Undomestic Diva

Infidelity

You would not believe the rage searing through my bones right now. The absolute hate, not even I thought I was capable of. But sure enough, here I am teetering on the edge of sanity, toying with the idea of first degree murder. (Which makes it first degree murder.)

The other day, Candy Ass and I accepted a neighbor's invitation to come over and swim. So we went on over, but neither of us really wanted to get in the pool just yet, so he and I sat on their couch talking about the normal things like boob jobs and how much they cost. When I noticed a girl we both knew was there - a girl who also happened to have had a boob job - I called her over and explained to Candy Ass that she had hers done and look how nice and real they look. He just looked at me, thoroughly crimson in color, a little shocked that I had so openly discussed someone else's breastes in front of her, in front of him.

I decided to go ahead and go swimming in the pool and left Candy Ass to sulk on the couch about his inappropriate wife. When I went out back, I noticed no one was in the pool yet so I just made small talk with an old friend for fifteen minutes or so before going back inside to find Candy Ass.

And boy, did I ever find Candy ASS.

There, on the couch where I left him, he laid, pants undone, with the Boob Job Girl naked and on top of him, doing her best impression of riding a bull, while giving him a personal tour of her plastic surgeon's work, among other things.

That muther f u c k i n g  bastard was cheating on me, right there, in the same house as me! Like I wouldn't see it? Like someone else wouldn't stumble upon them ON THE LIVING ROOM COUCH?!?! It felt like years before Candy Ass finally turned his cheating bitch ass head my way and caught my knowing stare, and then all he did was sort of shrug (!!!) like Aw well, what's a man to do?

Can you even  f u c k i n g  believe the nerve? I was am so hurt and pissed and shocked. I wanted to cry and yell and kill and just annihilate. Of all the things, of all the ways he could hurt me... I mean, christ... is there anything more insulting?

And you better believe that as soon as I woke up, I punched that asshole straight in the chest, at which point he sat straight up, adjusted his eyes to the light of day and said, "What the  f u c k  did you hit me for? I was sleeping!"

Oh no he didn't. That cheating bastard did not just question me. "You're a no good, cheating bastard and you're lucky I didn't kick you squaw in the nuts for your little act of infidelity. I HATE YOU!" I told him.

He just plopped his head back down on his pillow, rubbed his sore chest (that's right bitch!)and muttered, "Christ."

I'm telling you, that dream was so real and vivid, chock full of people we knew and nudity and so graphic in detail that I still hate him and it's been four days since my dream nightmare. Asshole.

Green Tampons

It's sooo not what you think. Honestly.

Last night, watching the boob tube with Candy Ass, I saw a commercial that caught my attention. It was a tampon commercial... o.b. Tampons, specifically... proudly announcing that their tampons are "green."

[For what few men remain reading this after my post title, let me explain that they are not green in color but as in environmentally (to your vag?!?!) friendly. I know. I don't get it either.]

Seriously folks. I'm all for trying to save the world and all that, but please, for the love of god, do not start talking about recycling or organic this or that when it comes to stickin' cotton in your hooch. Aight?

I will use the reusable bags for grocery shopping. I will turn in my electronic devices for recycling. I will turn off the water whilst brushing my teeth. BUT I AM NOT REUSING-REDUCING-OR-RECYCLING my tampons. The end.

And to think I thought Always brand had the obnoxious advertising scheme covered... the way they tell you to "have a happy period." Hey Always, guess what? THERE'S NO SUCH THING, ASSHOLES. (Not that I get pissy or PMS-y around that time of the month or anything. I'm just sayin'.)

BTW, when I went to o.b.'s website  to verify that it was, indeed, their commercial, I was greatly disturbed by the Q&A section, complete with diagrams. Frankly people, if you have to ask some of those questions to the makers of tampons, you should not be allowed to use them. Period.

Sums it up

How does that saying go? A picture's worth a thousand words?

Well.

I can sum up this one in three words...

That's right, bitch.

Wrong or right, I'd have to say this pretty much depicts the relationship between Candy Ass and I. Although... who's doing the ground-and-pound varies day-to-day.

Drill Bit

God, if you're out there, I just want you to know that I love Target. I covet Target. If Target had balls, I'd lick them. AMEN.

I bought myself a distressed black shelf at Target the other day (just to piss off Candy Ass because I thought it would go nicely with a photo I took and wanted to hang with it on my living room wall) while I was there buying our first ever toilet paper roll holder (is that what that thing's called?). Candy Ass said this was one of those "unnecessary purchases" he's been chiding me about at which point I had to tell him that the goddamn toilet paper roll holder was a waste of both his, mine and our money because it's not like anyone's going to reload it. And we've done fine without one for... ever.

So I kept the shelf, 'cause homegirl here has to put her foot down at some point and [thunk] don't mess with Texas Target. BIATCH.

Unfortunately, I needed his help to get the stupid thing out of the box it came in and onto the wall. This should have been simple enough, but noooooo, there were lots of tools involved and measuring and leveling and GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, can't we just wing it and see where it ends up?

You know I'm not kidding when I say it took a drill, a hammer, a level, a stud finder (and the obligatory stud finding joke here), two different sized drill bits, two three drywall screws and half the lead in a #2 pencil to hang that god forsaken shelf.

To the left. No to the right. No wait - up higher. Yeah, but don't forget the screw hole is actually lower. OK now center it. No no no! Don't center it on the wall, center it under the picture. Like 3/4 of an inch. Like 3/4 of an inch or 3/4 of an inch EXACTLY? Just eye it. No, measure it. JUST HANG THE MUTHA UP ALREADY. Jeesh.

There was lots of measuring and marking the walls on Candy Ass' part. I'm pretty sure there were even some algebraic formulas and geometry involved. I did my part by handing him the hammer and sighing really loudly to indicate (in case he didn't know) that this whole hanging-the-shelf-thing was taking waaaay too long. When the POS shelf finally made it to the wall, I stood back and went HUH. It's crooked. WHAT DO YA KNOW???

Candy Ass swears it's not crooked, it's me. Yeah, like I haven't heard the "walls aren't straight" theory before. And Spencer didn't cheat on Heidi. Mmm-hmm.

Next time, I swear to god, I'm just gonna hang my crap up myself. I have a drill. Somewhere. I know. Me and a power tool?!?! Probably not a good idea. But sometimes, a girl just needs to screw something - even when there isn't a strong man around to do it for her. Best be prepared. And I would so do it too... if I can only figure out how to make the stupid drill bit stay in the hole.

But for now, the shelf is hung and I am happy with that. Even if the very, very lightweight items that shelf supports slowly slide ever so slightly to the right.

Waxing Gone Wrong

Tried my new waxing pot, then read the directions. For help. Because not only did the hair not come off my leg, but neither did the wax.

Not sure why I decided to try waxing my legs two hours before a photo shoot, but let's just say I had to go take photographs with my pant leg firmly adhered to my shin the whole time. Very professional, I know.

I tried all of the 5 creams/lotions/magic potions that came in the waxing set and none of them removed the wax. Then I found a little bottle labeled "Sure Clean." Holy hell, did that sting. Apparently, "Sure Clean?" Not so much for cleaning your leg as it is for cleaning the appliance. Per the label. Which I read after.

That was Friday. This is Monday. I still have wax on my leg.

Help. For the mother effing love of god, help.

Random Confessions (A Winner!)

I don't know how we went from random (but true) things about ourselves to self-incriminating over-the-top, effed up confessions. BUT I LIKE IT.

Truly though, so good to know that I'm not only effed up whack job in the blogosphere. Apparently you all are in that same category with me.

Although, if I'm being completely honest, I'm a little worried. Not just about all of you and your randomness, but because I totally get your fear of birds and moths and clowns (OH MY GOD! CLOWNS!!). It might be wrong that I like the idea of hiding dirty dishes in the stove too and would totally just throw them in a river if there was a river outside my kitchen window. I, too, dance with absolutely no rhythm to the likes of Kanye West and feel no shame. I once ate pickles and orange juice and promptly threw up in my husband's car... We're not so different. And that's effing scary. 

Let's be friends forever.

Coffee Bean, oh Coffee Bean. You win. You win because statistically, you were bound to win with your multiple offerings of craziness. You win because it's hard to compete with the breast milk mac and cheese. (Which, btw, I don't think a single one of us can ever consume again.) And you win because, frankly, I want to make sure you're sipping coffee instead of Jim Beam. I will expedite that pound of Starbucks Coffee Beans to you.

Thanks for all your entries. It was like confession. But different. And probably less forgivable.

Who are you calling a Cootie Queen, Lint Licker?

God, I really need to brush up on my slanguage...

Don't forget to add your 3 Random (but true) Things in the comments section of yesterday's post through 8:00 PM Pacific tonight. Winner announced tomorrow.

Mommy, how do you spell...

The E-man never disappoints.

While I was cooking dinner the other night (please, somebody order me a trophy for actually cooking dinner), E-man said he had a question for me.

"What's up, E-man?"

"Mommy, how do you spell sit?"

"Sit? Sound it out."

"Does it start with a C?"

"No. Try again. Sit. S-s-sissss."

"No mommy, not sit. SHIT. Like the stuff that comes out of your butt."

[internal conflict ensues disguised by a thoughtful pause - and maybe a slightly audible snicker]

"Honey, it's S-H so it sounds like shhhhhh."

"Oh."

"But, you probably shouldn't call it that. 'Poop' would be better."

I know. I was really proud of me too.

Because I care about my children's teeth

Just in case you haven't heard, I'm not above telling white lies when it comes to protecting my children from gingivitis.

ME: E-man, you need to do a better job of brushing your teeth.

E-MAN: Why?

ME: Because, I don't want the dentist to have to rip them out with pliers.

E-MAN: Why?

ME: Because it would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, trust me.

CANDY ASS: And because the dentist will have to put spiders in the holes to eat all the junk out.

ME: That's right.

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.