Nov 282020

Earlier today, Chooch and Henry were at Target and they bought me a candle named Ruby.

Chooch, referring to my old online persona, just now asked me, “Did you used to call yourself Ruby because that was your birthstone?

“No, I changed my name to Emerald in 10th grade* and Ruby was my psychotic alter ego,” I explained.

“So…isn’t that just your normal self then?” he deadpanned.


Also, accurate.

*(I started writing “poetry” in 10 grade to mock my friend Melissa/Martha/Poptart and Emerald was my pen name. I got two whole teachers to call me that: my English teacher and one of the gym teachers.

Bless them.)

Also, we are decorating for Christmas tonight I guess and it is super sad without Janna here.

OMG as I’m typing this ANOTHER SHITTY CONVERSATION HAPPENED. Henry is talking about how he needs to go to Lowe’s and Chooch said he wants to go too and Henry was about to voice his disdain but then he remembered it’s me who is the pain the ass to go to Lowe’s with.

“Going anywhere with her is a pain in the ass,” Chooch tacked on, not missing a beat.


Here’s son of the year, trying to think of the word “ottoman.”

OK, proceed with your Saturday night.

Feb 262017

There’s this kid who lives down the street and for no real concrete reason, he’s my least favorite neighborhood kid. There’s just something sneaky-looking about him and I don’t even try to keep my disdain for him a secret. He knows I don’t like him and he probably doesn’t like me either AND I DON’T CARE. One of the things that really annoys me about him is that he’s younger than Chooch but totally sasses him!

I flipped out about this in the car on Saturday and started ranting about how Americans could stand to learn a thing or two from Korean culture. They take age and kinship very seriously over there and if someone is even just one year older than you, then there’s a certain way you have to address them. IT’S KIND OF A BIG DEAL. So in Chooch and this kid’s case, Chooch would be considered his “hyung,” like an older brother-type relationship.

“In Korea, you respect people who are older than you. Chooch is his hyung and that brat should respect him more!” I cried.


“Oh you’re one to talk about respecting people who are older than you,” Henry sneered, and then I realized he was talking about my complete and utter lack of respect for him, 14 years my senior.

That’s not true—I call him oppa sometimes!

(Also, I have to tell Blake that he needs to start calling Chooch his dongsaeng, which is totally going to piss off Chooch.)


I went to visit my friend Jessy in the hospital on Saturday, but since we had some shopping to do later, Henry and Chooch came with me and just chilled in the cafeteria. I was with Jessy for a little over an hour, regaling her about BIGBANG and whatnot (my life is so exciting), and when I went back to the lobby, I found Henry and Chooch sitting with some really old lady. I thought maybe Henry knew her somehow, but apparently she just decided that all of the 100s of empty chairs could fuck off because she wanted the one right next to the only other people sitting in the whole entire lobby. A halmeoni* can sit wherever she pleases!

*(My Korean textbooks** haven’t arrived yet so god only knows what I’m talking about. Everything I’ve learned so far is from YouTube vlogs from Canadians living in Seoul, kpop translations, and variety shows. Although when Glenn sneezed at work the other day, I said, “I need to find out how to address your sneezes in Korean!” but then I quickly learned that sneezes are not acknowledged with any type of traditional blessing in Korea and that if you do say “bless you” in Korean, people will look at you weird. So I texted Henry this new piece of info so that we can know to just ignore sneezes when we’re in Korea so that no one will look at us weird. “They’re already going to look at us weird,” Henry replied and I sent him the biggest TOUCHÉ of my life.)

**(I’m old school and cannot learn a language through an app. I NEED GOOD OLD-FASHIONED BOOKS.)

As we walked through the hospital parking lot, Henry recounted all of the food he had to eat in the cafeteria (pizza, Chooch’s rejected red velvet cake, and his own piece of coconut cake) and then they both told me the somber tale of the time Chooch thought he was abandoned when he went to the bathroom and came back to find Henry GONE from the lobby, so he went to the desk and asked the ladies, “Have you seen a man?” and didn’t even describe him or offer up a composite drawing, which is a shame because I would have drawn Heidi’s grandfather, fresh from the mountains.

Seriously though.

Have you seen a man.

That’s my brilliant kid.

(I can disrespect him all I want because he’s merely the maknae of the house.)

Turns out, Henry went to the bathroom a little bit after Chooch, but went to a different one, AND THEN COMEDY ENSUED.

Again, our lives are so exciting.


On the way to various stores (the Asian market of course and also the craft store because I’m a clothes designer now remember), we had an in depth conversation about China White, because I had referenced it the night before, totally randomly and Henry was like, “Wow OK 1990s” and I argued that I thought it was more of a thing in the 80s but then I never got a chance to look it up because Robbie and Nikki stopped over and I forgot about it because HUMAN INTERACTION. So then in the car on Saturday, I was like, “LOL remember China White” and then I started googling it again so that’s why my search history looks like that OK?!


Also on Saturday, I had breakfast with Jeannie at Pamela’s (after she completely ignored me on the sidewalk when I waved and yelled, “HI!” to her, and then let the door shut on me, RUDE.) Wendy was supposed to meet us there but she ended up having to help her husband fix his car or something, I didn’t read the whole text because I was tired but it was definitely something about a brake line and bleeding and then I pictured Wendy in bloody Michael Myers coveralls with a wrench protruding from her pocket.

And then I made Jeannie tell me things about Seoul because she was there once, twenty years ago, and she said that if Henry reneges on his promise to take me next year, she will go with me so SUCK IT HENRY, I’m going to Korea one way or another.

(I don’t think Henry will renege. He knows I’m serious because I’ve already cut back the number of concerts I go to, merch I purchase, weekend trips I take, etc etc – I basically do nothing now and I’m fine with it because get me to Korea. Henry was actually looking up flights the other day just to get an idea and he never looked more hot to me in my whole life.)


Later, we went to Eat n Park for some dessert action and we found ourselves reminiscing about all the times Jessy’s husband Tommy made Chooch cry, and then all the times our friend Bill made Chooch cried, and Chooch just shook his head and smiled fondly at all of this. Somehow, we got on the topic of Chooch’s old school, that piece of shit Catholic school across the street from us, and in a moment of honesty, I blurted out, “Chooch, did you ever know about all of the trouble I caused over there with the parents?” And Chooch just scoffed and said, “Yeah because of your blog” so I guess I must have told him the story already at one point, probably on a night when I was drinking wine, because boy do I like to talk when I’m drinking wine.

And because I TOTALLY LEARNED MY LESSON, I started mocking one of the mom’s who confronted me and Chooch was like, “Yeah, why did you even hate her anyway?”

“Oh I didn’t hate her at all prior to that. I hated her husband. He was some total douche who irritated me on one of your field trips,” I laughed. “But, I did call the mom Horse Face after that though.”

“Oh my god,” Chooch sighed. “What was I thinking, taking you with me on a field trip? Of all people!”

Hindsight, etc etc.


OK, I have things to do now. Annyeong!

Feb 122017

This picture has nothing to do with anything but I figured since my brain is basically just skull porridge anymore, why should my blog make any sense. 

Currently, Henry is trying to sleep while I’m laying here talking out loud about Al Jarreau dying but then it went right back to BIGBANG because that’s all I’m capable of talking about anymore. 

“We should get one of those giant engineer prints of G-Dragon and then hang it right up there,” I said, making a square with my hands and pointing it toward to the ceiling above the bed. 


“What am I going to do when they’re all in the military?” I cried, and then, confused at what to do next, I started laughing. This is a Normal Emotional Display for me, but I still blurted out, “What is wrong with me??”

“More than meets the eye,” Henry sighed. 

Maybe he’ll feel bad enough to get me that G-Dragon print for Valentines Day. 


Update: I waited 10 minutes and asked again. He said no. 

“But I thought you liked him?” I prodded

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean I want a picture of him above my bed.”


Sep 022016

I was on the phone with everyone’s favorite frowner this morning, waiting to cross the street, when I heard from behind me, “Excuse me. Excuse me! Cat girl!”

At first I thought this person was calling me a fat girl, and I was ready to swing my purse at him, but then I remembered I’m wearing my cat blouse today. 

I sighed, took the phone away from my mouth, and gave him the attention he so desperately craved. 

“What time is it?”

The man was probably in his mid-to-late 40s, looked a bit like a disheveled, moderately slow David Letterman. Dressed in a t-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. 

I told him it was 7:49. 

“Ugh, really? Because they’re supposed to open at 7:30,” he said in a vague whine, gesturing over his shoulder to the R-Bar. 

Let me just say that while I enjoy getting grimey in the occasional dive bar, this is one bar I would probably never patronize. Even though it’s conveniently located a mere block from my house. 

(I think. I always get confused when it comes to blocks.)

I shrugged and said I was sorry, I couldn’t tell him why they weren’t rolling out the cigarette ash and peanut shell-encrusted red carpet for him when it was already 7:49 in the motherfucking AM. 

Hoping this would satisfy his urge for human contact, I began to pivot back toward the road. 

“Where are you going dressed like that, anyway?”


Still, the words rolled out of my mouth like an unraveling Fruit By the Foot. It was too late to stuff them back in. 

“Work,” I answered in a cheerful voice I didn’t recognize me because now I was clearly possessed by the Demon of Small Talk. 

“Wow! Where do you work?!”

Guys, I’m wearing a freaking blouse thing with cats on it, and jeans because it’s Jeans Day. I’m not wearing hot pants and nipple tassels so I’m not sure why my attire was so fascinating to him other than the fact that he was probably already drunk. 

So now I’m second-guessing every decision I made since waking up that morning. Was I dressed inappropriately for work?! DID I LOOK LIKE A FOOL?! I mean, these are questions that you could probably answer yes to on any given day but this guy just made me feel like I was under a spotlight and should I go home and change into a cardigan??!! 

Well, I couldn’t go home because guess who doesn’t currently have a house key, so I guess the Law Firm people will just have to suffer through a day of seeing me in a CAT SHIRT. 

In spite of my better judgment, I mumbled, “A law firm” and then I turned and JAY-WALKED across West Liberty Avenue and you all know how much I hate jay-walking and how terrified I am of crossing the street when when the “ITS OK TO CROSS NOW, CHILD” light is flashing. He was just beginning to lean in too close to me and my paranoia was turning my mind into a flip book of crime scene photos. I guess if I was going to die today, I’d rather get hit by a car than sodomized and stuffed in a suitcase by some early rising wino. 

When I resumed my conversation with Henry, he was already laughing. “What was that all about, were you getting hit on?”

Yep, by all the best locals. 

I walk-ran to the shuttle stop, which is another story for another time (there’s an Old Broad that I’m at war with). A few minutes later, just as the shuttle pulled away from the curb, I saw Drunk Letterman shambling toward the sidewalk I had been standing on 45 seconds prior. He stopped right in front of Albert’s Bar, also not open yet. 

By the time I made it to work, I was fucking exhausted. Talking to strangers is so hard. 

I wonder where that guy is drinking right now?

Jun 142016

“Are you winning?” an old man paused to ask me.

I was sitting on a bench in Gateway Center during my lunch break, scrolling through my Twitter feed. I had just seen the Tweet in which Trump congratulates the Pittsburgh Penguins for winning the Stanley Cup and felt on edge.

WE DON’T NEED YOUR CONGRATULATIONS! And now some random passerby was speaking to me. It was all too much at once.

Bracing myself for Stranger Danger, I looked up and saw the sweetest elder face peering down at me through Coke bottle lenses; like, if Spirit Halloween were to be in the market for an Adorable Grandpa mask, this guy would need to provide a mold of his dome.

“Well, are you?” he asked again.

One thing that’s for certain is that I am never not caught off guard by impromptu conversation.

The synapses just don’t fire off as fast as they used to.

And so, there was an awkward delay as I struggled to understand what was happening. When I realized he must have thought I was playing a game on my phone, I went with it and, with mock sadness, said, “Nope, not yet.

“Well, you will,” he punctuated with a shaky finger-jut in my direction. “Because you look like a winner!”

I laughed and thanked him, and as I watched his labored departure, I was overcome with an odd sense of calm. It was kind of just what I needed to hear, so thank you, Yinz-Elder, for taking a break in your turtle pace to wheeze some positivity into the face of a fellow human being. A nice reminder that in the wake of cruelty and hatred, kindness won’t be silenced.

We all need to be reminded of our winningness from time to time, and you know what? YOU’RE ALL WINNERS TO ME. GO GET ‘EM, TIGERS.

Or maybe that guy was senile and thought he was talking to a goldfish playing Old Maid with Yootha Joyce; I don’t give a fuck, I’ll take it.

Dec 152015

Realizing that probably a whole hour had passed without me bragging about something, I spun around in my seat and smugly announced, “I got invited to the Castle Blood cast holiday party, and I’m not even a cast member, NO BIG DEAL.”

“What’s that?” Todd asked in a mildly disinterested tone. He’s been trying to work on that though, I feel like. 

“Oh come ON, Todd!” I cried exasperatedly, as if I have never talked about CASTLE BLOOD before. “It’s that haunted house I go to all the time!”

“Look, you got too many things in your life, OK. I try to keep up with all of the bands, and then you go and throw a wrench in it with this haunted house now.” Todd sounded defensive, and Amber2 was laughing at her desk.

“I wish Henry could hear this,” she said.



Glenn was gone for the day when I made my announcement, which is why there isn’t a single derisive sentence up in there. 

Nov 302015

This morning on the way to the trolley, I was waiting to cross the street. An older woman sidled up next to me, and I knew, I just knew, that she was going to talk.

She had “Generation Small Talk” written all over her.

“One day, we’re not wearing coats; the next day, we are!” she mused.

I yep’d in agreement.

“Thanksgiving was so warm!”

“It was nice,” I agreed again, my fingers nervously dancing with pennies and lint inside my coat pockets.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was like this all the time,” she continued, and I nodded. “Well, maybe a little warmer.”


“There’s not much traffic this morning,” she pointed out after a whopping three seconds of blessed silence.


“I bet some of the schools are closed today because of huntin’,” she answered her own unspoken question.

“Yep,” I mumbled, and then panicked because did Chooch not have school today?! (He did, don’t worry!)

Then the walk sign came on and I more or less sprinted to the other side while calling out, “Have a nice day!” over my shoulder. Hey, I said  I don’t like small talk, not MANNERS.

I really need to start memorizing passages from Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible so I can have something other than “Yeps” and “I know, right”s to blurt out in lethargic slurs.

Oct 152015

Gayle was over at my desk chatting about non-work-related things, can you even imagine, when our department help line rang. None of us particularly like answering that line because helping people is annoying, so Gayle kind of claimed that duty because she’ll talk to anyone.

The telephone is still a novelty to her. I don’t know.

“Gayle, you better grab that,” I directed, with just a hint of a scoff because that’s how I like to speak Gayle.

As she dutifully scurried off to her desk, I said to Glenn, “Aren’t I great at delegating?”

No answer.

“You might even say I’m management material.” It was a race to the end of the sentence, and my laughter definitely won the medal.

“Please,” Glenn muttered. “You can’t even manage yourself.”

And then Glenn and Amber2 were talking about Henry being a serial killer, which I think somehow came up because I was bragging about selling a Ted Bundy birthday card (I like to keep my co-workers abreast of my comings and goings in the underbelly of the greeting card scene).

“You know, the only time I have ever seen Henry seething mad was when he was dealing with his ex,” I TMI’d to my group.

“Compared to her, I’m a dream!”

“Let’s not get carried away. Just say you’re ‘not as bad,'” Glenn interjected.

In other work news, we need a good name for Amber2 because she hates being called that on here. Help. (I already promised her that it won’t be “Mom Amber” because, ew.)

May 152015

A Lot Of Fuss Over Salt

Amber1 came back from GNC today and, in the style of Vanna White, showed Glenn, Todd, and me the big honkin’ bottle of Pink Himalyan salt she bought.

“It’s like the new weight loss fad,” she explained, telling us about some detox thing she read about it. She said it’s hard to find now in stores because so many people are buying it, but I got excited because we have some of that at home!

“I guess Henry was trendy before everyone else!” I laughed. Then I paused and thoughtfully added, “You know, Henry has all kinds of weird salt in the kitchen…”

“Well, he cooks, doesn’t he?” Glenn snapped. “That’s why he has salt.”

Glenn and Todd started chirping about how salt is salt and there is no way that this pink shit is any better, but I had to back up Amber on this one because I just recently sprinkled some of those pretty crystals on my diet popcorn and it was great. “It really does taste better,” I insisted. “Probably because it’s pink.”

“So, you can taste colors now?” Glenn sneered. Then he immediately emailed our group a link to some article about how Pink Himalayan salt IS A SCAM.

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Amber asked me if I wanted any of her salt. “Sure, why not,” I shrugged, holding out an open palm. Walking back to my desk with a handful of freshly ground pink crystals, I said, “I feel like this is a designer drug.” I bet Jonny Craig would do it.

Glenn declined Amber’s offer. “I know what salt tastes like,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, but this is PINK,” I reminded him.

“Sorry, I can’t taste color,” he said.

Is Turkey Meat?

“Do you eat turkey bacon?” Amber called over to me from her desk. “Wait, is turkey meat?”

God, someone’s high on salt!

Papa’s On Death Row

“The Boston Marathon bomber got the death sentence,” Todd announced to us later in the afternoon. “Wow, and he’s only 21,” he said in a “that’s a damn shame” tone.

“He’ll be in there for a long time, though,” Glenn chimed in.

“Yeah, my penpal has been on death row since the 90s,” I said in my normal cheerful work tone (i.e. my “fake voice,” as Henry calls it), getting up from my desk to go on my lunch break. This allowed me to see Todd’s face as he quietly said, “Oh, for real?”

“You don’t seem very shocked that she has deathrow pen pal,” Glenn laughed.

“Oh, pen pal?!” Todd exclaimed, laughing. “I thought she said ‘papa’ at first and I was like, ‘wow, awkward’.” He told me later that for about 20 seconds, his mind was full of speeding thoughts, like, “I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE’S SO OPEN ABOUT THIS” and “OH GOD I WANT TO ASK HER WHAT HE DID!

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I legitimately had to walk out because I was crying real tears from laughing so hard. I made a pit stop to the bathroom before going outside for my walk, and I sat in the stall laughing so hard that I know it sounded like I was under duress. After this, I proceeded to go outside where I walked around while laughing alone like a crazy person, but no one gave me a second thought because it was 4:00PM on a Friday in downtown Pittsburgh; I looked normal compared to most everyone else.

When I came back in from my break, Todd and I continued talking about our miscommunication.

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“For some reason though, the funniest part to me is that you thought I call my dad ‘papa’!” I laughed, imagining myself wearing an apron and picking berries in the Alps while Papa cuts up the kindling. “The only thing my dad is notorious for is being in a Columbia Gas commercial,” I assured him.

What a weird day. I blame the salt.

May 112015


Meaty Thighs Are OK.

We were getting ready to leave for Delgrosso’s yesterday morning when I decided to have one of my standard “Wah, I’m so fat” shit fits. I always figure that Chooch isn’t paying attention to this shit, because why would he? My whining is not that interesting nor is it even slightly relevant. But then from the other room, while playing some stupid game on Xbox, he piped up with, “You’re not fat. You’re like Nicki Minaj. She has a big butt and thighs like you, and she’s still skinny. Kim Kardashian, too.” That weird little pep talk was a better Mother’s Day gift than the Urban Decay Vice palette that he and Henry got me!

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Chooch’s Oh Snap Moment

On our way home from Delgrosso’s, we stopped at the mother of all Sheetz in Altoona. “Is this the Sheetz we went to that one time when we were fighting?” I asked Henry, referring to the miserable drive home he and I had from Allentown, PA last Memorial Day weekend. Chooch chimed in from the backseat, “Well, mommy, that’s hard to say, because you guys are always fighting.” His tell-all is going to be something else. (Also, we are not ALWAYS fighting! It’s mostly just me fighting.)

Also, with the music I listen to and all of my mental issues, Chooch has heard A LOT of screaming over the years.

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Pickle Spreadsheets

We stopped at Valley Dairy for dinner. At first, we thought it was going to be an issue because we had to wake Chooch up from a nap and he is a fucking beast when awakened, so before we were seated, things were pretty sketchy. But then the opposite personality won out and we ended up with Super Entertaining Giggle Fit Chooch. One of the things that made him lose his shit started with a pickle. “Don’t you like pickles?” he asked me, noting that I hadn’t eaten the pickle on my grilled cheese plate.

My mouth was full, so Chauvinistic Henry answered for me. “She likes pickles, but 98% of the time, she leaves them on her plate.” He was so eager to divulge these statistics about my pickle proclivity! I had no idea Henry had been keeping such close tabs on my gherkin grazing.

“What, are you keeping a spreadsheet?” I asked Henry snidely.

Chooch considered this for a statement and then asked, “What’s a spreadsheet? Is that what the doctor puts over a lady before she has a baby?”

I fucking lost it right there at that Valley Dairy table, over top of my grilled cheese and the pickle that had only 2% chance of exploring my digestive tract, next to Henry who for once was unable to keep a straight face, and then Chooch started choking because he was laughing so hard, too.

“What?” Chooch laughed, trying to play innocent. “I see those all the time on the shows daddy watches.”

“Oh, he’s watching A Baby Story again, then?” I asked, and Henry just frowned. He only lets himself laugh for so long, you know. Then it’s back on the red eye to Frown Town.

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Chooch and his “clown” sundae.

Stickers Make Chooch Pretty

I kept hearing about some sticker book that Henry wouldn’t buy Chooch at the craft store Saturday night. I felt bad at first, because I was hugely into stickers when I was his age, and I fondly told them about all of the sticker books I had, and the one that was especially for scratch-n-sniff, and how I used to stuff them all in a big purple tote bag that started to rip in one corner because so many sticker books were sardined in there. I heard Chooch emit a disgusted sigh; he hates when I get nostalgic because the theme is almost always Erin’s Charmed Childhood Where She Got Everything She Wanted. EXCEPT THE UNCONDITIONAL LOVE OF MY MOM, CHOOCH. (He doesn’t care about that yet.)

“What kind of sticker book did you want?” I asked Chooch.

“It was Pokémon and—-”

“Oh,” I waved him off. “I wouldn’t have bought it for you either. That sounds dumb.”

He started to get real defensive and tried to explain all of the merits of this dumb sticker book, and Henry sighed heavily and dragged his hands down his face.

“This is what I went through all last night,” Henry said. “We left Michaels and he threw a fit in the middle of Ulta when I was trying to buy your Mother’s Day present.”

Chooch started giggling uncontrollably as Henry told the tale of the tantrum, because there’s little Chooch enjoys more in life than hearing about what a spoiled brat he is and how he embarrasses us. So while Henry told me about how Chooch LAYED IN  THE MIDDLE OF THE STORE WHINING and how Henry turned around just in time  to see him applying one of the tester lipsticks straight on his mouth, Chooch was nearly swallowing his tongue from laughing so hard.

Half the restaurant was staring at us because sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s crying or laughing.

“This is what it’s like to be around you and Corey, by the way!” Henry said accusatorily.

“And then I was smearing eye shadow on my fingers like nail polish!” Chooch wailed, reaching the point of hiccups. He was laughing so hard that we could see the cherry from his clown sundae (made shoddily by our waitress Sarah who was having a really bad day so I made Henry leave her a nice tip but mostly because she reminded me of Lynn Gunn from PVRIS) resting precariously on his tongue, a choking hazard lying in wait.

Henry grumpily told me that he had to practically bathe Chooch in makeup remover before they left the store. This whole scene was hilarious to me, that the catalyst was a fucking Pokémon sticker book that he is STILL talking about! So now Chooch and I were both laughing our faces off and Henry was so uncomfortable.

These are the things that I want to remember the most about Mother’s Day.


Apr 142015

Henry was sick or something last night and went to bed early, leaving Chooch and me to put ourselves to bed later on in the night. In the morning, I called Henry on my walk to the trolley and he said, “Oh, and just so you know, when I got up for work this morning, the lights were on, the TV was on, the window was open, and the front door was open. Not just unlocked, but OPEN. What the fuck, did you and Chooch decide it was ready for bed and just run away?”

I started doing that throaty laugh that I do when I’m guilty. I had a vague recollection of just not caring to turn everything off and shut the door, because who can be bothered with things like that. “Well, Chooch was the last one down there!” I cried in defense.

“Oh that’s great. Leave it up to the 8-year-old to lock up,” Henry sighed before asking me if I had left for work yet. “It sounds quiet out there. Usually there are all kinds of tragic things happening to you while you’re walking.” (YOU GUYS DON’T KNOW HOW TRAUMATIC IT IS TO WALK TO THE TROLLEY, OK?! THINGS HAPPEN TO ME.)

“Well, I did almost just get kidnapped,” I said.

“What? How?” Henry asked, not sounding concerned like I had hoped, but mostly just amused.

“A van just drove past me. You never know.”


After work, Henry was giving me dirty looks for simply taking a drink from a large bottle of water. Apparently, I “guzzle” it like I’m “in the desert” and this is “annoying.”

“What?!” I cried. “I bought this all on my own before I got on the trolley this morning,”  I added, trying to change the subject to one of my few accomplishments in life.

“Wow. That’s amazing. Maybe next you’ll learn how to shut the door and turn everything off before you go to bed,” Henry patronized.

God, when will he stop trying to change me!?


Henry just now lectured Chooch and I together on the “shutting down for bed” procedure and we are cracking the FUCK UP. 

“Yeah, you’ll be laughing when you come downstairs in the morning and a crackhead is sitting on the couch,” Henry yelled before telling Chooch to always make sure the door is locked and the lights are off, since Henry can’t rely on me I guess. 

Henry is like OBSESSED with “turning things off” and “locking the door.”

Jan 272015

Amber1 brought over a Jamberry catalog for me and Pregnant Amber (she said I can call her that!!) to look at. Glenn always has to insert himself in Girl Talk, so he chose a pair of camo nail wraps for his own dumb nails. I asked him if that means he was in THE SERVICE because ew camo. He said that no, he was not.

This inspired me to drag Henry’s name through the mud (as usual) by talking about his SERVICE years.

“Like, all he did was refuel airplanes or something, but his mom acts like he was some Real American Hero, like GI Joe. He didn’t even fight in a war!” I cried.

“It was just preparing him for life with you,” Glenn mumbled. “The real combat.”

“Yeah,” Pregnant Amber joined in. “His war hadn’t yet begun.”

Now that I’m sitting at my desk crying, I’m going to end this by reposting about the time last year when we visited the town where Henry lived while he was IN THE SERVICE. OH YOU GUYS, I’m so giddy today.



OMG one of my favorite parts of our road trip was when we got to drive through the boarded-up hole where Henry used to live while he was in the SERVICE OMG CAN YOU STAND IT.

I wondered out loud if perhaps Henry had grown children running around Bunker Hill, but he assured me that was impossible, which means that Henry didn’t have sex for like THREE YEARS from 1984-1987.

I was in elementary school then, roller skating and being awesome.


Henry is sitting next to me right now, against his will, and I’m asking him for information to include with these pictures since he has refused to write anything on his own because he hates thinking of the years of his life that didn’t include me.


He was an aircraft CREW CHIEF. Whatever that means.


Here is a street that Henry may have walked on! He probably at least drove on it in his GREEN GRAND PRIX. (He just corrected me and said it was blue but last night he told me it was green. Now he’s saying he had both. God, brag much?) He doesn’t recall Brown’s Game Room being there when he lived there in the EIGHTIES. I asked him if there were any whore houses there and he got really impatient and said, “Not in BUNKER HILL. Those were in KOKOMO.” Oh. Sorry.

Henry never want to Indiana Beach while he lived there because he didn’t know it existed. He did, however, go to the fair. Once. He can’t remember if he rode anything, but he knows for certain he didn’t kiss any girls there because kissing leads to SEX and he wasn’t having that in Bunker Hill. That would have ruined his reputation as the Base Eunuch.


This is the neighborhood where Henry’s trailer was but he claims the trailer isn’t there anymore, but he wouldn’t drive back to where it used to be so I couldn’t get any pictures of the empty pit that remains. He wouldn’t even get out of the car while I was taking these pictures. (Admittedly, there wasn’t much there to photograph and I didn’t want anyone to come running out of their home, spitting Skoal at me, so I was pretty quick to wrap this up.)

Also, Henry has no pictures of his trailer, because he wasn’t in the habit of taking pictures of his non-descript living quarters. He had a variety of roommates, including Les, Tim (WHO HE IS FRIENDS WITH ON FACEBOOK! I’m going to message him soon), and John. He thinks John only lived there for a little while but he doesn’t remember because it’s hard to remember things that happened in the 80s, you guys. He claims that they never brought home any local women and this is just so weird to me. They had lots of porn on VHS though. He mumbled “no” when I asked him if they all watched it together, which means that he wanted them to all watch it together but they were like, “Ew get out of here, Eunuch.”


HENRY HAS BEEN TO THIS BAR!!! Apparently, he mostly drank at the bar on BASE. What a snob. He told me that he used to drink LONG ISLAND ICED TEAS at the bar on base. You guys, Henry used to drink LONG ISLAND ICED TEAS. Now I know what I’m serving at his 50th birthday party next year, complete with cocktail parasols and fruit on swords. And obviously they will be served in mason jars with paper straws, as an homage to Henry’s Pinterest addiction.


Henry made me get in the car after this for fear of the homeowners mistaking me for someone casing their house.

Henry used to cook his own food when he lived there and he just said, “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal to you, I cook my own food now, too.” Oh yeah. But for some reason, I keep imagining him in velour lounge pants and a wife-beater, stirring succotash on top of a hot plate. He just told me he cooked Thanksgiving dinner once!! For like 4 or 5 people, he doesn’t remember!

(I AM SO GIDDY AS I WRITE THIS! The notion of Henry having a life prior to me is hilarious and mythical to me all at once. I need to know all of it.)


I was excited to talk about this picture but Henry yelled, “THAT IS A WHOLE DIFFERENT THING. THAT IS NOT EVEN BUNKER HILL. THAT IS TEXAS.” He didn’t do cool things like this in Indiana. Probably because he didn’t know how.


This was when Henry first saw the thing and then realized it wasn’t the thing anymore. (You know, that base thing.) It’s a prison now! He said he doesn’t have many feelings about this since it was so long ago. There was a reunion last year that he didn’t attend. He said it was because all of the people who went were people who were there for like a million years and not an early-discharge pussy like himself. I asked him if he had one of those dishonorable discharges and he got really irritated so that means yes. Probably because he was a Eunuch. And back then, that was probably worse than being gay.

He’s laughing right now but it’s not the “I’m having a good time!” kind of laugh, but more of a “Can I please go to bed now because my sanity is starting to come out of my nose” kind of scary laugh.

Nov 022014

I call this one “Praying For Patience”

Chooch, Henry and I were all sitting on the couch together tonight, watching The Walking Dead. And by “sitting on the couch together,” I mean that Chooch and I were taking turns roughly using Henry as an ottoman and a jungle gym until we eventually drove him away.

“We were just trying to have Family Time!” I cried as Henry stood up.

“No,” he shot back. “You were having Get On Henry’s Nerves Time!


Aug 102014


ESPN woke me up at 4:30AM with this breaking news, and then again later in the morning to tell me that this guy is still going to drive in a race today, hours after committing vehicular manslaughter. So now I’m obsessed with all of this and have been watching news reports on it all day, which is irritating Henry. (Have you seen the video? WHY DID THIS GUY EVEN GET OUT OF HIS CAR??!! Ugh.)

“I’ve never even heard of this guy,” I said.

“That’s because you don’t follow NASCAR,” Henry reasoned.

“Well, YOU knew who he was, so are you a secret NASCAR fan?!” I cried my accusations.

“What? No!” Henry spat, clearly flustered.

“Oh I’m sure. All those times you’re like ‘I have to work late, the drivers aren’t back yet,’ you’re really sitting in your office watching NASCAR!” I yelled, cramping my fingers from all the excessive air quotes I was throwing out.

“NASCAR’s on Sunday, asshole,” Henry sighed.

“Ok, so then you’re watching NASCAR highlight reels on YouTube!”

And then ESPN showed a tweet from Dale Earnhardt Jr., in which he expressed his condolences on the whole sitch.

“Wow, I’m surprised he spelled ‘lose’ correctly, and not like, you know, ‘loose’,” I laughed, but honestly I was being serious.

“Why, because he’s a race car driver? He’s not a dumb kid!” Henry said defensively. “He owns his own business!” Then he tried to call me out for “stereotyping.” OH OK, Henry.

“Eh, his PR person probably wrote that tweet anyway,” I said, and Henry’s head exploded.

He’s not talking to me now.

THIS JUST IN: Tony Stewart has ultimately decided not to race today after all, and I would like to think me posting about him on Instagram and Twitter was the deciding factor. I mean, according to Klout, I have lots of influence.