While the Pie’s away, the boy will play.

MP is in bed. The Pie is out on assignment, and I am here. Who am I? I’m “The Boy.” (AKA ”Deef.” AKA “Uhg.”)

Hi.

I’ve read the blog, and I’ve read most of the comments. Especially recently. And … since she won’t give you details, I will.

Ready?

Really ready?

Really REALLY ready?

I am the most shallow person in the world. I am a typical “guy.” I have a Seinfeld-like knack for finding everything and anything wrong with a girl. Wanna hear my most recent disasters?

SHE:

• Lived for the most recent celebrity magazines. Did Branjolina really just adopt another baby? How could I have missed that?

• Actually watched too much SportsCenter. Unbelievable, but true. A-Rod really did Madonna … AND Steroids?

• Was moley moley moley. Ahhh yuck. Need I say more?

• Liked boys who wore ties. I rarely wear socks.

• Was kind, considerate and giving. (Read as: can I please have 10 minutes alone? How about 5?)

• Blah, blah blah. (Read as blah, blah, blah.) That’s what she said.

Yup. Typical guy. That’s me. Just ask Pie.

My only problem is: I can’t find anything wrong with Pie. Believe me, I’ve tried. And now I’ve spent face time with her. And she only gets sweeter.

EAT YOUR HEARTS OUT OTHER BOYS.

Signed,

“THE” Boy

Coffee’s On

The following story comes from one of my very favorite bloggers who has asked to remain anonymous. When said blogger asked to borrow some Mommypie space, I of course said CHAH. Which means yes. Because said blogger always has the very best stories and tells them so well. Read for yourself …

* * * * *

“Just so you know, I haven’t bought coffee beans for the office in a long time because I can’t afford the gas to drive my car across town to Costco. I’d do it for you, but I won’t do it for Ted,” I said, glowering. “I get the rest of our supplies on this side of town.”

“No no, I know, and that’s fine,” answered Weaver, quickly. “I knew that was why Ted started buying the hazelnut-flavored crap.” Weaver and Ted are partners, both my bosses. Weaver and I get along great; better than great: he’s like the older brother I never had. Ted and I get along, but only because I look the other way over the appalling stunts he pulls. Going through Weaver’s desk almost daily, for instance. Charging personal stuff to the business and lying about it, for instance. Leaving every day by 3:30 to go home secretly to watch Oprah, for instance. I have come to loathe the man.

“By the way,” Weaver began slowly. He hesitated, and I looked up from the “World’s Greatest Boss” mug I was washing. He looked suddenly shy, almost sheepish. I stopped washing and turned to look at him. He chuckled self-consciously. “Have you noticed that I’ve been bringing my own coffee every morning instead of drinking Ted’s?”

“Well, yeah — the hazelnut crap, I know. I hate it, too.” Maybe I’ll suck it up and drive out to Costco for the good coffee, I thought.

“No, it’s not that — well, yeah, that too,” Weaver laughed. “It’s…oh, this is crazy,” he mumbled, looking at his feet.

“What?” I asked, my Spidey Sense tingling.

“It’s just that, I don’t…really…trust the coffee.” He let that sink in.

“Trust it?”

“Yeah. You know the nerve problems I’ve been having, right? Well, it’s been bugging me for a while. Ted gets here three hours before any of us, and…what if he…”

“Poisoned the coffee.”

“YES!” Weaver nearly knocked over the coffee pot. “I mean, I know it sounds crazy — does it sound crazy?”

I thought about it. “It sounds crazy,” I decided. Weaver winced. “But not impossible. I mean, it is Ted we’re talking about.” Weaver looked a little more confident. “But why on earth would you think he wants to kill you?” I asked.

“Because we are named as each other’s beneficiaries on our life insurance policies,” he answered. I gasped.

“Whoa. Is that how it works? Doesn’t that give you each extra incentive to…”

“Yeah, well, it hadn’t ever crossed my mind, until last year.”

“Wait — last year?”

“Yeah, that’s when I started thinking about it. That’s when I started buying a coffee on the way in to work, or bringing a cup from home — didn’t you notice?”

I didn’t answer. My mind was racing, trying to take this all in. Surely it was a big joke, right? A boss telling his employee that he thinks his partner of 20 years might be tipping arsenic into his coffee every morning — crazy. Still…”Oh, thanks a lot!” I blurted out.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have told you, I’m sorry.”

“NO! I mean, for waiting a year to tell me. I drink his shitty coffee too, you know!”

* * * * *

I have asked Mommypie to publish the following conversation anonymously. The names have been changed, but other than that, it’s a conversation I had with one of my two employers a couple of years ago. It has become an uneasy joke between us.

I don’t have a problem with people knowing who wrote this story, but I don’t want my name linked to it forever on the internet, for obvious reasons.

And just so you know, I no longer drink the coffee, and Weaver and I are not dead.

McConspiracy Theories

Tonight, I expose McMommy and the secret she’s been keeping from us all.

Here’s your first clue.

Dude looks like a lay-day.

She’s actually entrusted me with her blog tonight and tomorrow.

Sucka.

Go. Now. And learn the shocking truth. It’s a McConspiracy.

And then, I’ll be over at my co-worker Queen Bee’s place, I Thank My Mother. Go give her a visit Tuesday — she’s awesome.

Oh yeah. Mommypie’s a Guest Postin’ FIEND this week.

What to write about when you have nothing to write about.

Deb at San Diego Momma was my very first blog friend. The minute I found her blog I felt a connection with this lovely, quirky, genuine, ghost hunting momma. She’s a REAL writer, in every sense of the word. Her words mingle to paint pictures like no one else. Sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes downright hilarious, if you’re not already reading her, adding her to your blogroll is a MUST. Plus, she’s obsessed with fart humor. That, in and of itself is a MAJOR selling point.

When Mommy Pie first asked me to guest post, I jumped at the chance. After all, when we’d met at the Playboy mansion, she sent me my very first online friend e-mail back in February, we became fast virtual friends. I’d do anything for Mommy Pie, including but not limited to, shoving her enemies into a wood chipper. (Within reason of course. I mean, her enemy would have to be dead first. Or half dead. Nothing that a firm blow to the head or a few choppy minutes in a wood chipper couldn’t fix.) And so the guest post? Seemed so much easier than dismemberment. Plus, I was flattered she’d ask, and quickly set to work identifying a topic.

That was two weeks ago.

Then when Mommy Pie sent me a reminder e-mail that my guest post was due, I panicked. Why, I had nothing to write. And my PMS-addled brain locked down but good. I grew feverish. What to do? What to do? I guess I could post a recipe and be done with it. That’d be safe. Because usually when I’m at a loss, I return to my 13-year-old self and write about something gross, usually involving mucous and butts. But that wouldn’t fly here. I knew I was in real trouble when I started a post titled,”Top 10 Disgusting Crayon Names for Innocuous Colors.” As soon as I got to “Schmegma,” (white) I knew Mommy Pie would never talk to me again. “Speculum” (silver) clinched the deal. I dumped the crayon idea. (But sadly, I have more names. MAD Magazine? Call me.)

So I scanned the Internet for ideas. Most guest posts are hilarious. Hmm. I was screwed there. And the posts that weren’t hysterical were by turns, sweet, then sentimental. Safe to say I was definitely screwed in those areas. Yet, yeeetttt, I did end up finding some good ideas, and then I had it! I’d write a post about what to write about when you have nothing to write about! Yes! It was catchy. I could do it.

Here it is.

What to Write About When You Have Nothing to Write About

1. Post a recipe. Something easy and doable. And, use alliteration. That’s what the big dogs do. Something like “Couch Crumb Crunch.”

2. Do a non-gross Top 10 List. (See above for what not to do)

3. Make stuff up. “If Bloggers Were Movie Actors,” works nicely. I see Mommy Pie as Meg Ryan. Pre tire-lips, post nervous breakdown.

4. Offer Valuable Insight. i.e. “What Your Favorite Reality Show Reveals About You.” Currently, I’m into Denise Richards: It’s Complicated. It’s an oxymoron. So, I guess that means I’m an oxymoron? Or, just a moron?
Wow. It is complicated.

5. Tell a Story. Tip: Avoid all the “don’ts” done above.

6. Write a “How-To.” Maybe “Guide to Buying a Spacious Wood Chipper and How to Install It on Your Remote Piece of Property.”

7. Share a personal experience. And spice it up a bit. Something like, “My Guest Post was Abducted by Aliens. No. Sex Zombies. No. Naked Demon Barbies.”

8. Comment on the news. For instance, Did you all hear that Tom Cruise Left Katie for Zothar, Dark Lord of Hubbardia?

9. Share handy tips. Try “How to Survive in a Toys R Us Using Only GPS and a Stun Gun.”

10. Be weird. Maybe people will feel sorry for you and leave a supportive comment.

And if those don’t work, post photos of your dogs. Be sure to drape spaghetti over his or her nose. Then make it into a calendar, incorporate yourself and you’ll be set for life.

p.s. “Impetigo” would have been the pink crayon.

Go Native or Go Home

Laurie LaGrone at Foolery has graciously agreed to be my very first Guest Poster while I’m gone. Her blog is one of my absolute favorites — her sharp wit, hilarious stories and tales of her ancestors make Foolery one of the most unique and endearing blogs out there. Make sure to stop by her place when you’re done reading here, and you’ll see what I mean. Seriously. Go now.

You came here looking for Mommy Pie, didn’t you? Well, I’m sorry, but she’s on vacation. In Hawaii. She left a note speared to a tree with a machete:

What could this mean? “Gone Native?” Well, that’s where I come in. I used to live in Hawaii, so I may be able to shed some light on the situation.

Could she mean THIS?

Probably not, although I suspect she might appreciate the view.

“Could you just get us ONE MORE coconut, PLEASE?”

And speaking of coconuts, how about THIS?

I’m almost sure of it. But I think the ones in Maui are rum-infused, right from the trees. At least, that’s how I remember it.

There’s always “native” as in LOCAL FOOD, but I know how much Mommy Pie loves cheeseburgers and tacos, so I don’t think this little dish will make much culinary headway.

Okay, surely “Going Native” must reference THIS!

Probably. I’ll wait for the photos, and if there are no photos I’ll find out whom to ply with alcohol.

So Doogs, have I missed the mark? What do you think she might have meant by GONE NATIVE? Have a great time, Mommy Pie, and we’ll listen for the sirens!

Your Doog,

Foolery