Henrying | Oh Honestly, Erin

Erin & Henry Have a Date Day

Henrying

May 062013

Janna took Chooch to Kennywood on Saturday, leaving Henry and me with the ENTIRE DAY TO OURSELVES. This is rare. Sure, we sometimes get a few hours here and there but never an entire day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kid, but I was SO EXCITED all last week thinking about this day. I had tons of things lined up for us to do! Like going to eight cemeteries and making Henry finally write about the Jonny Craig show from march! It was going to be such a great day!

Except that we did none of those things. Well, that’s not true: I went to my favorite cemetery really early that morning. And that was just as well, because Henry walks too slow.

We dropped Chooch off at Janna’s around 11am and went to Best Buy because I wanted the new Bring Me the Horizon album. “We’re just going in there for that, and nothing else. SO DON’T WANDER OFF!” I barked to Henry as we crossed the parking lot.

“Oh, so this is really Erin’s Day,” he mumbled. After I bought my CD, he started complaining about how all he wanted to do that day was clean out the car so we could go and buy a new one. You know, “grown-up” activities. So then I started pouting and conveniently purse-dialed poor Kaitlin at the exact moment I started arguing with him about how he never wants to do anything and does he ever have fun? Does he even know what fun is?

I can’t tell if he became more accommodating after my bitchy rant because he knew I was right or because he wanted me to STFU.

Don’t answer that.

Then we were going to go to Zenith for lunch but they were closed for a private party. What motherfuckers!! I was transforming into Hunger Hulk by this point, and we continued to drive around aimlessly, listening to BMTH, and finding nowhere to eat even though there are approximately 87 million restaurants in Pittsburgh. And I was having a fight with Yelp on my phone and kept saying, “LET’S JUST FORGET IT!” It was really looking like it was going to be a shitty day. The first hour of it was, anyway.

But then we settled on Pusadee’s Garden, and had a wonderful Thai lunch outside while quietly mocking the pompous asshole at the table next to us who was with a party of 8 but he was the only one talking, like it was Douchebag Monologue Hour, and at one point even stood up and started singing scales. He kind of looked like John Krasinski, which is unfortunate because I like John Krasinski. But his arrogance brought Henry and I together!

Until the d-bag declared loudly his love for his girlfriend for all to hear. Then I quickly went back to hating Henry.

And posted on Facebook that I was hoping Henry choked on curry.

In an effort to get him to participate in talking about my favorite topic—Warped Tour—I let him look at the list of bands that will be there this summer.

“Are you stoked for any of those?” I asked hungrily.

“Nope,” he said, pushing his glasses up and handing me back my phone.

“Not even Chiodos?!” I cried.

“I’ve already seen them,” he explained. I forgot — for Henry, seeing a band once was enough. Unless it’s Judas Priest or Ted Nugent.

Frown it up, Henry.

During lunch, I half-jokingly suggested that we get tattoos next. We’ve been talking for the last couple of years about getting each other’s initials on our ring fingers, but of course something comes up every time we have some extra money. I thought for sure Henry would have started mouthing off a King’s scroll of reasons why we shouldn’t do it that day, but you know what he said?

FINE.

HE SAID FINE.

That’s practically an 8 on Henry’s Enthusiasm Scale!

So we went home and I let him play Candy Crush for a little bit and then I said, “Seriously, are we going to do this?” and then we walked down to the street to a local tattoo shop and on the way there I said, “You know we’re going to get there and they’re going to say no walk-ins” because that is just the sort of luck Henry and I have with pretty much everything in life.

But we got there and told them what we wanted and at first we were going to have come back later but then one of their artists got there early and had time before his next appointment to take us so THERE WAS NO TURNING BACK, HENRY.

“So are you guys getting married or something?” Chris, the tattoo artist, asked as he placed the stencil on my finger.

“Oh please!” I scoffed. “We’ve been together for 12 years and we’re still not married. I even gave him a child!”

Chris was probably thinking, “This is weird because they didn’t even seem like they’re in love” and then Henry made some horrible joke about punching me and I was like, “Don’t worry, this is normal.”

Marriage or not, I can’t imagine not being “Erin & Henry.” Even when I suffer my bipolar lows and tell all of my friends that OMG I’M DUMPING THAT MOTHERFUCKER, everyone just kind of goes along with it because they know I’m full of shit. So I didn’t even hesitate to get his stupid letter permanently etched onto my finger. Even though he’s already thinking of other letters to add to his knuckles in case we break up.

I like that if you put them together, they spell “eh,” which is the definition of our relationship. I opted to get mine shaded in pink, but Henry just went with your basic Caucasian mid-tone skin color.

“Is that Henry’s first tattoo?” Andrea texted me while we were still in the shop.

“No,” I replied. “He has a couple stupid ones from when he was in THE SERVICE” and then we text-laughed together.

I asked Henry if his mom was going to be pissed and he gave me that WTF Are You Talking About smirk. I felt it was a legit question because he’s such a mama’s boy! And then I couldn’t stop picture her yelling at him about it and it was making me laugh so hard. Unfortunately, she saw us the next day and approved. Foiled!

“You know this means we’re engaged now,” I said as we walked home with froyo. (A froyo shop opened up within walking distance of our house! AND THEY HAD LYCHEE FLAVORED YOGURT! I’m so fucked.)

“That’s fine,” Henry said, and then I scrambled to take it back because, hello, I’m not screwing myself out of all the fanfare of a real life proposal! I still want a fucking ring!

What a great day it turned out to be though, for real. It was fun acting like a couple of teenagers. Wait, let me rephrase that: It was fun acting like I always act while Henry actually seemed to maybe have a little bit of the f-word.

(FUN, you guys!)

My favorite part was when Chris told me I have skinny fingers. I was like, “THANK YOU!” because nothing about me has been skinny since I was 22, so even if it’s just a finger, I’ll take it.

Man, I can’t wait for our first fight where I get to shake my finger in his face and scream, “I CAN’T BELIEVE I PAID FOR THIS, YOU ASSHOLE!” and then cut my finger off. That’ll show him!

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Frown of the Weekend

Frown of the Day, Henrying, Wordless Wednesday

May 012013

Henry’s review of the weekend, written entirely in facial expression.

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Currents Convulsive: A Car Convo & Knoebel’s Cake*

Amusement Parks, Fairs, & Carnivals, conversations, Henrying, Uncategorized

Apr 292013

*[This works as alliteration because the k in Knoebel's is not silent. BAM.]

“STOP IT!”
“PLEASE DON’T GET A TICKET!”
“I DON’T WANT TO DANCE!”
“I FEEL LIKE I’M TEACHING A KID HOW TO DRIVE!”
“TURN IT DOWN!”
“NO I DON’T WANT TO SEE HOW U DRIVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE!”
“SETTLE DOWN!”
-Things Henry said while I drove us home from dropping off the rental car.

It’s not often that I get to drive the Great Professional Driver anywhere, so I really lived it up. Unfortunately, he doesn’t believe that dancing belongs in moving vehicles. Granted, my dancing is more like a walk through a mental institution, but still. I guess I’ll just have my Pierce the Veil dance party at home with Marcy, then.

—————

We listened to EVERY SINGLE PIERCE THE VEIL album on the 4 hour drive to Knoebel’s and Henry actually didn’t complain (that changed once I did a clandestine disc-change and he realized we were then listening to Dance Gavin Dance) until I started comparing him to Vic Fuentes.

“I wish you were more like Vic,” I sighed. “I bet he’s such a great boyfriend.”

“He’d never be around!” Henry pointed out.

“Yeah, but he would be writing pretty songs about me so it wouldn’t matter,” I reasoned.

But then Henry and I looked at each other and laughed because we both know that if I was Vic’s girlfriend, his darkly romantic songs would take a quick turn to “IFUCKINGHATETHATBITCH” death metal territory.

At Knoebel’s, there is a pavilion that has a roof shaped like a giant cake. One side of it says “Congratulations!”

“Ugh, that makes me think of ["Currents Convulsive*"],” I said dramatically to Henry, kicking at the gravel. “I wish I was listening to it RIGHTNOW.” And then I devoted a few moments to acting like a moody teenager and even said, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” to Henry, further perpetuating my stereotype. (“Scene kid” in case you forgot.)

*[In real life, I actually just said "That one PTV song" because Henry is too old to know song titles.]

This song has officially gone from making me cry over 2008 to making me reminding how much fun this past weekend was. Another finger removed from its death grip on the past.

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Weener Series: Resurrected

Henrying, Weener Series

Apr 282013

What Henry does when he rides the Haunted Mansion alone.

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SHUT THE DOOR

chooch, Henrying, really bad ideas, Things About Henry

Apr 232013

Friends: If you were at a restaurant with me and Chooch, and you realized our waitress was someone you went to high school with, would you tell us?

I DIDN’T THINK SO.

(It’s funny when I ask people this in person, their eyes get all big and they say, “Um, NO. God, no.”)

But Henry did just the opposite last Saturday night when we went to Eat n Park after the Pierce the Veil show. Now to be fair, I was hyper because I had just come from a concert and had a few glasses of wine earlier; Chooch was hyper because it was almost 11pm and he was delirious from an evening at his grandma’s cable-free apartment.

”I used to go to high school with her,” Henry said in a hushed tone. “We rode the bus together.” He was referring to our waitress Dawn, who definitely seemed like someone Henry would have “loafed” with (that’s what my dad always says, and I imagine Henry’s generation probably used the same term): super skinny, stringy dishwater blond hair, sunken cheeks, probably a meth addict. She had a really rough voice and called us all “hon,” and stood sideways, looking over her shoulder at us while taking our order. Also, and this is kind of hard to explain, but she had the swagger of a drag king, the way she moved her hips while talking. IT WAS BIZARRE.

So, you know, totally in Henry’s wheelhouse.

I snorted as soon as he told me. I LOVE IT WHEN HENRY BRINGS UP HIS PRE-ERIN LIFE! He gets so pissed when I laugh about his past and he recently yelled, “You act like I didn’t exist before you met me!” But come, did he really exist? Am I not basically his sole purpose for living? He basically won’t tell me anything at all anymore, so it’s surprising that he let this particular little nugget of blackmail slip out.

Then he went up to the salad bar* and I reiterated this to Chooch.

*(“Ew, he went to the salad bar at 11 o’clock at night?!” my co-worker A-ron exclaimed when I was telling him this story last night. Yes, Henry is disgusting and eats old, congealed food from the Eat n Park salad bar after hours. Henry does disgusting things.)

“Chooch, did you hear that? DADDY WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH OUR WAITRESS!!”

“With DAWN!?” Chooch, for whatever reason, had immediately taken to mocking her from the get-go, saying things like, “OK, Dawn” and “Dawn doesn’t know anything!” every time she would walk away from us. He had zero respect for this lady. (Pro Tip: Don’t ever wear a name tag around Chooch.)

“You totally have to tell her!” I encouraged him, and we both started laughing so hard that Chooch literally almost threw up at the table. People were turning around and gawking at us. An entire table of elderly black women in particular gave us very disapproving Church lady scowls. Henry returned to two children completely turned inside out with giddiness and looked utterly apprehensive.

“What?” he asked. “WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

“Nothing!” I squealed, tears streaming down my face from all of the laughs.

“I’m telling Dawn that you went to school with her!” Chooch blurted out, cracking up all over again.

“I don’t care!” Henry spat defiantly, digging into his nasty Saturday night salad to mask the nervous twitch his moustache had acquired.

But you know he totally cared. He REALLY did not want this conversation to happen. Too bad Chooch was chomping at the bit to unleash this cannon of intel. Dawn came back with our check (I mean, at least this happened toward the end of dinner, right Henry?) and Chooch nearly gave up the ghost in his attempt to scream out, “YOU USED TO RIDE THE KIDDIE BUS WITH HIM!!!” while lunging across the table and pointing furiously at Henry.

Dawn seemed confused. Nay — Dawn seemed perplexed. She laughed nervously and asked, “What?”

Chooch was laughing so hard, the same deep-throating giggles that I too employ, that I had to explain to her what was going on.

She gave Henry a scrutinizing once-over and then said, “I’m so sorry hon, but I don’t remember….”

HAHAHA SHE DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER HIM, BEST FUCKING NIGHT EVER!

So then Henry had to explain to her who he was and I’m pretty sure she was just pretending to recognize him at that point to get us out of her section.

“I mean, it was 30 years ago,” Henry rationalized for Dawn’s inability to remember the forgettable doof in the bitchin’ Adidas shirt and tinted glasses, which only made it better for me — THIRTY YEARS, HAHAHA!

“Have a nice night, DAWN,” Chooch seethed in faux-annoyance as we were getting ready to leave (Henry had already left us at the table, that’s how embarrassed we were apparently making him) and I had to SQUAT DOWN to keep from peeing.

“You two are fucking idiots,” Henry sighed tersely, shrugging away from us when we caught up with him at the register while he waited to pay.

And then this happened before we even left the parking lot:

My favorite part is when Chooch calls Dawn an asshole and it sounds like Henry is about to get all TOUGH PAPA on him, but then all he says is “Shut the door” for the third time. He was REALLY all about having the door shut.

(Side note: I rarely post videos of myself because when I get giddy—and I am often giddy—I wind up sounding like Bobcat Goldthwait and ain’t nobody got time for that.)

Shit, Chooch and I rode the Dawn horse all day Sunday (“Remember DAWN!?” we would ask Henry and then collapse in happy laughter); I came to work yesterday and told the story to anyone who would listen to me (some people walked away). Glenn asked me if Henry drinks a lot and I have NO IDEA what kind of question that is.

So, I think it’s safe to say that we will probably never go back to that Eat n Park.

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Henry Stops Traffic Outside of the Pierce the Veil Show

Henrying, music

Apr 222013

I was pretty annoyed about Saturday night’s Pierce the Veil concert for several reasons:

it was at an outside concert venue and somewhere around 35 degrees that night (fahrenheit!)
there was a PIRATES game happening at the same time so every single bar we tried to go to was full of drunk sports fans — my least favorite type of drunks. (And no, I don’t even hate the Pirates.)
they were co-headlining with All Time Low, so there were HORDES of scene kids wrapped entirely around the building, waiting to get in. PTV can sell-out their own shows, but All Time Low has a massive following, so this really made it more of a mob scene than usual and Henry was all, “OH HELL NO I AIN’T STANDING IN THAT.”

I was so angry that I had a momentary rage-out on the sidewalk across from Stage AE where I declared, “WE SHOULD JUST SELL THESE TICKETS BECAUSE I AM SO PISSED OFF RIGHT NOW!” and then I proceeded to lament the days where I could go watch PTV play at a fucking skate park with 100 other kids and no one fucked with me and I didn’t have to stand in a line. Henry’s eyes lit up — that motherfucker would have had no problem scalping those tickets and then I’d have had to scalp HIM. So I quickly changed my tune and protectively patted the tickets in my purse.

We roamed around for about 45 minutes before finally snagging seats at the cigar bar inside Pittsburgh Sports Bar (what an inventive name). It ended up being super awesome though because some other (slightly) elder PTV fans were in there killing time, too (I think I called them my brethren and Henry made fun of me), and our bartender was awesome and let me gush about how much I love PTV.

Yes, I realize she was just doing her job, but hello — it was nice to gush about it without getting a patronizing smirk in response!

I know you’re thinking that the main point of this post is the actual concert but you are wrong.

It was around 7PM and the line into the venue had dwindled down to a bare minimum so we paid our tab and went outside. We reached the crosswalk at the same time as two scene girls also en route to the show, but traffic was NOT halting for us. I stood closer to the two girls because that is usually what I do when in a crowd so people don’t immediately think I’m there with my father. The three of us kept gingerly toeing the street and then fearfully jumping back on the curb when it became clear that the cars were not going to brake for us even though we had the right of way.

Finally, Henry threw his hands up in the air and, with a ”Fuck this” he stepped RIGHT INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC and made those motherfuckers stop for him. Literally, moving vehicles came screeching to a halt just because some asshole in a blue flannel had the audacity to step out in front of them like motherfucking Moses.

“HOL-Y SHIT!” one of the scene girls cried as we scrambled to catch up to him before the cars started moving again. “THAT MAN IS HARDCORE!”

“LOOK AT THAT GUY! ZERO FUCKS GIVEN!” the other girl yelled in awe.

“THAT MAN DOES NOT GIVE A FUCK! HE JUST WALKED RIGHT IN FRONT OF THOSE CARS!”

You guys. This was Henry they were talking about. MY Henry. I fucking lost it and almost peed my pants right in the middle of the crosswalk. I mean, it still wasn’t enough for me to publicly hold his hand, but it was pretty fucking hilarious to hear these young girls gush about his supposed bravery. He was so close to becoming an Internet meme.

That was definitely the greatest one minute of Henry’s life. Or would have been, if he had any idea this was going on behind him.

————

And here are some photos from the show, yay!

You Me At Six is from England and SO FUCKING HOT. That is all. I pointed out that the singer reminded me of some guy I know in real life that I have a crush on and Henry said, “Yeah but [blah blah] doesn’t have a British accent.”

“He doesn’t need to!” I snapped. God, you’d think Henry would have figured out my crush-criteria by now.

Henry actually loves PTV shows.

No one got on my nerves. Well, there was this one instance where some mom in front of me kept yammering on about how she was the best mom ever for bringing her teenage daughter, and I was like, “OMFG WE GET IT, GO GET ANOTHER DOLPHIN TATTOO” and then finally her daughter looked at her and said, “SHHHHH. VIC’S SINGING!” Yeah, fuck you, Mom! God, it was during an acoustic song, even. What a fucking dummy.

It was winter-temps and I did not wear socks with my TOMS, but I had legwarmers on at least. (Did not help.)

Yawning during Mayday Parade, who covered that horrid Gotye song but actually made it sound good, and then VIC CAME OUT AND SANG THE KIMBRA PART so I was super happy — I would listen to THAT version, anyday. Thank you.

When the Pierce the Veil banner dropped, I squealed along with all of the other kids. Henry did too but his was a little bit sarcastic, I guess.

Um, I won’t go into detail because it’s the same as always and you don’t want to read the pages of my teenager diary anyway, but: Pierce the Veil came out, they played, I cried. Thank god for night’s like these.

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Historic Route 30 Part 2: Tiny Towns, Coffee Pots & Dinner Convos

chooch, conversations, Henrying, small towns, Tourist Traps, travel

Apr 082013

Shippensburg, PA would have absolutely no value to me if not for Ed Helms and his impeccably-constructed Tiny World, a small village in his yard built for his cats. Henry seemed pretty ambivalent about this stop on my agenda, and I think he was going to try and dispute it so I made sure to loudly announce, “But it’s a town built for CATS!” which made Chooch’s interest pique real quick, and soon Henry had two children whining and begging to visit Tiny World. Henry glared at me for using the c-word. “Cat” is like the equivalent to smelling salt for Chooch. He can be in the deepest zone, a self-induced pouting coma, but someone casually says the c-word and he’s very much in the present, yelling, “WHERE? WHERE? WHERE IS THE CAT!?”

Sometimes I don’t even know why Henry bothers to object. His voice of dissent falls on pretend-deaf ears every time.

As Henry wound the car over country roads, he asked, “Um, this isn’t at someone’s house, is it?” I answered him by looking out the window and ignoring him.

Parts of Tiny World can be seen from the road, so I screamed for Henry to pull over the first second I glimpsed a hillside dotted with a doll-sized community. We parked in a small, makeshift gravel lot next to several other cars. At first it seemed like Tiny World was going to be booming with tourists, but we were the only oglers the whole time, so I guess the cars belonged to the family.

I don’t know what I was expecting, just some plywood shells I suppose, but Ed’s attention to detail was impeccable. I read online that he had no formal training in this stuff, just sat down and did it for no reason other than because he wanted to. And you know what, that’s inspiring even to someone like me. If I want to be a brain surgeon, I should just sit down and do it! And boy, have I got just the person to be my guinea pig.

The town was a tiny bit weathered, some of the furnishings had toppled over and cobwebs abound, but it was still pretty surprising that it wasn’t in a greater state of disarray. The proprietor is apparently pretty old and was suffering some health problems according to a Roadside America update from 2011, so it’s hard to say if upkeep is being honored at all.

The attic of one of the larger plantation-esque homes had items all strewn about and I wondered if it was intentionally done to make it look haunted. In either case, I legitimately shivered and stepped away from the window before I wound up accidently staring into the eyes of Bagul.

Dead rooster in the barn’s hay loft.

To be honest, I kind of liked that it had an abandoned tone to it. It made me feel like we were being watched from the nearby woods, hackneyed hillbillies lining us up in the crosshairs of their laser guns, preparing to shrink us down into Tiny World citizens. I already knew which house I was going to move into. (The one with the haunted attic, duh.)

If you like trains, then one might imagine you would enjoy the Tiny World Train Station.

That wallpaper! And look at that tiny box of thread on the sewing machine – even if you’re some joyless cat-hating asshole who thinks that building a sprawling town for feral cats is a waste of time, you still have to give respect to the details that went into this project — it’s a true labor of love.

There was even a relatively hot picture of Jesus Christ on the wall of the church.

Chooch’s succinct review, typed on his own: “It’s cool! it’s kitty awesome! it’s really freakin cool as shit.”

Again, the reviews I read online weren’t exactly current, but Tiny World is supposedly a hot commodity for all of the neighbors during the Christmas season. We noticed quite a bit of leftover Christmas lights and decorations peeking out here and there, so God only knows the last time the holiday lights set-up was functioning.

Built into the entrance/exit trellis is a pot for donations which I insisted on contributing. This seemed to prickle Papa Tight Wad’s asshole, but he finally handed Chooch a dollar for the pot.

“I WANT TO PUT MONEY IN TOO!” I cried. “IT WAS MY IDEA TO COME HERE!!!”

Henry sighed wearily and slapped another buck in my opened, whiny palm, which I then happily dropped into the collection hole.

“I’m so glad we came out here! It was totally worth it!” I gushed while Henry tried to find his way back to the highway and a gas station before Chooch pissed his pants. “Wasn’t it awesome?!” I cried, shaking Henry’s arm.

He didn’t answer, just continued to drive while looking like the personification of FML.

Henry, actually SMILING was washing the car windows! It’s a road trip miracle!

We also visited the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, but I don’t feel that it’s appropriate or respectful to include that in this post.

To lighten the mood, we stopped in Bedford for a photo op with a large Coffee Pot, which used to be a lunch stand way back in the day. Like all awesomely tacky roadside attractions, it was in threat of being demolished in the 90s, but was eventually restored and is now used as a landmark.

THANK GOD!

“No, that’s OK,” Henry mumbled when I asked him if he was going to get out of the car and gawk at it with me and Chooch.

After Chooch accidentally knocked off part of the coffee pot (in his defense, that pot has structural leprosy), we both turned into royal motherfuckers. Henry of course knew this was because we were hungry and FINALLY stopped at a Valley Dairy to feed us.

“Hey Mommy, knock knock,” Chooch said after our food was served and we began to return to our non-surly, hyper selves.

“Who’s there?” I begrudgingly went along. His knock knock jokes are the worst.

“Room service!” And then we both laughed our food all over the table while Henry simply frowned at the memory of his stressful experience the night before at the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Chooch asked me as I stared off into the distance while slowly eating a scoop of maple pecan ice cream. (Hello Weight Watcher narcs, I was on “vacation.”)

“Nothing, I’m just thinking,” I answered.

“Oh,” Chooch shrugged. “I always figured that when you do stuff like that, you’re wondering why Daddy won’t marry you.”

HOW ASTUTE.

—————

That night, after we had been home for a few hours, Chooch sighed, “I miss yesterday.”

“What part do you miss?” I asked.

“Uh, Pierce the Veil,“ he answered in that awesomely snotty teenaged tone.

Me too, Chooch. Me too.

So much love for that entire weekend!

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Frown of the Day: Roadtrip Edition

Frown of the Day, Henrying, music, travel

Mar 232013

The “I’d Rather Be Doing Anything Else But Driving to Lancaster to see Pierce the Veil” frown.

I’m sure he’ll be fine once he gets to drink flat Amish root beer.

In other PTV news, Chooch drew this for Vic. He said he’s going to write “Vic, you’re the best singer” on it & I almost cried a little. <3

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A Conversation about Downtown Fruit

Applemania, conversations, Henrying, Uncategorized

Feb 262013

“Everyone at work said there’s nowhere to get good fruit downtown,” I told Henry in a sneering voice.

“Everyone? Everyone who?” Henry smirked.

“The whole department*! They all said ‘tell Henry to go fuck himself!’ So go fuck yourself,” I said, patting him on the stomach.

“Do I have to prove all you fuckers wrong?” he said, beginning to get all up in arms.

“Even Barb said so, and she’s well-versed in Things That Are Downtown,” I said, but Henry had already enlisted his phone to solve the problem.

“Rosebud!” Henry shouted, the glow of his cellphone screen spotlighting his tired, yet smug, face. “It’s on the corner of [streets I don't know]!” He gloated about this for a few more seconds before mumbling, “Oh. Never mind. It’s closed.”

*(4 people.)

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An Accurate Depiction

chooch, Henrying

Feb 222013

Chooch drew this last night before he went to bed and oh how we laughed! Henry, on the other hand, frowned disapprovingly.

For as much as Henry always says no, we still somehow manage to get our way.

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FAYGO BOAT SONG!!

Henrying, Things About Henry

Feb 192013

My friend Michelle posted this on my Facebook timeline because she is smart and knows that I would:

cry from laughing
annoy the shit out of Henry with it

Boy, was she right.

“I bet Henry sings this song at work,” Michelle said, and oh! what an image!

I haven’t had much opportunity to really get under Henry’s skin with it, but on the way to work, I played it in the car and said, “Do you know what this is!?”

He only needed to hear about 3 seconds of it from my shitty iPhone speaker before smirking. “Yeah, it’s an old Faygo commercial. It’s on their website!” he scoffed, utterly unimpressed. And then he added, “There’s a rap version, too.”

OMG PLEASE TELL ME IT’S BY ICP.

For those who don’t know, Henry works for a beverage company that distributes Faygo.

****************

In other Henry news, I found out that he was actually planning on getting me this beautiful(ly creepy) antique wooden wheelchair for Valentine’s Day, but the motherfucker on Craigslist never responded. Henry, you should just quit Craigslist already. Anyway, just knowing that he was trying to do that for me made me be pretty nice to him all weekend.

I mean, other than the whole Redbox debacle.

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So-So V-Day

Henrying, holidays, Jonny Craig

Feb 152013

I wondered why Henry was being so weird about me buying tickets to the upcoming Jonny Craig show in March. Every time I’d say, “I’m buying those tickets tomorrow,” he would snap, “No!!” I thought it was because he was writing checks behind my back again and we actually had no money.

But then he forwarded me the email ticket confirmation because I guess he was afraid I was going to start putting myself up for auction on fetishist websites again in order to buy the tickets myself.

So I guess I’m supposed to consider this my Valentine’s Day present (“I bought the tickets and I’M GOING WITH YOU, TOO. That says a lot!” Henry fought for his cause), and that’s sweet and all, but we all know I was getting these tickets one way or another.

Therefore, he still has to do something for me for Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’ll have him clean out the car or chase down a Mexican fruit cart. We shall see.

(What the fuck is up with that sinister Johan up there, anyway?)

———-

In other V-day news, I passed out my serial killer cards (and some of Chooch’s zombie ones as a safe bet for the people I wasn’t sure about). They were mostly well-received! However, I gave an Albert Fish to one of my co-workers, even though I don’t know her very well. Later, she came over to my office and, with a horrified look on her face, said, “I wiki’d the guy on the card you gave me and that was the most disturbing Wikipedia page I’ve ever seen!” And then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Thanks for the Valentine.” I think she liked it!

I was telling Barb about it later and she was all, “OMG you gave her one of those cards? She’s so sweet and innocent! Good job, Erin!”

You know me, making friends wherever I go!

(Speaking of the serial killer Valentines, they got a little shout out on the FEARnet website!)

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Goofus & Gallant, OHE-Style: Henry’s Brutal Bowling Blunder

Epic Fail, Goofus & Gallant, Henrying, Uncategorized

Feb 142013

THIS IS REALLY HOW IT HAPPENED.

I have vowed to mention Henry’s brutal bowling blunder at least once a day on the Internet for an entire week. I have one day left. Maybe I’ll recreate the crime using Homies.

Happy Valentines’s Day, Henry, you brute.

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Battered & Bruised: The Bowling Ball Brouhaha

Epic Fail, Henrying

Feb 112013

The Crime: Domestic Abuse

The Perp: Blue-Collared 47-year-old male with an Amber Alert Mustache

The Scene of the Crime: Abby’s Birthday Party at the Playmor

Weapon: 14-Pound Bowling Ball

Saturday, February 9th, 2013. The Penguins were playing the Devils. Kirk Cameron was speaking in Georgia about Christian marriage. A club in Jersey was having a parade for Snooki’s kooka. We had two birthday parties to attend at two different bowling alleys. It seemed like a pretty normal, low-key Saturday.

Until a sickening display of barbaric violence shook the Playmor bowling alley to its core.

At approximately 1:25pm, Henry’s blue-collar, calloused hands fumbled a pink 14-pound bowling ball and dropped it on an exact (some might say PREMEDITATED) trajectory to my precious left foot.

(Henry will argue that it was only 12-pounds, but please — let’s not listen to the VILLAIN of this story.)

What made it worse was that I didn’t even realize he had dropped it, so there was no anticipation, no toe-cracking preparedness. All I knew was that one minute everything was fine — an Emarosa song was playing in my head, sparkly fairies were twirling around my cherubic head — and then it wasn’t fine.

My Emarosa song scratched to a halt, the sparkly fairies fell to their death. And my foot, it felt ALL THE PAIN. Time stood still. Henry sounded like a miles-away dick-in-throat Barry White (“Oooooh myyyyyy Godddddd I’mmmm sooooo sorrryyyyyy! Pleassssse don’ttttt castratttttttte meeeeee!”); bowling pins crashing around me sounded like sheets of metal waving over my head; convents of nuns state-wide braced themselves for what Satan-approved words might come exploding out of my mouth.

But I just stood there with my mouth open. I was too confused to really understand what was happening, too overwhelmed with toe torture to field-kick Henry’s ballsack, too stunned to swear – props to me on that, since I was flanked by unlimited childrens’ birthday parties.

Not that it mattered, considering that the sound the bowling ball made upon impact was virtually onomatopoeia for: FUCKING OW OW MOTHERFUCKING OW, COCKSUCKER OUCH!.

Potty-mouthing aside, what I REALLY wanted to do was projectile vomit all over Henry’s son-of-a-bitchin’ mustache. Once the blinking neon PAIN, THIS IS TRUE PAIN signs faded out from my eyes, I was able to see Henry had a tangible sheath of AW FUCK clinging to his face, the official Saran Wrap of apologetic, frightened pussies. Bitch, you BEST be scared. There’s a reason I keep some of my old Darkchat friends around!

(For the black magick, duh.)

For the first few minutes, I was too focused on pain management and muttering death threats at Henry to cry. But then my DICK HEAD son came over and motherfucking stomped on my poor damaged foot—the sound his foot made against mine was practically onomatopoeia for Evil Son From Hell. Moments later, my friend John, the dad of the birthday girl, came over to get our bowling game started and I blurted out, “HENRY DROPPED A BOWLING BALL ON MY FOOT” followed by an appearance of Pity Me tears.

Henry tried to be a Funny Man about it and said, “Well, I guess we’re done bowling, ha-ha” and seemed like he was prepared to return my bowling shoes.

“Um, I’m still going to bowl,” I snapped, and then asked him if he was capable of finding me a fucking ball without putting me in traction. And preferrably not one that’s 14 pounds, what the fuck.

Determined to be a hero, I bowled TWO FRAMES with an almost- broken foot, icing it in between turns.

Henry and I simultaneously realized that this was not the first time he tried to keep me down by handicapping me. He started to laugh about it but was abruptly silently when I cupped his balls with a hand made of barbed wire, using nothing more than the power of my glaring eyes. I don’t know Henry, it seems pretty wanton at this point.

At least this time wasn’t soundtracked by the sickening crisp of cartilege breaking.

Henry’s “Please don’t call the cops/Jonny Craig is an angelic singer/I’ll clean the whole fucking house/WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY!?” look of Desperate Remorse.

————–

Right after Abby’s birthday party ended, we had to head straight to another bowling alley for Chooch’s cousin Zac’s birthday party. I made a beeline for Henry’s sister and whined, “Guess what your brother did!?”

Kelly offered an appropriate level of sympathy.

“Are we going to bowl here too?” I asked Henry as I shrugged off my coat.

“No, my finger hurts,” he said.

OH. WELL SHIT. Wouldn’t want him to be in ANY PAIN.

————–

Much later that night, I finally mustered up the courage to peel off my sock and inspect Henry’s ruthless damage. I already knew nothing was broken, as evidenced by my ability to wiggle my toes without agony catapulting me through the roof, but my toes looked like they went skinny-dipping in a blueberry pie. Shit goddamn motherfuck it hurt so bad that I can’t believe the damage wasn’t greater. It was practically a My Left Foot sequel.

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