Undomestic Diva

2008 Favorites

This is not another blog award because a) there is no prize b) I'm too goddamn lazy to make a cutesie avatar for it and c) no one is required to reciprocate or pass it along. Instead, I'm just categorizing and listing my favorite blogs of the year.

If you're not on the list then either a) you did not pay me enough or b) I only listed one blog per category and not everyone can be picked. You should have learned this in the third grade. 

2008 Favorites:

Funniest Blog: The Bloggess

Mom Blog: Motherhood Uncensored

Dad Blog: Dad Gone Mad

New Blog: Starts with an X

Food Blog: Evil Chef Mom

Author's Blog: Jennsylvania

Blog I Should Have Been Reading All Along: Attack of the Redneck Mommy

If you haven't already, you should really check them out. Good stuff.

Happy New Year's!

It's all a lie

In the "I get a gold star for being stupid" department, I made the ginormous mistake of stepping on the scale this weekend. That bitch had the nerve to tell me I've gained 1.8 pounds.

Huh.

For the life of me, I can't figure out how this happened when a) I fed my coconut snowball on Christmas Eve to my brother-in-law because I do not like coconut nor vanilla and b) have, yes, gorged on chocolate covered pretzel sticks, but they're the mini ones, not the big ones, so they don't even count.

I may have (possibly) eaten my weight in ham, turkey and roast over the last several days and perhaps went back for seconds when it came to those calorically delightful funeral potatoes. But I also had a second helping of green beans, so you know, that totally cancels out the creamy, cheesy goodness of the potatoes. Everyone knows that.

Obviously, the scale must be wrong. And not just wrong, but tactless and cruel for spreading false lies when clearly, it couldn't be true. In fact, the manufacturer of that damned scale should be sued for defamation of character, being that there is no chance in hell all that pie and whipped cream added up to 1.8 pounds.

I think I might have a case here.

In unrelated news, my jeans have shrunk. I've washed them a few dozen times without them shrinking, but this time? Totally shrunk a size, if not two. Weird.

I tell you, it's just been a helluva week and I'm beginning to think all that "eat, drink and be merry" crap is pure propaganda from those same people who came up with the "Fructose corn syrup is GOOD FOR YOU! Because it comes from corn!" commercials. I feel duped.  

Plumb Tired

I've got a joke for you:

It's Christmas evening and this woman's toilets, drains, showers, et al back-up and she calls a three different supposed 24-hour plumbing companies. When she attempts to get a plumber to her home for a major effing emergency, they laugh at her and say "Oh yeah right. It's Christmas! Good luck with that!!" The end.

OK. So a) that wasn't funny and b) I'm not good at telling jokes. Also? This doesn't really qualify as a joke being that this actually happened to us on Christmas night when we returned home from being with family. Turned on the shower to yawn! stretch! get in bed early! and the shower won't drain; it's quickly filling up the shower pan. Flush a toilet and oh shit, quickly turn the water off... Go room to room and what do you know? Major issues.

Like, take the kids to my mom's house at 1:00 in the morning so there's a bathroom they can use major issues.

Like, throw the mutha fucking $200 snake we bought not too long ago through the bathroom window because, I don't know, things got a bit frustrating major issues.

Like, yay! Looks like we'll be re-doing a bathroom this week while Candy Ass is off work major issues!

Like, no one wants to use the bathrooms, showers, etc. in our house 'cause god only knows what could happen major issues.

Hope your holidays were memorable ones too.

Anatomy of a holiday card

The funny thing about getting that "perfect" holiday card photo is that it takes approximately 300 shots to get one decent picture. (Trust me, I'm a photographer. It's not just your kids; it's my kids too.) What did we do before digital?

Watch L-Dub's (left) eyes... Not sure what's wrong with this kid.

The eyes!!! Aaahh!

There go the eyes again! Gah! And gee, can E-man (right) look any happier?

lf E-man didn't look like he was physically in pain, this could have been The One...

Where you going Big T?

Seriously, L-Dub, S-M-I-L-E. You look like Chunk from The Goonies, dude.

THE EYES!!! WTF?

Headlock.

The beginning of a brawl...

Can you tell which one is the bully? The goofball? The rule follower?

And this what you call the "Aw, eff it, that'll have to do" winner. (At this point, it just wouldn't be right to have L-Dub's eyes looking at the camera. Ya know?)

Wishing you and your family the happiest of holidays!

~Megan

Fishing for compliments

Me: "It's snack time, boys!"

E-man: "Mom, you're so beautiful!"

(eye roll)

L-Dub: "Mom, you're so dumb!"

E-man (sing-song): "Mom! L-Dub called you dumb!"

Me: "L-Dub, that isn't a very nice thing to say."

L-Dub: "Um. You're cute...?"

Me: "You don't have to say anything like that, but you don't say mean things either."

L-Dub: "Um. You're a super sexy freakin' baby??"

(at a loss for words)

Me: "Eat your snack."

***

Why do I get the feeling that in just a matter of a few years L-Dub will be smacking his wife on the ass and telling her to grab him a beer? 

Help. 

Faking it

What I lack in domesticity, I more than make up for in bullshitability. (New word. Learn it.) Meaning, I can totally fake being the good housewife suburbia compels me to be, nevermind a few fires and explosions.

At Christmas, the neighbors bring their home-baked goodies to my door, generously showing off sharing their kitchen skills and naturally, I feel like I should reciprocate. It's the nice thing to do after all, and lately, I've been trying on "nice" to see if it fits me. (So far... not-so-much.)

But bake? I'd rather do laundry. And judging by the pile of clothes yet to be washed, that sure doesn't say much for baking. Make a nice loaf of bread? Sure, give me the store bought box-o-ingredients and an egg or whatever the hell else you're supposed to add and I can give it a try. I don't want to, but I suppose I could give it a go. But you lose me if I have to make two... because the attention span is just not there.

And cookies? Hell no. Waaaay too much work. My sons once observed my mother-in-law making cookies from scratch (I like to think of "scratch" as in "scratch that, ain't doin' it") and E-man politely asked "Where are the squares you break off and put on the pan?" As in, the only cookies he's seen me make come in convenient little squares you can just break off, set on a baking sheet and in twelve minutes, damn, you've managed to burn them all.

My BFF Tamara in GA mentioned something about a candy thermometer the other day and I was like, "Huh? Wha...? Who?" So. You know. That's sums up that idear right there.

Although, I am now "in" on Wild Bill's Super Secret Toffee recipe that is coveted amongst our family and friends. And you know what? Not only do I have the recipe, I CAN ACTUALLY MAKE IT. I was very proud of this until someone pointed out on Twitter that of course I can make it, BECAUSE IT'S BURNT SUGAR. Ugh. So true.

This weekend, I managed to get a few batches whooped up:

(We won't talk about the fact that I somehow managed to leave the gas burner a-flame while setting a wood tray on an adjacent burner and then left for an hour-and-a-half to run some errands, only figuring out that the stove was on the whole fuhreakin' time a few hours later. OOPS.)

(Dear Homeowners Insurance Company: Soooo totally joking. No. Really! Please don't raise my premiums! Will try harder next time!)

The other way I impress my neighbors is with these little gems I like to call Chocolate Covered Pretzel Sticks (very creative name, I know). They look festive but guess what? They're super easy, super simple and if when you burn the chocolate, you just try again. No biggie!

While I can't give you the recipe to Wild Bill's Super Secret Toffee, I can tell you how to look damn near domestic via these bad boys:

Unwrap chocolate bars or Hershey's Kisses in a coffee mug and microwave for 40 seconds, stir and heat for another 30 seconds. Put colorful sprinkles, chopped nuts, candy canes pieces (a mallet works FANTASTIC for smashing candy canes, by the way), coconut or whatever you please on plates. Dip pretzel sticks (I used Rold Gold Honey Wheat Braided Twists) in the melted chocolate (not too much chocolate), roll in toppings, set on wax paper. Chill all pretzel sticks in the fridge for 30 minutes to harden chocolate. Put in tupperware with lid and keep chilled.

See? I can totally fake it. Wink.

A manicure with a side of bronchitis

In a very rare "me" moment, I went and got a manicure last night with an old friend I like to get in trouble with from time to time.

It was supposed to be relaxing, fun and a chance to catch up on all the latest Oh my god! I HAVE to tell you...'s while making our nails look pretty. Instead, we found ourselves interrupting a few ladies who were trying to watch a Kevin Costner movie on the flat screens behind us over our apparently annoyingly loud voices. Those ladies? They were the ones we were paying to do our nails.

Granted, I feel sorry for these women who obviously aren't thrilled to be scrubbing someone's dried cuticles. However, I did try to talk to my lady, ask how her day was going and such and she just straight up ignored me. My friend raised her eyebrows at me, trying not to laugh at my getting shunned. But rather than roll my eyes and continue talking to my friend, I politely poked the lady in the arm and said, "Hey! How was your day today!" more enthusiastically. Like, Hey! I was asking you! but nicer.

The lady literally cocked one eyebrow at me, mumbled something I probably didn't want to hear even if I could and then continued, roughly I might add, to clip away at my cuticles.

Um, sorry.

My friend and I started talking again. We discussed New Year's Eve plans and old high school friends and foes. Of course our reunion came up and she full-heartedly agreed that we should go, make a mockumentary of it and post it on my blog. This of course, was all conversation we attempted to carry on in between the weird cough my lady was doing not twelve inches from my face, mouth uncovered. Not like a croupy cough or a phlegmy cough, but more like the sharp, high-pitched barking sound a small dog with an inferiority complex makes when confronted with something twice its size. I tried hard not to laugh and then tried even harder not to cough back, because a) how rude! and b) two can play this game, lady. Don't test me.  

This will all probably be a lot less funny when I end up sick within 48 hours.

But seriously. It's very difficult to accurately describe this lady and her cough. Kind of like the sound a cat makes when they have a fur ball only her whole back didn't arch up as she did it. "ACK!" That pesky cough didn't act up in the few lulls of conversation between my friend and I, but when we laughed [ACK!] or started in on a good topic[ACK!] it never failed. [ACK!]

It was like she was punishing me because she couldn't hear Kevin Costner over our conversation. How was I supposed to know we weren't supposed to talk during a manicure? This isn't church for christ's sake. This is a nail salon. I thought gossiping was part of the process.

Of course, angry lady perked up a tiny bit when the guy who ran the whole nail salon showed up to flirt. With his three year old daughter in tow, of course. But as soon as he left, finding out we were both married (which he did so by reading our palms, by the way), angry lady resumed hacking. Funny thing though, when it came time to tip her, her lungs cleared up and she almost produced a smile. Almost.

My friend and I? We're sooo making this a regular treat from here on out. I mean, yeah, pretty nails are great, but the potential to catch a bronchial infection is fantastic.

P.S. I did tip her - and well, by the way - because frankly, I'm sure she has every right to hate what she does. And also, it's not her fault she didn't read my post. [cough]

Baby, it's cold outside

It's unusually cold here in Southern California and before you get all You think THAT'S cold? Come to Fargo where I live. It's negative eleventy three degrees here! on my ass, let me just tell you that I live in Southern California - not Kalamazoo, Michigan - because I don't like the cold. I don't enjoy snow. After a few years of attempting to snowboard and never once making it off the ski lift without eating shit (to the point where the ski lift dudes actually stopped the lifts each time they saw me coming to avoid a mass pile up of Burton and North Face) I finally gave up snowboarding. It wasn't fun for me. 

Where I live, it's almost summer-like year round in such a way that there have been many Christmases with 80 degree weather even. Our gas bill is ridiculously low at least nine months of out of the year, being that we don't have to heat the house often. Not only is this fantastic financially, but it's also in my favor since I fear dying a silent, uneventful death at the hands of carbon monoxide.

That's normal, right?

It's those goddamn horror stories you hear every year at the beginning of "winter" on the news where an entire family dies because of a carbon monoxide leak they couldn't detect that makes me a wee bit overly scared out of my wicked mind about using the heater. To the point where, eh, I'd rather not use it at all...?

There might have also been a year where I got all my family and friends carbon monoxide detectors for their homes as Christmas gifts. Possibly.

But due to our recent cold snap and the fact that I can now see my breath inside my house, I had to break down and allow Candy Ass to get the heater running again. Which, in our house, requires a new filter, replacing the 9-volt battery in the detector (yes, we use ours) and a tall dry cappuccino for me. (Hey, the heat starts from within.) Only, Candy Ass managed to get the new filter in and the battery replaced, but totally forgot my cappuccino. So you know, if we do die tonight, it will all be his fault; the cappuccino beingan integral part of this process and whatnot.

And while the heater has officially been on for an hour and a half now and we're all still alive, I will probably still turn the goddamn thing off before going to bed. Just in case... Totally normal, right?

Sound off

I am not the most overly joyful person - I'll certainly admit that. But honestly, I'm so sick of running into complete assholes everywhere I go that I can't hardly see straight. It makes me an asshole. It's a vicious circle, really.

Yeah, I have no idea what I'm talking about either.

Last night, Candy Ass and I took a quick trip to a store not unlike Costco. It might even sound like "Costco" and be spelled exactly like "Costco" but in case I could lose my membership at this store, we'll just call it something else.

Anyway. As the lady in front of us checked out, I watched the girl working the register grab her cell phone from her pocket, read a text message and then slam it down on the register, clearly unhappy with what it said. Then she begrudgingly threw the lady's grocery down to the guy who boxed them up, continuing to huff and puff about getting the customer's change and handing the membership card back to the lady.

I stared at her. Mostly because I was trying to figure out what the fuck her problem was, but also because I wanted her to see me watching her. Kinda like, Get it together, asshole.

Then it was our turn. We were only buying $15,000 worth of batteries to juice up the kid's Christmas presents (OK, it just seemed like $15,000 worth) and while they are not fragile, it made me cringe the way register girl was chucking them down to the box guy.

I continued to stare at her. Hoping she would notice. As though to say, Hey bitch, yeah you, I'm watching what you're doing AND I DON'T LIKE IT. Of course, in order to notice, she'd have to give half a shit, and clearly this girl could give a flying F what I - or anyone else - thought.

Sure. They're batteries. Who cares, right? Well you know what? I care. They're expensive. And I didn't want something I had to pay a lot of money for (regardless of what it was) to be thrown because she needed an attitude adjustment. 

The girl doesn't mince words with us either, only stopping her grunting to spit out a "here" when I don't notice her thrusting my receipt and membership card back at me.

I start to walk away...

But...

I turn back around, fed up with her assholery and say, "Thank you. You were sooo pleasant!!" in my most sarcastic tone and then walk away. 

Here's my deal: To all the people who come across as inconvenienced to do the job they're getting paid to do, suck it up, bitches. It's your job. Like it or hate it, you're getting paid to ring me up and give me my change. I doubt your job description requires you to be a complete bitch while doing so. And if you hate your job... it's not the job you've always dreamed of or whatever... sorry. Frankly, you should just be very happy you have a job at all, especially in an economy where many do not. [neck snap]

Music Advice from the Musically Challenged

I got an ipod probably two Christmases ago from Candy Ass (who by the way, was very happy to see that you guys all thought him calling me 'a bitch but waaay hotter' was indeed a compliment) and have never really used it. Not because it isn't cool - it is. But because I'm not cool. 

But you already knew that. 

Actually, I just haven't really used it 'cause guess what? It's damn near impossible for me to plug both my ears with very loud music rather than listen for/to kids. And believe me, most days, I'd love to do nothing more than tune them out. (What?? Can't hear you over the music! Sorry!) But let's be real: It's not really doable.

This is why sharing an iTunes account with Candy Ass hasn't really been an issue. We both download the music we like and I burn CDs off playlists I create while he syncs up his ipod and listens to it while doing yard work, etc.

This weekend, I finally got around to wrapping Christmas presents. Candy Ass was using my laptop and I wanted to listen to some music so he suggested I try that ipod I never use. (He doesn't ever let me forget that, by the way. But do I remind him about the Bowflex in the garage that he never uses? No. 'Cause I'm super nice.) (OK, even I'm laughing at the idea of me being 'super nice.' Seriously? I'm so funny sometimes.) So I stick the ear buds in my ears, crank that bad boy up and sing along (very badly, mind you) as I wrap. And rap.

Holy christ, not only do we have the same taste in music, but we both enjoy a very wide (and very different) range of music. The collection is a mix so effed up, it could give you stomach problems. In a matter of 15 minutes, I heard: Paramore, Kenny Chesney, Notorious B.I.G., Britney Spears, Hank Williams Jr. and and Bloodhound Gang. He's a little bit country and I'm a lot-a-bit rock and roll. Actually, he's more old school rock and twangy country while I'm more... anything but. Don't get me wrong, Boston's "More than a Feeling" is my theme song, bitches. But I prefer Saving Abel to ACDC. I'll take Stone Temple Pilots over Johnny Cash any day. I also love Coldplay waaay more than Kenny Rogers.

Sorry.

And so what if I like me some Britney Spears and Notorious B.I.G.? Who doesn't love it when they call you Big Poppa? I'm not ashamed to say so. (OK, I'm a little embarrassed to admit that - but that's the beauty of this here internet... you can't see me blush.)

My advice to you is this: Have his and hers iTunes accounts unless you enjoy having to continuously go to the menu, scroll past eight Rodney Carrington (that all somehow have titties and beer incorporated into the chorus) and past the genius that is NOT Gary Jules in order to hear the Dan Band's brilliant version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart."

Every now and then... I get a little bit lonely...

My second bit of advice (because you should sooo be taking advice from me. YEAH.) is to be careful dancing to the music as you wrap presents. There were quite a few close calls with the scissors and my ear bud cord before I caught on and laced it through my shirt.

Also? Be aware that others can hear you singing even when you can't hear yourself. And? It's not always pretty sounding. Morty started howling along with me, and somehow I don't think that's a good thing.

One more thing. If you want us to stay friends, you should own at least one Bloodhound Gang song. Just sayin.'