Category Archives: General Hoo-Hah

I’m Not Rocky Balboa

You know that scene in one of the Rocky movies when he’s training? He runs through the streets of Philly as his fans cheer him on, then he runs up those stairs and throws his arms in the air in victory as the then-inspiring but now nauseating “Gonna Fly Now” song blares in the background. Remember?


I had a Rocky Balboa moment on Sunday. Well…I thought I did.

When I first bought my elliptical trainer, I could only do 5 minutes before I was jumping off in a sweaty, oozy heap. I hated clunking along on the damn thing, feeling like a hippo stuck in quicksand. It wasn’t very motivating.

Since I don’t normally enjoy feeling like a hippo stuck in quicksand, I avoided the elliptical trainer frequently. Because naturally what you should do if you’re trying to get healthy is avoid exercise, am I right? And then when I was done avoiding exercise I made sure to give myself a very healthy dose of guilt…because who doesn’t love guilt, right? It’s so good for morale, really. It perks you right up. This is the kind of misguided thinking that got me to gain 220 pounds in the first place…trust me.

It took a few weeks, but I finally came around to realizing that sitting on the couch and mentally berating myself for avoiding the elliptical trainer wasn’t getting me where I wanted to be. In fact, after I hit the sacred 45 pound mark I was eager to get to 50…so I made a deal with myself last week that I would just give it a shot. I promised myself that I would get on the elliptical every day last week for at least 10 minutes and see where that got me.

Bad Ass Couch copy

Monday came and I did 10 minutes of stuck-in-the-mud hippo leg pumping. I started hurling mental crap at myself for not being able to do more. (Because that’s helpful, right?) I actually had to tell myself to shut it. And I did. I focused my attention back on what I could do.

Tuesday came…10 minutes. Wednesday came. I begrudgingly tried 15 minutes. I’m pleased to inform y’all that I did not, in fact, die. I was just fine. Thursday came. I dropped a pound and did 15 minutes. Friday came and I set the timer thingy for 15 minutes…but as my 15 minutes were coming to an end, I realized that I felt just fine. I knew I could do more.

I finished Friday with 25 minutes…and for the first time, I felt a little glimmer of pride. I was also really sweating for the first time since I’d started this experiment. Don’t get me wrong, 10 minutes of leg-pumping hippo cardio is great…but I wasn’t left feeling particularly productive at the end of it. I wasn’t even really sweating. All I had to show for it was sort of a pasty, sticky feeling…much like what I’d get if I accidentally got too close to a Kardashian, I imagine.

Saturday I woke up, stepped onto the bathroom scale, and discovered that I was 1 pound away from hitting 50 pounds lost. Holy shit…1 more pound. This is where it started to get away from me. Just a tad.

That morning I climbed onto my new BFF, aka the elliptical trainer, confident that I could hold my own for a respectable 25 minutes…and I did. I went about the rest of my day with a saucy little spring in my step. I was no longer Sit-On-The-Couch-And-Feel-Guilty Dianne…I was becoming Badass-Who-Works-Out Dianne. And I liked it.

When I woke up Sunday morning, I piddled around a bit but I was eager to see my BFF again. What a change from Monday, right? It wasn’t too long before I tucked my ear buds in and was ready to go. The hippo was gone. I wasn’t gracefully gliding away like the 120 pound beauties I used to see at the gym, but I was pumping away with new found confidence. It felt really good.

As I went about the rest of my day, I kept thinking about the fact that I’d lost 49 pounds. One more pound to go to my first major goal. I was proud of myself – and that’s extraordinary for me. I’m used to telling myself I can’t…I won’t…I shouldn’t. I’ve got 20 years of negativity under my belt…so what happens when I suddenly start to feel a little confidence? A little positivity? A little moxy?

I think I’m Rocky Balboa.


Suddenly I wasn’t content to bask in the glory of my 25 minutes on the elliptical. Nooooo. I wanted to push the envelope. Feel the burn. Poke the angry badger. Well, I’m not too sure if that last one is an actual saying…but you get the drift. I wanted more of this feeling-good-about-myself stuff. I decided to do another 25 minutes on the elliptical. Hell YEAH!!!!

After finishing some more housework, I updated the status on my Facebook fan page to let everyone know I was going for it…and I climbed onto the elliptical and started up. And y’all cheered me on…just like the screaming fans that chased Rocky down that street (except we’re all much more attractive and would never be seen in public in crappy gray sweats or pleather pants).

I finished my second round of 25 minutes, although honestly I spent the last 10 minutes of it wondering what the hell I thought I was doing. I was sweating in places I didn’t know I had. And muscles…they hurt. At least I think that’s what they were. I haven’t used them in a very long time. Do humans have muscles in their asses? Because I just thought I had two lumps of memory foam with a crack down the middle, but wow…even my ass muscles hurt when I was done.

I posted my victory on Facebook which, in this scenario, is the virtual equivalent of Rocky thrusting his fists up in the air as the city of Philadelphia cheered around him. Screw that piddly first 25 minutes I did that morning…now I’d really accomplished something, right?

I half-collapsed onto Hot Mess Hubby’s chair (with him in it) for a few minutes. He gave me a reassuring hug, chuckled, and said in an I-told-you-so tone “Yeah, I thought you were crazy…”

He was right. He speaks from experience. Because when I’m super motivated to do anything, I instantly turn into Clark Griswold from National Lampoon’s Vacation movies.


You know Clark. He overdoes everything…and so do I. By the time Downton Abbey started, I was waddling around the house like a 90 year old rodeo queen. Didn’t sleep too well either. Every time I rolled over or…took a frigg’in breath…my muscles screamed in pain. And the next morning? Yeah, I couldn’t put on my pants. That’s probably not a good sign.

So…lesson learned. I promise to remember that I’m more Clark Griswold than Rocky Balboa (and that’s really okay because Rocky couldn’t enunciate for shit and I can’t hang with talking like I’ve got a sock in my mouth). Plus when it all comes down to it, I’d rather be guilty of a little too much enthusiasm.

I declared Monday a rest day. Enthusiastically. And I enjoyed every minute of it.

Oh and I lost 3 pounds during my experiment. I also eventually got into my pants.

Tonight’s goal is 30 minutes. I’ve got this…and, hopefully sometime this week, I’ll be able to tell you that I’ve lost my first 50 pounds.

Have you ever overdone it? Don’t leave me hanging out on a limb here…share your story and make me smile.

Biofreeze Pain Relieving Roll On, 3-Ounce (Pack of 3)

Sunbeam 732-500 King Size Heating Pad with UltraHeatTechnology

The DFW Penis Expedition of 2013

A month ago, four of my most loyal, bat shit crazy girlfriends and I drove the DFW Penis. I’ve tried to come up with a funny, witty post that would pay homage to the hilarity that ensued on that day but I need to remember the simple fact that sometimes it’s not necessary to add to something. Sometimes all I need to do is set the scene and let you watch it with your own eyes. So that’s what I’m going to do.

Before we get started, let me just remind you that this mission is called the 2013 DFW Penis Expedition for a reason. Therefore, it’s safe to say that it’s not suitable for viewing at work or in front of children. There are quite a few videos linked in this blog post, so be sure to have your speakers or headphones hooked up – and you should know that when you click on the video links a new browser window will open for you…so be sure to find your way back here when you’re done.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let me set the scene for you…

My friends, Brenda, Lauren, and future blogger Jackie arrived at my house at 9 am sharp. I introduced them all to our mascot, whom you’ll meet in a minute: Gregory Pecker. He’s a dick. I handed out gift bags for the girls and then we did a “gear check” on the hood of my car to make sure we had all the shit we’d need for an epic trip. Since we planned to get out of the car at the head of the penis (pretty close to the pee hole) we knew hard hats and protective eye wear was important.

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Then it was time to shoot the intro video for our Expedition – so Lauren grabbed the camera and Jacky and Brenda came with me. Click here to see the YouTube introduction to the DFW Penis that we recorded just for you.

After that, it was time for us to put Gregory Pecker in the car and hit the road penis!

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You probably already know this, but we’ll share a road trip tip with you anyway: when taking a road trip it’s good to have some tunes to jam with in the car. It helps pass the time. We recommend Jungle Love. Click here for the video.

First stop on the 2013 DFW Penis Expedition: the Texas shaped thing of I-20 and Mountain Creek Parkway. I don’t know what the hell this thing is made of but it’s big and shaped like Texas…and people are always pulling off the road to take their picture in front of it. I first shared this place with you in my blog post called “Hello, Arlington!” about interesting places in my town. This is the first time I’ve actually pulled off the road and walked out to it.

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Oh, what a sight I’m sure we were as we walked back to Brenda’s car with a giant inflatable penis. Click here to check it out.

Next, it was back on the road penis…as we urged Brenda, our driver, to hydrate. You know the old saying…there’s no better way to hydrate than to drink Starbucks through a penis straw. Click here to view the unexpected side effects.

Before too long, we were all the way down the base of the shaft and the highway was curving into the balls. Woohoo!

Now…let’s talk about tailgaters for a minute. Not the fun, happy BBQ’ing in the parking lot before a sporting event kind of tailgaters…no. I’m talking about the kind of complete asshat who gets behind the wheel of a car and decides that he’s going to ride your ass until you change lanes in shame because you’re just not as awesome as he is. If you’re like me, you either ignore them or pull over and let them whiz by…but not today, my friends. Not today.

When we didn’t cower to his interstate bullying, he got the surprise of his life. As he cut over and zoomed past us, Jackie waved Gregory Pecker out the window at him and he couldn’t get away fast enough. He pulled in front of us briefly, but I imagine the sight of us in the rear view mirror was a little more than he bargained for. Pee first…and then click here to see why.

We were officially deep in the balls of the DFW Penis, otherwise known as Mesquite. It was getting pretty bushy…

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This seems like a good place to get off the penis…

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We took the Gross Road exit in Mesquite to do a little investigating. When it comes to lady gardening, we’re all pretty fastidious, yes? So why was all this bush around the balls of the DFW Penis? We had to check it out for ourselves. Click here to see the video of our investigation.

We found our way back to the highway and were soon traveling north up the shaft and then…shit. This happened.

This is what happens when four women are stuck in traffic with an inflatable penis.

Now, I would love to continue and tell you more about the 2013 DFW Penis Expedition…but I can’t. Why? Because my phone died and Jackie documented the other half of the trip. DOH! Rest easy, though…Jackie is about to go public with her own blog and she’s promised to post about the DFW Penis Expedition very soon.

UPDATE: Jackie met a guy and became a huge turd and flaked on the whole blog thing. Okay, sure, he turned out to be Mr. Right…and he’s pretty awesome and everything…but we never got the footage of the second half of the DFW Penis Expedition. I think we need a re-do.

In other news, I lost 113 pounds and 8 sizes in clothes…and I no longer look like the jolly penis princess in these videos. And Jackie is about to marry her Mr. Right. And now Brenda’s engaged. Holy shit…yeah, we definitely need to ride the penis. One. Last. Time.

Stay tuned…

Gregory Pecker – Inflatable Blow Up Penis for Bachelorette Party

Bachelorette Party Favors Dicky Sipping Straws – Asst. Colors Pack of 10

DIY French Memo Board

Ah…the French memo board. They’re gorgeous. I love them. From the time I saw the huge board behind Rachel’s desk on Friends (I can’t find a picture of it, but trust me…it was awesome), I’ve wanted one. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, I offer Exhibit A for your consideration:

They come in all types of fabric backgrounds from damask to burlap and use everything from ribbon to jute for the criss-crossy things. I’d looked around quite a bit and I couldn’t find one that I was absolutely in love with, so I decided to make my own. How hard can it be, right? There are a gazillion blog posts out there about how to make your own, so I schlepped over to Pinterest and found one. Here’s where it begins to go south.

I skimmed the directions. C’mon…it’s a piece of plywood covered in quilt batting and fabric, then wrapped in ribbon and finished with upholstery tacks. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist, right? Right. It does, however, take a person who can follow directions.

Hot Mess Hubby thinks he’s a woodworker, so he actually had 1/4 inch plywood in the garage. He didn’t even have to cut it for me. He had a piece that was 3 X 2 and that’s about the size I wanted. Perf!

I headed off to the fabric and craft store for the rest and returned with my stash: a nice, rustic looking burlap, a matching jute twine type trim, and deep brown upholstery tacks. Rock’in. Let’s do this.

I had quilt batting in my needlework stash, so I didn’t have to buy that. All I needed was HMH’s trusty staple gun and I was in business. He handed it to me as he walked out the door to go work, mumbling “And that’s all the staples we have, so…don’t waste ’em.”

Great. Thanks, babe!

Our house is currently one giant heap of disorganization, thanks to non-stop projects (which includes the current project of turning a spare room into my personal office and organizing a few dozen boxes of stuff to donate to charity). The only feasible place to put this thing together was the living room, so I used the coffee table for a work bench. I went to town, first laying out the burlap and then the quilt batting, then settling the plywood in the middle. I started in the middle of the board with the staple gun and worked my way out to the edges, pulling the burlap tightly as I went. It was louder than I expected and Dyson certainly didn’t appreciate it.

Momma...clean up all this crap before you make pretties please!
It wasn’t long before he was hiding out at the top of the stairs.

Once the plywood was completely wrapped, it was time to start with the ribbon. I’d purchased a spool of jute twine stuff and was pretty sure I’d have enough. Nope. Not even close. Three trips across the board and I was out. Major fail.

I stopped at the craft store on my way home and they were out of jute twine stuff. Bastards. I opted for turquoise satin ribbon. I bought two spools, 18 feet each. That should do it, right? Right. I rushed home and started with my project. Dyson fled to the top of the stairs again. Pussy.

Halfway through my first sweep, I ran out of staples. Shit.

Got staples?
Got staples?

HMH found some more in his “wood shop” the next day and loaded up the gun for me, but this project was really starting to piss me off.

Yeah, you read that right. I was pissed at the project, not my lack of planning. The closest I can come to explaining this phenomenon is to point out that I’ve been married to Mr. Let’s-Not-Plan-Shit-And-Just-See-What-Happens for almost ten years. It’s rubbing off.

I get home from the gym the next day and start up again. Finally I’m going to get done with this damn board. I finish the ribbon and consider it a small victory. Then I get to work on hammering the upholstery tacks into the board. About halfway through the package, I realize I need a hell of a lot more tacks. I’m going to run out. Son of a…

See, I’m not so good with the math, yo. Not that I measured shit on this project – but even if I had, I would have screwed it up.


At this point, my idiocy only spurs my desperation when it comes to getting this memo board from hell finished. I’m not going down without a fight, damn it. I grab my keys and head for the craft store. It’s on!

I get to the craft store and I’m pretty sure I’d grabbed the last package of this style of tac when I was there previously. Sure enough…none left on the little peg thing. Damn it! All was not lost, however. Thanks to bad customers or bad employees, I couldn’t tell which, I found two more packages of tacs mixed in where they shouldn’t have been. SCORE!!!

I drive home, wondering what the hell is wrong with me that every single step in this simple little project went horribly wrong. I pulled up in my driveway with huge sigh of relief. Now I know, without a doubt, the board will be finished tonight. Nothing else can stand in my way. I walk in, put down my purse and the bag from the craft store, and grabbed the board with one hand. It wouldn’t budge.

I’d hammered the damn memo board right into our coffee table.

Thank God our coffee table is old and crappy and I don’t care about it anymore. I just surrendered to the fact that I am, indeed, a Hot Mess Princess and finished up the board. Now I had a new problem: with all the tacks poking out the back, the board was now very stabby. Quick like a bunny, I grabbed some old cork tiles I had here and pushed those over the stabby parts. Voila! Done!!!

The "after" pic of my coffee table. Good thing it's on its last legs anyway!
The “after” pic of my coffee table. Good thing it’s on its last legs anyway!

Now it just looks like a French memo board. You can’t tell that the project took an entire week and pushed me to the brink. All you can see is a beautiful board that cost very little to put together.



So my words of advice are:  buy your own – or make sure you listen to the directions and measure!!! Learn from me, my darlings!

Ivory Twill Memo Board

Damask with Black Ribbon French/memo Board

I live in a penis

Just about every week, I meet up with my “bloggy/writey bitches”. It’s a small group of friends who share a love of writing. Some of us write blogs, some write fiction, some are just getting started. One thing has become crystal clear: meeting regularly helps us recharge our creative batteries. We tell each other our writey woes and share our ideas, we give each other encouragement, and we reinforce each other. We also talk about shit that has absolutely nothing to do with writing…and tonight’s blog post is about a conversation I had with one of my writey bitches last weekend.

I don’t remember if it was before or after the very strange man walked sideways in front of us, grinning from ear to ear so creepy that I was sure one of us was showing a nipple or something. The guy was freaky. And who walks sideways when there’s a ton of room to walk normal? Don’t get me started on that crap. Anyway, we were sitting there at Starbucks with our coffee and the worst tasting pretzel ever made in the entire universe, when my buddy tells me that the Dallas/Fort Worth area is a giant penis.

HMP: What???

A: Yeah! Just look at the weather map. DFW is a giant penis.  We live in a penis.

HMP: No way!!!

And that’s when she whipped out her tablet and outlined it with her finger.

HMP: Oh my God…we live in a dick!

A: I know!!! Ever since Bill told me about it, I always see it.

HMP: It can’t be unseen. It’s a dick. Holy crap…

A: I know!

HMP: And it’s pointing west. Why is it pointing west?

A: I have no idea.

And then we just sat there and stared at the DFW penis.









I live in a penis…and Dallas is the balls. Figures.

*** And several weeks later, we DROVE the DFW Penis, peeps. That’s right! ROAD TRIP!!!!! Click here to go straight to the blog post that tells you what happened…with pictures AND video. You’re welcome.

Super Fun Penis Candy

I Love Not Camping

Okay, it’s Thursday and that means it’s time for Mama Kat’s blog meme! Last week, you voted on Facebook…and you voted for the topic “That one time I went camping…” – and you’re in luck because I’ve been camping exactly one time.

Here’s the thing: I’m the product of a City Girl Momma and a Country Boy Daddy…and the City Girl won. I grew up in Orange County, California – which actually had orange groves and strawberry patches in it when I was a kid. It was not the concrete & stucco encrusted, smog filled monstrosity that it is today. There was a dairy behind our house…with cows and everything. My big brothers used to stand me up on our picnic table in the backyard so I could feed the baby cows carrots. It hasn’t been like that for a very long time, but when I was a kid there were still wide open spaces and plenty of opportunities for kid-sized adventure.

When I was ten years old, my Girl Scout troop was working on our “Outdoor Fun” badge…and one of the activities we had to complete was camping. I remember being so excited that I was actually going camping. My Mom took me out to Kmart and bought me my official “mess kit”. I thought I was totally badass…until she found a sleeping bag on the clearance aisle.

I wanted the super cool red plaid sleeping bag that looked like something out of a western flick – but my parents were raising 6 kids on a single income, so if there weren’t any hand-me-downs I was pretty much stuck with whatever was on the clearance aisle. Imagine my ten year old eyes rolling in disbelief when my Mom bought me a red-orange fabric sleeping bag off the clearance aisle. The worst part?  It smelled like rotten cheddar cheese. Seriously. Perhaps the red-orange color wasn’t intentional. Perhaps the sleeping bag absorbed it in the back of an ancient Cheetos factory and that’s where the rotten cheddar smell came from. Actually, it was more like a combination of rotten cheddar and stinky feet. Mom must have washed that damn thing 20 times, but it was no use: I was about to go camping with a stanky cheddar cheese feet bag.

Camping day came and I hugged my Mom goodbye at the drop off with the enthusiasm of a true adventurer. I had no idea how long it would be before I would see her again, but I was certain we would trek many miles through mountain and prairie before coming to the most perfect camping spot I’d ever seen. Yes, I was sure of it. I climbed into our Scout Leader’s van with my squealing friends and we were off. Oh, what a grand adventure it would be! Imagine my chagrin when we drove ten minutes through the city before pulling into the parking lot of a Kiwanis campground that was probably all of 3 acres in size…next to a mobile home park and a strip mall. What?

The sun was setting as we set up the tents and I did my best to immerse myself in the illusion that we were camping in the deep woods. Unfortunately, the damn neon Schlitz Beer sign at the liquor store across the street kept reminding me we’d all been ripped off. Our camp site was next to a tiny lake about the size of three swimming pools – complete with a genuine artificial waterfall that fell over a pile of fake boulders. It was pretty cruddy, actually, but it was ours.

We took turns striking a flint and lighting a fire as our Scout Leader diligently checked each of us off on her clipboard. We grilled burgers and a big pan of potatoes. Then we made hot cocoa by the fire and I learned about one of the greatest things in life. Ever. S’mores.

Then it was time for ghost stories…and then bed. Unfortunately, this was always where my away-from-home adventures went sour for me. I wasn’t good at spending the night in strange places – something that would benefit me greatly in my twenties. The only ho DNA this Princess possesses is Handbag Ho DNA, peeps.

Whenever I tried to spend the night away from comfort of my own home, I developed the worst tummy troubles. I worried non-stop. I was afraid of everything. And I wanted my Mommy. I had never successfully spent the night away from home at this point in my life.

I crawled into my rotten cheddar, stinky feet sleeping bag and tried to be brave. True to her word, my Mom had packed a sleeve of Saltines crackers in my bag so that I could munch on them if I got a “sick tummy”. I peeled open the wrapper and blinked back my tears. I was going to do this.

It wasn’t easy. My tent mate fell asleep in three seconds. I laid there, stinking of rotten cheddar and wishing I had more s’mores to wash away the fear. And then there was the waterfall…

The majestic, mystical waterfall on the fake boulders was somehow powered by whatever you call the thing that flushes toilets. Not even making this shit up. It was on a timer, too, so the water would slowly trickle to a stop and then WHOOSH the toilet would flush and water would pour out over the top of the boulders again. Oooh, magical waterfall! And then WHOOSH…What if the wooshing sound was drowning out the sounds of something really dangerous approaching our camp. Like vicious bears and angry witches. And also the farts coming from my nervous tummy. Between the farting and the rotten cheese toe smell, I wasn’t sure if my tent mate was sleeping or simply passed out from the vapors.

Some time during the night, the soft glow of the Schlitz Beer sign and the rhythmic flushing of the waterfall actually managed to lull me to sleep. Before long, it was morning and our Scout Leader was getting out mini boxes of cereal for all of us to eat. We sat in our jammies and coats in the cool morning sun, talking about our big adventures. The squirrels we saw, the birds we saw. We were sure we could start a fire faster than any of the stupid boys at school. We were survivalists.

After breakfast, we explored the park until our parents came to get us. Mom picked me up and I hugged her hard. I hugged her for that sleeve of Saltine crackers that got me through the night…and I hugged her because I was proud I finally made it through a whole night away from home. I packed up my mess kit and my cheesy feet sleeping bag and we trudged off to the car as I regaled her with the ghost stories I’d learned that night…and told her of the terrible toilet fountain. We laughed that no one seemed to notice the cheese funk was coming from my sleeping bag.

And that, my friends, was the one and only time I went camping.

I’m much more of a hotel girl. A hotel room with a big jacuzzi tub and lots of fun things to do. Sign me up. You can keep your camping…this Princess needs a bed.

So how about you? Camp or Hotel? Lemme hear it!

camping lol