cemeteries | Oh Honestly, Erin

Our Morbid Weekend: Saturday

Apr 092013

There were other things I wanted to do on Saturday, but then I woke up and it was so nice and pretty out that it was pretty clear to all three of us that we were going to prance around in the cemetery. So here, enjoy some photos and some light commentary.

I SAID ENJOY IT.

Nice buttcrack.

This is how much fun we have in cemeteries! Without desecrating graves or sacrificing babies, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?

Roadkill.

God forbid, Chooch had to walk up a hill. He exaggeratedly collapsed at one point because his “spine hurt.”

From walking up a hill.

He’s 6.

SPRINGTIME FINALLY.

I might turn this into a pendant!

Surprisingly, I’m pretty sure this was the first time Chooch has been to this cemetery, even though it’s only separated by a street from the other two we visit. I don’t even really go to this one when I’m alone very often, to be honest, because it fucking scares the shit out of me sometimes. Once, I was even stalked by some asshole in a car in this cemetery.

This maintenance building is one of the reasons. It’s creepy when no one is there, and it’s just as creepy when the maintenance are there.

“I always feel like Leatherface is going to come barrelling out of one of those doors,” I confided in Chooch, who decided he was going to be a hard ass and plant himself down on the retaining wall in front of the building, trying to draw out Leatherface like his own weird version of Bloody Mary, I guess.

“That’s fine,” I called over my shoulder as Henry and I continued to walk. “Have fun with Leatherface!”

He kept sitting there, because he’s stubborn (sooooo unlike me), while Henry and I came to a fork in the road. We took the right, because that would eventually lead us back to the car. We were still well within Chooch’s line of vision for him to see that we turned off the path.

Along the backside of the maintenance building was a dumpster. Because I’m a motherfucker, my mind always goes straight to “LET’S HIDE AND SCARE THE PISS OUT OF [enter victim of the day]!” So I tugged Henry and pulled him behind the dumpster with me.

“You’re such an asshole,” he mumbled, but I could tell by the twitch of his moustache that he was relishing this just as much as me. BECAUSE WE ARE AWESOME PARENTS.

A few seconds later, I could hear the patter of Chooch’s feet and detected the slightest sliver of blond over top of the dumpster’s edge. I had to slap my hand over my mouth like a giggle-dam.

He got a few yards (quarts? pounds?) into the road when he paused and began furtively turning his head left and right. You could actually watch the panic as it slowly slid down his face and pinpoint the exact moment when he realized he was fucked.

Then he spun around and saw us, all hunched over with our shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

[This is the part of the story where we will pretend my child didn't obliterate us with obscenities and threats.]

We both got punched a few times, but I guess we kind of deserved it.

Hey, at least he had Fox & Bunny with him.

Speaking of Bunny, he got his own seat later that night when we went out for dinner at Tillie’s, where I had an unfortunate stand-off with three old ladies in the rest room. THEY WOULD NOT GET OUT OF MY WAY. I hit one of them with the stall door and she was all aghast, but maybe GO BACK TO YOUR TABLE AND TALK TO EACH OTHER THERE and you won’t get hit with bathroom doors, JESUS.

Totally almost ruined my dinner, which made me feel like a knife fight was underway in my stomach because I’m not used to eating rich foods anymore, but it was so worth it. All these years, I’ve only been ordering gnocchi at Tillie’s, but something made me order grilled salmon from the specials menu, and HOLY SHIT was the best/worst idea ever. It came with a risotti cake.

Chooch was being a compete jerk at dinner and suddenly formed a newfound aversion to the scent of spaghetti.

“Ugh how much spaghetti can there BE?” Chooch bitched. I put that on Facebook and he lost a bunch of fans because Tillie’s is one of those long-standing family-run Italian institutions that everyone but Chooch loves. It’s kind of like me, living in Pittsburgh and hating the Steelers. (Which I do, aggressively.)

I felt like I must have gained 5 pounds just from Saturday night alone, but somehow I made it through the weekend with my weight loss unscathed.

Henry gave Chooch some of his calamari and then we waited an hour to tell him what it was. He wasn’t very pleased with us at all.

Ugh, his pouty face is officially better than mine.

After dinner, we watched the original Evil Dead. He has been hounding me to take him to see the remake (“If you take me to see it, then I don’t want to be your son anymore!” he threatened, which sounded more like A PROMISE, if you ask me) and I’m just not sure I want to be That Mom who takes her six-year-old to what is being helmed as the scariest horror movie of the year. I mean, at least wait for the DVD, Chooch!

Anyway, the original one is so campy, that it didn’t make him flinch one bit. And when Cheryl turns into a flesh-eating demon, Chooch scoffed, “Cheryl? More like SCAREL.” Usually I’m like “STFU!!” when I’m trying to watch something and someone is talking, but his commentary was on point that night. He kept referring to all of the demon deaths as “birthday kills” because all the shit and pus squirting out of the bodies reminded him of pinatas. I mean, way to make it sound festive and fun, right?

Hiding from Chooch in the cemetery, making him think we left him there; bribing him to eat a piece of calamari and then waiting an hour to tell him what he ate; finishing off his impressionable mind with a gory horror movie —- overall, a great day to be parents.

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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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Catch Up

art promo, cemeteries, chiodos, chooch

Feb 132013

The weather was way too nice on Sunday to sit around crying about my club foot, so we went to Jefferson Memorial for a family walk (Henry is not a fan of these). The subject of Bloody Mary came up and Chooch just kept pressing me for more and more information. I was like, “I don’t know! She’s some bitch who comes out of the mirror and scratches your face off! What more can I say!?” So then he took my phone and emailed Andrea, figuring she would have some sort of greater insight on the matter.

(Andrea, aren’t you pleased to know that you’re the go-to girl for these things?)

“Chooch look! It’s a woodpecker!” Henry cried, swiveling on his heels and pointing toward tree tops. I started to groan. “What?!” he snapped.

“Oh nothing, just acknowledging that you’re being a know-it-all as usual,” I said with a fake yawn.

“Sorry if I want my son to learns about things other than Bloody Mary and Minecraft!” Henry retaliated. Hey, I’m not the one who taught him about Minecraft.

Some older man was sitting in his car with the windows down, watching Chooch’s antics and laughing. I knew, just KNEW, that he was going to try and engage us with words as we walked past. I was right. He was saying something about how don’t we all wish we had that kind of energy, and I almost said, “I DO, but some motherfucker broke my entire will to live with a bowling ball yesterday!” Instead, I just smiled and told him to have a good day.

“That was weird that he was just sitting there!” I whispered (loudly) to Henry after we passed the car.

“Maybe he was parked next to his wife’s grave!” Henry snapped, all defensively. God, maybe they belong to the same beverage cult or something.

Henry didn’t notice this plane in the sky, or else Chooch and I would have choked on an ear sandwich about what kind of plane it is. You know, since Henry was in THE SERVICE and loves talking about PLANES.

Look at my poor, broken Big Green Glasses in the background. :( They’re missing an arm (is that what you call the part that goes behind the ear?) but I still wear them even though they’re lopsided and give me a headache.

Elsewhere, Henry and I have been on a roll with these pendants! I’m hoping to have a good stock built up for that Crafts in the Crypt show next month, and then who knows what. I really don’t want to get into selling these on Etsy. The greeting cards are one thing, but Etsy is a bitch to deal with. Henry was supposed to set something up LAST YEAR so I could sell shit on my own site, but that was project #879 that fell between the cracks.

If you’re interested in any beforehand, let me know and we’ll figure something out!

This is not the best picture, but the image is part of mural inside the Bayernhof Music Museum. When I was there last November with Corey and Kristy, the curator caught Corey and I giggling over it and said, “They’re SHOEING A HORSE,” with an exasperated sigh.

I mean, there IS a horse in the picture….

My friend Sean wanted a Frown of the Day pin, so we made him this fabulous Cafeteria Anger Frown. He put it on immediately and people at work were like, “OMG I WANT ONE!”

That’s a lie. No one said that.

Silly Willie* Silhouette.

(*Willie is actually short for Wilhemina. She’s Marcy’s daughter and has zero personality so I don’t talk about her much.)

My friend Brandy found this Chiodos shirt when she was thrifted and sent it to me! I almost died! It’s too small for me, but it fits Chooch perfectly and you better believe he rubbed it in when he wore it to school yesterday. And apparently, after he taught his entire first grade class about Bloody Mary, he went on to teach them about Chiodos, too.

Thank god his teacher likes him. (He’s a joy to have in class, she said. HAHAHA.)

This is me, your host of Oh Honestly, Erin, modeling the Malachi pendant.

I gifted the rosary I stole from the hospital chapel to Apple Head. It was too small to fit over her big ass dome, so I had to help her step into it last night.

I think that’s about it. Except for another foot injury that happened on Sunday night, but I’m waiting for Chooch to write his part of it first. He’s as averse to guest-blogging as Henry is, though.

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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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Happy Place

cemeteries

Jan 052013

Chooch & Henry were being d-bags to me this morning (otherwise known as: ignoring me) so I blew this dysfunctional popsicle stand and went to my favorite cemetery.

I listened to a mix of my favorite roller skating jams; it was pretty perfect.

Where do you go when you need to peace out from reality?

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Cemetery Christmas Portraits: 2012

cemeteries, chooch, holidays

Dec 282012

I wanted to visit Speck and Don at the pet cemetery on Christmas before stopping by my dad’s house, so we decided to find a cemetery in between to have our traditional Christmas picnic.

We wound up at some small, creepy church on a hillside (back when my mom actually gave a shit about Christmas and put up lights, you could see our house at night from this hill, so you would think that the location would kind of harbor some sense of nostalgia or childhood warmth but NO. This place held nothing of the sort, it felt wrong, it felt cold, and Chooch and I fought like cats and dogs because god forbid I had the audacity to offer him some cheese from our picnic spread and then try to take his little bratty picture.

“My Mommy is the worst!”

I finally surrendered and we drove all the way back home and went to our favorite cemetery. It was actually Henry’s idea. Oh, I know. Henry had an idea!?

Once we arrived at Uniondale, we were all at peace. That cemetery just rules so much. Chooch was in a better mood, he cooperated with the camera, and Henry stayed the fuck out of our way.

I really hope he’s in a band someday.

There’s a noticeable difference between these pictures and the ones from the initial cemetery.

Cemeteries are seriously our favorite places. (Probably not Henry’s, but it’s not like he gets to have any of his own favorite things anymore.)

This picture is relevant because Chooch got his very first concert ticket inside his Christmas stocking!

This might be a disaster, but oh well. It’s Pierce the Veil! Chooch always says that Vic Fuentes is his favorite singer, so hopefully he will love this.

(Yes, the scratch offs are his too. He loves scratch offs and cats: my son is an old lady.)

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Quaker Cemetery: Revisited

cemeteries, ghost hunting, Wordless Wednesday

Dec 052012

My friend Evonne and I went out to the Quaker Cemetery in Perryopolis Sunday evening. One of the many cool things about Evonne is that she is sensitive to things like spirits, but she doesn’t exploit it like some cheap fortune teller. She has an arsenal of stories to tell about this subject too.

Anyway, I had been wanting to revisit this place for awhile, and Evonne had never been, so we braved the cold rain and the 45 minute drive. I was a complete chicken shit the whole time — would you LOOK at that building!? — but Evonne was all, “No, I’m not feeling anything here.”

Although she did admit that her head hurt every time we went inside the stone building. THAT MUST MEAN SOMETHING!

We went back to her car and did a quick session with the Psychic Circle, which informed that there were in fact spirits in that location, they were evil (but not demons), but that we were safe. Evonne asked the Circle if we would get to experience there that night, and it said no.

She asked me if I wanted to go back in one last time before we left, but the Circle pretty much answered that for me. Evil spirits? No thanks!

Oh my god, it was so gloomy there that night. And of course, now I’m sick.

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Cemetery Fight or Flight (Apparently, Flight.)

cemeteries, chooch

Dec 042012

Chooch and I were kind of under the weather on Saturday, but by that afternoon, we were practically clawing our faces off in boredom. Henry, however, was “so busy” and not doing a good job of entertaining us AT ALL, so we decided to ditch him and go to the cemetery.

Really, Henry was begging us to leave because we were “getting in the way” of his “cleaning.”

(Seriously, the house did not look that clean when we came home. Hope you had fun watching albino porn, Henry you sexual deviant.)

Anyway, I brought my Jonny doll and Chooch brought his favorite stuffed animal — a fox puppet appropriately named Fox. We’re on the same level.

We totally don’t need Henry!

(Until we get hungry.)

I really believe that cemeteries helped Chooch learn to read. So there.

(That and Asian horror movies.)

“What’s that green stuff? Chooch asked, toeing the ground. I almost peed my pants. It was moss! Eight years ago in that same cemetery, Henry and I had the most pointless discussion about moss, which culminated with him losing his patience and yelling, “Moss is bad! It can lead to problems! Leave it at that and end it!”

“Ask your dad,” I told Chooch, doubling over with laughter. I promptly texted my friend Alyson that Chooch had asked me about moss, and her response was “Moss is bad! Leave it at that!”

Henry, leaving lasting impressions across the Internet.

Of course, when I told him about this later, he looked all confused and said he didn’t remember what I was talking about. Nice to know he’s so cloudy when it comes to Erin & Henry: The Early Years.

And then something terrible happened.

Chooch and I were strolling along when we came to a crest in the road. That was when I saw her: a random, older woman wandering around amongst the tombstones.

I clotheslined my arm, bringing Chooch to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and I hissed for him to STFU.

“Look at that lady,” I whispered. “I don’t trust her. She might be a ghost.”

“She doesn’t look like a ghost,” was Chooch’s Normal Person response, and he kept walking toward her. She was probably fifty yards away (hahahaha like I even know what yards are).

I had heart palpitations like Lady Gaga must get every time she dry humps a haute couture crucifix. “We have to get back to to the main road,” I said urgently. We were too secluded where we were. Probably no one would hear us scream when the stranger decided to mug us for our stuffed toys.

Please excuse my shitty diagram, but I am at work. This is the basic set up of the area of the cemetery we were hostages in, except that it’s kind of hilly, so you can’t actually see a lot of what’s ahead depending on where you are. For instance: Chooch and I didn’t know there was another person there until I yanked him to the right, onto another cemetery road that curves and drops down. Idling there was a man in a Blazer with Florida plates. The driver and I locked eyes in his rearview mirror and as he emitted a puff of smoke from his molestor-mouth, I had a Super Bad Feeling, also known as Irrational Paranoia.

Just then, he put the Blazer in reverse and I dragged Chooch off the road and into the grass.

“What the hell?” Chooch yelled at me.

“OK, Chooch. Listen to me. We can either keep going straight until we reach the main road [where we could, what? Throw our bodies across the hood of a moving car so that they can drive us to safety?] or make a run for our car. Do you think we can make it to our car?”

I was afraid that the Blazer was going to loop around and beat us there AND THEN WE WOULD BE TRAPPED. But if we kept running toward the road, we could run through the grass, dodging all the graves which would make it impossible for him to run us down.

But then what if Chooch tripped or I dropped Jonny – would I be able to leave either of them behind?

(Yes, I thought a lot about this.)

Apparently I can leave my son behind because I decided we were going to make a run for the car and then started sprinting before Chooch had a chance to realize what was going on.

Don’t worry. He runs fast.

Oh fuck, did we run like Haitians.

Unfortunately, the handle on the driver’s door of our car has been broken for months now, and can only be opened from the inside. So I’m screaming, “GET IN THE CAR AND OPEN THE DOOR FOR ME! OPEN THE DOOR FOR ME OH MY GOD HURRY!!!” to Chooch, who’s flopping all over the console in an attempt to climb to the front, leaving me standing out there jumping up and down, and pee-jigging. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for the Blazer to appear, engine and libido revving,which would be one of the last sounds I heard before being vehicularly mudered.

Good news! We survived.

Not ready to go home yet, we went to another cemetery across the street. This one felt safer.

On the way home, I asked Chooch what his favorite part of the day was and he said, “When you got all weird about that lady.”

——————————

When we got home, I told Chooch to tell Henry about the harrowing events. He rolled his eyes and started out with, “There was this lady there that Mommy was afraid of for no reason—”

“I thought she could have been a ghost!” I interjected hysterically.

When Chooch got to the part about me making him run back to the car, Henry got all worked up and said, “Would you stop doing shit like that to him!?”

I can’t help it! I’m a very paranoid person, which I think stems from my mom. I still have vivid memories of her making me hide in the attic with her because some PTA lady was knocking on our door with a stack of papers she needed my mom to type.

There are times I scream, “PIZZA GUY!” and trip over myself as I run to the steps to hide. It’s an involuntary tick. I did this one time when Tommy and Jessy were here and Tommy mocked me for months. One time we were out at the flea market and out of the blue, he screamed, “PIZZA GUY!!” and started to run away.

(OK. Now that I just typed all that out, I guess I can see Henry’s point.)

After Chooch told the whole story, Henry sighed and said, “Did it ever occur to you that she was just looking for someone’s grave?”

Yeah, a grave to dig up and stash our remains in!

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A Lot Like Birds, the Soundtrack to Closure

cemeteries, music, nostalgia, Shit about me

Sep 172012

This band got me through the weekend. If this show was tonight and not November 27th, I would feel a lot better.

———-

Eight years ago, someone close to me was killed. Not close as in we were good friends, but close in that our jobs required us to see each other’s faces for 8 hours a day. His death has always bothered me because mere days before it happened, I had found myself in a screaming match with his dad – my boss. A screaming match about him, which ultimately led to me and my co-worker Carol storming out and never looking back.

I walked into that job in 2000 with all the naïve confidence and self-esteem of a 20-year-old girl and all I took with me 4 years later was a trauma-derived stutter and a crippling fear of offices which would leave me unemployed for nearly 3 years—the beginning of an avalanche of financial duress which we are still trying to clean up.

(And Henry. I got Henry out of the deal.)

I know his death wasn’t my fault, that’s not really what this is about. And I kind of feel too mixed up and sad and tired to try and explain, because explaining means going into the whole story. And the whole story is a saga, really, which I’m technically not permitted to share, a stipulation of the settlement I was awarded after a mediation with the EEOC.

But, maybe someday.

Eight years later, I still have nightmares about what happened. The flashbacks to the phone call. He’s still alive in my dreams. I still think I see him sometimes when I’m out. (This just happened on Saturday. That “Oh shit, it’s—-wait. No, he’s dead” heart-clutching moment.) And that is how I ended up standing awkwardly in a Jewish cemetery yesterday morning, looking for a closure which may or may not exist.

I had wanted to do this back in 2004, but I just wasn’t ready. But I needed to see it yesterday. Chooch—had he been born a day earlier, would have shared his birthday with this man’s death day—helped me lay down wildflowers along the gravestone. Chooch kept asking me questions that I wasn’t ready to answer.

I couldn’t stop staring at his picture etched into the marble.

We went to see Speck and Don at the pet cemetery after that, and that’s where I really cried, which is what I have needed to do for weeks now. Smiling (and laughing like a crazy person) through the sadness only gets us so far before we eventually have to deal with it.

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Cemetery Formal

cemeteries, Photographizzle

Jul 092012

Chooch was so pissed that he wasn’t invited to be a part of this photo shoot, so he kept devising ways to photobomb Andrea. At one point, he even threw a tantrum and cried, “You took a million pictures of Andrea and only TWO OF ME!” Jesus Christ, someone’s in the spotlight way too much for his own good.

Sweet ride to the prom.

This is how she watches TV at home, too.

I would like to point out that it was nearly 100 degrees that day, and Andrea did not bitch once. I did enough bitching and sweating for the both of us though.

Frondescent fairy. Finally, the weeds in my backyard have a purpose.

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Saturday Snaps

cemeteries, Jonny Craig, Photographizzle

May 262012

It is super hot in Pittsburgh. We’ve spect most of the day trying not to melt. So here is my day in pictures because I’m too uncomfortable to sit at the computer and tell you about how a kitten totally made Henry flip his shit.

Spent some time sweating in my favorite cemetery, then the cops came because they apparently like like loitering there too.

Marcy got her hairs brushed out at the pet salon, totally hates her life today.

Chooch found his old pacifier and I suddenly got all wistful, missing the days when I could plug his mouth and enjoy the silence. If today had to be summarized by a hashtag, it would totally be: #STFUkid

Ate sandwiches in another cemetery; Jonny was my date. <3

SPOILER ALERT. Gee, thanks Breaking News.

On our way back to the Sweatbox.

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Sanctuary

cemeteries

May 072012

Sunday was a continuation of Keep Busy, Keep Distracted. I take any kind of loss hard, but when it’s a pet, it’s on a whole new level. I’m not the type that can be sad for a day and move on. I’ve been jittery, beyond emotional, bellyaching over nostalgia. All I can hear is that vet saying, “He’s gone” like a record being played at 16 RPM and then wondering who’s going to sit on my lap and soak up my tears when I become ridiculously and abnormally emotional watching Desperate Housewives and Vampire Diaries.

Certainly not Marcy.

After a day spent at the park playing wiffle ball and me ducking from a frisbee, I conned Henry into finally turning off the road on the way home from Target so we could finally check out the Beth Abraham Cemetery that I always admire from the car. He didn’t seem too thrilled about it, but Chooch began chirping him from the backseat and that combined with my impromptu sobbing finally did him in.

Of course, he wound up getting the car stuck. The road eventually fades away to weeds and maintenance refuse, leaving little to no room to turn around. Still, he tried it anyway (anything for the chance to flex his professional driver muscles) but all that did was make our tires bounce off the curb like an oversized bumper car. After swearing at me and telling me over and over again that he hates me, he threw the car in reverse and backed the whole way out.

“Oh, please park in that little lot there so we can get out for a minute,” I pleaded. What good is a cemetery drive through if you can’t get out and plant your feet on the decrepit, moss-covered pathways?

Henry was not happy about this either, but I had Chooch on my side, so Henry swung the car angrily into the tiny lot next to the cemetery office, and Chooch and I happily took off.

Think what you want about our past times, but the truth is that cemeteries are the only places outside of Warped Tour where I feel at peace. Why is it that other people can take solace in church but then I’m crucified for finding my own peace in a plot of land which is, hello, CONNECTED TO THE CHURCH. It makes no sense to me that there people out there who think I’m Satanic for this, or endangering my child. How am I endangering him? For giving him a healthy and realistic outlook on death? For not making up some goddamn fairy tale?

The fact of the matter is that Chooch and I have some of our best conversations in cemeteries. And that includes when he was still in utero. This time we talked about the Jewish tradition of leaving stones on the graves. I let him add one to a bare headstone, but only after he said a few nice words to the person buried there.

Henry and I both have the day off work, since we originally were technically supposed to be coming home from Philly today. I’m glad he’s home, because I can’t bear the thought of being alone in the house just yet.

The last five months have taught me that I love animals too hard and I should probably never get another pet again. It’s just too much on my heart.

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Afternoon Hot Dog Date in the Cemetery

cemeteries, Food, Henrying, reviews, Uncategorized

Apr 072012

Chooch went to his cousin’s house today to dye Easter eggs, leaving Henry and I with a wide-open beautiful afternoon. And because it was so beautiful today, we decided to skip rollerskating in favor for a hot dog picnic in the cemetery.

I’ve been a fan of Pittsburgh chef Kevin Sousa ever since I had the great fortune of experiencing his memorable vegetarian feast at the Bigelow Grille. It remains, to this day, my all-time favorite dining experience. I’d even go as far as to say it was transcendent.

And when have you ever known me to say something like that? IT WAS TRANSCENDENT.

This is just a pretentious-worded way to say that we went Chef Sousa’s hot dog joint, Station Street Hot Dogs, to fulfill the food portion of our cemetery picnic.

“This is my favorite part of the day,” the super-friendly girl who took out order said as she popped off the caps of our Mexican Cokes.

That was so weirdly endearing to me and it kind of made me love her. Even if the food sucked, the people working there were so nice it would have negated any sour reviews. And you know how I love to write a sour review.

I remember when hot dogs cost fifty cents and Kristy McNichol wasn’t gay.

After we got our hot dogs and fries, we took it to the nearby Homewood Cemetery & masticated the shit of it while sitting on a rock near a pond.

Henry and I both got a chili dog, but mine was of the veggie persuasion. I almost got the Devil Dog instead, because hello–egg salad and potato chips on a hot dog sounds so disgusting it must be right.

But the chili dog had a bonnet of CHEESE CURD and that was enough to sway me. I’m coming back for you, Devil Dog.

Henry’s standard mastication pose.

I don’t know what came over me, but I started pining for the taste of a real hot dog and kept passive-aggressively begging for a bite of Henry’s while wringing my hands. Mine was so good, but the baseball stadium beef stench was wafting from Henry’s bun RIGHT INTO MY FACE.

“God, just take a bite. I’m not going to call the veggie police,” he mumbled.

AND SO I DID. OH GOD I DID. I took a bite and almost cried, it was so good, this Vesuvial eruption of smutty pleasure and smoked guilt on my palate. My first bite of non-soy meat since 1996. (But god only knows how many times my family minced some meat up into their so-called vegetarian holiday side dishes.) MY WHOLE WORLD IS FALLING APART RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES.

Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Thanks a lot, Ohio.

After I cried and vowed to repent later to my Saint Rita statue, Henry and I went for a walk around the cemetery; I was wearing Henry’s least favorite sweater boots, which make me shuffle my feet like a teenaged girl, so he kept calling me Captain Floppy Feet, but I secretly changed it to Fräulein Floppy Feet because I’m OCD for alliteration.

[ETA: Henry totally waved at a robin while we were walking around the cemetery, and then tried to deny it.]

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Allegheny Cemetery, Pervaded.

cemeteries

Apr 032012

We didn’t end up doing anything we had planned on Saturday, ditching our itinerary for cupcakes at Vanilla Pastry Studio (still the best, get fucked Dozen) and a leisurely stroll through the Allegheny Cemetery. Well, leisurely for Henry, who ambles about with his hands clasped behind his back, trying to replicate the call of the robins and checking the ground for moss. Elsewhere, Chooch and I are trying to break into crypts and proving once again why we deserve a blue ribbon for being a loudmouth powerhouse.

Chooch’s inappropriate act du jour was making lewd pelvic thrusts at every angel statue we passed.

“That’s how the dead people come out at night,” I explained to Chooch, after trying to get him to slide down into the basement of the crypt. Parenting rules sometimes.

Interior of Chooch’s new home.

Look, I take pictures of flowers with my iPhone. I’m original.

Notice how far ahead of us Henry is. This is typical. He stays about as far away from us as the wildlife.

“Ugh, what is this!?” Chooch cried, picking up what looked to me like a flat, rotten banana. I screamed at him to drop it before a Martian fetus clawed its way out.

“It’s a seed pod,” Henry stated calmly.

“A WHAT?!” Chooch and I screamed in perfect unison.

“A SEED POD!” Henry spat, irritation setting in. And then he tried to explain to us its purpose but we couldn’t hear him over the violent dry-heaving that set in after Chooch split one open. “You two are fucking idiots,” Henry mumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and storming off while Chooch and I continued to gag and spit into the grass.

“OH MY GOD, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!” I screamed in terror, realizing they WERE ALL OVER THE GROUND.

“Yeah, because they’re dropping from the trees!” Henry turned around and yelled, trying once again to bring order to his nature lesson. This was almost as good as last year’s lecture on rocks versus stones in the same cemetery.

Loving seed pods.

When Chooch isn’t playing Draw Something with my old iPhone, he’s using it to take pictures. A couple was approaching us from up ahead and Chooch walked confidently toward them, blatantly holding up the phone and taking pictures of them.

“Chooch, don’t take pictures of strangers!” I hissed, and yes, I totally am aware of the irony in that statement. But then it turned out that they were just Jehovah’s Witnesses stopping to stuff some literature into Henry’s calloused, heathen hand, so who cares. (He only ended up getting pictures of the road, my legs, and Henry’s crotch anyway.)

“Here, you need to read this,” Henry grumbled, thrusting a copy of their religious propaganda into my chest. “BOTH of you,” he added, on second thought, glaring at Chooch.

I love that we make so many beautiful family memories in boneyards.

Relevant song for this post:

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Homewood Cemetery Family Bonding

cemeteries, chooch

Mar 132012

Sunday was so beautiful. After the hockey game (PENS WON, FUCK YEAH), I suggested that we spend quality family time outdoors, so we went to the cemetery like anyone else would do. I chose the Homewood Cemetery on this particular day because it has a pond and it’s been awhile since we were there last. So many great memories were made in this place. And it’s where Chooch was conceived!

(Kidding. No really, it seems like it would have to be true, but it’s a joke.)

“Look at that tree!” Chooch yelled, pointing to some weird, ugly, low-to-the-ground clump of vegetation. (Not the tree in the above picture.) He covered his mouth and giggled obnoxiously. Not even plants can escape his scathing mockery.

“That’s not a tree,” my Pointdexter Eagle Scout boyfriend corrected. “It’s a rhododendron bush.” And he even pushed up his glasses as he said it.

“Oh boy, I always forget that you’re a nature know-it-all,” I mumbled, picking up my pace. He gets on my nerves with this shit. If it’s not moss education or bird identifying, it’s smug bush naming.

Get a fucking life, Henry.

Ever since that one dickhead made a comment about how I post too many Instagram’d photos, that’s pretty much all I want to do. AND I THINK I WILL. I am full of self-righteousness these days. (I know, what else is new.)

OMG DEER!!

This is like the most anti-Chooch bench of all time. Love to all? Yeah right. He divvies his love in tiny increments between our dead cat Speck, Star Wars, wii and whichever girl he’s fake-hating at school this week. (Names will forever be omitted for the sake of all those Catholic school families who do not want to be associated with any of the Satanic smut on this website.)

This is part of the maintenance building, but it reminded me so much of the Bayernhof Music Museum, that I had to take a picture and send it to Andrea. I should have waited until much later that night, though, so she would have had horrific nightmares of vagina dentata, where the dentata was actually the thrashing lid of a music box. She told me I’m evil — only to my favorites!

It’s a wonder he didn’t fall into the pond. I almost fell into the pond when I was yelling at him about falling into the pond. One of these days, I really am going to fall into a pond and I’ll be part of that small percentage of people who wind up with some nasty parasitic worm swimming up their nostril (I’d say kooka, but I’ve already mentioned vagina once and I’m trying to keep this a Catholic family blog), but if it’s the kind that will make me lose weight, I’ll be fine with it.

“CARRY ME, MY LEGS HURT! I’M SO BORED!” He says bored when really he means LAZY. This kid has so much energy and I have seen him run laps around most other kids on a playground, but if we’re anywhere else where he has to walk like a normal human being, he gets all bent out of shape. Not like I walk like a normal human being, but I can at least walk uphill without having a major fit about it.

(Mostly.)

OMG SO FUCKING TIRED!!!!!!

Oh OK, Nature Dick.

Chooch and I spent most of our walk bickering with each other. I told him lies about cemeteries and Henry would sigh and say, “No, Chooch, that’s not true.” Then he would threaten to hit me with sticks and I would retaliate with threats to leave him there alone over night.

During one of our typical banter sessions, I was frustrated to the point where I said he was my least best friend.

“Yeah, well you’re my frenemy,” he retorted with a smugness.

On the way back to the car, we passed a couple sitting on a secluded bench behind some overgrown bushes.