It’s Here, It’s Here, It’s Here!!!

Winter got ya down?  Gray skies giving you the blues?  Bone chilling wind making you yearn for hibernation?  Well, I’ve got the cure for that.  For tomorrow, February 22, is…

National Margarita Day

If you need a moment to compose yourselves, go ahead.  I will wait until you are ready.


Ready?  Good.

When I realized NMD is on a Friday this year, my immediate thought was, ‘Who can I ask to be my partner in crime?’  Fortunately, I didn’t have to think too long or hard about it.  My girlfriend, Michelle, is always up for a party, loves a good ‘rita and is a delight to spend a major holiday with.  So earlier this week I texted her to see if she was up for it.  Hells yeah she was!  ‘Where should we go?, I responded, “I can meet you at Whelihan’s; Do they even make a decent margarita? We must go somewhere that does.”  Because Michelle is brilliant her reply was, “Perhaps Mas Mexicali Cantina for Margaritas and dinner?”  This is why I love her.  This is why I need her in my life.

(The above paragraph just made me realize how badly I need something long and hard, but I digress.)

Anyhoo… Thanks to Michelle’s superior intelligence and knowledge of establishments that cater to Mexican fare, she and I will be celebrating limes, salt, ice and tequila tomorrow night in the bustling college town of West Chester, Pennsylvania.  Why don’t you join us?  We will be raising our glasses around 6pm.

Just think of how great a party this could become.  You know you want to…  It’ll make you feel good.

Stay tuned for NMD pictures.

Does This Tuesday Make Me Look Fat?

I can’t even pretend I have a quippy story for Mardi Gras.

Believe me, I would love to provide you with some hilarious tale about the time I went to NOLA, ate a hundred beignets, drank my face off, puked in a storm gutter and got pregnant in a jazz club.  Probably in that order.

But alas, none of it would be true.  I’m a good girl (for the most part).  So you’re gonna have to accept my boring post about something I have actually never done – partied on Mardi Gras.  I want to.  Really and truly.  I think it would be fun to serve drinks and a King cake to guests while wearing fake boobs (see my post from last year, Mardi Gras Is Tomorrow?!?!?!).  Not this year though.  Hmmmph!

So… if you are going to bars or having a party or just flashing strangers on your way to work tomorrow, have fun.  Kiss some babies and shake some hands.  Throw one back for me and enjoy the hell out of the party.  I’ll join you one of these times.

The Second Time Around

My BFF, Heather, came over for a visit the other night.  She needed to borrow some entertaining pieces (beverage dispenser, cupcake stand, cheese plates) for a wedding shower brunch she hosted this weekend.

Luckily for Heather, her BFF (i.e., me) is a sucker for all things ‘party’.

So while rummaging through my necessary and highly fabulous celebratory accoutrements, we discussed menu items, game options and the hilarity of tacky party favors.  But the topic turned a little more serious when she said to me, “I don’t even know… Is any of this is ‘appropriate’ anymore.  What’s the etiquette nowadays anyway?”.   For you see, this was a shower for a second wedding.

We kinda shrugged it off and went on our merry way pondering whether Mimosas or punch would be preferred (as if it was much of a contest – Mimosas won, hands down).  But after she left I wondered if there is a shower/wedding formula to follow for a couple lucky enough to find love after going through a divorce.  I turned to Lord Google for the answer.

Naturally, advice guru Emily Post had thoughts on the issue.  Someone posed (more like whined) the question of whether she “had to give a gift a second time because I already did at the first wedding”.  The question had an insinuating tone that the couple was simply greedy and wanted their friends to finance their lifestyle.  I immediately thought:




Emily Post replied, “No you do not” and basically chastised people for having a second wedding, particularly with a shower.  My reaction to this was:

How heartless; How sad.

Why is this topic even debated?  In the end, does “etiquette” really matter?  Are you going to lay on your death-bed thinking back to how so-and-so had a second wedding and you had to buy them a gift?  Or are you going to treasure the relationships you’ve had and be thankful that you weren’t such an asshole that people actually wanted to have you in their lives?

Sure, budgeting is a part of life and, like Donna Summer, we all work hard for our money.  But for me, I could give two shits about buying her and her fiance a gift.  And I won’t give two shits when I buy them a wedding present either.  I adore the bride and consider myself lucky that she thinks enough of me to want me to be there when she walks down the aisle.  Again.

P.S. – The shower was wonderful and I’m so proud of Heather for making it special for the bride!

The Cheese Stands Alone

(This post is intended to be read while hearing Pomp & Circumstance play softly in your head.  Or maybe the theme song from Rocky.  I’ll let you decide which one you want to hear because I’m not pushy like that.)

I’m tired of feeling sad; sick of rarely smiling or laughing; over not dancing around my living room.

So… I decided it was finally time to celebrate myself.  Not with a huge invite list or champagne or anything like that.  Rather, last night I sat down with a glass of wine, watched the first 2 seasons of Sex & The City and reflect upon my accomplishments over the last three months.  Here’s why I’m raising my glass…

Around every corner I turned, throughout every square inch of the floor plan, I saw Charlie in the house.  Saw us.  Saw the life we had built together for 19 years.  And since I couldn’t look anywhere in my house without seeing him, I decided to change the things I could in order to move forward with my life.  Even though he was still living in the house, I needed it to be different. Needed to release myself from the constant reminder that I was no longer part of a couple.  Needed a metamorphosis.

My first accomplishment – Wood.  Yeah, you read that right.  I got wood.

As the dust settled over the word ‘divorce’, I managed to split and stack 3 big trees worth of wood in my backyard.  Charlie (assisted by our dear friend, Rick) was nice enough to cut down the dead trees before he moved, but it was up to me to figure out what to do with them once they were on the ground.  I had to do it quick too because the forecast was calling for Hurricane Sandy to rip the Mid-Atlantic region of the US a new asshole.  So after I filled emergency buckets with water, struggled against the masses in the grocery store, put away anything that would fly away from the yard and gathered every candle, flashlight and match in the house, I prepared a space by lining planks of treated lumber on the ground (to prevent bugs from eating through the wood).  A friend allowed me to borrow his gas-powered 22-ton log splitter and I proceeded to spend several weekday afternoons and a couple of dreary weekends in October splitting and stacking log after log with my daughter.

During this time I also felt compelled to update the bedroom.  The color on the walls was steel-gray; the accents, black and white and chrome.  It was tasteful, but on the masculine side with the tiniest hint of girlie.  (That said, I may have gone a little overboard with the ‘girlie’ in my revamping of the space.)  Many week nights and a weekend morning in October were spent taping off the ceiling, trim and floor and then applying this warm, yellowy color called ‘Hummus’ to the walls.  It almost looks like honey butter and would probably ooze of deliciousness if it weren’t paint.  The curtains are now bright white and trimmed with ruffles and lace.  My comforter is a sumptuous white ruched duvet that makes me feel like I am sleeping on a cloud in a dream.  With angels playing harps nearby.  And Pegasus babies leaping over me.  To fill the space I found a great old dresser and mirror for $100 bucks (Score!) at a thrift store that I started to refinish.  The temps got too cold to continue with stripping the existing stain off of it, but as soon as it gets a little warmer I intend to put those chemicals back to work and distress it white.  I even took down the (ugly) ceiling mount light and replaced it with a chandelier.  That’s right, bitches.  A crystal chandelier.  In my bedroom.  It is fabulous.  And I did it by myself.  Yep, turned off the electric, unhooked and re-hooked wires, flipped all the switches back on and the shit shines like Christmas morning.  The room may not be fully redone, but I am happy to say it is now cheery, comforting and beautiful.  All of the things I would want people to say about me.  And isn’t that how your bedroom should make you feel?


If she could talk my chandelier 

would say, 

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful".

I conquered one more project during October.  My beloved grandmother, Katherine, willed her old stereo to me upon passing in February of 2000.  This piece had great sentimental value to me.  Still does.  It stands about 33 inches high and is about three-and-a-half feet long, but in my memory, it may as well be the size of mountains.  The 1965 turn-table and AM/FM dials can still be accessed just under the sliding top panels.  I can’t tell you how many times my sister and I would slide those panels to the side and listen to Alvin and The Chipmunks sing Christmas favorites from an LP on this bulky audio conductor.  I learned every word to every song on the Sound of Music soundtrack because of this stereo.  Grew to appreciate the beauty of Brahms and Beethoven from the speakers encased within the framework of this carved piece of wood. Danced my 8-year-old ass off to the beats exuded from the needle when the Saturday Night Fever record was placed beneath it.  Sadly, over the past fifteen years, I have done a severe disservice to this link to my childhood.  I let it sit quietly in my dining area hiding beneath fabric and used as a buffet.  It’s beauty lay dormant for so long under that cloth that I now feel shamed I hadn’t found another way to display it in all that time.  So, in my quest to change my environment I uncovered it, removed the speakers, sanded the shit out of it for 5 hours on a Saturday and distressed it with white paint.  I knew I would never use it again as a musical instrument, but I just couldn’t conceal it anymore either.  It is now the centerpiece of my living room.  I think I did a pretty good job with it….


VERY shabby chic, don'tcha think?

Please don’t think I was consumed with house projects during October though.  After all, it is the month in which my favorite holiday falls AND all work and no play makes Jenny a dull girl.  So on one of those wonderfully warm October Sunday afternoons, where the bees are hungry and the leaves gracefully waltz towards the earth, Emma and I carved pumpkins out back on the picnic table.   With newspaper spread across it and our carving instruments procured, we quietly sat next to each other meticulously designing and scraping the orbs until the art was satisfactory enough to display on the deck steps.  This is one of my all time favorite things to do with her.  I love how they turned out…


It's intense scary, I know.

My activity didn’t subside with the arrival of November.  One day, as my thoughts turned to pumpkin pie, apple cider and how the hell I was going to get through the day emotionally, a Ballard Designs catalog arrived in my mailbox.  I half-heartedly thumbed through it when I was stopped in my tracks upon viewing a room design so glorious I was immediately inspired had to have it in my house.  Three trips to Sherwin-Williams and six samples of paint later I landed THE color. Soooo… in mid-November I began painting the hallway light mocha.  Naturally this would spill over into the living room.  And starting around 9 AM Thanksgiving Day, aided by the in-your-face, kiss-my-ass, ear-splitting hard rock of Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters, spill it did (figuratively of course – I am too careful to actually spill paint!).  Charlie had taken Emma to his Dad’s for the 4-day weekend and I needed something to occupy my mind so I wouldn’t be a puddle on the floor that first holiday without them.  And even though I had five offers for dinner, I elected to cook a turkey and a couple of sides just for myself in between rolling that chocolate milkshake color onto the walls.  As 5 o’clock neared I cleaned up, ate my own little dinner and went to my sisters for dessert followed by my girlfriend Kristin’s house for wine.

As much as my heart yearned for my daughter to be with me that day I got through it.  Actually, I felt very accomplished and self-reliant knowing that I looked the biggest family holiday of the year in its face and said ‘Fuck You, I am capable of doing this my way’.

December approached at an alarming speed.  This was significant because the 7th was the day Charlie was to make settlement on his new house and begin moving out.  I wanted to ensure Christmas could be as “normal” as possible for Emma.  Despite this desire (because I’m impatient and an overachiever), I arranged for my very talented contractor (a.k.a. Kristin’s husband) to refinish the hardwood floors in my living room and hallway.  In order to get it ready for the process I had to remove the existing carpet, staples, carpet tacks and trim that had been in place for so long.  On the evening of Tuesday, December 4th I did just that.  I pulled up the old carpet, cutting it into three-foot lengths, rolled it up nice and neat for the trash men and put it out on the curb.  When Emma came home that night I got the affirmation I needed.  “Oh Mom”, she said, “I love it in here”.


This shit was not easy.

It only took a week for my living room to be completely transformed.  The floors are now this magnificent, shiny, dark chocolate-brown and worth every minute of the 14 hours I spent on a Saturday wiping the dust from each and every crevice of the ceilings, walls and floors.  (Again, aided by the Foo Fighters.)

Christmas was somewhat difficult and somewhat awesome at the same time.  Emma and I have started new holiday traditions and kept up some old ones.  She is an amazing young woman and I find that there are many days when I pull my strength from her.  I also got to see Charlie’s family for the first time since deciding to end my marriage.  I love them so much and was torn as to whether or not I should go to their annual family party on Christmas Eve.  The uncertainty faded the minute I walked through the door.  They were all very warm and loving and as broken-hearted over my divorce as I am.  I really felt loved back that night and am happy I decided to go.

Sure, the last three months haven’t been easy.  Some days have been downright hard.  There have been days where I have done so much I have nearly collapsed from exhaustion.  And others when I’ve wept to the point of my eyes swelling.  But then there have been days when I’ve been elated with my accomplishments, like October 24th when I decided to look for a new home owners policy and ended up saving $500 a year.  Or December 6th when I received a glowing review at work.  Or December 14th when I signed my very own mortgage – in my own name, with no co-signer.

No one would debate that divorce can be ugly.  That it can reduce a person to lows they never would have thought they could possibly stoop to.  But I believe I have conducted myself with dignity and grace (for the most part) in order to keep the ugly out of it.  Keep the ugly from Emma.  I know I have put my child’s best interests before mine.  And maybe if I wasn’t going through this I wouldn’t have realized all I am capable of.  I now know I can do anything – all by my damn self.

So bring it on, life.  I’m ready for you.

Cheers to me!

Party Pooper

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.  More than 2 weeks actually.

I can’t find the words; can’t bring myself to write about anything related to celebrating.

For I’m scared and angry and incredibly sad.

Emma’s dealing well with it.  Family has been informed.  Friends have cried with me.

I never thought it would be us.  Never thought it was possible.  But here I am.  In my 40s, getting divorced and unsure of my future.

As much as I may want to, I just can’t think creatively; can’t muster any humor; can’t cover up the emptiness.

I know I’ll be able to write again at some point.  Hopefully sooner than later.

But for now I need to mourn.  Need to go through these shitty emotions.  Need to feel them and deal with them and repair myself.  I don’t know how long that is going to be, but it is the journey I need to take.

When You’re Stomach Starts A Rollin’ And You’re Cleaning Out Your Colon

What could possibly cause a girl, who absolutely loves having a party, to cancel the morning of said party?

2 words:



TMI?  Probably.

But I needed a topic for a new post.

And why not make fun of myself in the process?  I don’t need to give details.  I’m sure you’ve all been there.

Sorry, Tony – we’ll get together again soon!

P.S. – If you knew the title of this post is a reference to the ‘Diarrhea Song’, we can be best friends.

Ummm, That Is Not What My Hairbrush Is For

(Continued from my previous post, 50 Shades Of A Party.)

So here’s how I would imagine it would go if Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele attended one of my parties…

Me:  “Ana!  I’m so happy you could make it!”

Ana:  “Jen, it’s been too long!  This is my boyfriend, Christian.”

Me:  (Smiling.  I reach out my right hand; he hesitates a second before shaking.  He looks me up and down, cocks his head to the right a degree or two and furrows his brow ever so slightly.  I watch his eyes scan my house and he slowly runs his hand through his hair.  He raises his eyebrows a smidge and acts as though he does not want to be here; like he has something better to do.  I pick up the vibe immediately.  I don’t like him.)  “Nice to meet you, Christian.”  (He gives me a slight smile in return, but says nothing back.  I think that is weird.)

Ana:  “Here, this is for you.”  (She hands me a midnight-blue colored gift bag with a very tasteful gray bow.  I open it to find a slender necked burgundy bottle of wine with a big rounded-head cork.  It is very phallic.  The name on the bottle is Stick It In Pinot Noir.)

Me:  “Ummm, thank you” (trying to be gracious and not allow the questioning tone in my voice to surface).  “You remembered I like Pinot.”

Ann:  “Actually, it was Christian who remembered it.  He saw that picture of us at Happy Hour with the bottle of wine in the background and noticed it was a Pinot Noir.  He’s brilliant like that and retains everything.  Enjoy it.  It’s a $2,000 vintage from an island in the Mediterranean that he owns.  He bought it just for the grapes.  The workers are blind, deaf monks who have adapted their sense of smell so well that they know when the time for picking them is perfect.”

Christian:  “Oh Anastasia, you make it sound like so much more than it is.”

Me:  (What a pretentious fuck.) Smiling – “Why don’t you come inside and have some appetizers.  I have a $9.62 block of Parmesan cheese from Wegmans set out along with some basil and tomatoes I grew in clay pots on my deck.”

Christian:  “Yes we should.  Anastasia needs to eat more.  What did you do with the stems?”

Me:  (Befuddled)  I, uh, put them down the disposal (like a normal person, you freak.  My skin crawls.)

An hour passes and I’ve been a delightful & charming party hostess – greeting my other guests, getting them drinks, making sure they know where to find the food, et cetera, et cetera.  Then, my BFF Heather comes up to me and pulls me aside to a semi-private corner of my living room.  She whispers, “Jen, I think you should know that really good-looking couple are behaving, uhhh, strangely out at ‘Swing Bar’.”  Me: “Oh no, really?  Strange how?”  Heather:  “You just have to go see for yourself.”

Curious, I swiftly head out back to the bar, because Heather would never say this to me if it wasn’t serious.  To my horror, all of my other guests are looking kind of stunned and some people are even shielding their children’s eyes.  For, at one swing, Anna is sitting on a swing with her legs around the outside of the ropes and Christian is standing in front of her, rapidly swinging her back and forth, simulating sex.  Anna’s eyes are closed and her head is thrown back.  Christian staring intently at her and his jaw is clenched.

What. The Fuck?

Me:  (Angrily walking up to these two ASSHOLES who are making a spectacle of themselves and corrupting the kids at MY party.)  “Ummm, that’s not really how you are supposed to sit on those.  In actuality, you are supposed to sit on them like everyone else next to you is sitting on them.  See?  Without their vaginas flapping in the wind.  Little kids are here – what the hell are you thinking?  Besides, the wood isn’t treated and I’m afraid your vaginal cream may stain it.  So if you don’t mind, can you please pull your dress back down and put your panties back in the right position?”

Christian:  “Mmmm …position.”

Me:  (Incredulous, through gritted teeth) “I think it is time for you to leave.  I don’t give a shit how much money you have or about your fucking mute monks or about your penis wine.  You are a douche lord who thinks he can do whatever he wants because you pay people to like you, because that HAS GOT to be the only way anyone would.  And Ana – are so weak for this slime ball that you cannot act like a normal human being in public?”

Ana:  “Jen, I’m so sorry!  We got caught up in the moment.  We will leave as soon as I use your restroom.”

Me:  “Fine.”

I make the rounds for about 20 minutes apologizing to my other guests and trying to make amends.  I’m so embarrassed.  Sure, I’ve humiliated myself a TON of times at a party I was hosting, but this is different.  This is blatant disregard the rest of the people in attendance.  Especially the children.  After all, as Whitney said, the children are our future.

My other BFF, Kristin hustles up to me.  “Hon, you need to get into your bathroom.  Right now!”

Me:  “Fuck my life.”

I walk into the house and nearly stomp down the hallway to the bathroom.  I am stopped in my tracks by the noises on the other side of the door – guttural groaning and moaning.  Annoyed, I knock loudly.  I shout, “You are in my goddamn house; I’m coming in!”  I throw open the door and find Anna bent over my porcelain claw-foot tub with her dress around her shoulders and Christian behind her, holding the handle of my hairbrush.  The actual ‘brush’ part of it is ‘where-the-sun-don’t-shine’.  To make matters worse, my cute shot glass (a gift from Charlie while we were on vacay in Myrtle Beach) is stuck in Ana’s poop hole.

Me:  (Blinking, mouth agape.  I don’t even know what to say.  They are obviously deranged.)  Finally I muster the first irrational words that come to mind, “I’m calling the police.”

Ana: “Oh Jen, don’t be such a prude.  What are the police going to do?  You invited us here.”

Me:  “And I un-invited you 20 minutes ago.  This has to be illegal.”

Christian: (Laughing, mockingly)  “It is definitely not illegal.”

I run to get a pair of scissors to cut his dick off, Lorena Bobbit style.  By the time I get back with scissors in hand, they have heeded my warning and the brush and glass are in the sink, as if I am supposed to wash them or something.

Me:  “If I ever see either of you again, I will punch you in the throat and gouge your eyes out.  I’m gonna say this one more time, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

They motion toward the door.  Dickhead has a smirk on his face.  Ana is seemingly clueless.  Just walks out the door past the others without a care in the world.  Maybe she’s on drugs?  Maybe he is her drug?  I really don’t care.  I just want them gone.

He summons his helicopter to my backyard.  The wind generated from the propellers blow everything over in the vicinity, including the shed.  They get in and close the doors.  As the chopper rises off the ground (further destroying the property), I fleetingly wish I knew a member of al-qaeda so I could get him to fire a RPG at the damn aircraft.  But in reality, I’m just relieved they are finally gone.  I breathe a sigh of relief and turn to my normal guests. 

Sheepishly I say, “Well, that’ll be one heck of a story for the rest of our lives!  Anyone wanna do a shot?” 


NOT a butt plug.

50 Shades Of A Party

I think I’m the only one.

The only woman on Earth who HATED 50 Shades of Grey.

I found it poorly written and unimaginative.  Found it torturous (pun intended) to sit down and plod through page after vapid page.  I only read the whole first book because I paid for it and it really chaps my ass to pay for something and never use it.  And for a book promoted as being about S & M I found it mundane, if not downright boring.    For I was expecting:



Hair pulling 

Mutual masturbation

Lap dances 

Nipple clamps 

Inverted Ys 

Rim jobs 

Bondage tape

Cat o’ nine tails 

Hog ties 



Fetish boots.

Not that I know anything about this stuff.  I’m a nice girl.  That’s why I was reading the damn book in the first place. 

Because I’m a life-long learner.

What I got instead was semi-developed characters who had a lot of missionary sex with a few errant blow jobs, some ill-described munching, a blindfold once or twice, some Ben Wa Beads and a couple of spankings thrown in for good measure.  That isn’t “spicy” – that’s marriage.  Oh and a 21-year-old wishy-washy protagonist who was somehow good-looking and a virgin who gave a perfect BJ the very first time she ever attempted it and who continually referred to her vagina as her “sex”.  Whoop-Dee-Doo.  (Feel free to join me in eye rolling and heavy sighing.)

Go fuck yourself E.L. James (that’s the author).  “Oh my.”

(For those who haven’t read it, the lead character kept saying “Oh my” throughout the book and I wanted to punch her right in the tits after about the 5 gazillionth time she said it.)

Maybe books 2 and 3 get to the “good stuff”.  I’ll never know.  Don’t tell me the series gets soooo much better.  I’ll never read them – won’t waste my time.  I’d rather condense it all into a half hour and watch Cat House on HBO.  Now that’s interesting. 

So imagine my agitation the other day while browsing the magazine racks in Barnes & Noble when I saw this:


I can’t say I fumed internally.  It was more like stunned curiousity; I was truly perplexed.  How did a woman who used to write Twilight fan fiction (my skin is crawling and I’m making a really ugly, gagging face) turn this dribble into an empire where an entire periodical is devoted to the topic?  Usually I am all for people making as much money as they can – ‘Good For Them!’ I’ve been known to proclaim.  Not this time; this shit boggles my mind. 

But this isn’t a book review.  Rather when you write a blog about parties you are always looking for content ideas.  And while on a flight recently, seated next to someone reading one of the 3 books, I got one. 

You may not have picked up on this, but I like to be sarcastic and poke fun at things.  And since I liken the 50 Shades books to a joke, I thought it might be funny to describe what one of my parties would be like if Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele were in attendance.  Hmmm….

To be continued…

Plastic Titillation

Maybe I’m weird, but I really like a nice glass.

I appreciate feeling the weight of a tall Collins glass in my hands, I enjoy hearing ice cubes clink around in a smooth water goblet, and I love running my fingers up & down the delicate stem of a red wine glass (I was going to say ‘fingering’, but thought that might be a bit much).  And even though a glass is completely utilitarian, I delight in the fact that there are so many varieties depending on what you are drinking.

With all this said, you may find it hard to believe that last summer I purchased the most perfect PLASTIC cups eevvvaa.

Sounds funny, doesn’t it?  How could a plastic cup be perfect?  What could be so great about it?  Stay with me my dears.  Allow me to explain.

June, 2011 – I was out and about doing errands on a Saturday.  On a whim, I decided to duck into the Christmas Tree Shop for a minute because they sometimes have attractive, sturdy entertaining dishes, which I am a complete sucker for.  After crossing the threshold of the automatic sliding doors, I turned to the right to browse the offerings on the seasonal shelves.  To my dismay the themes consisted of beachy scenes or flowery prints.  Neither do anything for me.

I continued around the aisles looking for nothing in particular; simply browsing, waiting for something to grab my fancy.  I meandered past the teas and the smattering of table lamps, unimpressed with the mass-produced wares.

But here’s where things get good:

I turned the corner and Jason Mraz’s I’m Yours started playing over the speaker system – I shit you not.  Among the gift wrap and greeting cards, there they were in all their green glory (*cue angels singing).  I immediately did a cartwheels on the linoleum floor (ok, so I didn’t actually physically perform the cartwheels, but I totally did them mentally).

Now, I could recount them here for you.  Precisely explain every diminutive detail.  But, even with as loquacious as I can be, words will never do them justice.  For in this case it is true – a picture speaks a thousand words.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you my greatest party find of all time…


Boobie Glasses.  That's right, bitches. 
6 purchased.  One per swing.

If you don’t get the ‘swing’ reference, go back and read my previous posts ‘Sco, Me GustaDearly Beloved, We Are Gathered Here Today…, Inspiration Point and I Love This Bar (Even More Than Toby Keith Loves His).

Party Hostess Etiquette 101

“If it’s brown flush it down; if it’s yellow let it mellow.”

~My former neighbor                             

If you live with other people there may come a time when everyone becomes comfortable enough to forgo flushing each and every time they ‘go’.  My hope for you is that this will only involve the yellow variety.  And I get it – it saves on water consumption and isn’t as tough on your pipes (particularly if you have a septic tank). 

We had a little get together with our very dear friends this past Monday to celebrate Memorial Day and the unofficial end of summer.  Like a good hostess I had almost everything prepared ahead of time: all grocery shopping was done, side dishes were made and the house was tidied up.  It was very casual so I didn’t feel the need to go too crazy with the prep. 

However, just before our friends arrived, I did perform a few last-minute checks: 

Enough propane in the grill tank? Check. 

Beer AND sodas in the cooler? Check. 

Nothing in between my teeth? Check.

I don’t know what came over me and made me think to lift the seat, but I did, and to my horror, there it was – tinted water with a wad of toilet paper floating on top!  Crisis averted – WHEW!!!

The party gods must have been smiling on me in that moment.  They must know what it means to me to be a good hostess.  They must want me to continue having great parties.  They must have known I would write about this so you know to check the toilet for debris before your guests arrive. 

And so my friends, be forewarned.  If you live with another human being, check the toilet before having a party.  If you are taken aback by any “surprises” when you raise the lid, imagine how mortified you would feel if you knew it happened to one of your guests.