Defining sexy

Don’t you roll your eyes at me, but, after reading a magazine and having a book-club-like discussion over a particular article with a friend via telephone (yes, I still have phone conversations every once and a while) we couldn’t help but ponder this little question:

What makes a man sexy?

Now, your answers will range greatly depending on all sorts of variables like: whether you have kids, if you’re married, whether you’ve been divorced, if you’re single, maybe because yanno-yanno it’s been a while, or whatever else is on your mind, but please, by all means, let. it. out. All of it.

An example: Not too long ago I saw a guy at a bar on the dance floor doing the ol’ dice roll dance move. Sexy as hell. Ok, so the dance move wasn’t the greatest. Obviously. But to me, a guy who is willing to get on the dance floor with you? Even Especially at the risk of looking silly? Sexy.

From the serious to the silly to the sexual… On the inside and on the out… What do you think makes a man sexy?

And guys? Same goes for you. What makes a girl sexy?

Go.

Don’t eat Dr. Pepper flavored Jelly Belly’s before class and other things I learned my first week of MMA

If Mixed Martial Arts is 70 percent mental than I am shit out of luck, let’s just face it, because the day they cranked up the heat in the studio I was like “Oh cool, where’s the sauna?” but yeah no, it was just part of the cruelty to see if we couldn’t fog up the windows and mirrors. I, a survivor, went straight into fight or flight mode and wisely fingered “HELP” on the window, backwards even, so all the people who weren’t passing by could see it and come rescue me.

You know what? No one came. And I survived. And if you really don’t want to read any further, that’s the obvious spoiler to this little story: I survived my first week of MMA. But if you care to read on, I’ll just clue you in on a few things I learned along the way – which of course was all via trial and blatant error.

First of all, I’m not a total dumbass because I knew better than to eat before exercising vigorously. And I also knew you should be well hydrated. Give me some credit. So I figured just a big ass handful of Dr. Pepper flavored Jelly Belly’s should do the trick – not too much food for the tummy, a little (fine, a shit-ton of sugar FOR ENERGY!) and well, they’re Dr. Pepper flavored so that should count as hydration. All my bases = covered.

Good god, five minutes into my first class and I was like I HATE YOU JELLAH BELLAH’S! and eying the puke bucket which, as it turns out, you have to sign if you throw up in it. And then if you throw up in it again, you have to add a check mark next to your name. I was able to push aside my feelings of up-chucking in light of feeling the urge to pass out what with all the dizzy-dizzy-swirl going on. But I’m not a quitter – yet – so I was just like “Eh, it’s the florescent lighting! Keep going Megan!” and urged myself to SQUAT! SQUAT! SQUAT! riiiight up until it was time to do pull-ups on the rings and then I said aloud, “Yo’ Megan, now would be a good time to pass out if there ever was one.”

Turns out I carry all my weight in my knees. Pull-ups? Yeah. No.

To no one’s surprise, I liked punching the bag the most [Not to boast, but my arms are pretty built already. People ask all the time, "You work out?" And I'm like, "Nope. I paint my nails." My air-dry system is epic for the cuticles and the guns.] and I now have the bloody knuckles to prove I have anger issues getting out life’s aggression can be good for you! although it’s not very attractive with my lilac nail polish. Switching to a dark purple or red hue will definitely change all that. I’m also going to need to switch to a waterproof mascara because that shit did not hide my tears very sweaty perseverance and by the end of class between my long-be-gone make-up and ratted up hair, I looked like half Don King and half Tammy Faye.

RIP.

But the hair nest was on account of the wrastlin’ I got to do. Well, in MMA it’s called ‘grappling’ but you get the point. Hair-a-flyin’ everywhere, drippy mascara eyes, sweaty armpits… I tell you, it was stuff beauty pageants are made of.

I only made my sifu yell at me once during class and that was when he was making us do some god awful arm exercise where we went from breaking a chain to milking a cow to juggling testicles and I just had to call him on it. “What are we doing? Huh??” I chuckled like NUDGE-NUDGE-WINK-WINK because c’mon! Juggling testicles? It was like the exercise was begging for commentary! When all of the sudden he *BOOMED* “UNBELIEVABLE! Megan!” (and not in the good way).

It was funny! Except my arms don’t think so. Now I get a little pump action going on the lotion and they start pulsing like “please don’t touch me.” So who’s the jackass now? Me. That’s who.

Obviously that’s true because even though I was so sore I couldn’t even sit on the toilet properly the next day (I just had to, like, fall onto it – stupid squats!) I was lured back under false pretenses to Kamikaze Kickboxing by the instructors the very next day saying that blahblahblah lactic acid blahblahblah it’s better to keep exercising blahblahblah it will hurt less blahbla– WAIT. What? It will hurt less? OKAY!

Bull. Shit. They’re a bunch of liars apparently. Liars who get their shits and giggles out of making people squat an unnecessary amount of times (“Get lower! Like you’re sitting on a basketball!” WELL I HAVE A BIG BASKETBALL OKAY?!), overheat in a studio that has a perfectly good air conditioning unit and who think it’s funny, I guess, if you’re so sore you can’t sit on the toilet — one of our rights as Americans thanks to the constitutional amendments, I believe.

There are parts of me that I never knew could hurt because I never knew they existed until now. Like stomach muscles. (I thought you birthed those with your children?) I’ve got bruises everywhere, chipped nail polish and missing hair too. And I’ll be damned if I am not in complete pain from head to toe, knuckle to ear lobe and vagina to elbow.

And here’s the craziest thing of all: I loved it.

In the Cosmos

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Go ahead and belly laugh but I'm just being real: I subscribed – not bought an issue, but full-on subscribed – to Cosmopolitan magazine.

In my defense, dearest people of the Internet, I honestly believed it would bring me good blog fodder. I mean a "21 Naughty Sex Tips" article? Really, Cosmo? How many times have you printed that in some version or another over the past decade?

I might have started off with a bit of a cynical attitude. I'll give you that.

But, ok, here's the deal. Here's where I get honest at the expense of you pointing your finger and laughing in. my. face. until your ribs hurt.  Every single month? I find at least a few – if not several – articles, tips, tidbits, WHATHAVEYOU that make me go "Ohhhh."

Oh.

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

*epiphany*

You would think at the ripe old age of 30 I should know whatever there is to know about a) men, b) relationships, c) make-up and d) sex but apparently shit changes and trends and technology and OH MY GOD I now thumb through Cosmo's pages nodding along, eyes wide open, jaw sometimes dropped, a few particular pages dogeared like I were 14 years old hiding in my bedroom trying to learn about things, mom, I didn't care to learn about at 14 years old I SWEAR TO GOD.

I mean, until my recent Cosmo binge, I for one didn't know "what men want most at 9 pm" but thankyouverymuch June Cosmo for making me blush.

*sets alarm clock*

*looks around for a man at 9 pm*

*hits snooze*

Aww, well.

The September issue promised to let me know what my "vajayjay" was "dying to tell (me)." And sure enough, well. *nods in appreciation*

Protips: Buy yogurt, pee after sex, give your vibrator a bath and don't wear jeans so tight. YOU'RE SO WELCOME.

I've also learned how to not just hide but *erase* dark undereye circles, shrink my inner thighs in 6 minutes per day! (don't look, I haven't actually tried that yet) and read – READ – that *cough* vibrators have come alooooong way technologically speaking. *cough*

Laugh all you want but holy hell, I am now a wealth of information. Do I have any use for it? Not so much. But if knowing is half the battle… well… dammit, bring on the war.

Risky business down South

Fancy this: I took a little risk and bought an airplane ticket across the country to chase a job I won't like, I'll love. Did I get it? I don't know. Perhaps it was crazy on my part. Maybe I was a bit tenacious. But I'm not sorry. How does the quote go? "The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing and becomes nothing." I'm still holding out hope. I'm trying on this whole 'have faith' thing for size.

And you know what? In my adventures from here to there and everywhere in between, I had an amazing time. I got to see my family, meet new friends, bar hop in Savannah (a city I've always wanted to go to), see Hilton Head Island and manage to not ever find the ocean (I know, I know), crash a tweet-up and turn up in the local newspaper the next day, eat an entire pound of crab while grown men watched in astonishment, drink beer out of a tube served by pretty women in kilts, learn the tomahawk motion at a Braves game… and I did every bit of it with my sister RV who made it all the more fun.

My trip down South in three and a half minutes:

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.

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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?

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.

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…

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

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

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while I drooled over this hot number for summer…

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After the fashion fest we headed to the pier

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You can buy this print (sans signature) here.

where we encounter THE ONLY MALAYSIAN CONTORTIONIST!

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

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

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And squeeeed a little when we saw this. BIG!

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

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

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You can buy this print here.

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

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.