I was in the bathroom drying my hair when Chooch popped up in the doorway, wearing his very first Halloween costume that he just found in the attic. He never actually got to wear it (other than a quick photo-op at my grandma’s) because he was 6 months old that Halloween and it was pouring down rain.
This is totally going to be his costume next year.
EDIT: He’s wearing it in the car, too.
Currently en route to the flea market, listening to the Weeknd, having a mild “Summer’s almost over!” panic attack. Haven’t had the mental energy to write in here the last few days. Nothing major, just trying to enjoy the last of these days before it’s time to pull out the hoodies. (Not that I mind hoodie weather!) So here are some photos from the past week.
Chooch bought me flowers for no good reason (which ends up being the best reason); I decided they’d look best in a vase filled with tops.
As much as I adore autumn afternoons in the cemetery, I’m going to miss how lush it looks in the summer. God, I love the cemetery. I jogged to the Wonder Years there yesterday and even though it was humid as shit, I smiled the whole time. It even smelled like magic.
Chooch has been illustrating a zombie book. This page features a zombie volcano, but don’t get it twisted—that’s blood, not lava.
And lastly, I had this ring made for me and it is the best thumb ornament of all time. So pleased with it.
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If it doesn’t rain tonight, we are going to the Rib Fest with my friend Lisa and her husband Matt, where we will act like assholes to .38 Special. I hope it happens because I could really use a little throwback right about now.
Hope you’re all enjoying your Labor Day weekend!
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My weekend was full of unicorns, Halloween desk decorating blueprints, Hare Krishnas, pretty-haired friends and glorious cafeterias; while it was incredibly fun, I’m looking forward to winding down with a night of MTV reality smut. I EARNED IT, YOU GUYS.
I’m going to sleep well tonight.
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This was a nice, low-key weekend which for once consisted of NO FIGHTING! And I mean between Chooch and me. It was nice to relax and be languid instead of being all GO GO GO like I usually am on weekends.
Olympics, horror movies, cemeteries and red velvet milkshakes. Yes. That was all I needed.
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All this (and more*) happened on a balcony at the Mattress Factory.
(*No really, that was it.)
More later: Henry’s watching Miami Vice, trying to find new hairstyles. Probably he’ll start a new Pinterest board for that shit. Meanwhile, I’m totally inspired to dig out my Miami Vice soundtrack which Henry is apparently not surprised I have.
Good talk.
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We went to King’s after Soul Skate a few weeks ago and Henry was all jacked off because the waitress completely forgot his order of wings.
“Maybe it’s because you also ordered a burger and she feels that’s enough,” I offered. But Henry grumbled and added a fifth packet of sugar into his iced tea.
When he told the waitress about the wings, she was super apologetic and vowed to bring him a plate immediately. But Henry, refusing to look at her, mumbled, “THAT’S OK.”
And that is how he treated her for the rest of the meal, as though she was the stripper who ground her yeast infection into his crotch at his 30th birthday party.
Laura and I kept defending her.
“You don’t know what’s going on in her home life!” I cried. “She may have just had a miscarriage!”
This got me a scowl.
It’s not that I was super keen on this waitress, but I do love it when Henry has bad luck at restaurants! You guys have no idea the levels of pouting, disappointment & self-loathing it brings out in him. Poor Henry, indeed.
The waitress finally talked him into taking home a dozen mint Frownies, which still didn’t make him happy. WHAT DO YOU WANT HENRY, A BJ BEHIND THE FRYER?!
Yesterday after skating, Henry finally got his wings.
But this time, they forgot his order or fries. Best day ever!
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Hi, hello. Merry Sunday. Have some photos that I took this weekend.
Someone get me on a Wacky Worm, STAT. (The sleaziness of that statement will never get old.) This is pretty much how I looked all week: morose with a general feeling of malaise. I’m getting better, though. I can almost eat again without feeling seasick! (No, I’m definitely not pregnant, don’t fret.)
Chooch ran into this Star Wars display at Target and is suddenly really feeling Valentine’s Day.
Marcy & Chooch’s Art Class.
Again, I say: fuck off, winter depression! There is too much to look forward to.
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Coming up: a post (with video!) where I wanted to fight a 13-year-old girl to defend Henry’s honor, and more of Henry’s answers to your questions on the “Harangue Henry” post. Woo, this blog is so full of substance I can hardly stand it. (Sarcasm 101.)
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I was skulking about Clairton three summers ago with my camera. All my local friends know what a terrific idea THAT is. I saw this guy palling around with some of his friends and he just really appealed to me. I was going to try and photo-stalk him, but ended up opting for the direct approach and asked if I could photograph him.
“For a school project.”
That’s honestly the best excuse on Earth.
“No really, it’s for a college project and not at all for my blog! I don’t even have a blog! What is a blog!?”
A few weeks ago, Pittsburgh’s urban radio station—WAMO—made its big comeback debut. It went off-air in 2009, money problems I’m sure. You’re probably thinking, “But you’re a music snob. Why do you care about radio?” Look, urban radio is my shit, especially in the summer. I need my summer jams for when I’m carousing the cemeteries. And WAMO was always the only radio station that never pissed me off.
This new incarnation of WAMO, though, I don’t know what’s going on. They play LADY GAGA. BRUNO MARS. That is not r&b nor is it hop hop!
They play that Katy Perry trash. Look, I get that she’s got Kanye in that one song, but that doesn’t make it OK to play it 8 times an hour.
What bothers me most, though, I mean what REALLY gets under my skin, is the motherfucking Black Eyed Peas every goddamn time I turn it on. Fergie’s lucky if she gets to sing two notes before I’m bashing in the radio with the heel of my hand. I was so incensed about this yesterday that I “liked” WAMO on Facebook JUST SO I COULD WRITE ON THEIR WALL.
Fuck the Black Eyed Peas! Fuck the whole collective with pine cones! THAT IS NOT URBAN MUSIC. That’s shit soccer moms listen to when they’re waiting to pick their kids up from fucking karate. Country fans listen to that shit when they want to feel like a “bad ass.” WAMO is supposed to be for black people and me!
I guarantee you if I went back to Clairton and sought out the dude in the picture above, he’d be all, “SHIIIIIIIIIIIT girl, that’s WHITE PEOPLE music.” CAN I GET A HELL YEAH.
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Kaitlin had a whole Macy’s box full of leftover macaron shells that were no longer good enough for her to use (but still edible, and trust me, we edibled them) so she brought them in for me to play with. I am a huge fan of her macarons, so it was an excruciating test of restraint to not tongue the entire box right there at work. Then I had to live in the same house as them for TWO DAYS.
Henry, Chooch and I took them to the cemetery yesterday for a little photoshoot, and the whole time Chooch whined, “NOW can I eat one?”
He really wanted one with sprinkles, but there weren’t very many of those ones so I definitely wouldn’t let him eat any until I was done. I’m the meanest mom ever.
Henry wouldn’t help me AT ALL because I yelled at him on Friday when he walked out of the kitchen with a macaron shell hanging out of his mouth, dribbling crumbs all over the floor. He probably would have consumed the whole box before I got in a single shot if I hadn’t been watching that box like your uncle Cletus watches porn.
When we came home from the cemetery, I finally let Chooch indulge himself.
He’s such a cookie creep.
These have got to be among the filthiest hands to ever handle a French macaron.
After Chooch’s party yesterday, we took Bill and Jessi to the gaming shop up the street. They own their own gaming shop in Michigan and were interested in seeing what this one had to offer.
Apparently, not too much. When we walked into the stuffy shoe box-sized store front, all four gamers stopped with their cards in their hands and stared at us uninvitingly. I felt like Pee Wee after just knocking over a row of motorcycles. I even said hello to the one in the Steelers jersey, but his response was to stare back at me stupidly. I know, girls are so weird. I never know how to respond to their salutations, either.
Same guy cornered Bill after allowing him to browse for a few minutes. The rest of us left Bill in the shop to diffuse the geek-bomb on his own.
Anyway, he had a great crack and I felt obliged to share it with the Internet.
I miss Bill and Jessi already. :(
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Such a shitty, mostly unsafe area, but one of my favorite places to take pictures.
These were both taken and edited with my phone. I feel like that’s the only camera I ever use anymore. Sorry, Canon. :(
I’m hoping today isn’t a repeat of last Saturday night where I think we’re going rollerskating up until 2 minutes before we leave to actually NOT go rollerskating.
Henry is still paying for that.
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The butterfly ring I’ve been wearing on my ring finger since I was 18 broke today. RING FINGER VACANCY! I’m going to hang up fliers everywhere.
Unless Henry wants to do something about it.
Personally, I think it’s a big fat motherfucking sign.
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Spending the afternoon watching the hockey game and messing around with old pictures. The one with the barn was taken in Lancaster.
Tonight is Soul Skate and I’m still (still!) not feeling 100%, but I’m going to try my best not to collapse while on skates.
I doubt I can count on Henry for any support tonight. That might give away the fact that we’re a COUPLE.
No tags for this post.Here are some pictures of Chooch from this weekend. (I took the time to write that sentence for all the people who suffer from Title Illiteracy.)
God help us.
Harmoniously sharing. (This like, never happens, because we are secretly siblings.)
He can never leave the fucking cat alone. The cat can never stay away.
I like this picture too much not to post it here, too. SHE’S MY BABE.
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