Old Dude on the Crazy Mouse, holla!

Usually when we go to county fairs or amusement parks, Henry declines getting on rides in lieu of standing off to the side, looking like a regular woman’s purse-holding creeper. But I guess this past Sunday, Henry really wanted to remember what it’s like to have all of the fun, so he actually allowed the elderly woman in the ticket booth to slap a ride-all-day wristband on his arm.

Either that or he just really wanted to feel the breeze cruisin’ through his McNichol-locks.

Me: So, which is it?

Henry, mocking me with a Santa laugh: I wanted to have all of the fun, of course.

He complained about neck pain a lot during and after the Crazy Mouse, which is such an old person thing to do.

****

Me: Seriously, how did it feel to actually be on a ride for once, and not ogling underaged girls with a twitch of your Selleck ‘stache?

Henry: Seriously, I’m not answering a question right this minute.

(Oh, that’s because his nose is in his phone, ogling underage girls with a twitch of his Selleck ‘stache on Facebook.)

Me: What was your favorite ride there, and don’t say ‘the ride home’?

Henry, in a tone that implies I’m a fool for not knowing: The Crazy Mouse.

Me: So, would you say that the Crazy Mouse is your Wacky Worm?

Henry, using the tactic of saying whatever I want to hear in an effort to appease me faster than ear-fucking me with Jonny Craig records: Yeah, I guess.

When it comes to bumper cars, I ususally tend to sit that one out and let Henry and Chooch do their thing. But on this day, I was feeling all sorts of female empowerment and decided what better way to celebrate my day as a mother than by getting all sorts of vehicular homicide on the sperm receptacle that knocked me up in the first place? I immediately regretted the decision when we ascended the steps and got into a line which was turnstiled inside an area the size of a walk-in closet (a regular person’s walk-in closet, not Kimora Lee Simmon’s walk-in closet; bitch, watch an episode of “Cribs” now and then, and you’d know). It was so cramped up in there that I had to stand stockstill, with my arms straight down my sides to avoid my white bread city flesh accidentally chafing against red neck farmhand brawn. Remember in my last Delgrosso’s editorial where I expounded on the social classes of its average patron? Well, it was here, in line for the bumper cars, that all my hyperbolic observations manifested themselves into an actual breathing and stinking family. Imagine the TV show Roseanne, but if the Connors lived in hills that have eyes and not Illinois; marry that with People of Wal-Mart; and then bathe them in liquid cabbage, body odor, vomit and spritz them with eau d’ petting zoo and then plant them right behind the judgmental girl with the over-sensitive olfactory system.

My senses were all a’prickle. Even HENRY was like, “What the fuck is behind me, I’m too afraid to look, here use my periscope.” The Dan Connor of the family was wearing a billowing t-shirt with the arms cut off to allow for adequate stench expulsion from his putrid pits. One of the younger boys was a true ginger and I felt extreme sorrow for him. Also a little bit of disgust. The two pre-teen girls were dressed unintentionally whorish and one of them will probably fail a pregnancy test within the coming weeks while the other loses her virginity to a saw horse.

But the worst was by far the mom. Totally Roseanne Barr if Roseanne Barr was hatched from an egg under a troll bridge, she did nothing but fucking HOLLER at her family and repeat over and over again, “WE’S GON NEED 12 CARS YA’LL CUZ BRITNEY WANTS TO RIDE BY HERSELF! 12 CARS!” and it’s like, “OK! We get it! You can fucking count! You can put the abacus away now!” but really I wanted to know who (or what) she was counting, because I only saw 5 people in their party.

I think the bigger question is why were they spending money on Delgrosso’s admission and not TOILETRIES?

And then one of them, either the mom or dad, emitted the nastiest, wettest fart I’ve ever smelt, and I grew up with two younger brothers. A stew of John Wayne Gacy’s corpse pit, the Jersey Shore smoosh room and sauerkraut might have emitted a comparable fecal bouquet. It was so terrible that I actually CRIED OUT LOUD, DRY-HEAVED and made a big production of covering my nose and mouth.

We ended up getting the last two cars, so at least I was able to ram the fuck out of Henry’s backend without having to hold my nose. (In this case, anyway.)

****

Me: How good do you feel about yourself when you’re amongst the riffraff at Delgrosso’s, be honest? You probably feel hot like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Or at the very least, Michael Landon in Highway to Heaven*. TOTAL SELF ESTEEM BOOST, right?

(* I imagine this is someone Henry emulated in the 80s after his Erik Estrada infatuation fizzled.)

Henry: I don’t understand the question.

(OK. Maybe Henry isn’t that much better than the signature Delgrosso’s patron.)

Henry actually won something! A stuffed shark that his mom kept calling a whale the next day, much to Chooch’s chagrin.

Chooch didn’t understand why his hands weren’t sparking when he stuck them out of the Crazy Mouse car. How fucking precious.

****

Me: How close did that random redneck resemble Jesus Christ, I mean, Jonny Craig?

Henry: I don’t know, I never really looked at him.

Me: I’ve totally been squeezing my eyes shut and pretending you’re him, just so you know. Hey, speaking of Jonny Craig, what is your favorite Emarosa song?

Henry, before I even finished the question: I don’t have one.

(Well, he better get one, otherwise it’s going to be one excruciating wedding dance for him – OH WAIT WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED OH HO HO.)

There were girls in line with us, which explains the bewildered smile.

Henry didn’t want to go on the Swing Buggies until he heard Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” playing, and then was suddenly all stoked. God, imagine if it had been Ted Nugent. He’d have plowed down girls in wheelchairs to get in line.

****

Me: Are you sure you don’t want to finally confess about what really happened that night at the Nugent show in 19OMGYROLD?

Henry: OH SHUT UP! GOD!

This is really what Chooch looks like. I photoshop all his other pictures.

If there are maps, Henry will read them.

****

Me: What are your favorite kinds of maps to read, and how badly do you want to have sex on top a stack of atlases?

Henry: WHAT? WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT? I DON’T HAVE A FAVORITE KIND OF MAP TO READ. Murmuring: What’s my favorite kind of map to read. You’re so fucked up.

Me: [reiterating the atlas part of the question and flinching even though this part of the exposé is now being conducted via telephone — you don’t think I actually get him to answer everything in one sitting, do you? We’re going on FIVE DAYS NOW.]

Henry: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I’m going to kill you.

Me: Imagine that your daydreams of becoming a Universal Hemorrhoid Ambassador came true.

Henry: A universal what?!

Me, repeating myself and gagging on deep-throated giggles: How would you rate Delgrosso’s ‘rrhoid comfort level for your fellow sufferers on a scale from Preparation H-eaven to Bleeding From My Anus?

Henry, after making me repeat it again because he doesn’t understand my laughing slur: I don’t understand the question.

This is apparently Henry’s new go-to answer. Either that or I need to seriously work on my syntax.

Me: OMG Henry, how adorable are me and Chooch? (Answer wisely and this can be your last question.)

Henry, looks at me suspiciously: Very?

Jesus Christ, now I can’t wait for our annual Father’s Day romp in Kennywood!

This morning, I’ve been skimming old LiveJournal posts from 2003 and smiling (albeit bittersweetly) at all the times my cats came up. (I’m still a crazy cat lady, but I was even more of a crazy cat lady before Chooch was born; now I’m maternally obligated to keep the ratio of child : cat blog entries tipped in Chooch’s favor.) I read one post about being busted at my job while calling home and leaving my cats a message on the answering machine, but there was one which made me smile, laugh and cry simultaneously because it involves classic Henry belittling and a Don shout out, so I am sharing it here on my blog. Because this is how I cope. It’s from September 1, 2003.

***
I just asked Henry who his first kiss was. He said her name was Anita. This was instantly hilarious for me. I said, “Was her last name Life? Anita Life? Because if she was kissing you, she must need a life!” I couldn’t stop laughing for a good five minutes.

Henry had his face buried in a pillow and I asked him if he was crying. He said, “No, I’m still trying to figure out what was so funny about that.

” I decided this would make a good number for my stand up routine and he said, “Yeah it’ll be great…if everyone in the audience is you.”

I’m putting this in my journal now because I’ve been kicked out of the bedroom. I can’t stop laughing. Anita Life. Haha.

HAHA.

We bought this stuff called BubbleNip for the cats. It’s just a bottle of bubbles with a wand, like normal, but then it somehow has catnip in it as well.

We brought the fan downstairs and started blowing mass amounts of it all over the house. The cats were going crazy. But not in an excited, let’s-play-with-this kind of way. They actually looked highly pissed off, and the only reason they were chasing the bubbles is because the just desperately wanted to put an end to it so they could relax and enjoy staring at the walls for the rest of the evening. Don hated it the most. He would look so happy once all the bubbles would disappear, and he would go lay down. Then I would start blowing more and he would reluctantly get back up again. They were hating it so bad.

While Chooch was in school on Monday, I took advantage of Henry’s day off (rarely happens) by making him go to the mall with me. We went to Century III, which is the mall I practically lived at growing up (read: where I stalked Scott Dambaugh). It’s been quite a few years since I actually walked around in there and while I knew (based on the crumbling parking lot alone; it reminds me of when everything falls apart in The Neverending Story) that it had become totally run down over the past decade, nothing could have actually prepared me for the commercial ghost town it actually is. As if I wasn’t depressed enough, now I had to walk around past imaginary tumbleweeds, exclaiming, “Well, I guess I’m not going to get coffee at Gloria Jeans!” “OMG, et tu Orange Julius!?” Basically, the only stores left are PacSun facsimiles, stores that outfit teenage girls in the greatest hits of suburban skanks, and Champs*. The lone remaining book store is now a used book store.

(*I used to hang out at Champs ALL THE TIME in 10th grade because I had the hugest crush on Will, one of the hottest mall employees of all time. One time, I was all sad because my boyfriend had broken up with me and Will said, “Here, call someone who cares” but instead of the dick-move of placing a quarter in my palm, he slipped me a piece of paper WITH HIS PHONE NUMBER ON IT. God, he was so hot. I mean, nice.)

The pet store isn’t even there anymore! Now there’s local high school art on display in that area. I don’t want to look at shitty art, I want to pet a motherfucking kitten, OKAY Century III Mall!?

There’s a good Mexican restaurant in there though. Luckily, it can be accessed from the outside so you don’t have to actually inside the wasteland.

That was one of the worst nostalgia-drunken stumbles down memory lane of all time.

At least we got to walk through Macy’s men’s department, where I picked out ironic outfits for Henry’s imaginary makeover. And I got to use the Hot Topic gift card that Barb gave me at Chooch’s party, so that was a nice little pick me up.

Moustache Therapy!

We ate lunch at Lotus Garden, where I openly (and awkwardly) wept about Don’s death, learned I hate chop suey, and marveled at the exorbitantly-priced 1960’s cocktail list. I expect those prices at late shift happy hours downtown, not at a Chinese restaurant in the South Hills.

Even though I didn’t like my food (and really, I had no appetite anyway so what did it matter), the ambiance made up for it.

My bean cake soup was so good, but I couldn’t even finish that. Chooch, the pickiest eater of all time, actually stole it off me when I reheated it for dinner; he ate every last piece of tofu, snap peas, mushrooms and water chestnuts. EVEN THE SCALLIONS, which tells me he wasn’t born with my prominent aversion to crunchy vegetables in soft food/soup.

Zombie Barf Night Cap

The best thing about Henry and Chooch is that, unlike the people who always say they are there for you until you actually need them and then they conveniently ignore your texts and blow off plans, these two are always there for me. Couldn’t do this without them and my real friends.

I’ve had this vision for Easter portraits in my head for quite awhile now, but getting Henry to go along with it was not that easy, even for me. Well, that’s not true – it was pretty easy. But he still waited until an hour before we left the house to pull some 13th hour divo stunt and tried to text his son Blake to be a fill-in. I completely lost my shit, started crying, screamed JUST FORGET IT! and stormed off to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

As if I wasn’t already stressed enough about the Penguins playoff implosion.

Approximately five minutes later, Henry came upstairs. I forget what exactly he said to me, but it wasn’t a distinct “I am not going to do this” so that gave me hope and I went back downstairs to harp on him some more. I even promised to take the trolley to work all week!

“Look,” Christina whispered to me while Henry was in the kitchen mouthing off about how he hates when I tell him what he’s going to do. “You know he’s going to do it. He just has to put on this little show to keep some of his masculinity.” But then Chooch started crying too because all he knew was that at some point that day, he was going to get to put makeup on, and now suddenly HENRY was going to take that away from him.

“You want me to drive to some abandoned private property, put on makeup and have my picture taken,” Henry barked. “That’s like a trifecta of things I hate.”

“He just learned that word,” I said snidely to Christina.

“You owe me,” he said before he left, and Christina told me later that the part I didn’t hear was him saying, “And I’m not talking about sex, either.” OMG THEN WHAT?!

Did I mention that Henry was also sick all weekend? He had a fever the day before, even.

But because he is the BEST BOYFRIEND EVER, he tucked his tail between his legs and drove us out to Elizabeth, PA (even stopping on his own accord to get an extra pair of bunny ears) where he then stood obediently in front of me while I smeared costume makeup all over his face.

“I’m not laughing,” he snarled as I was doing my signature “laughing til I pee”-squat. But I’m certain I saw the corners of his mouth fighting to curl up.

On Saturday, Christina and I went to Goodwill to grab a dress shirt for Henry. I knew I wanted it to be a certain color, and wasn’t sure yet if I was going to incorporate fake blood, so I didn’t want to run the risk of ruining one of Henry’s TWO WHOLE DRESS SHIRTS.

For once, Goodwill didn’t fail me and I was really pleased with the shirt we found (Henry was of a different opinion), and then on a whim I said, “Let’s see if anything looks good in the boys section.” And holy shit, not only did we find a blazer, but we also found these plaid skinny jeans that happened to be in Chooch’s size. The unfortunate part is that not only are they for girls (who really cares about that though), they’re from that asshole Gwen Stefani’s kids clothing line, and I REALLY CAN’T STAND HER. But at least they were only like, $3.

(They also came with a detachable skirt, which we quickly unbuttoned before Chooch had a chance to notice. Good thing too, because he ended up loving these pants and wanted to wear them all weekend.)

(His tie was also a last minute find, and also for girls; the bottom is encrusted with rhinestones, another thing he didn’t seem to notice.)

I love that he looks like he’s going to a Sex Pistols show.

Fetus came along for the ride. I love him so.

I was angry that there was so much foliage around, so I put Christina to work (she is my slave, after all); she wound up taking all kinds of cuts and scratches back to Ohio with her. She even tried (and failed) to construct a bridge for us to cross over the muddy path that separated us from the small building I wanted to use.

Henry isn’t posing, he’s actually watching for cops because he was so paranoid we were going to get in trouble for trespassing, oh noes.

I can only imagine what goes on his head when I make him do the un-fun parts of the photo shoots. Having Christina there allowed me to get an extra 5 shots out of him, though. Usually he peaces out much sooner.

Did I mention it was over 80 degrees on Sunday? It was.

Afterward, we went to lunch at Blue Flame. I posted one of the bunny pictures of Henry that I had taken with my phone to Instagram and when I showed Henry, he quietly said, “Send that to me.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s a picture of me and I have a right to have it!” he said all defensively, because god forbid he should EVER admit that MAYBE he thinks something I did was KIND OF COOL.

Anyway, Henry kind of rules for doing this. And so far, I have not taken the trolley to work this week.

Henry completely rushed me out of the house before work today and in my haste, I forgot to grab an apple. Luckily, Gayle offered to split her gigantic orange with me. I’m making Saint Rita watch me eat it.

In other “Henry Ruined My Life” news, I had a mini crisis a few minutes ago at work as I regaled to Lee my hot dog nibbling scandal from Saturday.

“If Henry really loved me, he would have stopped me,” I whined.

“Wow, I can’t believe you took it there,” Lee, who is ALWAYS on Henry’s team except for when Faygo comes up, said.

We did what any other sad-sack family does on a holiday when they have nowhere else to go – went and got sushi.

Chooch kept dunking his lo mein into his glass of lemonade (“What? It makes my noodles taste like lemonade and I like it.”), so now you’ll never again have to wonder why I have a strict no-share policy when it comes to my son and beverages.

Aside from Chooch shouting, “I just want to be able to recognize what they’re saying!” and then counting in Spanish to try and “fit in” with the Pan Asia waitstaff, it was a nice, drama-free Easter dinner. Since it was still early and nice out, we took Chooch to the playground afterward, where I made him cry because I’m better at sliding down slides than he is. Seriously, this happened. I’m even competitive at sliding down slides.

Henry just shook his head and sighed.

Then he convinced me that I should not take a left-behind bottle of Diet Mountain Dew even if it was unopened.

While I was swinging (better than Chooch), the parallels between that and my recent emotions were not lost on me. One simple text message received February 24th at 12:22AM and everything has been swinging out of control, my heart has felt like a fucking Elmo pinata at some dumb 4-year-old’s birthday party, and for as hard and as stubbornly I’ve been trying to slam that door in her face, for as many awkward (supposedly) last words we’ve had over the last month and a half, she is still the only one who called me on Easter to talk to me about how I was feeling, to comfort me, to remind me that I’m a better person than my family has ever given me credit for. So what am I doing. For the last two and a half years, I have had this emptiness in my heart and would constantly ask Henry things like, “Do you think I’ll ever talk to her again?” and “Do you think she still cares about me?” and then she finally gets the chance to come back, but for every brick she knocks down, I’m busy laying down five more; busy listening to all the naysayers, letting other people confuse me, when I should have been listening to myself, and to Henry who has literally only been wrong a total of 4 times in the 11 years we’ve been together. But I’ve been too fucking bull-headed, resistant and cowardly to admit that I want to be friends with Christina again (there, her name has officially been written), to have that person in my life who I can call to get a second opinion when Henry tells me not to take some stranger’s unopened bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, in spite of all the supposed “closure” I was trying to convince myself I could achieve by putting all of our sordid past out in the open for everyone to read.

And if it takes swinging on a swingset in South Park on the day that Jesus provided a lifetime of wet dreams for George Romero by rising from the dead to make me realize that maybe the ending doesn’t feel right because the story isn’t over yet, then so be it. I just know that I can’t keep having these psychopathic arguments in my head anymore; I need to make a decision and stick with it before anyone gets even more hurt. And I don’t want it to be a secret. No more texting a nameless Cincinnati phone number. Either her name goes back in my phone or I need to walk away from this for good—no more Limbo. I officially don’t give a fuck what anyone else has to say about that.

There was a middle-aged blind lady swinging next to me and it was the single most amazing thing that happened all day. She was so happy. We should all be that happy on the playground.

Totally stopped pouting after that. (Until later that night, of course, when Henry chose his words poorly, which is like the worst thing in the world for an already hyper-emotional girl.)

I found Henry standing on a tree stump, counting its rings. Apparently that was his favorite thing to do as a child after completing his daily paper route.

Went home and ate coconut cream pie (with NO meringue!), which is really all I wanted to do all weekend, although maybe in my fantasies it involved more of a swan dive into a pool of it, less spooning it into my mouth.

Thank you Henry and Chooch for salvaging yet another holiday. How can I be lonely when those two jerks are always up in my face, anyway.

I’m ready for things to be OK now. It’s like I’m punishing myself and I just don’t know what for.

1. He knows what silver sounds like.

My estranged (emphasis on strange) aunt Sharon dropped off a garbage bag-wrapped Easter basket on our front porch for Chooch. One of the items was a small plastic piggy bank, which Henry shook and said, “Wow, there’s silver in this.

”

“How the fuck do you know?” I asked.

“Because I know what silver sounds like! They stopped making silver coins in 1970—” but this is where I peaced out of the history lesson because I was laughing too hard.

2. Henry used to be a paper boy!

We’re currently en route to visit Speck’s grave, when Henry commented on the traffic.

“Easter sure is different nowadays. I remember when there was never a car on the road until after noon on Easter Sunday. I used to be able to ride my wagon of newspapers all the way across Lebanon Church Road—–what?”

I was wiping tears away at this point. “You were a paper boy?” I cried.

“Yeah, so what?!” Henry spat, glaring at me.

My laughter reached the precipice of hysteria at this point, imagining a freckled, knickerbockered Henry hurling the Sunday paper at empty milk bottles.

“That’s why I have such a good work ethic, unlike most of YOU people!

” he shouted defensively.

YOU PEOPLE? He must mean my awesome generation.

“You’re going to make me hate you today,” he just mumbled.

Chooch went to his cousin’s house today to dye Easter eggs, leaving Henry and I with a wide-open beautiful afternoon. And because it was so beautiful today, we decided to skip rollerskating in favor for a hot dog picnic in the cemetery.

I’ve been a fan of Pittsburgh chef Kevin Sousa ever since I had the great fortune of experiencing his memorable vegetarian feast at the Bigelow Grille. It remains, to this day, my all-time favorite dining experience. I’d even go as far as to say it was transcendent.

And when have you ever known me to say something like that? IT WAS TRANSCENDENT.

This is just a pretentious-worded way to say that we went Chef Sousa’s hot dog joint, Station Street Hot Dogs, to fulfill the food portion of our cemetery picnic.

“This is my favorite part of the day,” the super-friendly girl who took out order said as she popped off the caps of our Mexican Cokes.

That was so weirdly endearing to me and it kind of made me love her. Even if the food sucked, the people working there were so nice it would have negated any sour reviews. And you know how I love to write a sour review.

I remember when hot dogs cost fifty cents and Kristy McNichol wasn’t gay.

After we got our hot dogs and fries, we took it to the nearby Homewood Cemetery & masticated the shit of it while sitting on a rock near a pond.

Henry and I both got a chili dog, but mine was of the veggie persuasion. I almost got the Devil Dog instead, because hello–egg salad and potato chips on a hot dog sounds so disgusting it must be right.

But the chili dog had a bonnet of CHEESE CURD and that was enough to sway me. I’m coming back for you, Devil Dog.

Henry’s standard mastication pose.

I don’t know what came over me, but I started pining for the taste of a real hot dog and kept passive-aggressively begging for a bite of Henry’s while wringing my hands. Mine was so good, but the baseball stadium beef stench was wafting from Henry’s bun RIGHT INTO MY FACE.

“God, just take a bite. I’m not going to call the veggie police,” he mumbled.

AND SO I DID. OH GOD I DID. I took a bite and almost cried, it was so good, this Vesuvial eruption of smutty pleasure and smoked guilt on my palate. My first bite of non-soy meat since 1996. (But god only knows how many times my family minced some meat up into their so-called vegetarian holiday side dishes.)  MY WHOLE WORLD IS FALLING APART RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES.

Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Thanks a lot, Ohio.

After I cried and vowed to repent later to my Saint Rita statue, Henry and I went for a walk around the cemetery; I was wearing Henry’s least favorite sweater boots, which make me shuffle my feet like a teenaged girl, so he kept calling me Captain Floppy Feet, but I secretly changed it to Fräulein Floppy Feet because I’m OCD for alliteration.

[ETA: Henry totally waved at a robin while we were walking around the cemetery, and then tried to deny it.]

Got to leave work around 6:30 because it was so slow, but Henry and Chooch were at Chuck E Cheese for a birthday party, so I had to take the dreaded trolley home. Almost not worth getting to go home early.

Sue kept trying to coax me into taking an entire box of pizza home and I was like, “I can barely carry myself on the T, let alone an XL pizza box.

So she gave it to the cleaning people.

But I blindly chose the correct one and made it all the way to my stop with little incident. Did overhear two hacky-sackers compliment each others dirty hats though.

Clammy Trolley Fare.

Then I arrived at my house only to learn that HENRY wasn’t home yet. HENRY who has the house key. Hot Naybor Chris invited me in since I looked like a poor, shivering sack on the porch, but I declined because I wanted Henry to find me in such state and feel bad.

He did not feel bad.

And that is how I kicked off my Easter weekend.

The other day, I asked Henry why he stays with me and he said, “Because of days like this.” Then he told me not to post that on Facebook because he doesn’t want anyone to know he likes me, but I figured most people will just assume “days like this” means days where he barely has to talk to me.

My world has been in some fucked-up, emotional upheaval the last few months, for a multitude of reasons, but Henry has been here, having my back and picking up the pieces through the whole clusterfuck. I know I’m always busting his balls on the Internet, but I really don’t know what I’d do without him. There. I said it. It will always be Henry, marriage or not.

Plus, the first thing he did when he came home from work yesterday was check to see if I used any expired food when I made lunch for Chooch and myself. He always has our safety in mind. (But if he REALLY had our safety in mind, he would make sure there was no expired food in the refrigerator to begin with. What? It’s a valid point!)

****

I have been listening to Armor For Sleep with some fucking urgency lately, like it’s 2005. Oh, 2005.

Sometimes the past really should just stay dead. But, I guess we needed to find that out on our own. One day, I will finish writing that story, and it will be better than any pathetic poem.

I have been watching Desperate Housewives since the beginning—I know you’re shocked that I watch something that’s not on MTV, or that I watch something age-appropriate at all.

One of the characters was killed off last week and the funeral/flashback episode was last night. This particular character has always kind of reminded me of Henry because he’s always fixing shit for everyone on the street, not to mention he’s the voice of reason for his flighty wife. He’s basically just the kind of guy everyone should have in their life. So watching these flashbacks and the eulogy, it made me super-depressed to the point where my stomach was upset from all the sobbing, because all I could think about was Henry dying.

And how fucked I’m gonna be.

“Do you have life insurance?” I asked him last night. He said yes (NEWS TO ME), and then I panicked and decided that we need to make our Wills immediately. (We were supposed to do this when I was pregnant, but then I became too caught up in belt-sanding my palate with assorted gummy candy, crying in defeat over stretch marks and the unnerving sensation of being wish-boned, and daydreaming of all the creative ways to castrate Henry for causing me such duress.)

“How will Chooch and I survive?!” I wailed. “We’re going to be eating gas station jerky and wearing soiled burlap sacks as clothes.” And then after a beat, I blurted out, “Your mom will have to come live with us.” Best solution ever.

“It’s nice to know you have me dying before my mother,” Henry mumbled, not thrilled at all that instead of me “repaying” him for that day’s amazing flea market purchase, we were sitting on the couch, me drenched in tears and burrowing into his side, talking about death.

“You should get a work-from-home job,” I said desperately. “I don’t want you going out there anymore!” I waved my arms toward the front door.

I was still rambling on about this as we got ready for bed.

“I mean, I feel like you would protect me from the elements—”

“The elements?” Henry laughed.

“—from life, and you know, myself. But I don’t feel like you’d fight for me.

” (Clearly I was still comparing him to dead Mike Delfino.)

“Really?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Yeah, because you’re not a fighter.”

“Well, no, I’m not going to go out and look for fights—-”

I started cracking up.

“What?” he asked with trepidation.

“Nothing, I’m just picturing you in a red leather jacket, on a dock at night, looking for fights.”

[Laughing Interlude.]

“What if you came home and someone was raping me?” I suggested, always up for a good scenario or two. “Would you fight them?”

Henry sounded slightly offended when he answered, “Um, yeah, I think if I found someone raping you, I’d fight them.”

“WHAT IF THEY STABBED YOU?!”

“I don’t know! Do you want me to shoot them? I’ll shoot them. But then I’d have to go in the basement, get the shotgun, go to the store and get shells, come home, put the gun together—-”

“Wait, you have a gun?!”

MORE NEWS TO ME.

Henry’s going to have to start teaching me things about life, like how to do laundry (I forget, OK?!) and cook things that aren’t from the freezer section, maybe I could stand to learn how to iron clothes….Oh my god, I don’t want Henry to die. I’m going to curl up with Marcy and cry about it some more.

Thanks a lot, Desperate Housewives.

Who else is gonna make sure I don’t drink bleach?! No one, that’s who. :(

We went to King’s after Soul Skate a few weeks ago and Henry was all jacked off because the waitress completely forgot his order of wings.

“Maybe it’s because you also ordered a burger and she feels that’s enough,” I offered. But Henry grumbled and added a fifth packet of sugar into his iced tea.

When he told the waitress about the wings, she was super apologetic and vowed to bring him a plate immediately. But Henry, refusing to look at her, mumbled, “THAT’S OK.”

And that is how he treated her for the rest of the meal, as though she was the stripper who ground her yeast infection into his crotch at his 30th birthday party.

Laura and I kept defending her.

“You don’t know what’s going on in her home life!” I cried. “She may have just had a miscarriage!”

This got me a scowl.

It’s not that I was super keen on this waitress, but I do love it when Henry has bad luck at restaurants! You guys have no idea the levels of pouting, disappointment & self-loathing it brings out in him. Poor Henry, indeed.

The waitress finally talked him into taking home a dozen mint Frownies, which still didn’t make him happy. WHAT DO YOU WANT HENRY, A BJ BEHIND THE FRYER?!

Yesterday after skating, Henry finally got his wings.

But this time, they forgot his order or fries. Best day ever!

Henry said to me, “You’re asking a lot, you know.”

“It’s the least you can do since you won’t marry me.”

And on that note, here is what was supposed to be the final installment of the Harangue Henry questions. I am attempting to type this for him while he is busy assembling zombie Valentine cards.

***
Ally poses several Tough Thinkers for our Henry: Who does Henry want his mustache to be when it grows up? (e.g. Tom Selleck, Hulk Hogan, etc.)

[Oh the look I just got from him! Shoooooot.]

“I don’t know! Me! [Unintelligible mumbles.]”

Who was Henry’s favorite Teletubby?

“I don’t have one. I didn’t watch Teletubbies. I was freaking thirty years old when it came out!”

[Ed.Note. In other words: The Gay One.]

Sandra Lee, Giada, or Rachael Ray? Who is Henry’s favorite food network personality?

Henry, with extreme confidence: “Giada.”

[Ed.Note. Then why won’t you make any of her recipes, you douche-kabob?]

Does he agree that Alton’s recipes always work and that Ina’s never do?

Getting tangled up in double-sided tape, Henry half-assedly answers: “I would say yes but I’ve never done any of Ina’s at all.

”

Has he ever tried any of David Lebovitz’s recipes (if not, he should!)?

Henry, who likes to make up his own recipes for orphan gruel, mutters: “No.”

What would Henry do if he had an entire day, completely to himself?

“Sleep,” Henry said in a way that made me scared to press for more. “That’d never happen,” he mumbled. “You guys don’t even let me sleep when I’m sick.”

What is Henry’s favorite milk shake flavor?

With a face contorted in perplexion: “Probably chocolate.”

[The actual answer is: Whatever Erin or Chooch order that he has to finish.]

Which Golden Girl can Henry most readily identify with? I HAVE TOO MANY QUESTIONS, I CAN’T PRIORITIZE THEM!!!!!

“Which one has a girlfriend that’s a pain in the ass?”

***
That concludes this round. It only took a WEEK to get these answers, and then I made the mistake of asking him the last 2 directly after he got off the phone with Comcast, who have failed to fix our Internet for a week now. HENRY IS MAD YOU GUYS.

The other day, I gave you the opportunity to shoot some questions at Henry. Facebook really came through with some good ones, so this is going to have to be split into parts, otherwise Henry will flip out about having to talk to me for me too long. So here are the first 5 questions!

Misty’s question is threefold: I want to know who he thinks is the hottest on Jersey Shore: Mike, Vinny, or Pauly D.

Henry, no hesitation: Pauly D.

Also, does he have any strange fears nobody knows about? (balloons, hair brush hair etc.) He probably won’t tell you but you never know.

Henry, making all kinds of confused and constipated faces: Strange fears? I don’t know! Getting cut by metal scares me.

[Pretty sure we covered that already at some point, so good job Henry.]

And also, If he could retire today and spend his life doing manly man activities what would he choose to do?

Henry: Manly man activities? Do you have to go with me?

Erin: Maybe to watch.

Henry, tapping his fingers and then getting distracted by Friends.

[Now we are both distracted by Friends.]

Henry, 2 hours later: I don’t know. I think I would travel and maybe go fishing.

Erin: Fishing for a new girl to not-propose to?

Henry: Sure.

My old school* bud Liz asks: I’d love to hear Henry wax poetic on the Kardashian clan. Who is his fave?

*(Not “old school” in the sense that she slinks around in Adidas tracksuits and Kangol hats with a boombox on her shoulder, but in that I’ve known her since 6th grade.)

Henry, with a crinkled nose and agitated squeal to his tone: I don’t know! I don’t even like the Kardashians! None of them!

[But he’d sure bang any of them in a pinch.]

Terry from Twitter has a burning curiosity: Name two things you love and two things you hate about @ohhonestlyerin?

Henry, using the aid of a toothpick to think: Why does it have to be TWO things I love? [Staring at me for several icy seconds with hate and disdain]

[Still thinking and staring miserably into his grim future. This is obviously a Very Hard One.]

Henry, realizing the faster he answers, the faster it’s over: Two things I love would be sense of humor & sex.

[Fantastic, now everyone knows my Virgin Mary qualities are bogus.]

Henry, on a roll now: Two things I hate are her semi-self-centeredness [Lies.] and that voice she just used.

[I don’t like this game anymore.]

Andrea and Alyson could both kill to know more about the now-infamous Ted Nugent concert.

Answers are in video-form!

Bill of Funny Accent Land inquires: I would like to know which episode of Degrassi is Henry’s favorite.

Henry, laughing in disgust: I don’t HAVE any favorite episodes.

Erin: Not even the one where Paige gets raped by the frat boy? Is that what they’re called in Canada?

Henry: What? Which one is that?

Erin: Well, it’s the one where Paige gets raped by the frat boy.

Henry, pretending like he remembers: Oh. No. I don’t know, I never pay attention to it!

Erin: Then why did you cry when Jimmy got capped?!

Henry: I did not cry.
****
More answers later!

It’s amazing he answered any at all after I fake-broke up with him Friday morning and caused him all kinds of duress.