April 2005

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Happy Halfiversary To Nous

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Today, I have been married for six blissful months. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to blog about a half-anniversay, but then I saw that some other blogger did it, so now I feel justified in busting out my trumpet. Blaaaat!

Now, "the perfect wedding" is an elusive beast; just about everyone I know weathered a hitch or three on their wedding day and soldiered on for the sake of the catering deposit. However, I truly had a perfect, hitch-free wedding in beautiful Las Vegas, Nevada. The guest list consisted of me, my betrothed, my parents, my older brother (and sole sibling), my brother's Vegas buddy, this delightful preggo and her husband. That's it. Just my nearest and dearest, plus booze. No second cousins, no kids, no obnoxious bridemaids and no nonsense.

Well, technically it was all nonsense. We got married here. Perfect for two aliens like us.

The day of our wedding, we were too nervous to do anything. So we watched four episodes of The Cosby Show in our room at the Mirage and exchanged panicked glances every so often. I was convinced I'd flub my vows for some reason. We didn't write our own (I'm not a fan of that Aniston-Pitt banana milkshake stuff), but I still feared I'd stumble over the words. I didn't, but I did bawl like a baby during the ceremony. The photos of my crumpling, tearstained face are hilarious. Jon looked awesome the entire time, natch. 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 29, 2005 1:59 PM

 

Thoughts on that rag pic

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So yesterday, I posted a link to this non-work-safe photo for the sake of dialogue. (OK, it was actually for the sake of "eww, a pad!" hilarity, but let's pretend I like to provoke discourse, shall we?)

For those of you who can't click on the link, it's a photo of an unabashed topless dame wearing modest pink panties that nevertheless reveal an unkempt bush and a visible thick maxipad. The blog says its mission is to glorify "the natural, unmodified female nude." I dig it, even though I could never be on the site since I'm all tattooed and fake and depilated. Go, hippies, go! Subvert and all that!

Now, what struck me about MaxiPic was the intensity of the comments people left about it. Even some fans of the site seemed outraged by the sight of this woman's pad. It's not like it's visibly bloody or anything; it's just a regular old Kotex in silhouette. Most women have worn a pad at one time or another (I'm a 'pon girl myself) and I assume a lot of guys have seen their significant other walk around sporting the panty n' pad combo. Is it really that offensive?

The most shocking thing, really, is the girl's willingness to pose seminude when you know she felt like shit. Those big plastic pads are a bear to wear--nobody feels hot in Huggies. She probably had cramps and could feel her uterine lining forming a sickening pool in the pad. Meanwhile, the timer on the Nikon was ticking away, and all she could think was: Must...get...S'mores...Pop Tarts...

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 28, 2005 11:30 AM

 

And more cheesecake!

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(Pic removed)

Note the absurdly haughty expression on my face (nobody wearing cheap polyester dancewear should look quite so proud) and the blatant underboob action. Underboob is the new cleavage.

To the left, a benevolent spirit smiles upon on me in the form of a glorious sunburst. Either that or it's an enraged feminist ghost out to consume me with her fiery Sauron-esque birth canal.

I never said I had nice ankles.

That choker is real, y'all. The box said "Diamondique." That means it's real. My man loves me. He buy me diamondz. Tonight he says he's gonna give me a pearl necklace!

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 28, 2005 10:53 AM

 

Cheesecake Alert!

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(Pic removed)

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 28, 2005 10:45 AM

 

This Totally Happened

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For real. I was roused by a ringing telephone at an ungodly hour this morning. I stumbled into the living room, pulled the phone out of the jack, and headed back to the soiled heap of  Simply Shabby Chic linens that I call "bed." The instant my head hit the mascara-stained pillow sham, I heard ringing again. But the phone was unplugged! That's some Poltergeist shit, yo.

I attempted to ignore the ringing, which was difficult because my phone plays a very loud MIDI of "What a Girl Wants" by Christina Aguilera (no joke). After a few moments, it occurred to me that a disengaged phone cannot possibly ring. Therefore, I was having an auditory hallucination, which is not all that rare for a schizotypal foilhead like myself. But then, I opened one eye and saw my dog and both cats staring at the telephone, ears cocked. They heard it too. They heard the ringing in my head.

The fuck?

P.S. Topless photo w/maxipad. Discuss.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 27, 2005 2:24 PM

 

From the Dept. of Random and Incoherent

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Is it a venial sin to listen to "Lady Marmalade" (not the LaBelle version) in 2005? I mean, it never stopped being good for me.

Grunting Lil' Kim: uh-uh-

I don't miss the sellout hysteria of the '90s, but I do miss the clothes. I will never look back on the clothes I wore in the 90s and feel remorse. Black T-shirts will always be cool. Ripped jeans will always be cool. Flannel is practical. Whereas I have the distinct feeling that Future Me will laugh heartily at photos of myself in 2005, God willing. Luckily I'm naked in most of them.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 26, 2005 3:52 PM

 

The Photoshoot

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(For those who have been following this tepid saga, I was not  photographed in a bikini after all. I instead modestly donned a bikini top, sequined devil horns, and a miniskirt that declared "GROUPIE" in Gothic script across the ass. Much better.)

It really wasn't so bad. The photographer and his assistant seemed nice, though I could barely see them through the thick paste of makeup I'd troweled over my eyes in a comely whorelike fashion. Apparently the magazine's art director wanted me to look like I was hard at work on an article (and what journalist doesn't work in a bikini top?). So in the shots I'm alternately chatting on the phone, typing on my keyboard, and gnawing a pen seductively.

Near the end of the shoot, the photographer asked me to crawl atop my desk and strike some classic "you're a cougar!" poses. I complied, but my well-oiled limbs left an unctuous residue on the desk's cherrywood finish. It doesn't look quite so distinguished now.

Dude said he was going to shoot me some jpgs, but it hasn't happened yet. I'm jonesing to see how they turned out.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 22, 2005 1:10 PM

 

Top Ten Signs You Were Wasted Last Night

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1. You wake up to find your mattress stripped bare and your bedroom in squalor. (Nobody trashes a house like Drunkself.)

2. You roll out of bed to discover a large tube of cherry-flavored Good Head oral goo, a spent packet of ID lube and a vibrator lying on the floor. You suddenly recall that not only did you have sex last night, you had event sex. And you were probably not very good at it.

3. You discover an empty can of tuna in the kitchen, which you then remember consuming sans mayonnaise in a drunken binge.

4. Upon firing up the ol' iPod and hitting play, you realize that you downloaded a truly atrocious Beach Boys rarity called "Our Team."

5. Horrified, you skip ahead to the next song in the alphabetic lineup. It's "Overprotected" by Britney Spears. Don't drink and download.

6. You realize that Drunkself really, really likes Bowling for Soup.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 22, 2005 9:51 AM

 

Second Best Conversation Ever

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Me: (during last evening's photoshoot) "The photographers want to put baby oil on me."

Jon: (offended) "Do they put baby oil on Leon Uris?"

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 22, 2005 9:50 AM

 

Best Conversation Ever

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(So my mom calls me at the office...)

Mom: "Guess what? My friend's daughter is going to be in Playboy's 'Sexy Single Moms' issue."

Me: "That's great! Now you get to have a friend who's even more embarassed  than you!"

Mom: "Oh honey, no." (pause) "I'm still the most embarassed."

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 21, 2005 2:21 PM

 

Stripper Archaeology

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This evening I have the dreaded photoshoot with Minneapolis Saint Paul Magazine (Motto: "For those who find Chicago Magazine too congested and difficult to navigate!") The art director asked me to dig up some skimpy "cheesecake" ensembles for the shoot. Perceiving this request as a form of flattery, I lamely acquiesced. Now I'm kicking myself. Let's just say the only cheesecake I've come into contact with lately was swirled in my DQ Blizzard.

So last night, I had to sift through my Hefty Bag O' Stripper Costumes to see if I could unearth something appropriate for the photo. I threw all my stripper togs in that bag almost a year ago with the intent of either incinerating the entire lot or dumping the bag at some mythical Goodwill for whores. Being lazy and avoidant, I never got around to doing either. So I basically have a garbage bag full of soiled dancewear nestled in the bowels of my closet. There's symbolism there, but I won't get into it.

The first thing that struck me about my whore clothes was the smell. I never bothered to wash them after retiring them, and they still smell like sweat, dirt, smoke and cunt. They're all too small, and I suspect they were too small at the time I wore them, but I'd eventually become desensitized to seams and zippers--stripper gear doesn't come in a size 10. I tried on my infamous "Unagi Suit," a gold eel-like sheath. It looked ridiculous. When I turned around to check out my ass, I realized that Jonny isn't the only one in the family with dimples. Okay, the unagi suit was definitely out. 

Next, I tried on the ill-advised black minidress I wore on my first-ever night of stripping. (I have no idea why I ever thought I was a black minidress sort of person. I am obviously a flame-print-studded bikini-thigh-boots sort of person. My inner whore is a hooker, not an escort.) This dress has never flattered my silhouette, and nothing has changed.

Surprisingly, a bikini might be my best option. The more naked I am, the better I look. That's probably why I always avoided "gown clubs" like the plague and chose to work at places like "Nasty Kenny's Pink Taco Depot." 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 21, 2005 10:33 AM

 

You fuckers want kinky? Here you go.

Filed under: Imported

I promised I'd write about something turgid and licentious this week as penance for my relatively vanilla posts of late. Consider it a special gift from me, your formerly salacious benefactress.

First, check this out. (It's work-safe, though potentially retch-inducing for necrophobes.) OK, so the company makes fake $600 corpses. Whatever. I admire the craftsmanship and all that. However, I think--I think-- that these latex ghouls are intended to be for necrophilacs what Real Dolls are to lonely geekburgers.

Who wants to pork a corpse?

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 20, 2005 10:30 AM

 

We have a winner in the digital cheese sweepstakes!

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Props to Diana for submitting the most egregious (and delightful) mp3 playlist evah. Comments in italics are mine:

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 20, 2005 10:07 AM

 

PussyContest!

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(Man, I haven't had a contest on here since I asked my readers to help me come up with my first stripper name. And that was, when, early 2003?)

Okay, kids. Feeling vaguely cash-flush, I finally purchased an iPod Mini yesterday (pink, natch). I spent last night loading the little bitch with cheap tunes. At present, my eardrums resonate with the mambo beats of  Ultimate Dirty Dancing. Fuck yes.

Now, I find most people's iPods are portable catalogues of pure rock snobbery. To these folks, Pod ownership is a catalyst for high-minded experimentation. They read about some Welsh skiffle band in NME and rush to download their latest EP before the buzz dies. Or they use the Pod to score rare recordings that were previously only available on heavyweight virgin vinyl. I blame this trend on demographics; most of the people I know with iPods are classic urban hipsters who fetishize the obscure. If youre one of these people, I envy you.

My iPod, by contrast, has become a repository for insubstantial, embarassing crap. Jennifer Lopez? Got her. Vanessa Carlton? Sadly, yes. AC/DC? Present and accounted for. Puff Daddy? Yo, I thought I told you that I won't stop. The Dixie Chicks? Hell yeah. R. Kelly? Oui oui.

My question is this: Do I have the tackiest iPod in existence, or do you have me beat? If you share my Cheez-Whiz taste in MP3s, email me your most humiliating playlists. (Bad CD collections count, too.) The winner will receive a post dedicated to their supreme tackitude. I know that's not much of a prize, but you might go down in the "anals" of porn blog history.

Speaking of which, does anyone miss the days when this blog was dirty? Me too. I wish my fucking family would stop reading this.

ETA: I'm off to download the Superbowl Shuffle.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 18, 2005 10:26 AM

 

I Am a Roller Coaster Tard

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Now that spring is here and the cracked, ashen flesh on my arms is showing signs of cellular regeneration, I'm planning a trip to Valleyfair. I'm a huge amusement park geek; I even own books (yes, books plural) about historical parks and I dream of the Welsh coaster. While I'm loathe to admit this, I even spent years writing a novella about a physics teacher/coaster enthusiast who attempts to torch an abandoned funpark to impress his teenage girlfriend. (Yes, I finally finished it, no, you can't read it.)

I know amusement parks are totally '70s, and not in a hip ringer-tee kind of way. Plus, they've all been branded to death; who wants to ride the "Diet Pepsi Scorpion"? I remember when admission was like $15 and the most corporate symbol in the park was the Yosemite Sam on your parking space. Still, I go nearly every year. Jonny's game to geek out with me; we even get those mock-daguerreotype saloon photos taken every time we go to the park. One of the best things about Jon is that he never says "What a rip-off!" He's more of a "That's so worth it!" kind of dude. Love him.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 15, 2005 2:04 PM

 

Pet Peeves

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1. "Lactivist" home-schooling hippie womyn who suddenly and without warning decide to enable password protection on their blogs. This may seem like an obscure problem, but it's happened to me twice this year. I make no secret of the fact that I'm obsessed with hippie blogs. I consume them guiltily like foul-tasting yogurt peanuts, savoring the oddly flat prose and bizarre child-rearing anecdotes: "Today, Leaf used the toilet for the first time. I felt very sad that my little monkey has grown so big, and I wept. But he is nearly seven, so I guess he's ready. I nursed him an extra half-hour today to reassure him of our bond. It's so draining being a full-time mother." Classic! Anyway, if you've been babbling on about nut butter and hemp tampons for two years, why enable password protection now? Your latest bout of Crusty Nipplitis is not a fucking state secret.

2. Dieting. Goes against my every instinct as an Italian and a lover of life, white sugar, and the Frito-Lay family of products. I'd kill for a single quivering wedge of cocoa-dusted tiramisu right now, but unfortunately I'm going to be photographed in a bikini for Minneapolis/St. Paul magazine. Therefore, my chronic case of lasagne-ass needs to resolve itself significantly in the coming weeks. I'm eating a normal amount, but "normal" is insufficient for a woman with my significant appetites. Pre-diet, I used to go to Cub every morning and get two frosted donuts and a 20 oz. Mountain Dew for breakfast. These days, my morning repast is a Special K bar (does not contain actual ketamine, sadly) and some kind of juice that promises to accelerate brain function. Unlike Mountain Dew, though, it won't make me a better snowboarder. And that's bogus.

3. Bitches at karaoke that hug my husband. I will cut you.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 13, 2005 11:24 AM

 

I Got Yr Pussy Right Here!

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Late last night, Jonny and I braved the frigid mist and headed out for the American Legion. (They pour exceptionally weak vodka tonics there, but the prices are a '70s throwback and the juke's got Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors" in both regular and tribute-version.) As we were walking down France, we spotted an orange kitten crouched beneath a parked truck. As we cooed with comingled delight and concern, another rain-dampened kitten darted out of the brush and proceeded to circle our legs in a dizzying herding fashion. They'd clearly been dumped off by some mental midget with no sense of decency or responsibility.

"I'm not leaving these guys here." I said. They were skinny. I knew I could take them home and gorge them with kibble and love.

"What if they have FIP?" Jonny asked, ever the optimist. I don't many people who can look at a wet, mewling kitten and instantly think "Infectious peritonitis!" Jonny's special that way.

"Duh, I'll take them to the emergency vet and have them screened tonight," I said. After all, we were at the EmVet last week when we (falsely) suspected that one of our cats had ingested an Easter lily.

"No, I'm calling Animal Control," Jonny said, and he did. Meanwhile, I fetched a carrier and a can of Friskies from the house. The little guys were so ravenous that I was able to instantly lure them into the carrier using the "Sea Captain's Choice" as odious bait. They chowed like Kirstie Alley at Mel's on Sunset.

A rude Robbinsdale cop soon showed up to retrieve our precious cargo. "Sure you don't want a cat?" he asked as he loaded the kittens into his SUV. (Whatever happened to the classic Crown Vic?)

"Yes," Jonny said.

"No," I pouted. We had no reason not to take them.

"Peritonitis!" Jonny mouthed, wild-eyed. And so they went.

When we got home, I started hollering. I mean, I really let go. I don't enjoy fighting, but I was so pissed that I hadn't fought harder for those cats. I was convinced they'd wind up adopted by some fuckwit who thinks a kitten would be perfect for her three-year-old. But Jonny talked me down, and soothed me with the assurance that we would go adopt a healthy adult cat this week. That pacified this baby.

Yes, I'm a crazy cat lady. Lick it up, pervs.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 12, 2005 3:33 PM

 

Something's rising

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It's actually getting warm here. And by "warm," I mean my fellow Minneapolitans aren't swaddled in Polartec, giving themselves impromptu cappuccino-steam facials and sawing off gangrene-plagued limbs in desperation. It's only about 60 degrees Fahrenheit, but lively little green things are beginning to emerge from the permafrost. Crocuses in white, butterscotch and Catholic purple have appeared in our once-fallow yard. Jonny wrote a song about spring yesterday, but it's lovely, not hippie maypole bullshit. His pollen allergy makes him sound like early Dylan on my sticky old four-track. Yesterday I sat in the grass with a spotty glass of Coppola red and marveled at the sun like a light-starved Venusian kid.

Warm weather sex is so much better than cold weather sex. The passage of blood to vital organs is expedited by balmy temperatures. You can strip naked in the living room without exposing chilly gooseflesh and pinprick nipples. You get that clean rivulet of sweat traveling from back to crack. Your partner's skin, which might have tasted like dry parchment in January, suddenly evokes warm duck, oysters Casino, and dwindling crystals of fleur de sel. The whole room feels like a filthy steambath at a budget inn. Kissing is so close and juicy it feels almost unpleasant. Almost.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 8, 2005 3:41 PM

 

Everyone's favorite ten-year-old weighs in on censorship

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Check out Amelia Huff's latest posting on Culture to Go. Did you know she's technically ten and a half now? My, how the little bastards grow.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 8, 2005 10:59 AM

 

On Being Bankable

Filed under: Imported

Oh, Tyra Banks. Furious Tyra Banks. You look like something Whitley Streiber might spot emerging from a pod. Your tortured auburn weave evokes a rusty commode begging for a shot of Sno-Bowl. And next week, judging by the preview, you totally lose your shit on America's Next Top Model.

(Smooches to anyone who can find me a WAV file of Tyra shrieking "BE QUIET!" at some poor unfortunate model. Oh, how my husband and I laughed!)

So I signed up for this Pole Humping for Mommies class in the hopes of doing a humorous undercover-j piece for City Pages. (Warning for worker bees: site features nauseating, quasi-sensual music, though sadly no nudity.) In my stripper days, I was never much of a pole monkey, but I did learn a few tricks. I will obviously have to suppress my knowledge in this class, since I don't want the Edina hausfraus to realize that I'm a retired pro. My fear is that I'm gonna get served; what if all the other ladies are better than me? I generally move like Choo-Choo, The Herky-Jerky Dancer, and there's no guarantee I can outstrip Sally Housecoat with her four years of Bikram yoga.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 7, 2005 1:40 PM

 

Idol Hands Make Really Gay Gestures

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I confess, I missed American Idol last night. Please, lash me about the neck and shoulders with willow branches. Around 7:00 p.m., I was sharing a booth at Psycho Suzies, mauling a Tofurkey sandwich and downing an airplane bottle of Glen Ellyn pink zin. I tried to convince myself that human interaction and tasty grub trump the blue glow of the idiot box, but it wasn't easy. I love American Idol.

I want to insert a Kray-Zee Straw into Anthony Federov's tracheotomy hole and sip his sweet digestive nectars. I want to throw my loving arms around big, dumb, wife-shoving Scott Savol. I want to overturn a ten gallon drum of KY Warming Lube on Vonzell Solomon's head and listen to her gurgling screams of protest. I'd like to kick Carrie Underwood in the teeth and...wait, that's not affection. That's just sick.

Today, I am lacking inspirado. Even this morning's email correspondence with a former Playmate has proved insufficient in sparking a writerly buzz. I haven't eaten a French fry in at least a month, and I think that's my problem.

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 6, 2005 2:45 PM

 

Cagematch!: Diablo vs. Mad Mommy (SPOILER)

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I received an incensed telephone call this morning from the mother of one of the contestants on The Starlet. For those discerning consumers who aren't familiar with the program (approximately 95% of the viewing public, I'll wager), it's a reality show on the WB in which a group of ingenues complete for a role on One Tree Hill. Anyhow, Mom was totally T.O'd because I described her daughter as "acne prone" in this review.

In my defense, I would never point out a young woman's acne apropos of nothing. I'm blunt, yes, but not utterly amoral.  The only reason I described said contestant as "acne prone" was that it was a plot point. (The celebrity judges themselves mentioned this girl's propensity for acne, but I somehow doubt Mom sent any hate mail to Faye Dunaway.) I didn't intend to be cruel, and it's not like I described this girl's face as a hideous mess of eruptive pustules. In fact, I described her as "adorable." I was far crueler to the contestant whose brain I likened to a Styrofoam peanut. (I hope her mom doesn't call me; I don't have time for all this parental ire.) That said, I found the whole thing rather touching. I bet my mom would rush to my defense in a similar manner if, say, someone wrote that I had a big ass and no sense of direction. Or not.

The best part about Mom's furious voicemail was that she revealed to me that her daughter wins the show. (Delivered in a satisfying so there! tone.) You heard it here first, not that anyone cares. Maybe I should try pissing off Jeff Probst some time; then I'll actually score some usable dirt.

Oh, oh, one more thing! The mother also sent me a hate letter for good measure, in which she addressed me as "Mr. Schmuck." Brilliant. So not only am I an abusive critic in her eyes, I'm an abusive dude.

*************

And now,  a poignant announcement on behalf of my hair

Those who know me (or can piece together a pictorial history) know that I've frequently changed my hair style and color since, oh, late 2002. I've had blonde hair, black hair, fuschia hair, dreadlocks, microbraids, weaves, spikes, and even a sensible chestnut bob from time to time. Most acquaintances seem to enjoy these changes. My husband dreads the inevitable drama involved with each hair transition (ask him about the night I spent ripping clumps of latex glue off my scalp), but he deals nicely and even assists with major transformations.

That said, I'm retiring my hair from change for the next year. I just had a full head of waist-length blonde human hair extensions installed this weekend, and I love it. I feel like the American Dream according to Paris Hilton; this shit is too bananas to alter in any fashion. Besides, I'm finally sick of tonsorial change. Sure, I'll have to remove the extensions at some point, but there will be no cutting or drastic color changes for at least twelve months. Hold me to it.

Oh, this hair. I look like Galadriel meets Bret Michaels from Poison.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at April 4, 2005 12:59 PM

 

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