There is an older broad here with a huge stick up her ass and a dildo-looking boyfriend on roller blades who is showing off for her and her two cunt-face little girls.

Chooch is skating like a zombie.

There is a thing that I can’t tell if it’s a pre-teen boy or a middle-aged woman. Either way: total Uggz City.

Another young person looks just like the boy from Dark Crystal, only with a vagina. Henry agrees for once.

Henry wonders why the rink owner’s wife has dubbed him “Smiley.” (SPOILER ALERT for the next skating post which I have put off writing all week because I’m a fraud of a blogger.)

In actual skating news, Chooch is getting so good, you guys! I’m still way better though. Don’t worry.

Henry was talking about the various “special people” that Chooch’s other classmates brought with them.

“And [Blah Blah] brought her mom, some guy I wished I had taken a picture of because he looked like a predator, and another guy that looked like he just came out of a garage.”

“That’s probably what they all say about you,” I mumbled.

“I don’t care. I really don’t.”

On his way back to the house from the lunch, he paused in the parking lot to talk to our neighbor Toya. I know this happened because even with the door and windows closed, I could hear him doing that strangulated dick-in-throat creepster laugh of his.

Hya hya hya HYUK!

“Toya was saying something about how you can pretty much find out shit about anyone just by googling their name* and all I could think was ‘Oh god, please no.’” And then, “If any of [our neighbors] find your blog, I’m going to act like I never knew about it.”

*(Breaking News.)

But that didn’t really do much to quell my crackling nerves. In the last almost-2 years, Barb has firmly planted herself on my short list of favorite people. She has been more of a mom to me than my own biological mom EVER has and I appreciate her so much, it’s immeasurable. I tell her everything and she is one of the few people who can make me feel like everything is going to be OK. Now she’s in the hospital and I feel so helpless because I just want to be able to reciprocate that for her, but I’m such an emotional spaz that I’m sure I would only wind up stressing her out in the end. (Seriously, I’m terrible at these things!)

We’ve been texting all week, but I haven’t heard from her since she had surgery last night. (Sue assures me it was a routine procedure, and Barb’s dad told her she made it through just fine, so there’s that at least!)

I was talking to Henry about it last night and I started to get all choked up. “See, I do care about people sometimes!” I pointed out.

“Yeah, surprisingly,” he said, and he really did look surprised, too.

With Barb gone all week (and at least another month as well), the office feels so dead. She has such a huge, fun presence that the atmosphere has honestly changed in her absence. And in the short time she’s been in my life, she already knows me so well, because Barb’s the type of person who takes the time to get to know someone.

Just the other week, Carey offered Barb a box of baked goods, to which Barb responded with, “For future reference, always offer stuff to Erin first.” SEE? BECAUSE SHE KNOWS ME.

She’s the type of person to go back to a flea market and buy a creepy-ass doll for someone for Christmas, after learning about how much that person desperately wanted the doll but their BOYFRIEND said NO.

She’s the type of person you want around if if your water breaks in a public restroom.

She’s the type of person who brings a kid a present to their mom’s birthday party, just so they won’t feel left out when their mom is opening her presents.

She’s the type of person who will embrace a person’s inner-weirdness and pore over a book of death scenes with them, because she is a weirdo too.

She is the person that everyone whines and cries to at work, because they know that not only will she listen, but she will care. (Or at least pretend to.)

She’s just Barb, and she’s pretty much the most awesome person I know.

But it’s Barb’s turn to come first. Let’s all give her a shout out today. She’s the most generous and caring person I know, and now it’s time for her to get all that back. Maybe you don’t know Barb in real life, but you have probably read about her on here, and if she happens to read this after she gets out of the hospital, I’m sure it will lift her spirits, so leave her a get well comment. She deserves it!

Get well soon, Barb. We all miss the hell out of you!!

This was Henry’s dinner spread last night.

“Don’t take a picture of my food!” he pleaded in embarrassment.

My dinner was tuna on crackers (auto correct changed that to Tina, which would have made for a much more interesting blog post) and corn. Here in our Brookline shanty, we eat only marginally better than college students.

Sometimes, Henry will throw all kinds of stuff in a pot, call it soup, and expect me to eat it every day for a week. It’s a wonder how I’m still this fat when I’m essentially eating standard soup kitchen fare.

Holy shit, the Love Unlimited Orchestra’s “Love’s Theme” just came on. BRB have to disco.

***

Barb asked: If you could be an inanimate object, what would it be and why?

I would be a knife and plunge myself into the eye of the author of this blog for making me answer questions.

Vanessa asked one of my favorite questions: What is one ( as i’m sure there are several) of your favorite Erin & Henry moments? Why?

There are so many moments good and bad(mostly her fault). There are a few that stand out, like our first long trip together was when I discovered Erin was not like other people her age, she was a little less mature. On the way back home from Wisconsin it seems the 11year old in her came out and she rode and pouted in the back seat for a good while, all because she didn’t get her way( that hasn’t change to this day). Now why does that stand out as a moment, it has helped me adjust the way I deal with the lovely Erin. And She wonders why sometimes I act like her dad.

[Ed.note: OMG way to gloss over the pertinents.]

And also: How do you feel about Whole Foods or similar grocery stores?

Actually I have no feelings at all about them, if I’m going near one of them and the parking lot is not jam packed with cars then maybe I’ll pull in.

[Ed.note: That's the same way he feels about my kooka.]

Brandy asked a question that I know Henry is going to give a one-word answer to, so I am here to remind him of a certain story he once told me about his time in Panama. ANSWER THE QUESTION HONESTLY, HENRY: My question for henry is, did he ever kill anyone in the service?

No, I have never killed anyone, again Erin does not listen when told a story. She’s usually tunes me out once I start talking.

[ed note. THE PET DUCK. YOU KILLED SOMEONE'S PET DUCK ON A RIVER AND YOU TOLD ME SO!!!!]

Shallie, who fooled me by NOT asking a bandanna-centric question, asks: Which drink in the Land of Faygo do you deliver the most? Do you have any crazy customers or funny stories about them?

The most popular flavor would be orange, and as for stories I don’t drive anymore so all my stories are old but I have been witness to a drive by shooting within a 100 yards and in a store when the owner and his employee beat the hell out of someone for stealing a bandana. Then having to wait till they mopped up the blood.

Jessica took the question out of everyone’s mouths in what I can only assume was a stern yet angry voice: When the hell are you going to propose?

I’ve known for a long time how and when and one day so will everyone else.

A/k/a: Elephant, Jesus, Golilla, Donagal, Puppy Time, and Pierre.

On the other side of the blog: There are 5 unanswered questions for Henry rotting in a draft. That’s the last time I ever pre-pay him for ANYTHING.

Chooch had another skating lesson Saturday evening. It’s really fun to be at the rink during non-session hours, mostly because there are so few people there and you would think it would lower the odds of me finding an asshole to hate, when instead it does quite the opposite; the absence of a crowd only makes it easier for me to single out the dickheads.

We weren’t even out of the car yet when a trio of pre-teen girls ran past us and drenched our ear drums in their shrill giggles. I recoiled, then seethed, then declared my hatred for them.

“Why,” asked Henry’s mom, who tagged along to play Chooch Cheerleader. “Do you know them?”

“I don’t need to know them,” I grumbled, making her laugh nervously. It’s been eleven years, but she is still learning about me.

However, it only took me ten minutes once inside to completely forget about the Giggle Hookers and set my sights on another young target.

It all started when I got up to pee. I was walking toward Henry, who was coming back from sucking up to the owner, when he was forced to step over the legs of some girl, who was kneeling in the middle of the walkway while lacing one of the Giggle Hooker’s skates.  Earlier, she had been standing in line in front of us with her grandfather, who looked like Punky Brewster’s dad, and she didn’t seem very offensive at all then. Maybe a little smug, but nothing about her attitude really stuck out.

But now that her grandfather wasn’t within earshot, her true cuntitude came shining through.

Right as I was about to walk past her, I heard her scoff indignantly to her friends and spit, “That man just STEPPED OVER TOP OF ME.”

Well, duh, you dumb bitch. How else is going to get around you when you’re practically setting up camp in the middle of the walkway, soar over you on his Winged Ass Pony?

It wasn’t until I reached the bathroom that I became super bothered. That’s my property she was mouthing off about. It’s OK for me to publicly cheesegrate his masculinity, but when someone else makes an attempt, I turn into a snorting bull. (Which isn’t much of a change from my usual demeanor.)

On my way back to our spot on the bench,  she was bragging to her giggly friends about how she’s taking the ADVANCED CLASS when I forced eye contact with her. She flitted her eyes away from mine in a hurry. Arms akimbo, I stormed over to Henry and began waving wildly as I told he and his mom what I had witnessed.

“I was so angry, I punched the mirror in the bathroom, Henry!” I cried, my fists all balled up.

“You did not,” he said calmly.

“You’re right, I didn’t. But I really am angry!” Seriously, cutting myself all because of Henry? Yeah right.

Meanwhile, Henry’s mom was laughing nervously while watching us verbally volley back and forth: Henry recounting the perils and consequences of a 32-year-old woman starting a fight with a 13-year-old; me cutting him off with desperate accusations, such as, “WHY, DO YOU THINK I’M SCARED OF HER?” and “I DON’T CARE IF I GO TO JAIL, IT’S WORTH IT.”

Just then, she skated past and looked directly at me.

“SHE JUST FUCKING LOOKED AT ME!” I yelled. Henry’s mom, who was originally on Team You’ll Go To Jail,  laughed and then retorted with, “LOOK AT HER, SHE THINKS SHE’S SO COOL” and “SHE DOESN’T LOOK ADVANCED TO ME!”

Henry threw his hands up and said, “Seriously, mom?” and then stalked away to stand alone by the snack room. Every once in awhile, he would wave at me from his stance on neutral land.

While everyone was lining up to prepare for the lessons, I overheard the Whorebitch say, “I’m gonna have to put some ice on my foot.” She’s gonna have to put some ice on her FACE by the time I’M done with her.

AMIRITE HENRY? AMIRITE?

She fell during her lesson, causing me to crack up, point, and then squeal, “SHE FELL! DID YOU SEE HER FALL??”

Henry’s mom started to laugh, but then realized she was being sucked into my demonic vaccuum and quickly shook off her laughter. “Oh, I don’t want to see anyone get hurt!” she exclaimed.

I guess we’re not on the same page, after all.

In other skating lesson news, this old dude (“He’s not old, he’s probably my age!” Henry corrected. Yeah. And that age is “old.”) was taking the beginner class with his son. It was pretty adorable. He was a hot mess on rollerblades.

Whorebitch’s grandfather. He had on really nice quads and Henry said something about wanting to buy them.

“Why, is he selling them?” I asked.

“Well, no…” Henry started. “But it’s not like he’s going to be needing them much longer.”

I’m hoping he meant because the guy was like, 70 but the way he said it was just so foreboding. Actually, it was kind of hot.

Henry eventually came back to me, even though my big mouth and ability “to make something out of nothing” embarrasses him. I continued to make eye contact with Whorebitch every time she skated near our spot on the bench, though.

The “advanced” skating instructor, moments after he had his hand on his girlfriend’s ass which naturally made me react like a 5-year-old seeing people kissing in public.

OH LOOK WHO IT IS, THE WHOREBITCH.

“Mommy, did you even WATCH me skate?” Chooch knows that my attention tends to veer away from him and latch on to people I either hate or have a crush on.

I always forget that I can be recording shit with my phone, so now I am making up for it by recording shit that no one cares about. Look at how emotionally vacant Henry is. :(

If Whorebitch is there next time, I’m going to take lessons too.

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.

***

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.)

Misty’s question is threefold: I want to know who he thinks is the hottest on Jersey Shore: Mike, Vinny, or Pauly D.

Henry, no hesitation: Pauly D.

Also, does he have any strange fears nobody knows about? (balloons, hair brush hair etc.) He probably won’t tell you but you never know.

Henry, making all kinds of confused and constipated faces: Strange fears? I don’t know! Getting cut by metal scares me.

[Pretty sure we covered that already at some point, so good job Henry.]

And also, If he could retire today and spend his life doing manly man activities what would he choose to do?

Henry: Manly man activities? Do you have to go with me?

Erin: Maybe to watch.

Henry, tapping his fingers and then getting distracted by Friends.

[Now we are both distracted by Friends.]

Henry, 2 hours later: I don’t know. I think I would travel and maybe go fishing.

Erin: Fishing for a new girl to not-propose to?

Henry: Sure.

My old school* bud Liz asks: I’d love to hear Henry wax poetic on the Kardashian clan. Who is his fave?

*(Not “old school” in the sense that she slinks around in Adidas tracksuits and Kangol hats with a boombox on her shoulder, but in that I’ve known her since 6th grade.)

Henry, with a crinkled nose and agitated squeal to his tone: I don’t know! I don’t even like the Kardashians! None of them!

[But he'd sure bang any of them in a pinch.]

Terry from Twitter has a burning curiosity: Name two things you love and two things you hate about @ohhonestlyerin?

Henry, using the aid of a toothpick to think: Why does it have to be TWO things I love? [Staring at me for several icy seconds with hate and disdain]

[Still thinking and staring miserably into his grim future. This is obviously a Very Hard One.]

Henry, realizing the faster he answers, the faster it’s over: Two things I love would be sense of humor & sex.

[Fantastic, now everyone knows my Virgin Mary qualities are bogus.]

Henry, on a roll now: Two things I hate are her semi-self-centeredness [Lies.] and that voice she just used.

[I don't like this game anymore.]

Andrea and Alyson could both kill to know more about the now-infamous Ted Nugent concert.

Answers are in video-form!

Bill of Funny Accent Land inquires: I would like to know which episode of Degrassi is Henry’s favorite.

Henry, laughing in disgust: I don’t HAVE any favorite episodes.

Erin: Not even the one where Paige gets raped by the frat boy? Is that what they’re called in Canada?

Henry: What? Which one is that?

Erin: Well, it’s the one where Paige gets raped by the frat boy.

Henry, pretending like he remembers: Oh. No. I don’t know, I never pay attention to it!

Erin: Then why did you cry when Jimmy got capped?!

Henry: I did not cry.
****
More answers later!

It’s amazing he answered any at all after I fake-broke up with him Friday morning and caused him all kinds of duress.

The Penguins were playing the Capitals on Sunday afternoon and as much as I love skating, I love my hockey more; I made the executive decision to go skating on Saturday afternoon instead, and it turned out to be one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had, next to the creation of America’s most underrated sport (Thingieball), baking vaginal malady cookies, and touring in no particular order: Mystery Hole, Christ in the Smokies, and the Bayernhof Music Museum, which I try to name-drop every chance I get just so Andrea will be reminded of it every time she visits Oh Honestly, Erin.

(I heard Dick the Tour Guide even sent her a post card.)

“Why was it the best idea ever, Erin?” Oh, only because all the assholes stayed home, leaving me with all sorts of open rink space to jam out on.

This may have less to do with it being Saturday and more to do with the fact that there was an ice storm the night before. Either way, I was really feeling my groove that afternoon and made sure to openly gush about it to Henry, which always makes him scowl because he’s allergic to my four-wheeled braggadocia.

It didn’t seem like it was going to be a good skate session in the beginning, when my rentals ended up having two different-sized tongues. And one of them had shorter laces which needed to be tied lower than the other! Two really disconcerting flaws for someone who nitpicks every little thing that is put upon her person.

So for the first time ever, I had to return a pair of skates at the Rollerdrome. The new owner seemed annoyed by this, but I noticed that there were other people returning skates too so, I don’t know, MAYBE IT’S HIS PROBLEM AND NOT OURS.

The second pair of skates had adequate symmetrical properties, but the wheels were all fucked up and making me feet turn out against their will. I kept gliding over to Henry to bitch about it, at which point he would make the audacious suggestion that this was all in my head.

“Just keep skating. You’ll wear them in,” he shouted over Roller DJ’s meticulously crafted Top 40 playlist. This angered me. I wanted Henry to acknowledge my plight, to halt his Opie of Mayberry nerd patrol promenade around the rink and get to the bottom of my wonky wheels. I wanted him to march up to the skate rental counter and demand an oil can and a Billy Joel-approved red paisley handkerchief for him to adequately service his Uptown Girl’s brokedown quads.

But he did none of those things so I skated off the rink in a huff and pretended like I was just going to go home, which made him rant about how I waste money and OK FUCKER I WILL SKATE OUT THE KINKS, HAPPY NOW?!

And I did just that – took my temper, my indignation, my scrappy determination, and my catawampus-wheeled skates back on the rink. The kinks never really worked themselves out, but my desire to hedgeclip Henry’s scrotum did, and I guess that’s the important part.

Usually during intermission, Roller DJ plays a “Grease” medley and I just absolutely can’t stand “Grease” songs, which is weird because I love ONJ. But I mean, if you’re going to go that route, why not tip your hat to “Xanadu” and spin some “Magic,” Roller DJ? Plus, intermission equates “reverse skate,” and for some reason, I lose my bearings going clockwise around the rink, so I usually just sit it out. But last Saturday, Roller DJ dissed all the “Grease” fans and played normal music, which culminated at the end in a riveting romp through “YMCA.” I don’t know why this tickled me so, but I was so hyperbolically animated out there, it was probably embarrassing for all.

Meanwhile, Henry skipped out on his theme song and called all his make believe friends on his make believe phone to tell them about his new hair cut. Goodbye, flowing McNichol-locks, hello Mr. Belvehair.

(It only really bears a loose resemblance to Mr. Belvedere’s ‘do, so I don’t know why I said that other than the fact that Henry actually is the not-as-well-dressed Mr. Belvedere of our house.)

In other rink happenings, there was this stout lady in a purple sweater who was obviously some washed-up competition queen because she was doing all kinds of old school moves, but not the awesome soul skate jam moves. These were more “uptight cracker in a unitard skating a solo to Belinda Carlisle” calculated steps. My personal favorite was when she would squat down real low, prop her elbows on her inner thighs, and glide around the corners like it was some uncomfortable skate dance choreography for child birth. The fact that she was at least my age and fatter than me, and still out there doing her thing made me feel this really weird, awkward sensation. I realized later that it was what you people call “respect.” So while Henry, Chooch and I were sitting out during Backward Skate, I mused out loud that I wanted to talk to her.

“What, you HATE her?” Chooch asked, mishearing me as usual.

“No! NO NO NO, god no. I said I want to TALK to her,” I broke my neck to correct him. I’ve learned my lesson enough times now to know never to say anything disparaging in front of Chooch because he is a direct pipeline to the National Enquirer. (Sadly, it took me more than once to finally learn my lesson. But you’re not surprised.)

Also during Backward Skate, I fell in love with a ROLLERBLADER. I know, I was just as disgusted with myself! But to be fair, he had on pro blades, not those clunky plastic boots, and he was straight stuntin’. He obviously is a hockey player and as soon as I make sure he’s at least 18, I’m going to marry him. Or at least take him in the alley out back.

Highlight of the day: Roller DJ announced it was Guy’s Choice and I dejectedly skated off the rink. Even if Henry and I were there alone, he would never choose me. I bore his child, and he still won’t choose me. (ERIN, ARE YOU STILL TALKING ABOUT SKATING?) I’m sitting there alone on the bench when a grubby little hand juts out toward me and there’s Chooch, standing there saying, “Come on, Mommy!”

“You choose me?” I asked, all surprised and emotional. He gave me this look that asked, “Are you coming or not?” So I took his sweaty hand and we skated together to Bruno Mars and it was pretty much the most adorable thing ever. Chooch and I get along really well when we’re skating. It’s not until we get in the car that we start bickering like siblings. And he is getting so good at skating! He’s basically out there on his own all the time now and I don’t think he fell at all this time.

I like to think he aspires to be as excelsior as his mother. (Reminder: he was not adopted.)

Then it was time for the Pepsi Challenge! Which is really just Four Corners sponsored by Pepsi, unbeknowst to them I’m sure. I almost didn’t participate because the song was some nauseating Katy Perry joint (the second Pukey Perry* song of the session, I was very displeased) but it’s a good thing I’m trained in blocking out her eye-crossing caterwauls because my corner won, bitches!

*(This is totally what I would have gotten everyone to call her if we were I. 4th grade together.)

I think there were 5 of us in all who got a ticket for a free Pepsi in the snack room. Henry skated over to me and with his lips perverted in that signature smirk of his, he said, “Gee, I’m sure Roller DJ choosing your corner as the winner had NOTHING to do with you.”

“Well, duh,” I said. Hey, some dudes are stupid enough to think I’m cute, OK? And if they want to give me free Pepsi products, I’ll take it, because I know my goods are way too damaged to score much better than a paper cup of carbonation. SO LET ME HAVE MY MOMENT, HENRY.

We stopped in the snack room on the way out so I could cash in my winnings. The owner’s wife took the coupon away from me before I had a chance to take a picture of it, which honestly left me feeling paralyzed because I have to take pictures of EVERYTHING. I guess I’ll just have to try to win again next weekend.

I was sitting at a table with Henry and Chooch, sipping my free Mountain Dew, when Chooch loudly exclaimed, “MOMMY! THERE’S THAT LADY YOU WANT TO TALK TO!” I started to slowly turn around, hoping that maybe she was outside of the snack room, or had ear plugs in, or just had her ears lopped off entirely by Jason Voorhees, but no such luck. She was literally right next to my shoulder. She looked down at me and smiled and waited expectantly. It was the longest, most pregnant pause of my life. I just stared back at her dumbly before finally sputtering some jumbled superlatives at her face, in the same way I do to guys in bands (“YOUWEREREALLYAWESOMETONIGHTTHANKSBYE”) but instead of bursting into tears and running away in the style of Phoebe Buffay, I simply returned to my free drink.

Thank god I was able to convince Chooch that I hadn’t actually said I hated her.

“I should have asked to be my mentor!” I wailed minutes later, when we were already in the car on our way home.

After my skate exchange earlier in the session, the owner (Henry is totally on the “‘Sup, cuz!” level with him now and it’s so irritating) gave me a skate catalogue and in a tired voice said, “Please, just please come talk to me before you buy a pair. I’ll help you.” I think I’m totally getting the purple ones with green wheels. That is, if my fickle feet can even tolerate low-tops.

Someday, I’m going to own my own rink. And I’m going to have bands play there. You just wait and see.