Apr 122013
  • A few weeks ago, I signed up for this wellness screening thing at work. All I knew was that it had something to do with our health insurance and my grown-up friends here at work were all saying that it was a Good Thing. So I scheduled mine for Thursday. Angie had hers on Wednesday and off-handedly mentioned that there is finger-pricking involved, which gave me TWENTY-FIVE HOURS to overthink, panic and fixate on the split-second pain my fingertip was going to inevitably endure. I carried on like a fucking bitch-baby about this for the rest of Wednesday and picked right back up as soon as I got to work yesterday. Amber2’s appointment was fifteen minutes before mine, and I begged my boss to let me go then too so I wouldn’t have to ride the elevator alone while crying into my palms like some pious robed woman watching Jesus hang on the crucifx. Joy was like, “Uh, yeah. I don’t care” and then made fun of me for being so scared. Glenn stopped by my office before he left for the day (a few minutes before Amber2 and I went up to the screening) supposedly to get one last look at me SINCE I WAS PROBABLY GOING TO EXPIRE. Anyway, even though I yelped pretty loudly and made the nurse laugh, I survived and ended up walking out there feeling like Wonder Woman after the nurse raved about how great my numbers are so SUCK IT GLENN.

  • I have a Candy Land band-aid on it now, too.

  • My brother Corey stopped over yesterday morning before work to drop off an Easter basket for Chooch on behalf of my estranged mom and aunt Sharon. “Doesn’t Val ever wonder what Chocoh even looks like now?” I asked sarcastically. “Yeah, you’d think,” Corey said. It didn’t really bother me until afterward, but what the fuck. Sending over obligatory holiday offerings is definitely not the same as being a sane and stable figure in my kid’s life and it just pisses me off. And while one could argue that this is my mom’s way of “making an effort,” I’d like to point out that buying “things” is what has always come easily for her. It’s the “love” part she struggles with. Yay, chocolate bunnies, toys and gift cards. FYI, he doesn’t even know who you are. 
  • The other day, Chooch said that he dreamt I wasn’t in the house and he looked outside and saw all of my body parts on the road & Henry was laughing. Then a few minutes later he told he actually didn’t remember his dream so it’s good to know that’s the one he thought up on the fly.
  • Chooch was going on and on one night about how bad Henry’s mom Judy sucks at drawing. “She’s horrible!” he cried, and then laughed smugly as if he derived great satisfaction from this. “I love that Chooch is just like and heckles people for their inadequacies.” Henry frowned and said, “Yeah, that’s called being a dick.”

  • I was over at Barb’s desk a few days ago, talking to her and Nate, when Chris joined the conversation. Then this weird thing happened, where it literally felt like I had floated out of my body and drifted away from the conversation. Chris picked that precise moment to ask me something which I didn’t understand because it sounded like he was talking underwater, and even still, I shook my head “yes.”  I was telling Barb about it yesterday, about how I think I have neurological damage maybe because this isn’t the first time this has happened, and she was all impressed at my overachieving ability to peace out of conversations. MAYBE I’M ASTRAL PROJECTING!? I still don’t know what I said yes to.
  • Henry the Foot Barbarian clipped Chooch’s pinky toe with his humungous sledgehammer feet Wednesday night. So now Chooch has joined my Abused Phalanges Club. In the bathtub that night, he took on his Henry-mocking voice and said, “My name is Dumb Henry. I like cooking eggs, stepping on my son’s toes and hurting Erin’s feelings.” INDEED.

  • On our trip back home from Lancaster a few weeks ago, we were driving through Breezewood when that “close the window, come alive” song came on (yes! we were able to find a soft rock radio station in the midst of an FM country jamboree!) and these huge tears literally started cascading out of my dumb eye sockets. So then Henry and I had this long conversation about Anne Murray (my Pappap loved her!) but then the DJ told us later that it was actually Rita Coolidge, so I guess that song really isn’t that memorable to me after all.
  • “You’re not a writer because you don’t have any books,” Chooch schooled me last week. First of all, duh. Second of all, I lost count of all the friendly reminders like this one that I’ve been doled over the years. My favorite was when I told a “friend” that I was going to school for English Writing and he said, “Why? You don’t write.” And then last year he tried telling me that he has always been one of my biggest supporters. HAHAHAHA. Go fuck yourself.
  • I guess I should just stick to keeping a photo blog.
  • I sent Henry frantic 911 texts yesterday because I found out my beloved Gilad has a 24:7 streaming workout channel called Gilad TV AND I WANT IT.  When I was in 6th grade and my aunt Susie asked me to be a junior bridesmaid in her wedding that fall, I PANICKED. I was a fat kid. 5th and 6th grade were NOT good years for my vanity. So like any other 11-year–old, I started doing the Slim-Fast diet [yes, my family supported this; what assholes! (not you, Susie)] and a combination of Denise Austin and Gilad’s Bodies in Motion. I lost a ton of weight and even though I still struggled with it, I never really was “fat” again (until I had Chooch, thanks buddy). So now that I’ve been doing Weight Watchers, I’ve revisited my love affair with Gilad. Most of his shows are from the 80s and 90s and everyone wears LA Gear, but if it was good enough for me then, why can’t it be good enough for me now? (I also do some Jillian Michaels videos because she scares me and she’s hot.)

  • There are still pendants left if anyone is interested! The nurse who did my wellness screening went on and on about how she liked the one I had on yesterday (it was a Pumpkin Head in a pink filigree frame) and I tried to get her to buy it. She just laughed. I don’t think she believed me, but I was being totally serious.

  • I keep telling Mumford and Sons that no really, they DON’T have to wait for me, but they still keep playing that fucking song A MILLION TIMES A DAY like what they’re really saying is that they’ll wait for me to start liking their stupid songs. I don’t know what it is about that band, but they get under my skin.
    • However, I’ll shush a room and pause the world for Band of Horses.
  • I want to punch the smell of mulch in the face.
  • Some of my photographs were published in a real life magazine! (See below!)

  • I’m trying to get Henry to guest post about the Jonny Craig show because I just don’t think my emotions will allow me to revisit that night without hemmorhaging all over the keyboard. At this point, my post would be pictures of Jonny flanked with this: OMGJONNY%^$&^$####&^^%*(!!!!!! <3333333!!! And then my tears would fry the keyboard.
  • I bought a ring with a real cavity-inflicted tooth in it and everyone at work is like “GTFO with your gross jewelry.” You know it’s totally haunted. Lee said, “You’re totally going to break that. It’s so cumbersome!” and I reasoned that, “Yeah, but I don’t really do much.” He shrugged in agreeance and said, “And then there’s that.”

  • This is about all the fun I can handle for today. Perhaps I will start writing real blog posts again some day even though they won’t be books, so it won’t “count.” Thanks, Chooch!




  6 Responses to “Don’t Point at My Bullets”

  1. I love bullet points. Actual thoughts and posts take so much effort! That ring is one part cool and two parts gross me the fuck out. And I’m sorry for your mom, for real. I don’t know why people have to be so shitty to their own family.

    • My mom is a lost cause. She used to have her really cool moments and I miss that so much! I think she had the potential to be a really good grandma but she dropped the ball from the beginning.

  2. Oh God, thank you for the laugh! I have the whole mental image of the work-prick thing. As I write that, I note the irony. But, I got a bigger laugh out of your Mumford and Sons rant…’cause if we still worked together, you’d know that the are my new Adele.

    • Haha! I really do like Adele though. Her older stuff, mostly.

      I don’t know what it is about Mumford though. Even a few years ago, before radio overplayed them, I just couldn’t get into them and I actually tried because I wanted to like them.

  3. Mumford & Sons are one of those bands that you get crucified for if you don’t like. (And I don’t like them.) I think they’re overhyped but to each their own.

    • OMG I know. I tweeted that same thing the other day and people were all over me. I was like “Back the fuck off.” I don’t discriminate against genre, either — I just honestly don’t like this one band but suddenly it’s a crime, when it’s OK for people to make fun of me constantly for the music I like (which is funny because they assume they only like one type of music, Warped Tour stuff — they have no clue).

      I have so much to say about this, it could be its own blog post!

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