Epic Fail | Oh Honestly, Erin

The Jimmy Jamboree

Epic Fail, LiveJournal Repost, nostalgia, Obsessions, stalking

May 172012

Foreword: Yesterday at work, Lee was lambasting me for stalking the Jonny Craig lookalike at Delgrosso’s and even went as far to say that he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if I grew up to be a serial killer. The whole time he’s talking, all I can think is, “Oh, but I’ve done so much better when it comes to stalking people” and of course the first thing I thought of was JIMMY, the pizza boy I stalked for three whole days back in 2005, during snowy November nights WHILE PREGNANT. I even made a(n extremely poor quality) video, which is at the end of this post, and after watching it for the first time in 3+ years, I STILL get a thrill when I see Jimmy. You should note that most of the video is me saying, “OMG THAT’S HIM!” and Henry mumbling, “No that’s not him,” until the very end WHEN IT’S HIM.

OK go on.

Originally a LiveJournal post from November, 2005.

The Jimmy Set-Up

One night while taking a leisurely stroll with Henry, I insisted that we walk past the pizza place which employs the latest delivery guy that I’m stalking (I have a thing for pizza guys: Exhibit A / Exhibit B). His name is Jimmy. This I know because last week as Henry and I were ambling past, Jimmy was sitting in his car, waiting to pull out when another employee of Pizzarella came running out, yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy, wait!” Alas, Jimmy didn’t hear him and pulled out into traffic with a squeal of his tires, the Pizzarella sign adorning the top of his car. “Huh, there goes Jimmy,” I said as we looked on.

Big deal, right? Well, on our way back from our walk that night, we were crossing the street. All was clear, but suddenly, while we were in the middle of the road, a car came flying up over the hill, forcing me to run the rest of the way. I was clutching my stomach and yelling, “Don’t hit me I’m pregnant!” (LOVE playing that card), when I happened to toss a glance over my shoulder and I saw that it was Jimmy in his dinky white sputtering car with the Pizzarella sign on top. “Aw, it’s Jimmy!” I yelled, as I tugged on Henry’s arm. He didn’t care.

One block over, and it was time to cross the street again. We had just stepped off the curb when another car came barreling at us. I started to yell threats about being pregnant when I stopped and screamed, “Hey, it’s Jimmy again!” His window was down and he clearly heard my zealous exclamations of his name; they were rather orgasmic. Henry was embarrassed. So I decided that it was fate; I mean, obviously. Maybe there’s supposed to be a movie made about us, I suggested to Henry. A romantic comedy!

I began to outline the premise for Henry. Man drives recklessly around town with the intent of running over any and all pregnant women he comes across, because he hates babies and the vessels which bear them. One fateful night in November, he sees me walking with Henry. Henry selfishly dives out of the way, leaving me in the headlights of Jimmy’s car. He hits me, but unfortunately for him, I survive, and so does the baby, which ends up being his, so he spends the rest of his life hunting down me and the kid, trying to kill us with his pizza delivery car.

“How is that a romantic comedy?” Henry asked. Well, maybe it’s more of a thriller. Or it can be a dark comedy and we’ll just have Pee Wee Herman doing something occasionally.

Ever since that night, no matter what Henry and I are involved in, I make time for Jimmy. “Hey, remember Jimmy?” I’ll ask. “No,” he’ll say. Maybe his lack of a Jimmy memory is because he’s trying to trick me into having sex at that particular moment or he’s too engrossed in “Good Eats,” but I know deep down there will always be room for Jimmy’s memory in Henry’s heart. Someday, maybe he’ll be secure enough with his manhood to admit it.

Unfortunately, Jimmy wasn’t at the shop last night. However! As we walked past, a man exited the pizza shop, carrying a precariously-stacked tower of trays. We watched him walk over to his parked Audi and struggle with the opening of the passenger door.

I’ve never seen Henry move so fast in my life. “Here, let me get that for you!” And then an awkward exchange of “No, it’s cool, I got it” and “Are you sure, man?” followed by “Yes, thanks man” and ending with “Oh, OK, bud!” ensued. I was able to hold it in long enough for Henry to rejoin me on the sidewalk, but then it all came tumbling out of the loose cannon.

“Oooooooh! Henry’s new boyfriend!”

He wouldn’t talk to me after that and even tried to walk me into a street sign.

Anyway, I’m going to order from Pizzarella this weekend, but only after I make sure Jimmy is working. Then when Henry is paying him, I’ll be hiding by the window, or maybe behind a bush*, taking his picture. You just wait, Jimmy.

(*I should plant a bush.)

The Jimmy Fake Out

But I don’t even like their food, I thought, after I urged Henry to place an order to Pizzarella that Saturday night. And when Henry brought up that tiny detail, I of course lied and said, “You must be thinking of another place, buddy. I love Pizzarella. It’s like being in Italy. With all that real Italian food. Mmm. Trevi Fountain, holla.” Indigestion brought on by sub-par Brookline Italian fare was a small price to pay in order to lure Jimmy to my doorstep.

Thirty minutes later, Henry began pacing back and forth in front of the window, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Wow, I thought, Henry is nervous too!

Turns out he was just really hungry.

When I heard a car pull up to the house, I lurched for the camcorder and yelled, “Is it him!?”

It wasn’t. It was some worthless piece of shit who could never match up to Jimmy’s talent for pizza slinging.

My pasta tasted like poison. I ate bitterly as I reflected on how Henry refused to grant me permission to cut him earlier that day. Just one little slice across his chest with a box cutter, it was all I asked; a small token of our love, I begged. “Shed your blood for me, you son of a bitch,” I hissed with my fingernails at his throat. If he really loved me, he’d have let me. So now I can add this to the list of his other vetoes: me vomiting in his mouth; him dressing as Michael Myers and raping me (I would have loved to one day tell my child that that’s how (s)he was conceived); allowing me to take a Danish lover; and the list goes on, my friends. The list goes on.

And so I start thinking. I don’t have the money nor the appetite to continue ordering shitty food every day in hopes of drawing Jimmy to my front door; I would just have to go straight to the source. I begged Henry to give the night one more chance by walking with me to Brookline Boulevard, where we would have a real life stake out.

“Either do this or let me cut you”: a proposal in which I win either way. I suggested that we pack a small bag full of sustenance, maybe some crackers and peanut butter, because there was no telling how long we’d be gone.

“Oh, we won’t be gone that long,” Henry mumbled as he zipped up his jacket. I tucked the camcorder snugly into my pocket and pulled my hat down low over my eyes.

It was time.

****

There was no sign of any of the Pizzarella delivery cars as we walked past the shop the first time, me giggling uncontrollably and Henry telling me to shut the fuck up. When I’m giddy, I walk like a drunk, forcing him to grip my arm hard to pull me out of the way of other pedestrians. I hoped it would bruise so I could show the cops, but it didn’t. Damn those cold-weather layers. I plan on battering myself in time for my sonogram next week so all fingers will point to Henry.

We passed this guy Brice who used to stalk me, and his dog took a dump in the middle of the sidewalk. He acts like he doesn’t even know me now, I thought, as my wave and bright smile were met with a vacant stare. I looked at Henry in disdain. It’s all his fault. All of my stalkers retreated with their tails between their legs once Henry came barreling into my life, disrupting the natural order of things. (Gas station grocery shopping, inviting people over from chat rooms, blind dates, roller skating in the house. This list deserves its own entry. Or book.). I walked in silence for a few seconds, shedding invisible tears for stalkers past. Tossing a quick glance over at Henry, I felt a thousand pounds of hatred as I watched the way he scrunched up his shoulders to block the wind; the way he looked like a hoodlum with his hood pulled up tight around his fat face. Look at what he’s done to me, I thought, thinking of all the fun he’s driven out of my life. Maybe he can give me some STDs too, to ice the cake; make sure no one will ever want to stalk me again. No more Brices or Gothic Carls or Johnny Blazes. I’ve been tainted by domesticity. What stalker in their right mind would risk peeping into my window only to catch a glimpse of Henry traipsing around in his underwear? Who wants to stalk a boring quasi-housewife? (If you answered “I do” to that, my address is available upon request. I can also send pics of Henry’s bare legs to requested parties, as well.)

Luckily for Henry and the fate our unborn child, I distracted myself from further thoughts of running away by making zombie noises. The first one I did was the best, but then I couldn’t remember how I did it and I began to try too hard, which resulted in me sounding like I had emphysema. Still, I practiced on and on, relentless, because I’m no quitter. Plus, I wanted to test it out on unsuspecting passers-by.

“Was that it?”

“No.”

“Was that it?”

“No.”

Finally, Henry stopped answering me altogether, but it didn’t matter since we were now across the street from Pizzarella. I dusted off a spot on a retaining wall and made myself comfortable. Cracked my knuckles a few times, blew on my finger tips, punched Henry in the crotch — you know, all the things people do when they’re preparing to undergo some heavy surveillance.

While I was getting nestled, two young kids pedaled past on their bikes, so I hit them with my zombie sounds. And then I laughed about it for a few minutes and kept saying, “Hey Henry, remember when those kids rode by and I made zombie noises at them?” He wouldn’t answer; that happens sometimes. I guess it’s because he’s old.

As luck would have it, right when I got the camcorder all set up (you know, extracted from my pocket and turned on), a drunk old black man came from our right, slightly staggering with his head down. So I taped him, with Henry whispering, “Don’t. That’s not nice. Stop.” See what I mean? I am so oppressed. Too bad Henry then started to laugh. Mr. Fucking Humanitarian. This is the same guy who comes home from work and brags about seeing prostitutes fighting and a woman wearing white pants with a menstrual Rorschach pattern on her crotch.

But I’m cruel for videotaping a wino.

While I was fully immersed in this anthropological specimen, Henry jabbed my arm and pointed across the street. A delivery man had returned. I swung the camera in his direction and began squealing, “Oh my god it’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy!!” The butterflies were ricocheting all over my stomach as my laughter shook the camera, and then Henry said, “Oh wait. That’s not him. Jimmy had a white car.”

What, daddy? There’s no Santa?

I was crushed. Even more so than when I lost the Alternative Press “Number 1 Fan” essay contest last year. (I lost to some cunt in California who wrote something similar to this: “OMG I DON’T HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER BUT THANK GOD I HAVE AP BECAUSE YOU ARE LIKE AN OLDER BROTHER WHO SHOWS ME GOOD MUSIC.” How does that make her their number one fan? I would say that makes AP her number one imaginary friend. Fuck you and your non-brother, you fucking slut. Of course, I didn’t follow the rules and my essay was about three hundred words — give or take a few hundred — too long. In any case, I know that girl’s name and where she lives. And in one of my lowest and darkest moments, I even tried to find her on LiveJournal so I could flame her. There, I said it.)

You see, we don’t actually know what Jimmy looks like; just his car. Still, I really think I’m in love with him.

I really am, I think.

We waited a little longer, huddled together against the wind. “Sweetie, I don’t think he’s working tonight,” Henry said as he patted my head. You know it’s dire when he calls me sweetie.

But then the clouds parted and another delivery car pulled up.

“That’s not him. That’s the guy that delivered to us earlier,” Henry said with authority because he excels in all things pizza and vehicles. But while Henry was shooting me in the face with his smugness, he totally missed the delivery guy emerging from his car. Suddenly, one of his legs completely gave out, like it was made from putty, and he fell back against the side of his car. I laughed, and I mean laughed, with enough volume and zest for him to hear and look over at me. This made me laugh even harder and I’m going to admit something here because I’m honest: I peed. Yes, I pissed my fucking pants, right there, sitting on the wall. Erin urinated. Granted, it was the tiniest dribble, maybe the size of a gum ball at best. But it was enough to feel warm and uncomfortable.

Look, I’m pregnant, OK? This shit happens. And by shit I mean piss.

This was the final straw for Henry and he urged me to get up and start walking home with him. Also, he was pouting because he missed the stumbling delivery man.

“Wait,” I said. “Not until I know for sure. Give me change, I need to make a call.”

And so I walked a half of a block down to the gas station and called Pizzarella from the pay phone, because I’m proud to be part of the world’s 10% without a cell phone. While I dialed the number, Henry stood beside me but I pushed him away because I didn’t want to laugh. I needed privacy for this one.

A girl answered and, while my mouth was wide open, there was this ill-timed delay in my speech. I almost hung up but didn’t want to waste the fifty cents. (Fifty fucking cents to use the pay phone now? It’s been a long time since I had to use a pay phone. Jimmy, my man, you’re raping my pockets.)

I had it all rehearsed in my head. A simple, “Hello, is Jimmy working tonight?” would have sufficed. But instead, I ended up sounding like a head gear-wearing 12-year-old Bobcat Goldthwait making his first prank call at a slumber party.

“HI!!!! [pause to bite back laughter] IS JIMHAHAHAHAPFFFFFFFFT WORKING TONIGHT!?!?!?”

“Who?” She was clearly annoyed. I hoped it wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Jimmy.” I wasn’t laughing now, but rather trying to hold back more spurts of urine.You know how hard it is to manually shut yourself off once you’ve started!

And so I was informed that Jimmy was not working that night.

“THANKS” I yelled and slammed down the receiver. And then I laughed all the way to a stomach ache, while the urine burnt my thighs as it dried.

The next day, at exactly 2:20 PM, I was on my way to Pitt to schedule classes and I totally passed Jimmy and his white car on the road. I made a slight detour on the way home, parked across the street from Pizzarella, and finally captured him for a lifetime of pleasure on video.

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So-So Friday

Epic Fail, Henrying, holidays, really bad ideas, Reporting from Work

Apr 062012

Got to leave work around 6:30 because it was so slow, but Henry and Chooch were at Chuck E Cheese for a birthday party, so I had to take the dreaded trolley home. Almost not worth getting to go home early.

Sue kept trying to coax me into taking an entire box of pizza home and I was like, “I can barely carry myself on the T, let alone an XL pizza box.

So she gave it to the cleaning people.

But I blindly chose the correct one and made it all the way to my stop with little incident. Did overhear two hacky-sackers compliment each others dirty hats though.

Clammy Trolley Fare.

Then I arrived at my house only to learn that HENRY wasn’t home yet. HENRY who has the house key. Hot Naybor Chris invited me in since I looked like a poor, shivering sack on the porch, but I declined because I wanted Henry to find me in such state and feel bad.

He did not feel bad.

And that is how I kicked off my Easter weekend.

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Trolley Woes

Epic Fail, really bad ideas, Reporting from Work, Uncategorized

Mar 282012

Some fucker at Henry’s work had the nerve to take off Monday through today, which meant I had to take the goddamn trolley to work since Henry had to go make stupid Faygo deliveries.

Everyone is always like, “Riding the T is not that big of a deal, Erin. There’s a stop directly across from your work!” And there really is! It’s super convenient, and the closest t-stop to my house is within walking distance. But for someone as tightly-wound as me, the simple act of riding public transportation is enough to ruin my entire day (not to mention my relationship with Henry).

For example, when Andrea was here last September, she had to take my trolley fare from me because I was sitting on a bench counting and re-counting it like a textbook OCD sufferer and my clammy palms were laundering the money in the very true sense of the word.

Monday, my eardrums were treated to the incessant childish whine of a crackhead who slurred loudly into her cell phone all the way to downtown. Fucking crackheads. Then a man with Downs Syndrome danced onto the T and continued his Soul Train while standing next to my seat. I smiled at him, but I think he was seriously trying to poach my seat; after looking around, I was like, “Get real, bro.” There were unlimited empty seats for him to choose! So finally, he danced his way to the back of the trolley. But then when I arrived at work, I was standing outside the building, talking on the phone, when another mentally handicapped man in a hunter green parka came at me out of nowhere, scooped me up in an airtight embrace, and squealed, “Happy Easter!”

I returned the sentiment (after panicking that I missed Easter) and then had to squat down and duck beneath his arm to escape his kidnapper hold on me. It was intense, and my friend on the phone nervously laughed and then asked, “What the fuck is happening over there?!” Probably the worst part was that immediately afterward, I had to ride the elevator up to my department with GLENN, who laughed demonically at my expense and then said, “No seriously, welcome to work, it’s nice to see you. Wow, I almost said that without laughing!”

I spent the next 2 hours trembling at my desk.

Tuesday was normal!

Today seemed like it was going to be normal for the first 2 minutes until I noticed it for the first time. This abrupt, bark-like outburst from the man sitting across from me in the handicap seat. Following the bark would be a hand-flap, and then a violent shake of his head.

Look, we all make noises sometimes and pretend to be motorboating invisible tits, I know this. However, there was something about this man and the way he was staring at me (I COULD FEEL HIM STARING AT ME) that was starting to make me clench up. And the way he kept inserting his hands into his coat pockets made me close my eyes tightly and pray to Saint Rita.

Probably he just had a nervous tic, maybe something akin to Tourette’s, but all I could think was, “THIS GUY DIDN’T TAKE HIS ANTI-PSYCHOTICS AND NOW HE’S GONG TO STAB ME FOR THE SIMPLE FACT THAT I’M WEARING PINK SOCKS, HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I DON’T KNOW.”

By the fourth stop, I was hugging my arms against my body so hard, I had somehow turned into my own personal straight jacket.

Occasionally, he would talk to no one in particular. Of course, no one would answer. I kept looking away from him, out the window, until it occured to me that his lack of responses might eventually set him off. I didn’t want to wind up with a Mexican necktie because I didn’t acknowledge his trite observation that it was raining in the morning and now it was not raining.

So when he shouted, “The weather is CONFUSED!” I made brief eye contact and shouted back, “I KNOW RIGHT HAHAHAHA” and the sound of my forced laughter made me close my eyes and cringe, but he seemed pleased at my consideration. Everyone else, however, was now looking at me like I was just as fucked up.

This kept going on and on with the weird UNGGGHHs and motorboating and nervous hand-stuffing in his pockets, while I continued to look out the window and think about what it’s going to feel like when a butterfly knife finds its way between my ribcage and how unfortunate it was that I was wearing one of my favorite sweaters, goddammit I didn’t want to get blood on my favorite Lauren Conrad sweater.

And then the T started its course across the river, so now I’m hyperventilating about the T falling off the bridge and into the river, where I will undoubtedly become entangled with dead river bodies, and all of this was making my vision have colorful dots in it.

Suddenly, an electronic beep fluttered from his person. “SHIT!” he spat angrily, and I braced myself for the explosion from the bomb that he accidentally detonated in his pocket. But it wound up just being his watch.

So when the T cruised to a halt at the stop before the one I needed, I bounded up from my seat and ran out the accordianed door, straight onto an unfamiliar trolley station. There were multiple signs pointing out the directions one would want to take depending on which street they were hoping to emerge onto, but I DON’T KNOW ANY STREET NAMES DOWN THERE.

I just stood there, like I was part of a scene from some lame indie movie where the main broad is all in slow motion while the rest of the city speeds past her, except for me what lies beyond is not the Jonny Craig I waited my whole life for (or at least a grilled cheese on a gold platter), but a plethora of ways to get myself lost real good in the city.

And that’s when I realized that my skittish body language probably had me looking a lot like that guy on the trolley; or worse—a tourist.

I chose a man with a purposeful stride and followed him up a set of steps and out into the daylight, where I called Henry, who was technically on my Non-Speaking list since it was all his fault in the first place that I had to ride the T and ALMOST GOT STABBED.

In a hyper-panicked, out-of-breath voice, I relayed to him my horror and then panted, “So now I don’t know how to get to work.”

“Ok…well, what do you see?” he asked, and I could tell he was stifling a laugh, that motherfucker.

“Tulips,” I said confidently. I saw lots of tulips behind a chain-link fence.

“What STREET are you on?” he asked, sighing wearily. And then, “Are you walking toward the river?”

“I don’t know where the river is!” I cried. But Henry eventually figured out where I was without the aid of the river.

To make him feel worse about what he did to me, I lied and said, “And just so you know, some car splashed me when I was walking to the T from the house, so now one side of me is entirely drenched.”

“Really? One entire side of you is wet? I’m going to call Wendy and ask her.” I never should have let Henry become friends with my co-workers.

Once I got to my desk, I was whining to Nina about what happened, who did her best Barb impression and coddled me like I need to be coddled. Carey overheard my woeful account and, after offering to draw me a map of important downtown landmarks, said, “You know, if you lived in the South, I bet people would say ‘bless your heart!’ to you a lot.”

I had to cross countless perilous streets to get to work, but at least it kept my Lauren Conrad sweater from getting slashed.

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Trolley Tits

Epic Fail, Uncategorized

Mar 222012

Henry couldn’t take me to work yesterday. You know me, of course I got myself all worked up into a sweaty frenzy by the time I made it to the trolley stop, but at least I got to ride the T with these two sweethearts, who would NEVER hit an uncircumcised penis, FOR YOUR INFORMATION.

And by hit, I believe they mean “swaddle with their vaginas.”

The fact that I couldn’t actually see the pink-haired broad’s nips leads me to believe that she didn’t have any, but then someone at work pointed out that her jugs were so big, they could have been ROLLED UNDER. Oh the sting of bile against my esophagus.

She sat down and immediately started taking blatant tit-pics, which she was texting to some perv who obviously has a host of sick sexual kinks. He apparently was texting cock-shots back, which spawned the aforementioned circumcision convo with her friend who has burn marks all over her arms and is pregnant, of course.

Also, Pinkie talks about: chicken and biscuits; being A BIG GIRL (she declared this 9 times with a puffed-out chest; yes, put your imagination on a hamster wheel for that one); the Eat n Park breakfast buffet with such relish $ drool that you’d think it was the AM sister of Dan Tana’s; Pinkie is also very forthcoming (& loud) about her private piercings (“Well, when I got my PUSSY PIERCED…”), causing every male head on the T to snap to attention. (But not in a “That’s hot” way.)

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know I can be crass and vulgar at times, but these bitches and their raunchfest were making me feel like a motherfucking nun. I can’t even imagine being that filterless in such an enclosed public space. I don’t even like talking on my phone in public!

And at least I wear clothes that fit me.

The highlight for me, even moreso than when she flashed her whale tail at the last stop, was when Pinkie stood up and started singing SWV’s whiny mid-90′s R&B hit “I Get Weak,” grinding against invisible club goers, who hopefully had enough decency to puke their invisible vomit in her breast basin.

God, I felt like a WASP compared to them. Nothing beats being in a 10-foot vicinity of ghetto white trash to put things into perspective for me. BY GOLLY MY LIFE AIN’T SO BAD YA’LL.

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Orange Ball: The Finale

Epic Fail, Reporting from Work

Mar 082012

;

Something weird happened between me and Orange Ball. No, nothing that you’d have to pay to see, but kind of like a reverse Stockholm Syndrome: I WAS STARTING TO BOND WITH THE BALL. I knew I had to give it back to Chris—and soon—not only because I was afraid of growing too attached, but I never know how far I can take these things. Some people only have so much patience when they’re on the receiving end of pranks! I will never forget when I worked at the Tina and Eleanore Company, my one co-worker Collin ate a Hot Pocket every night. So another guy, Bob, decided, “Hey wouldn’t it be funny if we took Collin’s Hot Pocket out of the freezer and hid it?” I of course thought this would be the best idea ever because who I am to ever say, “No, one musn’t pull pranks on another colleague.” So I encouraged Bob to do it and Collin absolutely had a Hulk-caliber freak out, almost busted out of his shirt to make room for all the rage. He was beyond-pissed, slamming shit around in the kitchen, and we were all afraid of him for a little bit after that.

I also have a mildly adverse reaction to Hot Pockets now, too.

I didn’t want to see this happen to Chris. I don’t like it when men yell. Unless they’re on a stage at Warped Tour making Henry hate his life.

So I decided last night that today would be the big reunion. But not after posing Orange Ball with Michael Myers.

Aaron originally had the twin to Orange Ball, and he agreed to sacrifice it for the prank’s sake. I knew that I wanted to cut the ball in half and place it in this little coffin that my friend Octavia sent to Chooch two Christmases ago.

(Not because she was sinisterly insinuating! It came with a zombie doll inside. God!)

However, Aaron CONVENIENTLY couldn’t find the ball in his office yesterday. Was he telling the truth and now there’s a Chris-wannabe out there on the 10th floor? Or is Aaron PLAYING BOTH SIDES? I may never know, but what I did know was that my finale now needed to be modified and I was not happy about that. I went over the possibilities again and again last night, but I knew that unless I could come up with a similar ball, I was fucked and this was about to be the worst prank in Law Firm history.

(Considering I was busted five minutes into it, I’d say it already took that honor.)

Today, I skirted the astonishing amount of Brookline crazies and walked several blocks to the nearest CVS, where I found a foam basketball set in the kids aisle. Of course, because it’s a drug store, it was over-priced at $8 (EIGHT DOLLARS!) but I was desperate and bought it. (Not before witnessing kan irate ex-hippie flipping out because the equally-irate cashier wouldn’t honor his coupon; I hid out by the nail polish, so that explains why my total bill was over $20, sorry Henry.)

I cold hear Henry in my head saying, “Please don’t put actual money into this stupid prank” but I had to finish what I started, which is how Chooch wound up with a miniature basketball hoop and no basketball. I cut the ball into pieces and once I got to work, I rubbed some of the ball shrapnel in fake blood and placed it all inside the coffin, with a note written in blood.

Then I sent one final email from Orange Ball to Chris, with the above picture attached and a simple message of “Check under Lee’s desk.” Moments later, Chris emerged from his office and I heard him behind me saying to Lee, “Orange Ball sent me under message. We have to look under your desk.”

(I really appreciate that he continued to play along after the flimsy veil was blown off my anonymity before I even really started.)

Right away, Lee exclaimed, “THIS IS NOT ORANGEY. IT’S THE WRONG TEXTURE!”

But Chris still feigned horror. I got the real “Orangey” out of my desk and tossed it to him, causing a collective eruptive of “NOOOOO!”s to fill our quadrant. That ball is not very loved around these parts.

Here are some reactions to Chris and Orange Ball’s reunion:

A weary: “I know, I heard him bouncing it.”
“I heard that damn ball and immediately clenched up in anger.”
“WHY DID YOU GIVE IT BACK!?”
The start of a high-five, which was retracted once the owner of the hand realized that the ball guts did not actually come out of the Orange Ball.

I also got several, “Of COURSE you have a miniature coffin. Why wouldn’t you?” (“It’s my son’s,” I kept correcting)and, in mocking tones, “Of COURSE you randomly carry fake blood in your purse because you never know when you’re going to need it.”

Needed it today, DIDN’T I?

Some people were really impressed with my effort, but I’m sure there were just as many if not more who were annoyed at this complete waste of Company time.

I think I’m going to keep the coffin and remains on my desk as a permanent installation. After all, I didn’t pay $8 just to discard it in a dumpster like a dead hooker.

Orange Ball, I kind of like you now. Come visit sometime! (Just not through the air, at a fast pace.)

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Erin Bakes a Cake

Epic Fail, Fire in the Kitchen!, Food, Uncategorized

Feb 162012

I don’t know what came over me, but two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk at work when the most ridiculously out-of-character idea cloud settled upon my head, and it told me to bake Henry a cake for Valentine’s Day.

There are several things wrong with this:

I have never baked without supervision.
I have never baked a cake, nor have I ever wanted to. (I do like decorating cakes that other people have made though, usually in a mean-spirited fashion.)
I do not like baking. Or cooking. Or being in the kitchen at all.
Since when do I ever willingly want to do nice things for Henry?

Natalie happened to stop by to talk to me right after my plan was devised and I eagerly filled her in. She gave me a horrified look and then walked away.

See? Everyone knows this is not an Erin thing to do! And more importantly, HENRY knows this goes against everything I’m all about which means he would never expect it. Ever. Never ever.

I posted about it on Facebook (I blocked him from that particular status update) and the reactions were mixed, everything from shock and trepidation from the people who know that the only recipe I’m capable of following is one for disaster, suspicion from some who are not used to seeing my sweet side, and then there were all the “You Should”s with their unsolicited suggestions of what I should make instead.

But my mind was made up: red velvet cake, cream cheese frosting. No cake pops or cupcakes or chocolate-covered strawberries. No bakery-bought cake. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it big and do it my way.

A week before Valentine’s Day, I did some subtle recon.

“Why don’t you ever bake cakes?” I asked Henry out of the blue one night, because that’s how I do subtle. “Is it because it’s too HARD?” If it’s too difficult for Henry, then it’s impossible for me.

“Because we don’t have any cake pans,” he mumbled, not seeming to think it was a weird question at all.

The next day at work, I was freaking out about cake pans, which is how I learned that there are many options in acquiring one. For instance, Target sells cake pans! I never would have known. I learn so much about life at work.

But then Natalie said I could borrow hers! So then I had two 8in cake pans in my purse when I left work on Friday and Henry looked at me weirdly when he heard them clanging together.

And then he looked at me even more weirdly, now with a dash of fear, when I told him that I needed something for his Valentine’s gift but Natalie let me borrow hers, like it was her diaphragm and this was 1996.

“I don’t want to know,” he said.

After I took Chooch to school Monday morning, I looked at the frosting and cake mix recipe 45752 times to see what I would need, then I collected all the courage I could muster and set off to the grocery store. A solo trip to the grocery store. Whoever would’ve thought? When I t old Chooch what I was doing that day, he stopped everything and said, “Are you sure you shouldn’t just buy the cake?”

Nice to know my son has so much faith in me.

I was so nervous and apprehensive that I acted like I was on Supermarket Sweep, grabbed what I needed (I even got coffee creamer because I knew I was almost out; I’m suddenly responsible!), checked my heart rate and got the FUCK out. I really hate grocery stores. Unless it’s one of the fancy ones. Then I like to tag along with Henry and increase our bill by $150. Henry really enjoys that too.

The actual cake-baking wasn’t too bad, you guys! I even found the hand-mixer thingie and the whisk-y thingies which were in the second drawer I looked in! Clearly all of these things meant that baking was in my destiny. And you know, in between heaping mouthfuls of cake batter, I smiled to myself and thought about how surprised Henry was going to be that I was doing something selfless for him, because when do I ever do anything for him, aside from making pretty faces for him, filling his days with my warm and sunny disposition, and BEARING HIS CHILD?

Yep, everything was fine until the cake was done and I tried to remove it by flipping the pan upside down and shaking. A huge chunk flopped out, but another huge chunk remained adhered to the bottom of the pan. (Yes, I greased the pan! Why does everyone keep asking me that!?) Thank god for Facebook; I posted this picture with a caption begging for help, and my guardian angels asured me that this wasn’t fatal and that there were ways to piece it back together. And then Kaitlin texted me and said that happens to her all the time and I was like, “YES, I’M ON THE SAME PAGE AS KAITLIN!” Whatever that means!

Parts of the cake appeared burnt while other portions were definitely undercooked. I shrugged it off because let’s be real – this cake was mostly just a symbol at this point. If pieces of it turned out edible, well then that’s a bonus.

Once I dumped out the second cake, I stowed them away in the attic (yes, they were covered! I’m not that stupid!) and spent the rest of my day watching MTV like a person like me should be doing.

The next morning, Chooch was brushing his teeth and admitted to me that he peeked at the cake.

“It looks weird,” he said, his voice full of toothpaste and concern.

“BECAUSE IT’S NOT DONE YET! God!” I was feeling pretty defensive at that point.

After I took Chooch to school, it was time to make the frosting. I waited a whole day to do this because all of my Google research told me that it is best to frost a cake the next day. Plus, I didn’t feel like being in the kitchen any longer on Monday. But I realized I didn’t have enough butter and had to go BACK TO THE STORE which caused me great anxiety. Henry called while I was doing this and all I would tell him was that I was working on the second thing I needed to do but a wrench was thrown into the plan and I had to go back to the store.

Goddamn does it take butter a lot of time to thaw! Jessy texted me some ways to speed up the process but they all involved copious opportunies for me to fuck up. So I just sat on it for awhile instead.

The cats went apeshit when I was using the mixer. They have never, in 14 years, seen me do that before. I started to pretend like I was going to go after Marcy with it but then batter started flying around like arterial spray so I shoved it back in the bowl. God, baking is messy. I still don’t know where the frosting landed. And you know what, that shouldn’t be my concern. I already did enough, Henry can clean up. Right?

Aside from when I dropped the bowl and caught it by slamming it against the cabinets with my crotch (I did all the preparations on the 2 inch slat of counterspace in front of the sink, even though we have an entire table I could have used), frosting proved to be pretty easy to make! I did have to ask Google if confectioners powder is the same as powered sugar, though. (It is, in case you didn’t know.)

OK, I lied. I wanted to see how it felt to be cheery and positive for once. No, it wasn’t easy! It wasn’t easy at all! It took forever to mix, and my arms were hurting so bad, and it was jerking me around and not in a pleasurable way either. And then when it was time to slather it on the cake, my spatula thing kept pulling up parts of the cake and then it was mixing in with the frosting and I was getting so angry that I found myself crying for the eight time since the nigthmare started the day before, and if that shit didn’t taste so fucking good, it was about to get set on fire and chucked at the nearest Katy Perry fan.

And then I was like, “Fuck it. Once he sees I baked him a cake, of course he’s not going to deduct points for it being a hot mess.” Because the whole point is that, hello, this bitch baked him a cake for the first (and last) time ever!

When I first had the idea, I thought it would be cute to decorate it with all the things we share a mutual love for, but then I realized that’s only one thing (aside from our kid, obviously).

So it’s only slightly a wreck! I was pretty proud of myself, to be honest. But the sense of accomplishment was not enough to make me forget the electricutionary feeling of frazzled nerves, so no, I will not be making this a hobby.

Henry was nervous. “This is only the second time in 11 years you’ve done something for me on Valentine’s Day,” he said. It’s true. The last time I gave him an empty ring box which was supposed to hold a key to my house, but I left it in the paper bag from the hardware store.

He said, “I’m going to guess whatever you were doing was something you don’t normally do….which could be just about anything.”

Oh my god, he’s almost smiling! But then he looked at it again and said, “What are all the lumps in the frosting?”

“It’s cake!” I wailed. Ugh!

The more he looked at the cake, the less his lips held the smile-curve. It looked like apprehension was setting in, like he was going to make me taste it first. But he apparently ate a piece while I was at work and lived to tell about it. (I have no evidence that he didn’t force our son to eat it on his behalf, though.)

I only half-considered adding the zest of Hemlock to the frosting, I swear.

That night, after Chooch went to bed, Henry slipped into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. I kept waiting for him to come out with a ring* or at least some vintage porn hidden in a souffle, but apparently my big Vday gift was dinner.

(*You know I would have been displeased if he had proposed on a day as obvious as February 14th. I’M NEVER HAPPY!)

“You ALWAYS cook dinner,” I whined. “I baked you a CAKE!”

He spent the rest of the night kissing my ass and then I let him scratch my back, so all was not lost.

(Wait, this sounds like a regular night at our house.)

I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life smearing this in his face.

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Sunday Lock Out

Epic Fail, Henrying

Nov 132011

Goddammit, all I wanted to do was go for a nice, leisurely family stroll around our crappy town, but dum-dum Henry left the keys in the house and started flipping out about how it was my fault because I rushed him out of the house.

I was like, “Why can’t we just go for a walk and worry about this later?” which apparently was not a Great Idea based on the look of utter incredulity Henry flashed at me.

Chooch and I carried on like cackling assholes while Henry tore apart the garage for suitable items to MacGyver a battering ram. I mean, I guess if he hot-glued together all of his old porn VHS tapes from the SERVICE, he might have something to go on.

He ignored my suggestions of calling the landlord or heaving a cinder block through the window and instead considered using a can of gasoline to burn down the front door.

I’m surprised he didn’t go next door to ask Hot Naybor Chris for a breaking and entering consultation, considering those two once helped the gas man break into our neighbor’s house in order to shut off his gas before our house exploded.

Yeah, this has promise.

“What? I coulda done it. If only I had remembered to eat my individually-wrapped prunes today.”

“NOW I HAVE HEDGECLIPPERS! THESE WILL HELP! I WILL MANICURE THE WEEDS INTO SILHOUETTES OF MY REPUBLICAN HEROES WHILE STARING LONGINGLY INTO OUR FRONT WINDOW.”

These are some of the things Henry said while Chooch and I buzzed around him like flies on a bear:

THAT’S ENOUGH!
YOU’RE A LOT OF FUCKING HELP.
GO SOMEWHERE AND PLAY!
THIS IS ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT. I DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO GO FOR A WALK!
FML FML FML FML FML
YEAH, THIS IS REAL FUCKING FUNNY.
AND I JUST KNOW I’M MISSING “SHE’S CRAFTY.” MOTHER!
YOU ASSHOLES CAN JUST STAY OUT HERE! I’LL FUCKING WALK TO WORK. AT LEAST I HAVE THOSE KEYS.

Oh God, Chooch. DON’T POKE THE BEAR!

…or KICK the bear. Henry almost gave Chooch “orphan” status after this.

Meanwhile, I found this fucker in the garage. WTF kind of creepshow is this!? I wish I had had it for my Murder Desk at work.

I was trying to chronicle this episode from all angles, which did not please the man one bit. He made like he was going to grab my phone off me and beat me with it, enlightening me on what it must be like to work for TMZ.

After fifteen minutes, Henry succeeded in prying open the window with a pair of pliers. Now you know how to break into my house and steal our cats. Seriously, it’s all we’ve got in there. Cats galore.

Just don’t forget to bring a small child to catapult through the window. (I mean, at least he’s going IN a window and not falling OUT of a window, right?)

You know that fucker is going to go to school tomorrow and tell his teacher about how his burglar parents made him shimmy up the side of a skyscraper.

Moments later, the house keys came whaling through the window straight at Henry’s face. Chooch rules.

“ENOUGH ALREADY.”

Reassembling the window.

And he did it all so he could go on a walk he did not want to go on in the first place. In this picture, I think he’s texting his boss: OMG I IS A HEROE. I NEED DAY OFF.

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Erin Reports for Jury Duty

Epic Fail, really bad ideas, Shit about me, where i try to act social

Nov 082011

I kind of always wanted to get summoned for jury duty. Not that I think it’s glamorous or fun, but fuck–what a prime opportunity to people-watch, right? And that’s kind of my thing.

A few weeks ago, I got my official notice in the mail, filled it out immediately and tucked it back in the mail slot for the mailman to retrieve the next day. When Henry came home from work that day, he saw the torn-open notice and asked, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“In the mail slot, already filled out!” I answered all incredulously, like how was this not his first guess? “I REALLY want to do this!”

“You’re fucked up. No one WANTS to do jury duty.” (Too bad at least TEN people have told me otherwise in the last day.) And then Henry dampened my parade by explaining to me the ins and outs of jury duty, how I would need to check the website on a designated date to see if I was even summoned in the first place.

Well, that day was yesterday and OMG I was!

But my joy soon turned into panic. Do you guys know me at all? I’m pretty much helpless. And now I’m expected to be turned loose into the real world, to ENTER A COURTHOUSE without setting off five alarms, to find a particular room without crying….

“What room is it?” Barb asked me and I told her it was 3-something. “OK, so take the elevator to the third floor—”

“BUT WHERE ARE THE ELEVATORS, OH MY GOD BARB?!”

There better be attendants at every corner, waiting to point me in the correct direction.

“Will I have to talk to people?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Barb said. “You might get asked questions.”

“IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?” I cried.

And then I found out that this doesn’t even mean I’ve been chosen? I have to sit there all day, in a room I may or may not find, waiting to see if they want me?

Talk about my life story.

Henry agreed to drive me down there tomorrow morning so I’ll have one less thing to worry about, like: WHEN SHOULD I GET OFF THE TROLLEY? AND THEN WHAT?! And then he tried to explain to me how to walk to work afterward. Seriously. I do not understand downtown Pittsburgh. There are roads and people and buildings; lots of them.

Today on the way to work, I pointed at every building we passed and asked, “Is that the courthouse? What about that one?”

“We’re not even on the right side of town,” Henry mumbled exasperatedly.

“You said you were going to show me!” I wailed, about to get hysterical. I have lots of…complexities, we’ll call them…when it comes to going somewhere alone for the first time. I like to over-think things until I’m sure that I’m going walk into a building for the first time and promptly fall into a hole to a land of Katy Perry-soundtracked church sermons and food overrun with crunchy onions because how would I know that it was there when I HAVE NEVER BEEN THERE BEFORE.

“I am going to show you,” Henry said. “Tomorrow morning when I drop you off in front of it.”

Then he tried to explain to me how to get to work once I’m released.

“This is too confusing,” I sighed as he was trying to point out landmarks. “It’s a good thing my phone has a compass.”

“Yeah but do you even know what direction to go to begin with?” After his question was met with silence, he said, “Didn’t think so.”

I was starting to feel OK about it at work as my co-worker Cheryl said, “Oh you’ll be fine! You mostly just sit around. And then you break for an hour and a half for lunch—”

An hour and a half? NINETY MINUTES?? What the fuck am I going to do for ninety minutes? Find a bathroom stall in which to tremble and cry?

Barb did her best to comfort me. “I’m trying to think if there is anywhere to eat inside the courthouse,” she mused, knowing full well that if I attempted to stray outside, I might never find my way back and wind up having to change my address to:
Some Guy’s Occupy Pittsburgh Tent Some Random St.
Pgh (I think), PA.

“If you need to, you can just call me. I’ll come find you,” she promised, and that made me feel like maybe I could survive this day.

“Just stand outside and shine a mirror into the sun; I’ll follow the light signal,” I said, trying to complicate this into some failed Choose Your Own Adventure book.

But then Wendy came over and said, “Fool, just walk outside the courthouse and look up. You can see our building, duh.”

Why does this have to be downtown? Why can’t it be on a farm that’s easy to find and full of boughs pregnant with apples. (My apple obsession is still going strong. More on that later.)

So that’s where I’ll be tomorrow if you need me, walking around in circles and looking up at the sky. I should probably take that bloody pie server thing out of my purse first, though.

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Happy All Saints Day

chooch, Epic Fail, holidays

Nov 012011

Today is apparently All Saints Day, which never would have had any bearing on my life except that now my child is in Catholic school and they throw parties for this shit. The paper he brought home a few weeks ago said something about costumes being optional, and I thought it was a joke. Kids actually dress up for this shit?

Besides, Chooch has been in 4 different costumes in the last week, so I opted out on his behalf.

And what the fuck do sinners know about saints, anyway? I only know St. Francis, and that’s because I’m a spoiled brat who got to go to Assisi four times as a child, though all I really learned there was:

don’t piss off monks, particularly monks near chains
the hot chocolate there sucks
when you break something in a gift shop, run

So, short of strapping a bird bath to the front of Chooch, I really had no other clues and sent him to school in his street clothes.

Two kids in his class were already there when we arrived this morning: one girl was wearing basically a white potato sack with gold ribbing along the collar; her mom is one of those broads who has to have her hands in everything so I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “Of course she’s dressed up.” Another kid hadn’t put his on yet. Chooch was looking at me with these sad eyes and asked, “Why don’t I have a costume?”

“Because we don’t do saints,” I whispered, pretending to lovingly smooth out his hair but really that’s our secret code for “STFU before you embarrass mommy.”

I am hard-pressed to believe that every single child is going to come trouncing into the classroom in some ridiculous robe. You can’t have saints without sinners, right?

I had Henry bake cookies last night so I’d have something to contribute to the party, thereby acknowledging that this is a day to celebrate ~~fictional~~ Biblical characters. Hopefully chocolate chip and sugar cookies will suffice. I don’t know what these crazy Catholic schools do and as long as there aren’t any goats or rams being slaughtered on stone tables, they can have a fucking ball over there playing saint-related games and singing Biblical ballads. I just don’t need any detailed accounts.

“He could have been zombie Jesus,” Henry said when we were on the phone a little while ago and I think he was only semi-joking. I also think he doesn’t know that Jesus isn’t actually a saint.

Maybe we’ll pull that one out for the Easter party. They already know we’re fucking idiots.

[ETA: Apparently there is a feast involved in this holiday and now my interest is officially piqued. Maybe next year.]

[ETA pt. 2: The teacher told Henry that when the priest went around asking all the kids what saints they were dressed as, Chooch said he was God. Also, judging by all the shit Chooch brought home, all the other parents treated this as a Halloween party. NICE TO KNOW. There needs to be a handbook for heathen parents who send their kids to Catholic school.]

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It Snowed on Saturday

Epic Fail, Photographizzle

Oct 312011

It was pretty stupid.

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Applegate

Applemania, Epic Fail, Fire in the Kitchen!, Food, really bad ideas

Oct 272011

Or: How Barb Found Another Way To Ruin My Life

Or: That Fucking Tomato, The Sequel

Before Barb left work on Monday, she had to go and fuck up my whole world by offering me an apple. I just smiled and said thanks, but what was really happening at that moment was that a vignette of cumulative botched apple-cutting situations began whirring around in my head, my inner-wrists started tingling at even the suggestion of wielding a paring knife, and my teeth were curling back inside my gums at the thought of biting into a whole apple.

Meanwhile the ghost of Johnny Appleseed openly mocked me from above my desk.

It just sat there all night, to the left of me, this glowing red/yellow orb of temptation. If I had been the original Eve, the Bible as we know it (and I don’t really know it) would be drastically altered, because I have a feeling Adam would have been too busy exploring holes with his dick to cut a fucking apple.

We might all be walking around nude right now.

Eventually, I tossed it into my purse, thinking I would just find some way to eat it at home. And by that I of course mean Henry would put a Gerber bib on me and slice the apple into Erin-appropriate wedges.

That night at work, I ate peanuts and Halloween candy instead. Fucking apple.

***

I forgot the apple was in my purse until the next morning and Henry had the audacity to not drop everything and come home from work wearing his produce armor to cut my fucking apple.

“Where did you get an apple?!” he asked, probably thinking I was trying to eat random growths from neighborhood trees again.

Gee, I don’t know, Henry. An old fucking lady brought it up to my cottage window while goddamn bluebirds sang Disney songs behind her.

“Barb gave it to me last night and I put it in my purse! Don’t act like you don’t go through my purse!” I answered defensively, like I was trying to deny an affair with a bait shop owner.

(This all happened via Facebook; look at me, making it appear that Henry and I have real life conversations that don’t take place via the Internet, text, and Post-It Notes!)

Seriously, when will apples shake their stigma? WE NEARLY BROKE UP OVER THIS.

I had people on twitter sending me tutorials but the first I watched said I needed a melon baller and I started to break a sweat because I was pretty sure we don’t have a melon baller and also because I think I used a melon baller as a torture device in a short story I wrote a long time ago.

I decided to just wait for Henry to come home from work.

***

Henry hadn’t yet had a chance to get both feet through the door before I was blocking his path and shoving an apple-fist in his face.

He looked tired and disgruntled.

“Give me the fucking thing,” he said, snatching the apple from my hand. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I heard him grumble, “You’re pathetic.”

Nice to know he worries about my safety and the possibility of apple-induced arterial spray.

He practically frisbee’d a plate of shoddily-cut apple wedges at me before storming out the door to pick up our son, who will have to learn how to cut his own apples if he ever so much as dreams of eating one when Henry is away from the house.

This was definitely the product of a pissed off man with a knife. I call it Henry Sliced the Apple: the shocking conclusion to How Will Erin Eat Her Apple?

***

When I got to work later that day, I regaled Barb with the horrors of what had come to be known as Applegate. I did a lot of hand-wringing to further illustrate the distress her stupid apple had put me under.

“Oh, honey,” she said in her Babying Erin Voice, which you might have figured gets a ton of use. “You should have just used the apple corer we keep here.”

WHAT APPLE CORER.

I took a picture of Barb demonstrating, so I could look back on it for reference.

That night, Barb left me another apple, the apple corer thing, and an assignment: to try it by myself.

I waited until everybody but the late shift people had gone for the day, just in case I wound up causing a scene. You never can be too safe. My first attempt propelled the apple with great force against the kitchen wall, knocking over the paper towel holder. (Speaking of the paper towel holder: The roll was empty the other night and I put a new one on all by myself. So now no one can say I haven’t helped out around there.) I think I didn’t have it properly centered because I might not have been paying attention.

My second attempt sent me lurching into the kitchen counter, but I did reach some low level of success. I couldn’t get the blades to split the apple the whole way through and wound up having to break it off the corer thing, but this was a win as far as Things Erin Tries To Do In The Kitchen goes.

Then I happily ate my apple, while saying, “I did this myself!” to everyone who walked by. (And by everyone, I mean just Carey.)

And that is how I learned to cut an apple at work.

(You should see me with an orange.)

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That Fucking Tomato

Epic Fail, Fire in the Kitchen!, Food, really bad ideas, Reporting from Work

Sep 152011

One of my co-workers called out to me from her office, “Do you like tomatoes?”

That’s a loaded question. I suppose I do like tomatoes, but only on certain occasions, in certain foods and sliced in certain ways.

But this was coming from a co-worker that I’m not very close with; not wanting to engage her any further by revealing intimate details about my dietary habits, I settled for a simple, “Sure.”

And then there she was, standing before me with a carton of cherub tomatoes.

“Here, take one!” she said eagerly, arms extended like she was handing me a birthday gift. “It’s like an explosion of flavor in your mouth!”

Stunned, I stuck one tentative hand beyond the plastic covering of the carton and right smack into the warzone of small red torture devices.

Never do I just EAT A TOMATO. Oh, I know all about you fools who shake some salt on those motherfuckers and eat ‘em like a goddamn apple. But that’s not for me. Put it on a grilled cheese, for sure, but someone gives me a whole entire tomato and it’s getting chucked for fun.

What a Normal Person Might Do:

Politely decline.
Pretend to have gum in their mouth.
Puncture their breast implant and run.

What Erin Does:

Accept the challenge.

I felt backed into a wall by then, anyway. My hand was already instinctively in the carton (actually, by this point, it was stuck in the carton; have you seen the gargantuan rings I wear?) so this was definitely the point of no return; and she was standing there all excited and wide-eyed, waiting to become Tomato Bros with me. I was willing to tell her what she wanted to hear just to make her go away.

It was the size of a fig, the one I withdrew. Instead of biting it, I sighed heavily and popped the whole thing into my fake-smiling mouth.

My molars squished into it and sent guts of the tomato gushing through my mouth; the wet, gelatinous texture made my sad tongue curl back in terror. This was definitely not a good time for my taste buds, or my gag reflex for that matter. I’ve had an easier time getting through reluctant, obligated blow jobs.

That’s about when the tang of bile began to slowly crawl up my throat like a geriatric geyser. I was still chewing and smiling while she stood there expectedly, praying that she doesn’t notice I’m dry heaving with zipped lips. And then of course, a veritable reel of disgusting images played out inside my mind, because why wouldn’t I want to think about:

snakes engulfing writhing rodents,
Snooki’s kooka engulfing writhing rodents,
Sarah Palin as President, and
Grandma Cleavage modeling her new Irish Snuggie,

while I’m hosting what I can only describe as Satan’s sour semen on the bed of my tongue.

The short version: It was yucky, you guys. :(

My body was trying to reject it into my cupped palms but she just wouldn’t walk away.

Someone else walked by and she turned to offer them their own cherub (who tossed it into his mouth like he’s some Huck Finn motherfucker, I might add; I might also add that his name is MITCH, the worst Facebook friend in the whole world, and you know why I can add that? Because HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW THIS EXISTS BECAUSE HE NEVER CHECKS IN WITH HIS STUPID FACEBOOK FRIENDS.), affording me a few seconds to openly cringe and emulate the No Bueno! grimace a baby makes when being force-fed organic mashed peas. I definitely didn’t want to swallow, so I tucked it behind my teeth, under my tongue, if I could have dripped it down into my bra, I would have; and then I choked out a strained, “It’s really good, thanks!” Like it would have killed her if I told her the truth, as if she grew this bitch in her own goddamn garden from seeds extracted from her loins. And then I couldn’t hold on to it any longer—I swallowed. I mean, it might as well have been a load of ejaculate so why the hell not?

“An explosion of flavor, right?!”

Yes, something like that.

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Gatlinburg, Day 5: Where Chooch Snaps

chooch, Epic Fail, travel

Sep 022011

Chooch: “What does ‘selfish’ mean?”
Me: “When you only think about yourself.”
Henry, at the same time as me: “Erin Kelly.”
**********
Apparently, we’ve only been doing what I want to do, but hello—if I left our itinerary up to Henry, I’d probably be in a tent right now, unable to update my blog.

Gross.

We did agree on one thing though—Clingman’s Dome. It’s an observation tower about a 45 minute drive up into the higher elevations of the Smokies. We decided to wake up early to do this in case Bill and Jessi had any plans for us in the afternoon.

This entailed waking Chooch up. When it comes to slumber, Chooch is a little divo. You let him wake up on his own, else you’ll have a snapping piranha on your hands.

Which we did yesterday morning. However, at least we made it to Thursday before our child to returned to his old ways of being a noncompliant asshole. What a great run we had.

The whole way up the mountain, he made his presence known in the backseat as he bucked and kicked at the back of my seat and allowed Satan himself to use Chooch’s mouth as a death threat portal. There were several times I had legitimate chills.

If you’ve ever seen Back to the Beach, think of Bobby in the backseat, only younger and way more sinister than sarcastic. Henry even turned around a few times a la Frankie Avalon and threatened to bust him in the mouth. IT WAS AN AWESOME JOYRIDE UP THE SIDE OF A FUCKING SCARY MOUNTAIN YOU GUYS. My nerves were not shot at all.

We saw another bear though!

“Oh shit, that’s a cub. Bye!” Henry yelled, flooring it.

It only got worse when we reached our destination and freed him from his cage. Thank god there was barely anyone there when we arrived because he was being so loud, so disrespectful, so spoiled-5-year-old that I came very close to making him a permanent fixture of the Smokies.

And this was before we realized it was a half-mile hike uphill from the parking lot to the tower. Oh, how he wept and shrieked, “MY LEGS HURT OMG IM DYING!” after taking two steps.

The elevation was 6600 feet and we quite literally had our heads in the clouds. It was so hard to breathe to begin with, and then you add in the accelerated heart rate that Chooch had given us and we both were sure we were going to go into cardiac arrest.

He finally stopped screaming near the top, only because two hikers emerged from the woods and Chooch is extremely vain just like me. But he refused to go all the way up to the tower because there were about 8 people there, opting instead to hang back on the curved ramp with his arms crossed and the surliest visage I think I have ever seen on him.

And of course we couldn’t see shit through the clouds, but despite that and the fact we have an asshole kid, it was still cool to be there, inhaling clouds.

Chooch was fine after that because we were leaving which is what he wanted.

Captain Surly-Sack.

This will probably be the only thing about this vacation that Chooch remembers when he grows up, creating a vitriolic aversion to Tennessee. I’ll be sure to blame it on Henry.

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Parenting: I Hear the Learning Part Never Ends

chooch, Epic Fail

Aug 122011

I never realize how much of a jerk parent I am until I say things out loud to co-workers and their fingers involuntarily look up the number for Child Protective Services.

The other day, Sandy and Barb were complaining about a co-worker who was coughing and sneezing all day.

“There goes Typhoid Mary again,” Sandy said, all annoyed.

“Oh, I know what you mean. Yesterday, Chooch sneezed like eighteen times in succession and I was like, ‘God, get a life!’” I said, feeling a real sense of camardarie.

“You told him to get a life?” Barb reiterated.

“Well yeah, because he was annoying me. I mean, who needs to sneeze that much?”

They both laughed, but I guess I kind of saw how maybe I could have chosen my words better. Or, you know, offered him a tissue instead.

***

I hurt my back today. I started to notice it while I was exercising, but I’m on an intense “I’m Fat and Should Die” kick so I sucked it up and continued through the pain. By the time I was done, I was laying on the floor, whimpering and unable to stand up.

Chooch took no pity on me.

“Stop being a crybaby,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, let’s go outside.”

So we went outside, where I writhed on the front porch and reminded him every 3 seconds of the excruciating pain I was in.

Then he scraped himself and got all Wounded Animal on me, but I scoffed. “You didn’t care about my back, so I don’t care about your scrape!”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. I only found that out when I came to work and told Barb and Kaitlin about how much of a bastard my own son was being to me while I clearly have a broken back.

“Erin!” Barb exclaimed. “Who’s the adult here?”

“But he hurt my feelings!” I argued.

“Yeah, but—he’s five!”

I mean, at least I’m not hitting him in the face with hot frying pans, right? Is that not good enough?

Well then, I guess tonight if you need me, I’ll be sitting in my room working on the parent rosary.

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Best/Worst Picture of Me

Amusement Parks, Fairs, & Carnivals, Epic Fail

Jun 202011

I don’t normally buy those exorbitantly-priced photos taken at the most inopportune times on roller coasters because they can make even Jennifer Aniston look like her fourth chin is giving birth to an alien flesh-sac with crossed eyes. But after I saw the one of Janna and me on the Sky Rocket, I started laughing so hard that I had to use my thighs as bladder-tourniquets. Janna had this intense look of “Please don’t buy this” in her eyes, almost as if she just knew what was going through my mind.

“I have to have it,” I blurted out to the guy working the photo booth. Suddenly, $10 seemed cheap for a memory that will last a lifetime. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time we waited for it be printed. Janna seemed considerably less amused, but every so often I’d get a nervous laugh out of her.

I couldn’t wait to show Henry when we met back up with him and Chooch. I began laughing all over again, that insane staccato chuckle I’m notorious for when things have reached the Apex of Giddy. I even cried a little; people were looking at this point.

Henry looked at the picture and just frowned. He was probably angry that I had the audacity to spend my own hard-earned money on such frivolties instead of Desitin for his sweaty summer balls.

This picture is so fucking bad, it’s amazing.

If I look like this on a ride that isn’t even scary, I can only imagine how I’ll look if I ever find myself hunted in an Alaskan* forest by Michael Myers carrying a boom box that’s a’blast with Katy Perry’s Worst Misses. Coincidentally, this is also what I look like when Henry makes me have sex with him. :(
This was taken .002 seconds after Janna cupped Josh Groban’s balls and then died of happiness. What a peaceful corpse she makes.
Someone once told the guy in the front seat to treat every moment in life like it’s a deodorant commercial.

I have more pictures and shit to say, but this was the definite highlight of my day. I hope that when I’m on my death bed, someone shows me this, because that’s really how I’d like to peace out.

(*Alaska scares the shit out of me.)

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