Undomestic Diva

Ladyscaping

About the only thing more awkward than getting a down there wax is talking about it so, hello, welcome to my blog, you should know better by now. What? You think it's tacky to discuss ladyscaping in a public forum? Try carrying on a full-blown conversation with your wax girl while she's all up in your lady cave ripping tiny little hairs off of you for money.

There are two major issues on the table (ahem) here. 1. The fact that you're trying to have a conversation AT ALL with someone who is staring into your babymaker and, 2. Trying to keep your voice at a consistant tone when she rips that strip off of you. If you were a man, your testicles would have just rescinded right on up in ya because: HOLY HELL.

"So, you moved?" she asks as she nonchalantly applies hot wax and a strip.

"Yeah, I just moved into a new pla--AAAAAY-ce [loud breath] um, over by the park."

"Oh really? What's it called?" She applies more wax, another strip and ignores your watering eyes.

"It's Sweetwater SpRIIIIIIINGs." Your left leg kicks involuntarily.

"No way!" she's way too emphatic about this news as she continues killing you slowly, hair by hair. "We live in that same complex!"

"Oh. Wow. That's OWWWWWW. I mean, cool. That's cool." My mascara runs down my cheek.

"Sorry. Did that hurt?"

"Um. A little?"

No, it didn't hurt a little; it hurt like mad. Like I must have been MAD to think this was a good idea. Like, I'm MAD at myself for paying money for pain. It made me want to stop halfway through and try convince the world that the whole Flock of Seagulls hair cut finally made its way down south.

In the few lulls in conversation I find myself desperately seeking new topics to talk about - anything to distract me from the unpleasantness. But nothing comes to mind. Well, nothing appropriate. It's probably not right to talk about her job. "So? Vaginas, huh?" And food is out of the question because... well, ew.

[Riiiiiiiip.]

"So. You like your apartment?" It's all I've got.

Two thousand rips later and I'm certain my ab and thigh muscles have had the best workout of their life AND I've learned that while I have only lived in my new place a whoppin' two weeks, someone here has already seen my ladyparts. Like, upclose and personal. Well that took less time than expected.

There's bad news and there's good news.

Brace yourselves. I warn you because I was not warned and the news caught me off-guard, it taking me a full minute to catch my breath when L-Dub matter-of-factly announced at dinner tonight that the Salsa Making Beaver died today.

"He turned 100 and he died."

Sadness washed over me. "What? Huh? I just -- How?"

He rolled his eyes at me like CHRIST WOMAN, MUST YOU GET ALL KLEENEX COMMERCIAL ON ME? and replied, "Don't worry, mom. Before he died he had a baby."

"Yeah." E-man chimed in. "Everyone knows that before a Salsa Making Beaver dies they have a live birth to replace themselves. His name is Billy."

"No. His name is Lucky!" L-Dub insisted.

"Well I have my own Salsa Making Beaver and his name is Billy. He lives with Jumping Steve under the slide."

My head ping-ponged back and forth between the two boys who were very adamant about the various creatures inhabiting our backyard, collaborating and almost always agreeing on their story.

I listened incredulously while eyeing the "Honesty Award" L-Dub brought home from school just recently, concluding that having read the dudes all of Shel Silverstein's books and a good percentage of Dr. Seuss' has allowed their minds to frequently venture into a world of anything and everything and how awesome it would be to visit that place of imagination without the constraints of adulthood.

"Do we even have room for all these animals?" I ask the boys, always one to damper the excitement with logistics.

"Uh, yeah. No problem." E-man sets me straight. "They've got, like, plenty of room."

The kids continue scarfing down their pizza like we had just talked about the weather, no big deal, why you frontin' lady? and just as I get up to clear the table, Big T yells after me. "Hey ma. Der was a fox on da playgwound at my school today."

I want to live in their world.

Santa Monica in photos

In between storms, literally and figuratively, Miss and I took in a few hours of a sunny Santa Monica including the Third Street Promenade where we window shopped with our non-dollars and walked the Pier where we saw a very pregnant Pink rubbing her baby belly.

And no, neither Miss or I were arrested... we merely gawked.

Miss and I took in the awesome fashion at Third Street...

and I admit to having a bit of a meltdown when I encountered the 468th cropped t-shirt.

Miss found a fantastic outfit to wear out the next time she has somewhere fancy to go

while I drooled over this hot number for summer...

After the fashion fest we headed to the pier

You can buy this print (sans signature) here.

where we encounter THE ONLY MALAYSIAN CONTORTIONIST!

At least, that's what his cardboard sign claimed. Check out the sparkle!

We perused the souvenior stores and realized we, uh, live here so postcards aren't really required...

And squeeeed a little when we saw this. BIG!

Then we stopped to take our own photo. Of course.

And what's the Santa Monica Pier without a photo of the Ferris Wheel?

You can buy this print here.

Now bring on the rain... But only the literal kind, please.

Love & loathing

There is no in between for me right now. Here are some things I'm loving and some things I'm loathing...

I am loving every single second I get with my dudes. Loving, devouring, soaking it up. And loathing the moments they're not here.

Couldn't help but loathe Christina Mascara Aguilera's crazy bad mascara/fake eyelash job on the Grammys. It was like the back-up singer on the Wedding Singer with Adam Sandler. Holy scary.

I am deeply madly in love with this song:

Current favorite OPI by Sephora nail polish color: Just A Little Dangerous (a deep purple that still looks purple and not black, even after two coats)

Loathing the whole jegging movement. Add the stir-up bottoms and we can just cut ties right now thankyouverymuch. I mean, what's next? Bodysuits making a comeback? Were snaps in the crotch area ever a good idea once we were past, oh I don't know, age 18 months? Hint: The correct answer is NO.

Sorta completely over: Lady Gaga, the Glee phenomenon that I was never a part of (sorry, I know you OMG LOVE IT but for those of us who don't, it's like OMG MAKE IT STOP), Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus, Lindsay Lohan and dishes. I loathe doing dishes. Oh and Taylor Swift. MAKE HER STOP.

In lust with that Diet Dr. Pepper commercial "I Exist"

and loathing the Stella Artois commercial with Adrian Brody. Good god, way to ruin a beer's reputation in 30 seconds flat.

Internety things I love: The Oatmeal and Fail Blog

Internety things I loathe: Overwhelming Twitter parties in ALL CAPS.

What are you loving and loathing? Discuss.

Don't stalk-block me, thankyouverymuch

We have a little problem. Every other day when I venture on to Facebook there's a new frantic status update from 78 percent of my friends in all caps, panicked, urging me and the rest of the world to OMG PROTECT YOUR PRIVACY! BLOCK ALLYOURINFO.COM BY GOING TO PRIVACY > SETTINGS > DELETE! ANYONE CAN SEE YOUR INFORMATION THAT'S REALLY JUST COMPOSED OF YOUR NAME, CITY AND A TOTALLY BULLSHIT HOUSE VALUE BUT STILL YOU SHOULD FEEL VIOLATED, SCARED AND PANIC! COPY AND PASTE THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT DOLPHINS TO DIE!

Eye to the roll.

Worse, are those of you using apps on Facebook that tell you who has been looking at your profile page. Then telling others to CHECK IT OUT! SEE WHO HAS BEEN VIEWING YOUR PROFILE!

Um, isn't that the purpose of Facebook? To stalk other people via their profile pages? And, uh, I'd kinda like to read your shit without you telling everyone I did, thankyouverymuch. I mean, I think I have a right to my Facebook stalking privacy. Respect it, asshole.

You people, blocking these harmless little websites that are often wrong anyway (I know your house isn't work $1.5 right now, sorry), are totally stalk-blocking me. How am I supposed to stalk you if you go and block your shit? Or worse, embarrass me by outing my snooping? This is being very uninternety and frankly I'm ashamed of you.

Also, you can friend me here and like me here. If we're already friends, you're probably blocking me right now. NO BIG DEAL, I've already read allllll your likes, comments and seen your mobile uploads. Or something less stalkerish.

Hands in the air if you send texts better suited as emails and just don't care

So I have this little... problem. I don't like to abbreviate. Which, by very definition, makes me a horrible texter. <-- Even that word? Texter? Feels icky as a former newspaper employee. Also? It sounds dirty. Texter. He texter and she didn't like it. See?!

Also, I obviously have a problem with going off on tangents and never returning. More on that another time.

If you were to receive a text from me, your phone would suddenly sound like it was malfunctioning, hiccupping one text alert after another, several in succession, all because my text is the length of a small novel, sans abbreviations of course.

Example:

Hey, it's Megan. I was thinking about this the other day (because something you said made me think of this so I just had to tell you now) and we should really plan on taking a trip somewhere this summer. Maybe somewhere beachy? I don't know. Do you think that might be too pricey? Maybe we would be better off going in the off-season? Or do you think we should do something different? I don't know why I'm even mentioning it; I'm not sure I can even afford it, but I thought I'd run it by you. I'll email you later so we can talk about it more in-depth because it's so hard to get your point across via text, you know? Hope all is well!

Yeaaaah. True story, fake text.

Someone more textual than I (and I realize that's not at all what textual is supposed to mean, but c'mon, for the sake of this post, let's go with it) will send me a text every once in a while and my Blackberry will let out a lone *CHIRP* letting me know someone had something, um, more brief to say.

Example:

OMG ur whack. rofl ;) xoxo

It would take me like eight sentences to say that same thing and I could never even attempt the "ur" in place of you are or you're without getting an eye twitch.

But get me on the phone - or worse - I hear the beeeeeep on your voicemail and I suddenly have nothing to say. Well, nothing coherent.

Example:

"Uh... This is Megan. [nervous pause, pace the house two very quick times] It's like, shit, what day is it? I don't know. ANYWAYS! Yeah! Call me. It's Megan! [nervous pause, pace the house two very quick times] Um, so, bye! [slam the phone down]

[Come back two minutes later to realize I never hit 'off' on the phone; this is 2000-something, not 1985 - we don't hang up phones without pushing a button anymore, MEGAN.]

This is why my cell phone voicemail outgoing message is still the automated one that came with my Blackberry. THE PRESSURE! I mean, you only get one (fine, endless opportunities) to get the message right, but do you do the creative thing? the professional thing? the play-it-cool-I-don't-care-that-you-called-'cause-I'm-cool-like-that thing? *brain short-circuits*

Also, this kind of thinking might explain my blog posts. Come to think of it.

What would Eminem do?

What would Eminem do? I thought to myself as I sat wedged next to a man wreaking of urine and tap water in the back row of a comedy show that was, ironically, lacking jokes. Sure, a few of the opening acts had tried hard. A for effort! I suppose. One guy, who should have clearly been the headliner, killed it and then was immediately followed by a girl who had to stop after every. single. joke. (I'm being generous here) to find her punchline, I thought, but in actuality she was just catching her breath from laughing at... herself. She was that funny. Her signature line? "ANYWAAAAYS!" Yeah. That.

I didn't have spaghetti for dinner nor did I feel like puking it up but I did know that if I were Eminem (and let's face it, the similarities are not that far off - male, female; 40-ish, 30; recovering drug addict, full-fledge coffee addict - I could go on) I would grab the mic like a vandal and bust out some lyrical genius for the people who forked over their hard earned $10 that night.

(By the way, Daryl, I owe you $10.)

Yes, somehow comedy and freestyle rap became fused and once the show everyone came to see ended it was time - at least in my mind - for the real show to begin. There the mic still sat, lonely on the stage, calling my name. Or maybe that was my friend who needed me to group-bathroom-trip-it with her, I don't know, but what I do know is my body gravitated toward the mic, removed it from its stand and that's when my inner Eminem shivered in sheer joy to realize the damned thing was still on, full volume, and I issued my challenge to the comedy show host to come throwdown with me.

And so we did.

Well. I showed up with my lyrical madness and he just kept mentioning "Megan from the Internet" like I was some sort of web porn star who had been on Rachael Ray. (Don't be surprised if you have to pay to subscribe to this website beginning tomorrow, I might as well milk that little rumor for all it's worth; mama has bills to pay.) His material was lacking and frankly, I expected more from a "comedian." I, on the other hand, had plenty of zingers to hand out and doled them out one after the other with a swiftness even Warren G could appreciate.

At least, that's how I remember it.

The throwdown went on for many loops of horrible beat tracks ghetto-blasting from his DJ equipment and Mac (Whatever happened to mixed tapes? Can we talk about this tomorrow? The world was a better place then; I'm sure the two are connected.) until four police officers stormed the place and we both look at each other like "Wha? Are we that bad? Because, dude, I was OWNING YOU until Beat Track #6 just screeched to a halt. That thing I said about you selling water? That was funny, right? RIGHT?!"

Turns out the police were just looking for a stolen car and the guy who did it. I am still holding a grudge against that dude for ruining my 8 mile moment which because of his illegal activities only reached approximately 3 mile. Or something.

When this highly lucrative blogging career of mine fails me (at some point, we all have to fall, right?) I figure I can segue way into stand-up comedy/freestyle rap with very little disappointment. It's always good to have a back-up plan, right?

P.S. You know how you get into a confrontation with someone and in the moment, you say this or that but the next day you're like DAAAAAMN, how I wish I had said THAT or THIS? Well now you know my misery. The lyrics? They just keep popping into my head. I can't stop them. This is how Beethoven must have felt.

Updated with video clip: Watch me make an ass of myself. Maybe.

To see the clip on today's Rachael Ray, click HERE.

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Tune in Monday (Dec 27) to the Rachael Ray Show [check here for your local times/listings] to see me make an ass of myself... if they didn't cut me from the segment entirely. Which, you know, they just might have.

Rachael Ray you ask? That's what I said to the producer who called and asked me to tape while I was at BlogHer in NYC this past August. I think I responded with something like, "Um, have you read up on me? Seen my blog? I can't cook..." Then the very peppy producer was like "YES! That's what we love about you!" when really, I think she was hoping I'd burn down the Hilton and grab them some extra publicity because you know what they say - there's no such thing as bad publicity...?

I don't know.

Anyway... Let me know if I make it on there and if you manage to find a clip of it if I do, send me a link because chances are a) I'll forget to watch and b) I still don't know how to work that fancy DVR machine and c) then I can analyze over-and-over again just how awful I look on camera 'cause you know THAT'S ALWAYS FUN.

::

Come back here later today when I announce the winner of the super awesome Tassimo T20.

Good fortune

The boys and I shared lunch the other day at Panda Express - not so much for the noodles but more so for the opportunity to use "Chinese sticks." ("You mean, 'chopsticks?'" I corrected the 4 year old. "No, Mom," he replied - clearly irritated that I had no idea what I was talking about. "CHINESE STICKS.")

At home with our noodles and sticks, my oldest touted this as "the best lunch EVER" while my middle guy, picking through his chow mein for "the right noodles" asked me if I knew where there were any flies so he could practice catching them. With his Chinese sticks.

"CHOPsticks."

"CHINESE STICKS!" they shouted in unison.

Who knew lunch could be a) such an adventure, b) such a mess and, c) such an awakening at how culturely deprived my children are. We really need to broaden our horizons from the local Mexican food hole-in-the-walls to I-don't-know? Sushi? Thai? ITALIAN?! Next up: Buying a globe!

But the icing on this cultural cake was the opening of fortune cookies when the noodles had been thoroughly picked through, dropped everywhere and stuck to cheeks, unbeknownst to one indignant 4 year old who couldn't be convinced otherwise.

I read each child's fortune to them as they opened it.

E-man's said: "You will soon find new adventure in life." I told him this was very true and it has always been true.

Big T's said: "Treat a friend to flowers." I told him to leave the neighbor's flowers alone.

Then I read L-Dub's: "You will be involved in many humanitarian projects."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"Well, it means that you will help a lot of people. And you know what? Knowing you, that is very true; you're always very kind, generous and helpf--"

"THAT IS SO NOT TRUE MOM!" I'm interrupted by my oldest who is appalled by L's fortune. "HE STEEEEEAAAAALLS! HE TAKES MY LEGOS! HE FINDS MONEY THAT ISN'T HIS!"

"Yes, son, but aside from all that, he's a very good person."

Keeping the peace since 2003.

Oh, but you deserve this Uncle Frank