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.

From one smartass to another.

Clearly, the writing itch isn’t the only thing MP inherited from me.

♫ Someone smells a book deeeeal …

The spy who loved me.

MP’s love of dress-up is well documented. Sometime in the final week of school, she decided she MUST dress as a spy.

She made a checklist and before bounding into bed, instructed me to find specific Spy Items for the outfit she had planned for the morning — emphasizing their utmost importance if she was to be believed as a true Secret Agent.

√ 1. A spy wears Dark Glasses.

√ 2. A spy carries an Umbrella.

√ 3. A spy only Wears Black.

√ 4. A spy wears a Floppy Hat.

The Secret Agent was a hit. Seems everyone wanted to play “Spies” at recess for days.

Later that week, Miss MP graduated from kindergarten. After assembling with her class at the front of the school gym, the group began singing the special song they had practiced diligently day and night.

Sung to the tune I’m a Little Teapot:

“I’m a little graduate

Aren’t you proud of me

I learned my numbers and my ABCs …”

MP, however, covered her face and all that practicing hightailed it to the nearest exit.

The child. She is an enigma.

Surely they remember my sense of humor …

I sent this card to two people this week.

I haven’t heard back from either.

Perhaps a follow-up card is needed? {This one I wrote myself.}

I think the hors d’oeuvres tray makes it all better.

I would show you an actual photo but it might gross you out.

Twenty-four hours ago I would not have foreseen a day spent between the dentist and a root canal specialist. Or copious amounts of drool.

There was this molar, see? And it hurt for awhile. Nothing huge, just a twinge here and there. Then yesterday, faster than you can say “Who put the freakin’ midgets in my mouth and why are they stabbing me?” the twinge turned into full-on, raw nerve, shooting pain.

Today, after an emergency visit to the dentist, I was told I had a “catastrophic injury” and chances were one of two things would happen.

A) Root canal

B) Tooth extraction

So, I did the normal thing. Met Bobo for a “farewell tooth” bowl of soup at a local restaurant, commiserated about the outlandish cost of dental care, and prepared myself for an unexpected hillbilly makeover. And after paying for lunch with a wad of ones that REEKED like the lining of an old lady’s purse … or maybe a stripper’s g-string … (True story. The bills had been stinking up my wallet since I received them as change for MP’s Happy Meal earlier in the week.) I headed to the root canal specialist, Deliverance banjos and all.

Hours later? A partial extraction, but no root canal. Next up? Gum surgery and a crown. But I get to keep the tooth, and I’m happier than even those aforementioned stripper bills.

In the meantime, Grammypie’s trying to get me to take the Oxy left over from one of HER dental surgeries. She thinks it’s just like really awesome Advil.

Okay, Rush.

It’s a bird! It’s a plane!

Yo.

Undiedog.

Oh, the indignity.

{Somewhere a certain six-year-old girl is thinking this is preeeetty funny.}

Escapism, my middle name.

Admittedly, I’m a complete sucker for chick flicks. Six years of film school and they never did manage to beat the romantic comedy outta me.

And back when college was still a recent memory, the question I dreaded more than anything was, “What’s your favorite movie?” I always felt like I should have been answering Citizen Kane or something pretentious and iconic. At least something a bit more lofty than, um … Valley Girl.

Which really IS my favorite.

Well, it’s probably changed since then, but you get the picture.

Considering the amount of time I spend alone lately, holed up in my PJs at night, watching Boy get Girl, Boy lose Girl, Boy get Girl back, yadda yadda, I suppose I SHOULD know what the new fave is. However, as with most things in my life, I’m very … forgiving. How do you pick just one? (You do NOT want to see me in Baskin-Robbins.) I love ’em all.

Except tonight’s rental, Leap Year. What a STINKER. Seriously. Every freakin’ character annoyed me from the start. The girl was boring and whiny. The guy was hairy and dirty. Between the two there was about as much chemistry as you’d find in the DMV line. And? They get married at the end. Wha? Bad, boring, stupid, bluch. I love mindless fluff like nobody’s business, but I gotta at least buy into the story a TINY bit.

Jump cut — tonight Poppy asked if I was okay. He thinks I need to get out more. To actually be with adults. I tend to agree. He even said they’d watch MP.

Perfect. Sex and the City 2 comes out May 27.

What?

Cheerio, pip pip, Paula Deen.

Okay, so Monday’s episode of Oprah featured Paula Deen. {Work-at-home bonus — Oprah at 2.} You know, the grandmotherly, southernly, twangity twang twang recipe-maker, cook extraordinaire? Which, considering I can count the number of times I use the oven each year on one hand, normally wouldn’t interest me in the least.

And then she started making this evil butter, sausage and egg soaked hashbrown casserole.

Forget that it’s PURE FAT and sickenly high in cholesterol. Paula, you had me at hello. {And THAT, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.}

So, I cooked it. I cooked it with gusto. I cooked it with a fierce southern accent. And by this, I DO mean I talked — narrated, in fact — as I whisked and sauteed and chopped and fried. Had anyone come in unannounced, they’d surely assume I was completely insane. The dog was thoroughly confused.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s something downright infectious about a southern drawl. Same deal with an English accent. And EVERY time I talk to someone with either accent, within 10 minutes, I become Madonna. Which totally sounds like I’m mocking and usually ends with me excusing myself for one reason or another before I humiliate myself beyond repair.

I digress.

Anyhoo, here it is — MY finished dish.

Not as PURTY, but it turned out pretty darn good if I do say so myself. I expect to wake up 2 lbs heavier.

Cheerio, pip pip, y’all.

Look who made USA TODAY.

Yep.

True story. Yesterday, Swap Mamas made USA TODAY! (Holy awkward sentence.) A day later and I’m STILL geeking out.

Yippeeee! Check it out HERE.

MPs POV

MP grabbed the camera the other day morning and while I showered … er, put on a hat … and got ready … threw on a sweatshirt … she took photos. She then asked if she could take the camera with her in the car on the way to school.

I like to call this MPs POV.

Yes, those ARE  both her feet. She has a pair of red boots. She has a pair of green boots. She likes to wear one of each. Wanna guess what her favorite holiday is?