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.

HE’S HERE! HE’S HERE!! MAYA MADE ALL OF MY DREAMS COME TRUE! OMG OMG OMG! I can’t wait to ask Jonny Craig to sign his shirt and then say something predictably douchey to make me cry!

Oh Jonny, the places we will go.

Chooch was apparently SO PISSED (and confused) that there wasn’t a “Y.”

I was on a Draw Something hiatus for a bit but now I’m completely immersed in it, ignoring people at work, waking up in the middle of the night to play it again.

My friend Shallie drew this for me and I was so tickled that she I corporated Jonny Craig! That scored her unlimited points with me.

I love Draw Something. Let’s play: ohhonestlyerin

Being a teenager and going to Kennywood for our school picnic day was A REALLY BIG DEAL. You had to go out and buy a new skanky outfit (I always got mine from Merry-Go-Round, RIP pleather ghetto couture). I mean, you HAD to. Going to Kennywood in last week’s fishnet tank, looking like a cheap hood rat? Unacceptable. How you gon’ hit a home run behind a picnic grove wrapped in a faded B.U.M. Equipment t-shirt?

What I like about Delgrosso’s is that you could step into your basic potato sack, strip your face of makeup and shear yourself a mullet and still look better than most of the people there on any given day. (The employees, however, are young and pleasantly scene. They all probably had at least three Jonny Craig songs on their iPods.) The park is surrounded by nary a big city, but rather rural villages, so imagine Mabel ripping the curlers from her hair and hollerin’, “Earl! I just finished warshin’ the clothes down at the crick, so get the Pinto off the cinder blocks ‘cuz we gon’ to Delgrosso’s!”

(Altoona & Johnstown are nearby, but I’m not sure that really counts.)

You’ll get your fair share of men in suspenders, is all I’m saying. And not the kinds worn with hipster irony, either, but real suspenders meant to hitch a pair of farmer’s pants over a sweat stained-NASCAR shirted beer belly.

So Sunday morning, I threw on some jeans and a black t-shirt, smeared on some light makeup, ran a brush through my hair for good measure, and I was confident that I could still pass for Prom Queen. Even though I’m pretty sure my sweater had a rolled-up Star Wars sticker adhered to it all day.

In the bowels of a Dizzy Dragon.

In front of us in line for the Tilt-a-Whirl was a man in a non-descript blue-gray t-shirt (it had a logo on the front; I’m guessing a local plumbing company), camo shorts and a matching camo bandanna. Knowing what you now know about the closets of Delgrosso’s average demographic, you would think that I wouldn’t even give this guy a second glance. But I did, and then a million more glances followed, which eventually turned into full-blown, open-mouthed stares.

I pulled Henry close. “Doesn’t he look like Jonny Craig?” I whispered on a rocking bed of giggles. Henry gave him a once-over that lasted approximately .00001 seconds and then smirked.

“Um, no,” he said and then went back to looking at maps on his phone. What? That’s what I imagine he’s looking at every time I catch him with his glasses lifted up, nose-to-phone. Map porn.

Seriously, I know this is going to be a real imagination-bender, but try to imagine a white trash(ier) Jonny Craig, stripped of his TOMS, knit hats and music career, wearing Crocs and pro-America t-shirts featuring flags, mountains and moose; now accelerate his age to somewhere around 40, give him an over-weight wife double his size in the aforementioned potato sack and two of the homeliest ginger pre-teen daughters you’ve seen this side of Appalachia.

Could. Not. Stop. Staring.

“This is Jonny Craig’s future unless I can save him!” I cried to Chooch as the Til-A-Whirl flung us around. Jonny Sr. and his Frumpy Missus had chosen the car across from us, so after every other revolution, we would be face-to-face with them. I know he is unhappily married because not once did I see him smile and what kind of person takes a twirl on the Tilt-a-Whirl without cracking a smile? Serial killers and discontent husbands with frumpy wives, that’s who. I inadvertently (OK, totally on purpose) made some hardcore eye contact with Jonny Sr. Suddenly, I was thankful that I at least chose to wear a t-shirt that was tight and low-cut, and not one of Henry’s billowy Faygo Red Pop smocks.

Wait. Why do I care what I’m wearing? I asked myself inside my head, about to have a complete existential crisis on the goddamn Tilt-a-Whirl.

OMG BECAUSE I HAD A CRUSH ON JONNY SR NOW. HE TOTALLY HAD THE SAME, CLOSE-SET WEASEL EYES AS MY JONNY CRAIG.

And thus began an afternoon of old school cat and mouse stalking. Thank god Delgrosso’s is such a small park!

When I saw him in line for the Crazy Mouse, I legit nearly tripped my own child as I sprinted over to snatch a spot behind him. Some other downtrodden family with eighteen box car kids got there before I did, which angered me but really it was probably for the best. I can’t promise for sure that I wouldn’t have done something stupid.

At first, Henry just thought my urgency in grabbing a spot in line was because I was that excited to ride the Crazy Mouse for the third time that afternoon, until he interpreted my throaty giggles to mean, “I am standing five feet away from today’s prey.” He actually left Chooch and me alone in line because he was that embarrassed. But I like to pretend it was because he didn’t want to impede on my game.

Henry runs the gamut of emotions when it comes to this stuff. He starts off mildly amused, then annoyed, maybe a little embarrassed, there’s always a plateau where he is completely worried and concerned, and then it usually ends with him angry.

Chooch and Henry rode the carousel together, while I sat my ass on a bench and took pictures. Every time their horses would buoyantly carry them around to the tune of Liberace’s music box collection, Henry would see me laughing and smiling, so he would laugh and smile, too, like we were having a true 1950′s TV family moment. When they rejoined me afterward, Henry said surly, “I couldn’t understand why you looked so happy until I was getting off the carousel and saw that that guy was on here with us too.” He was! He was sitting on one of the benches with his wife while their backwoods offspring were each dryhumping  a horse, and he totally fell asleep. I HOPE HE DREAMT OF ME.

 Later, Henry was buying us ice cream cones, and Jonny Sr came over to buy nachos! This is him BUYING NACHOS!

Henry kept trying to block me from taking his picture. “HE’S TOTALLY STARING AT YOU, OK?!” Henry hissed at me, running his hand through his non-ginger hair.

“Oh my god, really!?” I cried. “Do you think it’s because he likes me too!?”

“No! It’s because you’re being totally fucking obvious!” And then Henry sighed and said, “Whatever, do what you want.”

I’ll tell you what I wanted to do. I wanted to follow him around the park so he could watch me fellate my jimmied ice cream cone, but Henry deemed that it was time to go. So we all headed over to the park’s entrance when Chooch, bless his heart, started crying about wanting to go on one more ride before we left. So he and I hurriedly downed our cones and rode the kiddie free fall ride that’s next to the Wacky Worm. We rejoined Henry afterward, and I clutched his arm, begging him to let us take one final stroll through the park.

“For what?!” Henry spat.

“Um, I don’t know. I just want to get one more look. You know, before I say goodbye,” I stammered.

“You don’t have to walk through the park for what you want to do,” Henry sighed. I was confused about what he meant, until I turned toward the direction of the park entrance and THERE WAS JONNY SR, WALKING TOWARD US WITH HIS HOMELY WIFE! Instead of basking in his Elder Jonny Craigness while I had the opportunity, I clung to Henry’s arm and burrowed my face in his side, giggling and spitting all over his t-shirt. I was convinced that I was IN LOVE with this man and was about two more furtive glances away from actively seeking a way to go home with him. I really fucking disgust myself sometimes.

Still, this wasn’t enough. I needed to see him again. And again and again. So right before we left the park, I squeezed Henry’s arm and shouted, “Wait! You said you wanted to buy some of that potato salad to take home!” (Our friends Chris and Kari told us that Delgrosso’s is notorious for having the best potato salad of all time, and it’s a good thing I’m the authority on this and was able to confirm that yes, this is true. It was the best and I am right now sitting at my desk at work, remembering the creamy sex of it all.)

I know that Henry really wanted to turn around and go back for a tub of it, and probably he would have if the threat of Jonny Sr wasn’t lurking around like sleazy land mines of infidelity in the park. But instead, he was like, “Nah, maybe next time.” That ginger-hating asshole.

Many hours later, as we were getting ready for bed, I asked Henry if he thought Jonny Sr liked me back in a hyper-tone extremely reminiscent of a 7th grader seeing her crush at the mall and spending the next 6 hours interrogating her friends regarding every nuance of his eyebrow arch. (Not that I could relate to that.)

Henry put his pillow over his face and turned his back toward me.

I leave you with some Jonny Craig for your ears! And possibly a Henry Interview tomorrow!

Moving on can feel like torture sometimes.

Meanwhile, Henry cleaned the house and brought me fro-yo with all my favorite weird Asian toppings. And cheesecake bits. He always insists on thinking I like cheesecake bits on my froyo. (For the record, I don’t, but I’ll eat it anyway.)

When I woke up on Mother’s Day, I thought to myself, “No. I’ll be damned if I’m sitting in this house for two days straight and pouting.” So I started looking for things to do, and somehow I ended up on the Delgrosso’s Amusement Park website where I saw that not only were they open for the season, but MOMS RIDE FREE ON MOTHER’S DAY. I couldn’t really think of anywhere else I’d rather be that day than on the Wacky Worm, miles away from heartache and Real Life. Goddammit, if happiness wasn’t going to come to me, then I’d just have to go to it. And it just so happened it was only 2 hours away.

Henry was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I ran in and collided into him, waving my phone in his face.

He smirked at me and said no. “Delgrosso’s is two hours from here! And the weather is shitty. I’m not driving all that way to get rained on.”

So I checked the weather in Altoona and it said it was going to be 70 degrees and mostly sunny with scattered showers. I waved this in his face, too.

He started to say no again, so I forced my eyes to rain salty droplets of despair and disappointment. “After everything I’ve been through! I just want to be HAPPPPPPY!” I can only imagine how ugly and snot-bubbly that scene was. Then I sent Chooch in to remind him that it was Mother’s Day and now mommy is crying and wants to kill herself, good job. This all started around 9:30AM. By 10:30, everyone was showered, dressed and in the Delgrosso-bound car.

Henry even let me listen to Emarosa and talk about Jonny Craig for the entire car ride. Like that’s anything new. (And like he even had a choice, Mother’s day or not.)

Right outside of Tipton, the small rural-esque town of Delgrosso’s, I checked the weather again. It had changed from sunny to 60 degrees with clouds of doom and gloom. I quickly hid my phone from Henry so he wouldn’t see and change his mind.

No, the clouds didn’t part and shit on us rays of golden sunlight, but the rain pretty much stayed away for our visit. And it was the best Mother’s Day of all time.

Henry wouldn’t ride the Wacky Worm at first, pretending that he had to pee and urging me and Chooch to go on without him while he killed time in the restroom. (Read: Cried about his SERVICE days of yore.) You might remember that he has a pretty staunch No Fun policy, especially when it comes to amusement parks and making girlfriends smile, but I think the last few weeks have made him feel bad for me, so he actually rode it one whole time without me having to cause a scene!

“This ain’t gon’ muss up my luscious McNichol locks, is it?”

I kept turning around in my seat to better cajole Henry into putting his arms up and holler like a madperson (you know, like me), but all he would do was smirk and give me that, “Don’t be a fool” look that I know so well. But that smirk kept twisting upward into a smile and I KNEW he was enjoying his spin inside that caterpillar’s caboose.

The best part was that Chooch insisted on sitting on by himself, and I didn’t want to sit with Henry, so we all sat separately. Henry was so angry about this; I guess he had banked on Chooch sitting with him to make him look less of a child roller coaster predator.

“For some reason, they put on the brakes right before it goes down the hill,” I pointed out to Henry. “They don’t do that at the Butler County Fair.”

“Yeah, because they don’t care about SAFETY about the fair,” Henry explained in his Dad Voice.

Or! The Mexican carnies just want us to have more fun.

One go-around was enough for the old man and his brittle bones, so he stood by the fence with all the other proud parents for all of our other wormy journeys.

And we finally got the front seat! Oh my god, Chooch and I were so obnoxious about it too. I kept shouting, “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS OUR FIRST TIME IN THE FRONT SEAT AFTER TWO YEARS OF RIDING THE WACKY WORM!” and then Chooch would be all, “It’s not really that big of a deal.” But I was practically crying with joy as I peered at the sky through the caterpillar’s antennae when it began its ascent up the first hill. There is a metaphor in here somewhere. Something about a metamorphosis.

It’s the little things.

View from the top.

So much more to come.

…from Chooch and me on the Wacky Worm! This was the best Mother’s Day I’ve ever had (which isn’t hard to accomplish considering all of my other ones are filed under Epic Fail: Holiday Edition)!

Me and my other kid, Marcy. This was not taken on the Wacky Worm.

People on Facebook keep posting a link to an article about “Could Your Child Be a Psychopath?” or something similar, but I refuse to click on it because I’m afraid it’s about my own kid.

Chooch was having a really emotional, angry night. He oscillated between being hyperactively fidgety to over-sensitive and touchy to blood-curdlingly fearsome. At one point, he wailed, “You used to be my best mom, but now you’re just the WORST!” before running away from Henry’s soothing pleas to calm down.

I heard him come out of his bedroom long enough to bellow, “STOP TALKING TO ME! I’M STRESSED OUT!” and then he slammed his door.

Boy. That was really great.

He’s not a psychopath. I know. However, he is highly theatrical with a loose grip on his emotions. And then he calmed down and went to bed.

But I still won’t click on that link.

While reading entries from that summer, I found this excerpt which talked about how confused Don and Speck (née Nicotina) were when Henry’s kids (Blake and Robbie) began staying at our house on weekends.

Yes, I’m still sad. Maybe a little morose. I still have crying jags. But I’m functioning. I’m not crying at work (anymore, at least). I know that once we bury Don, I’ll be able to find that peace that I need. (His burial was supposed to be yesterday but was postponed until next week.)

I forgot how much I enjoyed the summer of 2002, and how openly in love with with Henry I was. (Seriously, almost every LJ post went on about it! I was so gross back then.) But then I read an entry about how my rapist co-worker at Weiss Meats called me a fucking cunt and all my boss did was say, “Dean, don’t call the girl names” and then pinched my cheek and said, “See how I take care of you?” in a baby-talk voice and suddenly I was all enraged and remembered that the summer of 2002 couldn’t have been THAT great if I was still working at that hell hole.

The only good thing that came out of that place was meeting Henry.

Don’t worry. I’ll shake this off in time and be right back to being an obnoxiously obscene bitch. And then you’ll miss Grieving Erin.

“I would be so pissed!” I cried. “I’d pack a bag and leave, sleep in my car if I had to.”

Amber chimed in to tell Lee to stop being mean to me, and he defensively said, “I’m not being mean! Chooch just likes Henry better!”

I was already starting to bristle, but then Lee added, “It’s because Henry is a better roller skater” and then I almost died of boiling fury.

Henry, Henry, Henry!

***

In “I Have a Child” news, Chooch has been really been a literate whiz these last few months. His teacher has stopped to tell us multiple times about how much he’s advanced with reading this year and it definitely shows at home. He wants to read EVERYTHING. When Bill, Jessi and Tammy were here for his birthday weekend, they took him to the Pittsburgh Comicon and he came home with several comic books, which he has been devouring ever since.

I can’t even tell you how happy this makes me. He’s already more advanced than Henry!

***
I just asked Henry who his first kiss was. He said her name was Anita. This was instantly hilarious for me. I said, “Was her last name Life? Anita Life? Because if she was kissing you, she must need a life!” I couldn’t stop laughing for a good five minutes. Henry had his face buried in a pillow and I asked him if he was crying. He said, “No, I’m still trying to figure out what was so funny about that.” I decided this would make a good number for my stand up routine and he said, “Yeah it’ll be great…if everyone in the audience is you.”

I’m putting this in my journal now because I’ve been kicked out of the bedroom. I can’t stop laughing. Anita Life. Haha.

HAHA.

We bought this stuff called BubbleNip for the cats. It’s just a bottle of bubbles with a wand, like normal, but then it somehow has catnip in it as well. We brought the fan downstairs and started blowing mass amounts of it all over the house. The cats were going crazy. But not in an excited, let’s-play-with-this kind of way. They actually looked highly pissed off, and the only reason they were chasing the bubbles is because the just desperately wanted to put an end to it so they could relax and enjoy staring at the walls for the rest of the evening. Don hated it the most. He would look so happy once all the bubbles would disappear, and he would go lay down. Then I would start blowing more and he would reluctantly get back up again. They were hating it so bad.