Category Archives: Party Piece

Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something poo.

I am officially the last of da Goils to remain steadfastly and blissfully single. This past weekend, the six of us reunited once again, this time for the wedding of one of the BFFs and her lovely Chilean manfriend. (You may remember the group from our 2008 Hawaii trip.)

The night before the blessed event, everyone (minus the bride) piled into what I would like to say was a private jet, but was in reality a minivan (rock on, Mamas), and headed to a condo at the ski resort where the wedding was to take place.

Hours later, after a few marginally stiff margaritas, a ton of laughs and a dip in the hot tub under a star-filled sky (giant shooting stars and all!), the five of us called it a night. I shared a room with Hamster.

A pairing best described as Kiss Any Chance of Sleep Goodbye and Let The Ridiculousness Ensue.

Back in the day, if I wasn’t sleeping at her house, she was sleeping at mine. And now, decades later, it might as well have been 1984. Or 85. Or 86. After hours of fitful laughter, some time around 4 a.m., we decided THIS was a good idea.

{Hellooo, 11-Year-Old Boy. It’s been awhile …}

Yes, despite actually being a bit hungry, it was clear the organic energy bar languishing at the bottom of my purse had a higher calling.

After carefully molding it into shape, tiptoeing downstairs, strategically placing it for maximum impact, and of course, documenting the deed with the phone camera, we returned to our room, guffawing and nearly peeing our pants at our own comedic genius. High Art, People. (San Diego Momma, aren’t you sad I’m not going to BlogHer?)

Four hours later, the house was awake. We waited for the screams. Nothing. We failed to take into consideration that the rooms downstairs had their own bathrooms, and chances were slim anyone would use the guest bathroom with offending turd.

Fast forward to after the wedding, prior to lunch. Hamster and I are upstairs, packing our bags, when the second blessed event of the day takes place. The turd. It’s been discovered. And someone is screaming MY name.

Apparently when my friends see poo on a toilet seat, the first person they think of is me. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I must say, however, both Hamster and I gave Oscar-worthy performances. We were so good at denying the deed, by the time we left for lunch, everyone was almost convinced that a T*rd Burglar had broken into the condo while we were at the wedding.

Until a photo of Yours Truly eating an energy bar with Ham’s caption “Turd Eater” was sent to everyone’s phones.

And THAT, my friends, is what we call the Piece de Resistance.

Or at least a piece of SOMETHING.

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New, improved, and now hair-free!

Forty-one.

Today I turned 41. Which I suppose means that, between the passing of another year and getting engaged for the first time EVER, my inner 11-year-old boy has probably matured to … 12? Call me a late bloomer.

I (we?) thoroughly enjoyed the night’s festivities. No drinking. No debauchery. Just one spring snowstorm, Grammy’s BBQ ribs, cake, and THIS.

smoothaway

Best. Birthday. Present. EVAH. My family, they know the way to my heart. It’s called, “As Seen On TV!” and there’s nothin’ better. (I’m totally dismissing the less attractive reasoning for the gift which leans more toward something like, “Mommy’s getting oooold and growing hair in funny places …”)

I have high hopes. This weekend, I’m fully expecting my legs to be as smooth as an Olympic swimmer’s. Or Lance Armstrong’s. Or any of those guys who regularly shave their body parts. Which I find curiously hot, in a metrosexual-type way, but I digress.

As for the absence of celebratory drink, I MAY get guilted into partaking tomorrow night — Queen Bee, she shares the day with me, and she’s tenacious. And in the interest of full disclosure, I suppose I shouldn’t tell you the hair removal device was the best birthday present EVAH, when I haven’t told you what The Boy gave me.

Which I’m not going to do.

12-Year-Old Boy yelling over my shoulder: Remember, the Boy’s a woodworker!

You’ll have to use your imagination.

12-Year-Old Boy jumping and waving behind me: A WOODWORKER! Get it?? WOOD?!?

Yeah, not gonna tell. 

♫ Happy birthday to me … ♫

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Hell, I already have the hypoallergenic dog …

Foolery did it. So I had to do it.

pieineveryoven

My slogan was “LET THEM EAT PIE,” but somehow, that didn’t sound right.

Go make your own campaign poster at obamicon.me and if you post it, include linkage in the comments. It’s fun! It’s easy! And best of all, it’s yet ANOTHER way to dick around at work!

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New Year’s Cliff Notes

Yesterday, I was gently reminded how dismally I’ve failed at basic blog duties. (How can I ever repay you, QB?) I never recapped New Year’s Eve. Criminey.

There were good friends.

And bad cell phone cameras.

nyeve09_1x

Lots to drink.

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And Mommypie texting.

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A dirty comb.

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A dirty ass comb.

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And Mommypie texting.

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More drink.

More comb.

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A car ride home.

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Zee End.

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Out with the old, in with the new.

Tonight, if we’re lucky, a few friends (Gigi’s Daddy, QB, my friend Megan) and I will have succeeded in rounding up a large, raucous group of people to ring in the new year.

bmd08

We sent out e-invitations yesterday. I’m nothing if not optimistic.

We’re hoping for a the Faberge Effect. Everyone WE know tells everyone THEY know, who tell everyone THEY know, and so on, and so on, and so on.

I’m feathering my hair just for the occasion. Maybe I’ll meet my Tommy Lee. Or Richie Sambora. Or David Spade. (Okay, yeah. This makes no sense to you right now because you DIDN’T watch the video.)

MP’s excited to spend the night with Grammy and Poppy, which is fantastic, because Mommypie’s excited to spend the night with grown-ups. Acting like children. (Are you there, Alanis? It’s me, Mommypie.)

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, have a fantastic night, ma Doogs — can’t wait to hear all about it!

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I met a politician I liked and forgot to ask about aliens.

I’ve pretty much made it a goal to get a photo with any famous/semi-famous person who’s path I cross. Which is nothin’ but stupid, because most don’t impress me. I totally blame the blog.

It started a few months ago with Ted Turner. Then, last week, just in time for the election, Senator Max Baucus was in our office. At first, I was like … “Meh. Not like he’s THE ONE or anything.”

I watched as local news stations interviewed him. Cringed is more accurate. Our state has THE cheesiest news broadcasts EVER. Good God, People, you’re interviewing a United States Senator. The CHAIRMAN OF THE SENATE FINANCE COMMITTEE. Can you at least give the guy a decent mic?!?

mbmic

Ugh.

And as I listened to him speak, I began to see why the guy is SO respected round these parts. I think he’s probably a pretty decent man. Plus, after 30 years and plenty of experience in agriculture and rural revitalization, imagine the top secret X-Filesy info floating around that noggin.

mbfiles

As the interviews continued, I walked back to my office and Googled him. Not only is he the 10th longest-serving current senator, he has a son named ZENO. Which gives him instant AWESOME points in my book.

In light of this new information, and seeing as there was a good chance this might be the only senator I ever met, I decided I probably should do my best to meet the man. I walked back down the hall and introduced myself.

Best. Handshake. EVER.

Firm, warm, dry. I didn’t even rush to wash with anti-bacterial soap, like I normally would. (Doogs, that’s BIG.) I DID rush out to the lobby to hand QB the camera.

ME: Dude. When he comes out, can you get a picture with me in the background?

QB: What? No.

ME: C’mooon. Pleeease?

QB: No! Just Photoshop yourself into one of the photos you already got.

ME: Dude …

QB: Just ASK him.

ME: I don’t wanna.

Rather than listen to me whine anymore, QB asked for me.

mbandmp

And I’m officially a Groupie.

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Best Electric Boogaloo gets my vote.

If you’re still undecided about the election, go to YouTube and search for “Barack Dancing.” Then, ask yourself the very important question: Who would you rather see dancing at the Inaugural Ball?

Michelle and Barack? Or Cindy and John?

The answer seems clear until you remember Wildcard Couple Sarah and Todd. And SP’s “Roof is on Fire” moves and Dance Face showcased on SNL last week. If the Republicans lose Nov. 4, I SO want to see her on next season’s Dancing with the Stars.

Pulling THESE dance moves:

Or maybe THESE.

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Rockin’ the Bubbe Vote

Oh, politics are FUN.

Between Tina Fey’s Sarah Palin, Letterman ripping on McCain, and Twitter adding a WHOLE new dimension to the circus — I actually couldn’t WAIT to get home tonight, fire up the laptop and turn on the debate — you guys CRACK ME UP — I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. (Have there been any good Obama parodies? They have to be out there, but nothing comes to mind. If you know of something, by all means, share it — I’m all for equal opportunity mockery, especially when it comes to politics.)

It just keeps getting better.

Check out www.thegreatschlep.com for the whole effect. And thank you my Jewish Friend TB for sending THIS gentile a little bubbe love.

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I think my redirect trumps ‘em all.

Yesterday, through the wellspring of information that is Twitter, I learned that John McCain owned the web site http://www.voteforthemilf.com. If you Twitter, you probably saw it too. Up until late yestereday afternoon, the URL DID redirect to McCain’s site. And then people were saying he DIDN’T own it. And after all the press, it mysteriously came down. If you’re interested, read this. She explains it in detail.

And then my co-worker, QB, told me that Obama owned www.votefortheblackguy.com. Go ahead. Click it. Goes right to Obama’s site.

Maybe they own the URLs, maybe they don’t. Thinking about it makes my brain swell.

Sometimes, out of sheer boredom, my college boyfriend and I would hang out late nights, drink a few beers, and make up phone sex phone numbers. I’d tell him, “dial 866-hot-dude” or “866-hor-ndog” or something stupid. (Sorry, if I tell you the really nasty ones, I’ll get all kinds of freak show traffic. I’m betting you can use your imagination.) We’d giggle like schoolkids and crack up when a woman with a sexy voice ALWAYS answered. It was a recording, of course, so we were never charged. Which meant we could keep it up FOREVER.

Good, clean fun.

Inspired, I tried http://www.votefortheoldguy.com. No luck.

I tried http://www.voteforthebrotha.com. Nada.

And I was sorely disappointed when http://www.voteformommypie.com didn’t redirect to the McCain/Palin site.

Which would be schweet.

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MP gets caught red-handed.

Saturday night MP and I went to an open house to welcome her BFF Gigi’s new baby brother. Lots of people, lots of kids, lots of food, lots of drink. MP spent the first hour, part of an crazed gang of kids, running through the house, screaming in the backyard, doing the whole boys against girls thing. By the third hour, MP, Gigi and Gigi’s friend Katie disappeared behind Gigi’s closed bedroom door.

As things began to wind down, I opened the door to give the 10 minute warning.

And saw this.

O.MA.GAH.

Holy freakin’ crime scene. No, someone did NOT go on a killing rampage. No, there were no animal sacrifices performed. The only thing murdered was the bedspread. And the wall. And the window. And the dresser.

I don’t know if it was the champagne and wine combo, but Gigi’s parents were awesome about it. They were all, “Well, what are ya gonna do? Oh well. We were going to paint anyway. La la la. Let’s take pictures!”

Okay, right there? Is why I love them. And when all the rubberneckers filed in to take photos of the bloody aftermath, the incident took on a decidedly festive tone. “Party in Gigi’s room! Woo hoo!”

I, on the other hand, am still speechless.

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