When Miles arrived at the warehouse full of wanna-bes pantomiming karate chops and roundhouses, his only hope was to land a small part in a new video game. Sure, like all the other struggling no-names at the audition, he went to bed every night praying to be the next Pacman, the second-coming of Frogger. But his ma taught him not to get too over zealous, to walk into situations with humble expectations. So, when Miles chose a seat near two anxious auditioners with perfectly coiffed, yet varying degrees of spiked hair,  he wasn’t aiming for lead character. Not yet. Maybe he’d be one of the easy-to-obliterate level one villains, or maybe he’d wind up as background filler; he didn’t care. It was his dream to be immortalized in pixels, undulating along through a 1980s Casio soundtrack, thick and saccharine like pudding. And then maybe one day, he could move up to the big time, rubbing elbows with Mario and knocking back whiskey with camo’d Commandos and Max Payne.

Yes, Miles decided to aim low in the beginning. And since his aim was low, he never expected to meet the love of his life there, sitting in the dingy waiting room among men who smelt of beef jerky and musty, damp locker rooms. But there she was – sassy Sissy Sparkleburg – pinching her cheeks to make them flush, sprinkling an extra dash of glitter in her hair. She was gunning for the love interest, the princess locked in a cage suspended above Satan’s jock at the end level of the game.

They left together, after the auditions, and went out for some sexy pasta and boxed wine. Neither of them got the part that day, but Sissy got a positive pregnancy result the next week.

Through Etsy, I’ve done several custom orders: Virgin Mary birthday cards; Charles Manson Christmas card; several cupcake couples; and even a sushi couple at the request of my friend Lauren, who is now engaged and I attribute it solely to the fact that once her boyfriend saw the two of them in sushi form, he knew he could never find another girl who looked so good with a face made of raw fish. You’re welcome, my friend.

But recently I got a request from a local girl to make a larger version of one of my miniature monsters, and she just happened to pick my favorite one, too: Cletus. I had a lot of fun with this one, and in the process I got to know the buyer, Dyanna,  via Flickr and Etsy conversations, so I feel like I made a new friend. I got to meet her briefly last night when I brought Cletus to his new home after work, and though I was half-dead from a night of being teased* mercilessly by my boss and a fleet of drivers while attempting to unscramble stacks of bills of lading that made dittos completed by a classroom of first grader left-handed crack babies seem legible, Dyanna was warm and friendly. It was the first time I got to see someone’s reaction to my painting, and I have to say it was worth braving the 1 degree weather to get Cletus there.

Plus, I got to see Dyanna’s new shoes that have mini skateboards attached to the soles, which I might have otherwise never known existed. I’m glad Cletus went to a good home.

Now I won’t have to send over a social worker.

Etsy: Helping Social Retards Like Erin R. Kelly Make New Friends.

*Seriously, no I’m not going to do the Hangin’ Tough dance nor will I ever sing Mmm Bop. I told my boss I’d probably need a bottle of wine and definitely a raise.

“We are going to give you a raise,” he said, and my pulse quickened. “We’re going to raise you up on some pallets, so you’ll have a stage. Go ‘head. Dance.”

Oh.

I’m glad it was apparently such a laid back night for the guys while I spent most of my night with my face in my palms thanks to a computer that kept freezing and a myriad of billing anomalies. Fuckers.

When Milly came calling on Ethel one afternoon, she was a bit unnerved by the soft plopping sensation she kept feeling on her shoulders.

Milly tried not to look distracted while Ethel yammered on about the new compost pile her husband Jim-Bitch had engineered right there in the backyard, next to the rusted 1967 pick up truck and behind the pig sty. As more gentle plops landed upon her shoulders and gingham’d bosom, Milly tightened her grip on the mason jar of moonshine Ethel done served up. Trying her darndest to retain eye contact, she waited for Ethel to get up and whip her kids before flicking and swiping at the hardening lumps on her shoulders.

Twenty-eight minutes into her visit, Milly was taking a long slurp of ‘shine when something wet and mushy went splat-squish on her head. And then, a second later, a thick brook of warm goo glooped right on down her forehead, right on past the whisker-sprouting mole, before pooling into a moist inlet of fecal marsh at the bridge of her nose.

Looking up slowly, Milly was met with ruffled feathers and at least eight sets of beady eyes.

“Ya’ll gots some birds up in there,” she drawled to Ethel, pointing up at the rafters. And she took another long gulp of moonshine while Ethel went to town with a leather belt on the backside of her redheaded stepson for burying the neighbor in the brand new compost pile, goddammit.

“Well, it’s another one of those weekends,” Malcolm grumbled that Saturday morning, twisting to knock the clanging alarm off the nightstand.

Little Molly, the youngest of the Petapotamuses, whimpered from beneath her pillow.

Tossing socks and underwear into her canvas knapsack, Marjorie informed her younger siblings that they could cry and complain all they wanted, but she was going to be proactive about it. “I’m hitching to Canada,” she huffed, breathless from her frantic packing.

But it was too late. They could hear Dad’s booming voice sneaking up through the floorboards. “He’s already here,” Malcolm groaned, slugging his mattress.

It’s not that they hated their father, but now he lives with his girlfriend Britney, who slinks around the house in nothing more than a ringer tee and satin panties and has a penchant for pinching them under their arms when their dad isn’t looking. Marjorie once invited her boyfriend over to help her with a school project, and when she returned from the kitchen with a tray of ants on a log, she caught Britney grinding against him “accidentally.”

Malcolm once foiled Britney’s plan of selling Molly on eBay, and had the good sense to snatch a screenshot, but their dad didn’t believe it. Or, if he did, he kept his big mouth shut. Dad had it too good with Britney. She served him expensive microbrews from real, honest to God German steins; whipped up genuine, award-winning jello salads loaded with exotic fruits; and lets him have the guys over for weekly poker games, and she would choose those nights to saunter around in tiny dresses while watering her strategically placed house plants.

Plus, she wore a double-D.

And so, at the start of all of those weekends, the Petapotamus siblings had to be pried from their mother’s calves.

Farfel and Toenail have known each other for nine years. They live on the same block and used to be friends, until the first annual Neighborhood Lights challenge was conceived. Now every year they vow to outdo the other in terms of hokiest Christmas display.

Farfel won this past year by having a real live baby pose as Jesus in his Nativity scene. He said it was his cousin, but really he found it in a Dumpster outside of a crack shack.

At block parties, it is not unusual for Toenail to purposely shoulder past Farfel, leaving his lapel smeared with a strata of spinach dip, mustard and Mudslide. And once, Toenail “accidentally” pushed him into a pool just as he was about to get Sharon Semenshower’s number, and then proceeded to go home with Farfel’s brother, Rufus, who was a gynecologist and kept a bag of shiny apparati in his trunk.

Farfel’s mama raised him to never lay a hand on a girl, but Toenail made him want to eschew his mama’s sage words.

Last summer, Farfel and his current girlfriend, FlyStrip, were having a picnic in his front yard. He fed her grapes and oysters while she giggled and made vapid attempts at conversation.

She said things in rapid and random succession, like: “There is a sale at Macy’s! I like toast with jam. Say, I wonder why the sky is blue? If your crotch itches, you should just scratch it. Oh, a birdie!” Farfel was always one to include intellect near the top of his list of standards, but the way FlyStrip’s gelatinous jugs bounced around like two buoys in a sea of spray-tanned flesh kept him distracted long enough to not care. It also didn’t hurt that she was wearing a bikini top.

Toenail was walking her dog when she spied the two of them, splayed out on a blanket, twirling delicate-stemmed glasses in their hands. She couldn’t explain it, but her heart began to race and she could feel the blood rolling to a boil beneath her cheeks.

Full of disgust, and some terribly uncomfortable feeling she’d never felt before — she hoped she wasn’t developing pockets in her colon — Toenail stormed over to the lounging couple and kicked mud in FlyStrip’s face. Clumps of sod and possibly some dog shit dripped down FlyStrip’s chin and coated her silicone accessories. Without her secret weapon, FlyStrip’s spell on Farfel was broken and he remembered that she was little more than a bleached blond beach bimbo who drove a Pinto and made bank by slopping under-spiced chili in a diner.

Rising from the blanket, he got real close to Toenail’s clenched jaw. He got so close he thought for sure that this would be the day that he broke mama’s rule and coldcocked that broad right upside her head. But instead, the two of them stood there, breathing all heavy, panting in anger, hands curled in taut fists at their sides.

And that’s when it occurred to Farfel that maybe they didn’t hate each other as much as they thought.

“Hey,” Farfel grabbed Toenail hard around the elbow, and she waited for him to cuss her out. But Farfel goes instead, “Let’s be in love.

“

And Toenail, her belly shook like a bowlful of chicken fat, that’s how hard she laughed. “Are you kidding me?” she gasped between peals of laughter. “I hate your guts!”

Maybe it just might take Toenail a little longer to figure it out.

McGoogle loves Nutter even in the mornings when she has gray encrustations in the corners of her eyes. He loves her even when she emanates a “straight-from-the-docks” aroma on those not so fresh days. He even still loves her after she had to get her stomach pumped of an entire football team’s love yogurt.

And Nutter, she loves McGoogle too. Maybe not his breath after a night of Snakebites and cigars with the union guys.

Maybe not the way he can make the duvet rise and billow with the sheer force of his flatulence. And maybe Nutter doesn’t so much love the way his visage can morph from rugged lumberjack into that of a convicted molestor with the simple act of shaving*. But McGoogle, damn if he doesn’t make the best crepes with fresh strawberries and cream on her birthday, and God love him for not beating her with a belt when she wrecks the car swerving to miss a caterpillar.

That’s love, for real.

—————–

* This part was inspired by Henry, who makes me feel sad and also worried for small children every time he shaves. Some men should not be bare-faced! Happy new year to me, I guess.

I remember that it was very breezy that day in the park. Her skirt kept blowing up, flapping around her waist like the mouths of those old women who sit on their front porches and whisper falsities about me.

They said I killed her that day. That I gave her the old garrote, maiming that willowy ivory-skinned neck of hers. They said I did it, that afterward I wrapped her in a sack and dropped her off the bridge into the pond below.

They said all of these things, these flappy-mawed old bats did. They said it to each other. They said it to the postman. They said it to the detective, the one in the Florsheim loafers whom I kept catching sniffing around the building. I wanted to tell him how stupid those little shoe tassles are, but my better judgment held down my tongue real tight.

But I didn’t kill the bitch. I had an airtight alibi – that gypsy caravan watched me from their bonfire as I picked dandelions by the edge of the forest. They watched me and then tried to pick pocket me. Even after they came up empty, they still shared a bowl of lima beans with me. Good people, those gypsies. They told that detective this too, as they robbed his stupid tassled loafers right off his feet.

I didn’t kill the bitch. I had an airtight alibi, like I said. I didn’t kill the bitch; I paid the wino on 54th Street to do it for me.

Cosgrove lived in a volatile house, with a bickering wife and frightening children. He would try to come from work and sneak into the basement, where he would cower underneath the thin shield of his newspaper, hoping to be devoured by his armchair. But his wife would always sniff out his presence due to the fact that she forced him to wear the aftershave she bought him at the drug store.

“He will never stand a chance at engaging in wanton sex acts with his secretary so long as he smells like Pinesol,” she thought bitterly as she slapped the bottle with a bow on Father’s Day.

There were plenty of things Cosgrove wanted to do when the five o’clock bell rang.

 Cosgrove wanted to go home and play catch with his sons, like a normal father might do, but his kids were too violent and always wound up throwing knives and pitch forks instead. Cosgrove wanted to sit in the den with a frosty mug of beer, kick back and watch the game.

But there was no alcohol allowed in the house, and Cosgrove’s wife felt that sporting events promoted violence. Cosgrove didn’t see what that mattered anymore, since his kids predominantly wore fatigues and blew up feral cats in the junk yard down the lane. He couldn’t imagine how a few innings of a ball game had any impact on their inherent need to live a life of rogue commandoes, but he wasn’t one to argue with the wife. She had sharp nails.

And maybe Cosgrove wanted to scratch his damn balls while sitting in the privacy of the bathroom, but he supposed even that was too much to ask.

One day, instead of dodging through the garage door and attempting to slip into the basement undetected, Cosgrove decided to take a stroll through the garden in the backyard. There, he discovered that if he squatted, he would be completely masked by the cattails and sunflowers.

Day after day, he hid in the garden. He was finally able to widdle that pirate ship that he had been dreaming of, but was always interrupted by his nagging wife, who would fling a list of chores at him. “Take out the garbage! Buy me tampons! Castrate the dog!” It was always something with her.

On a Thursday, Cosgrove ate sushi in the garden. He had always wanted to eat sushi, but his wife was strictly against foods of a raw nature and forbade even a longing glance at the sushi shack on Main Street. Cosgrove even downed the contraband rolls with sake. A real treat, when you consider that his wife wouldn’t even allow him to rinse with mouthwash, claiming he would get drunk from it.

It didn’t take long for Cosgrove to realize the best dream of them all. He began bringing his secretary to the garden with him. There, the pungent bouquet equalized the rank stench of astringent which burned off in invisible waves from his neck flesh.

In the garden, Cosgrove could be the man he always wanted to be.

========

Cosgrove was inspired by one of the drivers at my job, who admits to going home and hiding in the gameroom for as long as possible until his wife discovers him, and who visibly blanched yesterday when she screamed through his cell phone for him to come home. I imagine his weener was tucked timidly between his legs as he obeyed her and left work last night.

Denny hurt his friend Brenda pretty bad. He told her that her prom dress made her look like she was jaundiced.

“Orange always does that to me!” she sobbed.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t wear orange anymore?” Denny suggested, in spite of the frantic waves and throat-cutting motions of their friends.

The next day, Denny told his mom about it.

“And I just can’t afford for Brenda to be sore with me,” Denny finished.

“Her friendship must mean so much to you,” Denny’s mom cooed, rubbing the back of his scruffy neck.

“It’s not that, Mom,” Denny continued, an annoyed tinge to his tone. “She promised to get me a fake ID so I can go to the new strip joint in town.”

And so that afternoon, armed with a pot of apologetic flowers, Denny rang Brenda’s doorbell.

As Brenda danced around the peace offering, sniffing each bud, Denny hoped she wouldn’t notice that two of them were orange.

————————————————————–

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 18:14 I wish we all drove bumpercars. #
• 18:33 I’d like Drake and Josh, if Josh wasn’t in it. OVERACTING does not equal FUNNY. #
• 23:16 I just told someone to have a grilled cheesey day. Oh, if ever there was a moment that should be stuffed in a paper shredder…
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• 23:19 the fucking serial killer xmas card factory has been officially SHUT DOWN for the season. Manson was the big seller this time around, fyi. #
• 11:48 I’m just going to start letting spellcheck change all my “fuck”s to “duck”s. What do I care. #
• 11:48 In a world without Gilmore Girls and Felicity, its hard to care about much at all. #
• 11:55 I love metal detector commercials. #
• 12:30 I feel like 8 years of blogging and now its like 7th Heaven – should have been canceled after the first season. #

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A woman bid on and won a Cupcake Couple painting that I had donated to an animal shelter charity auction, and ended up liking it enough to ask me to paint a cupcake family portrait for her mom.  It was really fun to paint but nerve-racking, because hello – it’s a Christmas present for her mom. She hasn’t seen it yet and I’m freaking out that she won’t like it.

But still, my first family portrait.

Speaking of Christmas, I dragged Janna along to Toys R Us with me yesterday so I could get in some shopping for Chooch. Is it just me or does it seem like there’s not much to choose from anymore? There were only two or three things that really grabbed me, and everything else was little inexpensive stuff that we would get him for no reason other than he’s Chooch and hasn’t killed us today. (He didn’t make us bleed and only called me an asshole five times today! Stuff an apple in a pig, this calls for a feast!)

 I don’t really know what I was looking for – a Willy Wonka-for-sale to turn ordinary household objects into sugared bliss? A real life Beetlejuice? A portable life-sized circus complete with elephants and ring toss (and a hot bearded lady for mommy)? Maybe my standards are too high. But I’ll tell you one thing – these educational “toys” are taking over. All that Leap Frog shit, Discovery Channel schlock. What’s THAT about? I don’t want to LEARN while I’m playing! I want to be starting (pretend) fires (OK fine, I want real flames) and force GI Joes into the inferno to rescue my satchel of benzos, and then I want to sit back and laugh as I watch their frames drip and melt into a viscous mound of molten carnage. And then I want to sprinkle glitter on that shit.

Bring back fucking Micromachines, man. Sweet Secrets, those were the shit.I will admit that my eyes get all alit when I carouse the crafty aisle.

All those jewelry kits! I could make crappy rings to shill on Etsy just like an ex-friend of mine does!

I lost Janna for awhile in the Barbie section and then I caught her donning a Hannah Montana wig, but in the end, we managed to get to the register without sucking on anyone’s elbow.

Toys R Us is less magical, more sterile. I’m writing a letter to corporate.

They need to have leprechauns walking around with trays of cupcakes that make you float upon swallowing. Have  a unicorn grazing on sugared grass in aisle five. MAKE IT MAGICAL FOR ME, ASSHOLES. At least make it look less like a warehouse, shit. Fuck you, Toys R Us. You could at least give me a shitty balloon for stopping by.

I’m just not looking forward to it this year. I mean, I’m not like pouting about it or anything pansy like that. I just haven’t taken any Yuletide Spirit pills this year, is all. We still don’t have a Christmas tree. Last night, Chooch was asking me where his presents were because he knew that me and Santa had gone out shopping for him yesterday. I started to say, “Well, Santa still has to wrap them and put them under the—-” I paused to shoot Henry a scowl and wished I could halve his head like Silar on Heroes.

“—on the…floor? Yeah, on the floor I guess. Over in that corner there. We’ll just have to sweep up the cat fur first.”

And I don’t think we’re doing anything with either side of the family. His sister always seems to forget I exist, and obviously I’m still not speaking to my  mom. So I guess if the weather allows, we’ll go to a cemetery where we will frolick among bones and pretend like it’s not Christmas. Until I start whining that Henry didn’t get me a My Little Pony.

There’s a song by Some By Sea called The Saddest Christmas. I will probably be listening to that a lot. Oh, ho ho ho!

On the night of the senior prom, Fritz stood on MaryEllen’s stoop for eighty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds, holding a bouquet of exotic flowers that gradually wilted with each passing tick of his watch.

Finally, on that nineteenth second, MaryEllen’s father pulled the trigger of the shot gun. Nonchalantly, he went back inside the house and unlocked his daughter from the basement.

Another pregnancy scare avoided.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 18:39 Holy fuck, Taste of Chaos has a good lineup again. #
• 01:08 Attempt #2 at watching The Strangers. #
• 12:58 Henry and I are arguing about cops again. Haven’t done THAT in awhile! #
• 15:49 Now we’re arguing over who are manlier: hockey or fruitball players. Henry & his Devil’s Advocacy can suck one. #
• 16:23 2 ppl are about 2 make out. In the craft store. I mean, sure – yarn gets me hot but not enuf 4 my tongue 2 find its way in henrys mouth. #
• 17:03 twitpic.com/slo0 – As far as I go on the xmas decoration tip #
• 00:04 Henrys alarm was going off &he went upstairs to turn it off despite my warnings of “DONT DO IT THE STRANGERS MIGHT BE UP THERE ITS A TRAP” #

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Although horror is my absolute favorite genre of TV, movies, art and books (and sometimes even music), I get all spastic and overly-paranoid when it comes to movies that are based on or inspired by true events. So while I’ve been wanting to see The Strangers since it came out, I’ve been putting it off.

I tried watching it alone Thursday afternoon before work. The sun was out, Henry and Chooch were napping, I thought I could do it. I lasted maybe twenty minutes. Nothing had even happened yet, really, but Liv Tyler’s character was alone in the house while Ben from Felicity (RIP my favorite WB show) went to get her cigarettes and the suspense was literally making my veins pulse and my heart was beating so fast that I was starting to not breathe properly, so I paused it and woke up so he could be my audience as I repeatedly screeched, “I CAN’T WATCH IT I’M SO SCARED I CAN’T WATCH IT PLEASE COME DOWNSTAIRS I’M GOING TO DIE THEY’RE COMING TO GET ME I’M HUNGRY MAKE ME A SANDWICH AND WHERE’S MY DIAMOND RING IT’S BEEN SEVEN YEARS.”

That night at work, my boss Dave took a side job as Heart Attack Giver and had me clutching my chest every fifteen minutes. He fucking gets off on terrorizing me with loud, booming noises and one of these days, I’m going to be seeking workman’s comp because of him. Then I mistakenly told him that I was even jumpier because I had tried to watch that movie, so that gave him even more ammo and I began wishing I had a periscope to guide me around corners.

I looked in the rear view mirror every two seconds on the way home that night.

Last night, with big strong Henry by my side, I managed to watch that damn movie from beginning to end, biting off my pinkie nail in the process and taking mental note of all the ways some asshole could conceivably break into my house. It didn’t do any favors for my blood pressure.

As I tried to fall asleep afterward, I told Henry for the twenty billionth time that I would really like to buy a gun. “One of those tiny girly ones. With diamonds.” (I feel like we’ve had that conversation before.)

“Yeah right,” Henry mumbled into his pillow, which is coincidentally the same thing he says when I ask for a ring, and we fell asleep.

Hamish couldn’t believe he was turning 245 days old in less than a week. A milestone like that deserved a bash, a big gala dinner dance filled with feather-topped, high-kicking can-can dancers and waiters serving up dimpled buttcheeks braised in a succulent kerosene sauce.

It needed a photo booth. Fireworks. Handmade chocolates flown in from Belgium, inscribed with superlatives relating to his life thus far.

Keen. Brilliant. Star Athlete. Tantric Sex Master. All these things delicately traced into the the crust of truffles.

It needed music. A bright, up-and-coming pop songstress. A young broad with a supple body and a nightingale voice; a sprightly thing who would take the stage in a latex thingaroo, barely covering her hummahoos. He made a note to check MTV to find such a starlet.

The next day, Hamish left his hut to begin party planning.

Discouragingly, it took three days alone for Hamish to find dancers. Unable to find can-can dancers with altitude crushing kicks, he settled on a troupe called the Octogenas, who were usually booked every night by their nursing home to perform in the rec room, but Myrtle Methadone had just met her maker and no one there was in the mood to watch a crew of old biddies shake their wattles.

Never performing outside of the home, the Octogenas excitedly signed the deal.

The next day, Hamish learned the lesson that fancy party waiters do not fit his budget, so he gathered up a group of bar flies who used to play darts with his dad and feel up his mama. They didn’t own tuxedos, so he grudgingly allowed them to wear flannel.

A day before the party, Hamish resolved to forgo the personalized Belgian chocolates, pouring a bag of leftover Easter Hershey Kisses in a microwave-deformed Tupperwear bowl.

The up-and-coming starlet he found came packing a rider that included a Lalique vase filled with blue and only blue M&Ms, fresh water from a Moroccan camel’s hump, a kilo of angel dust, and a current copy of US Weekly. Hamish settled on a folk singer he had seen downtown, sitting on a curb in a heap of earth-toned fabric, who plucking a broken guitar and collecting pennies and trash in a fedora.

And then it was the day of the party. The Octogenas undulated in seductive paths carved out by their walkers, with Agnes’s left breast flopping about and slapping bystanders with the misfortune of standing too close. And then Bertha lost her grip on her walker, crashed into one of the flannel-clad waiters trying futilely to take a reticent swig from his flask. The rest of the Octogenas abandoned their gig to accompany Bertha to the hospital, where she would undergo a hip replacement.

The folk singer, Sunny Moonbeam, twanged away quietly on the stage, eventually putting himself to sleep.

As Hamish looked around, he realized that his party had put everyone else to sleep, too.

Snagging the bowl of Kisses from the buffet, he left his own party and went downtown, where he settled in for a fifty cent peep show. He officially turned 245 days old as a brassy-haired, tough-skinned woman contorted herself in eye-widening positions on a wooden stool.
____________________

The deets.

Yes, you read it right. I’m actually in a GOOD MOOD, despite the fact that I suffered a near-lethal paper cut last night at work and that my son turned his bedroom into a blue Sharpie art exhibit today. This offer is good until the day after Thanksgiving, but not valid on non compos card line. Can be used in either my Somnambulant shop or Appledale shop — look at me, practically hemorrhaging generosity. In the “note to seller” portion, just mention my blog and I will adjust the price for you.

Also, I’m doing this new thang over at Somnambulant. With every purchase of art (not card or photos), I’ve been tucking inside a CD of some of the songs that have inspired my paintings. Kind of like a soundtrack. I don’t know how well received it will be, but it seemed like a fucking rad idea when I thought of it while changing the litter box.