Undomestic Diva

Pass the bronzer, bitches.

Just shimmying into my new workout pants and taking my two boobs and wiggling them unnaturally to form one *powerful* uniboob via a sports bra made me feel stronger and more confident and as though I COULD DESTROY THE WORLD! Which is ironic since I then immediately turned from my Hulk Hogan HULKAMANIA! pose in the mirror only to walk into a partially open door.

Baby steps.

I've threatened to start an exercise regime many-a-times before - and even made a pitiful attempt or two in the past - but this time, it's so on. You see, I've got mad competition. And I like a good challenge. The back story behind it all is what one might call that of the Batshit Crazy variety, but in short, my friend Tamara in TX got herself hooked on this TV show "Steel Divas" about female bodybuilders (normal) and bam! next thing you know, she's down like 15 pounds, boasting over the phone about lost inches while I'm eating straight out of the Baskin Robbins Rocky Road pint container with a plastic spoon, staring at the sagging skin of my inner thigh (where I dropped a marshmallow) thinking OH HAIL NO BITCH, I CAN BE FREAKISHLY MUSCULAR TOO.

Pass the bronzer, bitches.

Actually, I don't care to throw on a teeny-tiny neon bikini, bleach my hair a pretty shade of gold and charbroil myself in a tanning salon after spending every day benchpressing a small continent a la my good friend Tamara. (You should see her flex.) I just want to tone up and maybe even try some of that 'cardio' everyone thinks is so great for you.

Of course, starting an exercise routine for me isn't about looking up exercises or diets or BMI. Nah. It's about finding the perfect music playlist, discovering you can't find your iPod since you moved, buying a new one, finding the RADDEST slap-bracelet for it, buying new workout clothes (because the ones you bought for your last Get Fit! attempt are used. Once.) and then spending a couple days at the pool tanning your legs so you look good in those workout pants which ended up being capris.

Slap bracelet for iPod Nano bitches!

You know, because everyone in the gym gives a shit what your shins look like when mascara is running down your cheeks and your hair is matted to your forehead. DON'T LOOK AT MY FACE ASSHOLE -- CHECK OUT MY SHINS! TAN MOTHERFUCKERS, AREN'T THEY? YEP. YEP.

SIDE NOTE: What underwear, exacly, are you supposed to wear with workout pants/capris? 'Cause the ones I wore today ain't it.

Now before you get all "You're so vain, you probably think this eyeroll's about you - don't you? Don't you?" on me because I'm all tunnel-vision on what I look like when I workout, give me a little credit. I'm the not the most confident worker-outter. I practically got kicked out of Kamikazee Kickboxing at MMA because I nervous-talked my whole way through it. Well that and I kept trying to get everyone to ditch with me. "But I'll buy the first round of shots!" So venturing down to the Sweat Box where no one gives a shit but I think they do is nerve-racking.

As it turns out, my anxiety was somewhat legit. Of course, no one cared about me or what I looked like. But I did make a total ass of myself. Business as usual, I know. But apparently, there is some gym etiquette I need to learn if I'm going to get into shape. 

1. It is apparently not a treadmill competition. So, you, the new girl in the gym, probably shouldn't feel the need to out-run (especially when you don't run. ever.) the woman next to you. You also shouldn't feel the need to out-incline her or outlast her. Because you can't. And you won't.

2. Don't stare at your feet while running walking fast on the treadmill. You will lose your balance. 

3. Don't try to look in the mirror across the room at yourself while on the treadmill. You will lose your balance.

4. Even if your attention span is this big, resist the urge to dance on the treadmill to mix things up a bit. You will lose your balance.

5. If you're in your non-race with the woman next to you who is not even aware you're competing to win at nothing and therefore going faster than you really feel comfortable going, don't try to redo your ponytail. You will lose your balance.

6. Don't stop the treadmill abruptly. You will face-plant the control panel.

7. Elliptical machines hate short people.

8. Apparently, it's quite easy to pull the handle off the elliptical machine. Also? You will lose your balance when you do this. Every time.

9. Just when you get the hang of the motion of the elliptical ocean, the stupid thing will tell you to switch directions. What an asshole.

10. 30 minutes to an exercise machine is 90 minutes in the real world.

11. Don't touch the machines that look like modern torture devices. If you don't know what they do or what they're called or even which direction you stand? lie? sit? on them, you probably have no business attempting to use them.

12. No matter how many times you look, your ass will not have become noticeably more fit during your oh-mi-gawd-that-was-a-lot-of-sweating workout. Even if it was a whole hour long.

And that was day one.

For day two, I'm going to venture back into the world of yoga. You know, where NO talking is allowed. Like, at all. Good luck to me, right?

On being me

It catches me off-guard when people describe me as ballsy, a go-getter, out-spoken. Perhaps in comparison to some, sure, I guess I am. But compared to who I used to be? The girl who would say whatever she wanted and not care what others thought? The girl who would go against the grain for the mere sake of going against the grain? She was lost somewhere among the judgment of others, among being told she wasn't good enough and that girl - the one who really had no fear for living in the moment - became a scared shell of her former self, no longer willing to take risks, recoiling at the first sign of rejection and sauntering off at the first unkind glare.

I miss her.

It's exhausting living in fear. Afraid of what others think. Afraid of taking risks. Afraid of being me. And at the risk of losing friends, shaming family, scaring off new acquaintances, I'm done lurking in the shadows of What Will They Think? Because at the end of the day, at the end of my life, when all is said and done, I only want to be remembered, liked and loved for being me. The good parts, the bad parts, the abrasive, embarrassing, endearing and awful parts alike.

And for whomever that's not good enough, that's ok.

But.

I can only be me.

And you? You can only be you.

That just means we were never meant to be us.

The Buddha is said to have prayed all night seeking enlightenment and wisdom, overcoming fears. For me, this is clearly no overnight journey. But I am determined to get that girl back. No matter how long it takes me to find her.

---

More photos here.

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.

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.

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.

A badass birthday in photos

Alternate title: Why Jess Shouldn't Be Allowed Out In Public. Ever.

I have some kick ass friends. At a time when I couldn't need them more, I can't thank them enough for showing up, in more ways than one.

But enough of the mush, here's what happens when people stop being polite and start being... us.

Refresco!

Yeah, that's about how I suspect I'll feel toward a good portion of 2011.

We tried on some new shades...

Hmm... not it, not it...

Oh yes. WIN!

Target also offered a nice assortment of mountain-wear.

But it was NOTHING in comparison to Macy's Sister Wives Collection. (Trademark pending, I believe.)

I, on the otherhand, embodied a Russian spy.

Then we gathered with a bunch of others for sushi!

Followed by - naturally - Cheese In A Can! Which can only lead to...

a Just Dance 2 *DANCE OFF* of epic proportions!

The next morning, my actual birthday, Red Bull delivered this to my door. I am currently typing this from ceiling. WYYYYYRRRRD.

Which was perfect timing since Aaron and I (along with my mom and sister) were heading out the door to skydive). Wiiiiiiiings!

SPOILER ALERT: We survived.

But my badass birthday wasn't over. A limo picked up a group of us to head down to the Staples Center for the Lakers v. 76ers game...

I've just watched Jess 'Running Man' her way into the limo. You can read my thoughts.

We had to pay an extra deposit for the sake of the windows. See next photo.

Epic. Guitar. Leg.

Um. Okaaaaay.

The funny is not in my ridiculousness but in the timing of the ambulance you can see in my window. IRONY AT ITS FINEST.

No words. Just... Jess.

Two very urgent pit stops two freeway exits apart later, we arrive!

LET'S GO PHILLY! <-- May have been the words that almost got us into some trouble. Let's just say we felt a need to leave expediently.

I hope he at least gave her a ring after that. WINK.

Yes, Emmie looks terrified. You would be too. You saw what she just did to Kobe and then looky what she did to Phil...

This was immediately followed by screams of "OHMIGAWD MY TONGUE TOUCHED! MY TONGUE! IT TOUCHED. BLLAAAHHHAAAHHAAAH!" {direct quote}

I had a nice chat with Phil after, apologizing for my friend and having a good chuckle over how he and I seemed to have color-coordinated our attire for the evening.

Even from the cheap seats, we could see very clearly when the ref could not ("TRAVELING!") and may have, um, irritated? a few Lakers fans ("GET THE WINDEX, REF!") when we helped.

Now I normally *hate* surprises, but these sweet bitches really made my night with the "Happy Birthday Megan UD" flashing through the entire game.

I love these bitches. And I know. I can't stop making this face in every. single. photo. My drivers license? Identical.

She's only wearing 5 Happy New Year! hats. Only.

New Year's Eve countdown at Staples Center. It's gettin' kinda hectic.

HAPPY NEW YEARS... Jess' hand? Of course that's her hand.

* * *

Many, many thank you's for all the tweets, FB messages, texts, emails on my birthday as well. I'm very grateful this year more than ever. xo

Two Mile High Club

Life is all about taking your bucket list by the balls, grabbing ahold firmly and squeezing gently.

I spent my 30th birthday falling from 10,000 feet at 120 miles per hour from an airplane covered in duct tape and rust and it felt AMAZING.

Thanks to my new best friends at Skydive Coastal California who tried to kill me on take-off (never let the pilot know you're more scared of flying than jumping out the plane, pro tip) I am now fiening to go back and do it again. And again. And again. And maybe 300 times more.

Aaron (with his Hi-C juice box) and I before heading to the airport.

Aww, yeeeeaaahh!

Initial here, here and 20 other here's. Also? Fill in your weight. Then, after you've signed everything we will weigh you to see if you lied about how heavy your lard ass is. *shifty eyes*

These? BETTER OPEN.

Dan The Man making sure my Angry Birds sweatshirt shows despite my harness. 'Cause you know, PRIORITIES.

I'm not going to lie, it felt like I was wearing assless chaps without pants underneath. This explains my big grin.

The guy who looks all of 14 years old with his arms crossed in the background? That would be the pilot. He would also be the one who gave me a big smile and said "Oh really?" when I said I was scared to fly in that airplane outside of the hangar. Have your audio up nice and loud when you watch the video. I *might* call the pilot a... not nice word... when he takes off at a 45 degree angle.

Ready. To. Goooooo!

And now? The moment ya'll have been waiting for... (Again, audio has never been so important, especially as soon as the parachute opens. Poor Dan. He was expecting a lady, he got me.)

[Click on links below video to see larger version.]

 

Two Mile High Club from Undomestic Diva on Vimeo.

Wheeeeeee!

No power lines were damaged.

He said "STAND UP!" I warned him back at the hangar that I am no good at following directions.

Flashback of a broken ass, circa 2009.

But Dan the Man was a good sport. Probably because I SCARRED HIM FOR LIFE with the whole broken vagina bit 2,000 feet up.

Still being filmed. With epic hair.

Adrenaline finally hits. This is my "O" face.

Back with my boys. On solid ground.

Reunited with my jumping partner (sans Hi-C juice box) Aaron!

But we weren't the only ones jumping from the aeroplane... my sister went for her second jump in as many months (it's addicting, yo')...

And my mom (yes!) took the opportunity to scratch it off her bucket list as well...

The only question now is... WHEN DO WE GO AGAIN?!

Much love to Emmie for taking the still shots for me on the ground... And of course to the awesome guys at Skydive Coastal California for a) not killing me, b) having a sense of humor and c) having the most kick ass job on the planet. I'm sending my resume.

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.

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?

Look out Hotlanta, here come the Hook's

Right now while the rest of the west coast sleeps - and rightfully so - us Hook's are boarding an aeroplane to Atlanta for a week of mayhem, family, birthday celebration all leading up to my sister RV's wedding where all three dudes will be ring bearers and I will have the honor of photographing her special day.

That may sound lovely and fun and warm-you-in-the-crotch-fantastic but if you've ever flown with three kids ages 7 and under before (and I haven't, so I feel absolutely qualified to speak on this) you know getting there is half the battle.

Sure, I've come as prepared as I can be for the absolute chipper-ness that will be three kids who were woken up at 3:30 am in order to get to the airport in time to board a 7 am flight by packing each a backpack chock-full of word puzzles! books! snacks! SNACKS OMG SNACKS! iPads! iPods! every kind of iToy! laptops! DSi's! all of which should keep their attention for what? the first half hour?

Yeaaaah.

This is where you laugh at me for bringing them each a pillow and blanket should they feel tired. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA I am such an idiot.

This, of course, is assuming we made it through the security screening with all our above electronics, our bajillion kids and not have L-Dub mention to the TSA about mommy's "magic beans" which are really just orange Tic Tacs but sounds really bad to those not in the know.

I feel sorry for whoever is behind us in that line. One kid won't want to take off his shoes, one kid will translate "take off your shoes" into "disrobe completely" and the other kid will be asking the Awesome Soldier Dude if he can hold his gun. You think I'm joking.

Worse is watching every passenger walk down the aisle of the airplane with their boarding pass in hand, eyeing each row, saying a silent prayer that they aren't anywhere near us because EEEEEWWW KIDS WHERE'S MY SARS MASK AND EAR PLUGS WTF?! Calm down assholes, chances are they'll be far more interested in the laboratory than your airport book store novel and if they do annoy you that much you can thank me when we land for loaning you some complimentary birth control.

Five hours, people. FIVE HOURS ON A PLANE WITH KIDS. Five hours with ADD. FIVE HOURS ON A PLANE WITH KIDS WITH AN ATTENTION SPAN this big. Are we there yet? I have to pee. Where does the poop go? I'm huuuuungry.

And that's just me. I'm pretty sure they're going to whine too.

Wish me luck. Scratch that, think good thoughts for Atlanta. They'll never know what hit 'em.