Category Archives: Douchebags

Beer and Loafing in Las Vegas.

Because I was on a super secret assignment last week, I was unable to keep you guys abreast of my plans and whereabouts.  The jig is up now though so here’s the skinny.  You remember the DB’s, I’m sure.  Me, Jane, Stacy and Schell.  Lifelong friends that have been thick as thieves for almost 22 years.  You’ve read about our travels and the Red Shirt Diaries.

The Fabulous Palazzo Hotel
 (I’m told this is where we stayed)

Well, we added another chapter to the book this past weekend with a surprise visit to Las Vegas to surprise dear Stacy on her 40th (about damn time) birthday.  It was a whirlwind trip, to say the least.  I was there a little bit shy of 48 hours.  That’s a long way to go for less than two days, folks, but it was worth every hangover and dark under eye circle.

We ate at Wolfgang Puck’s fancy-ass steakhouse.  We shared a room with two of our gay BFF’s from Hollywood so you can imagine the hilarity there. GOD HELP ME.  We hit the Strip. We danced at Tao.  We gambled.  Well, I tried anyway. We, and by we I mean me, may have passed out ( I prefer to call it a “disco nap”) on Saturday afternoon and upon waking up at 8PM, thought it was 8 o’clock the next morning.  Oops.  Now I’m not going to blame this solely on the drugs and the midget we picked up, after all a 3 hour time difference is a big jump when you’re talking Vegas nightlife.  I was exhausted the entire time I was there and maybe drinking at breakfast wasn’t a good idea.  Maybe.

So, I’ve spent the last few days detoxing, catching up on sleep and “un-tagging” myself in waaaay too many Facebook photos.  Bitches.

Let’s be clear.  I am, by no stretch of the imagination, an adult.  And neither are my friends when we’re together.  Did I fail to mention that Ben and I *may* have gotten the giggles inside the Titanic exhibit?  How’s that for class?  People love it when you get hysterical in a somber watery grave, let me tell ya.  We are clearly bad people. Bad people that found the replication of the Titanic horn to be awfully close to a really loud obnoxious belch.  And this, we would know.

But now I’m back to reality and back to my diet and exercise program and although I tried to kill myself in a scant two day time frame, think I’m ready to roll forward, engorged liver and all.  Yay me!  Also, to anyone that came within a 3 ft radius of me on any of my flights or in person, I apologize.  I must have smelled like a smoky drunken Orangutan .  At least that’s how I looked.

Clearly, I need rules and constant supervision.  Happy 40th Stace!

The Red Shirt Diaries, Part V

Let’s wrap this silliness up, shall we? Well, let’s bring it current anyway.

Schell, Stacy and I told Jane that we would be unable to attend her wedding celebration. I know, pretty crappy, huh? Jane was heartbroken, but understood that our schedules were busy. She handled this with her usual amount of grace and just left us copious drunken guilt-laden voicemails.

We hired a bag lady. That’s right, we went online and found a lady willing to pose as a bag lady and crash Jane’s wedding reception. She usually performs as a clown but she was willing to take on the role, and I’m here to tell ya, she looked GOOD. She looked crazy. Crazy and dirty. She was perfect. We secretly flew into Denver the day before Jane’s reception and stayed in a hotel without her knowledge. I was so cold hearted that I even called her from a local restaurant pretending to be home and told her how much I wanted to be there for her big day. She had no idea I was ten minutes from her house. Awesome.

The next day we met up with the bag lady beforehand and gave her the red shirt. She stuffed it into a dirty bag that she was dragging around with her. She wandered into Jane’s outdoor BBQ reception and almost got into a fight with Jane’s husband as he tried to usher her away from guests. He was about to call the cops when she broke into song and started pulling things out of her dirty sack.

Jane spotted the shirt immediately and began to shriek and jump up and down. At that point, the three of us emerged from hiding behind a truck and walked up behind Jane. Jane was laughing and snorting and telling the crowd the story of the red shirt.

I will never forget Jane’s face when she turned to see the three of us standing there. We screamed and hugged and jumped up and down, teary eyed and elated. We had finally “gotten” Jane with the damn shirt. Finally! I am the victor! Well, with a whole lot of help.

The next year Jane visited Stacy on the West coast. Stacy nervously shot me a few emails during her visit. She was positive that Jane was going to plant the shirt somewhere in her house. She should have known that would be entirely too pedestrian for Jane. Jane let Stacy sweat it out and Stacy tore through her home for days afterward looking for the shirt upon Jane’s departure. It was nowhere to be found.

Smartly, Jane let her sweat. Turns out Jane returned home and gave the shirt to one of her friends who was visiting California the following week. At the time Stacy owned and operated a baby store in Northern California. This minion of Jane’s simply waltzed into the store, popped the shirt on a hanger and took it up to the counter and asked Stacy if it had a price tag. Jane had gone so far as to show this woman pictures of Stacy so as not to screw up the gag. Stacy screamed.

Fast forward to a year later. Stacy never admits that she is now the owner of the shirt. We’re vacationing on Bald Head Island. At the time, I was dating Rocketman. At the end of our vacation, Stacy handed me a teeny tiny ornately wrapped package and a card. She instructed me to take it home to Rocketman. She was very mysterious and assured me that it was something special for our love life. Right, Stacy. I still can’t believe I fell for that nonsense. Rocketman and I ended up not working out and I came home one day to find the package on my front porch.

The package was ripped open just enough that I could see it was the red shirt. Stacy and Rocketman had worked on a possible plan for the future but as we had broken up, he simply returned it. Damn. I had it again. This was 2007. I had the shirt in my sole possession for three years. In those three years Stacy had a baby. In March of last year, the DB’s traveled to Cancun for a week of sun and fun and tequila. I decided to just flat out ask Jane for advice, as my intended target was Stacy since she had targeted me. Jane and I decided that we should buy a cuddly stuffed animal as a baby gift and consequently replace some of its stuffing with the red shirt. Stacy would take the gift home and we would subsequently send her an email revealing the true identity. We got a black and white little dog and did exactly that. The price tag was still dangling from its ear. The cuddly dog was like a Columbian mule. Perfect.

However, upon arriving in Cancun I started getting nervous. Stacy is freakin’ smart.

Although, I’m unsure if Stacy even knew that Rocketman had returned the shirt. It matters not because I just knew that she would immediately suspect trickery upon receiving the little dog. Schell was on the balcony looking out at the ocean and I snuck out to join her. I expressed to her my nervousness. Schell listened and simply said, “you’re right. Stacy will totally know. I’d say you tell her what’s going on and then you two stick it to Jane”. BRILLIANT.

I discreetly mentioned to Stacy that I was going to give her a fake “present” for her daughter and inside it was the shirt. From there we would figure out how to get it to Jane. She agreed immediately. When all four of us were in the room I went to my suitcase and nonchalantly grabbed the dog. I tossed it over to her and said that I had just picked this up at the airport for her new daughter. “Aww, thanks”, she said and she put it inside her suitcase. I glanced over at Jane and she was glowing with glee.


Stacy kept it for the entirety of our trip. She and I were departing for the airport before Jane and Schell. Stacy stopped by the concierge on the way out and left the shirt with the hotel in a dry cleaning box with the words “AS IF” scrawled in marker on the top of the box. She left the box with a Hispanic gentleman and gave him Jane’s room number. She instructed him to wait a few hours and then deliver it to the room. Unfortunately his English was a little spotty and as Stacy was hailing a cab, Jane was opening the box. Jane took off on foot to the front of the hotel. She jumped over lawn chairs and skidded through the pool area into the lobby. Stacy had just opened her cab door and was getting inside. Serendipity would have it that the window of the cab was open. Jane raced across the circular loop to the cab lane. As Stacy’s cab was pulling out Jane took a one in a million shot and threw the box directly in the open window.

The cab sped off and with it, the shirt and a surprised and disgruntled Stacy.

Not to be outdone, Stacy gave her cab driver an unknown amount of pesos and he dutifully returned the box and the shirt to Jane’s room hours later. Nice try, Jane.

Fast forward to our recent Napa trip. I arrived in San Francisco and spotted my driver immediately. Not because he had a sign bearing my name, but because HE WAS WEARING THE DAMN RED SHIRT. Stacy and Jane had ganged up on me and Jane had sent the shirt to Stacy prior to my arrival. The driver ran behind me all the way to baggage claim, yelling “you can’t refuse it! you can’t refuse it”! Dude, don’t I know.

Stacy screwed up though. She got the shirt to me waaaaay too early in our trip. Three days after my departure Stacy went to her early morning spin class. Imagine her surprise when her large athletic African American trainer arrived to the session wearing the shirt around his neck like a cape. When my driver heard the entire story he offered to lend a hand in returning it to Stacy. Thanks, Jeremy!

So there you have it. It took four posts and many phone calls to retrace the 20 year route of the infamous red shirt. I love hearing your comments about similar traditions! So as of this day and hour, Stacy is holding the hot potato. I can’t wait to see where it goes next. This silly shirt has traveled more than the average American, I’d bet.


Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Schell can never, ever be the recipient of the shirt but she can aid in its transference. Schell is one of my three best friends in the world and I love her completely with all my heart but sometimes she has a hard time finding her ass with both of her hands. And she knows it. We’ve all discussed and agreed that we simply can’t risk Schell leaving the shirt on a bus somewhere or perhaps accidentally baking it into a meatloaf.

The Red Shirt Diaries, Part IV

This ridiculousness remained just between Jane and myself until 2005.

We reunited in Las Vegas with our other pals, Stacy, Schell, Ben and Mike. Since we were sharing a room it was difficult to conceal the whereabouts of the shirt, so I hid it deep under the top mattress. Surprisingly, housekeeping found it and hung it up in the closet and Jane discovered it while the rest of us were at the pool. She hid it under the wet bar and I found it while she was in the shower.

This is retarded.

As we were going to dinner one night, Jane pulled me aside. I had the red shirt in my purse at this point because there was just nowhere safe to hide it. She knew damn well I had it because she’d checked the wet bar to discover it was missing. We then decided to join forces and stick it to Stacy as she delighted in our ongoing nonsense. However, we didn’t take in to account that Stacy is an anal-retentive asshat and repacks her entire suitcase from start to finish before leaving the hotel.

She quickly discovered the shirt before we headed to the airport. The shirt ended up with our pal Mike, who promised to plant it in our friend Ben’s closet back in L.A., since he’d be house sitting for Ben in the next few weeks. Ben was still asleep and quite frankly, we were running out of options. Ben found the shirt hanging in his closet and was mortified. And pissed.

Ben indeed discovered the shirt and he later told me it was quite hilarious. He had arrived home after Mike had been watching over his residence and was hanging up his shirts and jackets from his trip. He immediately spotted the intruder and quietly muttered, “oh fuck me”.

In retaliation, Ben planted the shirt in Mike’s suitcase upon his next visit in the lining so as not to be detected. This was both good and bad. Good in that Mike totally DID NOT detect it. Bad, in that after almost a year, we weren’t sure what had happened to our beloved red shirt. We all just assumed Ben still had custody. I had neglected to even ask Ben where it had gone and when he told me that he eventually hid it in Mike’s luggage, I began to panic. Where the F was Mike? None of us had heard from him in ages and he was traveling constantly. SHIT.

When I finally tracked the shirt down, it was still undiscovered in Mike’s suitcase, in Vermont. Mike took the suitcase out of his garage and under my direction, found the shirt stuffed way, way into the lining. He erupted in laughter. He had the shirt for almost a year without anyone’s knowledge. Hilarious. I had Mike send it to me immediately because you see, our friend Jane had gotten married and was planning a wedding celebration in Denver. So we (me, Stacy and Schell) hatched a plan.

Stay tuned...

The Red Shirt Diaries, Part II

Bringing sexy back, yo.

If you just tuned in, see below post to catch up on this breath-catching adventure.

This, folks is a photo of the actual red shirt. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. We hazard to guess that it was once a cover-up for a camisole set or some such. It’s see through and has shiny satin pockets and trim. It’s ridiculous.

So, I continue.

Jane took the red shirt back to Los Angeles with her inside the pant leg of her jeans. She told me later that she discovered it days later in the laundry. Again, she never told me that she’d found it, but I knew. In 1997 I flew to Los Angeles to visit my dear friends and hit the Gay Pride Festival with other pals. We ended our long weekend with a fantastic party at my friend Ben’s house and in the wee hours of the night we crashed in the guest room. I double checked my bags early that morning as I prepared for my early morning flight. Jane and Schell had already left so I was relieved to discover that I did not have the shirt afterall. Jane had failed!

I boarded the plane and we took off as scheduled. I smiled a smug smile. Success!
The pilot turned off the seat belt signs and I settled into my magazine for the long flight. Suddenly, over the loudspeaker, I heard my name being called. The voice asked me to push my call button over my head to alert them to my whereabouts. I raised my hand slowly. What the hell? My stomach lurched. The flight attendant sauntered down the aisle towards my seat. I stared in disbelief and horror as she raised her arm up above her head. She was holding the red shirt on a hanger. She loudly said “you left this in Los Angeles, honey…don’t you want it back”?!? She was laughing and tossing it around the cabin so that everyone got a very good look. I grabbed the damn thing and sunk back into my seat in humble defeat. I couldn’t believe it.

Well played, Jane. In this post 9/11 climate there is no way she could have pulled that off, but God love her, it turns out she and Schell were at the airport around 5am that morning watching me board. They rushed the desk after I boarded and convinced/bribed a flight attendant to do their evil bidding. I realized yet again that I was dealing with an Evil Master.

Again, this was not spoken of and I had the damn shirt. Again.

Years pass. Jane comes to visit me for our favorite holiday, Halloween. I had hidden the red shirt in my apartment and was going wait until her final morning and try to cleverly hide it somewhere in her suitcase. Perhaps inside of an expensive shampoo bottle I was going to give her as a “gift”. I don’t remember. Not very original, mind you, but it had been years and I was almost sure she’d forgotten about our little game.

The morning arrived and while she was in the shower, I went to get the shirt in my hiding place. It was gone. I looked in all my dressers and closets thinking I’d moved it in a paranoid chardonnay -induced haze during her visit. I couldn’t believe I’d misplaced the shirt. Crap. I looked and looked, but it was nowhere to be found. I took Jane to the airport and came home to clean up the house and get some laundry done. I went to my guest room to strip the bed and pulled back the covers. I gasped when I saw it. There was the red shirt tucked under the covers with a post-it note that read ” AS IF!”.

Folks, this was a very small apartment and I take very quick showers. Jane had to have been like a ninja jumping from room to room to discover the shirt and then hide it from me. Again. I never asked her how long it took her to find it, of course. That’s part of this sick twisted game we started. All I knew was I STILL HAD IT.

Here we go…again.

Stay tuned!

The Red Shirt Diaries, Part I

This, my friends, is the Story of the Red Shirt.

The year was 1991, I believe. I was living in Los Angeles with my best friend, Jane. We shared a two-bedroom apartment in the Valley. We were young and single and living it up in Southern California. Every night you’d find us drinking chardonnay at our dining room table and every weekend we were at our pool or the beach. Not a bad way to spend your twenties, really. Our apartment building was filled to the brim with young musicians and it was more like a Fraternity house than an apartment complex. On any given night there was a party going on and Jane and I certainly hosted our share. On this night however, we were returning from our favorite metal bar, The FM Station.

Ah yes…acid washed jeans, mid-riff baring tops and big hair, and those were the dudes.

Anyway, we were staggering down the hallway to our apartment giggling and reminiscing about the evening when we noticed something hanging from our door handle. Upon closer inspection we found it was a red see-through extra large shirt from Frederick’s of Hollywood. I think it’s the type of thing a lady (a large lady) would wear over her lingerie, perhaps? I’ll find a picture of said shirt and post it tomorrow, I promise.

We had no idea where it had come from or who had placed it there. We were just drunk enough to find it funny so we took it inside and forgot about it until the morning. Over the next few days we tried to solve the riddle of the red shirt. No one would confess to putting it on our door and everyone thought it a pretty arbitrary occurrence. Finally Jane tired of the nonsense and put the shirt in my room. I didn’t want the damn thing so I hung it in her closet. The next morning I pulled back my shower curtain and it was hanging from my shower head. Can you see a pattern developing? For the remainder of my cohabitation with Jane, the red shirt went back and forth continuously. Sometimes it would be days or weeks before one of us would discover it. The funny thing is, she and I never spoke aloud of our stealthy goings on. It just became a bit of a game, really. She once wadded it up and stuck it in our butter dish. Good grief.

And so it began. If only we knew then what we had actually started. Or what had started, despite us.

I eventually moved out and Jane moved in with her boyfriend. For two more years the damn red shirt went back and forth across the valley to our respective apartments. In 1994 I decided to move to Albuquerque, New Mexico. As a going away present, Jane and Schell did a fun video of all of my old haunts and residences in Los Angeles, and somewhere in each and every shot the red shirt was apparent. Hanging off of a balcony, in a Palm tree and even upon Joel, my favorite bartender at the still famous “Frolic Room” on Hollywood Blvd.


Upon arriving in Albuquerque I discovered the ‘effing red shirt as I unpacked. Stuffed inside a spice jar, no less. Oh, burn in Hell, Jane.

The next year Jane and Schell came to visit me in New Mexico and I keenly hid the shirt inside one of the legs in Jane’s jeans…her dirty jeans that during her travels she eventually packs separately from the rest of her clothes. She didn’t find it until almost a week later doing laundry. Take that, Evil Master.

This was just the beginning , for the year was 1995. The red shirt had traveled quite a bit in those few years but none of us, lest the shirt itself, knew what we/it were in for.

Stay tuned.

I’m not sure who I think I am

I read once that the best trips aren’t going to somewhere, they’re going to someone.

That’s always the case when I get together with my three lifelong best friends. You remember the DB’s, right? Of course you do. Here we are then.
Yep. That’s the four of us, circa 1993, I’d say. Yes, we were smoking and OMG, look at the time in the background… it’s 10:45 pm. Nowadays I’m in bed with a kleenex tucked in my sleeve lying next to a dude sporting a “Breathe Right” strip by 9:30pm. Livin’ the dream, people!
Us, this past weekend.
Winos, clearly.

That’s the DB4 at the Rubicon Winery and Vineyard in Napa, California. We jetted off to Cali for a whirlwind weekend of wine tasting, hot tubbing and fine dining. Oh, and lots and lots of laughter. We’ve been friends over 20 years now and boy, you can certainly tell if you’re ever unfortunate enough to be around us as a unit. We’ve had a good run, lately. If you’ll recall, we went to Cancun last March and then to Colorado and The Stanley Hotel in August as well. Now we can add San Francisco and Napa to our list of fantastic forays.

It was ridiculous fun, I’ll be honest. Wine and more wine. Fine cheeses. Delectable dinners and absolutely decadent desserts.

Cheeses, apple slices, candied walnuts, nutbread and marinated onions. Delightful.

Also known in Napa as your first course. These people know how to live. And drink.
Mind you, this was my individual portion. The four of us were allowed to customize our own menu for the evening and it was exquisite. They paired a glass of wine with each selection so between that and my early evening martini, I was well on my way to one of the finest evenings of my life. Now it *may* also be said that the finale of this particular night was my doing the “chicken wing” dance to the Black Eyed Peas in a million dollar resort in Calistoga, but that would lead to my flying to various states and rabbit punching a trio of women right in their throats. AM I CLEAR, LADIES?!?
*ahem* Okay, where were we?
Oh, that’s right. Here.
Huevos Rancheros done right, y’all. I don’t get this delicacy often and Schell and I both took advantage of this opportunity coupled with a bubbly mimosa at brunch. Heavenly. Now Jane will tell you that I proceeded to burp this fantastic meal for the remainder of the day. And she would not be wrong. Blowing said burps directly in her face, may have been.
Still… So. Much. Fun.
I digress.
We picked up a spare DB along the way. Stacy’s little sister, McKenzie has been an honorary douchebag for around five years now. She’s a DB in “training” one could say. She excels at her studies, I should mention. The below picture makes me so happy.
We call her “sunshine” and I don’t think there’s any doubt why. Just look at her. She’s
bubbly and beautiful and smart and funny. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d totally hate her. I think this photo was taken right after I said something inappropriate about anal sex, but I can’t be sure. I think talking at all about anal sex could be defined as inappropriate but then again, these are my best friends and sometimes I will do almost anything for a laugh.
So, yet another photo.
Girl Corrupted herself at the Golden Gate Bridge. A very atypical gorgeous clear afternoon in the Bay. And as if I couldn’t be more clear myself, I’m one very lucky gal. I’ve always said that the best things in life are the simple things and this trip specifically drove that point home. Wine. Food. Friendship. Laughter. Soul mates.
All in all, pretty simple things. But put together? Absolute magic.
The icing on the cake? The other thing I miss most about my Hollywood, California days/daze besides the cheap drugs and the carefree incredibly hot sex?
In and Out.
Holy shit, this is good food. A burger, fries and a chocolate shake. Heaven on a red plastic tray. Like I said, sometimes it’s the simple things.
So, simply put…I love you – Stacy, Jane and Schell. And Sunshine. Still and yet. Again and always.
(you douchebags)

Twenty Eleven

Wow, another year in the books, folks. How was your 2010? It was a pretty eventful year, really – we had heartache in Haiti, grime in the Gulf and cheers in Chile.

It was a pretty large year for your Girl, Corrupted. Personally I feel that any year above ground is noteworthy. There was a time in my life that I wasn’t that mindful or sensible about the choices I made and therefore, I was a bit careless. As I get older and somewhat wiser, I appreciate the simple things so much more.

Early this year Johnny’s Father beat ALL odds and recuperated almost fully from a terrible sickness and what we thought was a terminal situation. It was truly a miracle.
If I was a betting gal, I would have put my money on us buying a casket before his next birthday, but instead, we found ourselves celebrating another year. It was such a grim time, but it had us all collapsing in relief when that stubborn Marine survived.

This year we vacated the dilapidated farmhouse that I initially inhabited with Johnny and his daughters upon our marriage and my relocating here. Folks, I’ve got two words for that place and they aren’t what you think. “I tried”. I really, really did. I painted, cleaned and gardened. I decided to whole heartedly embrace windows that didn’t open and doors that didn’t shut. Mice in tubs and dead animals in cupboards. Blistering summer heat without central air. Freezing temperatures constantly combating with 4-5 space heaters during winter months. Basically it was just a house that never felt like a home, to me.

Johnny agreed it was time to move on and we were lucky enough to find our dream home in our dream neighborhood for a dream of a price. And just like that, we moved. We moved into a fun and funky house with a ton of character. Just like our little family.

Huge windows everywhere (that open!) and a fun living area. Two wood burning fireplaces and a gorgeous and private backyard. A garage! Let me be more specific…a garage that can hold both cars and even has remote openers that work! Everything we need within a stone’s throw. Grocery stores, banks, wine shoppes and more. Restaurants, pubs and bike trails and greenways. Needless to say, we’re thrilled. Our quality of life has improved tenfold.

I got to travel this year. I was privileged enough to hit Cancun with the DB’s. There’s already a post about that and our awesome trip to The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. Johnny and I visited Atlanta, Michigan, Hilton Head and Cincinnati.

But it wasn’t all blow-jobs and ball games, folks. Johnny and I experienced some health setbacks this year, as well. As you guys know, I had an awful back injury which in turn became Sciatica and I swear to God I thought I was going to die. No, that’s wrong. I wanted to die. It was a terrible time for me physically and I appreciate every single encouraging word from all of you. Johnny also suffered through some emergency surgery in his nether regions that I was not allowed to post about. I know, I know…perfect fodder for my blog, right?!? RIGHT. However, part of being married is being respectful of your partner’s boundaries and since I clearly have none, Johnny vehemently expressed to me that his hernia penis reduction surgery was NOT to be discussed.


It was a good year. Besides some minor health issues and my going to jail, I’d say it was a pretty fantastic year, really. I feel optimistic and excited about what’s to come in 2011, as well.

I’m not putting out all sorts of resolutions this year but I’m going to attempt to laugh more and judge less. I’m going to embrace love and relinquish being overly critical. I’m going to try to remind myself of what’s really important, and as I mentioned earlier, often it’s the simplest of things. I’m going to read more and discover new music. I’m going to get outside at every opportunity. I’m going to travel and meet new people. I’m looking forward to 2011 and all that it holds.

Oprah launched her network yesterday. I’d say we’re off to a good start.

Happy New Year, everyone! As always, thanks for stopping by.

A "shining" example of true friendship.

Well folks, we survived our Denver trip. Jane, Stace, Schell and I (otherwise known at the DB4) had one of our best adventures ever.

Sure, Cancun was a blast but this trip had a little more homey feel to it. We stayed our first night in Jane’s cozy little house in Golden, Colorado. She’s completely renovated it and it looked fantastic. We piled our luggage on the floor and commenced with a proper happy hour. As we caught up over cocktails and fought over total iPod domination, Cami showed up. Cami is a Henna Tattooist that Jane had asked to stop by just for fun. I had decided early on that a Henna tattoo was definitely not in my future. I have more than enough tattoos of my own that don’t disappear after ten days. Well, after a few vodka and 7’s, and a whole lot of inspiration due to our next destination, I ended up with this:
How old am I?
Well, there’s that. It was a lot of fun until I remembered I had a job interview on Monday. That’ll be fun to explain, I thought. Oh well, we were headed to The Stanley Hotel the next day, so what of it? That following morning after a delicious homemade breakfast casserole, the DB4 piled into Jane’s car and headed up into the mountains. The weather was absolutely breath taking. Stacy suggested we stop for snacks since we’re technically on a road trip. We got Starbucks, M&M’s (peanut), beef jerky sticks, white cheddar popcorn, and Haribo Gummi Bears. I know, it’s only a 2 hour trip, but there are four of us, after all. I’d forgotten how much I love Gummi Bears. Yellow ones.
It was an inspiring drive and as we arrived into Estes Park, we saw it. The Stanley.

For reasons completely unknown to us, we were mysteriously upgraded to the “Superior King” room. Maybe Superior King is a code word for “Stephen King”, but that’s the room that we got. THE ROOM. Room 217 in The Stanley Hotel. I’ll let you process that for a minute. Jane and I immediately started to squeal and jumped up and down in the lobby for around ten minutes.

We checked in and hit the bar and the gift shop. We each had a Psychic reading and they were insightful and more than a little accurate. We decided to do cocktails in Room 217 before dinner. As we were milling about and taking it all in, we heard a tour guide outside. I squinted through the peep hole and saw around 15 folks outside of our room listening intently and wide-eyed as the guide told them the story of Room 217. The gals and I decided immediately that we’d allow them access to the room. The guide politely declined but at our insistence, seemed tickled and grateful. We found out that the room itself has almost 100% occupancy , and sometimes sports a waiting list of over 2 years, so rarely is ever an actual tour allowed inside the actual room.
Suffice to say, we had a crap-ton of folks in our room that day and into the evening. Word got out fast that the crazy girls in Room 217 would not only let you into the room, they’d even offer you an adult beverage. We totally should’ve charged a dollar a head, looking back. It was a fantastic experience. Here’s our room. Of course, we’re watching The Shining. In the bookshelf under the television – every Stephen King work out there.

Note that our door is open and you can glance down the hallway. Impromptu tour, anyone? We let people in whilst in pajamas. Jane and I *may* have crawled into the tub and taken a few terrified photos as well. Why, you ask? Because we’re 11 years old. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks and our stomachs ached.
I’m leaving out one small but important detail. Our best friend Stacy has been temporarily afflicted with “Bell’s Palsy”. In case you’re not in the know, it’s a type of facial paralysis in which only one side of the face is affected. She cannot move her facial muscles one iota on the left side of her face. She cannot blink her left eye. She has to do it manually every few seconds and has to drink out of a straw. It’s really awful. This would be terribly tragic and she would have our complete and utter sympathy except for one thing…it’s HILARIOUS.
Okay, I know. We are bad people. We know. Schell and Jane bought a black eye patch in anticipation of Stace’s arrival and even bedazzled it with rhinestones! I tried to get her to moan out the words, “I am NOT an ANIMAL”, but to no avail. She tried very hard over the weekend not to laugh without covering her mouth but we caught her a few times and bless her, one side of her mouth is moving in hysterics but the other side is frozen with a wide open eyeball. I know you think us evil, but trust me if the drool was on the other chin, she’d be calling me “Eyegore” too.
As we were getting ready for bed, we were starting to get a wee bit nervous about the next few hours in the room. The tour guides told us many stories and even had documented information of the kinetic energy inside Room 217. Jane and I were flitting about and trying to stay awake as long as possible. Stacy and Schell were *trying* to turn in for the evening, and they were sharing a bed. Stacy was getting ready to put on her night mask that she has to wear in order to keep her eye shut for sleep.
Quote of The Trip
Stace: Hey, Schell, is it going to creep you out if I wear this mask over my eyes? It’s kind of disturbing.
Schell: Um, wear it. It can’t be any more disturbing than me rolling over in the middle of the night and seeing your eye wide open with your eyeball rolled back in your fucking head.
These are the kind of friends we are, you see.
Well, we survived the night, obviously. We had a few eccentric oddities occur, but nothing major. I woke up in the middle of the night and Jane was gone. As I was peeling myself off of the ceiling, I heard the toilet flush. Oh, thank God. It was ridiculously fun, as was the rest of the weekend. We shopped, we ate, we drank and more than anything else, we laughed. We talked. We talked about the past, present and the future. We reminisced. We wondered about the years ahead and reveled in how far we’ve come since we ran about the Hollywood Hills together, all those years ago.
I’ve written before about how much I love these girls. How effortless our time is together and how blessed I am to have them in my life. That’s the truth. Seeing them only makes me miss them more and I cannot wait until our next adventure together.
They are the friends that know you and still love you. They’re the friends that will tell you the truth, even though you don’t want to hear it. They’re the friends that will book a plane ticket on no notice to be there when you need them. They’re the friends that will make fun of someone with facial paralysis, for God’s sakes.
Especially when it’s one of their own.

Mi Amigas


Things have been so incredibly busy, I’m not sure where to start. Johnny’s Father has been ill and we’ve been looking for a new permanent home for the school. Then suddenly, Johnny’s Mother had a heart attack as well. The third heart attack in this family is going to occur in yours truly, I tell ya.
The good news? I went to Cancun with the DB3 last week. Take that lime and suck it.
We were together for the first time in 3 years. There’s been a birth, a marriage and a divorce since our last reunion. And yet, nothing felt any differently the minute we sat down for our sea-side happy hour. Our ages span from late 30’s (stace) to early 40’s (me) to later 40’s (jane and schell). Yet when we get together, we all become 16 years old again.
We actually got HYSTERICAL (embarrassing) over the “what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs” gag. You know…what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs in a swimming pool? BOB!
Jesus, help me. We were all in bed and had been out for the night cock-tailing and this became the funniest thing ever. I won’t go into it, save our dignity.
But I will give you guys a few memorable quotes:
Jane: There’s a gross stain on this throw pillow!
Me: Jane, there is not.
Jane: Yes there is. I think it’s jizz!
Me: Jane, it is not. This is a zillion dollar resort.
Jane: YES IT IS! We need one of those black light spooge-o-meters from Dateline!
Me: Stacy, go handle this.
Stacy: *peers over at Jane’s pillow*
Stacy: She’s right. Those are pecker tracks if I’ve ever seen ’em.
Random awesome quote from Schell: I don’t know what Jane actually does for a living, but I do know that she thinks she uses Algebra.
Another quote from Schell upon listening to my iPod shuffle.
Me: Isn’t my iPod awesome?
Schell: Sure, Jen.
Me: C’mon! Nothing says PAR-TAY like Gordon Lightfoot!
Schell: You’re right, Jen, you really know how to bring it.
Suffice to say it was a magical long weekend and we laughed until we cried every single day. We ate like Lords and had a seaside breakfast every morning of fresh juices and assorted delights. We read and listened to music and the tv in our room was never once turned on. We had cocktails before lunch! Heaven!
We spent one morning poolside trying to figure out which of the Sex in the City starlets each of us resemble. I decided to quit trying to force ourselves into the personas of fictional characters and remember that each one us is unique. Together we are a mighty quartet and I couldn’t cherish our friendship more. Some friends ask you to take them to the airport. Others ask you to help them move. Some ask for childcare, or even money. These three could ask me for a kidney* and I wouldn’t think twice before scheduling the operation. We’re that close. It’s effortless and I’ve never had this level of friendship with anyone else. Maybe it was our youth that made us cling to each other 20 years ago. Maybe it was desperation or being drunkards. I don’t know and I’m not sure that I care. What I do care about is that these three women are at the core of my being. My husband is my everything, but these girls are my foundation. I say girls, because when we’re together, that’s what we become. However, make no mistake, these three women are powerful, intelligent and strong. They are mothers and sisters and daughters. Wives, friends and businesswomen. Creative, passionate and courageous.
They are also my life long best friends.
Here’s to the Dude Ranch this Summer, you whores. I love you guys.
* they know better than to ask for one of my kidneys but I am trying to make a point.

And so it begins…

Well, we have survived our first Thanksgiving and subsequent road trip as married folk.


Thanksgiving day was gorgeous, the sun shone brightly and the trees were in full autumn explosion. I cooked a small turkey breast and we prepared all the fixin’s. My boot camp pal Brooks joined us as well and the three of us had a delightful time. The food was plentiful and there were a lot of laughs. We convinced Brooks to stick around for a Trivial Pursuit smackdown after physically restraining bribing her with chocolate cake. However, she handed us both our respective asses with her vast knowledge of all things trivial. “Oscar Wilde! Aswan Dam! Mount Kenya”! The woman was a trivia machine and John and I were notably humbled.

Upon her departure we nursed our wounds, poured drinks and promptly settled on the couch in flannel pajamas to watch “Entourage”. Ah, the married life!

I have much for which to be thankful.


John and I did not plan a proper honeymoon, per se. We planned a little two-night getaway to celebrate, but nothing extravagant. Well, that was until my pals Stace, Schell and Jane got involved, anyway. Our reservations were moved to the Ritz Carlton and we lived waaay beyond our means for two days and evenings. The room was spectacular. Of course, I managed to clog the toilet within THE FIRST 5 MINUTES of inhabiting the room, I kid you not. John was mortified. My response to him? Get used to it, buddy. So, thanks to my pals for turning a teeny road trip into a blissful honeymoon -sorry about the maintenance charges.

Oh, the romance!

We had a fantastic time – we shopped, went out to eat, slept late and watched football. It was lovely to just have some time to ourselves as usually we have a schedule in which to adhere. I’ll be moving in three weeks so between that and Christmas, I’d say we have a pretty full plate. I’m thrilled about the future and more than a few times I caught myself stealing sideways glances at John thinking “that’s my husband“. Weird. So weird, in fact, that I sat at the DMV while they called out my new married name THREE TIMES before I realized they were calling ME. I looked like a dolt. A newly married dolt.

It was disappointing to return to my house yesterday evening. John left to drive back and I was left in the house alone, as Mr. Cooper was still at the kennel. It sounds mushy and gag-inducing, but I was so saddened at his departure. I guess when you finally figure out what you want for your life, you’re ready for it to start immediately. I didn’t think I’d feel any different being married, but as it turns out, I do. Simply put, I just feel better when he’s around.

That’s alright though, we’re almost there. This Christmas we’ll be a family!

Oh, how life throws us curveballs. A little over a year ago John phoned me to catch up and who knew we’d end up here? The funny thing is, I think we both did.