Undomestic Diva

Dinner with the in-laws

I don't know how dinner at the in-laws went from a casual birthday celebration with delivery pizza and a little wine to a heated disagreement discussion over the classic Jennifer Aniston vs. Angelina Jolie debate. Oh wait. Yes I do. It was probably the "a little wine" part.

Either way, my brother-in-law and my grandfather tried to convince me of the wonderfulness of Angelina while I interrupted with spontaneous fits of "HOME-WRECKER!" I mean, all they could really come up with in her defense was her curvaceous bosom and luscious lips and how Jennifer Aniston isn't quite as bustful. But said in a much less diplomatic way, of course.

Let's just say their Hump Islands would be a very... busy place.

I had to defend my girl Jen, who - I swear to god - is my second BFF, she just doesn't know it yet. OK. So maybe we're not exactly friends. Ha. Ha. But if she weren't all famous and I weren't all infamous, I'm almost certain we could be. And so I had to tell those idiots that while Angelina may look all fantastical and such in their world, in my world, she was just a wedge that wiggled herself between a husband and wife.

Not that I would expect a couple of guy's guys to see the wrongdoing in such a situation.

That's when Grandpa, who had just finished his glass-o-straight-Jager, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I heard that girl Aniston was a real bitch and it was just a matter of time before..."

I know. My mouth fell open and my neck snapped back and forth practically yelling "OH NO YOU DINNET!"

"Did you see 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith???'" I yelled asked him. "DON'T EVEN TRY and tell me that she and Brad weren't effin' around on the set of that movie. BEFORE he and Jen got divorced, let me remind you!"

It just went downhill from there as I felt pressured to finish my second glass of wine defend my pretend friend Jen. There was a lot of name calling and bad jokes and references to chest size vs. brain size and oh lord, how in the hell did we even end up on this topic, anyway?

At the end of the night I hugged everyone good-bye except those two bastards who I gave the one-finger salute to. With a smile on my face, of course. Because I'm a lady.

But it's sooo not over. I feel compelled to launch an all-over attack on these numb-nuts who obviously need to be schooled in the Jennifer Aniston/Angelina Jolie theory. In my humble (HA!) opinion, this is a classic example of letting a couple breasteses cloud the judgment of otherwise smart men. And because I have the lips of Angelina but the bosom of Jen, I find their choice totally offensive.

Are you Team Aniston or Team Jolie? The line has been drawn in the virtual sand, bitches. Own up.

What Wii Have Learned Over The Years

Candy Ass and I have been together for like a bazillion years now and after all this time, we've learned a few things. For instance, he knows not to mess with me while I'm making my much-needed first cup of coffee in the morning. And I know not to even ask how it's going when he's taking on some household project that clearly isn't going well. These are just a few of the things that took a mere twelve years to get straight.

Don't get me wrong. We still fight. Like Sunday, for example. We don't have an air conditioner in our house and it was literally over 100 degrees outside and NASTY HOT in our house. INSIDE. Candy Ass, conveniently, (and rather hastily, I might add) decided in the heat of the afternoon no less, to go to his office to work rather than do it from home like he normally does on the weekends. Gee. Why would that be? BECAUSE IT HAS AIR CONDITIONING??? Bastard.

Call me crazy, but I have this far-fetched theory that a girl shouldn't have to sweat in her own home. With three sweaty little boys. And did I mention, NO AIR CONDITIONING?! Naturally, I was a little teensy bit pissed off when he took his business elsewhere instead of suffering in our house with us, as a family, where the thermostat read a sweltering 88 degrees INSIDE.

Now Candy Dumb Ass knew - especially after all these years - that when he finally did decide to show his fickle little face back here at the homestead that things would not be pretty. And I mean, I did not look pretty sitting here in my lesbian shorts (long story), pj tee, hot pink flip flops and chipped nail polish, my bangs stuck to my forehead like I might have exerted some sort athletic energy, but alas, I had not. Even uglier was my attitude because, frankly, if this girl has to sweat it out, then by all means, so should he. All is fair in true love and war, right?

Not that I have any clue what that actually means.

And while we've learned many things over all. this. freaking. time., the one thing we have yet to work out is our, um, stubborn desire to go into "stand-off" mode. This is when we each have our opinions - each of us right, of course - and each refusing to give in. On Sunday, clearly, Candy Ass blatantly chose the cool air conditioned comfort of his office over the scorching, but loving, home - a decision which was obviously wrong. Unfortunately, Candy Ass didn't think he had done anything wrong, using work as his "legitimate" excuse to flee us refugees. Something about him being very important, blah, blah, blah. Yeah. I get it. You work. You're therefore "important." I "get" to stay home all day. Oprah and Bon-Bons. That's me, bitch. BITCH!

Needless to say, it was stand-off time.

Day two, and there was no letting up. Candy Ass went to work and we melted here at casa. Woo-effing-hoo. The future looked bleak and divorce was imminent all because... because... why were we fighting again? Anyway. I'm sure it was important. And normally, when we're in stand-off mode, I play to win and I win to... WIN. But honestly, all this heat must be clouding my judgment because I let down my guard a little and I had to do, what I had to do to defend my honor. As a person. As a woman.

So we did what any other normal husband and wife would do in a functional marriage and duked it out via the Wii. Specifically, over a few heated games of tennis and baseball.

Let me just say that Candy Ass only beat me in baseball because he somehow figured out that throwing like a three year old girl makes the pitches really slllooowww and IMPOSSIBLE to hit. It was really healthy the way we kept yelling insults back and forth at each other. "You throw like a GIRL!" I yelled at him, in an honest observation. "You're the one who can't hit it, bitch!" he replied as he barely tossed the remote with what I swear was one pinky sticking straight out.

Tennis was more my game. Because it required skill. Skill Candy Ass clearly doesn't have. The insults grew a little more abrasive with each swing and replay and suddenly I realized my parents are standing in my living room, (I guess one of the kids let them in?) and my mom's yelling over our "IN YOUR FACE!s" that she wished she had a camera with her.

Yes, because two sweaty adults screaming at each other over a video game would have been the picture of a healthy relationship.

So what was I saying about all the things Candy Ass and I have learned over the years? Oh yeah. Well... not sure what the lesson is here. Except that sometimes a little competition helps take the tension away. It's healthy to get the aggression out via simulated sports.

But only if I win, of course.

Steals & Deals - Edition 2

I don't normally buy shoes from Old Navy, but when I saw these bad boys, I wanted them. And then I realized that at that same time, they were doing their "Stuff and Save" promotion that gives you an additional 20 percent off and free shipping. Well then. I stand by my decision. It was a no-brainer, really.

However, because I have no life, the shiny vinyl black wedges are still sittin' pretty in my closet, without having been used yet, the little elastic band still connecting the left and the right. But I still covet them and therefore Windex them every day. [OK, so now you know I'm lying. I don't own Windex.]

But the giraffe ballet flats*? LOVE them. I've worn them several times already and I just can't stop looking at my feet when they're immersed in the sexiness that is this shoe. And at the current bargain price of $9.49, you just can't say no. At least I couldn't. Obviously.

I've only found one slight problem with this purchase. They're stylish, lightweight and comfortable - but maybe too comfortable. Because when I went searching for them yesterday, I discovered I wasn't the only one enjoying the giraffe print...

It's like every mama's fantasy to see her little boy... in her? shoes?

Oh lord.

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*Giraffe print may or may not still be available... However there are a ton of other prints. All of them cute and necessary!

Look at me, all fancy and crap

All I have to say is:

Hello Luva!

So I may not be able to make a single thing from scratch. I may have a box of blueberry muffin mix in my pantry that expired in 2005. And brownie mix gone bad since 2006. I might not understand the difference between baking soda and baking powder. I could have, possibly, caused more than one kitchen fire. And I might be on my sixth hand mixer. But these bad boys? Oh yes. I made them. And without any explosions, thanks to my handy dandy Rival electric fondue hoochiemagoo.

I know. I should have my own cooking show now that I baked these bad boys.

One Word

My BFF Tamara in GA sent this to me in an email and I thought "Oh god, not another one of those things!" And then I promptly went through and answered each question. BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO. It's undeniable. You can't resist the urge, no matter how cool you are.

So don't resist. Copy and paste the questions below and replace with your ONE WORD only answers in the comments section of the post. This is an especially difficult challenge for me who can never use one adjective at a time, can't possibly use less than three examples in a sentence and likes to overstate things just a little bit. OK. FINE. A LOT. Deal with it.

Plus, it's always cool to see what other people come up with. And besides, this friendship of ours? It's getting to be a bit too one-sided for me. I'm like that annoying bad friend who talks, talks, talks and can't shut up and you never get a word in edge-wise. SO LOOK. THIS IS ME SHUTTING UP.

For now.

*Remember - just one word answers. It's harder than you think.

1. Where is your cell phone? purse

2. Your significant other? butthole

3. Your hair? righteous

4. Your mother? perfect

5. Your father? which?

6. Your favorite thing? STARBUCKS!

7. Your dream last night? Eh

8. Your favorite drink? cappuccino

9. Your dream/goal? contentment

10. The room you're in? office

11. Your hobby? THIS

12. Your fear? everything

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? alive

14. Where were you last night? meeting

15. What you're not? optimistic

16. Muffins? please

17. One of your wish list items? health

18. Where you grew up? here

19. The last thing you did? email

20. What are you wearing? naked

21. Your TV? off

22. Your pets? Morton

23. Your computer? consuming

24. Your life? chaotic

25. Your mood? anxious

26. Missing someone? yes

27. Your car? parked

28. Something you're not wearing? bra

29. Your summer? sweaty

30. Like someone? nah

31. Favorite color? black

32. When is the last time you laughed? earlier

33. Last time you cried? yesterday

34. Your favorite blogger IN THE WHOLE <Undomestic> WIDE <Diva> WORLD? DUH.

OK, so I made that last one up. WHATEVER. You people are touchy sometimes. Geez.

Google Me This!

I'm naturally a curious MFer so it will not surprise you to hear that I check my blog traffic stats a couple times a day, more interested in who is coming by my blog and how they got here more than anything.

It's also really cool to see when people have added me to their blog roll and someone has clicked over to my page from theirs or when someone has blogged about a post I've done, linking to my site from their blog. I always try to thank these people for linking to me and for the traffic because, as a blogger, traffic is very important. There's a dire need to know that more than two people are reading your crazy ass shiat. Because, then maybe that means you're not so crazy. And shiat.

But what's also interesting about reading your stats, is how people find your blog via a search engine. For example, I use Feedburner and it tells me how many people per day searched Google for "undomestic diva" and came to my site as a result. Same goes with those who use Yahoo search or MSN, etc. You get the idea. But the highlight of all these numbers and stats and what-have-you is seeing the OTHER weird ass (to down play it) searches that lead people to my site.

Just a few examples:

"Bunny poops jelly bean"

"Starbucks new lady"

"Funny husband for sale"

"Fo shizzle boo"

"Kitchen boiler explosion"

"Commercial about farting bride"

"Wirey wiggle"

"Sweat smells like nuts"

"Zip around crotch clubbin' pants"

"Maltee poo"

"My obedient hubby"

"Gotta shake your boo loud"

"Leaning over the bathtub to get pregnant"

"Chicken puppet on a basket sold at Tractor Supply"

"Yellow bump growing on my eyeball"

"Mud boots"

"Cliff Notes for women's murder club"

"Old ice skating movies from sonia haney on youtube"

"Breath odor evaluator salary"

And my favorite -

"The trucker grabbed my crotch"

I don't know what this says about all you guys who come by here. Or rather, I don't know what it says about me that you found my site via these random key words. Perhaps we should just call it a draw and admit that we were made for each other. In a trucker-grabbed-my-crotch kind of way, I guess.

What's that smell?

Kid you not, just five seconds ago my oldest, E-man, says to me, "What's that smell?"

"Spaghetti. We're having spaghetti for dinner. Your favorite!"

"Oh." He replies in a dejected way. Then adds, "It smells like armpits."

And this is why I don't cook.

Brotherly Love

We are re-organizing bedtime around here because our youngest, Big T, is ready to make the move to a big boy bed. Hey - it's a big deal when you're little. So rather than buy a third plastic fire engine or Thomas the Train bed, we're going to graduate our two older boys to a merry-go-round bunk bed.

You wouldn't think this would be too difficult a task, but lo and behold it's turning out to be a major pain in my fanny. Candy Ass, in all his difficultness, has attempted to make this even more confusing by suggesting a three-bunk bed. Which, if you ask me, sounds like barracks. And while I agree my kids could definitely use some military-style discipline, a three-tiered bunk bed just, eh, doesn't sound roomy enough for me. Then there's the size of the bunks. Twin/Twin, Twin/Full, Full/Full, Gouge Your Eyes Out/Rip Your Hair Out… they come in all sizes, all colors, with different ladder sizes and arrangements and GOD DAMNIT I JUST WANT A BUNK BED FOR MY KIDS - not a damn architectural marvel.

Not to get too testy about it or anything.

During dinner, the bed situation came up. AGAIN. Why Candy Ass thought this was discussion for a five, three and almost-two year old, I have no idea. It's kind of like asking your child what they want for dinner. If you ask, you better be prepared to go with it. Needless to say, talking about the alleged bunk beds only made E-man that much more anxious to get the new beds like RIGHT! NOW!

E-Man: Dad, when do the beds get here?

CA: We have to measure first before we order them.

E-Man: I get the top!! I want the top! Dad, can I have the top?!?!?!

CA: We'll see. First we have to make sure the ceiling fan isn't in the way.

E-Man: Why?

CA: Well, we don't want you to get chopped up.

[Me: Cringing while simultaneously giving Candy Ass the was-that-necessary? look]

[E-Man: Still thinking intently about the fan situation]

E-Man: Hey, I know! L-Dub can have the top and I'll sleep on the bottom!

What a kind, thoughtful brother that one is. I need to remember this moment when I'm old and gray and I have to force myself upon my children to take care of me. Let's just say that E-man's off the hook.

Winner!

Congrats to Beth for having the winning life story in six words or less:

Knew it all. Now knows better.

Somehow, I think this relates to all of us in one way or another which just makes it all the more appropriate as the winner! Beth will be receiving a $20 gift card to Starbucks.

A big thank you to everyone who submitted their stories. They were all deeply personal and poignant and thought-provoking and I enjoyed reading (and re-reading) them all.

Can't pick my favorite story. Sorry.

See?? That was 6 words.

And oh my god. Your 6 word stories? Amazing. (If you haven't already read the comments from Friday's post, I highly recommend it.)

But I'm having trouble picking my most favorite 'cause each one I read I thought Wow. I mean, WOW. They are all so profound and poignant and then there's Dad Gone Mad who (mad props, btw) managed to throw everyone off kilter as only he can do. Really Danny, I'd love to declare you the winner, but I mean, what would that say about ME?

Yeah.

So, my dear internet friends, I'm now deflecting the responsibility of choosing a winner onto you. Please vote and I will give you the results tomorrow.

My six words or less to describe this past weekend? I'm too damn old for this.

It was a crazy, wacky and FUN weekend. But exhausting. This mama, of three boys don't-you-forget, had TWO nights out. IN A ROW!!!!! With girlfriends!! Hence my six little words. I was am exhausted.

Saturday night was spent on the Sunset Strip, where, let me tell you, the freaks come out at night. If you should ever feel culturally deprived, walk Sunset Boulevard around midnight on a Friday or Saturday night and you will become fully emersed in all that is good and bad and wrong and therefore oh-so-Hollywood within two minutes. Tops.

We spent most of the evening at the Key Club where we saw one of our favorite bands - Calcutta - perform.

Their energy? INFECTIOUS. It was a great performance with a standing-room-only crowd and I was so glad I went even though I was already exhausted from the night before. Seriously, there's nothing better than live music.

Another guy we went to school with - my 6th grade crush no less - met us there and, oh yeah, by the way? turns out he's the bass player for none other than Hoobastank - who Candy Ass affectionately calls Skoobiestank because he can never get their name quite right. He got to watch Calcutta's show with us. (Or rather, we got to watch their show with him.)

Then Josh stayed to watch the next band, Powder, with us too. Which, let me tell you, was the freakiest shiat I have EVER seen IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, people.

OK. OK. Words cannot do this band justice and so honestly, I'm just gonna have to tell you to go to their website and click on "Photos" so you can get the gist of it. If I had to describe it? Um... Cirque Du Soleil on acid. It was weird and crazy and trippy and yet energetic and infectious and amazing in a very sit-with-your-mouth-hung-open-and-watch-this-train-wreck-of-highly-deliciously-distasteful-music kind of way.

I know. I'm confused too. Which, pretty much sums up the experience of watching them perform.

Anyway, it was a late night and a good time. But that was then. And now? No make-up, no bra and no energy. Talk about a slap in the face to realize, oh yeah, YOU'RE NOT A YOUNG THANG ANYMORE.

HELLO OLD AGE, nice to meet you.