to know that we regained control of our mania and let it go.
We’d be lying if we told you that we didn’t periodically think about the Burnt Almond Torte from Prantl’s Bakery in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We did. It made us sad. We couldn’t imagine any scenario that brought us close enough to Pittsburgh to get it.
And then our dear friend Pumpkin had to see family over Christmas. Guess where she was going. Guess. This is how Serendipity works, my friends. We asked her very nicely to find the bakery, fetch us a cake, freeze it, and then lug it on an airplane across the county while transferring planes in various cities, and then store it in her own freezer, then place it gently in a cooler, before meeting us for lunch.
We totally know that we’re epic pains in the ass. It’s part of our charm.
We want you to know that our Burnt Almond Torte arrived to us frosty and perfect. Nary a slivered almond out-of-place. Pumpkin might be the finest person alive.
So we ferreted the cake back to our office and plotted how we were going to get to eat it without anyone else finding out. We had absolutely zero plans to share. This cake was ridiculously hard-won and we’re selfish people. Imagine us in a dark supply closet. Not really, but we might have if we hadn’t found an empty office. We did lock the door.
We bet you’re wondering if it was worth it? Yes, yes it was. It may well be the very best cake we’ve ever had in our faces, EVER. It’s light and airy. The frosting tastes like fairies made it. The “Burnt” part is a misnomer because our almonds were lightly toasted and fragrant. Best. Cake. Ever.
We each had a tiny piece then carefully wrapped it back up to savor later. Then we locked it in a vault protected by medieval gargoyles, waved our wands and did our best Harry Potter incantations.
We highly recommend you get yourself a Pumpkin and coerce her into going to Pittsburgh in the very near future. You can’t have our Pumpkin; she’s all ours and we love her.
The Sisters are always wanting to leave behind the drudgery of our day jobs, and our search for something else to do with ourselves never ends. It’s constant.
We considered running away and joining the circus last week. Sadly the role of Fat Lady was already taken.
Haha, we jest. Sort of. Hold on – I need another cookie.
Ava had an epiphany last week and we may have found the job we need.
Long-haul truck drivers.
That’s exactly the same expression I made when Ava suggested it.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I scoffed from across my desk. “I’d have to do all the driving.” Ava has never voluntarily driven anywhere if she can make me do it. Generally, I don’t mind. I like driving.
“True,” she agreed without the slightest bit of apology. “I’d keep you awake.”
I still wasn’t sold and my face must have been pretty clear about that.
“There’s a $4,000 signing bonus,” she told me.
I rolled my eyes.
“And–” she paused for effect “–you can bring a pet with you in the truck.”
Have you ever felt this way about someone?
How about someone you work with? I can’t even look at her.
Dear Faithful Reader,
You may recount many tales the Sisters had riding around in Dave Durango. He was an awesome vehicle and he treated us well for ten solid years. He carted us on many road trips – around our own state and all the way to San Antonio and back.
We loved Dave.
Sadly, Dave grew old and tired and a bit cantankerous and it was finally decided that Dave would be sent to a farm to live out the rest of his life, running around in the fields with other Durangos, maybe chasing VW rabbits.
He’d lived a very good life. We lamented his passing. Ava had a harder time giving him up even that I did.
“We love Dave,” she kept saying. That was beyond a doubt. We did love Dave, except that Dave kept over heating and blowing through oil and I was tired of always driving with one eye on the gauges.
Enter The Chrysler 300. A grown up car. I’ve been driving the family truckster in one form or another for the last 15 years.
Her name is Leanidas, because she’s one of the 300. Please tell me you get that reference. Sometimes people laugh when I tell them this line and I can clearly tell they don’t get the joke.
Lea, it turns out, is a bit bossy. It stormed last night and consequently this morning it was chilly. A drop in temperature can drop the air pressure in your tires. Seriously. Look it up. Lea didn’t like this, not one bit.
I received an email from her demanding “Immediate and urgent attention.” She informed me in no uncertain terms she’d like 3 more pounds of pressure in her left front tire and she’d like it now. Right now. 10 minutes ago would have been better.
Dave never yelled at me like that. His email would have been more like your stoned cousin – “Dude, you know, like, when you have a sec, float a little more air in one of my tires. No biggie. Cheers!”
Cars have definitely changed in the last 10 years!