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.