Vaguely Urban

Not For Minors

Dave has been hogging the computer all night, having big fun revising some work crap.  So I don't have sufficient time to describe in adequate detail our visit to Matt and Melati, and how they spoiled us ROTTEN.  So for now I will just post a sweet picture of Roman and Stanley giving Dave a warm.. wha.. what the hell is Stanley doing?

Oh, dude.

Yep.  And he was doing it long enough for me to get a photo. 

My Girl Wants To Party All The Time

Embee's bachelorette party was a few weeks ago.  Eia's bachelorette party isn't until next month.  And the wait between parties is long for the little ninja. 

Let's just say she keeps herself in kibble.

Low Stakes Pop Quiz

Hypothetically speaking, say there was a crappy little deli down in the bowels of your office building, the kind of place you run to grab a sandwich when you just don't have time to go somewhere good.  And say that the crappy little deli had a bowl of candy by the register.  Nothing overly scrumptious, no actual chocolate - just some generic fruity candies interspersed with Tootsie Rolls.  My question to you is, assuming you actually enjoy the old Tootsie Roll, how many would you feel is an appropriate number to take from the bowl.  Keep in mind that taking each involves a certain amount of picking through generic fruities.  Hypothetically speaking.  So, how many can someone reasonably take?

Double Up Pups

The little ninja has noted with more than a bit of resentment that I haven't shared her excellent hostess skills with you all.  See, while Dave and I were having friends over for pre-Thanksgiving dinner, Ginger had a guest of her own.

Ladies and gentleman, I give you: Cujo!  Or, as I call him, Little Bat Baby.

The ninja and the little bat baby got along great.  They snuggled. 

They wrestled.

They tugged-o-war.

   

They sniffed the crotchal regions.  Repeatedly.

Entertainment this good is usually found in your Las Vegas or on your 42nd Street.   And I could enjoy this show in my skivvies.

Little Bat Boy, you are welcome to come visit the Ninja anytime!

How Do You Feel About A Threesome?

I'm talking about the threesome that is formed when your friends have a baby.  That's the phase I'm in: one by one, the various couples we know are procreating.  Once we have kids, this will be a good thing, but Dave and I have yet to pull the goalie, if you will, and so babies are a ways off for us.  This puts us in the enviable position of adjudging whether our newly-minted parent friends now suck.  So far, we have been really, super lucky.  Baby Z's mom and dad are amazing.  They still come to every event, still go surfing, still come to dinner parties (click here for an account of what was going on back at the ranch while they ate turkey with us last week.)  She's my dearest friend to have a baby thus far, and she is totally still herself in every way.  A great role model, and a fantastic mama.

Last night, we went to dinner with the mom and dad of Good Charlotte.  Miraculously, they too have managed to retain their spectacularly inappropriate selves.  We had barely slid into the banquette when Charlotte's Dad, Dick Tony, mercifully ended my suspense and confirmed that Charlotte's poops had firmed up nicely.  We later got to talking about cougars, and Charlotte's parents told this outrageous story to the effect that, back before there were cougars, Charlotte's mom's uncle was The Cougar, a name he earned 30 years ago.  One evening, wearing a "gold caftan" and nothing else, he got down on all fours "with his balls and asshole hanging out" and growled in a the manner of a wild cat.  The story goes that The Cougar has come out many times over the  years, every time Mr. Uncle got shitfaced.  The Cougar's signature move (other than flashing nutsack) is to drop an arm over the shoulder of unsuspecting, unreceptive women and grope himself some boob.  These are the stories that will be handed down to Charlotte one day.  They're her birthright. 

I'm so glad that Charlotte's parents are still themselves.  Even when we were talking about babies, they were good times.  I mentioned that my friends Megan and Brian had had a baby, Madeleine, and we were remarking on the resurgence of classic names, and how we like these pretty names.  Charlotte.  Madeleine.  Dave added a suggestion: Regina.  Which, no.  Because if you pronounce it like the capital of Saskatchewan, it rhymes with VAGINA.  I pointed out that you might as well go with Angina.  A touch of Angina. And her sister, Muffy.  Dick Tony piped up: Yes, three girls.  Muffy.  Angina.  and Twat.

All day today I've been walking around with "Muffy, Angina, and Twat" running through my head, and cracking up.   And that makes me so glad. 

So pick good friends, and then they'll still be good, even after they squeeze out some pups.

(Megan, KLJ, MPO, JTP, you all are also still the same wonderful women I've always loved.  Let's go get drinks soon so I can give fresh evidence here.)

The Grateful Dudes

Thanksgiving came a little early this year to the Urban Household. 

See, Dave and I were tapped to host the real feast this November.  Never having roasted anything bigger than a chicken, we thought we should do a practice run.  So we invited six friends to dinner on Saturday.  Slyly, we held off on mentioning that they were going to be our turkey dinner guinea pigs, figuring that way we preserved the option of ordering in if things went south.  A Chinese takeout menu was kept at hand.

Here's how the table looked before the experiment got under way.

And here's how our kitchen counter looked on Sunday morning.

The take out menu is probably under there somewhere. 

Now, the nine bottles of wine shared among 8 people (Boozey Entertainment Learning Corner: the formula for an optimal ratio of people to bottles of wine, where X = number of people, is X:X+1) may have influenced our opinions just a teense, but the unanimous verdict came back in resounding approval of our attempt at the Big T.   We're now feeling a lot more confident about our turkeying skills.  The best part of all, though, was sitting around the table with 6 of our best friends talking and laughing all night long.

Who am I kidding.  the best part was the pie. 

Party In the City Where The Heat Is On

This weekend, a bakers' dozen of wild boys and girls from all corners of the nation descended upon Miami for Embee's last hurrah before she marries Han Solo next month. (Yes he is totally sexy enough to merit that nom de blog). 

Quite literally, I am subject to a binding nondisclosure agreement regarding the weekends' events (lawyers are such nerds), but I think I am permitted to show a couple of vignettes without any people in them.

So, our Miami hosts are the two most fabulous people in the world.  Quite connected, you know.  They used their connections to garner fast pass admission and bottle service at some sexy clubs.

Roberto Cavalli vodka comes with its own light-up base!  CHIC.  And also helpful in the dim club lighting.  I hate to lose visual contact with my booze.

As for the bachelorette goodness, my year-long planning came to life before my eyes.  Including the pornata.

Circumcised!

Satchmo says "You people are so immature.  I'm going to bed."

Wish I could share more, but at least this way you will know that your own secrets will always be safe with me...