Dianne Off Pudding @dianneoffpudding - Tumblr Blog

We didn't want kids

Corban and I talked about not having children since we first started dating. I had made up my mind in my mid-twenties that it wasn’t the life I wanted. No suburbs, no PTA, no cul-de-sac block parties with loafer-wearing neighbors; no thank you. I preferred freedom and living downtown and doing comedy when I felt like it and NOT doing comedy when I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t want to give up spontaneous vacations or doing absolutely NOTHING after work. I wanted to keep throwing ridiculous costume parties and entertaining friends well into my 40s like a fabulous gay couple.

But on top of all that fun stuff, I just never felt very maternal. I never had an instinct to hold another woman’s baby. I don’t have interest in most things other females gush over. I don’t squeal at wedding announcements or baby photos. I don’t squeal at anything. (Maybe a boxer puppy photo.) The thought of planning my own wedding sounded like an agonizing chore – so I didn’t plan one. We married three months after he proposed, alone on a beach and it was perfect.

Every now and then we’d have a drunken conversation about how cool it would be to just SEE what kind of little boy we would make and how funny it is to watch tee-ball. It was always a boy. I called him a him before I knew I wanted a him. If I had to picture a baby in my arms it was always a boy. I even remember a hazy moment a couple of years ago when I woke up after a dream and said, “Ok, I’m ready to meet my son.” And then an hour later was like, “What the hell was that about?” and totally dismissed it. We were firm on our decision. Our life was fun and stress-free and we wanted to keep it that way. No kids.

My great-grandmother, Mae Huntsman, passed away on July 28, 2013. When I was born, HER mother, my great-great grandmother was still alive and we have this great, rare photo of 5 generations of women. We could have easily had that again – but I had to go and put a stop to our family’s pattern of teenage pregnancy. My poor granny. Here I was, healthy in my 30s and still not giving her a great-great grandchild. She never complained but I know she would have been thrilled to have one.

My mom was with her when she passed and called me around 6am to let me know she was gone. Corban was asleep next to me and I quietly lay in bed crying. Then I started talking to her. I’m not religious and I don’t pretend to know what happens to us after we die, but I like creative options and I always liked the idea of reincarnation and old and new souls. I like to think we get whatever it is we hoped we were going to get. I, personally, just want all the answers. When I die I want instant knowledge of everything that ever was. I want to know how life started and how far is space or is this just all a computer simulation, etc…

But, Granny was deeply Christian, and I hope she got her Heaven was it was everything she hoped for. I like to think she was reunited with my papa, met God and Jesus and was showered with praise on being such a good woman in her 91 years of life.

But Granny was never one to just sit around and do nothing and an easy-going Heaven could easily make her antsy. So I made a deal with her. I told her if she had the choice to stay in heaven – or come back and give life another shot – I’d make an exception – just for her. I apologized for not giving her a great-grandkid, but if she didn’t think it was too weird, she could come back and BE the great-grandkid. I would only do this for her. The door was closed to anyone else. I’m not kidding, I really did this. I know that’s a strange solution to coping with a death, but I was sad and sleepy and I thought it was a nice offer.

The next month I had my first ever, positive pregnancy test.

Now, now people – I’m not saying I think it was all divine-granny intervention. Corban had a little something to do with it too. Without giving you all the details of when and where this took place or how many glasses of wine had been drank … there was a conversation. And it was out of the blue. He said he decided he really wanted to be a dad and thinks he’d be a great one and I was trapped under him and agreed with him and may have said something along the lines of, “Well, fine, go for it, cowboy. Give it your best shot.”

Who knew his aim was that good? Who would have thought?

When I handed him the two positive pee-pee sticks (and a candy bar because I thought he might need it) I saw the most genuine shock and fear ever in those enormous, brown eyes. That same day he traded his beloved, orange Dodge Challenger for a Dodge Ram truck with a spacious back seat to fit a car seat. He gave up the sexy curves, but not the HEMI.

I guess I can say I’ve done the same. Well, I still have curves, but of a different sort. Charlie Gehrig Gallagher will be here soon. We’ll try not to put too much pressure on the baseball thing. If he throws like his mommy he’ll be in good shape. If not, well there’s always the business side of the game and with baseball-bot as a father he will full of knowledge and statistics.

We realized we don’t have to give up much. We can still have those wild costume parties and go on nice vacations. He’ll just be right there with us and that’s exciting. We’re not moving to the burbs and Corban isn’t trading his dirty sneakers for loafers. We’ll be the same people – just with a boogery sidekick. And we’re looking forward to it.

And although it’s a whimsy of a story – I’m going to look for Granny in him. She was a hard-working, beef-eating, fishing, tomboy and a tough lady, so having a go as a male this time around wouldn’t be a stretch. And if he’s stubborn, allergic to tomatoes, addicted to Wheel of Fortune or I can’t beat him in a game of canasta, then I’ll know she’s there. And that will be so totally weird.

Employees must wash hands before returning to work. And so should your disgusting friend Sheila.

(I’ve changed Summer’s name to Shelia for this story. Don’t tell Summer I wrote this about her.)

“Shelia” and I were at an outdoor concert. We went to the restroom. I finished first. I was washing my hands in the sink when Sheila came out of her stall and stood next to me, waiting. I thought she was waiting for me to finish so she could wash her own, but sadly, no.

“Are you going to wash your hands?” I asked.

“Nope, I don’t need to.” She said.

I gave a disapproving nostril lift. Meant to offend. Sheila got defensive and said the line … that fucking line people sometimes say in this situation. That line that sent me into a slow-burning rage. She said,

“I’m clean. I didn’t PEE on my HANDS!!”

… as if that’s what I was in there doing. As if that’s what ALL of us are in there doing. Just peeing all over our hands. Running our finger tips through the warm stream. Or just rushing - you know - starting to wipe before we are finished –OOPS, still going. Or peeing directly into our cupped hands and pouring the urine into the toilet. Or whatever the fuck ever she meant by that.

So here we go:

“Okay, Sheila. Okay. Sure, you’re clean. But wait, wait … hold on. Let’s give this scenario a whirl. I know, it’s crazy, but listen up. Let’s pretend for a moment … that there was a person in that same restroom stall before you. I KNOW! CRAZY! Hear me out. Let’s say this stranger DID pee on their hands. Or worse. OR WAY WORSE. Stuck tampon. Wiping their ass with cheap, thin toilet paper –OOPS – rip, poop on the finger. Or the finger just slipped. It’s hot outside. Maybe they didn’t need to go to the restroom at all! Maybe they just had a sweaty butt crack itch that could ONLY be satisfied by fingernails. Or maybe they were just some weird hippie that wants to save the trees, not use toilet paper at all, and wipe their ass with the palm of their hand! ANY of this is possible!! We don’t know what people do in there before us. We do not. But what we DO know is that when they’re done they usually take those peepee-caca-tampon-sweaty-crack fingers and flush the toilet and unlock the door and leave. THE SAME FLUSHER AND DOOR LOCK that you just touched before you came prancing out whistling fucking Dixie about how CLEAN your hands are!!! Yes! Yes, Sheila! SO CLEAN! Congratulations!! You know what you get for that? You know what your PRIZE is for being so clean? That beer. That beer you just bought for me and handed to me with your dookie fingers right there where my mouth goes. NOPE! No thanks! That’s YOURS. Also, that popcorn looks delicious. Yeah, lick all that butter off your fingers you disgusting motherfucker. Yes! Yes I DO kiss my mother with this mouth. At least I know it doesn’t have HIPPIE SHIT in it! You know what??? Maybe you SHOULD pee on your hands. From what I hear – it’s sterile.”

The concert was great. Summer and I are still friends.

I GOT GIFFED

So, I learned how to do this today

Here, let mommy show you

My friends want me to have a kid so bad. They think because I’m energetic and creative I’d be a fun mom. But, you see, I’m energetic and creative because I get good sleep AND I like booze. Those don’t pair well with children. Take just ONE of those hours of sleep away from me and, well, you better replace it with some spirits in my coffee.

You know those gingerbread house kits you get at Christmas? FUN thing to do with your family, right? No. Not with me. My children would HATE doing one of those with me. It would go a little something like this:

Yes, sweetie that looks great, but try to squeeze the icing out a little more even. See, like this. Even pressure. Even strokes. Oh, sorry. Here you go.

Okay, see now, those are globs. Not even strokes. Here, let me wipe that off. That’s ugly and Santa would never live there. I’ll show you again. Hold it like this… What? Corban? I’m just showing him how to … fine. Sorry, you’re right. Hands off.

… Watches

… Cringes

Soooooo, do you have a PLAN with this or are you just fucking around?

WHAT? I’m just saying, maybe we should get out some paper and draw out some ideas first. Hold on, let me take some measurements and sketch it out on the computer. It will be really fast. Sweetie, count how many peppermints we have and organize the rest of the candy by size and color. What do you MEAN you don’t want to do this anymore? It’s going to be BAD ASS!

So, they only give you white icing? That’s okay, I’ll mix up some other colors. I still have all my old cake decorating stuff back here in the closet somewhere. Oh my God, look! LED lights! Yeah! NO, don’t watch TV, come on! This is fun!

Fuck it. You guys watch cartoons. I’m going to bake some more gingerbread. I’m going Ginger MANSION on this bitch. Probably gonna be an all-nighter. I’ll make a pot of coffee. Good night, sweetie. Stop crying. I love you!

Marriage Phone Calls

Me: Hello

Corban: I’m filing for divorce.

Me: Now what?

Corban: You unplugged my electric razor again and it died. Half of my beard is trimmed.

Me: I don’t understand. That thing was plugged in for DAYS. How does it lose charge so fast?

Corban: It doesn’t work like a phone. DO NOT unplug that razor again. Now I have to sit here and wait for it to charge.

Me: Just use a regular razor.

Corban: I’m TRIMMING my beard.

Me: Scissors?

Corban: Goodbye Dianne

…hangs up.

… then calls back.

Me: Yes?

Corban: WHY don’t you use the outlet by YOUR sink?

Me: I don’t like having my hair straightener plugged in and sitting next to the sink while I’m washing my face. I can’t see and I’m clumsy and I’m afraid it will fall in and electrocute me.

Corban: You’re an idiot. Never unplug my razor again.

Me: Stop shaving over the sink and washing all your hair down the drain, thus clogging the sink so bad we need Drano every two weeks. Stop wadding up your wet towel and throwing it in my sink. Stop stacking your dirty clothes on top of the hamper instead of opening the lid and putting them IN the hamper. Stop leaving dirty socks in the cushions of the couch, under the coffee table, under the bed and IN the bed. Stop leaving every single dresser drawer pulled completely out. Stop building used keurig container forts next to the keurig machine instead of throwing them away. They are not leggos. Stop putting cigarette butts in your pocket so when I wash clothes – the entire load smells like old cigarettes. Also, they clog the filter. STOP SMOKING. Put the toilet lid down. Stop collecting coffee cups by your sink and water glasses on your nightstand. Hello? ... (he hung up somewhere around "Drano")

Childless Alcoholics

A year after Corban and I got married people started slowly, timidly asking when we were going to have a baby. They would smile, with gleaming hope in their eyes and calmly ask when little Butters was going to be made. (Corban convinced his mother if he had a son he was going to name him Butters.)

Now, two years later - the crowd is getting angry. We are starting to heckled at family functions. "Where's that fucking baby?!?" Woah - Granny, calm down. "You guys are happy, with good jobs! What they fuck are you waiting for?" That was his 10-year-old niece. Then we got chased to our cars by an angry Memorial Day fam mob with plastic forks flinging potato salad at us chanting: "MAKE US A BABY! MAKE US A BABY!"

This isn't the first time we've run away from our family. I couldn't handle the pressure of planning a wedding. All the tiny details, who to invite, colors, flowers, the 30 emails from my mother only 7 days after being engaged. I'm not that girl. I DO NOT enjoy that shit. I was ready to jump off my balcony when Corban said, "Do you want to just run off to an island and do this - just the two of us?"

Yes. Yes I did. And it was perfect. My wedding morning was the least stressful day of my life. I woke up to a view of Caribbean paradise. I let him sleep in. I showered and got myself ready. He helped me put on my dress. Had some coffee, then took a taxi down to the beach. We brought our gloves and played a little catch on the beach, said some vows and was back in our room drinking beers at 9:30am. Married. Ba-dam! Then we went grocery shopping.

It's safe to say both Corban and I suffer from extreme "Don't fucking tell me what to do" syndrome. We both have a rebellious streak and don't have a traditional bone in our bodies. But we are also logical thinkers - and we do a lot of thinking, and a lot of talking. And we want the best possible life we can imagine with the priorities being 1) No fighting 2) No stress 3) Being adventurous and 4) Having Fun.

.....

So, I'm sorry to break it to you guys but we've made our final decision. We're not going to have kids. (At least not on purpose.) And it's our business - but I'm not afraid to explain WHY because it's really simple:

We don't want to. We just don't want to. We don't want to spend the rest of our years raising a person. We want to do other things. We like the fact that we have a fun together and we don't want that to change. I'm not going to be negative and call children snot-nosed-money-sucking-ass-pains because I know there's a lot of JOY in being a parent. I do. I don't dislike children and neither does Corban. And we actually think we'd be really fun, creative parents. But what it comes down to is: We don't want to start that process at 35 years old. We don't want to be old parents.

Plus, we recently went to a 3 year-old's birthday party and ran away with our tails between our legs, drove to a bar, banged beer mugs and pinky swore to being rich alcoholics instead. And we felt a very palpable sense of relief in the decision.

Again - I'm very sorry.

Want to see a funny photo of our dogs? There's this hilarious one where I tied my basset hound's ears togeth- No? Okay.

Back by unpopular demand ...

MOVIE REVIEWS by Dianne Gallagher (No one ever requested I do this again ... so HERE YA GO!)

The Descendents NOT AT ALL like the band!! The first few seconds of the movie is a close-up of a lady smiling in a speed boat and I promise you're gonna be all like, "Oh shit - something totally fucked up is about to happen to this woman. Oh God, please don't show it. I just sat down with food and I'm not ready to see any blood or anything. Oh, man, that boat is going really fast and see, CORBAN, THIS is why I don't like BOATS!" But it doesn't show it. She's in a coma. She was cheating on George Clooney with ... get this shit ... Matthew Lillard! Remember him? "Peer Pressure." (That's his stupid line from the movie Scream.)

And me and George Clooney were both like, "What the fuck? THIS guy???"

It ends up being a really sad movie - set in beautiful Hawaii, so watch it if you want to cry and look up vacation packages to Hawaii at the same time.

____________

Um. I don't remember watching any other movies lately. I rarely go to the movies. I watched that first new episode of Mad Men. Soooooo, was that "Zou Bisou Bisou" crap Ham's new wife performed at his birthday party supposed to be sexy? Am I wrong or did she kind of suck at that? I mean, I don't have a dingaling, so I may not understand these things. Don't get me wrong, she's hot. Weird teeth hot - but still hot. It just looked awkward. Blame it on the 60s, maybe. I don't know.I don't think Ham was into it either. Is it Ham or Hamm? Draper. Whatever.

____________

Dude, I just can't eat broccoli at all anymore. I only had a few bites and my stomach is wrecked with gas. I had a 20-second fart in the restroom a few minutes ago and that just made room for more gas. I'm glad I'm not carpooling today because I'm gonna release the hounds when I get in the car.

____________

Welp, I guess that's all I got!

Come back and read more movie reviews by DIANNE GALLAGHER!!

Til then, I'll try to watch some movies or something.

I love you. Oh, God, I love you so much.

I'm sorry I hated you and your big stupid boots

I used to be vehemently against the wearing of Uggs. But then one day I stuck my foot in one and my toes clutched the soft fur and cried, "I'll never let go Jack, I'll never let go" and latched on to this new cozy love nest - so I bought a pair and shut up, here's my compromise:

I promise to never wear them during warm weather in Houston with a dress or shorts. I'm taking my big, furry boots with non-slip rubber soles to my husband's parents house in Breckenridge. I will wear them there because it is appropriate and will leave them there. Also, I'm trying to be nicer in general and stop judging people who wear big, stupid boots.

This brings me to a little story about my last trip to Chicago. This story involves a beautiful woman in big, stupid boots, turbulence and me learning a big, stupid lesson in judgment.

I hate flying. Wait, no, I take that back. I don't mind flying. I don't mind taking off, I don't mind peacefully gliding through the air and I actually enjoy landing. I fucking hate turbulence. Maybe it's because I didn't fly for the first time until I was 18 years old. I wasn't introduced to the idea as a child who is generally accepting of things and isn't aware of her mortality. Kids trust things adults have control over like boats and cars and 4-wheelers and jet skis and other dangerous, mechanical things I'm afraid of that break, flip, crash, roll and kill the shit out of you.

Nope. I took my first plane ride as a cynical, paranoid, logical teenager who understands words like 'mechanical failure' and 'drunk pilot' and 'hungover air traffic controller' and 'shit - we all die now'.

Turbulence. I know it's natural. I know it's going to happen. But no matter how much Valium I take - the fear engulfs me from the first shift or shake. Doesn't matter if the flight attendant doesn't look worried or that no one else on the flight seems disturbed. I've learned that scanning their calm faces does nothing to ease the warm, sharp, shrapnel of panic that starts shredding its way through my veins and stabbing me in the heart.( I'm flying tomorrow by the way. This is the lunatic inside me getting mentally prepared.)

Anyway - to the story.

I had a company training course in Chicago in December. I was standing in the gate waiting to board the plane when I saw an attractive blonde woman and her husband dashing in late, cutting to the front of the crowd with elite access. I wasn't bothered that they were elite, or that she was blonde or thin - but I did find a reason to instantly hate her and that reason was at the bottom of her thin, pretty legging-wearing legs.

She had on the biggest, dumbest, furriest goddamn boots I've ever seen. I'll try to describe them. Imagine a really fat, furry fox. Now imagine that fat, furry fox's big fat fox mother. Now imagine snapping her neck, and wrapping her around your calves and all the way around your foot. No - not your foot. The foot of a teeny, tiny blonde woman with skinny legs running through the airport. You couldn't miss them. They were distracting. My hound dog would have gone apeshit and viciously attacked her legs. Do you understand what I'm saying? Am I relaying the obnoxiousness well enough?

So you can probably guess who I found sitting in my row by the time I got to my seat.

Oh Christ, okay. Of course. Pardon me, smiling polite lady as I step over your petting zoo to get to my window seat. Hi, hi, yes, hi - I'm Dianne. Rebecca? Hi Rebecca. This is your husband? Nice to meet you two.

Rebecca's very nice. And she's very pretty for a woman her age. This is the first time I realize she's older than I thought. From the gate I would have guessed she was in her 30s, but now I can see she is a very pretty late 40s, maybe even 50. She's had work done to her face, but it's so subtle that it doesn't look like ugly, plastic surgery face. Her make-up looks professional in a way you can tell she's wearing it - but it's not overdone.

Small talk and pleasantries - okay cool. I'm going to pop my Valium. Yes, Rebecca, I'm a nervous flyer. I tighten my seat belt and pray that for once in my life I can actually fall asleep on an airplane. It's never happened for me, ever - but I'm going to pull my turtleneck all the way up over my face like an idiot weirdo and try - just try to make it happen.

We are in the air.

I can hear you Rebecca. This turtleneck isn't soundproof. Yes, tell your husband to look at me. Yes, I look silly. Okay, the Valium is kicking in and I can see the humor in the pill-popping nervous girl next to you with no head. I'm trying not to smile because you can see the outline of my lips and you'll know I'm awake and I can hear you. I'm feeling pretty good. Maybe I can fall asleep.

**BUMP!!!!!

BUMP!!!!! BUMP!!!!! BUMP!!!!! BUMP!!!!! BUMP!!!!! BUMP!!!!!

The flight attendants were just a few minutes into the beverage service when the Captain comes on, apologizes and asks them to stop the beverage service, return to their seats and buckle up. There is a huge storm we are trying to fly around and it's going to be pretty bumpy. Apologies.

Okay, okay, okay, alright, here we go. Pull down the turtle neck. Alright. Okay, I'm fine, where's my pills? Yes, Rebecca, that is the fear of death you are seeing in my pale, frozen face. There's my pills. I'd like to take the whole bottle and die, but I'll settle for half a pill. Okay, sit back and breathe. Not fucking sleeping on this trip I guess. Nope. Nervous breakdown maybe. No sleep.

So - here's the thing. The Valium works in the way that it numbs that part of my brain that thinks we are all going to die. What it DOESN'T DO is relay that information to the rest of my body that is so tense it could break. My ENTIRE body turns into paranoid stone. I have to remind myself to breathe. Deeply. My legs lock up so tight they start to shake uncontrollably. It happens every time we hit a large bump. It's embarrassing and I can't make them stop so I start rubbing them from lap to knee, back and forth in effort to relax them a little. I'm looking like Rainman. Uh oh, fifteen minutes to Judge Wapner. Ehhhhhh. Ehhhhhhhh. EHHHHHHHH.

Rebecca touches my shoulder. I look at her with dilated pupils and she offers one of her headphones for me to listen. She explains that she's plugged in to channel 9 where you can hear the conversation between the Captain and air traffic control.

Holy shit, what? I didn't know you could do that! She smiles and explains to me that she always does this when she gets nervous. It helps to know what's going on. I listen and I can hear him saying things like "Ten more miles and then a slight turn - something - and the drop so many feet" ... and so on. They are working together trying to get us around this weather. He's talking to other planes nearby and they are explaining their location and conditions. Everyone is calm. Holy balls this helps. My legs are still shaking with each sudden drop shift but I'm pleasantly distracted by these conversations.

Rebecca touches my arm again and smiles. I like it. I never touch strangers like that, ever. I'm horrible at consoling people I actually care about - so I'd probably never reach out to a stranger but I'm so grateful that Rebecca isn't like me because I need this. We start talking about where we are from and what we do for a living. She pulls out some photos of her grand babies. She's a grandmother! Unbelievable.

She spoke with a slow Texas accent and had a pretty, warm smile. She whispered all her giggles like a school girl in a library. I liked her. We talked about her family and her job for about 45 minutes through the rest of the storm - both stopping to listen to the pilot's conversations and although my legs continued to shake - I was finally breathing normal and getting through this without pulling out my hair and eating it.

The plane stopped shaking 20 minutes outside of Chicago. Rebecca talked me through the landing - although I didn't need her to, but I let her. My muscles were so sore and cramped it was hard to walk. Inside the terminal at O'Hare we said goodbye. She gave me her business card and told me to keep in touch. I shook her husband's hand and gave her a hug and thanked her for being so sweet and helping me through my panic. As she walked away I stared at her and thought,

"I'm so sorry I hated you and your big, stupid boots."

I meant it. I was really sorry for hating her. I was incredibly wrong to be so nasty about someone I'd never met based on something they were wearing.

My husband tells me I'm mean-spirited. I'm quick to judge, yet I love pointing out when people are being judgmental. I'm one of those comedy snobs that will judge you for liking Two and a Half Men and not "getting" 30 Rock. I put people in categories based on their interests and that is a shitty, shitty personality trait that we ALL need to cut out. I guess Jack Johnson is correct when he says, "We are only what we hate."

So - you know, I guess that was a lesson for me. That woman in her big, fluffy, probably extremely comfortable stupid boots saved my sanity on probably the scariest flight I've ever been on.

So - as I walk the streets of Breckenridge this weekend I hope some little punk girl judges me on my big, furry, stupid Uggs. I hope she hates me and tells all her punk little friends how dumb I look and I hope they all laugh while smoking their cigarettes. I hope she's walking in front of me on the icy sidewalk in her slippery pink, Converse and I hope her legs fly out from under her. I hope she feels immense panic and embarrassment while her head falls towards the icy cement. Her friends are totally going to make fun of her so hard but you know what they're NOT going to do? They're not going to rush her to the hospital with a cracked, bleeding skull because I'm going to be there to catch her stupid little punk head before it hits the ground. And she's going to look at me - and hopefully think I look pretty for my age - and I'm going to smile a warm, Texas smile, help her to her feet and tell her to be careful, watch her step and maybe try wearing a different pair of shoes.

Movie Reviews by Dianne Gallagher

Hall Pass Owen Wilson, Jason Sukedis, Pam from the office and Christina Applegate Everyone is spray-tanned so heavily they look dirty in the face. Especially Pam from the Office. There's a very large black ding-dong cameo followed by a very small white dong. Then a girl has explosive diarrhea that shoots onto the shower wall and she doesn't realize it. There's a small moment with some small athletic white boobies. That's all you need to know.

The Help Emma Stone, and some sassy black ladies Basically this black maid shits in a pie and feeds it to the bitchy white lady that fired her and that was worth building a movie around. I was down with it. There were some emotional and moving moments in there for sure but they really did keep sticking it to that white bitch that she ate her ex maid's shit pie. Loved it.

Our Idiot Brother Paul Rudd, Elizabeth Banks, Zooey Deschanel, Adam Scott, Rashida Jones, Steve Coogan Zooey Deschanel and Rashida Jones are lesbians and they kiss a little. You get to see the back of Steve Coogan's ball sac. I laughed out loud once where his parole officer talks to him (Rudd) like he's retarded. It was a good moment. The rest was okay.

The Muppets A bunch of muppets, Jason Segel, Amy Adams I was disappointed. Plot was rushed and it wasn't funny. The previews before the movie showed a bunch of classic muppet moments in history and I laughed more at those scenes than during the movie. My mom ordered a HUGE chocolate milk shake. It was her birthday. We shopped in the mall after that and I scolded her for farting in a shoe store. Don't tell her I told you guys that.

A Little Help Pam from the Office, and a guy that reminded me of Chris Fairbanks (Rob Benedict) Ummmm, let's see. Pam's husband is cheating on her and he dies from a heart attack while she's giving him an "I'm sorry" blow-job. Her kid makes up a lie and says his dad died in 911. She tells him (her kid) that he sucks and she almost screws her sister's husband who tells her he's always loved her and only married her sister to be close to her. It was a pretty fucked up movie.

I have to go into a meeting now. If you guys find these helpful I'll write more. Let me know.

Being Awesome

So, I'm opening a Word document and typing letters in the form of words in the form of a sentence for the sole purpose of getting the diarrhea blog off the top of my tumblr. I would delete it - but as awful as it was, I'd like to keep the memory. Because I'm gross.

Speaking of gross, I was watching Boardwalk Empire and had a lovely thought. There's a character, Richard Harrow, who wears half a mask because he's missing half his face. He's kind of a dark dude and lonely because he's disfigured and thinks he'll never be loved by a woman. Well, as I was watching the show my mind spiraled off into this idea that if he were real - and I met him - I could fall in love with him. I imagined how the initial flirting would start (by me). He would dismiss it as pity as first, therefore I'd have to eventually be more direct. He would get the courage to ask me to dinner and I'd accept.

In this fantasy I'm a nurse. I would use this to ease his fears and assure him that I could handle whatever disfigurement was happening under that mask. Fast-forward to a point where we are getting serious and really starting to fall in love. He wants to take off the mask but he's afraid. Since he's such a talented artist (in my fantasy) I decide to have him draw what it looks like. I have him start with the normal side of his face and slowly move to the other side. Here's where it gets pretty gay ... and a bit gruesome. But, you know, I'm super awesome and graceful in this fantasy and he eventually trusts me enough to remove the mask and then, yes, we get it on. It's beautiful. Me, looking deep into the dark crater that used to be his left eye and carelessly wiping away the drool that's dripping from the side of his mouth he can't control. Don't LAUGH you ASSHOLES, I told you this is beautiful! Do you SEE what an amazing human being I am in this???

Anyway - that's as far as I got.

So, today I decide to google the actor that plays Richard Harrow and see what he actually looks and goddammit, he's super good looking. He's got those dead eyes I seem so teen-angsty drawn to, and he works them. It must be what drove me to think I could love Richard Harrow in the first place.

Unfortunately, he looks like one of those guys that absolutely knows how hot he is. Men with a healthy, human level of insecurity DO NOT rock fashionable neck scarfs with short-sleeved shirts. They just don't. And so this killed my fantasy. I can never have it again. Now that I know he looks like 80s Depp under that mask, my brain is going to jump to that every time and wonder if he's thinking how AWESOME he is for sleeping with a short, non-famous, non-model, delusional, 34-year old married woman. And fuuuuuck that.

Sorry, Richard. Our ghastly love will never happen.

You can't handle this shit

**If you can't handle a delicate flower of a woman (me) describe a near miss on shitting her slacks - you may not want to continue reading. Stop. Right. Now. Go sit in denial with my husband and play video games.

So I left for work this morning and I was less than 200 yards away from my house when I felt a slight, burning gurgle. Oh shit.

For the next 10 blocks I drove 20 miles per hour in a slight, indecisive panic wondering if it would recycle and calm itself or if I needed to jerk the wheel and go back home. I almost screeched into a few U-turns four different times, but decided against each one. I was already running late and my commute to work is 45 minutes. Burn, ouch, gurgle, oh, come on ... settle. Just settle.

See, it usually settles. It's not uncommon for me to feel this way in the morning. It's pretty (ir)regular that way, but it always settles. Buuuut, there was something a little extra in this one. Some added stress.

I knew the minute I hit Allen Parkway I would be at the point of no return. It's all freeway and Toll Road from there. No exits until I hit The Woodlands.

I did not turn around and that was a terrible, horrible wrong decision.

I felt okay for most of the commute. It was the final 2 minutes that sent me into a spiraling, forehead sweating, crying panic. I cried. I really started crying. You know, guys always have these great "shit their pants" stories and I thought about that as I parked my car in the garage, squeezed my steering wheel and pleaded with a God I don't believe in - "Please, no, no,no, not here. Not now. I'll have to drive all the way home. It will make me 2 hours (oh shit, shit ...no no no no) late and I don't want to make that phone call to my supervisor, OH GOD HOLD IT, COME ON DIANNE, HOLD IT - and there's NO WAY this story is going to be GREAT, it's just going end AWFUL!! Why is this happening to me? Why now?

Full tears. Full eyes watering and tears hitting my cheeks. I was milliseconds away from accepting my fate in failed muscle control and soiled, black lace panties. And my last thought before letting go was "at least my seats are leather" and then ...... stop. Breath. Break. It paused. It fucking paused.

But it wasn't over. Run. Get out of the car. Walk fast. Talk to no one. Oh, God, there's Lucy. Don't look at me! Hurry, decide: Restroom in the gym or the break room? The gym is closer, but a lot of women work out in the morning and there's only 2 stalls. Oh god, it's coming back. Restroom by the breakroom. Go. Forehead sweat returning. Look down. Don't talk to me. Walk, walk walk walk. There it is - restroom. Open door. There's someone in the last stall. She's wearing tennis shoes, it's the cleaning lady. Fuck her, I don't care. She's shitting too.

Sit. Courtesy flush. Relief. Grab toilet paper to dry eyes and wipe smeared black mascara. Text message from friend:

This is that moment where you stop and reflect. I haven't had the best week. I've been putting myself through a lot of personal, mental stress and I think today, Friday - I reached a pivotal turning point. If I don't calm the fuck down and get back to the woman I usually am ...the woman that usually just lets SHIT.... slide, roll off her back or just simply "happen" and relax and smile and think positive - I'm going to eventually really shit my pretty, knotted panties.

To me, with love.

I had to google "What to write on a sympathy card" today.

Yup.

Because I had nothing. A co-worker's grandfather died and I was the first one to sign the card. I just stared at all the blank, white space with absolutely no idea what to write. I don't know the girl that well and I definitely didn't know her grandfather. Still not sure how he died. I don't know if she was close to him or even liked him. (Hey, they're not ALL great.)

So, embarrassed by my lack of general condolences, I googled what to say. Just to get inspired.

I'm sorry for your loss. Genius. To the point. Why didn't I think of that?

We are thinking about you. True. I guess. If you count "thinking about how I don't know what to write on this card"

Our prayers are with you and your family. Ehhh. Yeah. I don't pray. I know SHE does though. Very religious girl. I would say that, but it feels very wrong to lie about something like that. And I can't be honest. No one wants to hear my shitty "Science says we all have to die eventually, but I'm glad he lived a long time" answer.

Remember that we love and care about you. I think she would feel just as uncomfortable reading this from ME as I would writing it. We are not close. I don't give "general condolences" like that. Writing this would be the visual equivalent of me holding her face, looking into her eyes and kissing her on the nose.

"Name of Deceased" will remain in our hearts forever. That's too cold. Even for me. At least learn his name.

.....

I am not a fiction writer. This is why I don't write scripts or story ideas. I only know how to write about personal, selfish, me, me, me type things. Things I hate. Things I love. Imaginary conversations I have with my dog or inanimate objects. (I know that SOUNDS like fiction - but those are my real thoughts.)

There is no real point to this blog other than I sometimes suck as a writer and a person. If you're not tightly involved inside the vortex of my tight little headspace - you're not going to get much out of me. My husband says that I can sometimes be "mean spirited" but I think I'm just more "ME spirited."

I took the first two sentences and combined them like the cold, crappy co-worker I feel like.

I'm not having a good day. xo.

Fight Like A Girl

T-shirt design for my company's Race For The Cure team. Houston, October 1st

'Til the Day I Die teaser

Our film team, DKN White, competed in Splatterfest this past weekend. We had 54 hours to write, shoot, edit & create a 7 minute Horror film. On Friday we were given these specs:

Murder Weapon: Fire Extinguisher Character: A writer Line of Dialogue: "Are you enjoying this as much as I am?"

I'm not allowed to show the film until the screening, but here are a few stills. Enjoy!

The Exchange of Crotchular Heat

This sounds like it may be about sex - but it's not. Well, not exactly. Maybe a little. I got a text message from my friend Paul the other day that read: "You should write something about that exchange of crotch heat, it's funny. I think about it whenever I sit down on the subway." What he's talking about is something I told him a while back. It goes like this: Let's say for example you're at work and something goes wrong with your computer and you call up the IT guy to fix it. Let's say that the IT guy sits in your chair to fix the problem. Let's say the IT guy weighs about 300 pounds. (Although the weight really isn't the issue. It happens with anyone, fat or skinny. BUT - bigger people do give off more heat, more rapidly.) So, the IT guy sits in your chair for a good twenty minutes - fixes your problem and leaves. Then you sit in the chair to resume working. Yet - something is disturbing. Your chair, when you sit, feels more than a little "used". No. It's HOT. It's stranger crotch HOT. Well, in my case the guy isn't a stranger - but his crotch heat and my crotch have never had an exchange before, in any way, whatsoever. Until now. And it's disturbing. In thermal physics, heat transfer is the passage of thermal energy from a hot to a colder body. Heat transfer always occurs from a hot body to a cold one, a result of the second law of thermodynamics. This means MY slightly cool crotch is ABSORBING the heat from his HOT crotch, thus now making MY crotch hot - and thus - severely fucking with my head. Because welcome or not - the exchange is sexual - and there's no getting around it. It's weird and uncomfortable. You want to pull down your pants and fan yourself. Shake out the panties and remove all unwanted heat. You WANT to do this, but you can't. Because you're in your office and you have work to do. SO - you sit there and let physics run its course and twinge and shudder at the unwanted thoughts that are creeping into your head because your crotch is all comfy with its newfound warmth and coziness. "NO! Bad Crotch! No! No!" Then you pop out of your chair and go get a drink. Shudder and shake a leg. Paul says this happens to him on the Subway. When he told me this I imaged what it would be like if the person that was sitting there before me was attractive. What if I had been eyeballing some hot guy and when he got up and then I stole his seat - and then… And then I was secretly, shamefully "comfortable". Yeah, we'll call it comfortable. Because "aroused" isn't the right word. It doesn't affect me to THAT level. It only affects me to the level of putting thoughts in my head - with a touch of added heat. A touch of realism to spice up the fantasy. I imagine me sitting there with a glazed look in my eye and a sleazy smirk. Crossing my legs back and forth with my private, pervy little secret… I just screwed up all of you - for the rest of your chair-sharing lives. Enjoy!

*photo stolen from the internet.

'splain?

Corban and I went to New Orleans this weekend. We decided to take it easy this trip. We had to change hotel rooms the first night we were there because ours smelled like vomit. The room was clean, but it was an interior room with no windows so I guess when someone pukes the liquid devil that is Bourbon Street all over the place - the evil is going to linger a while.

This reinforced our decision to take it easy. No hand grenades. (Well, okay ... one.) No stumbling home wasted at 4am. This trip was about controlled drinking, jazz bars, good food and shopping.

It was nice to walk around the dirty, smelly, sludgy wonderland of the French Quarter during the day with a clear head. I bought a couple of antique perfume bottles (I'm a collector) and a blouse, but controlled myself to mostly window shopping.

Then we came across this window outside a doll shop in Jackson Square.

Stare at it and question it as long as you want. No explanation will come.

The End.

It Starts with an Apple

(This was written around 2006)

So – my car gets broken into about every other night. I say "broken into" – but it's more like I leave the doors unlocked and allow them to go through my shit. It's better this way. It saves money. You'll understand shortly.

In my neighborhood it's an unwritten rule that if you leave your car parked out on the street, the bums are going to break in. Their favorite approach is to bust a window, so I purposely leave my doors unlocked. This benefits both of us. I don't have to pay for a new window and they don't risk cutting themselves and getting skeeze blood inside my car. I guess it benefits me a little more.

I don't leave anything in my car of any value. They aren't looking to steal the car. Every other morning I find my glove compartment open and my maps and paper work scattered around my front seat. They help themselves to the change in my cup holder – well, only the silver stuff. They leave the pennies. (I don't blame them.) I'm not sure what they're hoping to find. A little money, wallet, maybe a gun, I don't know. But I'm always sure to disappoint and I feel bad about this.

You see, I'd like to help them. I have 3 huge trash bags full of NICE clothes in the trunk of my car and every time I see one of those kids sitting on the side of Valero, dirty, sketching and smelling like vomit – I want to offer them some new clothes. At least a clean shirt. But I don't. Why? I'm chicken shit and I don't much trust a junkie. I also don't want to insult them. I have flash, phobic fears of one of them jumping up and throwing me against the wall, rubbing and dry humping me and yelling, "You don't like my clothes? You think I stink? Take that bitch! All over ya. Uh uh uh uh uh" I just get the feeling they wouldn't be as appreciative as I'd hope. You see, I find real joy in slipping on a fresh shirt smelling of Downy and it really brightens my day. But I don't think my idea of an uplifting moment has any comparison to the feeling of a fresh crack toke or heroin poke. They want money and I'm not giving them my goddamn money. But I still want to help. SO, I've decided to start leaving "treats" for them in my glove compartment. My fantasy is that it's the same bum that continually rummages through my car. I want to help him. Maybe tomorrow night, he'll find a shiny apple in my glove compartment. Next night - a banana. Add some vitamins (they like pills) and maybe a protein bar. He'll learn after a while that these gifts are for him. After a while he'll become healthier. Then I'll start leaving him clothes. Start off with a clean pair of socks. Clean underwear. Work my way up to some collared shirts. Toothbrush. Bar of soap. And when I think he's ready – I'll leave a few blank job applications. He'll fill out a few, brush his teeth, put on a clean shirt maybe drop them off at McDonalds or Burger King. He'll get a job. Work hard. Eventually become Assistant Manager. Move out of the lot behind the abandoned gay bar. Find an efficiency apartment and a girlfriend… And one day I find a note in my car that reads: Thank You. And I'll feel good. Hey… shut up. I know how unrealistic this all is. But I like to dream. When I get inside my car in the morning and notice the missing apple – I'm going to smile and ignore the strange smell and put my fantasy into motion. In reality, know they're making crack bongs out of my apple and maybe using the bathroom in my passenger's seat. I know this. But I don't like reality. I like to live inside my head and make up stories. It gives me something to think about while stuck in traffic.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Dianne Off Pudding