Jun 152009

I woke up Saturday feeling all sorts of socially anxious and testy. Nothing in particular happened, but I had a long week of potty-training and I think that combined with my usual stressors set off some sort of synaptical brush fire which desperately begged to be doused with wine. So I canceled all of my weekend plans and tried to shut off my brain.

Sunday morning, Henry suggested that I spend some time alone, since my biggest gripe is, “I NEVER GET ANY TIME ALONE, MOTHERFUCKER.” He whisked Chooch off and I did some shit on the computer, watched some embarrassing reality TV (seeing Hulk Hogan cry is even a little awkward for ME), and I modeled some clothes for the cats. Their stares were blank and peppered with undulating question marks.

I lasted three hours. No, two and a half. And then I was fidgeting and sick of being in the house and absolutely itching for something, anything, to do. Stewing in a mindless muck on junechooch3the couch does not become me. Henry and Chooch were summoned home, and we went for a little Sunday drive thing.

We ended up in some country-ghetto park out near Ambridge, PA. All the roads had clumbs of weeds ripping through the cracked asphalt and I’m fairly certain it is THE PERFECT place to don a letterman jacket and rape a bitch and I kept getting little chills molesting my spine, up and down and all around.

We found an isolated pavilion that had a rusty, rainbow-painted swing set and a SEESAW which I swear to God I haven’t seen a see saw in fucking ten years. I begged Henry to ‘saw with me and as soon as he had me in the air, I mean THE VERY SECOND my feet lost their position on the earth, I was in hysterics and screamed loudly, “PUT ME DOWN PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN I’M GONNA DIE PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN I JUST PEED.”

There were several chained off, overgrown roads that were surrounded on both sides by dark woods nd practically calling out to us to uncover the murders that have happened out there. I kept voicing scenarios out loud, forcing Henry to constantly remind me that our three-year-old was with us but really it was because I was unnerving him.


I totally can’t remember the name of this sad park, but I would like to be having my birthday party there. My Simulated Murder Birthday Party. I guess that will be next year’s big fete. Oh boy.


I like the outdoors, but only for a few minutes because then wildlife things start making my nose itch and I thought I kept hearing a chainsaw firing up in the near distance. I mean, I let out a blood-curdling cry that would rival that of any Scream Queen’s because a chipmunk poked his nose out from the bottom of a collection of wildflowers we were walking next to. A CHIPMUNK, not Leatherface.

But Chooch, he would live among milkweed (Henry just taught me that!!#@!) and jagger bushes if we let him. He’s probably going to want to go camping at some point. I hate camping (I’ve never been camping, but I just know that I will hate it). So then Henry will be all, “Here son, I’ll take you camping and we can leave Mommy at home to bake bread and darn our socks” and I’ll be damned if they’re going to go someplace alone where the possibility that they’ll talk about me is VERY REAL. I will start thinking now of ways to sabotage their camping trips. Those fuckers.


Then we left and Henry bought me Gobstoppers, even though I wanted Jawbreakers but he was all, “I haven’t seen real Jawbreakers in stores in a long time” and I said, “Bitch, then you best walk your elderly ass into a movie theater, mother fucker” but he laughed because apparently he thought I was joking.

  7 Responses to “Where my head explodes and then I don’t like the outdoors”

  1. me and chooch are going camping.
    to do some “man stuff”.
    and while im at it ill give him the sex talk.
    sounds like a good plan to me (:

  2. “I’ve never been camping, but I just know that I will hate it”

    yes! I share this idea
    welcome to Camp camp-hate. fuck camping. if i cant get a hot shower, you couldnt pay me to enjoy it

    oh yes, making canned beans is a million times better when you do it outside, getting raped by bugs, over raw fire. fuck camping. fuck it, i dont give a fuck.

    and then there are people who pack like all kinds of fancy gadgets so they get hot water and electricity and all kinds of shit and its like WHY even camp then? just sleep in a tent in your fucking room and if you want a bear scare ill break in your house dressed as one and maul you

    p.s. come visit me in sweden lololol dont bring henry. maybe chooch. but maybe chooch cant like sweden.

    p.p.s. since being here i have fallen in love no les than 50 times. there are hot people everywhere. im about to rape a bitch, swedish style

    • You and me? Meant to be friends.

      I mean, the whole tradition of sitting around a campfire, telling ghost stories and gorging on s’mores? That part sounds fabulous. I’d be down with doing something like that once every seven or so years, but then afterwards, I’ll get in my car and go home.

      However, I have never been able to make s’mores without burning myself on the marshmallow and then I always ending dropping 85% of it on the ground.

      So maybe I’ll just stay home altogether with a package of the microwaveable kinds, a Peter Straub book, and the Hellfire emanating from my Satanic cat Marcy’s eyes.

      P.S. I wish I was in Sweden too! Are you taking loads of pictures??

  3. Camping. VERY POO. Don’t bother going, it’s horrible. It’s freezing cold, with bugs and dirt.

    And wow, the pictures!!! Fucking awesome!! Riley looks a bit like Blake. :)

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