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.

Who remembers Fred from Smokey and the Bandit?

“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.”

“SOLD”

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!

The Sister’s aren’t particularly enamored of pumpkin spice or guinea pigs for that matter, but we are in love with these talking dudes.

Because they’re hysterical.

Quentin, AKA The Velvet Menace, is nuts. My Honey prefers the term, “bat-shit crazy”. He’s very…kitten-y. A kitten who very much believes that he’s a tiny panther.

I am concerned by the fact that he doesn’t seem to sleep enough. Aren’t felines supposed to sleep like 16-20 hours a day? This one doesn’t. You’re probably saying, “I bet he sleeps all day while you’re at work.”

Not so. We have proof in the form of destroyed household items. We had a sealed bag of bedding that goes in the bottom of a hamster cage tucked away after the untimely demise of those animals. He shredded it all over the family room. All. Over.

When we went into the laundry room to fetch the broom and dust pan, we found this laundry basket.

You can’t blame in on either of the dogs. It was on top of the dryer. Also, Jojo Kitty is in the clear. I can almost hear their conversation.

Jojo – Dude, what are you doing?

VM (Velvet Menace) – Nothing. Go away.

Jojo (with an eyeroll) Why are you eating a laundry basket?

VM – I’m killing this evil holder of clothes.

Jojo – Whatever, dude. I’m off to take a nap.

VM – (gnaw, snarl, mangle)

It has come to the Sisters attention there is a new fellow out there we should be aware of.

We introduce you to Emerson Spartz. We understand that he holds the record for the longest distance ever to purchase a book. Mr. Spartz flew 3,950 miles to buy a book.

A book.

With that kind of dedication, we have to salute him, don’t you think?

The man flew from Chicago to London to purchase Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

If we had the money and the ability to do it, we’d have flown right over the Atlantic to buy that book, too. Harry Potter just happens to be a Sister favorite and J.K. Rowling one of our patron saints.

You go Emerson Spartz!