- Janna’s friend Jeremy had a dream of opening a hot dog cart and fuck if he didn’t reach for the meat-stars and make it happen. Sometimes Janna helps out, so we made a special trip to
mock her in her stupid red apronsupport a dream realized. Chooch got to help make lemonade, which I don’t forsee becoming a career.
- At stupid Pat Catan’s (Henry’s favorite craft store), some worker broad was all, “Do you want to make a CRAFTTTT?” and she said it in your typical cat hair-knitting mole voice. Chooch of course was like, “YES OMG YES MOMMY BANS CRAFTS AT OUR HOUSE OH PLEASE GOD LET ME MAKE A FUCKING CRAFT” and then she looked at me and I just sighed deeply and pulled out a chair. We made bubble wands. Who the fuck cares about bubble wands?! And it was all just a ploy to just and strong-arm me into buying a vat of bubbles. Anyway, this project sucked. I made the Pat Catan lady do most of it for me, expecially the parts that required using pliers to wrap the wire, which was probably about 50% of the project. I didn’t even attempt to try, I just handed it to her and said, “Here can you do this thanks.” Then I picked out beads and actually put them on without help, if you can believe it. And then as soon as I was finished, and she curled the bottom for me, I immediately had bead remorse. I wish had put more thought into my bead combo! Chooch’s is all summery and festive — he went with a simple, yet effective, red white and blue pattern. Meanwhile, Henry was hulking around nearby aisles, rolling his eyes at us while checking out macrame kits and jewelry supplies.
- On Sunday, we went to Unity Cemetery in Latrobe to search for Mister Roger’s grave, per my friend Octavia’s request. Of course, we went there blindly, and spent most of the time roaming around aimlessly looking for a grave that may or may not exist. I assumed that it would be easy to find, probably covered with cardigans and puppets and Crayola factory tours (what? people leaves bottles of Heinz Ketchup on Andy Warhol’s grave), but alas — it did not stick out like a sore PBS thumb. Henry finally found some information online that mentioned a private family mausoleum, and we did not see any of those with the name Rogers on the front, so either by “private,” they mean “deep within the forest and also invisible” or the family name is different. Or we just weren’t paying attention, which is entirely possible. Of course, I had a prime opportunity to scare the shit out of Chooch, which I definitely did not pass up, causing him to totally act like a bitch and then Henry had the audacity to be all, “OMG NO ICE CREAM FOR YOU FUCKERS!” and I was like, “Wha—?? Why!? I didn’t do anything!” and Chooch was all, “I DIDN’T WANT ICE CREAM ANYWAY, I HATE YOU BOTH SO BAD!”
- 15 minutes later, we had ice cream.
- Marcy still insists on sprawling out on top of all of Chooch’s school stuff, so that’s a good sign I think. I’ve always been one to smother my cats, particularly Marcy, but lately I’ve been totally asyphyxiating her with concerned pandering. Yesterday, I followed her around the house on my hands and knees, saying things like, “ARE YOU OK? HOW DO YOU FEEL? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU WANT TO COME LAY DOWN ON THE COUCH?! DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?!” and then I tried to take her temperature by laying my hand on her head and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
- Since I’m a Regular Trolley Passenger now (thanks for nothing, Henry), I have become quite chummy with the trolley driver, who looks like HOLY FUCK Bob Ross is alive and living in the mountains! He says things to me like, “Here we are again, huh? Vicious cycle!” (Monday Greeting©) and “Happy Almost-Hump Day, huh?!” (Tuesday Greeting©, although sometimes he jumps the gun and lets this one fly on Mondays) and I’ll let you wonder wildly about the rest. I’m not the only one to whom he’s so salacious with his salutations: this man loves, and I mean loves to a point of compulsion, to beep his trolley horn at all his PAT Transit buddies. He beeps at buses, he beeps at other trolleys, he beeps at fare booth broads trying to enjoy their cigarettes, he beeps at construction people digging up roads. I mean, the entire trip to work is everyday is soundtracked by BEEEEEEEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEP!! BEEP BE-BE-BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP! It was kind of cute at first, until the time we were going through a tunnel and two buses and one trolley passed us, throwing him into beeping conniptions. It was like a full minute of the most obnoxious, we-are-inside-a-tunnel-you-motherfucker horn blaring that I have ever had to witness. It was kind of like being stuffed in a metal tube and thrown into a deep vat of hipsters screaming about Aracde Fire becoming popular, where the degree of screaming becomes more urgent and shrill the further down you tumble until you finally land in a junkyard of unlimited Fran Dreschers laughing to Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I could still hear it, faintly, an hour later when I was at work. Totally ruined my afternoon. The one day, he saw one of his buddies in a parking lot, operating some sort of crane, so he was straight beepin’ his proverbial trolley dick, but the guy did not reciprocate the love. I’m 99.9% sure that this was intentional, so Bob Ross: New Career rolled the trolley to a halt and laid on the horn again. This time, the crane-operator doled out the most sarcastic hand-wave I’ve ever seen, and I could almost hear him screaming, “OK! I GET IT! MOTHERFUCKING HELLO! BLOW IT OUTCHER ASS!” Henry said that he was pretty sure that the horns on trolleys and buses were meant to be used as a warning, not a Salute Buzzer. The other day, I couldn’t imagine who Bob Ross of PAT Transit was beeping at, when suddenly I saw a squirrel dash across the tracks. So I guess he does occasionally use the horn as the warning siren it’s intended to be. Good for him. Super nice guy though, for real.
- I really hate it when Henry is talking to Chooch and refers to me as “your mother.” It just makes me feel like some old Donna in a housecoat, I don’t know. So I asked him to please stop calling me that. To Chooch, Henry corrected himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant your 13-year-old friend over there.” See? So much better.
- On Monday, I didn’t notice until after I got to work that my pants had a stain on them. Not just any stain, but a translucent white, milky stain on the upper thigh, right by my crotch. Totally looked like a fucking cum stain and I swear to god it wasn’t because it’s been ages since the last time I wore any work pants to the sex club. I showed Henry when I came home and he was all, “Good one, jackass” but I think he was secretly turned on. WHO’S CUM STAIN IS IT!? he probably thought. Maybe that will be his next blog post.