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Let the joys of summer begin

First I want to start this story by telling you all that the desert is well into spring already. The high was in the 90s today – all of this while the east is digging out of a blizzard. We know; the worlds not fair.


We were sitting at a stop light today. We had a few errands to run, but really it was an excuse to get out of the house because I was slowly turning into a hermit.

Suddenly, there was shrieking from the back seat – from the boy, interestingly enough. I didn’t know what he was shrieking about but his sister quickly joined him. Neither My Honey or I could make out exactly what was going on but there was prodigious flapping of arms and screaming.

“Open the window! Open the window!” was the only intelligible thing to emerge from back there.

Here comes the best part. Prepare yourself because the following could be mistaken for a Laurel and Hardy skit.

I opened the window and expected the hysteria to immediately decrease a notch.



Yes, it’s true. All the preliminary bedlam was unfounded as the insect was on the outside of the window. Now that I’d so quickly rolled the window down, the insect was presently buzzing around on the inside with apparent bloodthirsty



Ratchet up the screeching! Recommence flapping of arms. There wasn’t much My Honey or I could do about this. First of all we were in traffic in one of the busiest intersections in town. Also,  we were all seat belted in as per the law. Besides all of that, neither of us was too excited to crawl back there and be clobbered with a shoe – which was now being waved around with maniacal precision.

WHAP! “I got it!” Sassy informed us like a big game hunter. “Biggest mosquito I’ve ever seen.”

It may or may not have been a mosquito. It was quite large. Frankly, it could have been a dragonfly. Either way, Sassy was thrilled to have “saved her brother’s life” while also being allowed to give him a fully sanctioned welt on his leg with rubber flip-flop.


Don’t mess with the civil service

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

Typical line a the DMV

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.

Guess where we’ll be

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.

Valentine’s Day is for lovers

The Quill Sisters heartily hope you find someone to snuggle with.

What kind of sorcery…

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.

And this is why I’m suing Kellogg’s

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

The fellow seems harmless enough

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.

A tale to make you drool

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.

Happy. New. Year. 2017.

The sister’s are a bit obsessed with all things French right now due to their love of the TV show “Versailles”. So, here’s a quote from none other than Napoleon Bonaparte:

“In victory, you deserve Champagne, in defeat, you need it.” — Napoleon Bonaparte

Hopefully, you will not have to worry about victory or defeat tonight but only where the hell your next glass of champagne is coming from. Happy New Year! to our family and friends – we feel certain 2017 is destined to be a tremendous year for all of us because we made it through the election of 2016.



Guess who’s gonna need a CB handle?

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?

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.”




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