Letters From Readers

Lacy-06Hi, it’s Lacy.

I think people should have opinions, don’t you? Well, maybe not, but that’s my opinion.

Not everyone who reads this blog comments on it. In fact, most of them don’t. But I’ll tell you what they usually do, and that’s write emails to us. So Thea forwarded some of hers to me, and combined with what I have, I thought it would be a good time to answer a few questions. Pay attention. Yours might be in here.

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Wendy O. from Las Vegas writes –

Lacy, you and Thea are just so awesome. Have you two ever been here to Vegas?

Wendy, first of all, you show excellent taste just by the fact you wrote to me instead of Thea. Well, to be honest, you’d be hard-pressed to find Thea’s email address anywhere on this blog, and I’m always pushing her to correct that. Frankly, she has more addresses than a Chinese phone book, so I asked her to get a Gmail account so she could receive some, just from here. Unfortunately, Thea’s paranoid, and when she tried to set up a Gmail account, it asked for her phone number, which she refused to give them, so she’s not getting one there.

Anyway, to answer your question, yes, we’ve been to Vegas. Wonderful town. Thea has to use her fake I.D. to get in anywhere interesting, but that’s cool. She keeps trying to play the blackjack tables, and the casinos keep trying to tell her to go play the slots. Not that I’d accuse my sister of card-counting, but even I’m suspicious of that little, hand-held electronic device she has. It displays a set of numbers on the inside of her glasses, and they change when she taps her foot. She’s been trying to miniaturize a CPU so she can fit it into her cleavage (and face it, the girl has tons of room there, what with her tiny little C-cups and all) and keeps asking me when we’re going back there. I keep telling her that’s up to the casinos.


Net-Whiz from Anywhere writes us –

hi, thea!!!!!!!!!!!11~~ its y0r old buddy,net-wh1z. LOLOL.. why R inviol\/edi n a blog?????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????????? OLOLOLOLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1~~~~~ r ypou selling out!?!?!???? olololololololololo…

Sorry, no foreign languages, please.


Julie W. from Tampa says –

I love your blog. When you have time, could you read my Twilight fanfic? I’d love your comments on it.

Let me just save you a whole lot of trouble, Julie. I’m sure you’re a talented writer. (Seriously. Some of the best writers do fanfics and some of them are awesome.) But the subject matter leaves a lot to be desired. I have nothing against Twilight. Some of my best bonfires come from burning Twilight books. (Sales of Twilight books have skyrocketed since I started doing that. Coincidence? I don’t think so!) But if you really want me to read anything with the word “twilight” in the title, you don’t want me to comment on what I read. Seriously, you just don’t.


Jeremy L. from Los Angeles says –

Hey, Lacy. I saw you and Thea in Big J the other day. I was so excited and so nervous! I think you’re both gorgeous. I just wanted to say “hello” but I couldn’t get the courage up to do it, so I snapped a few pics. I hope you don’t think I’m a wuss because of that.

Jeremy, was that you? I don’t think you’re a wuss, baby, but I do think you’re a stalker! Thanks for the email address, BTW. With Thea’s help, I managed to find your identity and you’ll be receiving a humorous letter in the mail from my lawyer, “Jolly Jack” Hirschfeld. Just have a ball reading it, and laugh your ass off at the fine print. Please note any pictures you took are now the legal property of Lacy Cornwall, LLC. and don’t forget to send them all in the envelope that “Jolly Jack” will provide. Accept no substitutes and keep no copies, please.


A Miss Miley Cyrus of Los Angeles writes –

What’s with all the stupid jokes at my expense on your so-called blog? Consider this a demand you cease and desist immediately.

Moving right along …


Ben Dover, via Thea’s email, says –

Thea, I really, really appreciate the video you sent me. Is that really Lacy dancing on that stage? Wow, she’s hot!

“Jolly Jack”, I got another one for you, baby.


Art T. from Baton Rouge says –

Lacy, I just have to say I love your blog. Do you and Thea play poker? And do you smoke cigars when you do?

Well, aren’t you a kinky little freak, Art? Love watching a girl smoke a cigar, huh? Cool.

Interesting you should ask those questions. Yeah, we get together with everyone else at Broomfield Consultancy about twice a month and play poker. We usually meet at Quentin’s house around seven P.M. on a Saturday, and sit down with some German ale and thick macanudos. We play all night, and it’s a blast.

For all of our comments about Babette’s lack of intelligence, the girl plays a mean hand of five card stud, and usually wins the most. Samantha and Babs don’t smoke cigarettes, but they both love a good cigar every so often, and the smoke gets kind of hazy in Quentin’s den.

Thea likes cigars too, and I have some cute pictures of her, cigar in her teeth as she looks over a hand of cards. If I can find ‘em, I’ll post them.

Cigars and I have a love/hate relationship. I love smoking one, but I know I’m gonna puke later. I don’t know why that is, but Quentin and Thea have both expounded on the chemical reasons for it. It’s a lot of fun to hear them rattle on about it while I leave an offering to the porcelain god in Quentin’s bathroom. Not for the squeamish!


Jason B. of Oklahoma City (OK) writes –

Lacy, I’d just love some nude photos of you. Did you ever get that photo-spread in EGL magazine sorted out?

Hi, Jason. No, that opportunity has come and gone, sad to say. I keep pestering Thea to help me set up a pay gallery website, but she just looks at me like I’m crazy and says nothing. I’m not talking porn here, I’m talking “artfully nude”, but still hot. Think Pamela Anderson without Tommy Lee and you can just visualize the classiness I’m thinking of. Now my friend Shadowcat keeps telling me to “never give away the goodies, baby”, so until I can get Miss Prude to handle the technical end of things, you can always drop by Pony Tails when you’re in the L.A. area. You’re not gonna see me nude off the stage, to be honest, but I’m still a lot of fun in a “Hey, what happened to my mailbox?” kinda way. I’ll provide the entertainment if you’ll provide the bail money.


Harry P. of London, England writes –

Blimey! You birds are crazy. Any advice to a 16 year old guy just trying to find his way in the world?

Yeah. Stop reading the blog! No offense (offence?), kid, but I’m the girl your mommy warned you about. Boo!


Well, that kinda wraps things up for now and I hope you’ll all keep reading (except you, Harry P.).

Peace Out,
Lacy

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It Beats Tupperware

Lacy-06Hi, this is Lacy.

I worry about my poor sister, sometimes. She has no concept of marketing. I keep coming up with these great ideas, and she keeps shooting them down for silly reasons.

“The city’s not going to rezone the neighborhood for a water slide park,” she says. Or “Lacy, napalm is illegal for you to own.” Or “That’s Miley Cyrus’ personal property. You’ll have to give it back.”

Her latest little nay saying attempt to shut me down was over the party I told her I was throwing.

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“A what kind of party?” she asked.

“A sex toy party,” I told her confidently. “They tell me Alice used to throw them before she got all weird, so I’ve asked her to help and invited the other dancers.”

“Well don’t expect me to stay home for that one,” Thea said, holding out her hand. “I’ll just hang on to the bail money for you so you can get out of jail faster.”

I sighed and handed her the cash. “Thanks, but what could go wrong?”

“You and those other erotic delinquents together in one place is enough to give the L.A. SWAT team nightmares, which is why Jimmy never schedules all of you at the club at the same time. Then throw in a sex-toy party? There isn’t enough time on the evening news to list the injured bystanders.”

“This will be different,” I assured her. “Li’l Bit and Frieda are on speaking terms again, and Alice hasn’t talked about the voices in her head in almost two whole days. It’ll flow smoother than an Ex-Lax commercial.”

Thea grabbed her purse. “Just give me fifteen minutes to hit the highway.”

She bolted for the door. Before I could come up with a smartass comment, she was gone. Damn, she’s getting faster these days!

Now you guys out there probably haven’t a clue what a sex-toy party is, so I’ll give you the 411: Women don’t like to talk about sex in front of men. I mean, not in front of men as a whole. Their boyfriends maybe, but not the other men. Well, most women are like that, but not me. Sometimes I’ll say some outrageous things about sex, just to see if I can get Quentin or Brett to blush. (So far, it’s Quentin 7, Brett 5.) But most women are too uptight to discuss sex toys, in particular, in front of the hairier sex. So we have little parties where we can talk about the latest innovations without some guy putting in his snide two cents about Teflon Burmese bells or solar-powered vibrators. If you really want to see some macho shithead blush, invite him and his sister to a sex-toy party and mention an orgasm. I would so do that if Brett had a sister.

Anyway, my rather stunning idea (for which I have applied for a trademark, copyright, and a patent) is this: a line of Broomfield’s Box sex toys. Is that a hot idea or what? I’m talking such beauties as a large dildo that says “I Was Serviced At broomfieldsbox.com” and neon-pink condoms with the website address on one side and (regardless of size) the words “Extra-Large” on the other. You know, classy stuff. I figured my friends would know how to interest customers at the bar in these things and get a 10% cut off of what they sell. They’re all good at selling things. Trust me, put Shadowcat, Bianca, Li’l Bit and Freaky Frieda into some Girl Scout costumes and those cookies would sell faster than, well, Girl Scout cookies.

Alice came over before the party started. I gave her some money to get snacks and booze beforehand, and she went a little overboard. I mean, the booze came out okay, although I’m not sure we needed fifteen brands of beer, and she did manage to get some chips and dips. The jars of pickled pigs’ feet were a little odd, and I had to tell her we didn’t have time to soak and cook the pinto beans in the 30 minutes we had. Also, I wasn’t so sure her haggis recipe would be the hit she insisted it always was. But we whipped it all into shape in the allotted time. Almost as soon as we finished, the ladies arrived in Bianca’s minivan.

They walked in and we greeted them all.

“Good Lord,” Shadowcat said as she sat on the couch and looked at the bottles on the coffee table. “I didn’t even know they still made Jax beer.”

“They don’t,” Alice said. “My grandfather collected them when he was in his thirties. I found them in the attic last week.” She tried to unscrew the cap, but I don’t think fifty year old beer caps did that. “You want one, S.C.?”

“I think I’ll pass,” ‘Cat said, making a face. “They say 1965 is the wrong vintage for beer, baby. Especially ones kept in a hot attic.”

“I had three last night,” Alice insisted. “Aside from a mild migraine, I feel just fine.”

“Is that haggis?” Bianca asked as she sat beside Shadowcat. “I had a friend who was Scottish. He loved it. I’ve never seen one so small, though.”

“I didn’t have a sheep handy,” Alice said, smiling. “I used another animal’s intestines.”

“I don’t want to know,” Li’l Bit said, grabbing a bowl of corn chips before someone tried to get to them first. Bit’s a girl who knows how to avoid Alice’s more interesting culinary experiments. That’s from past experiences known as ‘trial and error.’

“So let’s talk about condoms,” I said as everyone grabbed anything except beer and haggis. “You know, not every condom holds up to friction, but these –”

Frieda looked at the toys I had sitting on the table. “Hey, Gretchen. How much for the edible panties?”

“For customers or for you?” I asked.

“Me.”

“Two dollars each.”

Frieda grabbed one, opened the package, and started eating it. “Mmmm… Better than those cheap-ass fruit snacks I had from the dollar store today. Bit, you gotta try these.”

Li’l Bit grabbed one and did the same. “Wow. These are amazing. So fresh. S.C. try it.”

“I ain’t touching that shit,” Shadowcat said warily. “For all I know, they got some perv at the factory who tests those things out before they’re packaged.”

Li’l Bit made a face and spit out the one she was eating into the nearest receptacle; namely the bowl of onion dip. “Geez, thanks for the mental image, girl.”

Frieda continued to happily gobble hers down, grinning. “You guys have no sense of adventure.”

“Getting back to those condoms,” I said, “the problem with most condoms is –”

“Hey,” Li’l Bit suddenly picked up a large, black dildo on the table. “This looks just like Cincinnati.”

I looked at her, puzzled. “Cincinnati? The city of Cincinnati?”

“No, this dildo I used to have. I named it Cincinnati.”

“You name your sex toys?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“That’s weird, baby.”

“Says the woman who names her tits,” Shadowcat pointed out.

I shrugged. She had me there. “So about those condoms …”

All of the girls on the couch started giggling. I was confused until S.C. pointed behind me. I looked around to find Alice balancing the Ben Wa balls by their string on the end of her nose. I stood and watched her, hands on my hips, glaring angrily, for a full minute.

Eventually, Alice noticed me. “What?”

“Did you do this at the sex toy parties you hosted?” I asked angrily.

Alice had a confused look on her face. But then, she usually did. “What sex toy parties?”

“You told me you used to host sex toy parties.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Alice,” I said, “you not only told me you hosted them, you gave me a long list of party tips.”

“Was balancing Ben Wa balls one of them?”

“No.”

Alice shrugged. “See? Wasn’t me.” She went back to her balancing act.

“Do you have any Guinness, luv?” Bianca asked me. “This beer tastes like piss.”

Shadowcat giggled. “That ain’t beer, stupid. That’s Spanish Fly in a novelty beer can.”

Bianca turned pale and for someone with her complexion, that’s not easy. “I’m not going to start trying to bugger you guys, am I?”

“Kiss me, baby,” Frieda said, laughing.

She tried to do just that and Bianca pushed her away. “Sod off, Frieda.”

“Spanish Fly ain’t shit,” S.C. said. “You get a bigger buzz off of Hawaiian Punch.”

Bianca was looking closely at the label. “’Genuine Placebo’. How can anything be a genuine placebo?”

“What’s a placebo?” Li’l Bit asked.

“It means something that ain’t real. It works cause you think it works,” ‘Cat explained. “Kinda like the British monarchy.”

“Wait a minute,” Bianca snapped. “You don’t diss the Queen.”

“I ain’t dissin’ the Queen,” Shadowcat retorted. “I’m dissin’ that jug-eared freak kid of hers and his dumbass sons.”

“I met the Queen once,” Bianca said angrily. “You don’t talk bad about her or her family. You’re about to get your Yankee arse handed to you, S.C.”

“Like in 1776?” Shadowcat said, standing up. “The only reason you limeys didn’t get labeled the world’s greatest losers is cause the French beat your ass to it.”

I had never seen Bianca that mad before. I guess you can insult her appearance, her attitude, or her actions, but don’t mess with Britain. She grabbed Cincinnati and, using it like a bat, she whacked S.C. across her face, breaking the dildo in half.

“My tooth!” Shadowcat wailed, grabbing the side of her mouth with one hand. The other hand grabbed hold of Bianca’s hair and pulled down hard. Bianca, meanwhile, had grabbed ‘Cat’s wrist. The end result was they both crashed down on the coffee table, shattering the glass and breaking the legs. They had managed to accidentally kick Li’l Bit in the process and she dogpiled on top of them. Frieda sat back on the couch, grinning and watching them as she ate more edible undies.

I could hear the cop sirens already, so I quickly dialed Thea’s number.

“Sis,” I said, “how much bail money did I give you? Uh-huh … You got a few hundred more? We’re gonna need it. And a new coffee table.”

Peace Out,
Lacy

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Rock, Paper, Sisters

Thea CornwallHiya, Thea here.

 

 

Lacy and I share the housework around the apartment, and that’s one of the few things we never argue about, at least until last Saturday. Everyone has one chore that sticks in their craw. For me it’s laundry, for Lacy it’s dishes. As it happened, this week was my turn to do the laundry and her turn to do the dishes. Naturally, we switched, and I was pretty happy about that. So was Lacy, until she saw the big pile of laundry waiting for her.

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“What is all this shit, Thea?” she asked me, staring at a pile so big it looked like it was going to eat her if she got too close.

“Most of it’s from under your bed,” I said, shrugging. “All four of your bed’s legs are now on the floor.”

And it was from under her bed. Lacy normally keeps two piles of clothes there: clean and dirty. She has a perfectly good closet and an equally good chest of drawers, but those are stuffed to the gills with all sorts of clothes: church clothes, dress clothes, casual clothes… Of course, since they’re Lacy’s, they all look like stripper clothes to me. I’ve threatened to donate them to the Salvation Army, but I never will. Just the thought of the poor and destitute wandering the streets of L.A. in hot pants and hooker heels is enough to give me nightmares. So I let it all ride.

“When’s the last time we did laundry?” she asked, not daring to venture near the hungry pile.

“Two weeks ago.”

“From now on,” she vowed, “we’ll do it three times a week. Same for the dishes.”

From the small laundry alcove, you can see the kitchen and I was looking at the dishes with equal trepidation. We have a dishwasher, but to be honest, those things never really work as advertised. I mean, in the commercials, some hand model (you never see her face) gently loads dirty dishes into the device and before the 30 second ad is over, she’s pulling them out, spotless. If you have a dishwasher at home, you know as well as I do you have to just about clean them yourself in the sink before they’re clean enough the dishwasher can finish the job. If your car got you to work every day, but only if you started the trip by pushing it a third of the way, you’d be pretty pissed at the automobile industry. So why aren’t people all across America pissed about a kitchen product that fails to work as advertised?

“Look,” I said, “let’s do this: I’ll sort the clothes if you’ll drop the dishes into some hot water and let them soak.”

“How did I end up washing the dishes again?” Lacy asked.

“Okay, visa-versa.”

“I’m not touching that pile. There could be some of our old boyfriends lost in a pile that big.”

“So you want me to do both?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Lacy started to walk off. “I’ll be in my room, reading. Thanks, sis.”

“Back it up!” I snapped, grabbing her arm. “Pick one.”

“We can flip a coin,” she suggested.

“I already know about the two-headed quarter, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. Shit.”

“Rock-paper-scissors?” I asked.

“Okay.”

We counted off to three. I came down with paper, Lacy had a rock.

“Well, cool, that’s over.” Lacy started to walk off. “I’ll be in my room.”

I grabbed her arm again. “First of all, we weren’t debating whether or not I’d do both. For the record, I won’t. We were debating whether you’d do the laundry or the dishes. Secondly, I had paper, you had rock.”

Lacy crossed her arms. “Yeah?”

“Paper wraps rock.”

Lacy shrugged. “So what? It’s still a rock. I win.”

“Paper beats rock,” I said. “Therefore –”

“Paper beats rock?” Lacy asked in surprise. “On what parallel Earth does paper beat rock?”

“Paper always beats rock.”

“Okay. You throw a piece of paper at me and I’ll throw a rock at you. We’ll see who gives up first.”

I sighed, feeling a headache coming on. “Lacy, just pick a damned chore and do it.”

“I’ll do the mopping,” Lacy said, smiling. “Cool. I’ll do it after you do the dishes.”

She started to walk away again. I was getting tired of that. I grabbed her arm and yanked her back, almost making her fall off her five inch heels. “Lacy …”

“Well it’s not my fault you don’t know better than to bring a piece of paper to a rock fight.”

“If I had one right now,” I warned her, “you’d get such a paper-cut.”

Lacy shrugged. “Beats the hell out of a bruise from a rock.”

“Don’t threaten me, Lacy Lee Cornwall,” I said, flashing anger from my eyes. “We haven’t gotten into a knock-down-drag-out since high school and I kicked your ass so bad, you were crying for Mom.”

My sister moved in closer. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the same girl I was in high school. I get into cat fights about twice a year and I haven’t lost one yet. I fight dirty, honey, so don’t push it.”

“We’re getting off-track here,” I said, trying to reign her in. “Let’s just get this done. You take the laundry, I’ll take the dishes.”

“Okay, why didn’t you say that from the start?”

I rolled my eyes and started running hot water into the sink. I added some soap and gently slid the plates into the water. I did the same with the glasses and silverware in the adjacent sink. “I’ll let these soak a bit,” I announced. “I’ll be in my room, reading.”

“No so fast, buckaroo,” Lacy said peevishly from the front of the washer. “While those soak, you can help me sort.”

I sighed. “I hate laundry. Rock-paper-scissors again?”

“Not if you’re going to go to that parallel world that doesn’t follow the laws of physics.”

“Okay, we’ll leave out paper.”

“Rock-scissors?” Lacy asked. “How do you do that? Everyone would pick scissors.”

I looked at her oddly. “Why would everyone choose scissors? Rock crushes scissors.”

“Damn, there you go again,” Lacy insisted. “Later today, we’ll grab a rock out of the garden by the swimming pool and a pair of scissors from the dollar store. I wanna see you crush a pair of scissors with a rock.”

“Rock always beats scissors.”

“No it doesn’t.” Lacy stood and walked into the kitchen. “Scissors beat rock, rock beats paper, and paper beats scissors.”

“Okay,” I said, crossing my arms. “I want to hear this. Explain, please.”

Lacy held up three fingers and touched the first one with the finger on her other hand. “You hit me with a paper, I hit you with a rock, I win.”

“Okay.”

The second finger. “Scissors beat rock because rock can’t crush scissors no matter how hard it tries, so scissors waits until rock is exhausted and because these are titanium-steel scissors with diamond shears, they cut the rock in half.”

“Debatable,” I said, “but I’m gonna give you that one, just so I can hear the last one.”

She touched the third finger. “You try to cut my paper, but it’s too thick to cut and you have a cheap-ass pair of scissors from the dollar store. I win again.”

“What happened to the titanium-steel scissors with the diamond shears?”

“Those were mine,” she said triumphantly. “I’m not going to loan you a pair of scissors like that. Do know how much those would cost?”

I sighed. “I’ll help you sort the clothes.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay,” I said as we looked at the piles she started. “Whites, permanent press, and colors.”

What?” Lacy asked in surprise. “Where’d you get that from?”

I looked at her oddly. “What do you mean? That’s common sense.”

“Not in the non-parallel world we live in,” she insisted. “What happened to sorting them by dark, light, and sexy?”

I sighed and went back to the kitchen. “Lacy, just do the freakin’ laundry.”

So we’re not talking at the moment.

Regards,
Thea

 

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Marketing 101

Lacy-06Hi, Lacy here!

Let me start off this post with a disclaimer: I don’t begrudge anyone a living. If you can sell your toenail clippings on Ebay, more power to ya.

Honestly, there are some people’s toenail clippings that would be worth having, like say, Winston Churchill’s. An actual piece of Mr. Churchill’s body. That’s pretty cool. Of course, unless you were going to preserve them in a box with a little plaque that says “Churchill’s Toenails”, you would only want Churchill’s toenail clippings for one thing: to use his genetic code to create a Churchill clone. And the only Churchill clone anyone would want is one that could grow to 50 feet high and shoot radiation out of his eyes. Am I right?

But I digress…

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The point is everyone should be able to market themselves however they wish.

Take, for example, some yahoo called “Larry The Cable Guy”. That sucker’s everywhere! I was in the store this morning, grocery shopping, and there was, swear-to-God, a box of Larry The Cable Guy cheeseburger macaroni mix. Now when I think of Larry The Cable Guy (which is usually not at all), I don’t automatically think “Damn, I’m hungry.” Far from it. If anything can reduce your appetite, it’s good ol’ Larry looking at you from a box of cheeseburger macaroni mix saying “Ya Gotta Try It”. No, Larry, actually I don’t “gotta try it” and if your overweight (sorry, Larry, no offense, but you are) visage is on a food container, chances are I’m less inclined to try it. The whole time I was eating it, I’d be thinking “Is this the stuff that made him fat?” Only thin, beautiful people should be on food packages, so no one worries about the fact they’ll be gaining weight from the food.

But as I said, you can market yourself however you wish, and if Larry wants to sell a frozen pizza that’s less tasty than the cardboard backing, with his image on the front, that’s his business. Literally.

If you really want to market yourself, you should stick to things people think of when looking at the product.

So in the interest of building my own name recognition, and thus improve the survival chances of this blog, I’ve decided to market my own brand.

Now I know how my fans are here. You’re all thinking “Lacy, what could you market that could even come close to your own, stylish self?” I’m glad you asked.

Pet foods.

Follow me on this. Let’s say it’s cat food. You think of me and you automatically think “cute, sexy, slinky, with a button nose”. Does that sound like me or does it sound like a cat? The line gets blurred.

Or dog food. You think “Playful, friendly, obnoxious in a loving sort of way, and neurotic as hell”. That’s when you think of Thea, but you also think “she’s Lacy’s sister” and it all comes back to me again.

Fish food? Think mermaid. And who’s as pretty as a mermaid? Right, me again.

The opportunities are endless, but I draw the line at certain animals. No Lacy Cornwall’s Delicious Goat Chow is ever gonna be produced, not even with a picture of me saying “Ya gotta try it”. Trust me, you won’t.

It’s like cigarette advertising. You don’t see it much anymore, but when you did, everyone in the ad was sleek, thin, beautiful, and having a great time with a cigarette in their hand. No old, overweight people here.

Not even cable guys, whatever a “cable guy” is. Any time someone came to my door to work on the cable, he always introduced himself as an installer or a technician. No one ever said “Hi, I’m Jose the Cable Guy.” That’s why banks call themselves “First Fidelity Bank of Los Angeles”, not “Stanley Beemish’s Bank-O-Rama”.

So from pet foods, I can branch out into food mixes and knock Larry The Cable Guy right off the shelf. Which mac and cheese do you want to buy? One with the picture of a beautiful, thin blonde on it, smiling at you? Or one with the picture of some yahoo who looks like he’s clean but he got that way taking a bath in the ol’ rain barrel who insists you “Get-R-Done”? You’re gonna think “She’s so young and thin and beautiful and she eats this artery-clogging mess, so it must be alright for me.”

I rest my case.

So watch for that Lacy Cornwall’s So-Delicious-A-Human-Would-Eat-It line of pet chows, any day now. And if you own a pet food company in need of a spokes-model, call me.

Peace Out,
Lacy

 

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Dinner and a Show

Lacy-06Hi, Lacy here.

Things were going pretty well until last night. Thea and I have patched things up after that dirty trick she pulled on me with the whole nude modeling thing. She was so ashamed by her own deceitfulness she apologized, so I’ve given her back the hard drive from her laptop. (She never should have shown me how to remove one.) Now we’re cool and I can get back to concentrating on Quentin.

Quentin really is a sucker, sometimes. He got into this whole “treat your employees like people” mood after he went to a seminar about running a business. We all got a five percent raise out of that and he decided to get to know each of us better, so he took us out to dinner.

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Like Quentin doesn’t know us. I’m glamorous and amazing, Thea’s smart and resourceful, Samantha is shy and efficient, and Babs is, well, Babs. There are doorknobs out there brighter than Babs, but she’s eye-candy, which is what a receptionist should be in this case. She doesn’t have a lot to do beyond answer the phone, file her nails, and fight with Samantha. When men are waiting to see Quentin, that’s where Babs shines. Quentin has her walk around the room a lot and smile, which keeps men happy. She’s almost as hot as I am.

Quentin looks at us all like daughters sometimes, which is fine for everyone else. For me, it’s a major pain. I’m not his daughter, I’m his babe-a-licious potential girlfriend, but he keeps losing sight of that. Sometimes I have to remind him, like the night I’m talking about.

He took us all out to this seafood restaurant, which was a pretty ritzy place. After our last adventure in a restaurant, Thea and I brought along every credit card we had between us, even the ones for clothing stores. You never know.

We were seated at this large table and everyone seemed to be in a good mood, at least at that moment. Even Samantha and Babette were happy with each other and hadn’t fought all day. It promised to be a wonderful evening, until they all got snippy.

Dinner with Quentin had me pretty excited, to be honest, and I pulled out all the stops. I had a new black dress on that hugged every luscious curve of my body and white pumps with 6-inch metallic heels. I had my nails done, long and patterned, and artfully-applied makeup. Add the new necklace and bracelets I was wearing and I was a walking wetdream. I mean that in the most modest way possible, of course.

Thea even put on a dress. Actually, Thea didn’t have a dress of her own (big surprise), so she borrowed one from Samantha. It was royal blue and fit her beautifully. We had to use the padded bra again, but I was proud of the way she looked. She insisted on flats though, since she’s now a bit afraid of high heels.

Samantha was in an emerald green dress with matching heels, and Babs wore her usual work clothes: a pink knit dress with a high collar, long, sleeves and short hemline and white heels. I’ll be the first to admit Babs is a beautiful woman (okay, second. Babs is the first to admit it), so I made sure the seating arrangement put her as far away from Quentin as the table would allow.

Actually, I don’t think, looking back, I shared the seating arrangement with anyone else, so I guess I can forgive Thea when she tried to sit next to Quentin. I politely but firmly pushed her aside and grabbed the chair.

“Yours is one down,” I muttered to her.

“Bitch,” she muttered back, but she moved over.

I sat next to Quentin, making sure he got a good look down the front of my low-cut dress. His eyes bulged a little when he saw ‘the girls’ and I smiled at him. “Thank you for dinner, baby.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Samantha.

Merci, Professeur.

“Thanks, Prof.”

“My pleasure,” he said, picking up his menu.

“There is no escargot,” Babs noted, unhappy.

Escargot is made from land snails,” Thea told her, “not sea snails, so it’s not likely…”

“Stop showing off your book larnin’,” I said, kicking Thea lightly under the table. I must have hit that tender ankle because she winced. “Sorry.”

“I talked to the accountant this morning,” Samantha said to Quentin. “He said we did great this last quarter and projections –”

“Don’t you ever talk anything but business to Quentin?” I asked her, a bit peevishly. “Ask him how his day was, Sam.”

Samantha blushed. “You’re right, Lacy. Sorry. How was your day, Quentin?”

Quentin started to reply, but I knew he’d get it all wrong, so I said, “His day was pretty good. He wrapped up the Unger case and got started on a new one. He had spaghetti for lunch at that new Italian place near the office, and he talked on the phone to some woman named Maria for twenty minutes. It didn’t sound like a business conversation. You really need to do a better job of screening his calls, Babs.”

“How many times did he go to the bathroom?” Thea asked dryly.

“I can speak for myself, Lacy,” Quentin said, a bit brusquely.

I glared at that. “Oh, and switch him to decaf coffee, Babs.”

“What looks good to you, Prof?” Thea asked, pointing at the menu.

Quentin held up his own. “Well, for an appetizer, I was thinking the tortilla chips with artichoke dip looks good.”

“With your tummy?” I said helpfully. “I don’t think so.”

“Lacy, I’m 43 years old. I can order my own dinner.”

“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not coming in tomorrow if you eat that. You’re gassy enough as it is without artichokes.”

“I am not gassy,” he snapped.

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “If I could stick a balloon up your butt, you’d float away.”

“Lacy, stop being silly,” Thea said. I kicked her a little harder under the table. “Oow.”

“Sorry.”

“All right,” he said, again glaring at me, “I’ll have the tomato soup, then.”

“Gives you heartburn.”

“Fried mozzarella sticks.”

“Constipation.”

“Clams.”

“You’re mildly allergic to shellfish.”

“Fine,” he said angrily, “I’ll have the toasted ravioli.”

Thea looked at him and said “Do you want Mommy Wacy to cut it up into widdle-bitty bites for you? Owwww!”

“Sorry, my bad.”

The waitress arrived at that point, and I knew right then and there the evening was shot to hell. She was cute, to be honest. Maybe a little too cute, and Quentin and Babs both started drooling. Babs is Samantha’s problem. Quentin is mine.

We all placed our orders and you could have bottled Quentin’s voice and sold it as honey the way he talked to her. Babs was even worse. The waitress was standing right next to her and as she was taking orders, she was suddenly distracted, gawking at Babette’s lap. I couldn’t see what she was staring at, but knowing Babs, I had a pretty good idea. Samantha was on the other side of the waitress and she couldn’t see Babs’ lap either, but she stared icicles at Miss Hot-To-Trot French Woman.

Once the waitress left, I felt it was my duty to point out the woman’s flaws, just in case someone at the table had gotten any ideas. “She’s a bit trashy-looking to be working in such a nice place.”

“I thought she was cute,” Thea noted.

“I dunno.” I turned to Quentin. “Did you think she was cute, baby?”

“I hadn’t really noticed,” Quentin said, taking a sip of his tea.

“Oh, come on,” I insisted, smiling at him. “You must have an opinion. Thea thinks she’s cute. Don’t you think she’s cute, too?”

“Well, I –”

“You want to fuck her, don’t you?” I snapped.

What?” Quentin shrieked.

“Lacy.. Owwww!” Thea yelped. Her face grew dark. “One more time, Lacy, and you’ll be eating the menu instead of the calamari.”

“I’ll bet Babs could get her phone number for you,” I continued, trying to be helpful. I looked at Babette. “You’re not wearing any panties are you, dear? I’ll bet the waitress got an eyeful.”

Excusez-moi?” Babs asked in shock.

“I knew it.” Samantha jumped out of her chair. “You French tart.”

Va te faire foutre,” Babette screamed at Samantha, also standing up. She tossed her napkin to the floor and stormed out.

“Excuse me for a moment, please,” Samantha said, then started walking briskly after Babette. “Babs, wait. Please.”

“Now look what you did,” Thea said to me. “Why do you always antagonize Babs so much?”

I shrugged. “Why do you think? Because she’s Babs. Besides, I didn’t mention anything we all didn’t already know.”

“All of us except Sam,” Thea pointed out. “Or don’t you take her feelings into consideration before you start opening your big mouth?”

“The other ankle’s fine, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” I reached around with my foot and kicked that one.

“Ouch.”

“Lacy, that’s enough,” Quentin yelled. “I can see this isn’t going to work. The next time I take you ladies out for a meal, I’ll do it one at a time. And I’ll make sure we get a waiter instead of a waitress.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know you swing that way, baby.”

“I don’t.”

“Make sure he’s cute,” Thea said. “Lacy may not want him, but she’ll want him to want her. She’ll spend her time flirting with him and let you have dinner in peace. OOWWWW… That does it.”

Thea slapped me! Her own sister and she slapped me for no good reason. I’m a patient, demure woman, but even I have my limits. I grabbed her hair and pulled it hard. While I was holding on to it, Thea grabbed mine too and wouldn’t let go.

A man came to the table quickly. “I’m the manager. What seems to be the problem here?”

Quentin sighed. He stood up, put his arm around the man and started walking him toward the manager’s office. They walked right past Samantha and Babette, who were standing in the middle of the dining room, screaming at each other.

“When they’re all through, we’ll tally up the damage,” Quentin said, “and I’ll write you a check.”

Thea grabbed the stick of butter from the table with her free hand and shoved it down my dress, then slapped it as hard as she could. “Damn,” I howled. I grabbed the cream and poured it atop her head.

When dinner arrived, we threw that at each other too.

Peace Out,
Lacy

(92)

Artfully Nude

Thea CornwallHiya, Thea here!

Sometimes living with my sister is a pain. Literally. As you know, I hurt my ankle a few nights ago and I’ve been hobbling around ever since. It’s all Lacy’s fault, IMHO. Destroying my laptop is a dangerous thing and I almost shut down her bank account when she did it. And yes, I could have done it without the laptop. I’m that good.

She had to replace the laptop and while I appreciate her giving me an upgrade, she got conned by some wanna-be geek at a computer store. Lacy, they put Windows on just about every new computer. They weren’t doing you any favors by “pre-installing” it for you. It came from the factory that way.

Fortunately, yours truly knows how to remove such useless things as Windows 8 and my new laptop now has FreeBSD Unix on it. Apple’s OS X is cool too, and I have an iMac sitting at work for emergencies, but give me that old-time religion of a *nix OS. (Yeah, I know OS X is Unix-based, but I’d rather have my terminal from the get-go.)

Because of the crippling effect of a pair of 4-inch stilettos (thanks, Lacy), I’ve been relegated to sitting at home. It hurts too much at the moment to do something worthwhile, like have one of my boyfriends come over and wait on me while we play footsie with my other foot, so I’ve been surfing the web and doing little things around the apartment.

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One thing I started doing was getting the mail. Not that hard, despite the fact the mailboxes are a walk and a half from our second-floor apartment. The guy below us has a crush on both of us and he’s more than willing to bring it up to me. His name is Gil and he’s a pretty cool guy, if a bit nosy. That nosiness was apparent when he walked up yesterday afternoon with the mail.

When I opened the door, Gil smiled at me and offered me the mail. “Hi, Thea.”

“Hi, Gil,” I said, taking it.

Gil’s in his mid-twenties, with short, curly hair and a long, lanky body. He looks a little like a young Tom Hanks and that alone makes him doable. Add to the fact he’s interested in me and not just Lacy “Did I Mention I’m A Stripper?” Cornwall and you can tell once I’m walking again, I’m so gonna get me some of that.

“Hey, Lacy got something from EGL Magazine,” he said, pointing to one of the envelopes. “Does she have a subscription?”

I doubt it. Lacy refers to herself as a ‘confident heterosexual’. What she’d want with a guy’s magazine full of manly interests and nude women was beyond me. “I dunno, Gil. What did the letter say?” I asked jokingly.

“Let’s see.” He snatched it out of my hands and tore it open.

He had it out before I could protest, but let’s be honest: I was curious too, so I waited until he was actually looking at it before I objected. “Gil, that’s not our mail …”

“Wow, they want Lacy to pose in their ‘Blogger Girls Of The Internet’ pictorial.”

I almost choked. “They want what?

He held it up to my face, and sure enough, they liked the pictures “Frankie Mazzo” submitted and they were interested in meeting her to confirm her interest.

Frankie Mazzo, my swollen ankle. That’s the name of Lacy’s old high school boyfriend and she hasn’t seen him in more than three years. Besides, I knew Frankie was married and not really interested in his wife taking a meat cleaver to certain parts of his anatomy. I had no doubt Lacy sent those pictures in herself and used Frankie’s name to make it sound like her boyfriend had submitted them, raving about his “goddess girlfriend”. At least, that’s what the letter claimed he said.

“Let’s just put that back in the envelope,” I said, quickly grabbing it from Gil’s sweaty little palms and stuffing the letter back into it, “and forget we ever saw it.”

“Okay, Thea. I hear ya.”

“Thanks, Gil.”

“Hey, could –”

I kinda slammed the door in Gil’s face without really thinking about it at the time. I’ll have to apologize to him later. At that moment, I was pissed at my sister and her ‘every man wants me’ attitude. The only reason I could come up with for Lacy wanting to do this is to majorly stroke her ego. Like that needed any more stroking. She’s convinced there are tribes in New Guinea that worship her because her name was mentioned on a West Papau website. (It wasn’t her, it was someone with the same name, but try telling Lacy that.)

It was only about two P.M. and Lacy had just gone to sleep. Her schedule is weird because she works at the topless bar in the evenings and for Quentin in the mornings. She seems to do just fine with 5 hours sleep a day and crashing on her days off. Weird metabolism. Whatever the reason, I was going to have to wait until she got up at seven P.M. to discuss this with her. I decided to use the time to my advantage.

Okay, I tried to wait until seven, but I was too pissed to wait. I woke her up at five-thirty.

“Wha –” she said as I shook her.

“Lacy, wake up.”

“It’s still too light outside,” she mumbled. “Come back after the alarm clock goes off.”

“Lacy, now.” I grabbed the blanket and pulling it off of her and her teddy bear. (Yeah, she still sleeps with a teddy bear. Are you really surprised?)

“Thea,” she said groggily, “if you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to drop your new laptop too, but I’m going to make sure you’re standing under it when I do.”

“You got something in the mail from EGL Magazine.”

Lacy shot up in her bed like it was Christmas morning, grinning. “Gimme my mail,” she said excitedly, bouncing in the bed like a six year old.

I dropped the envelope and about six bills onto her bed. The bills were immediately thrown to the floor.

“Hey, this has been opened,” she bitched.

“Gil.”

“Nosy-butt strikes again.” She pulled the letter and a business card out of the envelope. Lacy held up the business card and stared at it. “Helga Borg, Chief Talent Scout. Coool.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re planning to pose for that rag.”

Lacy smiled. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“What purpose does this serve?”

“It gives my adoring fans something to drool over,” she insisted happily.

“What fans?” I asked, then dodged her pillow.

“You should learn to cultivate your own fanbase,” Lacy said haughtily. “We’re Internet superstars.”

“Posting to a blog with less than 200 daily hits does not make us superstars,” I pointed out as Lacy dove under her bed and began pulling out clothes.

“Speak for yourself. It doesn’t if we don’t market it.” She grabbed a black miniskirt and tossed it beside her on the bed.

“You keep all of your clothes under your bed,” I said. “How do you tell the clean ones from the dirty ones?”

“Clean to the top, dirty to the foot.”

“The blog is just starting,” I continued. “Give it time.”

“Time is for losers,” Lacy said. “If we can keep Lying Cross Chetwood off the blog, it has the potential to skyrocket.”

“What has Teri done to piss you off so much?” I asked her.

“Porsche.”

“Okay, you didn’t come off looking like the most stable person in the world in that story, but face it, it was the truth.”

“As you, Quentin, Babs, Sam, and TCC see it, but there’s two sides to that story: mine and everyone else’s.”

“Anyway, let’s get back to you posing. Why?”

“I told you.”

I picked up the bills from the floor. “Bullshit, this isn’t about some imaginary fans, this is about you massaging your own ego.”

“I have the topless bar and Brett to massage that, thank you very much. This is business.”

“So is starting your own porn website.”

“Hey, do you think I could –”

“Don’t even go there.”

“This will be good publicity for us,” Lacy insisted, waving the letter in front of my face. “You’ll see.”

“Be it on your own head.” I walked out of the room.

It didn’t take long for Lacy to call the number on that business card. She excitedly set up an appointment and the next day she waited nervously for the talent scout to arrive at three P.M. I was still around – after all, I was still hobbling a bit – but there was another reason too. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Lacy sat nervously the whole time while she waited. She was smoking her long, brown cigarettes, one after the other, in a short cigarette holder. She had on her thigh-high black boots, black booty shorts, and her gold lame top, open and displaying her black bra. Her hair had just been done that morning and she had artfully applied a lot of makeup. She was definitely showing off, even for her.

When three o’clock came, someone knocked on the door and Lacy ran there. “It’s for me, it’s for me!” she screamed, pushing me out of the way and almost causing me to twist my ankle again. She opened the door and grinned, extending her hand to the tall, muscular woman standing before her. She was built like a kitchen appliance and I half-expected the word ‘Frigidaire’ to be tattooed on her arms.

“Hi,” Lacy said, “I’m –”

“Lacy Cromwell?” the stern blonde woman said in a Swedish accent. “You are her, ja?”

“Um, that’s Cornwall.”

“Whatever.” The other woman thrust out a huge hand. “I am Helga Borg.”

“Resistance is futile,” I whispered as they shook hands.

She must have heard me. “And who is this person?”

“Oh, this is my co-author on the blog,” Lacy said, smiling. “My sister, Thea.”

Helga grinned. It’s a ghastly image you could take to your grave. “Now this person has possibilities.”

“What, her?” Lacy asked. “She won’t even pose nude for a boyfriend, let alone a magazine.”

Helga stepped into the apartment and it’s a good thing Lacy had the sense to get out of her way. Those orthopedic shoes of hers probably still had “blogger girls” stuck to the bottom of them. She continued looking at me. “She is fresh. Different. She could be the new face for the blogging world.” She held up her hands in the form of a rectangle and peered at me through them.

“Sorry,” I huffed. “Not interested.”

“Yeah. She’s not interested. Come on, Helga.” Lacy grabbed the huge woman by the hand and attempted to walk her toward the living room. Lacy slid back to the immovable object. “You had rocks for breakfast this morning, didn’t you?”

Helga reached into her briefcase and pulled out a form. “You will sign this,” she told me. “It is a standard release form.”

“This isn’t about her,” Lacy snapped. “This is about me.”

Helga looked at her the way you look at those little demodex bugs that live on your eyelashes. In other words, right through her. “You? You are blonde.”

No shit, I thought.

“So are you,” Lacy protested.

“I am not a model. And I am a natural blonde.”

“So am I,” Lacy insisted.

Helga laughed and it wasn’t a sound that encouraged others to join in. “You are no more blonde than her,” she said, pointing at me. “Perhaps if you had her hair color …”

“I did at one time,” Lacy said peevishly.

“Call me when it grows back,” Helga held up the form again and looked at me pleadingly. “Please. We could do so much with your image.”

Lacy looked like someone had bitch-slapped her, which in a sense, I guess someone just did.

“Listen, you Swedish meatball,” Lacy said, getting as close as she could get into Helga’s face. “My sister is not just some sexual object for men to drool over. I am. And if you can’t figure that out, you can get out of here. We’re not interested.”

“As you wish.” Helga slipped the form back into her briefcase. “We have no use for either of you.” She stormed out the door.

Lacy looked crestfallen. “I can’t believe they wanted you and not me. It’s my age, isn’t it?”

I hobbled over to her and put an arm around my sister. “Lacy, you’re twenty-one years old.”

“See?” she said dejectedly. “Once you’re out of your teens, it’s a long slide to obscurity. Miley Cyrus is right behind me.”

“Nah,” I said. “Miley has talent.”

“Yeah.”

Wow, no smartass comeback. Lacy was crushed. I guess I went too far.

I replaced the letter that came in the envelope with one I printed myself. I printed the card too. “Helga Borg” was Gil’s Aunt Sylvia, an actress who specializes in foreign character parts, usually stereotypes of what Americans think Russian woman are like. Gil was eager for a date and he just earned one, but I destroyed Lacy’s spirit. I didn’t think anything could do that. Not that I expected it to last longer than one evening.

“There’s one bright side in all of this,” I said, leading Lacy to the fridge and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. I loved saying that to her.

“What’s that?”

“I’m the fresh, new face for the blogging world.”

Lacy sighed, dejectedly. “It’s an honor to know you.”

Regards,
Thea

(89)

Rule Number Four

Lacy-06It’s Lacy again and I’m sure you were all anxiously awaiting my return. I know I was! I’ve really grown to like Quentin’s little blog here. So much so, I’ve changed the password so only Thea and I (for the time being) can post here. This should keep Quentin from putting up insipid, one-sided stories like the one about Porsche, written by that talentless hack, Lying Cross Chetwood. Not that I begrudge Quentin his own little corner of the web, but if you don’t watch out, college professors will overrun the WWW and we’ll be stuck with boring websites filled with page after page of homework, chemistry, and math.

Okay, Thea would like the math, and I’m not too bad with chemistry, but homework sucks.

Thea and I are currently in “Don’t Talk To Me” mode. We go through this about once a month. I love the girl like a sister (well, she is my sister), but it’s not my fault she’s so thin-skinned.

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Man Shopping

 

Hiya! Thea here.

Today’s topic, fellow blog enthusiasts, is grocery shopping. We all have to do it, unless you’re frightfully rich or have a sugar daddy who not only pays the bills but has a chauffeur who goes to the local Kroger with a shopping list for you. Seeing as how neither Lacy nor I are really “sugar baby” kind of girls (that gives a man WAY too much control for our taste), like every other poor shlub or even every amazing computer geekess such as yours truly, we’ve got to do that chore ourselves. Fortunately, we’re sisters in a roommate situation, so we can do it together.

We usually ride in my Honda Civic to do that. Don’t get me wrong, we ride around in Lacy’s Jaguar XJ a lot too, just not to places with huge parking lots. As my sister explains it, there are some pretty jealous people in this world who would ding her car doors in a heartbeat. She also says that no one’s really jealous of my little Honda, so we take that. Lacy doesn’t want to risk spilling something liquid in the interior of her precious baby car, Licious. My car was once owned by a little old lady who only drove it on weekends, when she would take all ten of her cats on a joyride. So if anything sprays on my interior, Lacy argues, it’s okay… It’s already been sprayed.

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We usually go to Albertson’s, not that I’m plugging them. (However, if anyone from there wants to send me a gift card for mentioning them, well, please and thank you!) We can get pretty much what we want there, and the prices are okay. I like that particular one because it has a small coffee shop inside and I take great joy in hacking their password-protected wifi with my cell phone while we shop.

Speaking of food and Lacy, I wish I had my sister’s metabolism. The girl eats like she survived the winter with the Donner Party and never gains an ounce. As for me, I should just skip eating the food and tape it directly to my hips, saving my digestive system a lot of work. I keep the weight off with a rigorous exercise plan, mostly in bed. With any luck, with a partner.

At this point, we were going down the aisles of the grocery store, and Lacy was dropping every fattening snack we passed into the cart. She’s not much of a drug user these days, but the speedy way she stuffed three packages of Mallomars into our cart, I suspect she had a joint before we got here. Maybe three.

“Oh, I love these potato chips,” she said gleefully as she dropped two large bags into the cart. “Memphis bar-b-que flavor. Mmmmm.”

“I hope you break out in hives,” I muttered as I pushed the increasingly heavy cart down the aisle. Then more loudly, “Lacy, we have over a hundred dollars worth of stuff here already and the most nutritional thing we have is a German chocolate cake from the bakery.”

“I know,” she said happily. “Isn’t it cool? And we haven’t even reached the candy aisle yet.”

“I like a good Snickers bar as much as the next girl, but if you’d eat before shopping,” I pointed out, “you wouldn’t buy as much junk.”

“I like my junk food.” She grabbed a bag of Cheetos and dropping them on the pile. “Remember Mrs. Crenshaw? The old lady who lived across the street from us in Bangor? She ate junk food every day of her life and lived to be ninety-eight.”

I grabbed the Cheetos and put them back on the shelf. “Mrs. Crenshaw had too many preservatives in her body to die. She’d still be with us today if she hadn’t over-exerted herself with that fifty year old boyfriend of hers.”

Lacy looked off dreamily. “My hero. When I die, I want to go like Mrs. Crenshaw.”

I snorted. “As healthy a lifestyle a you lead? You’ll go the exact same way. But you’ll be twenty-five.”

I probably should have watched where I was going rather than talking so much to my sister. We turned the corner and BAM! I bumped carts with Mr. Right… He was wearing a pair of tan slacks and a dark polo shirt — neither of which did anything to hide his endowments. He was tall and muscular, with beautiful black hair, a gorgeous smile and a dimple on his chin. (I love chin dimples, almost as much as butt-dimples!) Well, maybe he wasn’t Mr. Right, but he sure looked like Mr. Right Now, which more than suited my tastes at the moment.

“I beg your pardon,” he said in a British accent, smiling that dazzling smile.

“Ummm,” I said intelligently, gawking.

“Watch where you’re going, Jack,” Lacy snapped. “We drive on the left side in this country.”

“I’m so sorry.” He extended his hand. “I’m Charles Marston. And you are?”

“Busy.” Lacy ignored his hand. She grabbed the front of the cart and tried to steer it away from Charles and toward the next aisle. Fortunately, I had a tight grip on the handle and she was shopping in five-inch heels. She slid back toward me. That cart wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I.

“I’m Dorothea,” I said, giving him my sexiest grin. “Dorothea Cornwall. Call me Thea.”

Charles took my hand, shook it gently, then raised it to his lips and kissed it lightly, staring into my eyes. “My pleasure, Thea.”

“The measure is all pline,” I sighed.

“Come on, sis,” Lacy insisted, tugging on my sleeve. “The cinnamon rolls are over this way.”

I managed to tear my eyes off of our British gentleman long enough to make a quick survey of his basket: fresh veggies and fruits, all-natural baking products, extra-virgin (ha!) olive oil, and no meats. He was obviously a health food enthusiast, and judging from his (ahem) healthy frame, the granola had paid off.

Unfortunately, he was taking a similar look at our purchases and that smile slowly faded into a frown.

“Oh, this is my sister Lacy,” I said, quickly trying to salvage the situation. “I’m helping her shop. I do my own shopping at the health food store down the street.”

“Since when?” Lacy muttered.

“The one that closed last week?” he asked.

“Um, yeah. Well, I’m stocked up for another week. I didn’t know they’d closed.”

“If the men of Los Angeles all knew you shopped there,” Charles said, “they’d still be open.”

Lacy smirked. “I hear the health inspectors shut them down. Come on, Thea. I’d like to get this over with before the tobacco store closes.”

I laughed nervously. “My sister’s a smoker. Isn’t that awful?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Lacy grabbed the e-cigarette from her purse and took a drag. “That’s better.”

“So do you live around here, Thea?”

I nodded sweetly. “We live just up the road. The Vista Pines Apartments. Number 1524. 213-555-3425.”

“Don’t forget your Social Security number,” Lacy added dryly. She grabbed the cart from my grip. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you help Charlie Healthnut shop? The two of you can brag about all of the wheat germ in your diets.”

Muttering under her breath, Lacy steered both carts down the next aisle as I walked close to the scrumptious Mr. Marston. We all walked together and as Lacy grabbed some canned vegetables, Charles and I looked for the vegetarian beans, chatting the whole time.

“My mother was a flower child,” he said as we scoured the freezers for all-natural frozen dinners. “I was born in London, but we lived in a commune outside of San Francisco. I was raised on granola.”

“Oh, me too,!” I said. “My parents are very healthy.”

“Yeah, Dad’s very health-conscious,” Lacy said snidely. “He threw me out before I had a chance to kill him.”

Charles laughed. “What a delightful sense of humour your sister has.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “We laugh all the time. You never know what Lacy is going to say next.”

“Pickled pigs’ feet,” Lacy exclaimed, grabbing a jar. “You can never have too much meat and salt in your diet, I say. Speaking of which, did we pass the beef jerky yet, sis?”

“I haven’t a clue.” And I didn’t. I spent all of my time looking at Charles and didn’t know which aisles we’d gone down.

“Charles,” Lacy said, “could you do us a favor and get Thea some organic radishes from the produce section while we have a quick sister-to-sister chat about something personal? thank you.”

“Sure, be right back.”

Once he was gone, Lacy whispered, “Okay, Miss Thang. Get your head out of your rectum and really look at this guy.”

“I did as he walked away,” I sighed. “His backside looks as good as the front.”

“He’s a jackass.”

“If that’s another word for ‘charming’, I agree. What has he said or done to give you that impression?”

“Not a thing… yet. But dancers have a sixth sense about men,” she insisted. “Why do you think I tried to brush him off? I don’t care how wonderful he is at the moment, I’m telling you he’s a dickwad.”

I grabbed something random off the shelf and threw it into the cart. “You just hate the thought of me having a boyfriend, don’t you?”

“You have more boyfriends than I do,” she countered. “Thea, honey, I’m just trying to save you some heartache here.”

“No, Lacy, you’re not. Don’t you see? Remember what happened with Niles? Henry? Arthur? The only man you want me with is Donnie.”

“What’s wrong with that? Donnie’s perfect for you,” she said. “Not some slimy limy you met in a grocery store.”

“If you don’t –” I stopped. That’s when Charles came around the corner, carrying radishes.

“Thanks,” Lacy snapped. She grabbed the bag of radishes and threw them into our cart. “Thea, I’m going to check out. You two lovebirds talk… And I mean talk a lot. I’ll be in the car.” Then she stormed off.

“What’s wrong with her?” Charles asked.

“Just a little tiff. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just finish up your shopping.”

We got as far as the last aisle, talking the whole way. I learned that he was a graduate of UCLA, lived not far from us, and he had no brothers or sisters.

“Lacy and I work for Broomfield Consultancy,” I said. “It’s a detective agency. Kind of. Sorta. She also works as a topless dancer. What about you?”

“Wow, it’s really fortuitous I ran into you two.” He smiled. “I used to be a model, but now I’m a photographer.”

“Oh? What kind of photography?”

“For major magazines. I’m doing a pictorial now. It’s about sisters.”

“Sisters?”

He nodded. “Yes. A pictorial for Playboy. Sisters who sleep with the same man together. Seeing Lacy is a topless dancer, and I’ve been a model myself, I thought you two might be open-minded enough to pose with me.”

 

I opened the passenger side door of my car, where Lacy was sitting. “Get out. You’re driving.”

Lacy got out and walked to the driver’s side as I slid into the passenger’s seat, shaking my right hand. “Why am I driving?” she asked as she started the car. “And what happened to your hand?”

“I hurt my wrist decking Charles,” I said grumpily. “You were right about him.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Right now I’m freaked out, frustrated and hungry.”

“Grab something from the bags in the back seat,” she said, backing out.

“We didn’t buy anything for me,” I said testily. “I got so wrapped up in that asshole I didn’t put a thing in the cart.”

“Sure we did.” Lacy grabbed a small bag and tossed it into my lap. “Have a radish.”

I sighed, crunching into a raw radish. “Terrific.”

Regards,
Thea

 

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March 14, 2014Permalink 2 Comments

Heads Up!

Click here to check it out.

My friend, Merry Brooks, has a fun novel out I wanted to call your attention to. It’s called The Life And Times Of Belinda Nicholson, AKA Flapper Girl, and it’s a good read. Merry’s work is cheeky and fun, which really shows in this one. The conceit of a superheroine in the 1920′s, ballting evil and smoking cigarettes in a long holder is just too much for me to resist, and Merry’s humor shines here.

It involves time travel and the life of a “super” (Merry’s word for superheroes) and a lot of interesting twists and turns. At 460 Kindle pages, it’s just the right length to keep you interested and not get lost in process. Well done, Merry!

I can heartily recommend this one, if you’re like me and love a good superhero romp with liberal doses of humor!

 

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Burial At Sea

Lacy here.Lacy-06

 Thea likes to tell you people she has a life outside of me, and that’s very much true, I just don’t know what it is. I lead a pretty busy life myself, what with dancing, working for Broomfield Consultancy, keeping Quentin out of the clutches of predatory females (Shecky Hooplemeyer), keeping Brett happy (until Quentin comes to his senses about me), and keeping my girls on the straight and narrow, I don’t have much time to notice all the little intricacies of Thea’s life. Like the fact she was going on a weekend trip to hobnob with her fellow computer wizards. Oh, and she now has a goldfish. Continue reading

“How long has it been here?” I asked as I crouched by the big fishtank in the living room.

“Three weeks.” Thea stuffed her sinus med into an overnight bag and zipped it shut. “You really haven’t noticed it in all this time?”

“I’m always busy. When’s the last time you saw me do anything but sleep in this apartment?”

She slipped the bag around her neck. “Good point, but do you think you could at least watch Captain Nemo for me while I’m gone?”

“Sure. What channel does it come on?”

“Captain Nemo is my goldfish.”

I smiled as I stood back up. “Aww. That’s so cute. You named him after the Disney cartoon movie.”

Thea grabbed her car keys from the table. “No, I named her after the Jules Verne character.”

“Jules who? Hey, is that the guy in apartment 3B?”

Thea rolled her eyes. “How did you get through high school without reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?”

I shrugged as I sat on the sofa and grabbed a cigarette. “I probably did, but cut me some slack. I’ve slept since then.”

“Lace, just watch the fish. Feed it once a day, and make sure the tank doesn’t get cloudy.”

And with that, she was gone.

 

 

I tried to watch Lieutenant Bumpo. I really did, but ten minutes later, I decided this was the most boring pet in the world. You can’t play fetch, you can’t coax it with a piece of yarn (I tried), and you definitely can’t rub its belly. It just floated there, breathing. Either Thea managed to purchase the most brain-damaged goldfish in the world, or they’re all as pointless as Colonel Demo.

Right before I went to bed, I found the fish food. I had a hard time opening it enough to get a lot into the tank, but I managed to pop the top off and dump it in. I guess Thea forgot to buy more than one container of goldfish chow. I shrugged and went to bed.

 

 

The next day, Admiral Benbow was no longer in charge of the ship. In fact, it was floating upside down at the surface. I thought Thea taught it a new trick, until I realized the little sucker wasn’t moving, no matter how many times I applauded or shook the tank. I think it had, as Monty Python would put it, “rung down the curtain and joined the Choir Invisible”. I did a little online research then and discovered I wasn’t supposed to “over feed” a goldfish. Oops!

No need to panic. I decided to just buy a new fish. Now I’m no dummy, but I didn’t know one end of a goldfish from another. I didn’t want to let Thea know I over fed her stupid pet, so I went to the next best source for help, Li’l Bit.

Bit is one of my girls, and she has a pretty big fishtank in her home, filled with all sorts of beautiful little fishies, so I grabbed a new goldfish at Aqua-Rama, stopped at Bit’s place, and then we all piled into her Honda Fit for the trip back to my apartment. Her children, Bannie and Junie, are just so adorable and sweet. Bannie’s three and the oldest, while his little sister Junie, is two. They sat quietly in their child seats, in the back, as we rode.

“Thanks for coming,” I said as we made our way down the streets of L.A.

“No problemo, Gretchen. Just leave everything to me,” Bit said as she slowly and carefully took a right turn. Say what you will about Li’l Bit and her cocaine use, she’s straight as an arrow around her kids, and the most cautious driver in the world. Freaky Frieda could learn a thing or two about driving from her.

I clutched the small bag with the new goldfish in it like I was carrying nitroglycerin. “I haven’t a clue what to do here.”

“First thing is to clean the tank. How many gallons is it?”

“I dunno. It makes its way from the TV to the lamp, and from the base to about here.” I indicated a spot just above my belly button.

“That tells me nothing, but don’t worry. We’ll manage.” There was a sneeze from the back seat, and Bit glanced back in concern. “Awww, poor baby. Hey, look in the glovebox and see if there’s a box of tissues in there, Gretch. Junie still has a little baby cold.”

I put the fish bag on the back seat and opened the glovebox, then pulled out the pack of tissues. “Here they are.”

“Wipe Junie’s nose, please.”

I turned around and started to wipe Junie’s face. That’s when I noticed the bag was torn open and the water spilled onto the back seat, between the kids. “Hey, where’s the goldfish?”

“Oh, shit.” Bit carefully found a parking space and quickly spun around. “Bannie, open your mouth.”

Bannie shook his head, a defiant closed-mouth smile on his face.

“Open your mouth now,” Bit insisted, her hand out.

With a michevious twinkle in his eye, Bannie swallowed, then opened his mouth. “Ahhhhhhh.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said, aghast. “He ate the goldfish?”

Bit lowered her head in frustration. “He ate the goldfish.”

“How did you know?”

“He ate three out of my tank at home, last month. Bannie loves his seafood.”

I rubbed his belly and Bannie giggled. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, but I won’t have to feed him at McDonald’s later.”

“What were you going to get him?”

“What do you think? Filet o’ fish.”

 

 

We went back to Aqua-Rama. Bit and the kids sat in the car while I tried to hustle up another goldfish.

The guy behind the counter was friendly enough the first time. The second trip, he was a little too friendly.

“Hey, welcome back, little lady. What do you need? Fish food? Tank cleaner? My phone number?”

I ignored that. “Another goldfish.”

“What happened to the last one?”

“It looks lonely. Just give me another fish, alright?”

 

 

We got that one home. I suppose I should have read a bit more about the whole thing, but I was in a hurry. While Bit used the bathroom, I dropped the new Sergeant Harpo into the tank, then started cleaning it.

Bit came up behind me and watched for about ten seconds. “Gretchen, what the hell are you doing?

“Cleaning the tank.”

She grabbed the brush from my hand. “First of all, dumbass, you don’t clean the tank with the fish in it.”

I nodded. “Okay, check. Got it. What else?”

“You don’t use dish soap.”

I blinked at her, confused. “Laundry soap?”

“Water conditioner. Didn’t you say you went to college?”

I nodded.

“What did you study? It sure wasn’t fishes. Basket weaving?”

“Forensic pathology.”

Bit slapped the brush back into my hand. “At least you can give the current goldfish a post mortem.”

“He’s not dead.”

“He will be.”

“To Aqua-Rama?”

“To Aqua-Rama.”

 

 

“Hey, little lady. Back for more Stu?”

“Back for more goldfish.”

He watched me peer at the tanks, confused. “Why this sudden interest?”

“I have a fetish. How about this one?” I pointed at the cutest one.

Stu shrugged. “It’s your five bucks. But we could so go to Marine World tonight, if you’d like.”

“Just give me the damn guppy.”

“Goldfish.”

“Whatever.”

 

 

 

We made it back, again, which was a good thing. I removed my seatbelt, but Bit just sat there. “Gretchen, do you have to go to the bathroom?”

“How’d you know?”

“Because you’re making that noise you make when you have to go very bad.”

“What noise?”

“Mmmmmmph. Mmmmmmph.”

“I didn’t know I do that.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, so I’m home. No big deal.”

Bit sighed. “Here’s what I want you to do: Take the fish upstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Leave it on the coffee table.”

“Check.”

“Go to the bathroom.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sorry, Bannie, Junie. Cover your ears for Mommy.”

The kids must know the routine. They nodded and politely covered their ears. “Then, Gretchen, I want you to come back down here and don’t touch a fucking fish, ever again.”

“How do I get it into the tank?”

“You don’t. You come back down here, hand me your pack of cigarettes, and sit in the car and watch my kids.”

“Why my cigarettes? I thought you were trying to quit?”

“I’m stressed.”

“Over what?”

“Just go pee.”

“Okay.”

 

 

On the way up, I noticed the goldfish bag was leaking a little, so I took care of that and went to the bathroom. By the time I got back to the vehicle, Li’l Bit had pulled out the toys and was playing with the kids. I handed her the cigarettes and she marched up the stairs to the apartment.

 

 

About thirty minutes later, Bit came back down, fuming. She yanked open the driver door and plopped down in the seat.

“All set?” I asked.

Silence.

“Did you get the tank cleaned?”

Silence.

“Bit, what’s wrong?”

She twisted her hands on the steering wheel, her knuckles white. “What did the goldfish species ever do to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s dead.”

“What? How can it be dead?”

“You took it out of the bag, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it sprung a leak. I forgot to tell you. Sorry.”

“Where did you put the fish, Gretchen?”

“I didn’t want to use a glass. Someone might accidentally drink it.”

Bit gave me a sour look. “So you put it in the ashtray.”

“I cleaned it first,” I protested.

I flicked hot ashes on top of the stupid fish!

“Aqua-Rama?”

“Yes,” Bit snapped. “But the kids and I are going to stay here and clean the tank while you get the fish. That seems to be the only thing you can do right today, and that’s probably only because practice makes perfect.”

“Wow, you sound just like Thea when you say that.”

“I’m beginning to appreciate your sister’s anguish.”

“What anguish?”

“Gretch, how can you be so levelheaded at work, but a total ditz at home?”

“It’s a gift.”

Bit slapped the car keys into my hand. “Take my car.”

 

 

 

Stu smiled when I walked back into the pet store. “Hey, hey, hey. My favorite customer.”

I slapped a credit card down on the counter. “I want every goldfish you have.”

“That’s about fifteen.”

“All of them.”

“Five bucks each.”

“All of them.”

He rubbed his chin. “I dunno. That will deplete my stock.”

“Buy. More.” I rasped.

“It’s not about the money,” he insisted. “It’s about the kids.”

I blinked. “What kids?”

“All the kids who will come here, looking for goldfish. When I’m out, their little eyes are so forlorn and dejected.”

“Sell them a puppy.”

“We don’t sell puppies.”

I reached over the counter and grabbed Stu by the collar, then yanked him across until we were nose-to-nose. “What do you want?”

He smiled.

 

 

 

Okay, so I had to agree to go on a date with Stu. I brought home fifteen goldfish and told Bit to pick her favorite. She chose one and let it slide happily from the bag to the clean, fresh tank.

“What do we do with the other fishes?” Bit asked.

I shrugged as I sat down and resisted lighting a cigarette in front of the kids, but I really wanted one. “Maybe Bannie would like them?”

Bit was aghast. “I’m not feeding my child fourteen goldfish.”

“I’ll take them back to the shop,” I said. “I’m going to be seeing a lot of Stu, anyway … Now can we go back to your place and get my car?”

 

 

 

Things were quiet after that, at least at home. Li’l Bit had to tell the whole story to Shadowcat, in excruciating detail, at work that night. I don’t mind getting ragged a bit at the club sometimes, but the “Gretchen the Shark” jokes got old after the hundreth time. By three A.M., I was back home and dropped into a blissful sleep.

 

 

 

The next day was Sunday, and I was looking forward to sleeping in, but that wasn’t going to happen. Thea was back and she woke me up at eight. Terrific. Five hours sleep.

“What happened to Captain Nemo?” she demanded, shaking my foot.

“Oh lord,” I groaned, staring blearily at the alarm clock. “Is it dead again?”

“Again?”

I stretched. “Long story. But I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“How many fishes did you go through?” she asked as she slid her overnight bag onto the floor.

“I lost count. How did you know?”

“I studied marine biology in college, remember? I told you Nemo was a female. That’s a male.”

“How do you tell?”

“Male goldfish have tubercles… Little, white spots on the gill shields.”

I sat up and grabbed the cup of water I keep by the bed and took a sip. “Only you would know that.”

“Well anyone with eyes can tell the difference between a fantail and a comet.”

“Apparently not everyone,” I grumbled.

Thea grabbed an envelope sticking out of her overnight bag and tossed it at me. “By the way, I found this taped to the door when I got home.”

It was from Li’l Bit. I opened it to find a beautiful card inside that read, “Sorry for your loss.”

When I opened the card, music started playing. “Oh the shark bites, with its teeth, dear.”

I hate Bobby Darin.

 Peace Out,
Lacy

 

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February 5, 2014Permalink 1 Comment