Undomestic Diva

A Night at the... Dimples

I think this video says it all.

Night at the... Dimples from Undomestic Diva on Vimeo.

My only question is, when are we doing it again?

Winner!

HOLY SHIT people! If you do not go back and read the 384 comments/entries for the 3 words said during sex contest then a) you're waaaay too cool for me and b) you're missing out on some serious cathartic laughter. 'Cause seriously? You guys are SICK and PERVERTED and DISGUSTING and HILARIOUS and THESE ARE ALL THE REASONS WE'RE FRIENDS.

Can I just declare my love for you all RIGHT NOW?

Sigh.

Anyway, the winner was selected via Random.org:

which was...

 

Congrats to Chasity for winning and MAD PROPS to everyone who participated!

Finally, something I'm good at (and a contest)

Now I don't like to brag or boast or rub my amazing talents in YO' FACE, but hot damn, there is something I'm quite good at after all.

The other day on Twitter I got a wee bit caught up in a little word game, if you will, where you have to come up with three word phrases a person might say during sex. It can be funny, mean, honest, rude or just plain WRONG, but it must be three words only.

Turns out, I could come up with an unprecedented number of these phrases. My love for these three word games morphed as there were also opportunities to come up with three words a person might say after sex as well. 

I am now looking into three word rehab. Won't my mom be so proud?

Some examples of three words said during sex:

"What was THAT?"
"Huh? What? WHERE?"
"Your name was...?"
"Hurry, commercial's over!"
"What? That's it?"

I could go on... But it's your turn. Add your three word phrases people might say during or after sex in the comments section of this post and you'll be entered to win a $25 Amazon.com gift card.

Enter as many times as you want with each comment = to one entry. Contest runs through Sunday, May 31 ending at 9:00 PM Pacific Time.

Warning: This can be addicting. And HILARIOUS.  

You so funny

A lot of very random things have struck me as straight-up funny lately and I thought I'd share a couple of them with you because what the world needs now is not love, but comedy.

(I just waaaay over sensationalized my own post. It's nothing but downhill from here and I'm sorry.)

 

This is on our fridge at home and no matter how many times a day I change my mood to "fabulous" someone keeps changing it to "bitchy." That motherfucker better watch himself.

 

I've already said how much I love this wine, but when I picked up another bottle at Target the other day, I had to laugh at the Collect All Six! "I've tried Menage a Trois" button. SERIOUSLY? Is wine the new Happy Meal? (OK fine, it is happiness in a bottle, but still...)

 

As I was taking a photo of the Menage a Trois wine button (a must-have collector's item), I noticed the knife holder thingamajg. We've had these knives for FOREVER but I'm only now noticing that the man on the knife holder is covering his most valuable assets. The irony is not lost on me.

 

I don't think I could give this photo a caption that would do it justice.

 

Now this photo will require a little patience since it was taken with my Crackberry. E-man went to an end-of-the-year party at a local farm last weekend, put on by one of the mom's in his Kindergarten class. Thoughtful as he is, he took it upon himself to type his own thank you note, print it and roll it up for the mom. (I had no idea he had done this.)

When we got to school that following Tuesday morning, I asked to see what he had made for her (I assumed he drew her a picture) and unrolled it to find this. You have to read it aloud phonetically to understand it. It says:

Ava,
Thank you for the party and Ms. T----
I had a wild time at the farm.
Thank you Ms. T----.
My phone number is --------.

What a kid.

What have you found funny lately?

Yin and Yang and Tan - Updated w/ photo

I don't mind taking ownership for the things I'm not good at. And there's a lot of those things. Cooking being first and foremost, cleaning a close second. I'm also terrible at math.

Most days, I can laugh at all the things I suck at and chalk it up to "Oh well, that's me!" and give anyone who cares a fantastic middle finger. But sometimes, it's just too much. Sometimes, it gets old being the butt of the joke. SOMETIMES, I'd like to joke about fucking something up without actually fucking it up.

Earlier tonight, I twittered about going to get a spray tan.

Yeah, yeah.

I joked about doing it for the sake of needing blog material. Mistake number one. Then I made an unfortunate "Friends" reference to the episode where Ross decides to get a Mystic tan, gets confused in the booth and ends up being a "15" on the front only... (I know, if you've never seen the episode, it's lost on you.) Just know that this was mistake number two.

Not thirty minutes later, a teenager girl was explaining the Mystic tanning booth to me. Put the lotion on your hands and feet generously so they don't streak. Duh. Everyone whose ever had a bad encounter with a bottle of do-it-yourself self tanner knows that. Strip down, enter the booth, wave your hand in front of the sensor. OK, I can do that. Then the voice will come on and you listen to her and she tells you which direction to turn and when, where to put your feet and how to move. Wait, what? You'll move around four times, in a circle, just listen to what she says, it's easy! Alright...

I strip down, jump in, wave my hand in front of sensor, concentrate on where to put my feet and WHOOOOOSH the spraying begins and all of the sudden my mind goes FUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKK I totally forgot to put the lotion on my hands and feet!

Sigh.

Of course there's no stopping the machine now. I endure all four turns while panicking and manuevering in such ways I hope will mitigate the streaky damage. But when bronzer is coming at you from four directions with such a force that you're actually cold, there's little you can do but hold back the tears to avoid streaking on your face too.

Finally the Mystic Tanning Torture (soon to be implemented by our government, I hear) ends and I hop my sticky ass out of that booth and grab desperately at the hand wipes and lotion, wiping and lathering furiously as though it's going to help now. You know and I know, I'm totally screwed. 

So what's a girl to do? Twitter it, of course. In a way, it's funny. HAHAHAHAHA what an IDIOT! But as I drove to Starbucks to get my consolatory tall dry decaf cappuccino, I just feel pathetic. Because really? How does one fuck up a faux tan? It's almost too stupid to be true. How can I not fake tan correctly? Seriously.

But there is balance in the universe. At least most of the time. While I can't cook anything without charring it, I do make a mean kitchen fire and know most of our local firemen. I hate to clean, but, well, I just hate to clean. But I can create a mess out of almost anything. And despite what my teachers told me in school, first period algebra remains to be the biggest waste of time, although I can spell almost anthing. (Ha.) Now, I'm not sure what the opposite of screwing up a fake tan is, but I'm sure it has to be something awesome, right?

RIGHT?

Update: So this morning, I am nice and brown and LOVING the whole idea of a spray tan..... until I saw my feet which did not fair well without that godforsaken lotion. No. My feet, well, look like I've been walking FOR DAYS on asphalt barefoot without washing them and like they've aged twice as rapidly as the rest of me. But I can wear socks, right?

Because I have no dignity (And because, let's face it, it's funny):

 
And no, my feet aren't dirty. They're just..... tan.

SURPRISE!!!!

So I've been keeping a secret. And I know you and I agreed we wouldn't do that. We said from the beginning we were going to put everything out there, but open and honest, just be frank. But I must confess, I've been hiding something from you. And frankly, it's been killing me. And, I'm so sorry.

For the last two + months, I've been planning a surprise birthday party for my husband. It's a big number for him and I wanted to do something special and clearly, I've never done this before, because seriously? If I had, I probably wouldn't have been doing it again, 'cause goddamn that's a lot of lies and scheming and plotting and while yes, that sounds like fun, lying to your husband for sport, really, it was a lot of work.

I told Candy Ass that we had to go to his grandmother's house Saturday night for a family photo and BBQ. He said he was too busy. But, BUT! it's for a family photo, I said. "I'm busy, Megan," he told me. (Why is it, when you go and try to do something nice for someone, they make it really difficult?) Of course, he didn't know what was really about to happen, but nonetheless, as life would have it, he was being particularly asshole-ish this past week making his little birthday surprise somewhat difficult to pull-off without killing him in the process.

I managed to get his (ready for this?) candy ass to his grandmother's where,

 

SURPRISE! He was definitely surprised. And that's me in the background doing my fake laugh, where through gritted teeth, I use one of my many talents to ask someone to get me some goddamn wine, like NOW, pretty please, because I need a drink.

Why do I need a drink? I mean, besides my difficult husband? Well, the DJ I had hired for our little shindig decided to just not show up. My stress level - on a scale of 1 to 10 - was only an eleventy-billion or so until I managed to find another DJ who, WITH ONLY 20 MINUTES NOTICE, not only took the job, but gave me a slammin' deal.

Said DJ who I owe big time. And not only did he save my ass, he frickin' ROCKED the party, yo.

And here's the thing about Candy Ass' little surprise party. It wasn't just a gathering of friends and family and good food. No. His brothers and I decided to turn it into a roast. OH YES.

How's it feel in the hot seat, asshole? BWAHAHAHA!

Each of his brothers...

...took a turn roasting him...

...including his uncle...

...and yet another brother (he's got a lot of those)...

...until it was my turn.

And you want to know what he just finished whispering into my ear? No, it wasn't anything romantic. It was: "I love you, but you have to go home with me." Whoops.

Then it was P-A-R-T-Y time. And it's not a party without cake.

Someone was kind enough to cut off his head and hand it to me on a platter. Boy, do they know me or what?

Now here's the thing. I L-O-V-E to dance. But Candy Ass? Not so much. In fact, this is the only way to get him on the dance floor... forcibly. And frankly, I'm not above that.

This is where I warn you that the dancing after this point in alcohol consumption evening becomes questionable. Exhibit A.

 

Ahem. Like I said... questionable. At best.

Wha...? Me? Dancing? OK yes. But on camera? Never!

Oh. Wait. Now that's more like it. :)

Me and Big T, gettin' our groove on! At least he'll dance with me.

Aaaaaand.... we're back to the questionable dancing again. Heh.

OH MY GOD! Someone call the local news, is that Candy Ass dancing? WITH ME?? Hmm... maybe those beers and tequila shots were a good investment after all! And, I don't want to make assumptions here, but it almost looks like he's enjoying it. ALMOST.

All in all, the night was a big success and a lot of fun. No casualties or major malfunctions. Although I'm still looking for a certain no-show DJ. God help him.

- - -

P.S. The entire roast was video-taped, although my husband's name (and testicles) are mentioned so frequently through-out that I can't post it. I asked, and now, more than ever, he wishes to remain anonymous-ish. DAMN.

Winner!

What a bunch of ass-kissers! I can't believe that many of you would actually want to meet me. I'm not that great... I'm short, I'm mouthy and terribly boring. (And no, I have no idea what being short has to do with why you don't want to meet me, but I just didn't want you to imagine me all tall and leggy and then meet me and be like, Bitch! You're not at all what I thought!)

Wow. Me and tangents, huh?

Anyway... the winner of the signed copy of Jen Lancaster's Pretty in Plaid:

which is:

Congratulations to Lori! (And good answer, BTW. Ha!) And thanks to everyone for 'fessing up on who you want to stalk and accost. I'm sure your restraining orders are in the mail. Heh.

An evening in photos... and a giveaway

It's like you were with me the whole time, only you didn't get to feel the crunch of my burnt, crimped hair. Which, by the way, was completely TORE UP by the time I got to the book signing, thankyouverymuch.

Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

 

My hair "before." Otherwise known as "How I Should Have Left It."

 

The well-intended crimping iron.

 

"During." (And here's a valuable lesson: Worry LESS about getting a photo of yourself crimping your hair and MORE about the fact that your hair is SMOKING. Might help with breakage. FYI.)

 

Um, if this is my "immediately after," you can only imagine how frizzy my hair was after an hour and forty five minutes in traffic, walking two blocks from the parking structure IN THE WIND to the Cheesecake Factory and then sitting another hour before the actual book signing. YEAH.

  

Let's just agree that we'll add "hair crimping" to the long list of Things I'm Not Good At, right there along side cooking, cleaning and arithmetic.

 

Ready to go!

 

I knew homeboy in the red car was driving kinda funny, but I assumed he was tapping the brakes to the beat of some song... Nope, seems he had a whole different rhythm happening which was evident a little later on when out of the floor boards, seemingly, his passenger magically appeared. Huh.

 

Twittering to find everyone else. WHERE ARE YOU BITCHES?

 

Found them already sitting down at the Cheesecake Factory, waiting on me. I blame the goddamn traffic.

 

Dinner! (Don't they all look THRILLED to have their photo taken?)

 

Pay up bitches.

 

Yes, that's me outside the Barnes & Noble Jen Lancaster display, rockin' my new Urban Outfitter shades and 'fro-y, frizzy no longer crimped but still crispy hair.

 

Waiting. I'd say "patiently" but you all know that's a lie. Plus, it was like 80 bajillion degrees and I was so hot, my hypercolor shirt was getting confused. I kept going from blue to white to blue to white to just sorta tye-dye.

 

Twittering while we wait. Which, if you didn't already know, is soooo the new "whistle while you work."

 

Everyone is holding up their copies of Pretty in Plaid. Some girl up at the front is trying to prove she's a bigger fan than us by taking a photo of everyone with their books. LISTEN BITCH, IF ANYONE HERE IS GOING TO GO TO JAIL FOR ACCOSTING JEN LANCASTER OUT OF LOVE AND ADMIRATION, IT'S GOING TO BE ME, OK? Fortunately for her, she sat down before I could tackle her.

 

Because a fanny pack THIS COOL deserves a close-up. And yes, you're looking at it upside down, but that's because I took the photo while I was wearing it... confusing, I know. BUT RAD, RIGHT?

 

O!M!G! It's JEN LANCASTER!

 

Um, if I wasn't so excited to have met and stood next to and had a brief conversation with Jen Lancaster and need photographic evidence to prove it, this photo would never be seen because HELLO! THE HAIR! Oh my GAWD how could you people let me do that to myself? But Jen? She's LOVELY and DELIGHTFUL and had security so I refrained from touching her. This time.

 

THIS is what success looks like. At least in my dreams. How sweet is that?

What you didn't see was on the next table over, I opened up an artsy looking photography book only to reveal a full-page photo of a completely nude, as in FULL FRONTAL, man and just about died right there on the second floor of the Glendale Barnes and Noble. You can't take me anywhere.

What? You want me to shut-up and get on with the giveaway? Fine. Like I said, it was like you were with me at the book signing, only you weren't. And since you weren't, I brought back a little souvenir: a signed copy of Jen Lancaster's Pretty in Plaid. In the comments section of this post, tell me who you would love to stalk/meet/accost in real life. (Can be an author, a celebrity, whoever.) Enter as many times as you want, each comment = one entry. Giveaway runs through Sunday, May 24 ending at 9:00 PM Pacific Time.

In Hypercolor

Now I'm not one to be all peer pressurey and shit, but if you haven't already read Jen Lancaster's books, then you totally should. She's hilarious and ridiculously funny and fantastic and basically when you read anything she writes (whether it be one of her BESTSELLERS or her blog) you feel like you and her are the best of friends. And not to be all stalkerish and stuff, but Jen Lancaster and I? We are the of best friends. She just doesn't know it yet.

But she will.

Thursday she has a book signing here in So. CA and I am ON IT. I'm there. I am going with bells on. Well, I won't be wearing bells, but I will be wearing my super BAD ASS hypercolor t-shirt* circa 1980 something from American Apparel circa 2009 (thank you, Google) and a SWEET metallic blue fanny pack** with my hair crimped because I'm COOL LIKE THAT. No, I'm not trying to start a new fashion trend... Jen Lancaster's newest book Pretty in Plaid is set in the 80s and she's asked everyone to show up to her book signings in their best 80s gear.

Ever get the feeling you're being told to show up in your Halloween costume only to get there and find out you're the only idiot who dressed up?

But like I said, I may not normally be one to do what others tell me to do (hell, I usually do the opposite, just for the sake of being difficult) but if Jen Lancaster tells me to search heaven and earth (read: Amazon) for a crimping iron*** so I can bring bad hair back, I'll ask, "How high?"

Now go order one or all of her books. Not because I said so, but because you're totally missing out if you don't. She's the shit.

 

*Like I even need to say this, but as soon as my hypercolor t-shirt arrived, I put that bad boy on, cupped my boob with my hand and tested it out. Oh yes, the hypercolor, she worked! Now I just hope I don't sweat profusely standing in line, excited to meet the one! and only! Jen! Lancaster! because the goddamn shirt will sell me out.

**Oh fanny packs, how I've missed you! I mean sure, I don't need any more bulkiness on the hips, but how the hell have you been? You were such a good idea, so well intended... I was sorry to see you go the way of the slap bracelets.

***You KNOW I had to buy one.

Parenting with Dr. Dre

Today was one of those Dora versus Dr. Dre days.

 

You know, the kind of morning where you’re faced to choose between parenting like a “good” mother and turning on Dora so your son can pick up a stray Spanish word which will later haunt you when you ask which color cup he wants The blue or the red? and he says “rojo” and you’re like ANSWER THE GODDAMN QUESTION! Blue or Red? or, going with Satan as your parenting coach and turning up the Eminem, Dre and Fiddy collaboration so loud the neighbors can hear it and wake up at 7 am wondering who the hell is having a bumpin’ party AT THIS HOUR on a Monday no less. 

 

I don’t think I need to even answer which one I chose.

In our house, Dre always wins out because really, I want my kids to have rhythm and rhyme and while yes, Dora teaches kids which paths they should take, Dr. Dre reminds kids which paths to NOT take, so really, they’re pretty much even in the moral, happy ending sort of way if you look at it from my perspective. And you should.

Besides, Dora teaches kids to play with wild monkeys and foxes and didn’t we learn anything from the woman who was mauled by her own pet chimp?

I’m finding all kinds of good excuses for having Dr. Dre back in my life. (Like I need excuses for having a little Dre in my life? WHATEVER.) Now that my oldest is six and indignant, I need some dope comebacks when the backtalk outwits even my best one-liners. (He is my kid, after all.) Although, I have some suspicions about how… appropriate? it is to reply to an “I don’t like what we’re having for dinner. I’m not eating it.” with an “I’m still hungry and I’m back with a tapeworm.*”

Hey, the kid best recognize.

Really though, I’m doing my boys a favor. Ever since McDonald’s decided to seek hateful revenge on parents who cursed their highly caloric trans-fatty fries and went public on their asses over their lard loving ways and ruefully put Kids Bop CDs in their Happy Meals instead of toys, I’ve had to undo the *years* of potential damage to my children’s music appreciation with a healthy dose of Dr. Dre. So, if you think about it, Dr. Dre is like the wonder drug for horrific kid’s music and really? THANK GOD. (Besides, I’m pretty sure it reverses bone loss and prevents osteoporosis too.) (Although, I could be wrong.)

*From Eminem and Dre’s Old Time’s Sake