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.

Lady Liberty

Thought I'd over-share a bazillion photos from our 4th of July celebration (which we celebrate on the 3rd of July... confusing, I know) because it is one of our most favorite holidays.

This is the single worst band I've ever heard hired professionally for something as big as the event we went to. They sucked. Karaoke by random tone-deaf people would have been better than them. I'm not being mean, I'm being HONEST. Unlike whoever told them they were good. It was entertainment, for sure.

Then there was this lady, I'll call her Lady Liberty, who was the only person dancing to this band.

And boy, did she have some moves!

I'm not sure what you call this, but damn, I got get me some moves like that!

No, she's not stuck like that, she's dancing.

Oh yeah. BA-BY!

Don't think I wasn't hootin' and hollerin' as she did this... move.

And did I mention there was NO ALCOHOL at this event? It wasn't like she was tipsy or anything.

Uh-oh. The hat is coming off...

Check out that hip action!

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Wait? Who's this crazy lady dancing with Big T?

Oh. Wait. Just my mom.

Dancing in circles with Big T who loves, loves, loves music.

Now she's wrastlin' with Big T and L-Dub.

See this HAWT hippie dude in the tye-dye? Oh yes.

He's dancing too... He and Lady Liberty should really hook up.

The Tye-Dye Guy manages to get a crowd going. Of course, they're only mocking him, but whatever. He was happy with that.

This guy? No idea who he is but he looks like he might have been in that Howard Stern movie way back when. What was it? Private Parts? GROOVY, baby!

Wild Bill (aka Pappa) playin' with Big T.

The E-man and his bubbles. It ain't 4th of July without bubbles.

L-Dub rockin' the hawk.

My sister and Big T enjoying the music. And yes, that's Tye-Dye Guy still rockin' out (hours later) right there to the left of them.

And you can't have a good time without a phallic balloon hat. Big T wore that all the way home.

***

In addition to 3rd and 4th of July fun, we swam, ate ourselves sick (I think I will smell like BBQ for the next week) and oh yeah, get this, Candy Ass spent all of Saturday blowing insulation in our extremely under-insulated attic. We're hoping this will help manage the hellish temps about to overwhelm us this week...

(WTF? Humidity? This is Southern CA. WE DON'T KNOW MOISTURE!)

Well, whilst blowing the insulation, Candy Ass also installed a sky light in one of our bathrooms. OK, so it's not so much a sky light as it is an attic light, in that, he fell through the ceiling and we now have a fantastic view of the innards of the attic. (It's the same idea as a glass bottom boat, but different. Just wait until Architectural Digest gets ahold of this little gem. I think we're onto something here.)

(BTW, this is why we have such good senses of humor... life is... funny.)

How was your holiday weekend?

War and Peace - Minus the Peace

I feel like I just might have solved the world's peace problem this weekend.

OK, so maybe it wasn't world peace that I discovered, but I did figure out the mysterious missing piece of the very confusing leg waxing puzzle that has been haunting me for weeks now.

Yes, all this time, my legs have gone un-waxed. Bite me.

On Friday night, I actually googled "waxing legs at home" to unearth the answers to my very complex problems in the ol' waxing-mah-legs-but-no-hair-and-no-wax-comes-off problemo. I thought maybe I was missing the magic word or some tool or common sense, but after watching a YouTube video on leg waxing, I'm happy to report that all I needed was a little baby powder.

Baby-effing-powder. That's the key, apparently.

Of course, three young kids, two still in diapers/pull-ups and guess who couldn't find a single smidge of baby powder in her house? Maybe I should have bought new powder after Big T's little cornstarch adventure. Aw well.

I tell you, it was like torture waiting a full 24 hours before I could get to Tarjay to buy a new bottle. And when I finally picked it up off the shelf, it was like an orchestra playing at the end of the aisle, hallelujahing my happy ending. Only different.

I got home and heated that wax up, making sure it was good and hot before applying it to the skeptical little hairs on my shin. (It might have been my imagination, but I could swear the hairs were actually mocking me, like the three little pigs mocked the big bad wolf.) Determined, I dipped the popsicle stick in the wax and spread it down my leg. Like butter, baby! Then swore out loud because, oh yeah, hello dumbass, I FORGOT TO APPLY THE GOD FORSAKEN POWDER FIRST. Duh. So I tried again, this time applying powder opposite the leg hair growth, which allegedly, makes the wax stick better to the hairs... Wow. I'm almost gagging and it's my leg hair I'm talking about. You must be dry heaving already.

Not that I'm going to stop or anything.

Guess what. The powder? IT WORKED! It was indeed the answer to my follicle problems. Granted, I only did a one-inch area near my ankle, but whatever, I'm happy that I have a one-inch area with no hair. I'm so appreciative of my hairlessness. I hope this gets me points with the Man Upstairs, 'cause frankly, I need them.

No, I still have not gone ahead with the rest of my legs because, well, it hurts like a bitch.

Besides, I couldn't possibly continue all the hair removal madness on Sunday because it was officially Family Fun Day Sunday around here which meant forced family togetherness. And, I could be wrong, but I don't think that includes ensuring smooth legs, according to the rule book. Such an activity might adversely affect these boys of mine. (It ain't pretty, you'll have to take my word for it.)

We did, on the other hand, go see Wall E? Walle? Wall-e? That damn robot movie. I'd be happy to give you a review but I only saw the first 45 minutes of it, at which point Big T decided patting the man on the head in the row in front of us was waaaay more interesting. Can't say I didn't agree. So he and I ventured out to the arcade where he happily crashed his way through five dollars in quarters on some race car video game.

And by the way, just a side note: World peace is not possible, especially on Family Fun Day Sunday. All that togetherness only results in one outcome: bloodshed. Somebody call the UN and let them in on that secret. Thankyouverymuch.

I Kissed A Girl... And I liked it.

OK, so it wasn't me kissing a girl, so you all can just erase that image from your dirty little perverted minds. But Katy Perry did, allegedly, and her song is perma-stuck in my head. Her music is just one of the things I'm diggin' at the moment...

I'm also constantly hearing Rehab's Bartender Song in my head, which, for whatever reason, I think of as the perfect summer song. Which makes very little sense. But then again, Hey Very Little Sense, meet No Sense At All.

(Obviously not the official music video - which I could not find - but the song, oh how I love this song. Makes me want to sit in a bar on the inside, waiting for my ride on the outside. Or something like that.)

Speaking of things I love... Some new (to me) blogs I'm totally in lust with include the oh-so-wrong and yet oh-so-right Black Hockey Jesus at Wind In Your Vagina. And then there's Cynical Dad, who had me at Cynical. And we're still getting to know each other, but it might be serious between Miss Britt and I.

Other things I'm loving... fog, cappuccinos, flip flops, gold and bronze nail polish, Megaritas (recipe coming Friday), wrist tattoos, Thursday night yoga class, the smell of new books, upcoming Fourth of July, networking with fellow bloggers, iced green tea, vintage cameras, Sonya Dakar 365 sunblock, BBQ'd sweet onion, lesbian shorts, late night Friends reruns, locally-grown strawberries and helping my boys learn to swim.

Things I'm so not digging... the heat, oh the mutha effin' heat, my dying cell phone, cracked heels, having to fly in a couple of weeks, Vince McMahon, skinny jeans, suburbia, Amy Winehouse, gas prices, no attic insulation, boob sweat, Indiana Jones, laundry and bad summer tv.

What are you loving and hating?   

Epiphany!

I had an epiphany this weekend and I can't seem to get a grip on what it means exactly. All you psychoanalytical types should have a field day with this one.

Admiring my middle guy, L-Dub, fixing me a supposed fruit salad out of make-believe plastic vegetables, I told my grandmother that he's going to be a chef today (after retiring from the UFC, that is) because he loves to cook, or at least pretend to cook, and he's always wanting to help in the kitchen. (Not help me, of course, but my mom who has the patience and actually uses her kitchen.)

Just a little while later I was telling my grandma a funny story about E-man and how he was watching that annoying "I Love Toy Trains!" DVD for the billionth time and saw the little commercial at the end that tells children to stop by their store in Michigan. They show the store, a wonderland of model trains running in every direction, through tunnels and over bridges and crashing into each other... There's nothing more appealing to the E-man. For days, E-man kept asking me if we could go to Mexican. Huh? Finally he said, "Mexican! The place where the toy train store is." Oh. "You mean Michigan?"

The next morning I came out to find E-man with my old bible (from my days of growing up Mormon) and he had it opened up to the back where there are a few maps of what I would assume is, like, the holy land or something. He looked up at me, very seriously, and said, "Hey mom, I think I found the best route to get to Michigan" as he traced his finger across the page.

My grandma just laughed, knowing only the E-man could come up with such a thing. I then told her how he'd just about made me choke on my dinner the other night when he asked if anymore babies were going to come out of my stomach. "Um, no," I replied rather insistently. Immediately, he retorted with, "Well, that's what you were made to do." What? I guess that's what we get for having him in a holy rollin' private Christian preschool.

I asked my grandma, E-man's going to grow up to be a bishop or priest or something, isn't he? Again, she just laughed.

Then there's Big T, my youngest, who will literally throw a blood-curdling tantrum if you don't let him use the vacuum. And I mean, he doesn't just want to push it around; he wants to plug it in, turn it on and diligently vacuum the same two foot square spot on our rug over and over again. One morning, while trying to get a few other things done, I went on ahead and let him vacuum for two and a half hours. And he cried when I finally turned it off. Hey. It's not child labor if he likes it, right?

Suddenly, as I told these funny little stories to my grandma, it occurred to me (epiphany!) that my kids are becoming everything I'm not: E-man the faithful, L-Dub the chef and Big T the clean one.

I'm not sure what this says about me - or about them - or about how I'm raising them, but it's kinda ironic, right? In a funny, ha ha kind of way?? Unless, of course, it means that E-man has been neglected in the spiritual department and is therefore seeking it out or that L-Dub is interested in learning how to cook because, well, I suck at it. And does that mean we live in such filth that Big T, at two years old, is taking it upon himself to handle my bidness?

Shit.

Weekend O' Fun

So the fever has broken. That's the best way I can describe that last four days of hot, sweltering heat hell that we in So CA have been experiencing surviving. Up until tonight, there has been no relief, no breeze, no let up of any sort with temps well over 100 degrees. Even our nights have been disgustingly hot, ceiling fans full throttle, nearly naked bodies atop the sheets. Finally, last night, it was like the fever broke and there was finally a slight breeze. More like a slight tickle of air movement which we will gladly accept and say thankyouverymuch for.

Needless to say, this past weekend was more of an adventure than it was just another weekend. E-man had his first T-Ball game Saturday morning on a field with not a single tree for shade and it, just, sucked. Besides the heat, the opposing team's coach was a little intense, I thought, for 5 year olds, yelling several times "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING??! THAT'S THE SECOND TIME YOU MISSED THE BALL!!"

Um, hello. They're five. They are not pitchers, outfielders, first base or short stops; they are dandelion pickers. Accept it, Mr. Vicarious.

Following the big game, we headed to our neighbors son's birthday party where L-Dub and Big T literally swam, fully clothed, in their little kiddie pool while I sipped lemonade. Heaven.

Then we headed over to my mother-in-laws to swim, escaping the heat for a little while in their pool. God I wish we had a pool. I mean, yes, the whole getting to swim in your inconsiderate bikini in the comfort of your home is something to appreciate, but being able to wear the kids out via a couple hours in your backyard pool is priceless. Eat that, MasterCard.

But the go-go-go didn't end there. We ended up at my parents for a BBQ with my grandparents and Uncle in town. The kids ended up in her kiddie pool there also. They splashed and soaked each other and then turned their attention to my sister who then regressed 14 years and doused them back. Of course, my kids were the underdogs and so I, being the SUPER MOM [gag] that I am, had to get involved and protect my kids by turning the hose on her. I handed the hose to E-man, turned it on full-blast and told him to aim it at her. When I turned around, that fickle little bastard turned the hose on me.

Being a super mom? Totally overrated.

Later that night, after the kids had passed out from too much sun and water, I took a trip back to the 1980s Saturday night when I stumbled upon the movie "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" with Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt. If you have, in some way or somehow, never seen this movie, then I command you to go back right now in your time machine, and re-live the 80s, teased bangs and neon day glo clothing and all.

Sunday was chock full of family grocery shopping. (God, how I wish I had a camera with me to capture Candy Ass singing Buckcherry's "Sorry" at the top of his lungs on the way to Costco for you.) And more swimming. I am now reddish-brown, exhausted and praying for some cooler weather. Fog. Fog would be nice.

I did try reading over the weekend, but the first book I finished and the second book I started both talked of rainy, drizzly, cold weather and I just wanted to throw them against the wall in a jealous fit. I've decided that with all this heat, I want to move to Seattle. I want rain and sweatshirt weather. I want to be in the Starbucks mecca. I hear that instead of swimming pools, they have lakes of pure espresso. Or is that just one of my fantasies?

So... how was your weekend. And don't even tell me you had rain. 'Cause then we'd have to break up.

The Dog Days of Summer

The heatwave we've got going here in So. Ca is straight up disgusting, fo shizzle. At 8:30 last night it was 84 degrees out still. I've got enough boob sweat goin' on to disgust a small third world country.

Because that's one of those things you should definitely know about me.

So yesterday, to keep cool, I took the boys out back to give the ol' Slip-N-Slide another go, now that they've got the hang of it. After all, there were no injuries the day before and Morty did not digest it yet. Besides, I wanted to get a few good photos to share on this here blog. But of course, nothing ever goes as planned.

I thought that, before we got the to the fun part of things, we could first give Morty a bath since he desperately needs it and it was so warm that it might actually feel good. I hooked him to his leash, pet him and told him what a schmooky-wooky-gooood-doggy-woggy he was and then squeezed the trigger on the hose to see if it was on and ready.

Well, when I squeezed the hose trigger I might as well have squeezed off a shot from a 9mm because all 150 pounds of Morty leaped into full speed panic, dragging me across the yard, over the plastic pool, around a tree and, with two feet dug into the ground, he pulled me halfway across our patio before running me into a chair. It was like being on a really cool ride at Six Flags except different. Good times.

Like a dumbass, I had wrapped the leash around my hand several times when beginning to bathe him so that he was close to me and I felt like I had as much control as possible over him. Heh. Well that sure as hell backfired when he went flying and so did I, not being able to just let go of the leash. I'm pretty sure he might have broken one the many small bones in the top of my hand and boy, does that hurt like a bitch.

This is what? the second day of outdoor fun that has led to some camera-worthy moments (well, America's Funniest Videos, at least) and not a single one was captured on film. Ah, well. Surprisingly enough, I do have a tiny bit of dignity and I'm a little relieved that I'm unable to show you me, in all my pajama bottom glory, being dragged by a small horse Morty in front of my children who simply ran the other direction from us.

I did, however, manage to capture what I looked like after the whole debacle, which, I have to say, is less than impressive. In the end, apparently it was me who needed the bath.

 

Don't I look pleased?

Needless to say, Morty got off the hook when it came to the bath -- but not because I wanted to let him get away with it, but because, frankly, I didn't have it in me to go another round with a dog that outweighed me and - clearly - is much stronger than I.

(Somehow, I think that last line will someday apply to my three boys. Which is very, very scary.)

Today is supposed to be another miserably hot day - yippee! - and I am telling you, I am not above foiling all the windows if it means keeping the house even two degrees cooler. But as far as attempting some outdoor activity, eh, it ain't that hot. This homegirl can't really take much more trauma...   

Slip-N-Slidin'

It ain't easy being a mom and if anyone ever said it is, than it must have been Candy Ass a man. A stupid, stupid man.

I confess to being less than super when it comes to mastering the role of mother to my three boys who, on a daily basis, tie me up with rope and make me promise to buy them things from the dollar section at Target before coloring a mustache on my upper lip with a permanent Marks-A-Lot before finally letting me go. (You would think I'd find a better hiding spot for all that rope, but apparently I'm raising super smart, MacGyver-quality children who manage to find ways around my cleverness without breaking a sweat. At least, that's what I'd like to think. While bound and hanging from the ceiling fan by my ankles.)

In my shortcomings as a mother, I've been accused by the Fun Police of frequently passing over exciting opportunities for my children in the name of safety and avoiding hospital bills. Oh, it's true that I'm a bit of a hardcore worrywart, but I've got three amazingly raucous little boys that I can't help but be smitten over and simply can't stand the thought of losing one of them in an unfortunate air show accident or via a hungry bear whilst fly fishing in the Sierras.

And don't even bother me with the against-the-odds statistics; I find math to be a precarious sport of its own.

Because she knew I wouldn't, my mom bought my guys a Slip-N-Slide for a little backyard summer fun. Normally, I'd think Oh, yeah, right... my kids are going to break a bone trying to surf the yellow wave of slippery plastic! And what's summer with a broken ankle in a cast that can't get wet? But today, in an effort to not reach the human boiling point in our sweat box, I broke out the Slip-N-Slide with such furor that the kids just watched, slack jawed, unsure of what to do.

One would think the set up to a Slip-N-Slide would include all of two steps - opening the box and turning on the hose. But oh no, this Slip-N-Slide required blowing up the jaws of some treacherous shark my precious little boys were going to have to wiggle their fannies through before SNAP! the jaws clamp down to eat my young. Then I had to donate a few gallons more of hot air to the ship-thingamajig at the end that, if they survived the jaws of unlife, would save them from eating it into the swing-set Morty's slowly been devouring.

See. Life's full of danger.

Anyway, like a full 90 minutes later, old Jaws here was spraying his water waaaay wayward (which I hear can be a real problem) and was only in the upright position thanks to several propped up plastic bulldozers and loaders who were kind enough to help out. Meanwhile, my boys stood inside watching, their noses pressed up against the sliding glass door, with Big T banging his head against it at a slow tempo as if to say Jesus, could this take any longer? Which, ironically enough, was exactly what I was thinking too.

Finally, three pairs of swim trunks, a whole bottle of sunblock and a frozen green tea later (for me), the boys set out to break some bones have a little fun. I got my camera out, 'cause that's what good mothers do (I'm practicing), and sat my ass down a safe distance from the splashing and waited patiently to dial 9-1-1.

But the boys just stared at the yellow brick road to pain and said, "Um, what do we do?" I told them just to run and slide on their bellies.

Blank expressions from all three.

You know, I said and then did some flailing of the arms and awkward motions to try and simulate the precise body pose one should erect to correctly Slip-N-Slide.

Still, nothing.

And then E-man white-flagged-it and said, "Um, mom, we don't like this thing. Can we play in the mud?"

Uh, let me think about it, yeah, NO. I spent 90 minutes sweatin' and sunburning, blowing what little hot air I have (oh, shut-up) to get this humdinger in the ready position and these ungrateful little brats don't want to play with it????

Not that I would be upset by that or anything. I'm just sayin'.

So I did what the good mothers of America would do and I said, Hey boys, watch your mama do this shiat up right! And I slipped and slided my lesbian-shorts-wearing-fat-ass down that Slip-N-Slide like nobody's business.

Only, because of that damn thing called friction, I actually only made it, like, four feet before squeaking to a stop, when, what-do-ya-know, ol' Jaws managed to spray his blast of water straight into my eye. Once I regained the feeling in my body and was able to roll, whale-style, over and off the now twisted yellow mat, I gingerly looked up at my kids who were absolutely shrieking with laughter.

You know you're hot mess when 5, 3 and 2 year olds laugh at you. BTW.

But you know what? My little Olympic-worthy Acrobatic Feat of Flailing (it's a real sport, google it) sent those kids flying down the Slip-N-Slide for the next straight hour. Of course, they didn't exactly do it belly-style, but I don't know that I truly did either, so their idea of how to go about Slip-N-Sliding may be a bit skewed.

Ah well. I'm just doin' the best I can... you know the rest.

And while the only responses I got from the Fun Police when I told them I actually allowed my breakable little babies on that Slide-O-Death was "it's too bad no one was there to video tape you going down that thing," I knew I had personally grown as a mother, having stretched my personal boundaries. Not to mention my sciatic nerve. I'm pretty sure I over-extended it. But that's what they say, right? No pain, no gain?

[limp]

 

Namaste *Updated*

Updated to add video of Candy Ass trying to do yoga on the Wii Fit:

Candy Ass Yoga-ing from Undomestic Diva on Vimeo.

I've started going back to Yoga to get back into shape. (HA!) Back into shape? Never was in shape. But I have been in better shape. Anyway, I thought going back couldn't hurt 'cause I've missed it. And by going back I mean I went last week and then already had to skip this week because I've still got a sore throat and I can't picture doing the whole ujjayi breath in pain. AND BECAUSE I'M LAZY. But I am so going next week. Swear.

Before I tried yoga, I thought it was a pretentious trend among celebrities and therefore the "it" thing to do here in Suburbia where moms think anything Hollywood equates to fabulous. So I resisted the urge to try it, simply because I didn't want one of them, standing in line at Starbucks in the insta-wedgie leggings, mat slung over my shoulder, hair in a sloppy I-just-had-sex ponytail talking to my best girlfriend in her matching get-up saying, "I know, like, oh-mi-gawd was that just, like, the most amazing session ever?" And then having my best girlfriend reply to me (all while keeping the barista AND THE REST OF US IN LINE waiting) "You're soooo right. When we were in half moon pose I totally thought my leg was going to give. We, like, should go more often, and like get our own blocks and like maybe see about one of those one-on-one sessions, for, like, privacy."

What can I say except some of the women in this one-horse-town make me want to throw in the towel and become a carnie, traveling around the armpits of the country eating cotton candy and sleeping among gigantic stuffed animal prizes.

But after having my third child, Big T, I went through almost ten months of migraines EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And I mean, I thought I was going to die. I say doctors, neurologists, neurosurgeons – the whole gamut – and was basically told that it was a hormonal thing (isn't it always) and that this happens post-partum sometimes and basically, yeah, wait it out.

Not being one who likes to take any medication (not even Tylenol), I had asked the neurologist about alternative treatments like acupuncture or yoga. He scoffed at me like a lot of medical doctors do and said, "Um, sure, if you want to waste your time."

So when I started seeing a different neurologist, I asked him the same thing. And he told me to most definitely try it, couldn't hurt. So I did and I loved it. And better yet, while it didn't complete diminish my headaches, it most certainly, I believe, lessened the number of headaches I got.

I was really nervous to try yoga at first. I had heard of all the emitting of gases that can occur whilst yoga-ing and, while I know girls don't fart, I was afraid a girl might-could be able to when twisted and pretzeled into abnormal positions. To this day, I have never heard a person fart during yoga, although I'm pretty certain I've smelled one.

The bad thing about yoga is that once you start going, you have to keep going in order to enjoy the feel-good benefits. A good yoga class won't make you hurt, but if you stop practicing, your body does ache. It's like trying to stop your crack cocaine addiction and then BAM! you feel like shiat. Ya know? Me neither.

There are a million good things about yoga and no, being able to put your legs behind your head is not one of them. (In case Candy Ass is reading this.) To believe in the true magic of yoga, let me just explain that the F.U.P. us mom's are carrying around from having babies (you know - that fugly crap that continues to dangle and curdle no matter how much weight we lose?) well, IT CAN DISAPPEAR with diligent yoga practice. Abra-mutha-effing-cadabera, sign your ass up right now.

I'm still trying to get Candy Ass to try yoga with me – for a couple of reasons. a) He thinks there's nothing to it. "What? Standing around? Stretching?" and b) He thinks it's only for gay guys. Which is 90 percent true, but I have seen the occasional husband or very… metro… but straight guy.

The yoga center I go to happens to be next to a huge retirement village and you'd be surprised at what some of those grey hairs can do. They shuffle in, put their fake teeth in the back room and creak-and-crack trying to bend down to lay out their mat. Then class starts and suddenly they're doing tree pose and plank without breaking a sweat. They put me to shame. It's a little embarrassing, honestly.

Speaking of shame, I wonder if blogging about yoga counts as having done yoga today.

I did try to do those at-home yoga DVDs since it's not always easy getting out of the house to get to class, but having my kids mock and laugh at me from the doorway of their room as I do downward facing dog kinda puts a cramp on the whole concentration/inner-focus part. I can't exactly be in Virabhadra and have them calling out to me, "Hey mom, why you doing that oga like that? Why do you like to do oga? Can we do oga? You look FUNNY like that!"

I think if you yell, "SHUT-UP GODDAMNIT!!" it's considered a yoga foul. Bad chakra and all.

And by the way, I wouldn't be caught dead at Starbucks in my yoga clothes… especially after a practice. IT AIN'T PRETTY. I'm not one of those sexy sweaty women who looks like a Victoria's Secret swimsuit model after a long hot day of tanning, bronzed and glistening. Goddamnit.

Blech

I am sick in bed, dying from a wicked case of the flu and wishing I could be doing ANYTHING but lying here, which is ironic since, on any normal given day, I'd kill to spend the day in bed.

Anyway, I finally announced the winners of the Undomestic Reader's Kick-Off Contest here. Sorry for the delay.

I'll be back tomorrow with my normal BS and bitchiness. Aren't you lucky.