Photographizzle | Oh Honestly, Erin

Those Wednesday Visuals

Mar 202013

Staring contest ends in 3…2….tears

Trying to get some new paintings done for the craft show thingie I’m doing next weekend. I rarely paint anymore (usually just customs and presents for my buddies) so this has been very trying. When I painted A LOT, I was vacillating between a period of sinking depression and circus-level mania. I’m a little more evened out now and I find that makes it difficult to tap into that part of myself. I was pretty sad last week though, so that helped me get some shit done.

I don’t foresee myself ever getting back into this regularly again though. Plus, I never paid my Etsy bill for the Somnambulant shop and it has been SUSPENDED, you guys. Etsy ain’t playin’.

Those shit-stained tentacles are actually gold, but you can pretend they’re really shit-stained if you want. Who knows what these octopi have been doin’ to each other. IT IS NOT OUR BUSINESS.

Resurrected the old bathroom plaques, too. Holy Shitter was always a hit, and hopefully it will be next weekend, too. When I used to sell shit at this local shop called Wildcard, they sold every last one of my bathroom plaques during their grand opening, and that has always been one of my coolest achievements, I guess.

Chooch’s first pottery project, which he did NOT take to school for his teacher because I put my fucking foot down. I believe my exact words were, “Did she pay $99 for these goddamn pottery classes? NO, I DIDN’T THINK SO. WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH MORE THAN ME!?!?”

A throatpunch to the motherfucker who invented these belt buckles, for fucking real. There are two pairs of jeans that Chooch can’t wear to school because neither of us can unbuckle the belts in order for him to put them on. (He takes them off by yanking them down his body so he doesn’t have to piss with the belt, which is how we get into these predicaments in the a.m.!)

Fathers, this is a cheap alternative to chastity belts. Planned Pregnancy-endorsed, probably!

It doesn’t matter how mant times Henry has demonstrated, WE CANNOT COMPREHEND THE WAYS OF THESE BUCKLES ONCE HENRY ABANDONS US. I have BLED myself trying to work these things. And it never fails to result in World War What Number Are We On Now? between Chooch and me. Good morning, motherfuckers!

Anyway, I posted this on Facebook & Instagram and it was amazing how many people chimed in via comments and straight up text messages, offering instructions and even suggesting that I bring the pants into work because someone could probably use their law degree to wedge it loose. That’s great guys, but unless you are sending me the hand of motherfucking Hulk, your advice is of no use.

Because the truth is, I don’t care if you make me a Power Point presentation, a YouTube tutorial, or have Jonny Craig sing a song about it, WE JUST DON’T GET IT.

Fuck Henry for never being there in the morning to handle this for us. God, what a fucking deadbeat.

On a lighter note, here is a picture that Henry sent me from Chooch’s pottery class tonight. Apparently, they also made masks. Guess what kind of a mask Chooch made? A scary devil mask painted with his own testosterone!

Just kidding. It was a cat.

I have other things to rant about, but I don’t have pictures to go with them and since this is a post about pictures, I guess I will just save those rants for another day. Like probably tomorrow.

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On Wednesdays, I Post Pictures From My Phone

Photographizzle

Mar 132013

Henry just doesn’t get it sometimes. AND WE ALL KNOW I’M DRAMATIC, THANKS HENRY.

Chooch bought this Saturday night. It was only $5, and giant, even. Plus, it has all of the cats.

Chooch: No dumping? No dumping WHAT?

Me: Dead bodies, obvi.

Shit, my kid is so fucking dense sometimes, I can’t stand it. Reminds me of the time I told him he missed the boat and he ran to the window and yelled, “BOAT!? WHERE?!” Granted, he was only like two and a half then. Which means the word “asshole” was probably peppered in there somewhere too. That was his favorite word back then.

Purple Pants in my rearview mirror! We were just coming home from the cemetery on Saturday and there she was, walking past our house, which is an interesting side note: Every time Henry comes home, there is ALWAYS someone walking past our house. This infuriates him because he has to, god forbid, wait to pull into the driveway. It is endlessly hilarious to me because he will furiously bark, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? JESUS CHRIST!”

You know, it’s really all pedestrians that gray Henry’s McNichol-locks. When he used (operative word: “used”) to drive me downtown to work, he would get so outraged at all of the jaywalkers. The one time he shouted, “I DON’T CARE IF THAT ASSHOLE IS IN A WHEELCHAIR!” which would have been kind of hot if it was anyone but Henry making such douchey declarations. The best is when he threatens them with the car windows up. They’re shaking, Henry.

I made this just now on my break so people walking past my office were probably like, “Oh wow, Erin is actually working.”

I took this by accident when I was trying to have an impromptu photoshoot with my cat, Marcy. I think I was trying to re-situate myself so she would be behind me, but then she skulked away because she knows better. Anyway, I liked this picture for two reasons:

Tammy Faye Bakker eyes in the house
I look sad, which is apropros because [SEE BELOW PICTURE]

HENRY BOUGHT ME A BOOKLET OF TROLLEY TICKETS WHICH MEANS I’M GOING TO BE TAKING THE TROLLEY FOR THE REST OF EVER.

However, there is a girl with a pink mohawk who sometimes rides the same trolley as me and in my fantasies, she comes over to me and says, “You look like a Jessica Simpson fan, but I bet you are way more cooler than that. Do you like Xiu Xiu and cemeteries?” and I’ll say, “OMG yes!” and then we’ll playing start playing Ruzzle together.

YOU NEVER KNOW.

But then I remind myself of my uncanny ability to attract sociopathic whore-liars (at least one a year!) and I go back to silently staring out the trolley window.

I had these grandiose plans to go to both of these amusement parks for my birthday weekend this summer, but then Henry gave me a lesson in geography. Now I think we’re going to Holidayworld and King’s Island, and I guess I’m OK with that.

I still don’t understand why Henry can’t just charter a jet. Cheap ass motherfucker.

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Hot Dogs, Dead Foxes & Shooting Silk

cemeteries, chooch, Jonny Craig, Photographizzle

Mar 112013

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.

Nnnryghhhhhhh.

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.”

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Wordless Wednesday: Don’t Look in the Basket

Photographizzle, Wordless Wednesday

Jan 232013

Found this picture from 2 Easters ago and decided to re-share it because it’s my picture and I can do that OKAY?! I mean, happy Wednesday.

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Ice Cream Cone Cannibal

chooch, nostalgia, Photographizzle

Jan 142013

A few weeks ago, Chooch unearthed his very first Halloween costume in his closet, put it on and then surprised me with it. I almost died laughing, seeing his big head shoved through the small opening of a fabric ice cream. It pleased me because he was 6 months old that Halloween and it poured down rain so aside from a quick photo op at my grandma’s house, that costumes was totally wasted. I even considered putting it up on eBay a few times, or giving it to someone who has a baby, but now I’m really glad that I didn’t, because nothing is funnier than someone wearing something that they’re too big for.

One day, he wore it in the backseat of the car and waved to people at red lights. He’s even considering wearing it for real next Halloween and I will fucking die if he does because I love this costume so much, so yes — PLEASE WEAR IT!

In the meantime, I wanted to do a little photo shoot with him wearing it. The weather was so amazingly warm this weekend, and I couldn’t stop picturing him eating an ice cream cone while wearing an ice cream cone. There’s an ice cream place right down the road from the abandoned building we use for some of our pictures, but we didn’t learn it was closed until we drove all the way out there (only like 30 minutes, but still — Henry’s frown is in full effect over things like this). We figured McDonald’s was probably our best bet at that point, and remembered that there was one down the street from the closed-down ice cream shop we took pictures at last September. Even better!

“But does McDonald’s have rainbow sprinkles? No, I don’t think they do. You’ll have to stop at a grocery store on the way and buy some, just in case,” I said, planning ahead.

Henry glared at me.

“What? There HAS to be rainbow sprinkles! I can’t do it without the sprinkles!” I cried. EVERYTHING IS IN THE DETAILS, OK?!

So that was another 25 minutes in the car with Henry who had almost completely shut down verbally by then. I even tried to calm him down by ironically holding his hand. He wasn’t amused.

Rainbow sprinkles procured and a vanilla cone in hand, we drove back to the Twist behind a partially disabled elderly man who cruised along at a pace of about 18 mph, melting the ice cream and our patience.

But we made it with the cone mostly intact! I jumped out of the car and poured the sprinkles on while Chooch stuffed himself in the costume cone.

I positioned him in front of the closed-down ice cream shop and handed him the severely-dripping cone.

“Vanilla? REALLY? VANILLA? You knew I wanted CHOCOLATE!” he cried.

“Well, McDonald’s only has vanilla,” I muttered, but really — he was getting vanilla no matter where we went. It had to match his costume!

And the rest of it panned out smoothly! Henry and I didn’t even argue. We were only there about 5 minutes before I got what I needed and Henry got to finish Chooch’s cone.

This was right after 2 teenage girls walked by and giggled at Chooch. He was totally angry with me.

He even DANCED for me at the end. You know why? Because that little sucker got paid to do this. I have found that giving him a few bucks is a small price to pay for cooperation and amiability in front of the camera.

God, Henry is totally going to start asking for payment now too.

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Photo Crapping

cemeteries, Photographizzle

Jan 072013

Good afternoon. I’ve been too busy thinking about fruit, researching fruit, looking for fruit and eating fruit to do much writing in my blog. (“Writing” – this term is looser than Snooki’s vag.) Plus, Chooch and I are finally shaking off the death shroud that’s been enveloping us since Christmas so I’ve been enjoying doing things like:

walking without getting out of breath
breathing through my nose
not coughing to the point of vomiting

So while I bask in the sound of my recently-recovered voice, please enjoy a variety of photos from the last few days.

My favorite photo of Henry! I turned it into a pendant. (No, Henry still has still not set up a shopping cart thingie on my blog. He sucks. Please direct angry fist-shaking in his direction, thanks.)

Fuzzy sweater nails! Totally impractical, but so much fun. I pet my hands all day on Friday.

OMG FRUIT SALAD. Look at those bitchin’ kumquats. I hated them at first, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about them and wanting them in my mouth again. Kind of like the first ever blow job, citrus edition.

I can’t believe I used to only eat apples.

Henry left me and Chooch alone in the car Saturday night because he’s a bastard.

Speaking of Chooch, yesterday I asked him if he wants to go to Cleveland this weekend and in this tone of faux-regret, he said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Like he was regretfully declining a dinner invitation from Jehovah’s Witnesses. And then he added that he was going to be too busy “kissing ponies.”

OK.

We’re going to Cleveland anway.

Yesterday, I forced Henry to join Chooch and me for family time in the cemetery. Henry was all pissy about it because god forbid he should actually walk around outside, but as soon as he got out of the car, he began pointing out deer and various bird migrations, totally immersing himself in his obnxious Nature Know-It-All role, so I knew he was content.

And then it was all, “LOOK! THERE’S A CROW CHASING A HAWK OMG!” God, he’s so lame.

Awkwardly dodging snowballs.

Sometimes even Chooch has had enough of having his picture taken.

Dirty bare footprint in the snow. Just one!

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To: Internet; From: Erin’s iPhone

Photographizzle

Nov 202012

Chooch wrote this to Corey on the back of his school picture without any coaxing from me. (He did ask me how to spell “uncle”, though. I was going to lie and spell “ulcer” but Chooch is too good at reading to fall for that.)

This was Chooch on Monday morning before school. Shit, I wish I felt that good on Monday mornings. The general consensus is: It must be the pants.

OMG I found this picture last night when I was doing totally 100% work-related shit at work. I loved it so much that I printed it out at home and now I need to make an appropriate frame for it, maybe send some copies to my clown-lusting friend Kendahl.

God, it just fills me with so much joy, like a bellyful of pornographic jam.

To conclude, Henry, Chooch and I went to Eat n Park for dessert on Sunday night. By the register, there was a stack of used books, the proceeds of which benefit Children’s Hospital. Chooch and I lunged for the same book in tandem, some “Things to Make and Do” piece of wonderment from 1970. I wanted it for the illustrations, Chooch wanted it because it’s full of projects for me to fail at.

There was no set price on it, just a donation, but Henry started mouthing off to us about not having any cash, so the manager asked, “Is this for him?” and gestured at Chooch. When I said yes, he waved me off and said, “Then don’t worry about it. I got it.”

I’m always startled when people do nice things.

Anyway, thanks to that Eat n Park dude, I now have instructions on how to make racial puppets and match my shirt and socks to my hair color.

Meanwhile, I’m really getting into the holiday spirit for once! I’m excited for Thanksgiving, which is extremely fun for me because I get to scour the Internet for pretentious, gourmet dishes full of exorbitantly-priced ingredients which will force Henry to rub elbows with yuppies in speciality markets for some tiny rock of $25 French cheese and a spice he can’t pronounce but can read the price tag very clearly.

To me, that’s what Thanksgiving is all about. Putting Henry to work.

Wait…that’s every day.

Oh well, I’ll think of something later.

What’s your favorite thing to eat on Thanksgiving? (Other than turkey; I can’t get behind turkey.)

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Bros: 2012

chooch, Photographizzle

Nov 192012

Blake turned 20 on Saturday. I can’t even believe it. He was 8 when I met him after Henry and I began dating, and it blows my mind to see that this green-haired maniac kid in an over-sized Korn tshirt has grown up to be such a cool big brother to Chooch. And Chooch just adores him, even though he started crying earlier at TGIFridays because Blake “always hurts [his] feelings!”

Chooch kept threatening to tell our waitress that Blake wanted to dance with her. I think he would have told her too, had she not have been blond. Chooch has a super-hard time talking to pretty blond girls.

Blake agreed to go to the cemetery afterward and take bro-photos because it’s been awhile. I just wish Henry’s oldest son Robbie would have been there too, to make it more legit! Oh well, that gives me more time to find matching outfits for them.

Posing by the “farm of weeners.” Thanks for teaching him that one, Blake!

There was some yuppie bitch there trying to take Christmas photos of her spoiled brat children and I was getting so pissed because they kept popping up in the background of my shots. We crossed paths at one point, and I could tell she was super jealous of my cooperative subjects as she attempting to pick up one of her tantrum-throwing dick kids off the ground.

Amateur.

Their idea.

Chooch HATED this photo because it was one that Blake wanted, not him. I’ve realized over the years that the easiest way to get this shit done is to just let Chooch do what he wants. He gets really into the idea of having his photo taken as long as we’re using his ideas.

Later that day, it occurred to me that at some point during the year, Blake is 14 years older than Chooch, I’m 14 years older than Blake, and Henry is 14 years older than me, but this never happens all at once.

(And yes, I know: Chooch and Blake look so much alike, and Chooch looks nothing like me. You got me! Chooch isn’t my kid!)

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Hey Monday, Pictures Are All I’ve Got

Photographizzle

Oct 012012

Chooch found these two pictures in the neighbor’s backyard. The house next to theirs is being cleaned out so I guess that’s where they’re from, but Chooch and I still tried to accuse Henry of going out with the afro’d ginger in the picture.

I painted this picture frame for Chooch’s paper zombie while marching in place. Law Firm Walking Challenge stops for no crafts.

My Castle Blood friend Dawn makes these old-timey pumpkin pins and sells them in the Castle Blood gift shop. She also has owls and monsters – it was really hard to choose!

Went walking through a downpour in the cemetery yesterday, beneath a broken, hole-ridden umbrella. Of course I blamed Henry.

Chooch stayed home sick today. He’s much better than he was yesterday, but not well enough for school. I fed him a healthy dose of The Walking Dead, and even Marcy tolerated him. (That’s how you know he’s sick—his subdued demeanor keeps Marcy in the same room.)

Right now I’m on the trolley, going to work. It’s eerily quiet. (There are still about 6 more stops before mine so I probably jinxed myself.)

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The Bradley School

Photographizzle

Sep 272012

This morning’s Walking Challenge travels took me to the abandoned Bradley School near my house in Brookline. I think it used to be a school for the deaf or blind. In any case, it is now defunct and creepy as shit. Looks like I found my next photo shoot location.

Get ready, Chooch.

I kept expecting a face to appear in this window…

…and for someone to push my face in this glass.

Here’s Henry’s new house.

On my way back home, some middle-aged creep in red pants stopped me, pointed to a house and asked, “Does Mike Vallatti live there?”

I gave him my usual canned response of “I don’t know” and then turned around just in time to walk into a telephone pole. Then I came to work and ate cake and a moldy raspberry.

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The Day the Boylan’s Wouldn’t Stop Spilling

chooch, Photographizzle

Sep 242012

I wanted to get one last mini-shoot in before the Law Firm Walking Challenge started. (Today! But don’t worry – I already racked up 12,000 steps before noon). I’ve had this loose little vision in my head for awhile now to use some of my old Alternative Press magazines in a photo shoot with Chooch, but didn’t really know where I wanted to do it, so we drove around and drove around for a good hour until I saw a closed-up ice cream shop and made Henry pull over.

The Boylan’s is going to spill in 3…2….

Two kids rode past us on bikes just in time to witness me blow up like a bi-polar director. Henry and I broke up. I orphaned Chooch.

It was a bad scene.

Henry thought he was in the clear after I lost my temper for the 87th time outside of this ice cream in Monongahela and screamed, “THAT’S IT, I’M DONE!” But then my other personality piped up and bellowed, “NO, WE ARE NOT GOING HOME! I’M NOT DONE!” So I made Henry drive back to the first location we were going to use until I got too scared of squatters. At this point, if there WERE any squatters there, they’d have been afraid of ME. Oh, I was horrible yesterday. Yet Chooch is so unfazed by it.

This is the Boylan’s after it’s third upending. Chooch was actually trying to read the magazine and kept getting pissed off at me when I would tell him to stop turning the pages.

Boylan’s puddle to the left.

Then I threw another fit and made Henry put everything back in the car, only to realize that we hadn’t taken any pictures in his second outfit. So doors were kicked up, trunks were slammed, various euphemisms for “vagina” and “person who engages in fellatio” were flung (possibly just by me), but the good news is that Chooch must have liked this outfit better, because he was suddenly very eager to cooperate. So we kept taking pictures while Henry leaned against the car and pouted.

I swear to god, he’s not actually this forlorn. Almost all of these poses were his own idea, and he was running around happily in between shots. I SWEAR.

This wasn’t mid-motion, he was actually posed like this like a weirdo.

He said this was his “don’t even think about following me into my house” pose.

Rough life.

The “I just found gold” pose.

And then we were all bros again after that!

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The Green Garage: End of a Photographical Era

nostalgia, Photographizzle

Sep 182012

2007

2008

2009

2011

2012 :(

I have to go back and try to get some souvenir wood.

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Chooch: September-Style

chooch, Photographizzle

Sep 042012

As of September 2012, our Chooch is a 6-year-old 1st grader on the fast track to becoming Corey Feldman’s Mouth character in “Goonies.” His rapier wit is practically parallel to most adults I know, which is oft amusing, but mostly mildly worrisome and endlessly irritating.

“I totally don’t remember being this ridiculous when I was your age,” I yelled in defeat Saturday night.

“You probably weren’t,” Chooch answered from the backseat of the car in his patented infuriatingly smug tone.

I now have to bribe him with real American dollars just to take his damn picture. I miss the days of him being 100% at my mercy. But let’s face it, those days didn’t last very long.

But he sure is good at pulling off an angelic face, that’s for sure. Little jerk.

Surprisingly, this rock was chucked into the river and not at my face. We’re making progress. (Baby steps.)

(And then Henry reminds me that he learned everything from watching me, anyway.)

As much as Henry hates these pants, he was even more relieved that the red ones didn’t come in Chooch’s size. (I only checked one store though, Henry!)

Everyone’s always going on and on about how much Chooch looks just like Henry. OK, whatever. I get it. However, he is otherwise so much like me, it’s almost like a horror movie. Yesterday morning, in the Murder House, he and Henry were arguing about something ridiculous and it just kept getting more and more heated (on Chooch’s end only; Henry continued to calmly make breakfast through all of the huffing and puffing and door-slamming). Finally, at the threat of not getting the Regular Show DVD he had been eying up over the weekend, he decided it would behoove himself to apologize; so he did, but it came out in a “Please call Father Karras and have me the fuck exorcized” snarl, at which point he became even more agitated because he didn’t like the way Henry said, “OK.”

So this started a new sub-fight.

Chooch wailed, “You didn’t say that right! No wonder why Mommy always fights with you!”

An innocent by-stander up until this point, I piped up and said, “Well, he’s not wrong, Henry.”

“Thanks, Erin,” Henry sighed, sliding a plate of eggs in front of me. I love how he multi-tasks.

FUN FACT: This is actually Chooch’s bed.

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The Palace of Gold Series, Part 6: Being Watched By Dancing Acolytes and the Peach-Robed Priest

Photographizzle, small towns, Tourist Traps

Aug 282012

There was definitely something different about the New Vrindaban community when Seri and I left the Temple, and then it hit me: the grounds were empty. There weren’t any kids on the playground or climbing all over the giant plaster elephant. No one was milling about in the courtyard or strolling along the lake.

It was just us.

And the 18 pounds of food playing Tetris in my stomach.

We sat underneath a lakeside gazebo for a few minutes, admiring the view and hypothesizing if we could ever get Henry and Pete to come back with us and rent one of the cabins on the edge of the woods.

Because that’s not a horror script that’s been written 87 times.

The lake was so serene. There was a swan at the other end and I tried to focus on that and not the 30-foot dancing acolyte statues in the distance, which were sincerely making me nervous.

Jonny Craig was there, too!

I was afraid that if we sat there any longer, we’d end up seeing something we wouldn’t be able to unsee, like a murder, so I suggested we keep walking. We kept hearing loud plops along the edge of the lake, and I was so sure it was a large frog so we both edged our closer to the water JUST IN TIME TO ALMOST STEP ON A LARGE SNAKE AS IT SLITHERED BACK INTO THE WATER. And then Erin and Seri, as animated by Hannah-Barbara, screamed and did their best unintentional cartoon run back up to the path.

That might have been my most religious moment there.

Shaking off that disgusting brush with nature, we continued walking down the path—albeit with our hands on our hearts— toward the large gazebo-like structure on the lake.

“Can we go in there?” Seri asked, but I was already trampling down the gravel-path to the door. I figured, as honorary Hare Krishnas, we were allowed to open any door we pleased. [Cue Pandora's Box parable.]

I actually screamed a little when my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw a big ass swan boat staring back at me.

There was a throne-type structure built above the seat of the boat, which made me think this was reserved for special occasions, like Anglo-sacrifices. Boxes of fireworks lined the boat house walls, and I considered snagging some but with my luck, the swan would spring to life. Meanwhile, Seri was trying to get inside the boat and I very honestly said to her, “Look, if you fall in, I can’t promise that I’ll come in after you.”

Not now that I knew there were snakes in that water.

Leaving the boathouse, I finally realized what this place reminded me of. “The Wicker Man.” And not that shitty Nicolas Cage remake, either. Yes, everything was beautiful, but it came with an artificial, uncomfortable quality.

Plus, it was in the hills of West Virginia.

And teeming with Hare Krishnas.

Just then, we noticed that the peach-robed conch-blowing priest was standing further down on the path, watching us.

“We didn’t do anything wrong!” I said to Seri. “Just act normal.” Which means we continued walking with suspicious mannerisms illuminated by a beacon of guilt.

The peacock enclosure was next, so we were distracted by that for awhile, until I turned around and saw that he was following us at this point. So we continued on, across a small bridge, right smack into the feet of the dancing acolytes.

Are you kidding me?! Tell me these things don’t come alive at night.

This is basically what everything there looked like up close: cracked, broken, decrepit. What was once meant to be a flourishing testament to their gods and Swami was now grossly depreciating. Even the boathouse was full of cobwebs, and the swan boat was chipped and looked more scary than regal. It wasn’t hard to imagine this being the setting for tragedy and murder in the 1980s, when Swami P-dawg’s successor had fanatic cult members commit murders for him. Twenty years later, and it must still be hard for the community to shake that stigma, considering that’s the reason why Henry wanted no part of this little day trip. Of course none of this stuff is mentioned during the tour, though.

Chugging the blood of sacrificial white girl lambs, it’s what keeps them pacified.

And then Seri called Pete to tell him that we were being chased by who she thought was the Dalai Lama, who at that point was meditating in the grass by the boat house. I was actually offended that he wasn’t really trying to chase us down to convert us. Who wouldn’t want two nervous white girls? Seri could arts-n-crafts that bitch up! And I could….eat their food? Start a New Vrindiban blog? Teach them about Jonny Craig?

At that point, we had been there close to 4 hours, so we mutually agreed it was time to leave. Rather than backtrack and have to walk past the meditating priest, we opted instead to climb a hill back to the main road. It was a great ascent with my food luggage in tow. I didn’t want to die at all.

Somehow, we still managed to spend another hour back at the Palace grounds, admiring the rose garden and sitting by the lotus pond. On the way back to the car (to grab my unicorn mask; Seri promised she would pose in it!), we passed the cashier from the gift shop who exclaimed, “You girls are still here!?” Which made me realize that it had been about two hours since Henry had last heard from me and it didn’t occur to him to check in to make sure I hadn’t been slain. Thanks for loving me, Henry.

On the way back to Pittsburgh, we both agreed that this was totally worth it and that we would definitely return. Probably with more animal masks.

***

The next morning, I received a voicemail from someone named Jay Sree of New Vrindaban, claiming to have found my wallet, which I didn’t even know I had lost. She described it as “black, with a heart that has a picture of a young girl in it.” Definitely sounded like my iCarly pocketbook. I called Henry to tell him and he immediately got all disgusted and spat, “You were probably pick-pocketed!”

Luckily, I had my debit card at the bottom of my purse, because I’m so lazy when it comes to putting it back in my wallet. Ugh, all that zipping and tucking? So exhausting. So the only thing in my wallet that I really needed was my drivers license. When I returned the call, I spoke with a man at the Palace who sighed and said, “Yes, it is here in Lost and Found.” He sounded disappointed in me, like an Indian Henry.

It arrived in the mail several days later, and I was crestfallen to see that they didn’t slip in any religious pamphlets or sign-up vouchers. WHY DON’T THEY WANT ME!?

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