Today was a grand day (I’m resurrecting grand as a hip superlative. Learn it.). First, Dyanna treated me to ice cream and waffles at Oh Yeah, a delightfully grand establishment that offers over 100 ice cream and waffle mix-ins. EVEN LOVE AND MAGIC.  It is unfortunate that places like this make me feel overwhelmed and panicked, like my ultimate decision will go on my life’s report card and be the deciding factor between an afternoon getting an angelic facial at God’s country club, or an evening getting nailed by Satan’s flaming thorn-studded dick. It was a matter that required my serious attention, clearly. And even though I kept eye-balling “habanera” and “Corn Pops,” I listened to the lovely dread-headed expert behind the counter and went with my gut: cashews and figs, which were blended up in a sweet cream base and paired with a vegan cinnamon waffle. It was the most amazing breakfast, with great company and good, tongue-searing coffee. I will be going there on the weekly. Dyanna already said I could.

Later, Blake came over and we finally had some fun with the gas mask I bought last fall. Everything was fine until Henry decided to smack Chooch in the face with the car door. Get used to it, Chooch. That’s how Daddy makes Mommy feel on the hourly – smashed in the face by something cold and steely. And it wouldn’t be so bad if it was at least some kind of Terminator dildo I’m talking about, and not a fistful of disdain.

How grand is my relationship with Henry?

Afterward, we went to Denny’s, where Blake taught Choochie No-Nap to shout “I’ll bury you!” to Henry.

It was a grand Sunday. Especially since Blake didn’t carve me with the rusty knives we found in a field.

Last Saturday, the weather was sunny and 70, so my brother Corey met up at Jefferson Memorial to take some pictures. We saw a wedding ceremony which we desperately wanted to crash, and we also broke up a couple’s romantic interlude near the pond we chose as our location.

The pond is my favorite area of this cemetery, but it also happens to be near the scene of one of my most traumatic childhood memories. I was eight or so, and was with my mother and younger brother Ryan. I don’t know if we were visiting some dead relative or just poking around, but I remember we were all out of the car and it was getting close to dusk. Because my mom enjoyed inflicting psychological trauma on her children even back then, she decided to lock me out of the car. Here is where I will state that my mom to this day insists (through streaming tears of laughter and delight) that this even never occurred and that I dreamt it all up, that I always had an overactive imagination. But that’s only because she doesn’t want me to get to the climax of the story, which is where she would only let me back into the saftey of her Blazer if I read her three names off the mausoleum wall.

This is fact; it happened.

Conversely, my mother likes to make up her own memories, like the one where I pushed my brother Ryan down the attic steps. She still swears that this happened, and I know that I was an evil witch of a child, but I never pushed that kid down the attic steps, I’m sorry. Not even after he drove his twenty-wheeled remote control car in my mid-back lengthed hair which subsequently resulted in my mother doing one hell of a number on my pretty blond locks with shearers. Not even after he caused me to suffer through years of inadequacy issues and brutal, bloody competition. (I was the better tennis player, but  my family never came to any of my matches so they wouldn’t know.)

Fuck, I hate my family. (Not you, Corey. You’re safe from my voodoo doll army.)

Wow, thank you Random Picture Sunday. I feel much better now.

While Choocch ravaged the pile of gifts (I didn’t get one single thing and still, my bottom lip did not protrude), all the cats hid safely in the basement. Except for Nicotina (see also: Speck, Breakfast Nook) who was right up in it, playing with wrapping paper scraps and twist ties.

Because we’re stupid parents, nearly everything we bought required assembly. I attemped to master the instructions that came with an airport playset, but quickly found that drool was pooling in the corner of my mouth and my hands were beginning to curl inward. Henry took over and had it erected in a matter of minutes, but he left the sheet of stickers intact for my enjoyment.

And here is where Christmas quickly spiraled into a clusterfuck on par with being fucked by barbed wired dildos: I think I might have a mild form of OCD, I don’t know, but I found that the tiniest slight in sticker application was bringing my blood to a rolling boil. Henry kept saying completely insensitive things like, “What are you retarded? You can’t put a fucking sticker on properly?” and, as I was twisting my arm around Chooch’s fat head, trying to slap a sticker on the airport tower, “Here’s a thought: Why not wait until Chooch is done playing before putting the stickers on?” I couldn’t stop. In fact, I was about to get out a fucking level to ensure precision.

Then, to Chooch, he says, “Ignore her Chooch. She doesn’t understand that you just want to play. She’s a GIRL.”

And then this exchange happened: “Shut the fuck up! I’m more of a boy than you’ll ever be! Get back in the fucking kitchen you bitch!” And he did. Henry went right the fuck back in that kitchen and continued coddling the eggs he was was hardboiling for our picnic. He’s such a bitch I’m surprised he didn’t try to breast feed them, too.

And here is where I regressed to the emotionally undeveloped age of five: I noticed that while I was undergoing the diligent, steady-handed task of toy embellishing, Chooch was in the process of peeling off every sticker I had painstakingly smoothed on. And I lost it. Absolutely flipped my shit and shrieked, “OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT JUST FORGET IT TODAY IS FUCKING RUUUUUIIIIINNNNEDDD!!!!” No exaggeration. I said that. In high-pitched, calling-all-dogs mode. And then I stormed off to my bedroom, where I slammed the door behind me and layed in bed, staring at the ceiling for fifteen minutes until the electrical currents stopped zapping my nerves.

And then the rest of the day was great! Really fucking good. No fighting, no tears.

I got Chooch an Edgar Allen Poe doll. Judging by his confusing expression in this photo, you can tell he just loves it.

“Great, Mommy’s projecting her interests on me again. I wish I could just get a shittin’ Elmo like normal kids my age.”

Then it was off to the Uniondale Cemetery (going to the cem on Christmas is kind of our accidental tradition, I guess), where we had a very fast and frigid picnic consisting of egg salad sandwiches, pretzels, cheese cubes, and frozen strawberries (per Chooch’s request). Yes, it was a feast for kings, to be sure. For the record, the shopping list I gave Henry the day before demanded things like “a delicious array of rich cheeses” and “hearty artisan bread for which to sandwich the delicious array of rich cheeses,” among other fine products you might find in a palace’s pantry. All Henry got was eggs to hardboil, bland wheat rolls that were so dry they sucked the mayo from the egg salad, and two packages of Helluva Good.But I didn’t complain. I guess I’m complaining now, but the point is that I didn’t complain THEN. As in, on CHRISTMAS. I kept my maw packed with picnic fixin’s and distracted myself with the camera.

The coldness kept us from enjoying a lingering tour of the cemetery, and Henry and I were desperate to leave after twenty minutes. Chooch had other plans and took off, slaloming through tombstones and whacking trees with sticks while chomping on a pretzel; probably I’m sure this is some nefarious sequence used to raise Samhain. Chasing him down, I panted, “Come on, we have to go home! The zombies are coming!” and he replied, “Aw, cute. Zombies!” None of my lies work on this kid.

Later, we stopped over my dad’s, where Henry presented him with a case of Faygo rootbeer in bottles. Apparently, this was a good gift because my dad got that nostalgic glaze over his eyes and began regaling us of the good old days when soda was a luxury and if your parents gave you a glass bottle of Cola, you damn well drank it to the last drop. Henry I’m sure remembers those days too.

Now, my dad and Henry haven’t spent much time together, and my brother told me that when Henry and I first got together my dad didn’t approve because of the age difference. But that case of old fashioned root beer just may have brought them together, as evidenced by the jolly way my dad was patting Henry on the back, offering him kielbasi and referring to him as “buddy.”

My other, less-mentioned brother Ryan was there too, but only emerged from the basement long enough to hit up the bathroom. “Did Ryan say hello to you?” my dad asked. And I said, “If a head-nod counts as a hello, then yes. Yes, he said hello to me.”

My dad’s house is always so warm and cozy. I should spend more time there. But instead, I only opt for the requisite holiday face-showing. I’m a horrible daughter. (Somewhere, my mom is cackling and rejoicing, “She admits it!”)

Back at home, we spent the rest of the night eating nut rolls and chocolate, and watching Chooch play with his Thomas train tracks. And I got drunk.

So maybe my family (Mom’s side) is a bunch of pathological nut jobs and so maybe we didn’t have a Christmas tree  and so maybe we didn’t even set out cookies for the fat man on Christmas Eve, but by golly I wasn’t going to let my Christmas go down the shitter. All that really mattered anyway was the Chooch was happy, and I’d be willing to bet that, based on the deliriously goofy smile that was plastered on his grubby face all day, he was pretty fucking delighted.

And oh, look who likes Poe after all!

I hope everyone had a lovely holiday/day off. Ours was mellow (meaning I only threw one tantrum) and overall ended up being a nice day. More later; I have a Thomas playset to project my OCD on for now.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:38 all i want for xmas is for armsbendback to reunite. get on that, fat man. #
• 18:37 a big heart is filling the April 5 block of my calendar.. #
• 21:53 It is weird seeing Henry in his natural habitat. #
• 23:51 Elmer Klump took a dump in his grandmother’s wig. #

• 11:23 Had a spaz attack trying to follow “sticker placement” instructions for a toy airport playset only to have Chooch peel them all off. #
• 11:52 The Thomas Carnival Adventure set comes with stickers adhered. I’m sending a thank you card. Maybe even a fruit cake. #
• 12:52 twitpic.com/wefe – FUCK YOU. Get terrorized, you piece of shit. #
• 14:35 Got Chooch an Edgar Allen Poe doll. His response was “Um. Oookay,” after which he dropped it in favor of, u know, age appropriate toys. #
• 17:08 Chooch is on this odd church-going kick. Whose kid is this? #
• 19:59 Well, if Henry really did marinate my tofu in urine, I’m only alarmed because I liked it. #
• 20:03 The trick to not overeating on holidays is to not have family who invite you over for dinner. #

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I was fourteen when I met Pignaceous. I remember that because it was the day after I got my period. Mama says, “Darlene, you a woman now. Those boys at school are gon’ smell that on you so you best keep those legs closed, missy!”

It was a humid day, that day I met the pig, and I was walking home from school. Now, on these walks home, I always got to pass the bus depot. Lots of unsavory characters loitered outside, flicking ashes and wagging their tongues at me; but on this one day in particular, this humid day, a pig-man stepped away from all those derelicts and offered up his hankie so that I may mop my sweaty brow.

I thanked him. He tipped his hat to me. Turns out Pignaceous, that was the name he gave me, was a sheriff over in a Hawaiian town. Said that damn town got drowned in piping hot lava, all the way from the post office right down to the tobacco store.

Next thing I know, Pignaceous is walking home with me.

Next thing I know after that, Pignaceous is eating supper with my folks and me.

And next thing I know after all that, I’m waking up to find Pignaceous eating my folks for breakfast.

Now, I don’t mind so much, not like you’d think. See, Ma – well, she been known to swat my behind with a wooden spoon. ‘Specially now that Mother Nature made me into a Woman. She’s just certain I’m gon’ go and get myself knocked up by some boy on the AV squad, even though I been telling her time after time that those boys don’t look at anything that don’t got a hard drive and a CRT glare.

And see, Pa – well, he been known to get good and drunk off the sauce, real rot-gut brandy, and leave his boot prints on my behind from time to time. ‘Specially if I be forgettin’ to pack his pipe before he gets home from work.

So see, I don’t mind so much to see that fuckin’ pig tearing away the flesh from their bones like us country folk eatin’ barbeque ribs on the Fourth.

Now, Pignaceous, he DOES mind. He’s worried I’m gon’ turn him in, ruin his hearty morning eats. But I say to him, “Pig, you listen here. I fuckin’ hate my folks. You want to ravage their flesh? Be my guest. Can I get you the Ketchup?”
—————————————————

This photo captures the creepiness that can only be found in a vintage Sheriff Pig. Give him your change before he serves you up at the next Hawaiian- style Person Roast.

Who doesn’t enjoy a nice luau?

This photo measures 8×8. It is printed professionally on fine quality metallic paper

Giraffe did something stupid back in ’87. This something was so stupid that the stupidity of it all landed him in the back of a paddy wagon, with a gang of hobos picked up for thieving milk from tipped cows. Giraffe’s corneas were searing from the teargas. Giraffe done deserved that though, seein’ he done something so stupid in the first place.

In time, that Giraffe found himself apart of a chain gang, digging ditches along a deserted stretch of highway. Some folk say the ditches had
something to do with irrigation, but my pop always told us he was certain the warden was lookin’ for somethin’. Bones, teeth, some kind of people
remnant.

Giraffe told pop he always imagined that if he were on a chain gang, he’d be equipped with one of those litter spears. Not a rusted shovel. He also didn’t imagine that he would really be chained to the other prisoners, and darn if that didn’t make for some awkward moments. Like when Jimmy Sardine would whip out his manhood and start wackin’ the everlovin’ shit out of that fucker.

The way pop tells it, Giraffe thought that he might have just enough slack in his share of chain to reach the relaxin’ floral chair that the warden lugged out that day from his office, where he sat on his pimply ass, shouting out racial epithets to the various hues of the incarcerated. But after tearin’ up three beef and bean burritos doused with a heavy blanket of Tabasco sauce, the warden found himself scampering off to pinch a runny loaf behind an abandoned bait shop a quarter mile away. Pop says Giraffe waited until the warden was nothing more than a red blob on the horizon before shuffling over to the chair. He just reached it.

But Giraffe, he ain’t careful enough. That warden came back, soiled gutchies and all, and caught him goldbricking in that pretty floral armchair, and suddenly, Giraffe wasn’t so much digging them ditches as he was decomposing in one.

Having nothing better to do, we took a “family drive” down south yesterday. Henry even packed us sandwiches! All-American family we are! Can you stand it?!

Anyway, Henry and I managed to go ALL DAY with nary a conflict. We even ogled a waterfall and bonded over ridiculing some Georgian slutbag who had the great sense to wear stiletto boots for a jaunt down an icy snow-packed path. I hoped she would slip and plummet to a rocky, waterfall-y death. Alas, she did not.

Chooch slept for the part of the ride, and spent most of his awake time demanding to listen to The Cure’s “The Baby Screams.” Sensing my annoyance as I ejected the CD I was enjoying, Henry reminded me that, “Hey, it could be Disney music he wants.” So true, Henri.

The trunk of our car is becoming a treasure trove for serial killer disguises.

Then we came home and Henry buzzed those odd follicular wings right the fuck off of Chooch’s dome.

After giving Chooch a nice and even pate, Blake came over and we made fun of the lame Pittsburgh holiday parade that was broadcast on television for those of us who were too busy not giving a shit to bother watching it live from downtown. And oh, was it a good one. The singer from the Poverty Neck Hillbillies was performing, ya’ll!!! Oh, how I swooned. Then I hurried up and hit ‘record’ so Christina can see all the wonders of our townie parade for her own two eyes next time she visits. She’s not gonna believe how star-studded it was, oh no she’s not. I heard even Christina Aguilera was considering coming home for it, but opted to keep her prior plans of being suspended by her nipples over top a bubbling cauldron of Pete Wentz’s semen. I dare Cincinnati to come with something stronger. We had JOHNNY & THE ANGELS***, BEAT THAT CINCI.

***Johnny Angel & the Halos, even. They’re so awesome I couldn’t even remember their awesome name.

Giraffe was on the verge of defenestration. He was five months overdue on his account at the adult video shack, the landlord of his apartment (in the not-so-prime location above an auto body garage) had just nailed an eviction notice to his broken front door, and the Donut Den had retired his favorite peanut butter and grilled cheese-filled breakfast pastry.

On a balmy May afternoon, Giraffe chugged a hearty intake of moonshine before flinging himself out of his second story tenement. He landed in a supine position right next to Monkey, who was waiting patiently for a routine tune up on her Chevelle, which was being half-assedly worked upon on the other side of the garage doors.

Giraffe could not deny Monkey’s charm as she reached behind her to pat his head. “I too have survived a botched defenestration,” Monkey confessed.

Three weeks later, on their seventh date, Monkey served Giraffe with a basket stuffed with piping hot flaky pastry.

“They’re filled with peanut butter and grilled cheese. I know it sounds weird, but—”

And that is the story of how Giraffe and Monkey embarked on a beautiful journey of cross-breeding.

(11×14 with border.)

Burning a hole in my wallet were some free zoo passes, given to me by my co-worker Lindsay at my last job. Henry came home from work early yesterday morning and we decided to take advantage of the seventy degree sun, even though it had only been a few months since I last spat ire at strangers at the zoo. And really. is it ever too soon to go on another hate-mongering rampage, am I right? I swear, every time I go to the zoo, the majority of the people there looked like they were born from a white wine-influenced one night stand between the LL Bean catalogue and Ann Taylor Loft outlet store. I bet their Cabela-bought backpacks are stcoked with Evian and organic cheese sandwiches. I bet their kids don’t swear.

Immediately, I disliked this one broad with two kids (one of which plays hockey; I know this because we parked next to her hockey league-decal’d $50,000 Mom Van). She hogged the view of a young playing tiger from the rest of us peasants while she took shot after shot with her obscenely gigantic lens through a finger-print streaked glass window, like she was some fucking safari journalist. Then just as she was about to leave, some douche in a STEELER jersey (nauseating) took her place with his equally ridiculous camera and I just stood, mouth agape, and said to Henry, “Seriously? This is the Pittsburgh Zoo, not the fucking Outback. They’re taking pictures through GLASS. Snot-smeared GLASS. Go take your John Holmes lens to the goddamn STEELER game where it belongs, Hometown Hero.”

All I wanted to do was see a fucking tiger gnaw on his rubber chew toy. OK?? 

Chooch seemed more aware of what he was spectating this time and spent less time trying to climb under fences and pick up rocks. He ooh’d and ahhh’d at the lions and tigers and at one point was so overwhelmed and amazed at what he was witnessing, that he let out a wonder-tinged “oh shit” in hushed tones.

Luckily, none of the LL Beaners were around.

In the Elepehant House, Henry attempted to play the role of Educator by saying things like, “Look at the big ears on those elephants, son! And wow, what big eyes!” which was only negated moments later when I laughed, “Holy shit, Chooch, look at their BIG POOP!” Of course, that’s what Chooch chose to repeat. “Big poop?! EW!” he screamed, wrinkling his nose. “BIG POOP, MOMMY, LOOK, BIG POOP!”

“OK, let’s move on,” Henry mumbled.

Chooch highly enjoyed the monkey house this time around. laying on his stomach at each exhibit to get a better view.

While it’s awesome that Chooch is shaping up to be so independent, it takes twice as long to walk when a two-and-a-half year old insists on pushing his own stroller. And god forbid you should tell him which way to go. We ended up side-by-side with a couple whose young daughter was trying to push her sister’s stroller, as well. Her mother pointed to Chooch and said, “See how he’s pushing the stroller all over the place and running into people? That’s what you’re doing too.” Fortunately for her, her daugher quickly dropped the reins when she saw how out-of-control she must have looked. Thanks for using my reckless son as your example, Fellow Mother. Asshole.

Chooch took this picture himself, when the camera was resting on the dirty, flu-dispensing table. His pink-painted nails are so shiny.

I have to eat every hour or else I’ll die. Unfortunately, the only food place there that served something without meat products was closed, so my only option was french fries in a Dixie Cup. Supposedly they had salads, but they must have been tossed with that new lettuce from Argentina.

You know, the invisible kind. Because I didn’t see it. So while Henry and Chooch chowed down on chicken tenders and a cheeseburger, I sulked at the sticky blue table and ranted loudly for all to hear about how absurd it is, in the year 2008, for a ZOO, a fucking piece of shit ZOO, to not have any herbivore-friendly sustenance. FRENCH FRIES ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I swear to God, the place that supposedly vends pizza has not been open once in the last six times I have gone to the zoo.

I AM WRITING A LETTER.

“I’ll buy you some Dip’n Dots,” Henry offered, trying to talk me down from the roof I was about to mount with my rifle. Fuck a Dip’n Dot, Mustache. I want LUNCH.

Henry gets nervous when I’m angry, and even more anxious when I’m hungry on top of that, so he ate without chewing and we quickly left for Denny’s, where I enjoyed a veggie burger and cottage cheese.

I might go back to the zoo in five years. MAYBE.

I think I finally have all the film processed and scanned now from last MAY (LAST MAY!!) when Blake and Sarah did that photoshoot with me. I hate that I get so gung-ho over projects and then laziness is so quick to take over. And of course, here I am already in the throes of another one: a legitimate photo essay of scene kids which I need to complete for my own personal fulfillment. Henry actually didn’t laugh when I explained the deets to him. It’s going to be a coffee table book. Just for my coffee table.

Anyhow, this is my favorite from the b&w roll.

Goldbricking Giraffe.

Blake should be digging ditches with the chain gang, but instead he’s goldbricking in the arms of a delightful floral chair. If the warden finds him, he won’t be digging a ditch so much as decomposing in one.

Even though we’re being graced by an Indian summer and it was nearly eighty degrees yesterday, it was still a perfect day for taking some photos of Blake and Chooch: autumn edition. 

My only intention was to stuff a preppy sweater vest on my small child, dump him in a mound of leaves, and have him behave accordingly for the camera. Except my small child doesn’t behave accordingly for the camera. He doesn’t ever stop moving. So instead I took a thousand photos of Henry’s large child playing in the leaves. Blake managed to wrestle him down for one or two shots at least.

I always keep the animal masks in the trunk of the car, because you just never know when the urge might arise to hold up the corner porn shop as a giraffe. But I’ve used them so many times now in photos that I wasn’t planning on utilizing them yesterday. Then I turned around and saw this pint-sized horror stumbling toward me.

It’s almost like the masks were swirling around my face, whispering, “Don’t deny us.” So then I was like, “Ok fine, it doesn’t ever get old. Let’s do this shit.”

Christina said, “I like this one because the background looks so happy.” I considered that opinion for a fleeting second and then countered with, “Really? Because I feel like a little girl was murdered in that greenhouse in the background, seventy years ago. And that’s why I like it.”

One of the cemetery groundsmen took a time out and perched on a tombstone to watch how this would unravel. It kind of made me have stagefright. Until I remembered that I wasn’t on a stage.

This is actually an improvement upon Christina’s natural look. I bought her that necklace by the way because true friends encourage suicide.

He’s late, obviously.

Blake has cool hair. For a rabbit.

~~All the more.~~

Rainy Saturdays usually make me miserable and grouchy, but this past Saturday turned into one of those days where every single thing had me squatting in laughter. I really needed a day like that.

First, Blake and Janna joined Henry, Chooch and me for a quick jaunt to Bloomfield’s Little Italy Days. It’s essentially just a small street fair, with a portion of the road blocked off and stuffed with food vendors and craft booths.

Henry’s mood soured immediately when we passed a voter registration booth with clip-boarded volunteers doling out Obama stickers. Too bad for Henry, but the rest of us like Obama so we made an executive decision to slap supportive flair to our chests. Henry continued pushing Chooch down the block while we stood around and fraternized with the enemy.

It wasn’t until later that I realized they said, “Italian Americans for Obama.” I scoffed and said, “Great, we’re not even Italian!” but Janna said, “Well, actually, I am.” I don’t know why, but it gave me more incentive to make fun of her. And not because I’m some closet racist plotting to bomb Italy. I love Italy! I love those fiesty pasta-slingin’ peeps! It’s just that it’s Janna. And judging Janna is my #1 hobby. I think she has come to realize, after nearly 20 years, that this is her role in life. Which is why, later, when she asked for Splenda for her iced tea, I took it upon myself to make her a sweetener bomb (Splenda, Equal, and SweetnLow). And she drank that shit too. BECAUSE IT’S HER PLACE ON EARTH.

Henry wouldn’t buy us cookies or brownies and Janna wouldn’t buy me jewels, and the clouds were black and heavy with precipitation, but nothing, NOTHING could ruin Little Italy Days for me. And oh, the sights I would have missed had I let some unfortunate weather and stingy asshole furrow my brow!

I might have missed this sweetheart of a nun, with her adorable hell-damning visage. And then I would not have known such lovely edelweiss fashion still existed in these States.

Bloomfield’s own Elvis-Wayne Newton hybrid might have flown under my radar.

And I wouldn’t find out about Gene Simmons going marachi until VH1 decided to make a show about it. Also, that waving broad is exactly the type of classy dame I strive to grow into. Imagine the lamé she has packed in her closet.

And if I had let Henry’s conservativism cloud my personal sunshine, I wouldn’t have thought to subject Blake to yet another of my impromptu photo ops.

We only putzed around the streets of Bloomfield for an hour before Henry herded us back to the car. He later complained that he had wanted to stop and fill up on the many Italian concessions waiting to bloat bellies, and when I asked him why he didn’t indulge his pretty little desires, he muttered something about “all you damn kids acting like idiots” or some such completely absurd variation. I know it was the whole Obama sticker thing. He felt left out and out-numbered.

As we drove through the back streets of Bloomfield, I caught a glimpse of a scene so horrific, it forced me to shriek loud at a volume high enough to make every occupant in the car jolt in their seats.

“WHAT?” Henry shouted, probably wondering if he had driven over the unconscious lump of a homeless man blitzed from chugging turpentine in a boot.

“Something was going on back there. There were two army guys holding GUNS and approaching a house!” I cried.

“Are you sure they weren’t cops?” Henry asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“No, they were definitely armies.” This made everyone laugh and I was angry because this was a very serious situation. “We have to go back there and save a life!” I screamed.

So Henry did. He actually turned around, but not without lip, until we drove past the street in question.

As I shouted, “THERE THEY ARE!” Henry, Janna, and Blake (in unison so harmonious it could have been sung by angels on high) groaned, “They’re playing PAINT BALL.” And we all laughed.

After that, we dicked around on Mt. Washington, taking Chooch on his first ride on the incline. It started raining really hard by that point, so we went to dinner at King’s, where Chooch burped out “Asshole!” with all the charm of a Tourette’s sufferer, and Blake and I reminded Janna repeatedly that she wasn’t a part of our family. It was more fun than doing a speedball in the Champagne Room.

To add a dollop of whipped cream to a day full of giddy antics and newly sprouted grays on Henry, Blake declared that we should make cookies.

“Oh, we should!” I encouraged. “STD cookies!”

Henry got all foot-planty and spat, “If I’m making cookies, then YOU’RE going to the store to buy what we need.” Thank God he sent Blake along to make sure I didn’t fuck shit up. You know me, send me out for flour and I come back with a non-descript bag of dildos.

So while Henry slaved away on the kitchen, Blake performed serious Google image searches on various STDs while I bossed around Janna and basically sat around being cute. Then Henry realized he didn’t have corn syrup or some shit for the frosting, so while he was out we had a tea party and it was awesome because it was yet another thing that Henry wasn’t invited to. During our tea party, Blake ridiculed Janna’s selection of Earl Grey by saying that, “Earl Grey is for assholes.” My selective hearing heard, “Let’s race for abstinence” which had me squatting on the floor, squeezing back pee drops. Of course, no one else thought it was that hilarious, which only made it harder for me to not need to slip into a fresh pair of Depends. At some point, we were talking about egg harvesting and I tried to convince Blake that it was as easy as lounging in a tubful of ice, wielding a melon baller, and then creating a Craiglist post. Hopefully, he will teach all the girls at school this method.

My mug, Skelly, indulges in some delicious diseases fellatio. Look for it in the December issue of Bon Appetit.

For my cookies, I mainly stuck with the theme of Vaginal Maladies, such as menstruation and yeast infection. This one, Popped Cherry with Lone Tear Drop (added for extra sentiment), was my personal favorite. Lost virginity never tasted so delicious.

Hey, there’s some yeast in your pink. Or perhaps a fresh load. Whatever whets your appetite.

Later, I laughed at the realization of what a great role model I must be. Send your teens to my house, Parents, where we make jokes of serious matters and look at pictures of diseased vaginas.

Kara and Chris got married on August 30. It was a beautiful ceremony. A little too beautiful, so I was glad when Kara agreed to let me break out the animal masks and inject some creep-factor up in that bitch.

From the Holga at the Westmoreland County Fair.

I haven’t had much mental energy to write anything of substance. My mind needs a little vacation. I’m sending it to Haiti.

Also, I would like to have actual people add me on MySpace, rather than bands and independent clothing labels.

I’ve been on there since 2003 and have had relatively no action.

And now that I’m sixteen again, would like to change that. Let’s date on MySpace: RowdyRuby.

I just got a bunch of film processed from my Diana and Holga. Some of the pictures are from Warped Tour and even though it was only a month ago, it makes me feel happily nostalgic looking at them. That day was the last time I felt happy and accepted.

Now I just feel like that chick sitting on the curb.