Undomestic Diva

Road rules

I am not what you would call a patient driver. No. When it comes to the road, it seems the assholes just magically appear out of nowhere just to piss me off. I'm certain it's not because they are simply idiots but that they actually have a vendetta against me and want to do me physical and emotional and middle finger harm. So I might take it a little personally when dumbasses break the rules of the road.

If you happen to break one of these rules, don't expect me to shrug my shoulders all sunshine and OH NO BIG DEAL like because god made car horns loud and middle fingers longer than the other digits FOR A REASON.

Offense #1: If I have to speed up to take a freeway exit, I have every right to help you off the road. My insurance deductible is low for a reason and the satisfaction just may be worth it.

Offense #2: You cut me off only to slow down once you've gotten in front of me? OH HAIL TO THE NO. I will lay on the horn until it's convenient for you to find another lane.

Offense #3: Douche parking. Really? Your slammed Toyota Corolla is so valuable that you need to park it sideways across two parking spots AT TARGET FOR GOD SAKES so no one gets near it? Well I just might. I might just park my huge ass mommy SUV as close as freakin' possible, testing how honest its back-up sensors really are.

Offense #4: You're too cool for your blinker? I DON'T LIKE YOU. It's a courtesy. Have some.

Offense #5: After you're done laying on the effing horn behind me at a green light I hope you feel like total moron when I finally get going after the pedestrian has made it across the street. Oh. Right. You didn't see her pushing a stroller? GET OFF MY ASS THEN.

Offense #6: I don't personally take issue with drivers on cell phones if they can multitask. Whatever. I think the bluetooth ear pieces are kinda douchy looking, so all the power to you if you can drive, talk AND concentrate. But if you're the school principal speeding through the school parking lot during morning drop-off in your Jaguar while talk on your cell phone YOU SUCK. I may or may not dislike you already for a whole list of other reasons, but this was worth mentioning.

Offense #7: You see a cop and automatically slow to 5 mph below the speed limit. Really? I mean, c'mon. Like the cop doesn't know what you were just doing before you slammmmed on the brakes. If I were a cop I'd pull you over for being a kiss ass.

Offense #8: Your kids aren't properly seat belted into their car seats - or worse - aren't in a car seat at all. There is no joke here: You suck. There is no excuse.

Offense #9: You won't let anyone over. Red Rover, Red Rover let me the fuck over before I let myself over. Oh? That's not how that little rhyme went? Huh.

Offense #10: The freeway is not the cruise-way. Drive people. Like you're going somewhere. Like you know the gas pedal is on the right. It may not be a race but it's not a scenic drive either.

Basically, don't be a dumbass. Cool?

Dear Angry Birds, Thank you for teaching me the geometry my high school teacher never did

I tried. I trrrriiiieeeeddd to stay away from the whole OHMIGAWD! ZOMG! ANGRY BIRDS! I'M SO ADDICTED trend because I'm very hard-headed determined that way to be the only one on Facebook not asking for a hoe for my farm or a AR-15 for my mafia. I mean, how can I tweet about how annoying that stuff is if I'm doing it too?

At first it was really easy to fend off the Angry Birds attack. I don't have an iPhone (I'm anti-AT&T like that) and Candy Ass keeps his iPad with him at all times and Blackberry, well, those fuckers can't seem to get on board with the apps people go ape-shit over so I'm off in la la oblivious land, all smug and shit because I? can't be bothered by those Angry Birds. No matter that it's only because I don't have access to them.

But then. THEN. Right there on the couch practically calling out to me last Saturday sat a lonely iPad beckoning a little companionship. 

*poke*

My pupils dilate in symphony with the backlit screen powering up and there I see it - the Angry Birds icon - and I'm certain I hear it squawking "play me, play me." And so I did.

Every free lovin' moment I've had since Saturday, I've played. I've launched. I've boomeranged. I've bombed. I've cursed. I've looked at the clock to see it was 1:00 am. But it was just 9:30! What the hell? Wood. Stone. Ice. CRASH! BOOM! KABLAAAM! DRY EYES!

And just like that I became one of them.

Wow. You'll have to excuse me for a second be cause that? was like a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Only now can I freely bitch about how much I hate those green toucan boomeranging birds and how I want to scream whenever I reach a level with those fucking chickens that I-swear-to-god shit the egg backwards. Only now can I tell you that I'm pretty bad ass with the big fat red birds, find the small red birds completely useless and wish I'd paid a whole lot more attention during geometry in high school when it comes to those yellow triangular birds.

[Dear Public Schools Everywhere: Angry Birds is teaching geometry more effectively than you are. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.]

I do have to admit that I'm a bit worried for the pork industry though. The adrenaline rush that comes with blowing up those goddamn smug pigs (especially the asshole ones with the mustaches and hard hats) scares me a little. It's so satisfying to see those bastards go from blinky to bruised and black-eyed to GONE MOTHERFUCKERS! It just feels gooooood.

Well shit. There goes my career as a cop. Ah well, more time to play Angry Birds. *shifty eyes*

Stop the sweater dresses and other fashion abominations

You know why something is called an abomination? Because it bombs. A-BOMB-INATION. Not bomb as in "that's so bomb" like the cool people used to say when that was one of the cool things cool people would say but bomb as in FAIL, IMPLODE, SUCKAGE. Take your pick.

Upon shopping for my sister RV's upcoming nuptials I have come across an amazing array of fashion abominations [KABLAAAM!] and have decided that if designers gave half a shit about what the world looks like they would have never invented the sweater dress for starters.

The sweater dress is one of those rare creatures - not unlike white rimmed sunglasses - where only 2 percent of the population can actually pull them off and look somewhat fashionable. Of course if you're part of this 2 percent, I don't like you, we're not friends and you're not even reading this so why am I apologizing? I have no idea. The other 98 percent of us have a responsibility to ourselves and to our fellow human beings who have to live, shop and carry on amongst us to understand that (and say it with me) WE DO NOT LOOK GOOD in a bulky, woven, sweaty, wooley mess that does nothing for our figure except accentuate its wideness. And when is the last time you were hoping to accentuate your wideness? Yeaaah. Wear a sweater dress in white or cream and you might as well pin a red flag to your ass to alert other pedestrian traffic. You know, as a safety precaution.

Of course, I say none of this to be mean - it's more of a kind, courteous public service announcement if you will - so that you don't show up to some meet-up/tweet-up/party/Quinceañera wearing your white rimmed sunglasses a la Snooki and dammit if I don't have to be the one to say "Um... NOOOOOOO-HO-HO."

And this is the prettiest I've seen her. So.

In my journeys through store after store, malls and outlets to find not the perfect outfits but just ones that won't make me fidget and cry when I put them on because OH MY GOD WHO SAID WE SHOULD DRESS UP FOR THIS? I saw a lot of wrong shit. You know, fashion-wise. It's like wrong was sewn right into the seams of clothes everywhere I looked.

On my fashion shit list is a supposedly must-have! for this winter according to all the fashion magazines who, by the way, were also perpetually wrong during the 80s I might point out. I don't know about you but I just can't wrap my head around furry Ugg-like high-heeled clogs. You heard me. Let's just dissect what I just said wrote because they are wrong on too many levels to merely mention and move on.

First, they're clogs. We could honestly just stop right there. Clogs? THE END. Pass right by that shelf and move on. <-- Free advice. I mean, did we not learn in the early 90s when we briefly went back to the whole 'maybe clogs would be a good idea again' thing and quickly learned that no, no they aren't? They never were. They're costume props now. Secondly, these clogs are having an identity crisis which isn't all that surprising for an item this old I suppose. Are they clogs? Are they Uggs? Are they hard ass wooden torture devices or are they soft fuzzy furry torture devices? We *know* they're fashion torture devices. Lastly, high heeled clogs? You can't see me but I'm gagging.

I will admit to have finally jumped on board the skinny jeans fad though I have to scratch my head in total bewilderment when I see a skinny girl or woman wearing a pair two sizes too small which consequently makes her look overweight and love-handle-ish at which point I want to say "Oh dear, hon, just buy a size 4 instead of a 0 and you'll look less Jimmy Dean and more Park Avenue."

No offense to Jimmy Dean.

While I converted from anti-skinny jean to the 'alrighty, I can shimmy into a pair of these suckers on my non-fat days' philosophy, you will not see me reliving my tween years by revisiting the leggings with stirrups on the bottom. Remember those? They're baaaaack. With a fucking vengeance. And it's not pretty. It wasn't pretty then and nothing magical happened in the last 20 years to make them pretty now. If you could sew the sound of nails on a chalkboard I imagine this is what it would look like:

God help me if I discover a bodysuit with those ill-placed snaps. Remember that? It's next, I know it. BRACE YOUR COOCHIES AND STOCK UP ON MONISTAT BITCHES.

Not to be all the fashion glass of diet water is half empty on you, here are a few fashion trends I am definitely digging:

- Dark purple/grape-colored nail polish (Try OPI by Sephora's "Just A Little Dangerous")

- Jersey dresses

- Dresses with pockets!

- Militant styles (cargo pants/jackets) and colors (dark green/khaki) with a fitted feminine twist

- Your mom (OK. Fine. I just said that to be a dick.) (Sorry.)

What are you digging and despising in the fashion world?

Sometimes I like to dress in drag

Sometimes when the day is done and I am exhausted and there's a chill in the air because I haven't turned on the heater yet because I don't want to die of carbon monoxide poisoning (it's a silent killer y'all) I pull off my Uggs and skinny jeans, remove my top and bra and replace it with a pair of men's pajama bottoms, men's slippers so soft you feel like you're slipping your foot into such heavenly softness you're certain this is what a man must experience when he 'gets it in' (see last post, I've lost IQ points and I'm sorry), pull on a guy's oversized hooded sweatshirt and his loose fitting socks and sweep my hair into a sloppy bun, and then retreat to the couch to watch a little Ultimate Fighter and yell at the TV rooting for Team GSP, of course.

I suppose this is a female's version of dressing in drag but with less taping and tucking.

After too many hours of being held hostage by bras and accosted by creeping underwear (I can't say the P word, it freaks me out - true story) and sausaged into binding jeans with not enough stretch a man would be an idiot to flip through the Victoria's Secret catalog that arrived in today's mail and suggest oh-so-slyly, "Hey babe? Would you ever wear something like this if I bought it for you?"

They already know the answer. But they continue to ask as though this time they might fool us into wanting it. You know what honey? The first 4600 times you asked me I thought to myself 'Self, I don't really care to wear that see-through lacy hot pink hooker looking get-up' but now? Now that you've asked 4601 times? I think I will. Express shipping please! Because really, I can't wait to play dress-up-like-the-supermodel-in-lingerie-only-to-end-up-in-a-crying-fit-when-I-don't-look-like-THAT-GIRL-IN-THE-CATALOG-when-I-wear-it.

THINK IT THROUGH GUYS.

Aaand this is why the Snuggie is so popular.

Mercy Shore

I'll be honest. I've been a bit smug about the fact that I don't watch the absolute trash that is Jersey Shore. I've tweeted/twitpic'd/Facebooked on several occasions about this fact, as if it were my claim to fame, my little schtick - the way my uncle has sworn to never buy a single thing from Starbucks as long as he lives not on principle or because he's boycotting but because that's his thing. [I know. How can I be related to someone not in touch with his caffeinated self?] Not watching Jersey Shore? That is my thing.

It's not like I'm better than trashy TV. See my obsession with such gems as My Sweet Sixteen, Repo Men, Ma's Roadhouse and that one time I watched Sister Wives, mouth agape. I simply boycotted the situation (get it? get it?) and then bragged accordingly to make up for past transgressions.

Then Saturday happened. All I know is the TV was turned on, THAT SHOW was on, I mumbled something to Candy Ass about turning it off while watching without blinking, taking in all the slanguage, hair product and drama. *whispers* For four hours.

Four hours. Four goddamn hours pass and we are still watching. I now know their names. I am immersed in their short-lived relationships? I am praying for the future health of my sons if this is the sexual life young ones are living these days. And I am ashamed because I can no longer say that I've never watched Jersey Shore. I know there are born-again Christians and people who try to claim themselves as born again virgins... but this? This I cannot erase. There is not enough brain bleach.

But something worse has happened. Worse than the fact that I have given into the germy herpe STD-lovin' Jersey Shore via Miami: Candy Ass has decided to take on this Jersey-like persona and started instantaneously integrating the show's infamous acronyms like GTL and DTF into daily conversation. Furthermore, he's decided that perhaps he should update his wardrobe, inspired by none other than the douchebags that are the guys on Jersey Shore.

*shakes head*

*rolls eyes*

*puts a hold on credit card*

My house has become Mercy Shore. As in, lord have Mercy (Shore) on his soul should he buy a Christian Audigier shirt with more bling bedazzled on it than my most sparkly nighttime going out get-up. As in, lord have Mercy (Shore) on his soul should he attempt a hairstyle anything close to Pauly D's Bart Simpson impersonation. As in, Mercy (Shore) me if Candy Ass actually takes up the T (tan) or the L (laundry) portion of 'GTL.'

This is me yelling "MERCY!"

Flammable costumes and cellulite

Against my better discretion I took the three dudes costume shopping for Halloween at one of those stores that sets up shop after some poor retailer hit the highway during the bottomless economy. Christmas may bring presents to somewhat naughty children like my own but the dudes love Halloween even more so because it means that for a day (week/month/until the goddamn flammable costume rips and cannot be sewed back together one more freakin' time) they get to be SUPERHEROS! or MONSTERS! or ELVIS! And who can argue with that?

I, on the other hand, get to be the candy-hander-outter who gives a fake "Oh you're sooo scary" or "Well aren't you a pretty princess buddy! I mean, girlie!" (throw me a bone here, I own boys) to whatever Target get-up comes up to my door, pillow case shoved out at me mumbling trickortreat like someone was forcing them to say it in order to get the candy. Oh right. I am and I do. Saaaay it. Saaaay it... The job is not as fun as I make it seem; rarely are the kids appreciative and even when they are I'm still a little pissed and find myself holding a grudge because they've just stolen a little bit of my Tootsie Roll stash. Halloween candy ain't cheap, yo'.

Worse though are the parents who hold out a fucking grocery bag expecting to also get in on the candy action. This is when my left eyebrow involuntarily does its whatthefuuuuck thing and I tell them WITHOUT WORDS that no, I will not be giving you my candy so that you can go home and hand it out at your house or even worse - eat it yourself. Buy your own damn candy or at least do me a solid and be good parents like the rest of us and just steal some of your kids' loot that they bring home. Christ, what kind of people are you?

Then there are the adults that dress up. To go door to door. It's one thing to partake in an adult Halloween party and go balls-to-the-wall but if you show up at my door in your high school cheerleading outfit using Halloween as proof IT STILL FITS BITCH! I'm going to have to tell you to PULL UP YOUR SADDLEBAGS, YOUR CELLULITE IS SHOWING. I may have forced my dumbass bulldog into a bumblebee costume last year in an effort to convince my boys that he is in fact the Bumblebee Transformer but I'll be damned if I try to fit into my old FFA jacket. I mean, I HAVE SOME PRIDE YOU KNOW.

I just miss the years when I got to decide what/who my kids would be for Halloween. But now that they're old enough to talk (fuck me, remember when we were all in our babies' faces trying to get them to say something? That sure bit us in the ass, didn't it?) they've sucked all the creativity right out of it. Now it's either the normal red Spider-Man or the Evil Spider-man. It's Mario or it's Luigi. It's the Grim Reaper or the Scream dude. I desperately tried to convince the four year old to be The Situation this year but to no avail.

Stubborn little bastard.

On hanging a mailbox

Hanging a mailbox isn't as simple or as fun as one might think. Tonight I not only witnessed this fact but experienced it first hand as our new mailbox arrived in the mail, IRONICALLY, and Candy Ass and I teamed up to nail that sucker to the exterior wall.

At first I was really excited when Candy Ass handed me the drill and said "screw it." Which I imagine is the way a man feels when -- well. ANYWAY. So my eyes opened wide (no innuendo intended, you perv) and I grabbed that hunk (OK, I kinda meant to be a little suggestive there) of machinery and pressed the trigger.

SCRAAAAAAAAAAATCH!

SHIIIIIIIT.

Who knew you had to hold on tight to a drill or the slippery little fucker would get a way from you and scratch up your new mailbox? Sonuvabitch and whoopsie.

That wasn't my only drilling problem. Then I promptly pointed the drill at Candy Ass' well... ass and he took it away from me. So that was the end of Megan the Driller. I was then demoted to "hold the heavy mailbox here and don't let it slip or it won't be level" job which totally sucked because as it turns out the mailbox is really fucking heavy. And it kept slipping. Then I was demoted to "go grab the pencil" girl and that was just fucking demeaning as a woman with lots of brains and talents (so what if none of them have anything to do with hanging mailboxes) so I quit.

To save you the hassle of trial and error, I've made of list of things I learned when hanging a mailbox so you don't have to figure these things out on your own. YOU'RE WELCOME! If you googled "how to hang a mailbox" and arrived here, my apologies.

LESSONS LEARNED FROM HANGING A MAILBOX:

1. Candy Ass and I don't work well together. [So this won't help you, but there you go.]

2. Hanging a mailbox is a two person job. One person to hang it and the other person to ask too many questions until the first person makes the second person go away.

3. A drill is like a gun; never put your finger on the trigger until you're ready to fire. And you should never fire/drill at anyone's ass. Especially your husband's.

4. Mailboxes come in the mail, even when you don't have a mailbox. WRAP YOUR HEAD AROUND THAT.

5. Drills are so much fun and put holes in things so much more easily than a hammer (think Vespa versus Razor scooter) so I'm putting one on my Christmas list.

It's been an exhausting evening of home improvement around here folks so I'm going to sit on my porch all night and wait for the sun to come up and the mailman to arrive just so I can see all of Candy Ass' my hard work pay off. Happy hanging!

H-O-T in places I shouldn't be

I can tell you what's NOT happening in 40 weeks... a baby boom. With temperatures reaching 111 degrees and no A/C the last thing people want to do is touch each other. So unless y'all are really talented, there will be a baby drought in 9 months.

Yes, I get that you're tired of hearing all of us Southern Californians bitch about THE WORST HEAT OF ALL TIME BROKEN RECORDS OMG WTF FRY ME AN EGG ON THE SIDEWALK GOOD GOLLY MISS MOLLY IS THAT SWEAT ON YOUR BALLS? but it is literally that hot. Like, there is no other way to explain it.

Sunday we walked into a sauna and the fucking door jammed shut and we haven't been let out. Pour some water on the rocks, jingle the keys in front of the tiny little peek-a-boo window with promises of lower temps in three or four days and you've got our hell. And sure, I get that where you live you deal with humidity so SHUT-UP ALREADY YOU WIMP is what you're thinking but you know what I'm thinking? I don't live in a humid region for that exact reason, I am in fact a heat advisory wimp, can't deal and will now bitch - without remorse - about being H-O-T in places I shouldn't be.

I mean christ, I spent all day today twitpic-ing photos of my car's temperature display just to garner sympathy (didn't really work) only to realize at 5:30 tonight that the reason I never did reach a level of coolness and comfort was because apparently I don't know how to properly work my car air conditioner. Who knew you had to click that snowflake AND that weird undo-like arrow light? Me neither. All I have to say is SONUVABITCH and PASS THE SECRET PLATINUM ROLL-ON now I know.

My worry is about how I'll survive the night, or rather, how Candy Ass will survive dare he even touch me accidentally with his big toe while rolling over in his sleep because in temps like these? that totally warrants a junk punch. My personal space bubble just went from three feet to STAY THE FUCK AWAY SO HELP YOU, YOU THERMAL BLANKET OF A HUMAN BEING feet. So. You know, I am the hot.

Seriously, the first person to tell me about their "first snow" or "chilly morning that feels so Fall-ish" in the comment section is getting a virtual headlock. Which means your head in my sweaty armpit. Visualize and think before you type.

P.S. I am recruiting for a personal fan boy.

P.P.S. Not like a "fan boy" where you're my fan but "fan boy" where you fan me...

P.P.P.S. Shit. That didn't even make sense did it? What's the opposite of hypothermia? Hyperthermia? Seems like it would be. I probably have that.

So a Mormon, a Jew and an Atheist write a blog post...

"Mom!" he screams from the second row of my mommy SUV, tethered to his car seat for his safety and mine. "I just saw the cwoss where Jesus died!"

I cringe a little. Just a couple weeks back at Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool (HCLJPLP, for short) and the boy is all reverent and shit.

"Um... I don't think that's the exact one, but I could be wrong." I say carefully, making sure I don't deflate his Jesus balloon. For now he is satisfied with this answer and, as usual, our conversation returns to the normal, comfortable topic of Starbucks - or rather "Stawbucks" - where he's just asked the manager for a job application. Totally normal for a 4 year old. If he's mine.

It's been a good week or so since I've offended someone on the internets [see my tweet where I *joke* likening Lord of the Rings to being Star Wars on horseback and thereby am told I am "worse than tea party Muslim hater" on Twitter] so I thought I'd talk about that dude God. If you can't take a little humor mixed in with a bit-o-religion it's best you walk away now. This is my disclaimer.

I get asked often - especially here on this blog and on Twitter - why I have sent my three boys to a holy rollin' preschool like HCLJPLP when its religious views leave such a distaste in my mouth. (That holy water is bitter, y'all.) The truth is, there are many reasons why my boys have all gone there for preschool. First and foremost, beyond its religious teachings, it has an outstanding academic program (even at the pre-k level) that makes our local school district look incompetent. That is why I picked HCLJPLP. The religion came with that academic program and has, in all honesty, taken some getting used to. However, I feel strongly that even though I don't believe in the things the school is teaching my children when comes to "god," I know they have a right to be exposed to those ideas and make up their own minds about what they believe.

I am a born, raised, baptized and maybe, possibly even micro-chipped Mormon (they can track you down, people) who has not seen the inside of sacrament meeting since the day I turned 18. The rules in my mom's house included going to church every Sunday until you were 18 and... I didn't go a single day after.

I knew from an early age that it wasn't for me. I didn't believe in it - not just Mormonism, but god himself/itself. I had a hard time sitting in cold folding chairs every Sunday for three hours, listening to words I didn't agree with. I was incapable of nodding along, pretending to agree and so I would politely debate the 'facts' with those who would speak and my questions were met with not only surprise (no one ever questioned the teachings!) but disdain.

"I don't think you get it. If you don't believe in the bible, " one bishop told me in a private meeting, "you're not going to go to Heaven." I'm not sure if this was a tactic to scare me into believing or if he was genuinely scared for my eternal damnation or what but I looked him dead in the eye and said, "No, you don't get it. If I don't believe in heaven then I don't believe in Hell so I am really not all that worried."

I never got called to another meeting with the bishop again.

In high school I would pretend to be Jewish because being Mormon was so not cool. The Mormon kids all hung out together under the big tree in the lunch area, being good christ-like children by, ironically, judging others for their sins. Besides, Judaism was the smart choice when it came to choosing your religion - they had eight days (fine, nights) of gifts, not just one, and just about every one of my Jewish friends got a new car for their 16th birthday. The Mormons were clearly doing it wrong.

My plan of being a Jew went awry quickly and I had to quit Judaism when I started receiving gifts every day during Chanukah from a secret Jewish admirer. The Mormon guilt I was raised with set in and I had to stop pretending to believe in something I knew nothing about. And to think I gave up pork for this. [I would later find out that I am actually Jewish, but on my father's side which apparently doesn't count. THANKS DAD.]

But it didn't matter because really, I didn't believe in Judaism either. In all truth, I didn't and do not believe in anything. And here's the part people don't understand about atheists. Maybe not all atheists, but at least some atheists... Some of us don't believe in god not because we don't want to or because we have this overwhelming urge to go against society's grain. Some of us would really love to have something to believe in, we just haven't found it yet. Or, maybe, we've found something else; something different than god. That doesn't make us bad people or sinners or even lost souls.

And it certainly doesn't make me feel differently about the people in my life who do believe in god. To each their own. After all, I did marry a devout Catholic who attends church regularly. You know, Christmas mass every fourth or fifth year, whenever his grandma is in town or if there's a family wedding.

I take that back. I do believe in something. I believe in being a good person. That simple.

Can you dig it?

It's been one of those weeks of SHOOT ME NOW IT'S MONDAY! and then suddenly HOT DAMN HOW IS IT ALREADY THURSDAY? With a whole bunch of shit in between and BALLS am I ever tired! HOWEVER I'm rallying with this phenomenal post to tell you the things I am soooo digging right now.

- Happiness is cashing in a gift certificate from *2004* for a manicure and spa pedicure and not even having to fight them on it. THAT'S RIGHT. This normal DIYer nail painter has freshly mani/pedi'd digits and I only got yelled at once by "Kelly" (Yxkxlyzx on her cosmetology license, no joke) for reaching for my Blackberry when it rang. Sorrrrrrry.

- Awesome? Having my 4 year old sum up politics in one innocent observation: "Mom, did you know George Washington got dead and ever since someone has been dressing up as him?" You can nominate him for the nobel prize here.

- Speaking of 4 year olds (and 5 year olds) I'm TOTALLY digging watching my two soccer teams KICK BUTT on the fields on game day. Even though we're not keeping score. Of course. *coughWE!WON!cough* There's nothing like asking the team, "What are we going to do on that field??" before the game and hearing one of my feisty little players yell, "KICK THE CRAPS OUT OF THE BALLS!" OK. Fine. That was my kid. But whatever! Goooooooaaaaaaallllllll(s)!

- I hate, hate, HAAAAATE to admit this because I think the dude defines ASSHOLE DIPSHIT DOUCHEBAG IDIOT (ADDI for short) so forgive me internet for I have sinned but I'm kinda really ...liking... this song. *cringes* BUT it does make me want to shake my tushy and has that flashmob! feel to it.

- Swamp People. Have you seen this show? I have no idea why it completely fascinates me the way my husband is obsessed in love entranced addicted to the Kardashians, but my god, I am hooked. (No pun intended.) Warning, the video has some graphic images. 

- A little too giddy over my Goonies Truffle Shuffle t-shirt. Hello, $5 deal at Kohl's. That shirt sparks more conversation than one might imagine and I just feel cool wearing it. Probably the way Candy Ass feels when he wears one of his many Chuck Norris tees, I'd suppose.

- LOVING my freshly painted casa. Candy Ass has spent the last two weeks prepping and then painting our house and OH EM GEE it looks amazing. Ironically, I picked a color called "Photo Gray" (which is actually a greenish color) for the fascia board, "Oatmeal" (an off-white) for the stucco and the front door will be black. I plan on making my own black shutters to tie in with the door. WATCH OUT TIM THE TOOLMAN TAYLOR!  

- Digging how busy my photography business is lately and what a busy year 2011 will be for brides and grooms (there's a the-world-is-going-to-end-in-2012 joke in there somewhere) but I'm especially excited to have just photographed my brother-in-law and his fiancée for their engagement. Can't wait for the wedding...

What are YOU digging right now?