Feb 262014


Oh hey guys! I’m so excited because I got Etsy to reactivate my original Somnambulant shop and I didn’t even have to get on my knees. It’s funny how two years ago I was like, “I DON’T EVEN CARE, SHUT DOWN MY STUPID SHOP!” because I was just so over it. But having it back again and seeing all the old stuff that I sold and my Somnambulant banner and all the typos in my shop info…well, it was like being home again. Seriously, it was like being back at my mom’s house. The only thing missing was the audio of her screaming at the dogs.

I have most of my current inventory listed already and I’m working on adding more real soon because I’m really in the zone, you know? All of the Twin Peaks-binging has definitely helped and I can already sense a new collection being born from that since pretty much all I listen to in the morning is its soundtrack.


If you’re interested in a custom painting of monsters spelling out names of loved ones, pets, celebrities, political candidates from the 1800s, Ross & Rachel, what have you, then by all means, hit me the eff up. These are $40 for an 8″x8″, but Oh Honestly Erin readers can use Etsy coupon code BLOODCAKES for 20% off, whaddup.


Your basic parade of prehistoric jubilation.

These photos aren’t the best. I took them with my iPhone just to have something to show, but I plan on getting better pictures with my real camera later this week. Also–I’m bringing back the bathroom plaques!



Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to lately, a whirling dervish of paint and idiocy. I plan on having another giveaway soon too, because why not?

Apr 082013

Here is a completely half-assed, unprofessional listing of the remaining paintings from the craft show. Just like with the pendants, if you see something you like and want it, leave a comment with the name of the painting and make sure you use a valid email address in the comment form (which only I will see), and I will send you a Paypal invoice.

A big thanks to all of you who have expressed interest and have been so supportive! <3

NOTE: Please do NOT leave your email address in the actual comment portion. Some lady has been stalking me and is now resorting to contacting anyone who has left their email address here. She has already contacted two of my blog friends in the last two days and I am ready to scream.


Class of ’97 – 6×6


“Blahloons.” (I don’t have the exact dimensions of this one — waiting for HENRY to get back to me on that.)


“Whoever Blinks First” – 5″x7″


The Hob Nob! This is actually one of my all-time favorites. 5″ x 7″



“Birds on a Wire” (a large size?)



“Francis Shakes That Ass” – 5″x5″


” Somnambulant Skullz” – 8″8″



Frederico in the City” – 8″x8″


“Spectacles ” 8″x8″


“Robotic <3″ – 8″x8”

Jul 122009


Oh hey it’s art you can wear, and it’s on the cheap. (Possibly on the creep, too.) Tiny versions of a selection of my paintings are in the process of being lovingly mounted to these cute picture frame pendants, and when I say “lovingly,” you know that Henry must be helping me. Because if I was doing this on my own, I’d probably have hammered them in there with a dead man’s femur by now because Jesus Christ is this shit tedious.

Hopefully they will be finished sometime before Henry dies. And hopefully everyone will like them, or at least lie and say they do.

In other news, I am obsessed with the word miscegenation and have even turned dictionary.com’s audio pronunciation of it into my ring tone and Alisha wants to rip her ears off because I played it in a perpetual loop Friday night and apparently I have a habit of overplaying things, and now my son walks around chanting “miscegenation” at whim. It all stemmed when Henry clicked the info button on the remote to see what some old movie was about, and the synopsis said something about politics, romance, and miscegenation and somehow all three of us had gone our entire lives without ever hearing that word (and for Henry, that is one long ass time) so I was forced to look it up on my phone. And this is how I found out that my phone actually plays the pronunciations and ya’ll don’t even KNOW how tickled my fancy was at that fucking moment in time. Since then, I have had my phone announce the words “flagellation,” “gynecologist,” and “gonorrhea” ad nauseum and have subsequently had my phone confiscated more than once.

I am twelve. OK, nine.

Also, I was obsessed with Strongman competitor Phil Pfister yesterday because hello, awesome name that doubles as nom de gay porn, and because his faces looks like if Huey Lewis and Eddie Money were Mr. Potato Heads and had all their features mixed up. And by “was obsessed” I mean that I thought he was awesome until he turned out to be FailBot: Strong Edition. He couldn’t even pull a fire engine past the finish line in under 48 seconds, what a fucking weak loser. Get fisted, Phil Pfister.

Apr 102009

Many moons ago, when I was a spry sixteen year old, I went to my neighbor Jessy’s house to color Easter eggs. Not knowing Jessy very well, I had to censor the ideas I had for my eggs. It’s never wise to draw pictures on the eggs with wax crayon depicting Jesus molesting young boys when you haven’t officially tested the waters surrounding your company. She may have been a Bible jockey – what did I know? So our eggs were your standard fare – brightly colored, some boasting our names and superlatives expressing the magnitude of our undeniable coolness.

As we marveled over our freshly colored eggs, Jessy shared with me a tradition from her childhood. She encouraged me to select my favorite egg from the batch and then told me to take it home, place it somewhere dark and dry, and eventually it would shrivel and become hard as a rock. I would be left with an unbreakable souvenir of that year’s Easter. She said her grandma did it every year, so I had a lot of confidence in her.

I went home and chose a porcelain container situated in the hutch in our dining room. Carefully nestling the egg inside the dark compartment, I gave it one last loving stroke for good measure and replaced the lid.

After an uncertain amount of time, my mom decided that she was going to clean. Typically, when my mom said she was going to clean, it entailed clutter being kicked and shoved under furniture and into drawers that already were resisting closure [note: this is where I learned my housekeeping ethics]. But on that day, something had possessed her to go all out and dust the dining room.

All was calm and quiet in the house; the muted din of cartoons mingled with a cacophony of chirping birds from outside. Suddenly, my mother’s piercing shriek could be heard ’round the neighborhood. I ran into the dining room just in time to witness my former pre-birth vessel, frozen in terror, holding the lid to the porcelain jar while an army of maggots swarmed around it, undulating and looking generally disgusting.

I was in trouble.

Since then, I’ve learned that there’s an entire process that needs to be followed in order to preserve Easter eggs. And it’s too much work for me.

Four years ago, in an effort to really immerse ourselves in the Easter spirit, Henry and I invited Alisha over to indulge in some adult egg coloring. And by adult, I mean to say none of this wholesome “I Love God” egg-dyeing bullshit. My eggs were billboards for unsavory epithets like Fucknoodle and Dickshitter. This was the way eggs were meant to be. This was art.

I had huge dreams of making a Porno Series, in which we would enhance each egg with paint so that they would depict naked nymphos, ready to get it on. I had this highly ambitious endeavor of creating an entire storyboard from it which would propel me into stardom.

I could sense the fear that Henry was emanating. It smelt of nachos and the Service, circa 1984.

“Um, so what exactly is this going to entail, this porno egg thing?” Henry questioned as he nervously rubbed his arms. I’m afraid that he was picturing some grandiose scene of us shoving freshly-colored eggs into his ass while paying spectators watched from behind a red-velvet rope. So paranoid. But that would make for some classy performance art.

Everything was progressing normally until Alisha plopped an egg into a mug of dye and ogled over the unusual sludgy color. Henry, always needing to stick his nose into everything, came over to inspect it as well. I haven’t dyed eggs probably since the previous story unfolded, so I assumed that maybe Paas was trying to be all hip by not discriminating against colors and they were maybe slowly introducing ethnic shades into their color line. Personally, I thought it was a huge leap forward for the future of egg-coloring.

Alisha swished and swirled her egg around in the brown dye a few more times before announcing that nothing was happening. That was when we realized it was my coffee. It took three of us to come to this conclusion. College has made a huge impact on me so far!

The eggs turned out splendidly, especially my blue and yellow variation, but unfortunately the eggs in my Porno Series did not come out as expected. The … male genitalia that I drew with tongue-protruding concentration and accuracy dried to resemble a smiley. I remembered that we had glitter egg paint, so I demanded that Henry drop trou and model for me as I attempted to paint over the failed weener. He refused and opted instead to Google images for me. Because I’m Amish.

The result was still terrible and looked more like an elephant. Much respect for Michelangelo. However, the boobs I painted on the female egg came out perky and voluptuous, rivaling any silicone-enhanced pair crafted by the hands of a Beverly Hills surgeon. Well, almost.

And I made a very special, Henrydandy egg that will surely be cherished by a certain someone for years to come.

[Henry used to wear a bandanna and have long hair, FYI. (Not FTW.)]

There was no hiding of eggs in dark, dry places yesterday after Alisha and I painstakingly turned the ordinary stark shells into glorious masterpieces. So this Easter, while some people were in church learning about the Resurrection of Christ, I was learning that coffee does not adhere to eggs and that I shouldn’t go into business painting weeners.

I’m hoping that tomorrow night, when I try my hand at egg-dyeing once again with Alisha, it will be so much fun that Jesus will rise a day early to dunk his junk in some green Paas. I mean, egg. To dunk his EGG. Oh, and Blake will be here too, so maybe, if all goes well, the night will veer into  STD Cookies: Ovum Edition.

Dec 082008

Hamish couldn’t believe he was turning 245 days old in less than a week. A milestone like that deserved a bash, a big gala dinner dance filled with feather-topped, high-kicking can-can dancers and waiters serving up dimpled buttcheeks braised in a succulent kerosene sauce.

It needed a photo booth. Fireworks. Handmade chocolates flown in from Belgium, inscribed with superlatives relating to his life thus far.

Keen. Brilliant. Star Athlete. Tantric Sex Master. All these things delicately traced into the the crust of truffles.

It needed music. A bright, up-and-coming pop songstress. A young broad with a supple body and a nightingale voice; a sprightly thing who would take the stage in a latex thingaroo, barely covering her hummahoos. He made a note to check MTV to find such a starlet.

The next day, Hamish left his hut to begin party planning.

Discouragingly, it took three days alone for Hamish to find dancers. Unable to find can-can dancers with altitude crushing kicks, he settled on a troupe called the Octogenas, who were usually booked every night by their nursing home to perform in the rec room, but Myrtle Methadone had just met her maker and no one there was in the mood to watch a crew of old biddies shake their wattles.

Never performing outside of the home, the Octogenas excitedly signed the deal.

The next day, Hamish learned the lesson that fancy party waiters do not fit his budget, so he gathered up a group of bar flies who used to play darts with his dad and feel up his mama. They didn’t own tuxedos, so he grudgingly allowed them to wear flannel.

A day before the party, Hamish resolved to forgo the personalized Belgian chocolates, pouring a bag of leftover Easter Hershey Kisses in a microwave-deformed Tupperwear bowl.

The up-and-coming starlet he found came packing a rider that included a Lalique vase filled with blue and only blue M&Ms, fresh water from a Moroccan camel’s hump, a kilo of angel dust, and a current copy of US Weekly. Hamish settled on a folk singer he had seen downtown, sitting on a curb in a heap of earth-toned fabric, who plucking a broken guitar and collecting pennies and trash in a fedora.

And then it was the day of the party. The Octogenas undulated in seductive paths carved out by their walkers, with Agnes’s left breast flopping about and slapping bystanders with the misfortune of standing too close. And then Bertha lost her grip on her walker, crashed into one of the flannel-clad waiters trying futilely to take a reticent swig from his flask. The rest of the Octogenas abandoned their gig to accompany Bertha to the hospital, where she would undergo a hip replacement.

The folk singer, Sunny Moonbeam, twanged away quietly on the stage, eventually putting himself to sleep.

As Hamish looked around, he realized that his party had put everyone else to sleep, too.

Snagging the bowl of Kisses from the buffet, he left his own party and went downtown, where he settled in for a fifty cent peep show. He officially turned 245 days old as a brassy-haired, tough-skinned woman contorted herself in eye-widening positions on a wooden stool.

The deets.

Sep 022008

Sewed it on from a t-shirt that didn’t fit right. I don’t sew, and never quite grasped the concept of a thimble until last night. Wish I had one.

I wish I was still sixteen and could just stay in my room all day, listening to screamo and pricking myself with needles.

Dec 172007

The Secret Santa gift exchange at work is this Friday and I’m proud to say that I’m 100% ready. Since yesterday. Five whole days early. This is unlike me.

The girl I shopped for is 18 and cool like me; she likes music that I like, and nautical things and her favorite colors are red, yellow, orange, and brown. I bought her a bunch of little things, and then I decided to try and be an ultra-sweetheart with a center of pure delight and honeyed raindrops. So I painted her a picture of an anchor garden.

Lookie, the flowers are all blooming in her FAVORITE COLORS. See how I did that, combined two things on her list? See that?

I’m a bit intimidated though, because she’s a real artist (according to my boss) and not a fake poseur ass ho-bitch artist like me.

Dying to know who got me. Sneaking suspicion says Tina.