SlutPride

There's this thing called SlutWalk Houston that I plan on attending in July. It's happening about three blocks away from my house in the Cherryhurst neighborhood and that's why I'm going. If it was four blocks away I wouldn't bother.  This idea started in Toronto when the Police Force's view of sexual assault is "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized." The idea is to condemn a victim blaming culture and to push the fact that sexual assault is never justified and the victims are never at fault.

My husband's sister lives only one block away so I called and asked if she wanted to join me.

"Is that where you wear old make-up and club clothes from the night before?" she asked.

"Well, I was thinking I'd wear an over-sized t-shir t with pit stains and mens boxers carrying my panties in my purse and just hang around waiting for a cab. But whatever "slut" means to you."

I never actually had to take a cab home. I usually had my prolonged awkward shame in the passenger seat of his car as I was driven back to my own car or my mom's apartment. Move over, mommy. Dianne needs coffee. And luckily, that only happened once. I was in two 5-year relationships almost back-to-back before I met my husband and actually dated a few guys in-between. The one-night-stand felt a little too dirty to turn into a habit.

But I do like to pretend to be slutty. It's fun. I also like to pretend I'm a lesbian during Gay Pride weekend (which is happening this weekend, by the way). I don't make-out with other chicks or anything , but if I see a hot butch staring at me I smile and offer a carrot to the unicorn she's riding because there's NO SUCH THING as a hot butch lesbian! What did you think I was going to say?

My lunch hour is over and I need to get back to work. That's good because I didn't know how to wrap this up anyway. Usually when I want to end a conversation I get put on an uncomfortable face, apologize and tell the person I really need to go to the restroom.


Eeeesh. Ahhhh. I gotta go pee. Sorry.

 

Hello, Loved Ones

"Well, it's finally the afternoon. This morning went by so slow, right?" I said to D'Angelo.

It's  12:31. D'Angelo just sat there, unresponsive. D'Angelo is a blue, plastic back massager I purchased at Beth Bath & Beyond.  D'Angelo  just likes to do his work and not talk. I've found most inanimate objects are all like that. That's fine with me. Who am I to judge, right? I've got my own issues, so I don't let this get in the way of our friendship.

I'm hungry.

No, I'm not. I only said that because it's 12:36 and most people are at lunch. Sometimes I say things because it's time to say them. I actually don't have an appetite today. I let a co-worker in my car pool use my car to go to the gym. If he wasn't at the gym with my car I'd be somewhere else in my car instead of writing to you, Malachai. That's what I've named all of you reading this. I've lumped you all together into a big blob in my head and named you Malachai.  I actually hate that name because it reminds me of that creep in Children of the Corn. I don't hate you guys at all. If you're still reading this bullshit after that first paragraph up there, then you're good in my book, Malachai.

I'm practicing the art of throwing my brain out into the nothing with a loose grip on the line. I do that when I've hit  a creative slump. I recommend it to everyone. Helps me unclench all my stress-induced compressed body parts. Some people go to the restroom. That's gross. I write instead.

It's 12:53. Yes, I took some long, introspective breaks while writing this. I hope you didn't notice. My co-worker just brought back my keys. I'm going to leave now.  

Hold down the fort, D'Angelo. He's on it.

Purse Inventory 6-9-2011

Poop Bags
For my dogs. Not me.

Snot Tissues
For me.

Tiny Notebook
For funny ideas. It's empty. Check twitter.

1 lipliner

4 lip glosses

1 chapstick

Astros tickets
Dugout seats. Club level passes and two parking passes. Don't hate on me.

Poop Spray
For me. Not my dogs.

Small Mirror
I pretend it's for applying lip gloss, but it's actually for booger checking.

Small hair barrette
That's where that fucking thing went. Haven't seen it in months.

Two Pennies
When I dig for change for the snack machine this is all I ever find.

Crumpled Grocery List
I forgot the avocados.

Used Condom
I'm just kidding.

Sun Glasses
Because the sun in Houston will melt your damn eyeballs. (It's a different sun.)

Checkbook
I'm on check #174

Glasses
When allergies make me scratch my eyeballs out it ruins my contacts and I need these.

Green, snappy wallet thingy
Holds all my important cards. And my business cards that nobody wants.

PhoneAlthough this is usually not in my purse. It's usually within inches of my body at all times. I'm staring at it right now. I have a love/hate thing with it.
Car keys

iPad
You can hate on me.

Don't Know, Don't Care

"I Don't Know"

I am a huge fan of those three words. I even think the majority of problems in the world are because of the human inability to say and accept those three words. Religion. Taking sides in an argument. The right choice. These little red bumps that keep appearing on my back of my right hand. (I will never know.) "I Don't Know" is a good, solid and 100% truthful answer to many of life's questions and most people are not egoless enough to accept. And some are too butthole-clenched-controlling to trust the COMFORT those words  bring.

We are so hard-wired to be problem solvers. Find the correct answer.  And we have to be RIGHT! Oh Jesus on a pogo stick, people have to be right all the time, don't they? In a tricky debate, we feel pressure to choose a side.  And then be RIGHT about it!!

"What do you believe?"

I uhhh, uh, I haven't really done all the research, I kinda see both sides, it's pretty complicated ...

"Not good enough. Pick a side. Be with us or be against us. Control. Control!"

Then people just pick one that agrees with their level of intelligence, throw all their eggs in that basket, wear the cape of its colors, stomp a foot and announce, "THIS is what I've chosen to believe! I'm still confused about most of it, don't quote me on any of it - but I chose it and I will defend it to its death! Plus! This person I hate believes in the OTHER thing so I'm TOTALLY into THIS! And I'm RIGHT! I'm right, you're wrong, I'm right!"

Unfortunately, that's how I judge anyone with unrelenting convictions on broad, cosmic, sensitive, opinion-based issues. These hyper little wheel-spinners exhaust me.

I'm not saying I'm always a fence-straddler, but I'm definitely not a band-wagoner. I will not follow blindly and if I don't know how I feel about  a subject, no matter how important or sensitive or political or after-life-ish... my answer is I DON'T KNOW. And then I go back to Web MD-ing these little bumps on my hand for a few more hours instead of going to see a Doctor.

But to top that. The three words that I like EVEN more than "I Don't Know" ...are "I DON'T CARE."

Because I usually, genuinely, seriously do not care about whatever "hot topic" you are going on and on about. Doesn't affect me or my life, personally. Not my chair, not my problem. I don't care. I've got enough going on. Go beat your head against someone else's wall and when you're bruised an exhausted, ask yourself, "Why do YOU care?"  You probably don't know.

A Letter to My Former Self

Dear Fifth Grade Dianne:

This year was both awkward and a lot of fun. Your mom finally let you shave your hairy legs! Yay! The next morning, while sitting in the hallway admiring your smooth, chubby calves you couldn't contain yourself and blurted your excitement to a girl sitting across the hallway. "I shaved my legs yesterday for the FIRST time! Look how shiny they are!!"

This isn't the first time another girl is going to look at you like you're an idiot, roll her eyes and ignore you.  Get ready for a lot of that. For the rest of your life. Girls are assholes to each other, but ... It's kind of your fault. You say dumb shit sometimes. It gets better though. Don't be hard on yourself. You're still immature. (You learn that word in 5th grade. Nanci tells you you're immature all the time. She learned that word in 5th grade too and became obsessed with it.) Don't worry. You eventually learn how to make "weird" work for you. You get cuter and that helps. Also, you're going to grow large boobs in middle school and you announce it to NO ONE.  

Oh, Dianne. You have no sense of fashion you sloppy, confused little tomboy. Yeah, you wore your pink bathing suit with a black skirt. You thought people would think it was a pink tank top, but it even had some kind of shiny, cartoon print on the front of it. Nanci was horrified to be your friend that day. I'm sorry, but I really don't know what you were thinking. Unfortunately, you don't start dressing better until your 30s. You don't understand the importance of "accessorizing" until about 32. Until then, look forward to baggy clothes and concert  t-shirts. And not many boyfriends.

Here's where I was proud of you:
You made a diaper out of paper and then squeezed a whole tube of Clearasil into the crotch. You got caught passing this to a classmate. When Mr. Howard held it up in front of the class and yelled, "WHAT is THIS?"  you calmly looked at him like HE was an idiot and said "It's a dirty diaper" but you said it with a face that read, "What does it look like you boring, old, crotchety asswipe? It's a shitty diaper."

You were severely punished at home later, but I'm still proud of you. From this day forward you continue to blend gross with humor and your prissy friends will not like it and your will torture them with it. Ask Anita. She still talks about the day your frisbee'd a paper-thin, road kill frog into her perm.  (I'm smiling right now.)

You will stay friends with Tammy forever. She's odd too. She was there with you when you dumped the make-up out of the pink, sectional make-up tray you got for Christmas and used it to collect bugs. She gets you and you get her.

Anyway, keep your head up, chubbo. Middle school is coming and it's not going to be easy. You develop an intense love for delinquent Asian boys, Robert Smith and really high bangs. But, so does everyone.

Have fun.

Hypnosis

So, I downloaded this Deep Relaxation Hypnosis App and gave it a try last night. I was hopeful, but a little apprehensive. I have a mind that doesn't like being told what to do. Not by anyone, including myself - even when the advice is in my best interest. We fight. Me and the old brain. We get down and have a good, dirty tussle about once a week. I usually win - but sometimes it sucker punches me, resulting in mood swings, bad language and bad decisions.

(Rolls eyes upwards. You know what I'm talking about.)

I also just drank a cup of coffee and figured that alone was going to ruin my ability to lay still and listen to some creep tell me how to relax. (I just figured he'd be a creep. Come on, who talks to people like that? Creeps. Don't touch me while I'm under, you creepy perv.)

Well, he wasn't a creep. He was Australian. Which means he very well could have been a creep, but he had a sexy, deep accent so I was okay with it. (You can touch me. Just a little though. I have boundaries.) He was cool. I was laying in the bed in total darkness with Darren's (his name is Darren) echoed  voice in my ear buds with some spacey music behind him.

I started to relax faster than I thought I would. I noticed my breathing immediately. It takes forever for me to get to the point of long, deep breaths. I live my life in short, shallow breaths so I was surprised to find myself there so fast. My first intention was to fight it. I suffer  from sleep apnea and I know that when the deep breathing part of my sleep starts, so does the part where I stop breathing altogether. It sucks. It's always when I get really relaxed. It feels like I take a long, satisfying exhale ... ... ... and drift off ... and then forget to inhale again. And then I snap awake gasping for air. It sucks. Did I say that already? Well, it does.

I really wanted this to work so I told myself to just go with it. I reminded myself that people who are open to being hypnotized are more likely to be - and that this was for my own good, so just go with it. Don't fight it and don't be scared. Darren was at number 5 in the countdown, (Or was it a count UP? I can't remember.) and I noticed I was smiling. Just a little. That almost snapped me out of it again. "What are you smiling about, Dummy? If Corban walks up here and sees you smiling he's going to ask questions. Or make fun of you." "Oh, shut up, Dianne. There's nothing wrong with smiling. It's a good thing. Quit trying to ruin this. And quit worrying about what other people think about you." "Fine, you're right. Sorry. Wait. What number are we on?" "Shhhhhh!"

Then Darren said 10. Or 1. Can't remember. But what I do remember is that I felt like I was suspended in the middle of an enormous bowl of mashed potatoes. Not in a suffocating way. I was floating, but not in air. I felt like my gums were made out of thick foam. I don't remember the breathing. I was very much coherent and aware of what he was saying and the directions he was giving me, but much more focused on how relaxed I felt. I felt like my legs were bent, though I know they weren't. It's sort of like the body-high from getting stoned, but none of the anxiety. None, zero, zip.

I had given in. I didn't think I could do it, but I totally gave in and relaxed and enjoyed every bit of it. I slept peacefully then woke up on my neighbors balcony, naked and clucking like a chicken.

Nahhh. No I didn't. Seriously, It was pretty cool and I highly recommend trying it. And yes, I will be taking Darren to bed with me often, methinks. Anyway. just wanted to share.

 "Darren isn't all that attractive if you were wondering. We saw a video of him." "Really? You had to mention that? He's not ugly, he's just not what you envisioned. That's so unlike you to mention someone's looks. Don't be like that." "Sorry."

Slippin' on Some Slipperz

December 12, 2010

So first thing this morning I’m walking down stairs and I slip. Our stairs are metal and covered with grip tape. The same kind you put on skateboards. The exact same kind. Two of the steps don’t have any grip tape. We’ve been meaning to fix that for – oh, a couple of years.  It’s usually not a problem. But, today I was wearing furry slippers and that bare metal step was covered in butter. No. No, it wasn’t. But it felt like it. It was bound to happen. I’ve traveled these metal stairs both sober and drunk many times over the last 4 years and never took a spill until today.  No damage. Luckily, the Libra gift of balance evens out my clumsiness with my quick, life-saving reflexes. As fast as my legs flew out from under me – my left had gripped the rail and my right forearm landed on a step – holding my back 1 inch from the corner of the step.

I froze in that position for a long time. Reason 1: I was letting my brain catch up to reality that I was alive, not broken and paralyzed and not bleeding to death from the head. Reason 2: I was staring down at Corban on the couch -  playing some brick-breaking game on his phone – waiting for him to LOOK UP WITH CONCERN!!

He did. He looked up. But not right away. This was not a silent fall. My arm and two feet slammed down on those steps pretty hard. Right above his head. Maybe he thought I dropped a basket of laundry. Hm. OR MAYBE HIS WIFE ALMOST DIED ON THE STAIRS.

I’m fine, so I got over it.

But then I did it again a few hours later. I really did. I fell twice. Second fall blame goes to Stubbs. He likes to cut me off while walking up the stairs. Especially if I’m off-balance because I’m holding multiple bags of groceries. Jerk always has to be first. Everyone in this house is an asshole today.

Then I spent all day making food for the week. We got a cool, late wedding gift from his aunt. It’s a buffet style set of 3 crock pots. You can slow cook three separate entrées at once. Add my regular crock pot to that and that makes FOUR. So I research FOUR new recipes to make. The idea is that I wont have to cook the rest of the week. Viola, right? NO. Because they all sucked! All of them. They all turned out tasting terrible! Now I have a fridge FULL of disgusting food to eat all week. Yayyyy.

I’m also afraid of my house and my dog.

Who has two middle fingers and hates December 12th?

Picture it.

Bye.