Spring made a sneak peek this weekend, and I could not wait to get the fuck out of the house. The one good thing about the way my job has been going lately is that it makes me savor every last motherfucking second of the weekend. I cling to it like you would not believe, and then feel crippling sadness on Sunday evenings. (It doesn’t help that The Walking Dead depresses me so badly this season! I feel more emotionally connected to every character now more than ever.)
So anyway, all I could think about when I woke up on Saturday was eating a hot dog. And not some stupid veggie dog that I explode in the microwave, but a veggie hot dog made by godlike hands and gilded with insane toppings. I was allowing myself one splurge over the weekend, and a Station Street hot dog was it.
“I don’t like hot dogs!” Chooch pouted.
“Yeah, because usually they’re made in the microwave by me,” I pointed out. Kevin Sousa, the best chef in Pittsburgh (I have a sickening chef-crush on him) not only owns the joint, but he was there that day, grilling up the hot dogs himself like it was no big thang. I almost died.
“I can’t believe no one is bothering him!” I hissed to Henry, who was not as impressed as me, but that is only because he hasn’t experienced the edible sex this man can serve on a plate*. I mean, really.
*(Kara, Janna and I are doing a reprise of the infamous Vegetarian Beer Dinner next Monday night and I guarantee it will be the only thing that gets me through the work week.)
“No one here probably even knows who he is,” Henry said with that typical “you’re so lame” smirk. And that made me start judging everyone in the hot dog shop, eating their bun-hugged meat logs unbeknownst that they’re smearing their lips & chin with mustard and siracha in the presence of culinary greatness.
I got the veggie Devil Dog, which comes with a large plop of egg salad and a potato chip helmet and was so fucking worth it even though I panicked for the rest of the day about gaining all of my weight back. While eating inside and staring dreamily at my chef-crush was tempting, we wanted to take advantage of the pretty weather so we drove a few minutes to one of my favorite places — Homewood Cemetery.
Chooch ended up really liking his hot dog and actually ate the whole thing which was a small miracle because that kid never eats the whole thing of anything that isn’t made with ice cream and/or Cheez-Its.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of effect this will have on Chooch when he’s an adult, this whole cemetery thing. It’s really normal for us and we spend a ton of time at graveyards, and Chooch doesn’t really know any different. I’m not saying it’s going to ruin him or anything, but I can only hope it’s molding him into the next great horror film director.
Henry was teaching us about frogs and turtles. SNORE. (Don’t you just want to push them in? Or maybe you want to push ME in. It’s OK. I know Henry is the favorite.)
Ugh, it just felt so good to be out there! I turned on the Sucre Spotify station on my phone and then we pissed in the mausoleum. Chooch made me pretend to pray after that. It was uncomfortable.
And then fox took an unfortunate spill and perished.
OH NO, FOX!
Poor Fox. I told you you should have waited in the car. Dumbass.
On our way back to the car, some young jogging woman ran over to two elder-yuppies and panted, “Can you tell me where the entrance is!? I have been stuck in here for hours!”
She was all harried about it, but to me that sounds like A Good Time.
Later that night, Janna came over to watch the Pens game. The official plan was that Henry and I were goingt o make pendants at the same time, but Henry was being a big bitch baby about that and sat in front of the computer alone most of the night because he sucks.
Meanwhile, Chooch was playing Minecraft on his Kindle.
“I’m not wasting a diamond on a hoe!” he midlessly exclaimed at one point, not realizing the golden double entendre he had masterfully woven.
“That’s what Henry says when people ask him why he won’t propose,” I blurted in a very frantic “That’s what she said!” fashion, like I was in some sort of punchline race.
And then! This is the worst part of the whole weekend. I just happened to check my Instagram feed during a commercial (Janna was too busy mentoring Chooch in Minecraft to entertain me) when I saw the WORST THING EVER. Jonny Craig posted a picture of a Jonny Craig doll in his tour van. THE SAME JONNY CRAIG DOLL I HAD MAYA MAKE ME LAST YEAR! Turns out Christina’s Native American doppelganger found it on my blog and ordered one from Maya and then FUCKING GAVE IT TO JONNY because she’s some cuntwiping sycophant. Now that means when I see Jonny at the end of the month, I can’t show him my doll because he HAS HIS OWN.
You guys, I was so upset about this that I started storming about the house. Finally, I had to drink a glass of wine to calm down. Janna and Henry just laughed about it.
“He’ll have that doll shooting silk in no time,” Henry commented on Facebook. (God forbid he should just say it to my face — I was sitting right there!)
When I read that, I started laughing so hard. “I didn’t know silk was slang for heroin!” I cried, the wine settling in at this point. “Is that what you guys called it in THE SERVICE!?”
“What? No. I meant silk as in silk,” Henry explained. “Because he’s a doll?” he elaborated, upon seeing the question marks undulating above my head. “Never mind. People who sew would get it.”
“No, I get it. It was just funnier when I thought you and your SERVICE buddies did ‘silk’ in the 80s.”