Henry is still recuperating from The Worst Day Ever (what he lovingly calls Warped Tour), so I tried to let him have a low-key weekend. This is something that’s hard for me because I always want to go-go-go, and after years of being so financially strapped that tagging along to the grocery store with Henry was considered “going somewhere,” it’s nice to be able to actually DO THINGS now*. But sometimes it’s necessary to just chill the fuck at home. (I guess.)

*(Don’t get it twisted—we’re by no means rich or anything. Basically went from one echelon of Poor to another slightly higher one.)

That doesn’t mean I still didn’t drag them to a cemetery, though (second of the day for me because I love my dead folk).

Ice cream cone swagggg

We stopped at Sugar & Spice afterward for ice cream. Henry didn’t order any because his new strategy is to wait for one of us to not be able to finish ours. This time, it was both of us.

I got red velvet soft serve in a chocolate chip cookie cone, which was fucking delicious but then it became a swamp of melted goo at the end so I passed it off to Henry because I can’t stand messy food.

Chooch sang Chiodos songs on the way home and I had all kinds of proud mom-love for him at that moment.

And then we actually stayed home! With the exception of sending Henry out to fetch us dinner.

Later that night, we had an impromptu water balloon fight (god, read the picture!) & Marcy tried to run away. Wouldn’t you?

Today, we went to visit Speck & Don’s graves. I picked out sunflowers for Don. Chooch got some kind of typical grocery store assortment for Speck.

Made the mistake of going inside the animal shelter afterward, which always makes me cry because I want to bring all the animals home but you know, who really can? Totally fell in love with this big, fat, fluffy gray girl who I think was 8 or 9 years old.

Ugh, I can’t stand it!

The Yough Trail (a bike trail that runs from somewhere to somewhere, I don’t listen to Henry when he tries to teach us; it ends in D.C. I think?) is right by the pet cemetery so I made Henry and Chooch suffer through a walk with me. I love how quickly the Law Firm Fitness Challenge becomes everyone’s problem!

I don’t know why Henry was bitching though because he got to look at nature and point out wild strawberries and algae. There was a shooting range nearby and I was so afraid of getting hit by an errant bullet and this supposedly “irrational” fear made Henry irritated; so between his infuriating voice of dissent and Chooch constantly making me trip over his fucking scooter, I power-walked ahead of them until eventually I couldn’t even see them anymore when I turned around. It was wonderful! (And also slightly alarming because it would be just like Henry to try to teach me some stupid lesson by leaving or jumping out of the woods with a chainsaw.)

One annoying thing though is that since it’s a bike trail, there are a LOT of bikers. Go figure! Anyway, bikers are really fucking friendly and have a great desire to slap you in the face with their winded salutations. God, you say hi to one biker, you say hi to them all, you know? I eventually just stopped responding.

Chooch really hates walking and his scooter is just stupid, so Henry mused about all three of us getting bikes. I agreed, but under the stipulation that we get matching shirts, like we’re some team of ragtag rejects.

“I want the back of mine to say Mrs. Jonny Craig,” I said gleefully.

“Then I want mine to say I’m Not With Her,” Henry retorted, but I think it should say Not Jonny Craig because I don’t want anyone to think Henry is embarrassed to be my husband. Oh wait, record scratch: the whole Internet already thinks that.

Came home and went for another walk around my dumb neighborhood–without my hindrances this time.

BONUS: When we were walking home from dinner Friday night, this huge, weirdly-shaped plane was flying overhead and Henry practically pole-vaulted to the SERVICE heavens with the boner it caused.

He told me what kind of plane it was but fuck if I care.

Anyway, I guess it was good to stay home because we’re going away next weekend for my birthday, whaddup!

• Janna’s friend Jeremy had a dream of opening a hot dog cart and fuck if he didn’t reach for the meat-stars and make it happen.  Sometimes Janna helps out, so we made a special trip to mock her in her stupid red apron support a dream realized. Chooch got to help make lemonade, which I don’t forsee becoming a career.

• At stupid Pat Catan’s (Henry’s favorite craft store), some worker broad was all, “Do you want to make a CRAFTTTT?” and she said it in your typical cat hair-knitting mole voice. Chooch of course was like, “YES OMG YES MOMMY BANS CRAFTS AT OUR HOUSE OH PLEASE GOD LET ME MAKE A FUCKING CRAFT” and then she looked at me and I just sighed deeply and pulled out a chair. We made bubble wands. Who the fuck cares about bubble wands?! And it was all just a ploy to just and strong-arm me into buying a vat of bubbles. Anyway, this project sucked. I made the Pat Catan lady do most of it for me, expecially the parts that required using pliers to wrap the wire, which was probably about 50% of the project. I didn’t even attempt to try, I just handed it to her and said, “Here can you do this thanks.
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  ” Then I picked out beads and actually put them on without help, if you can believe it. And then as soon as I was finished, and she curled the bottom for me, I immediately had bead remorse.  I wish had put more thought into my bead combo! Chooch’s is all summery and festive — he went with a simple, yet effective, red white and blue pattern. Meanwhile, Henry was hulking around nearby aisles, rolling his eyes at us while checking out macrame kits and jewelry supplies.

• On Sunday, we went to Unity Cemetery in Latrobe to search for Mister Roger’s grave, per my friend Octavia’s request. Of course, we went there blindly, and spent most of the time roaming around aimlessly looking for a grave that may or may not exist. I assumed that it would be easy to find, probably covered with cardigans and puppets and Crayola factory tours (what? people leaves bottles of Heinz Ketchup on Andy Warhol’s grave), but alas — it did not stick out like a sore PBS thumb. Henry finally found some information online that mentioned a private family mausoleum, and we did not see any of those with the name Rogers on the front, so either by “private,” they mean “deep within the forest and also invisible” or the family name is different. Or we just weren’t paying attention, which is entirely possible.  Of course, I had a prime opportunity to scare the shit out of Chooch, which I definitely did not pass up, causing him to totally act like a bitch and then Henry had the audacity to be all, “OMG NO ICE CREAM FOR YOU FUCKERS!” and I was like, “Wha—?? Why!? I didn’t do anything!” and Chooch was all, “I DIDN’T WANT ICE CREAM ANYWAY, I HATE YOU BOTH SO BAD!”

• 15 minutes later, we had ice cream.

• Marcy still insists on sprawling out on top of all of Chooch’s school stuff, so that’s a good sign I think. I’ve always been one to smother my cats, particularly Marcy, but lately I’ve been totally asyphyxiating her with concerned pandering. Yesterday, I followed her around the house on my hands and knees, saying things like, “ARE YOU OK? HOW DO YOU FEEL? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU WANT TO COME LAY DOWN ON THE COUCH?! DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?!” and then I tried to take her temperature by laying my hand on her head and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

• Since I’m a Regular Trolley Passenger now (thanks for nothing, Henry), I have become quite chummy with the trolley driver, who looks like HOLY FUCK Bob Ross is alive and living in the mountains! He says things to me like, “Here we are again, huh? Vicious cycle!” (Monday Greeting^©) and “Happy Almost-Hump Day, huh?!” (Tuesday Greeting^©, although sometimes he jumps the gun and lets this one fly on Mondays) and I’ll let you wonder wildly about the rest. I’m not the only one to whom he’s so salacious with his salutations: this man loves, and I mean loves to a point of compulsion, to beep his trolley horn at all his PAT Transit buddies. He beeps at buses, he beeps at other trolleys, he beeps at fare booth broads trying to enjoy their cigarettes, he beeps at construction people digging up roads. I mean, the entire trip to work is everyday is soundtracked by BEEEEEEEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEP!! BEEP BE-BE-BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP! It was kind of cute at first, until the time we were going through a tunnel and two buses and one trolley passed us, throwing him into beeping conniptions. It was like a full minute of the most obnoxious, we-are-inside-a-tunnel-you-motherfucker horn blaring that I have ever had to witness.
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  It was kind of like being stuffed in a metal tube and thrown into a deep vat of hipsters screaming about Aracde Fire becoming popular, where the degree of screaming becomes more urgent and shrill the further down you tumble until you finally land in a junkyard of unlimited Fran Dreschers laughing to Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I could still hear it, faintly, an hour later when I was at work.  Totally ruined my afternoon. The one day, he saw one of his buddies in a parking lot, operating some sort of crane, so he was straight beepin’ his proverbial trolley dick, but the guy did not reciprocate the love. I’m 99.9% sure that this was intentional, so Bob Ross: New Career rolled the trolley to a halt and laid on the horn again. This time, the crane-operator doled out the most sarcastic hand-wave I’ve ever seen, and I could almost hear him screaming, “OK! I GET IT! MOTHERFUCKING HELLO! BLOW IT OUTCHER ASS!” Henry said that he was pretty sure that the horns on trolleys and buses were meant to be used as a warning, not a Salute Buzzer. The other day, I couldn’t imagine who Bob Ross of PAT Transit was beeping at, when suddenly I saw a squirrel dash across the tracks. So I guess he does occasionally use the horn as the warning siren it’s intended to be. Good for him. Super nice guy though, for real.

• I really hate it when Henry is talking to Chooch and refers to me as “your mother.” It just makes me feel like some old Donna in a housecoat, I don’t know. So I asked him to please stop calling me that. To Chooch, Henry corrected himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant your 13-year-old friend over there.” See? So much better.
• On Monday, I didn’t notice until after I got to work that my pants had a stain on them. Not just any stain, but a translucent white, milky stain on the upper thigh, right by my crotch. Totally looked like a fucking cum stain and I swear to god it wasn’t because it’s been ages since the last time I wore any work pants to the sex club. I showed Henry when I came home and he was all, “Good one, jackass” but I think he was secretly turned on. WHO’S CUM STAIN IS IT!? he probably thought. Maybe that will be his next blog post.

• A few weeks ago, I signed up for this wellness screening thing at work. All I knew was that it had something to do with our health insurance and my grown-up friends here at work were all saying that it was a Good Thing. So I scheduled mine for Thursday. Angie had hers on Wednesday and off-handedly mentioned that there is finger-pricking involved, which gave me TWENTY-FIVE HOURS to overthink, panic and fixate on the split-second pain my fingertip was going to inevitably endure. I carried on like a fucking bitch-baby about this for the rest of Wednesday and picked right back up as soon as I got to work yesterday. Amber2’s appointment was fifteen minutes before mine, and I begged my boss to let me go then too so I wouldn’t have to ride the elevator alone while crying into my palms like some pious robed woman watching Jesus hang on the crucifx. Joy was like, “Uh, yeah. I don’t care” and then made fun of me for being so scared. Glenn stopped by my office before he left for the day (a few minutes before Amber2 and I went up to the screening) supposedly to get one last look at me SINCE I WAS PROBABLY GOING TO EXPIRE. Anyway, even though I yelped pretty loudly and made the nurse laugh, I survived and ended up walking out there feeling like Wonder Woman after the nurse raved about how great my numbers are so SUCK IT GLENN.

• I have a Candy Land band-aid on it now, too.

• My brother Corey stopped over yesterday morning before work to drop off an Easter basket for Chooch on behalf of my estranged mom and aunt Sharon. “Doesn’t Val ever wonder what Chocoh even looks like now?” I asked sarcastically. “Yeah, you’d think,” Corey said. It didn’t really bother me until afterward, but what the fuck. Sending over obligatory holiday offerings is definitely not the same as being a sane and stable figure in my kid’s life and it just pisses me off. And while one could argue that this is my mom’s way of “making an effort,” I’d like to point out that buying “things” is what has always come easily for her. It’s the “love” part she struggles with. Yay, chocolate bunnies, toys and gift cards. FYI, he doesn’t even know who you are. 
• The other day, Chooch said that he dreamt I wasn’t in the house and he looked outside and saw all of my body parts on the road & Henry was laughing. Then a few minutes later he told he actually didn’t remember his dream so it’s good to know that’s the one he thought up on the fly.
• Chooch was going on and on one night about how bad Henry’s mom Judy sucks at drawing. “She’s horrible!” he cried, and then laughed smugly as if he derived great satisfaction from this. “I love that Chooch is just like and heckles people for their inadequacies.” Henry frowned and said, “Yeah, that’s called being a dick.”

• I was over at Barb’s desk a few days ago, talking to her and Nate, when Chris joined the conversation. Then this weird thing happened, where it literally felt like I had floated out of my body and drifted away from the conversation. Chris picked that precise moment to ask me something which I didn’t understand because it sounded like he was talking underwater, and even still, I shook my head “yes.”  I was telling Barb about it yesterday, about how I think I have neurological damage maybe because this isn’t the first time this has happened, and she was all impressed at my overachieving ability to peace out of conversations. MAYBE I’M ASTRAL PROJECTING!? I still don’t know what I said yes to.
• Henry the Foot Barbarian clipped Chooch’s pinky toe with his humungous sledgehammer feet Wednesday night. So now Chooch has joined my Abused Phalanges Club. In the bathtub that night, he took on his Henry-mocking voice and said, “My name is Dumb Henry. I like cooking eggs, stepping on my son’s toes and hurting Erin’s feelings.” INDEED.

• On our trip back home from Lancaster a few weeks ago, we were driving through Breezewood when that “close the window, come alive” song came on (yes! we were able to find a soft rock radio station in the midst of an FM country jamboree!) and these huge tears literally started cascading out of my dumb eye sockets. So then Henry and I had this long conversation about Anne Murray (my Pappap loved her!) but then the DJ told us later that it was actually Rita Coolidge, so I guess that song really isn’t that memorable to me after all.
• “You’re not a writer because you don’t have any books,” Chooch schooled me last week. First of all, duh. Second of all, I lost count of all the friendly reminders like this one that I’ve been doled over the years. My favorite was when I told a “friend” that I was going to school for English Writing and he said, “Why? You don’t write.” And then last year he tried telling me that he has always been one of my biggest supporters. HAHAHAHA. Go fuck yourself.
• I guess I should just stick to keeping a photo blog.
• I sent Henry frantic 911 texts yesterday because I found out my beloved Gilad has a 24:7 streaming workout channel called Gilad TV AND I WANT IT.  When I was in 6th grade and my aunt Susie asked me to be a junior bridesmaid in her wedding that fall, I PANICKED. I was a fat kid. 5th and 6th grade were NOT good years for my vanity. So like any other 11-year–old, I started doing the Slim-Fast diet [yes, my family supported this; what assholes! (not you, Susie)] and a combination of Denise Austin and Gilad’s Bodies in Motion. I lost a ton of weight and even though I still struggled with it, I never really was “fat” again (until I had Chooch, thanks buddy). So now that I’ve been doing Weight Watchers, I’ve revisited my love affair with Gilad. Most of his shows are from the 80s and 90s and everyone wears LA Gear, but if it was good enough for me then, why can’t it be good enough for me now? (I also do some Jillian Michaels videos because she scares me and she’s hot.)

• There are still pendants left if anyone is interested! The nurse who did my wellness screening went on and on about how she liked the one I had on yesterday (it was a Pumpkin Head in a pink filigree frame) and I tried to get her to buy it. She just laughed. I don’t think she believed me, but I was being totally serious.

• I keep telling Mumford and Sons that no really, they DON’T have to wait for me, but they still keep playing that fucking song A MILLION TIMES A DAY like what they’re really saying is that they’ll wait for me to start liking their stupid songs. I don’t know what it is about that band, but they get under my skin.
  • However, I’ll shush a room and pause the world for Band of Horses.
• I want to punch the smell of mulch in the face.
• Some of my photographs were published in a real life magazine! (See below!)

• I’m trying to get Henry to guest post about the Jonny Craig show because I just don’t think my emotions will allow me to revisit that night without hemmorhaging all over the keyboard. At this point, my post would be pictures of Jonny flanked with this: OMGJONNY%^$&^$####&^^%*(!!!!!! <3333333!!! And then my tears would fry the keyboard.
• I bought a ring with a real cavity-inflicted tooth in it and everyone at work is like “GTFO with your gross jewelry.” You know it’s totally haunted. Lee said, “You’re totally going to break that. It’s so cumbersome!” and I reasoned that, “Yeah, but I don’t really do much.” He shrugged in agreeance and said, “And then there’s that.”

• This is about all the fun I can handle for today. Perhaps I will start writing real blog posts again some day even though they won’t be books, so it won’t “count.” Thanks, Chooch!

• Today in Pittsburgh, it is raining some sort of disgusting snowman shit, which affects me greatly now that I have to take the fucking trolley every day to work. (There is no end in sight to my bitching and whining about that, I’m sorry. You can mute me by clicking that “x” up in there in the corner though. I probably won’t even know you did it.) Anyway, today on my walk to the trolley, I was splashed with REALLY COLD WINTER WATER by some motherfucker who was BLASTING Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue.” Really, god?Who blasts that shit? Some motherfucker who is reliving his prom night in 1983 where he date-raped his hand in the backseat of his dad’s Pinto.  Next time, make it a real Electric Avenue and strike me with lightning or gtfo, god.
• Goddammit.
• I have so much to say about this whole Steubenville rape debacle but right now, all I can do is foam at the mouth and shake uncontrollably when I think about it. Two of my favorite things: complete & utter denegration of women and HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL PLAYERS.
• Yesterday, Chooch very seriously referred to a lamp as a “lightbulb holder,” which made me wonder if I ever even taught him the word “lamp” since I usually just say, “Hey, turn off the light thing.”
• Also yesterday, Chooch went to a birthday party at some ceramics place. One guess what he chose to paint.
• Jonny Craig got a private audition for NBC’s “The Voice” back in December and was all cocky about it. It was just revealed over the weekend that, after a background check, the producers of the show decided not to have him on the show because he is “too controversial.” Understatement, check. I laughed so hard about this, but then Henry of all people defended him and said, “This could send him into a tailspin!” I guess Henry is really hoping he doesn’t lose money on those tickets to next week’s show.
• In my dream last night, I was on a bus (like THAT would ever happen — um, KNOCK ON WOOD) with my friend Octavia, who gave me an apple and a citron, which I had to Google as soon as I woke up and Jesus, now all I can think about is some hardcore citrus mastication. Anyway, it’s also noteworthy that the bus was taking us someplace parallel with Hell and that there was no floor in front of me and I kept almost-falling out, which I think speaks volumes of my lifestrong resistance to taking public transportation.
• During the summer of 1999, I took bartending classes. I was partnered up with a wishy-washy middle-aged man named Milt. Really nice guy, but wasn’t very quick with picking up on mixology. A young, stocky Asian frat boy in our class, whose name I can’t remember (though I do have a video somewhere of him making a complete ass of himself), pulled me aside during one of the classes and told me that Milt was also the word for fish sperm and that was all I could think about every time I looked at Milt after that, like he was some undulating mound of fish jizz in the shape of a dowdy, slunched-over man with glasses and a saliva-crackling chuckle.
• • Milt didn’t graduate.
  • I play the SHIT out of his name in Ruzzle.
• Remember that one time I told you a story about when I was in bartending class? I graduated top of my class and never got a job.
  • That is probably because I only “kind of” looked for one.
• Can you imagine me as a bartender?
• Henry got all pouty yesterday because Chooch and I opted to stay in the car instead of going into Lowe’s with him. “That’s the Land of Sad!” I cried while Chooch simultaneously yelled, “That place sucks!” Good thing too, because Henry ended up almost running into his ex-hag. “Almost” because  the sound of her alcoholic voice completely activated his Duck & Run senses (and probably also simulated a burning sensation in his dick), so he was able to avoid any awkward scenes. Now imagine if Chooch and I had been there. You can’t slink away quietly from ANY situation when we’re tagging along. We might have made the evening news!
• I was supposed to be eating some sexual vegetarian food tonight with my friends but our reservation was canceled at the last minute due to poor communication at the restaurant. I’m very upset about this but we were promised a table at the next seating (god only knows when that will be) plus $25 off for each of us. I guess that is a consolation prize that’s worth taking. And now Henry won’t have his head explode trying to update my Weight Watcher points.
• Speaking of, I’ve lost 20 pounds since January, no big deal. I’m nearly ready to trade in my burlap sacks for some hot flea marketed muumuus.
• Chooch flipped out on our waitress at Eat n Park for not being able to fulfill his wish for a side of grapes. She laughed at him, and she’s lucky she didn’t get a fork in the hand.
• Speaking of! I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and here’s why. But I hope you all had a great time and that no one choked on green vomit.
• I am supposed to write a guest post for some Pittsburgh blogging thing which is hysterical since I can’t even write anything of worth on my own dumb blog.
• We are going to Lancaster this weekend to see Pierce the Veil and my crush Sam Link will be there, so “god” willing, I might be coming home with a new boyfriend. Merry Tate!
  • What? I’m on the market. Henry can’t WAIT to unload my supposedly high-maintenance ass.
    • Fuck. I’m going to be single forever.
• I went to Blue Flame on Saturday for lunch with my buddy Lisa, who is 12 weeks pregnant. My internal dialogue went something like this: “Hahaha, better her than me!” and “OMG I AM SO JEALOUS! I WANT A BAYBAYYYYYY!” Guess I should start looking for some man milt.
• I have some pictures to post too but who even cares anymore really.

• We were about five minutes into the commute to work when I realized I left my fruit at home.  Henry didn’t have time to turn around because he needed to get back to his own job, so of course I made this a Henry Problem. Like he is the one who left the container sitting on the couch. He should have put it in my purse! Why didn’t you put it in my purse, Henry?! I sat there, wailing about how my day is ruined — nay, my LIFE is ruined — and he was sweetly tossing out workarounds. Like, “Can’t you just walk to a store downtown and buy some fruit?” WHAT STORE!? Even my co-workers defended me on this one. “Yeah, if you want to pay $4 for a crappy apple,” Cheryl laughed and I was like, “OMG please call Henry and tell him that.” She laughed again and walked away but I wasn’t joking. I really wanted her to call Henry and tell him that. “I can bring it down for you later,” Henry offered, but I was in full-blown Indignent Girlfriend mode at this point and spat, “JUST FORGET IT.” We drove in silence for a few minutes until I realized that Henry was silently LAUGHING AT ME. “God forbid if I ever break up with you,” Henry said, which is of course the mother of all opening lines. “I’d feel so guilty. You’d probably wither away.” (That’s one way to lose weight, I guess.) Joke about it, Henry. Then I got to work and my computer wouldn’t turn on and then I knocked a bunch of pictures off my closet thing when I was hanging up my coat and I cried, “THIS IS ALL BECAUSE OF THE FRUIT!” (There were witnesses.) Luckily, Barb had an extra apple so my shakes have mostly subsided, knowing that I will have an apple to eat at 4PM. (I don’t eat my apples at 7PM anymore, now that I’m full-time. Keep up.) Just looking at the Honeycrisp in front of me, preciously perched near a picture of Jonny Craig, is keeping my heart rate steady. I need things to be a certain way, OK? I don’t like change. Anyway, when I returned to my office with Barb’s apple, I held it up for Cheryl to see and told her she didn’t have to worry. She just laughed because I don’t think she necessarily grasped the severity of the situation.
• Before The Fruit happened, Henry came home from work and immediately asked, “Why is the mayonnaise out?” God, Henry and his stupid questions. I told him it was because I was going to make tuna but didn’t feel like opening a can so I had leftover brown rice with barbeque sauce instead. So I forgot to put my shit away SO SUE ME.  It’s been a real day, you guys. A REAL DAY.
• I hate doing things for myself. Especially things that require me to stand in the kitchen. The kitchen makes me so sad and tired.
• I asked Henry the other night if he thought my mom would cry when she was identifying my body at the morgue. “Well, wait — why aren’t I identifying your body!?” he cried. Um, murder/suicide, Henry. Get with it.
• Speaking of my mom….oh wait, there’s nothing to speak of. Still aren’t talking.
• Chooch has his first pottery class tomorrow night! I took a half day so I can go to the first one, since everything happens on weeknights and I have to miss out because of my crappy work schedule. I can’t wait until he molds his first weener.
• Henry and I laid in bed Saturday night and talked about all of the music festivals we’ve traveled to over the years. It was pretty awesome to reminisce, until Henry started bringing up all the times I acted like a motherfucker, none of which was deserving of me having a BLUEBERRY MUFFIN thrown at my face, though, I promise you. Now I’m thinking about all the other conflicts which arose on the road and suddenly the cute little romantic stroll down memory lane is more like a foot-stomping Sumo stance down a flaming path of domestic dysfunction.
• Spent $50 on new Adidas Samoas for Chooch and after one day, he totally scuffed one of them. I threatened to make him start wearing Crocs if he doesn’t treating his shoes better, and that seemed to scare him into shape.
• I let Chooch watch “Sinister” and he totally wasn’t scared. Didn’t even get startled once. It’s no “Ju-On” I guess.
• We’re having cake at work in 20 mintutes but I don’t care because I have an apple. (It would be a different story if it were a Law Firm Lamb Cake, though.) OH, OF ALL THE DAYS FOR THERE TO BE CAKE.
• Speaking of Law Firm Lamb Cake*,  Andrea and I are collaborating on an Oh Honestly, Erin eye shadow set! And by collaborating, I mean of course that I say things like, “What about Henry’s Melon Shirt?” and then she does theactual labor. More details later!
  • I should probably take her to a Lil Wayne show as payment.
  • *This is already an MPZ eyeshadow shade and it is fucking regal. Get some.
• One night last week, Henry and I stayed up late, watching “Dexter” and making pendants. TRU LUV.
• On Saturday, I had lunch at Zenith with Kara. The guy who sold me my very first wheelchair was our waiter, and I said to him, “I don’t know if you remember, but you sold me a wheelchair over the summer…do you acquire wheelchairs often?” He said right away that he remembered me, because that was an unusual acquisition for him. “But now that I know that you collect them, I’ll definitely start looking,” he said enthusiastically. “I do have a really old syringe that I haven’t brought into the store yet….” he mused. “Oh god, please don’t get her started on syringes,” Kara muttered. And I guess she had a valid point there. Here are some pictures from our time at Zenith:

The owner set this down at the table next to us and deadpanned, “Jesus is watching you.” We were having a pretty serious conversation at the time, so it was super apropos and gave us a much-needed laugh.

Man, my grandma LOVED THE SHIT out of Julio Iglesias. I remember one time in the 80s, her Cadillac was stolen from the mall parking lot and all she cared about was that all of her Julio cassettes were in there.

I need to go back for this.

• Hey speaking of wheelchairs, the Craigslist guy finally replied to Henry, so Henry is going to go out to the dude’s dad’s house this week and hopefully not killed, because I really want that wheelchair.
• Had someone from my past profess their undying love for me today, which was not as flattering as you’d think. Just really sad.
  • Just to clarify, I don’t mean this to sound arrogant. I really am pretty sad about it.
• I want Danni to be The Biggest Loser.

You know my brain is all jacked up when I break out the bullet points. January can blow me.  

• Yesterday, Chooch paused as he was putting on his gloves and thoughtfully said, “I wish that there were gloves that you could wear and still be able to feel the fur of a cat when you pet it.” In that split second, I saw into the future: Chooch, 47-years-old, living in my garage with 18 cats and 24 bookshelves stuffed with every Goodwill cat book he ever made us purchase, going on his 87th prototype for said gloves.
  • At least his ridiculous cat love means he likely won’t grow up to be a serial killer.
• Henry and I kind of had a fight yesterday, but then we both started laughing. I’ve totally lost my edge.
• Today, there was a food fest at work. Today was also the day that I fit into a pair of pants that have been too tight for the last year. That totally made it easy for me to just say no to the food and cuddle up to my fruit salad.
  • The fact that I’m not feeling very “festive” at work lately also helped.
•  

• I caught Henry looking at house listings on his phone the other night! ALL ON HIS OWN! Maybe that  means we’re getting closer to officially looking, I don’t know.
• Chooch was accused of punching one of his classmates in the mouth two Fridays ago. This classmate also has the distinction of being our next door neighbor. Instead of coming straight to us, his mom (who has lived next door to us for like, 10 years – she’s Hot Naybor Chris’s stepdaughter-ish thing!) went to the vice principal the following Tuesday. We only heard about it because Chooch had a dentist appointment that day, so the VP told Henry when he went to the office to sign out  Chooch. However, their teacher knew nothing about it even though the kid was supposedly bleeding. You know who else didn’t know about it? Chooch. And I know he wasn’t lying, because I KNOW when my kid is lying. He lies just like me! We both start nervously laughing and then become belligerently defensive. And he did neither of those things, just sat there acting thoroughly confused. Meanwhile, the kid he apparently punched is a fucking Neanderthal Yinzer-bully who calls people “homos,” so if Chooch did punch him in some alternate-reality where he’s not preoccupied watching kitten videos on YouTube, then I’d give him a high-fucking-five and a goddamn donut.
  • I am so 110% over conflict right now, you have no idea. I’m too young for this chest-pain bullshit!
•  I listened to a lot of Eisley over the weekend. I forgot the soothing effect those sirens have on me.
• Weekends mean so much more to me now that everything is falling apart. They also go by so much faster.
• I realized the other day that the biggest difference between Now and Then is that Now I have an amazing support system. Then I had a bunch of bitches who wanted to see me fail.
•          I miss my Pappap so fucking much.
• What is the weirdest fruit you’ve ever eaten? My fruit salads have been pretty boring lately and I need some suggestions.  Henry bought a pepino melon and I guess I was supposed to be more excited about that, but come on — my melon fetish was so 2004. (This is not a metaphor for my sex life.) At least he “splurged” and bought a bag of cherries. Usually his canned response to cherries is: “Not for THAT price!” (Nor is this a metaphor for my drug habit.)
• This is what I look like now:
• I need a fucking adventure. Who’s with me?

A few years ago, when I actually tried to be a part of the Blogosphere, I participated in a Blog Bash that some blogger broad was hosting. Basically, everyone posted shit about themselves, answered questions, and then went around reading everyone else’s shit.

I thought it would be fun to re-post mine and maybe, if anyone out there gives a shit, they can make their own post on their blog. JUST A THOUGHT.

*********

• My birthday is July 30, 1979. That means I’m a Leo, which means I roar a lot. Which means I have an awesome singing voice.
• My boyfriend Henry and I have been together since 2001. We did a REALLY SICK THING which produced a boy named Riley, but everyone calls him Chooch. You can too. He’s 4 now. 4 is the age where kids get the  manual on how to be dicks, in case you didn’t know. And if you have a 4-year-old and are disagreeing with this, then I hate you. Can we trade?
  • ACTUALLY, at the time of this posting, he’s six and has since earned a black belt in dickness.
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• I live in Pittsburgh! I hate it here!
• I hate water towers, power plants/abandoned factories, the ocean, outer space, glaciers, Alaska, Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry, the Steelers, liars.
• I like hockey!
• My past time is stalking people and playing with animal masks. (Yes, in tandem.)
• I like the Cure and most any music that features incessant screaming.
• Annoying people with reckless abandon is sort of my thang.
• I can turn any situation into a study of awkwardness.
• I am a girl!

5.) Let’s hear the story behind your blog title!

My grandma and I have a very illustrious history, full of afternoons  light-hearted flour fights during impromptu snickerdoodle bake-offs and reading Dickens together beneath a parasol.

That’s a lie. I don’t know why I typed that just now.

The truth is that I was always the black sheep, that a lot of my actions or ideas shamed my grandma. Even as a small child, when I would fuck up, she would sigh exasperatedly (sometimes even disgustedly while running a red pen across my name on her Will) and say, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

And not a day goes by where I don’t have some extent of an “Oh honestly” moment.

Now you know.

• Last Sunday, we were hanging out at Castle Blood (well, Henry was actually HELPING out at Castle Blood). I was super stoked because my friend Dawn is here from Canada for the Halloween season, so Chooch and I  totally pulled her away from her haunt-related duties and made her entertain us. At one point, we were playing 20 questions. When it was my turn to come up with something, I had only just barely said, “OK, I got one” before Dawn yelled, “Jonny Craig!”  “Dammit!” I hissed, just as Chooch burst into tears because he knew it was Jonny Craig too but Dawn had the nerve to beat him to the punch. They’re totally frenemies now.
• Speaking of haunted houses, I scared Chooch so good at his grandma Judy’s apartment (and Judy, too) that he punched me and then cried. I asked him how he’s going to go to any haunted houses when I scare him so easily and he said, “Yeah, well you’re SCARIER than a haunted house.” YESSSS. I finally feel some level of success in this world!
• But then I go to work and receive my penance every time I work late shift with my nemesis Brad, who sometimes scares me without even trying. One time last week, he came up behind me and smacked my pen out of my hand. I really need to buy some mace. Or eyes for the back of my head. I’m so paranoid there.
• I’ve been using Boggle to help Chooch with spelling, and it’s been totally fun (for me) because I love shaking up those letters. And being the best. Don’t worry, Chooch. Someday you’ll be able to obnoxiously correct all of Daddy’s 2nd grade-level spelling mistakes, too. (And yes, “stab” was the first word we found.)
• 
• Henry still hasn’t made a website for me to sell the pendants. “Aw, damn!” says absolutely no one.
• Me, bitching about priorities: “All I want to do is look for haunted houses, think about haunted houses, and text my friends about going to haunted houses.”
  Henry: *Frown of the Day*
  • No, seriously. This is all I have been doing. I have my little calendar pages printed out and people’s names/haunted attractions penciled in everywhere. I was poring over it at work the other night and one of my co-workers was like, “What are you doing? It looks like you’re trying to figure out your Trig homework.” BECAUSE IT’S SERIOUS BUSINESS, OK?
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    You don’t keep haunted house journals since you’re 16 and then treat your October planner casually.

    • Unfortunately, this is the time of the year I always miss my mom.
• At work the other day, Amber¹ got a call from some dating site called It’s Just Lunch. She came over and was telling Barb and me about it, that her friend must have referred her.
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  This perked my ears up. “Refer” you say? I got that super-creepy throaty giggle and raced to the website, where I entered all of Henry’s info, in spite of  Barb’s discouragement. About a half hour later, I got this text:     You’re welcome, Henry!

  • Then I started to panic. What if he actually found someone?! Barb calmly said, “Don’t worry. It’s just lunch.” Touché, Barbara! But then Amber reminded me that it costs $1000 to sign up, and I don’t think Henry is that desperate to get out. At least, I hope not. However, if I find out that he suddenly has a spare grand to spend on this when I’ve been sitting on a broken couch for the last 5 years, you can bet I’ll make it so he has a difficult time finding a woman who wants to date his castrated self.
• Some kid made the sign of the cross when he walked past our house on Thursday. Either this is because we live across from a church, or we’ve just really built up quite the reputation.
• Thursday night, Henry texted me all excited because he bought himself a Scooby-Doo Chia Pet. Apparently, he was deprived of one as a child. I was like, “OK, that’s wonderful, but please get Marcy toys while you’re out.” So he bought her (and stupid Willie) a bag of cat nip pom-poms, which he left on the dining room table.
  • The next morning when Chooch and I went downstairs, we found the Chia Pet on the floor, shattered into hundreds of pieces, and pom-poms scattered all over the house. At first, we pointed fingers at Willie, but as the day went on, Marcy was looking more and more suspicious.
• Barb yelled at Lee a few weeks ago (to her defense, he made an ill-timed, insensitive joke about the Paper Clip Situation at work, which I’m not sure I’ve ever explained on this blog, but it’s really stupid and petty and has Barb and I completely up in arms as it’s mostly directed toward us). Because of this, Lee has been calling her Darth Riley ever since and asked me to make this, which is now printed out and taped on her desk:

• Yesterday, Barb was trying to email her Darth Riley picture to her brother, but accidentally sent it to one of the Firm partners in Spokane, who is probably in his 80s and his picture tells us that he probably hasn’t laughed since 1959, while watching Leave It To Beaver. Her face was so red, and so was mine — FROM ALL THE HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER HEATING IT UP. I had to actually get up and run away from my desk because I was losing it so bad.
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  She thinks she may have been able to recall the email, but I REALLY REALLY REALLY hope he saw it. I actually hurt my back from laughing!

• Before I left for work yesterday, Henry was watching me put on blush and said, “You’re so cute. You’re like a little doll.” But then he got another call from It’s Just Lunch and took it all back.

Tonight I’m having dinner with some of my favorite ladies, so I’m really looking forward to drinking a lot of wine and laughing some more at Barb’s expense. But right now, I have to go on Chooch’s tour of Halloween stores, where I will say goodbye to half of my paycheck.

Apologies for the bullet points. This is all I can muster right now, blog-wise.

Andrea said bullet-points make her pay attention, so this one’s for her.

• I am pained that this walking challenge does not allot me as much free time as I need to write in here properly. Two more weeks, guys! Two more weeks. (And from under my desk, my ankles whimper woefully, “Two more weeks…”
• Lately, I’ve been eating all sorts of wasabi-coated snacks, but when a co-worker asked me if I was on a wasabi kick, I said, “No..?”
• Henry’s job is all fucked up again, and I have barely seen him all week. I mean, yes, it sucks that I have to take the trolley to work and make my own sandwiches (which then get smashed on the trolley), but the worst part is that I miss him.
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  Our only interaction lately is phone calls and texts—I have only gotten to playfully punch him in the balls once all week!!

• But at least he hasn’t really had to deal with my manic-walking, so I should thank his job for keeping our relationship intact.
• We were debating on going to the a zombie crawl this weekend, but that was pre-walking challenge. Now I’m not so sure I want to go and lose valuable pedometer steps, but I suppose I could be one of the zombies from 28 Days Later and shamble at a rapid pace. We’ll see.
• (Totally choking on wasabi powder right now.)
• There is a new person at work who brought me something to scan, complete with explicit orders on how to do my job written a Post-It note which ended with, “Pls don’t scan this Post-It note.” OH OK, New Person; thanks for assuming I’m a dumbass because I don’t have a law degree.
• Sometimes I consider dumping this blog and going back to LiveJournal, but apparently no one reads LiveJournal anymore either.
• Wednesday night, I couldn’t stop walking. My only goal was to reach 20,000 (if I end the day with anything under that, flames will engulf me while Nickelback blares in my face). But before I knew it, I had 24,000 (I was watching So You Think You Can Dance, that’s why) so I thought, “Well, no way can I go to bed without reaching 25,000” so I kept walking around my house, and it became a race against the clock — and the clock won. Midnight hit, resetting my pedometer when I was at 24,864 and did I fall to my knees and scream, “Nooooo!” with my fists shaking to the heavens? Absolutely. I KNEW I shouldn’t have stopped walking to eat!!
• Jonny Craig called himself the Ginger Jesus on Twitter last week and I almost died.
• If I had a band, I’d pull all of my blog titles from my blog’s spam comments. Track 4: “We All Nod, Every Kitten Has a Name.” (4 is my favorite number so of course I’d start with that.)
• It’s my favorite number because that was my last year as an only child and it was such a good, spoiled age.
• IT’S ALMOST WACKY WORM TIME! Big Butler Fair, I can’t wait to be inside you.
• Speaking of the Wacky Worm, this just happened: Glenn came over and was taunting me because he only has 1,000 less steps than me. I said, “Yeah, but the difference is that I’ll keep walking until 11:59 tonight.” Glenn Henry-smirked at me and said, “You don’t think maybe you have a problem?
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  “

• How annoying would it be if every blog post was just a list of everything that happened to me that day. “And then Henry called me a fucking retard!” “I just stared adoringly at a picture of Jonny Craig!”
• I think it’s adorable when the new kids on the blog-block try to tell other bloggers how to write in their blog. How ’bout putting  in your time first, young blood.
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  (2001 represent! Although I guess I shouldn’t brag about that because in 11 years I’ve only amassed about 100 readers, and that’s on a good day.)

• It’s been more than two years since I’ve been working at the Law Firm, and I still have not brought in my own coffee cup. The one I use was “borrowed” from a closet where abandoned kitchenware go to die; it’s plain and lime green, which does not suit me, since I am not plain nor am I lime green. Please, help me find a really special coffee cup to purchase for office use.
• If you read this thing, say hello sometime. Pretend I’m your neighbor who you feel sorry for but don’t want your other neighbors see you talking to, because how embarrassing.
• I only posted this so I could use the word “fait accompli” and impress no one. (I only know this from the Curve song, not because I’m so cultured.)

Congratulations. You now know what it’s like to talk to me on the phone. I put all of my faith in non sequitors.

• I like to keep the radio on in my room 24:7; there is something comforting to me about keeping it old school, gratingly unfunny DJs and all. Recently, I had to change the station to our local classic rock one, because it is literally the only station aside from sports radio and the urban station which I can’t pick up from the bedroom that doesn’t play that motherfucking Gotye song. I just want to cry “Uncle!” every time I hear it. The downside of having the classic rock station on is that apparently Nickelback is now considered classic rock. However, the odds of hearing any Nickelback song (but really, aren’t they all just the same song?) is still way less than hearing motherfucking Gotye. I wish I could go back in time and delete the master recording of that song, and then for good measure, go back farther and hit him in the face with one of J-Woww’s tits at the precise moment that song started to write itself in his head. Fuck you, Gotye.
• The Stanley Cup is about to be won any day now which means I’m going to grow a beard and mourn the end of yet another hockey season.
• A store in Wisconsin contacted me about selling my non compos cards, which is awesome. I’m sure Henry and I will find unlimited ways to fuck it up. (Having our printer break is a good start.)
• I didn’t mention Jonny Craig once on Henry’s birthday!
• Sometimes I want to kick this blog in its face. I bet if it had a face, it would totally look like Sloth, but a girl. And she would have the ultimate Annie-ginger hair.
• The other night, I dreamt that I was making out with [name withheld to keep my pride in tact] in my mom’s basement. When I told Henry, he scoffed, “All your dreams like that take place at your mom’s house, because that’s when you were the biggest whore” which isn’t even true, it was the first several years after I lived there that I was the biggest whore, so we had a mild argument about that, which wasn’t even the most ridiculous argument of the week; that award goes to the disagreement I had with Carey the other night at work regarding Farrah Fawcett versus Meredith Baxter.
• Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I feel like [name withheld] knows about my dream, or maybe [name withheld] is just playing off the fact that I’ve been acting like a complete headlighted-deer.
• I still cry about my cat Don several times a day.
• Today is my brother Corey’s birthday! He’s 22 and still color-blind!
• I’m at work, eating an apple as I write this. I might also eat an orange too, since I sort of know how to peel those now.
• Some of us have been getting reprimanded for being too social at work and I am totally about to start passing notes just to feed into my new stereotype.
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• Doing makeup at a zombie party tomorrow night!
• I ate a bunch of peppermint patties just now (wherein bunch equals two) and I don’t even like peppermint patties.
• Been spending a lot of time with Henry’s mom lately thanks to his newly-fucked work schedule which leaves us needing a babysitter (and also leaves me taking the trolley to work). She unwittingly presented me with three gems on Monday alone:
• Somehow, the topic of Henry leaving for the SERVICE came up and she was waxing nostalgic about how it was the worst day of her life when he left, etc etc. And how, when she finally got to go down to Texas 8 weeks later to see him, she couldn’t believe how much of a man he had become. I was literally cannibalizing the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing.
• Totally out of the blue (and unwarranted!) she looked at me and said, “My son is going to get back at you one day.” Something in the way she said it gave me quick flashes of meat hooks, Nickelback’s entire discography, and acid-dipped ball gags.
• “What do you call that, when they put the ice cream in a cone?” Oh I don’t know, Judy, but here’s a wild guess: an ice cream cone!?
• I’ve been craving Bonkers which is pretty weird because I don’t think I’ve eaten those since 1988.
• This post is in bullet-points because I am mentally crippled after this week.
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I will end this with a picture of a rainbow and Chooch eating cake from Wendy’s daughter’s graduation party last weekend. That was a good day, and not just because Henry got schooled on cake-cutting.

The morning of the fair, I panicked a little about what to eat for breakfast. I knew that I wanted to ride everything, all the day, all the time, possibly two rides at once if Alisha was bringing her cauldron and spell book. But I didn’t want to wind up puking like Blake did that one time. In the end, I eschewed the hemlock-laced trucker’s breakfast Henry was plating inside a tire, and wound up forcing down a small bowl of cereal instead.

“Let’s pace ourselves,” I said as we entered the gates to the fair that day. Ride all day passes were $20 (ours were $15 because Alisha bought them online before July 1, she’s such a savvy coupon clipper) and I wanted to be sure we woke up the next morning with safety-bar grooves indented into our flesh and a gaping anal wound, a good sign of us getting our money’s worth. But that wouldn’t happen if one or both of us wound up disgorging our breakfast and life matter after three rides.

We had our favorites, that’s for sure.

• Mind Blaster: This was more Alisha’s jam, but I think what she really liked were the exaggerated faces of horror I flashed toward her during the ride. I have two things fighting for ‘least favorite’ position: a) it’s too short of a ride, and b) all three times we rode it, I wound up sitting next to an empty seat and getting pelted by the unbuckled seat belt. So instead of bracing myself against the collarbone-cracking oscillations, I was too busy shielding my kneecaps from whipping belts.

• Freak Out: Oh, this ride is a hobofucker! For our inaugural trip, Alisha and I were the only ones riding it.
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  It wasn’t so bad at first! Kind of like riding on a giant backyard swing set. But then I realized it was only swinging back and forth lethargically at first because it was gaining MOMENTUM and suddenly we were shot up into the sky. I guess I didn’t pay much attention when we were spectating from the ground earlier, because I failed to notice the point where it pendulates you up so high that your back is parallel to the Heavens and your face is staring point blank at all these things that seemed so harmless when you were on the ground but now they are nothing more than death instruments and now suddenly you’re wishing there were more concession stands over by the Freak Out to better your odds of landing on a trampoline of Kool-smoking muffin tops.  You better believe I was screaming like I had Bieber Fever while playing keep away from Ben Roethlisberger’s  protruding dick in the bathroom of some shitty Georgia night club. In fact, my screams  were of such Tobe Hooper audition tape  quality that the ride began to slow down. “I think I made it stop!” I laughed to Alisha, who had kept an empty seat between us in case one of us began to bleed out. “What?” she yelled over pulsating club beats of Usher. “I think I made them stopppppppp—-” and then that motherfucker sped up again in a DIFFERENT DIRECTION and let me tell you, the first round was basically when your brave boyfriend is feeling out your asshole with the tip of his cock. There’s pain, but then you’re like, “Well, this isn’t too bad I guess” and then he plunges right the fuck in with the whole goddamn shaft, giving an entirely new meaning to the experience. There was one point, as I was flung backward, where I saw my bowels exit my body and suspend in a frozen Karate move in front of me. I had a cold sweat when the ride was over. BUT IT WAS FUCKING GREAT, YOU GUYS! Just like anal.

The Zipper  is too awesome for bullet points.

Alisha had never been on the Zipper before and I was so excited to corrupt her. I got Henry to go on it once. He wasn’t really paying much attention I guess when we stood in line because he believed me when I swore, “Oh, this doesn’t go upside down.”

Alisha and I hate our lives so much that we rode it three times that day. The first time, I spent the entire ride fucking with the camera, trying to figure out how to get it to record. This meant that I wasn’t holding on. There are two ways I know this:

1. Alisha kept screaming I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE NOT HOLDING ON.
2. I slammed my head off the metal grating of the cage enough times to do some damage, which I think is why I tried to eat my porridge out of the commode the next morning.

And then something absolutely horrific happened. We’re suspended something like A LOT of feet in the air, smashed into a cage that’s spinning faster than Sybil on sugar cubes, when something FELL.

All I knew was that it was orange and it was a vital piece to the safety latch of the cage, thusly, we were frozen Looney Toon-style, mid-air, waiting for Satan to snap his fingers.

I’m screaming, “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE, THIS IS IT!

I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HOW I’M GOING OUT, I HAVEN’T EVEN EATEN SUSHI OFF A NAKED BITCH YET” and then as I paused to swallow a gulp of Butler County air, I caught the tail end of Alisha yelling, “—my fucking phone! That was  my brand new fucking phone!”

Oh how I embraced life at that very moment. I laughed like Alisha’s phone was a fucking double rainbow and then sobbed a little and then laughed harder.

IT WAS JUST HER STUPID PHONE! Not the world’s orangest bolt. Unfortunately, Alisha didn’t share my same relief because she had just literally got that phone the day before. I was able to clamp it down under my foot to ensure it didn’t get ejected from a carnival ride that makes the Iron Maiden look like a foot massager. So then my trip on the Zipper became REALLY fun and purposeful.

My foot actually cramped from the urgency of which I was pinning down her phone.

Alisha said the second time we rode that other asshole ride, Freak Out, the guy next to her was texting the entire time. I don’t think I would have been able to save his phone too.

I like this photo because you can see Alisha holding on for dear life in the reflection of my sunglasses; meanwhile I’m like, “Just another afternoon on the yacht with Brody Jenner and Kristen Cavalleri, ya’ll.” I hate this photo because it was taken with the SHITTY CAMERA, you guys. I promise, I have a nose.  That Leno chin is real, though.

The second time we rode it, I recorded the entire trip. It’s over three minutes of me swearing, screaming, and saying “Oh my God” in a way that was meant to be filled with crisis but came off sounding like I’m orgasming. This particular go-around felt much more violent than the first one! There was one point where our cage somersaulted a good 10-12 times with no relenting.

“That’s what sex must sound like on a crashing plane,” I muttered to Alisha as we stumbled out of the cage and crossed ourselves post-haste.

Alisha, on the swings with her precious phone that I basically died for.

We rode one last time before we left, because KIRK was at the helms and I kept promising we’d be back to bunch up our lives in his hands like cum-covered panties.

Oh my god, this was me after riding the Zipper at the same fair in 1998! And I keep coming back for more torture. There’s a term for that. I think it’s called “Katy Perry fan.”

Hi! Apparently this is a Blog Bash!

I’m not very social in the blogosphere so I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’ve been trying to be more active in the blog scene, if you will, so I am now going to attempt to play with others.

I’ve been instructed to talk about myself, so here are the pertinents you might want to know if you are new here:

• My birthday is July 30, 1979 (OMG that’s coming up you guys!). That means I’m a Leo, which means I roar a lot. Which means I have an awesome singing voice.
• My boyfriend Henry and I have been together since 2001. We did a REALLY SICK THING which produced a boy named Riley, but everyone calls him Chooch. You can too. He’s 4 now. 4 is the age where kids get the  manual on how to be dicks, in case you didn’t know. And if you have a 4-year-old and are disagreeing with this, then I hate you.
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  Can we trade?

• I live in Pittsburgh! I hate it here!
• I hate water towers, power plants/abandoned factories, the ocean, outer space, glaciers, Alaska, Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry, the Steelers, liars.
• I like hockey!
• My past time is stalking people and playing with animal masks. (Yes, in tandem.)
• I like the Cure and most any music that features incessant screaming.
• Annoying people with reckless abandon is sort of my thang.
• I can turn any situation into a study of awkwardness.
• I am a girl!

5.) Let’s hear the story behind your blog title!

My grandma and I have a very illustrious history, full of afternoons reading Dickens together beneath a parasol and light-hearted flour fights during impromptu snickerdoodle bake-offs.

That’s a lie. I don’t know why I typed that just now.

The truth is that I was always the black sheep, that a lot of my actions or ideas shamed my grandma. Even as a small child, when I would fuck up, she would sigh exasperatedly (sometimes even disgustedly while running a red pen across my name on her Will) and say, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

And not a day goes by where I don’t have some extent of an “Oh honestly” moment.

I leave you with obligatory photos of my obnoxious mug: