Oh Honestly Erin

LiveJournal Icon Nostalgia and Pining

LiveJournal Repost, nostalgia, Obsessions

Jan 192012

Most of you guys that read this thing know me from LiveJournal. Remember my icons? Motherfucker, do I miss them. I wish I could use them on here.

This was one I used for my fake journal about Sam, an amputated leg:

I showed Carey that one at work just now and she said there is something wrong with me, which means she’s jealous that she doesn’t have a friend like Sam, who obviously loved to loaf with rollerskates.

Some of my favorites from Henry’s fake journal:

Henry really loved his ex-Faygo boss, Ted. You know who else he loved? Some goddamn John Black:

Here are some of my favorites from my main LiveJournal. Goddamn, do I miss them.

Jumping B-Listers:

Before Jonny Craig, I had the hots for Danny Bonaduce:

This one makes no sense other than to illustrate my hatred for Angelina Jolie. (TEAM ANISTON ALWAYS):

Not only do I <3 OJ, but I also cure herpes:

Tammy Faye shout out:

This was inspired by a daydream I once had and used to make Chooch cry:

I really liked Bob Uecker:

Keeping the killers close to my heart:

If anyone knows of a way I can incorporate these into WordPress, please holla. I miss them so much and if I had a use for them, I would start making more and more and MORE AND MORE MOREMOREMORE.

(I ate a candy bar a little while ago and my brain is now spinning wildly out of control.)

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It’s poonch-key time, “yinz”

Uncategorized

Jan 192012

Took a short walk around the neighborhood today and I feel so much better about my life. Oh, Brookline. Please don’t ever change.

And before you ask, “WTF is a paczki?” I am no authority. I’ve had them once and it’s some weird, seasonal fried dough bullshit that Polish people eat. And there are a lot of Polish people in Pittsburgh. In fact, I think I even might be Polish after 32 years of drinking the water.

I have a real love/hate relationship with my city. Love the hockey team, hate the football team. Love the blossoming art scene, hate the pathetic music scene. Love the architecture, the history, the quirky independent restaurants and shops, but sometimes I REALLY hate the people and their fucking Yinzer-speak. (Yinzers are Pittsburgh natives who speak Pittsburgh English.) I must have grown up just far enough south in the suburbs to escape it (though I know some people who grew up in neighboring boroughs that are practically drowning on the dialect), and for that I am thankful. I do say gumband instead of rubber band; and growing up, I would totally choose “pop” in lieu of “soda,” but now I reject them both and just say “beverage.”

Yesterday at work, some of my co-workers were having a conversation which quickly nose-dived into fake Yinzer-speak. “I officially hate this conversation!” I declared, walking away. Don’t get me wrong, I was laughing about it, not being some overly-sensitive bitch. It’s not like my co-workers are now afraid to talk around me, like I keep shivs with the word “Yinzer” on them taped beneath my desk for that one day where I hear one “jagoff” too many.

And it’s not that I hate the people who live here. I just hate the impression of ignorance that this dialect gives off. It literally sounds like everyone is drunk ALL OF THE TIME. And I know they can’t help it! Their parents spoke that way, and their grandparents spoke that way, etc etc. One of my co-workers has a daughter around Chooch’s age, and she told me yesterday that she is actively working to prevent the dialect from cropping up in her.

Even when people are just mimicking it, while it is pretty funny, it still goes right through me like the cries of a colicky baby.

I was making a video of things around town for my friend who lived in Ireland. One night, I was forcing my favorite gas station work, Mitul, to contribute something to the video. Just then, a drunk man in his late 30s/early 40s came staggering into the Pleasant Hills Sunoco to purchase cigarettes and I knew, I just KNEW, he would agree to be filmed. I was right, and what came next was the most ridiculous, stereotypical “commercial” for Pittsburgh. First of all, he sported a Pittsburgh mullet and was wearing some random landscaping company t-shirt. LIterally all he said was, “If you like to drink beer and have a good time, come to Pittsburgh!” in the most grotesque, throat-scraping Pittsburghese of all time. I stopped recording and thanked him for being the perfect representation of our city.

I never did send her that video.

When my friend Matt stopped over in Pittsburgh a few years ago during a road trip out west, he teased me mercilessly for days about how backwards Pittsburgh is. That was his perception, in two short days: that people wear Steelers-logo’d Jamz and Crocs to the grocery store, eat nothing but Primantis, and women still wear banana clips in their feathered, frosted manes. And I imagine that this is the general conception for people who don’t spend enough in this city to realize that there is more to it than just Yinzers. In fact, that stereotype probably doesn’t even make up that much of the population, but it’s unfortunately what stands out. Never mind the fact that we have fantastic universities (hello, Annie on 90210 is going to CARNEGIE MELLON so you know it’s elite), museums, cathedrals, HEINZ KETCHUP WAS BORN HERE YOU GUYS. And let’s not forget the goddamn Bayernhof Music Museum!

I guess all I’m saying is that, like most other cities I’m sure, Pittsburgh has some shit working against it, but it really is a pretty charming place. If you can get past the fact that people want to call you “yinz” and verbally assault you for not liking the Steelers.

[Disclaimer: I did not wake up this morning with any intention to denigrate my city, nor do I hate anyone based on how they talk---except for the ones who tell me I don't belong in this city because I hate the Steelers---but these are just some of the things I was thinking about when I was walking around Brookline this morning. And now you are subjected to it. Thanks! I feel so much better now.]

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Chooch Learns to Skate (But Not Better Than Me)

chooch, roller skating

Jan 182012

I’m not really sure what changed in Chooch, if maybe enough time had passed for him to genuinely want to give roller skating another try, or if he was adopting the old If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em mentality, but he is a skating fool all of a sudden. After we returned to the rink two weekends ago after a long hiatus and saw that he was refusing to have his hand held, we decided that maybe a few lessons might benefit him.
“What are you going to do when he becomes better than you?” Wendy asked me in a taunting tone at work last week.

“Um, like that would ever happen,” I shot back, but I have to be honest here and say that I blanched a little. This is a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me!

Lessons are only $4.50 and then everyone gets to skate freely until the Saturday night session starts. I’m tempted to take lessons just so I can take advantage of that beautiful, open rink. And maybe learn how to do spins and twirls.

Before the lesson started, all the kids were permitted to stumble around on their own. I was actually surprised that Chooch took to the rink without even a hesitant glance over his shoulder. Kid completely didn’t give a shit that Henry and I weren’t skating with him. I think I was only surprised because I always project a little bit of myself onto him only to be reminded that my kid has way more confidence than I do.

I call this video Why Henry is Not a Skate Instructor:

This video was filmed pre-lesson. By the time the lesson was over, he had improved by leaps and bounds, was scissoring and doing cross-overs (albeit a little shakily, but the instructor said she was proud of him for trying, since it was his first lesson).

There were some dicks in the group of kids, I’m not going to lie. Henry might yell at me for calling them dicks, but deep down, even he can’t deny that they were totally bastards. This clearly wasn’t their first lesson and their parents clearly knew someone affiliated with the rink, because they were acting like complete elitist motherfuckers and yes, my hate extends to children; I don’t age discriminate. Just being in the single digits doesn’t give you a free ride in my blog of wrath.

Roller DJ was there! He got settled in his DJ booth and then came over and sat with me for the rest of the lesson and at first I was all, “Yes! Now I can sit here and take clandestine photos of him!” but after about 5 minutes of him lecturing me for not coming out enough and how irritating it is to him when kids request songs that JUST AREN’T SKATEABLE!, his follicular mushroom cloud novelty had dissipated and I had resorted to squirming on the bench in awkward imprisonment.

(I would like to take this moment to thank Henry for completely ditching me as soon as Roller DJ sat down. Fucking dick.)

Goddamn, do I love that rink, and now Chooch does, too. Finally. I’m going to start schmoozing* the new owner so he’ll leave the rink to me in his Will.

*(I have ways.)

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FML: Otherwise known as The Day I Brought Chooch to Work

chooch, Reporting from Work

Jan 162012

The U.S. offices of the Law Firm are all closed for Martin Luther King, Jr. day, but our department stayed open with a small staff to cater to all the European, etc. offices. I was one of the suckers who agreed to come in because it’s extra money, and what would I be doing anyway? I’ll tell you what — sitting at home and calling Henry every 15 minutes to see when he’s going to be done with work. So why not give Henry a bit of a reprieve while making some extra money, I guess, right?

The problem is that this special Fuck the Holiday shift starts at 7am. As you may know, I’m accustomed to working 4pm-9pm, so the whole getting here part was kind of stressful and included a lot of whining and whimpering.

The other problem is that Chooch doesn’t have school today. I attempted for a minute to use him as my scapegoat (“But what will I do with the babe?!”) except everyone was like, “WHY, BRING HIM IN!” I figured maybe this would be OK since there are only 5 of us in the office today.

Even though we packed Chooch’s Darth Vader backpack full of activity books and other Kindergarten fare, he declared within 30 minutes that he was bored and requested to go home.

JOIN THE CLUB, KID. THIS IS YOUR FUTURE.

This was all pre-8am, when the novelty of sitting in the empty desk behind mommy was still fresh and made him feel cool. But then he quickly realized that mommy’s job is pretty dry and uneventful, so he started creeping around and scaring my co-workers, which is hard to do when you work in a building full of reflective glass.

My serial killer coloring book kept him occupied for awhile. The middle finger pose is totally unintentional, by the way. This is one of the few obscene things he’s yet to learn. He’d rather just use his words to express his anger and disdain for society.

Oh, and then I lost him for awhile! That was really fun. I searched everyone’s office on my side of the floor before discovering that he was hiding in the small closet attached to the desk behind me the whole time. I wanted to fucking kill him.

However, it did last an entire 2 hours before he tried to color my white desk, so that was pretty impressive.

I just lost half of my donut in my coffee — THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER.

2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go.

****

45 minutes to go. In an effort to keep us distracted & prevent Chooch from potential rubberband burn (he has himself rubberbanded to his chair, don’t ask), I suggested that we look at pictures of Jonny Craig.

“Oh great. Just like we’re at home,” Chooch deadpanned.

So instead, he drew a picture of John Wayne Gacy for Wendy, who LOVES CLOWNS.

(She does not love clowns.)

Now we’re giving ourselves makeovers with office supplies. I currently have a large binder clip in my hair. I am so far ahead of you, Milan.

Gotta go. Some asshole just flagellated himself with a giant rubberband. DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

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Some Sunday Imagery

Photographizzle

Jan 152012

My Lame Bio

Lots of roller skating funnery to blog about, but first I got some photos to dump.

Breakfast Brats

Had breakfast with Tommy & Jessy. I’m so glad to have those two around again. It’s nice to have “family days.” Meanwhile, Chooch the Creep took eight pictures of Tommy with my phone.

1 of 8

After breakfast, we went to Trax Farms so I could fawn over the apples. Henry is trying to get me to understand that apple season is over but I still throw tantrums when I go somewhere and I see the same old boring apples.

“I ALREADY KNOW ABOUT GALAS AND FUJIS! I WANT SOMETHING NEW!”

“APPLE SEASON IS GODDAMN OVER! LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS!”

This is really how Henry and I talk to each other in public: emphatic screams.

AN APPLE CONVEYOR BELT! I want one in my house that goes straight to my mouth. Bitch.

And then I ran my hands lustfully over top the waxy bodies of cheese. God, I love cheese so much it’s painful. Literally.

And then and then and then! Chooch bought me the most awesome ring, the end.

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Snaps for Saturday

Uncategorized

Jan 142012

Today has been full of languishing on the couch catching up with Jersey Shore eps (you know, to keep current with my pop culture references) & watching Henry fulfill non compos cards serial killer Valentine orders while making him listen to music he hates.

We’re taking Chooch to get skating lessons in about an hour, but other than that, I’ve got nothing for you but these three pictures:

Chooch is REALLY into LMFAO

My friend Terry felt there needed to be a side-by-side comparison of my Henry-inspired nail art.

Chooch pulled a sneak attack on me yesterday before I left for work, which I did not appreciate but am thankful I don’t look like my usual Sloth twin.

Well….on second thought.

Hope everyone’s having a delightful weekend!

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become beauty: An Honest Review

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Jan 132012

A couple years ago, I was in the skincare aisle at CVS with one of my friends.

“We’re going to start needing stuff like this soon,” she said, rolling a small jar of Estée Lauder anti-aging cream in her palm like a Ben Wa ball.

No, I argued. Our grandmas use that shit. We’re much too young! Not even thirty!

Well, now I’m 32, and while my mentality and maturity might still be hanging out with the sixteen-year-olds, my skin is starting to catch up to my factual age. While it’s not exactly a catch-all for wrinkles and liver spots, it’s certainly lost some of that sweet tautness it once knew a decade ago; also factor in the maniac 5-year-old boy I’m raising + all those years on the stripper pole*, and you just know the worry lines are right around the corner.

*(This is A Joke.)

So when my friend Lindsay started selling become beauty products and offered to send me a weekender sample kit, I said why the hell not. Plus, I’ve known Lindsay since high school and she’s never struck me as the type to one day turn into some chirpy Mary Kay hyper-fanatic, cruising around town in her pink Cadillac. So for her to actually be selling these products and raving about them on the daily, well, it piqued my interest because she’s not a bullshitter.

Besides, Lindsay doesn’t look a day over 25 and who the hell wouldn’t want that for themselves?

The kit had a wide range of product samples, from cleanser to toner to eye cream. The first thing I noticed when I tried the cleanser on my face was the smell. It was this delightful, light floral fragrance that was completely free of any of those harsh alcohol or medicinal odors that are commonly added to skincare products. (Remember Seabreeze? That shit doubled as smelling salts.)

As I worked my way through the line of samples that morning, I could actually start to feel my skin rebounding and tightening, and if it was a scene in a cartoon it would have come complete with a boinging sound. My pores looked smaller, too, which sucks for the elves who use them as cereal bowls while I sleep at night.

This stuff is made in Australia and has all kinds of juicy extracts of Jojoba, Australian Daisy, green tea, rosemary and pineapple, which outweigh all the crazy sesquipedalian-esque chemicals which you should never try to sound out in front of a Bulgarian lest you know the safe word.

My main skin issue is that it’s oily; on a normal day, I have the identical sebaceous sheen on my face as someone who had spent all day digging ditches with prosthetic legs in Kuala Lumpur. I spend half my day maniacally blotting and powdering, and I still look like a glazed ham by the end of the night.

The day I used the become samples, my skin stayed supple (yes, I went there) and not once did anyone come at my face with fresh hunks of Italian bread.

Later, Lindsay sent me this little sample jar of Reveal Enzyme Peel. In the morning, I smeared a small amount onto my dry, unwashed face and just started rubbing and rubbing it in until it starts gently sloughing up dead skin, which I could actually feel happening and it’s so cool. I’ve been using it every other day since last Friday and I still have some left, that’s how little is needed. I just used it a little while ago and I literally keep pausing to touch my face. IT IS SO SOFT, YOU GUYS. Piss off, dead skin; go get sprinkled on a cupcake by a cannibal.

My favorite product is the Age Resistant Color Therapy Mask. It comes in two pieces: one for the forehead and one for the lower portion of your face. How convenient! A facial mask that doesn’t get all over your fingers, hair and tentacles! The backing film peels off easily, leaving a thick, viscous orange layer which gently adheres to your face and then, well, that’s it. No need to make sure you evenly applied some gross, sticky gel or stinky clay. Set your timers, ladies; your work is done.

I kept the mask on for 20 minutes and loved every minute of it. Unlike other facial masks, which harden and make it physically impossible to activate any of your facial muscles, this mask flexed along with my face, allowing me to talk, smile and even get in a quick didgeridoo practice. I sat on the couch, delighting in the sweet ambrosia bouquet stuck like gentle leeches upon my face flesh, while relishing the fact that I looked like John Black when his face was wrapped in bandages on Days of Our Lives. (Sadly, today is not the first time I attempted to Google an image of this, and failed.)

(I love a good DAYS reference.)

Just watching some Friends reruns and trying to remember my identity; ‘sup with you?

This mask is, in a word, awesome. I didn’t have to worry about accidentally swiping my hand across my face, leaving it feeling like I just dunked it in a honey pot. And when the 20 minutes was up, I easily and effectively peeled off the two pieces in one fell swoop, pitched it in the garbage, and was left with a face that had the texture of porcelain. No tedious peeling of a now-dry gel mask from my cheeks or trying to scrub hardened clay from my eyebrows and beneath my nostrils. The Color Therapy mask left nothing behind, not even the smallest jelly shrapnel. Literally — all that sweet-smelling glutinous orange putty was gone; my skin drank that stuff faster than Snooki drinks coconut rum.

And it didn’t leave me with that “Just Windex’d” rubber-rubbing sensation when I touched my face like some products do. It was just completely soft and my complexion was positively dewy. I hate using all these beauty product clichés, but my skin honestly felt replenished and hydrated, and there’s just no jerky way to say that.

This stuff isn’t cheap, but if you’re serious about changing your skin, it’s worth it. I mean, I’m a tightwad, and I have totally put my stamp of approval on become. Want to see for yourself? Let Lindsay help you!

(And no, Lindsay didn’t dangle locks of Jonny Craig’s hair in front of my face or otherwise bribe me in any way to write this review other than sending me the aforementioned samples, though I suppose she could have at least thrown in a cupcake. Now I want a cupcake! Without the dead skin sprinkles, please.)

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I GOT AN APPLE DOLL!!!

Uncategorized

Jan 122012

I was sitting here watching “Friends” (I have a rough life) when I heard the UPS man drop a package between the front doors, at which point I then heard a tinny Spanish children’s song cue up. I thought it was the UPS man’s cell phone and started to laugh, but when I opened the door to get the package, I realized it was coming from inside the box.

Whatever it was, I loved it already.

And then, from within the box, I pulled out the most amazing APPLE DOLL.

Jesus, I love it so much. Thank you, Andrea and Amanda! Marcy loves it too!

(Someday I’ll remember to hold my phone horizontally.)

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Return to Roller Skating

roller skating

Jan 112012

I haven’t been rollerskating since I dragged a visiting Andrea there last September. We’re always so busy trying to get the most out of the fall weather that we just can’t fit rollerskating into our Sunday schedules. And then comes the fucking holiday season, which is even more manic. All throughout December, I kept saying to Henry, “I just can’t wait for this shit to be over so we can go back to skating regularly.” Thank god for winter! (I never in a million years would have imagined my fingers would type that horrible sentence.)

Henry still has to lace my skates for me. And since Chooch actually wanted to come with us this time, he had to lace his too. I was angry that he laced Chooch’s first. What a fucking slap to the face.

Our absence did not go unnoticed by Roller DJ, who lectured and guilted me from his DJ Booth Throne. He kept reminding me that we could have come out on Saturday nights, but let me tell you something about Saturday nights at the roller rink: They fucking suck and remind me over and over again how much I really loathe the human race. It was a Saturday night when I took Andrea there in September and it was just miserable. There were some cool jammers there, but the ratio of decent humans to fucking idiotic teenagers was way too imbalanced to ever get me to come back. The whole time I was skating, I could just sense that they were ridiculing me, like I was in a bad anti-bullying promo on MTV. And then Andrea fell and they really did openly ridicule her.

“The clubs are still open after the Saturday night session is over! Come skate, then go to the club!” he retorted.

Because I really look like a club kid, I guess. Must be those shapeless jeans and hoodies I commonly wear to the rink.

“I usually have other obligations on Saturday nights,” I blurted out to Roller DJ, who was really applying the pressure.

“What’s his name?” he laughed.

“What? Oh my god, no! I’m not talking about a guy,” I yelled.

“So then what’s her name?” he asked under a glaze of chauvinistic slime.

“Goodbye, Roller DJ!” I half-sang, stepping onto the rink.

I really missed our talks.

Chooch seemed pretty perplexed when he saw me loitering by the DJ booth.

“Mommy, who were you talking to?” he cried, probably because he’s so used to me shirking away from even the flimsiest social altercation. I explained to him Roller DJ’s purpose and told him that if there was a song he wanted to hear, he could ask Roller DJ to play it.

“Do you think he’ll play ‘Party Rock’?” he asked all seriously. “Go tell him to play it.” He’s going through a heavy (and alarming) LMFAO phase. I probably shouldn’t have bought him their most recent CD for Christmas, which came with a large temporary tattoo that has been on his stomach for the last week. He likes to flash it at school so his classmates will know that he’s sorry for party rocking.

“I’m sure he’s going to play it at some point,” I said before leaving Chooch in my dust. I had some serious child-slaloming to partake in.

Something happened since the last time Chooch was there in August; I’m not sure what exactly, but it changed him. He actually wanted to skate as opposed to sitting on the bench, draining my phone’s battery. Most of the time, Henry wasn’t even holding his hand on the rink. And he was skating, really skating, not stumble-walking along the wall like he would normally surrender to. I was so fucking proud. This of course is no thanks to me, because I’m always too preoccupied with skating as fast as I can to be bothered to slow down and lend my child a hand.

Henry is always saying, “Why don’t you teach him? He should learn from you,” clearly acknowledging that I’m the more excelsior skater in the family. But I’m always trying to remind him that I don’t know how to teach someone to skate, since I was born with all of the skillz. No one had to teach me! I just put skates one day and knew.

This always makes Henry roll his eyes. I guess the truth annoys him.

Eventually, Chooch skated over to me and said, with an exasperated sigh, “Fine. Take me over to Roller DJ.” So I led him over to the music booth and Chooch yelled up to him, “Are you going to play Party Rock?” and just his tone alone was priceless, like he was so annoyed that he even had to ask such a stupid question.

“I got it coming on, buddy,” Roller DJ assured him, and Chooch made one more agrivated sigh before skating back out onto the rink. Sure enough, “Party Rock” was the next song to come on and Chooch erupted into this hearty cheer, but then caught himself and bit his lip in embarrassment, like he was ashamed or something. I was like, “No dude, BE HAPPY! CHEER! It’s OK!” It was the most awesome thing ever to witness my kid getting that first taste of music request fulfillment. The music is the best part of skating! I can still remember getting so excited to hear New Edition or Michael Jackson, Tears For Fears or Men At Work when I was in elementary school and tearin’ it up at Spinning Wheels. Nothing* beats that rush of hearing the first couple of notes of your jam.

*(Except for maybe if Jonny Craig was there singing my jams to me personally.)

(Oh god, Jonny Craig.)

At my birthday party last summer, every single song that came on that night was one of my jams. It was the most amazing skating experience of my life. You don’t go to a regular skate session and get to do laps to Dance Gavin Dance or Billy Ocean. It was such a perfectly schizophrenic mix of music.

And now my kid is finally starting to get it.

Earlier in the skate session, Chooch was sitting at the table right near the refreshment counter and decided quite early on that he couldn’t stand the way one of the employees was yelling “PIZZA!” every time a new slice was ready to be claimed. Eventually, he started mocking her loudly enough that we had to take him back out to the rink. He was SO PISSED about her pizza caterwauling and was acting like an elderly man about it. You have to admire a 5-year-old with balls.

We were in the snack room again when Roller DJ announced that it was time for the next Couple Skate just as the opening bassline of Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” began pulsating through the roller drome. I lost my shit right then and there, in the snack room, in front of a herd of Orange Crush-stained children. Completely threw my arms up and yelled, “Are you fucking kidding me?” That is one of my favorite slow jams OF ALL TIME and I had to miss skating to it because when Chooch is with us, the term “couple” gets chucked right out thw window. Not that we’re the definition of it when we’re without him, but at least then we can actually pretend to skate close so I don’t have to miss out on cruising beneath rainbow track lights to some hot sex ballad.

When Chooch is with us, we have to forfit our right to indulge in such frivolous acts of amour because we can’t very well leave a 5-year-old unattended on the bench. I mean, I suppose we could. But that’s not the sort of parental class I want to be a card-carrier for.

So instead, I sit around and stew and make my kid feel like shit for being born all because mama can’t skate to motherfucking Mr. Mister.

Henry was irritated that he’d have to take off his hat at the rink, lest he get the whistle blown on him, so he started practicing taking it off in the car. God Henry, what’s the point of having Kristy McNichol locks if you’re not going to let them flow freely?

The rink ref from my birthday party was there on Sunday. We exchanged pleasant smiles and a quick salutation as we whirled past each other, acknowledging that we did indeed recognize one another, but he and Henry totally bro’d out, slapped each other on the backs, exchanged knowing glances and head nods, acted like this was the sweetest reunion of their lives. Boys are so fucking weird.

It happened during one of the 18 & up skates. Henry and Chooch were spectating from the bench as I skated around with all the other accomplished and capable adult skaters in an indulgent anti-children glory. That’s when I saw him, that bald-headed sweat fountain who kept trying to court me on quads during the last adult skate Henry and I attended last spring. Oh, I wanted to die. I just kept praying he didn’t see me, kept trying to make a beard with my hair to disguise myself, wishing for a level to pull to open up the floor beneath me and shoot me off to a preferable hell.

Of course we made eye contact and he kept trying to skate up next to me like this was some low-budget student production of Xanadu and we were mere pawns in some greater love story. It’s easy to fall prey to the 1980s fluorescent romanticism of roller skating—Christ, HENRY looks attractive to me out there on the rink—but I was already duped by this flashy jammer once and I was not going to let him reel me again.

Not even when he did a FLIP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RINK, YOU GUYS.

Didn’t do a thing for me.

Not a thing.

All the little pre-pubescent girls kneeling on the benches squealed in delight though.

Imagine an afterschool special where some Opie motherfucker NARCs on all the cool kids smoking in the roller rink bathroom, starring Henry McNichol-hair as the Opie NARC motherfucker. That’s what flashes through my brain every time I see Henry rollerskating.

I want to write about all the people there I hated, but I will keep it to myself, lest I get another disappointed Tweeter telling me they hope I find happiness someday. I apparently give off the impression that I am very embittered. But now that I think about it, there really weren’t too many people I hated. I mean, aside from the kids, but that’s a given. You are reading Oh Honestly, Erin, after all.

However, there was a lady when we first got there that gave me the stink eye a few times, causing me to say loudly to Henry, “That broad is going to look at me one more t ime…” which in turn made Chooch stand up, crane his head all around, and yell, “What broad, mommy? That one? Where, mommy? WHAT BROAD, MOMMY?”

Aside from learning that there probably won’t be any adult nights under the new ownership (I am so full of dislike over this), it felt so good to be there again, especially now that Chooch genuinely likes it and even said he wants to have his birthday party there. A bunch of Kindergartners (and Barb) sprawled out on the rink like pins in a round of human bowling—should be a good time.

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Wordless Wednesday:Things I Need Everyday

Wordless Wednesday

Jan 112012

I’m still going apeshit over apples. I forgot to bring my 7pm apple to work the other night and was absolutely freaking out over it, so the next day, an anonymous apple was lounging on my desk. Turns out it was from Barb, who was wracked with guilt after she got my kid gloves and NOTHING for me.

I would shank an orphan for a cup of coffee, that’s how dependent I am on it. Yesterday, I met my oldest friend (not in the sense that she’s a 300-year-old vampire) Christy for lunch at Pamela’s. She’s been perpetually late ever since I’ve known her (since we were 4!) but I still left my house on time because I wanted some goddamn coffee. I had already gone through most of a carafe by the time she arrived (she has an almost-3-year-old and 1-year-old twins; she’s allowed to be late, y’all).

Christy—who is also Chooch’s godmother—& I don’t see each other nearly enough but we always pick right back up. I don’t know why this was so funny to me, but she was talking about how she felt guilted into signing up for Build a Bear emails after her daughter built one, and now their updates are usurping her inbox. “I mean, how many bears is a person really going to build?” she said so earnestly that I had to put my head down because I was laughing so hard.

Let it also be known that she chose a Poor Henry pin with NO HESITATION.

This concludes another edition of Wordless Wednesday completely hijacked by my idiot words.

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More Blog Promo Cards

Uncategorized

Jan 102012

I’m having so much fun making these things! So many more to come.

I was going to write about roller skating, but Lee is on late shift tonight, distracting me with tales of how he used to beat up Juggalos, and now we’re listening to the Penguins game. I guess my new seat isn’t too bad.

[Ed.Note: The Juggalo rant is still going strong. Lee asked me to remind him how it even came up and I said, "Because you asked what Henry does for a living and I said he distributes Faygo. BLAME HENRY."]

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Wine, with a Side of Games

where i try to act social

Jan 092012

Saturday night was the first time ever that Henry and I hung out with Tommy and Jessy sans Chooch. It was a fucking miracle, really. But we left him at home with Henry’s mom, who likely regaled him with tales of alleyway hookers and god only knows what else, while we went off to try and remember what it’s like to hang out with other adults while drinking alcohol.

Or, in Henry’s case: he needed to try to (quickly) remember how to babysit me while we hang out with other adults (one of whom is just as immature as me) while drinking alcohol. In all fairness, I do not remember most of what happened that night, but I do know that Henry had me so concerned about it that I texted both Jessy and Tommy to preemptively apologize just in case it ever comes up in the future.

(They both said I was fine, so fuck you, Henry.)

I love that the meat was placed right next to me.

We hadn’t been there for more than 5 minutes before I had a gigantic glass of wine on my hand, courtesy of Tommy, so by the time Jessy pulled out Quelf and started reading the directions, I was already in a giggly trance. I do, however, remember Tommy saying that all the directions said were “Draw a card. Make fun of Erin.”

Henry had to wear a bib and then snort like a pig instead of laughing. Since Henry rarely laughs unless he’s watching Blue Collar Comedy (a lie, but you’d think it would be true, right?), there really wasn’t too much barnyard bacchanalia happening; but when he did snort, it was fucking outstanding. Since I had already gurgled a good full bottle of wine by the time Henry drew this card, I did not react with the appropriate level of hilarity. Instead, I turned into a giddy 8-year-old on a swingset with a limp-wristed hold of her motor skills and inadvertently kicked Tommy in the shins about 17 times in a row.

Sorry, Tommy.

This was pretty much how I looked too every time I had to read a card. Tommy served me a bottomless glass of wine. I don’t know how I didn’t puke everywhere or completely black out, but there are big chunks of the night that Henry was telling me about which I swear I wasn’t a part of. Like, I don’t remember Jessy purposely making her face up like Mimi until the next day when she posted a picture on Facebook.

Ballerina Tommy.

Pretending he can read.

I think Tommy’s expression mirrored my own at that point.

Henry had to wear lipstick as one of his punishments, like that’s even a stretch for him. He was pretty much like, “Oh thank God this is all I have to do for once.”

My favorite thing that Jessy had to do was stand in a corner and repeatedly say “Thank you sir, may I have another?” repeatedly, over top of the cacophony the rest of us were creating during our own turns.

Quelf is fucking ridiculous.

Tommy was drumming with tampons, but I can’t remember why.

Of course most of my challenges required me to sing and dance. It’s a good thing I suck at both, otehrwise it probably wouldn’t have been very funny for those jerks.

I just kept glugging away. Thanks, Tommy.

I don’t even need liquored up to act a fool, so I can only imagine how obnoxious I was being. Oh wait, I don’t have to imagine, since I have Henry to remind me over and over again.

I wasn’t sure if I was just randomly wearing this bowl as a helmet or if I was told to. I guess Quelf told me to so I did it. The bridge of my nose hurt the next day which made me remember the bowl slipping down my face a number of times.

I was about to pass out on their couch after somehow ending up outside, which was about the time Henry gripped me by the elbow and asked, “You ready?” but what he meant by that was, “I’m taking your drunk ass home before your set their house on fire, asshole.”

The next day, Henry made some comment on Facebook about how “it’s always a fun night when you have two drunk people and you’re sober.” Except he spelled it “your.”

Can’t wait to do this shit again, you guys!

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Jonny Interlude

chooch, Jonny Craig, music

Jan 092012

The sound on this is atrocious, but let’s be real for a minute: I’m not posting this for the song. This is one of my favorite videos to watch on YouTube because Jonny doesn’t look as much like a red neck crackhead for once. (Probably also because it’s from the 2008 Pierce the Veil tour where he was only a quarter of the hot mess he is today.)

Chooch stayed home from school today, and when I showed him this video on my phone, he sighed and half-sang, “It’s peanut butter Jonny time.”

***

Elsewhere in my pathetic existence, I have designed a total of 7 different blog promo cards. Anyone want a stack to help spread the word about some idiot’s mediocre blog? Comment here or email me your address and I’ll send you some: butgavincantdance@gmail.com

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Little Dribblers

chooch, Uncategorized

Jan 082012

I signed Chooch up for a K-2nd grade basketball clinic at the school. No one in our house has a particular fondness for basketball, but the kid needs some kind of winter activity. And it’s super convenient. You know, as convenient as RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET can be.

The coach is a dad of one of the girls in Chooch’s class, and the mom just so happens to be one of the few that I’ve allowed myself to socialize with since last year. They both seem like decent, inoffensive people so I was relieved to see that they’re behind this.

And I’m learning stuff too! For instance, the coach said at one point: “Yinz are only here for an hour, so yinz can all jag off with each other afterward.” Now, I am clearly a Pittsburghese dunce because I always thought that “jag off” was a noun, but I guess in some instances, a black-and-gold bleeder could also sling it as a VERB.

Oh, Pittsburgh.

Henry pretended to be a coach on the bleachers and I was like, “Come on, we all know you’re only qualified to coach shuffleboard at the senior center.”

It was mostly a train wreck out there. Chooch would do fairly well until he would look over at us and then break all concentration, or one of the coaches would approach him and his skills would automatically unravel.

Chooch’s gf Bria peaceful out halfway through. I was about to join her. Having to get up at 8:00am and walk ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE STREET had me so fatigued.

But Chooch seemed into it, and that’s really all we could ask for. Henry and I have both dropped the ball on signing Chooch up for sports in the past, so at least he has this for now. And then, if he’s anything like his mother, he’ll eventually realize that playing on a team is for suckers and then we can get him into tennis.