Henry and I stayed up late the night before Thanksgiving, drinking and listening to the new My Chemical Romance, when we started talking about our recent trip to Lancaster and how it’s changed so  much since the time he and I went there in 2003.

“I remember taking pictures of people’s laundry, and that’s about it,” I said.

“No – I don’t think that was Lancaster…” Henry said, thinking about it. So I decided we better pull up the photos from that trip so I could prove that once again, Henry is a clueless dillsack.

“Wow,” Henry said as we looked at all EIGHT photos from that trip. “You sure were a picture-takin’ fool.”

And aside from the one of the laundry line, the rest were basically photos of random people I decided to hate for no reason. Except for the guy in front of us on the train ride in Stausburg. I had good reason to hate that motherfucker.

So we started looking through the other pictures from back then and sat here in front of the computer cracking up. I bet 75% of pre-Chooch pictures are of people I’m stalking. Just utter asshole-y randomness.

“Why did I take a picture of that car?” I asked.

“Who knows, but with you, there was probably something about it you hated.”

Then we came across the picture I took of Henry honest-to-god leading a blind man down the sidewalk in Norfolk, Virginia; I lost it. I was laughing so hard, I’m not sure how I didn’t poop my pants.  Henry frowned. “I don’t understand why helping a BLIND PERSON is so funny,” he said, but I could tell he wanted to laugh really hard too. I’m a super good influence.

There was a picture of the muffin Henry chucked at my head.

Copious shots of the cable guy that Robbie, Blake and I pretended Henry had a crush on. (“Pretended.”)

The fake Italian guy my old friend Cinn brought over to my house one year for my birthday, making me think he didn’t speak English; naturally,  I pantomimed and shouted things to him.

He was not Italian.

But my favorite was unearthing a picture of Henry worshiping at my altar. I think it was for some LiveJournal meme where people got to tell me what sorts of photos they wanted to see, and some wise-ass felt that was a pretty great way to emasculate Henry further.

(There’s also one of him in his underwear, gagged and on all fours, with me on his back.

Second fave.)

Various pictures of bands at Mr. Small’s inspired us to talk about all the shows we’ve been to (he swears we’ve seen TV on the Radio and I feel like I should remember that but I don’t?).

“Who’s that?” Henry asked when we came across a picture of a girl singing.

“Emily Haines. That was the night we went to see The Stills and Metric in 2004 and I found out we are political opposites. Then came home and made a fake LiveJournal for you.

Also, I was wearing white pants at that show and kept thinking I was about to get my period.”

Henry nodded as it all came flooding back.

I know this is a day late, and it’s not that I needed Wednesday night to make me realize this, but god fucking damn I’m thankful for Henry. I can’t believe we’ve been together since 2001, how did that even happen??

And I’ll tell you right now, don’t let him fool you – he still worships me, altar or not.

I’m home from our weekend trip to Commercialized Amish Exploitation, f/k/a Amish Country, or Lancaster, PA.  It was a bummer, but we still had fun because we were with Tommy and Jessy so shenanigans still played out regardless. I was mostly sad for Jessy because she’s really into shopping for country things but nearly every shop was an overblown tourist trap claiming to be authentic but I had suspicions. We did go to some Amish farm though and bought cheese and rootbeer from a cute little tow-headed Amish boy struggling with his English. I wanted to swap him out with Chooch, who was being a big fucking asshole that afternoon.

I have lots more to write about the weekend, but I would like to for now just post the pictures I took of Henry in compromising situations. I spent a lot of time laughing at these. Only Jessy thought they were funny. Henry just frowned a lot and Tommy’s  was like, “WTF is wrong with you?” while making covert signs of the crosses and thanking God I’m not his girlfriend. Meanwhile, Chooch was like, “How many times are you going to make weener pictures, Mommy?

” in an exasperated tone. He is only four, remember. Someday he’ll think this is funny. Unless he decides to just fail me altogether.

This was the one that started it all. I already posted it on Saturday but WHO CARES. Henry, yukking it up in the front seat with his boyfriend Tommy, ooooooh Tommy.

I looked at it and the first thing I thought was, “I need to find a big Swedish dick, sopping with sweat, to enter that gaping maw RIGHTNOW.” Good thing I kept Chooch’s Doodle Buddy app on my phone (I was going to delete it last week!). This made Jessy and me giggle in the backseat for a little while.

Later that night, just Henry, Chooch and I went to DUTCH WONDERLAND OMG. Chooch and I were walking out of the Wonder House (I’m building one in my backyard, just as soon as I learn how to use a hammer. And build things.) and Henry was standing there with Duke the Dino pressed up against his side. Henry looked all awkward, like, “I swear I was just standing here and then this thing started side-humping me for no reason at all! Baby, you know I only like yellow mascots!” I was sad because by the time I got my phone out to take this picture, Duke had set his sights on erotically asphyxiating some 10-year-old boy. Turns out it was kismet, as far as weener pictures go.

Henry Goes COCKoo for Intercourse. We won’t be much schlonger now, enjoy the dicktivities!

On the way home, we stopped in Hershey, PA and ate at the Capitol Diner. Is it sad that the picture I took there was completely premeditated? I had been thinking of it since I woke up that morning and then nearly forgot about it by the time dinner rolled by!

Mmmm, ejaculicious!

I wish making Henry’s life hell was my job. It’s the only thing I’m good at.

If you requested a postcard, look for it this week! Some lucky bastard might just be getting one from Henry’s Eyebrows! Oh, what luck!

You guys asked Henry some hard-hitting questions, and he gave you some half-assed answers. I give you my word that I did not alter any of these answers (except for the one where he used a double negative).

Andrea asked, “Did he get those scene glasses that you picked out for him and what is the best thing about being a dad?”

Yes I did and I must say I look good, now if I could only afford them!

Being there for them when they need me.

Michelle wants to know why I don’t have one of those husbands, what’s up with that Henry?

It’s complicated but one day.

What a cop-out.

Sandy wants to know how Henry got the glitter sprinkles to stick on the marshmallows from the preschool Halloween party:

Corn syrup and glue!

I had no idea he used glue. Is that even safe? Though, I guess kids are going to ingest glue either way, so why not just serve it to them all prettified.

Misty wants to know what song Henry would use to describe me and he thinks he can say “Let me get back to you on this one” and I won’t send him to the flagellation chamber when he comes home.

However, Misty also wants to know a story from one of the most exciting days he had in THE SERVICE:

Ok my most exciting day and the one Erin says I had are way different.

Mine would be the first day there; it was a big change from the way I was used to spending my day. I’ve never regretted going in, just regretted telling Erin anything about it!

By “used to spending my day,” he means he didn’t “accidentally” kill someone’s pet duck in Panama and receive Vick’s Vapor Rub hand jobs by Taiwanese hookers before he enlisted. I thought for sure his most exciting day would have been the day he and his buddies took a photo of themselves in their underroos, and Henry  appears to be holding a ball-gag.

Misty also wants to know what his dream job would be:

Stay at home dad, as soon as Erin makes it big. She better hurry I’m getting old!

Good thing I’ve been looking into some trade schools. My future in welding just might make this possible, Henry.

Carrie asks, “Who is your stylist?”

What ever girl is available at Supercuts and myself.

Alyson Hell desperately needs to know his favorite flavor of Faygo and what he actually did do in THE SERVICE when he wasn’t getting denied by street-walkers and struggling to look like Erik Estrada:

Red Pop or Moonmist.

I was a Crew Chief on a KC135 Tanker they refuel other aircraft in the air.

Kristen wants to know what name he’d use if he was a hiphop star so she’ll know to avoid it:

DJ Dung Pile cause I would sound like a pile of S__t

Yes, he actually spelled it S__t because we all know how much I fucking hate to fucking use dick-shitting cuss words on this motherfucking cocksucking shit-covered dildo blog.

Brandy can’t sleep until she knows how many M&Ms he can fit in his mouth and what his last meal would be once he offs me and lands his ass on death row (which would never happen, because that would be the time Henry actually WOULD lawyer-up, child support/divorce what now?):

Probably 1 whole bag, small bag (Now, if these were DICKS we were talking about….)

Pizza & wings.

Fine, the dick part was my addition, but only because he pissed me off this morning and I hate him right now (more than usual).

Edina wants Henry’s ego to have a moment to bloat, so she asks, “What do you love about yourself?”

That I was smooth enough to land such a wonderful girlfriend who would make me do things like this all the time.

Stephenie is like, “Fuck asking a question, I have a goddamned DEMAND.” She wants her circular bread with the dip inside that he promised to bring her for her birthday and never did because he is the proprietor of the Empty Promise Factory.

Will do it for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Finally, the last question is from Kaitlin, who wants to know, “If you were to cook Erin a romantic four-course meal, what would you serve?”, operative word being IF:

The first course would have to be a soup, without all the vegetable left out that the picky vegetarian doesn’t like. Probably a creamy turnip or sweet potato soup

Next would be some exotic tofu, weird cheese concoction then a dish with vegetables  that most people have never heard of and are impossible to get. Lastly a dessert made from fresh fruit

All ingredients and Menu is subject to change at anytime and must have prior approval by Erin. So maybe you should ask her what she would like. I just cook and bring the romance…Ha HA

OMG he actually said he brings the romance? The vegetable part is true – I only like unpopular vegetables, plus I’m supremely picky on top of that. But let’s be honest Henry, your menu would be pretty simple:

Arsenic

Arsenic

Arsenic

Hemlock

I guess that’s it. Pretty anti-climactic. Let’s never do that again.

Shit! I forgot about the ones he answered in the comments, like a dummy.

Kate asked, “I’d like Henry to tell us what he would most miss about you if something happened tomorrow and you were gone.”

So many to list, but as long as she doesn’t read this, I’ll say all the phone calls I get during the day most of which involve her having the “worst day ever!” or barking orders at me(like I actually listen) like a drill sargeant. Aww hell I would just miss her all together!

That’s cute. He’s actually pretending to be cocky. You’re a big shot now, Henry.

And lastly, Tracey asked, “Did he ever get hit on by another man while in the service?”

No, and I don’t know why.

Would you like a list, Henry?

(I was hoping to have a reason to recycle this photo!)

My friend Brandy is having her blog readers ask her husband questions, and I think that’s a really fun-sounding idea and I want to play too! Even though I don’t have one of those HUSBANDS. Besides, Henry owes me for never making good on his promise to guest-post. (I’m imagining Henry flicking open a scroll of my own empty promises.)

Ask him anything! What it was like to have a porn wound. How badly he wants to kill himself every year at Warped Tour. Things about being IN THE SERVICE (his favorite topic!).

You ask all the questions and then I will interrogate him and post his answers on Friday. And believe me, I will do whatever it takes to get The Answers.

Totally go check out Brandy’s blog, too! It’s a smorgasbord of married-life hilarity, DIY-projects and adorable photos of her dog. I’ve been having a fun time getting to know her over the last few months!

To be honest, I shouldn’t even be sitting here right now, posting on my blog. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, I don’t know, but I am gidDY. As in, giving myself chest pains from laughing hard at nothing. And I’m pretty sure I’m on the fast track to effectively losing half of my twitter followers, so why not move the show over to the blog, too?!

It all started this morning when Henry and I had a fight about the furnace guy.

“He’s coming there at 9:30 with a new furnace,” Henry told me over the phone.

“TODAY!?” I shrieked. “While I’m here ALONE!?” Henry confirmed that yes, that was exactly what he meant.

I have issues with the furnace guy. I dealt with him once in 2006 while Henry was at work and honest-to-god felt my labia curling up inside of itself every time he looked at me. Sleazy Guido, is exactly what this guy is. He was just here the other night, inspecting the furnace while I was at work, and Henry confirmed that it was the same guy from back then.

Never will I forget that man and the way he inspired me to donate to RAINN.

“Call him and cancel. CALL HIM AND CANCEL!” My arms were already protectively guarding my breasts as though the Hope Diamond was shoved between them and Sleazy Guido wasn’t even here yet.

“We don’t have a furnace!” Henry hollered. “It’s going to be 20 degrees this weekend!”

“Well then bundle up, mother fucker.”

A few minutes later, Henry confirmed that he canceled the appointment. “Happy now, you little crybaby?” he sneered.

“One of these days, some guy is going to walk in here and rape me. Then you’ll be sorry!” I yelled.

“Will I?” he asked. He’s only this brave when we’re not face-to-face.

Later, I was going through my blog archives, looking for something random to post on Facebook because I just know none of my friends think that is annoying at all. (I have little else in life, OK? My blog is kind of my BFF, you guys. And I just want you all to love it.) I found one from 2007 where Henry left me alone for like, 36 hours while he was in Detroit for some Nude Faygo Fanatics Convention or something. In that post, I mentioned that he had apparently attempted to sext me, but I mistook it for a picture of poop. Did you know that, Motorola Razr? Your camera phone turns genitalia into indistinguishable mounds of shit.

So I tweeted that today.

Henry didn’t like that very much.

I let him simmer down for a little while before calling him again. This is all I do all day: disrupt Henry at work. But if he ever called ME at work? Hoo boy, you can bet he’d get a tongue lashin’.

“I got an app for Christmas shopping,” I bragged to him because he has some lame phone that doesn’t do shit. He can’t even control the DVR with it, what a loser.

“Paper and a pen,” he retaliated.

“Yeah, but this allows you to keep track of your budget.”

“Paper, pen and a calculator.”

It was a free app, give me a break!

I feel an urgent need for Manuel’s services right about now.

And I won’t even get into the war path I’m on against mommy bloggers and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Though I will say I’m adding to my bio: “The only time you’ll catch me writing about cloth diapers is if I used one to smother a bitch.”

I had given Henry explicit instructions on what to get for the cupcakes while I was at work Thursday night. The plan was that he was going to bake them and then I would attempt to not look like an honorary member of The Dream Team while recreating what I saw in the last issue of Better Homes & Gardens (which somehow is delivered with my name on it, but Henry is always quick to whisk it from the mail slot before I throw it away).

When I came home from work, it was after 9pm and I quickly saw that Henry had not yet made the cupcakes.

“I’ll get to it,” he kept muttering.

I distracted myself by stuffing the treat bags with lame little Halloween party favors and candy. Then I panicked because I wasn’t sure if the game we had in mind was good enough, so I printed out Halloween mazes and stuffed those in the treat bags too. Goddamn children.

This took about fifteen minutes, start to finish. One could imagine how exhausted I was, having single-handedly carried this entire party on my back while Henry pranced around in his underwear.

Somewhere around 10:30pm, I found out that Henry had purchased red decorating gel instead of black. RED! I cornered him in the kitchen as he mixed the cupcake batter and laid into him for being so worthless, so stupid, so irresponsible, so UNRELIABLE.

We broke up for the second time that night, but he still put his big boy pants on and went back to the store in search of black decorating gel.

By the time he came back, I noticed that he also forgot the pretzel sticks/Frankenstein neck bolts.

“I just came back! I am not going to the store again!” Henry shouted.

I raised a knife.

We broke up again.

I know, I know: Erin, why didn’t you just go to the store yourself? And let that motherfucker win?! Never. Let me remind you that the fact I haven’t eaten meat since 1996 was born from my impenetrable stubbornness. My head, it is that of a bull. (And not just because I’m that ugly.)

“Just forget it!” I screamed. “Fuck the cupcakes! I just won’t take them!”

“Fine,” Henry mumbled, pushing past me and going to sit down on the couch.

“NO I’M JUST KIDDING WE NEED THE CUPCAKES OMG GET BACK IN THERE!” I yelled, heart rate up, left arm tingling. Ew I fucking hate parties. As Henry walked by to go back in the kitchen, I muttered, “But the cupcakes are going to look pathetic since you forgot the pretzels, good job.” I saw him tense up for a second, like he maybe was contemplating pushing me into the hot stove, but then he adjusted his Susie Homemaker ruffled apron and went back to ladling batter into the cupcake tray thing.

“Did you start cooking the spaghetti yet?” I asked. We needed a lot of spaghetti noodles for the stupid game that the other moms so thoughtfully left for me to come up with.

“Can I get through the cupcakes first?” he snipped, and we broke up again.

Around 11:30, the cupcakes were cooled off and it was time to start icing them. Henry mixed up a bowl of purple frosting while I struggled with the orange. I didn’t mix it well enough, so all the cupcakes I frosted had dark orange striations throughout them, and that’s on top of the sides I smashed in from gripping too hard.

“Look,” Henry instructed. “Turn the cupcake with your other hand so the frosting goes on easier.” But as usual, I ignored his tip and continued glooping on mounds of frosting before moving on to the frustrating task of smoothing that shit out.

I started to cry. Then I screamed, slammed down the cupcake I was working on, and marched out of the kitchen.

But not before breaking up again, followed by a death threat.

“You’re a fucking retard,” I heard Henry say as he examined the three cupcakes I managed to frost before having a full-blown temper seizure. I really believe that it takes a special kind of person to be able to work with sprinkles and frosting without winding with brain matter Pollacked across the kitchen wall.

I started to watch the Jersey Shore reunion show, mouth still molded into a scowl, until I realized that I couldn’t let Henry take all the credit for the cupcakes. And he would, too. I knew it. So I went back in the kitchen and pushed Henry out of the way. He had a plateful of large marshmallows which he had previously rolled through green glittery sprinkles. I picked one up and decided to start working on the Frankenstein heads, that maybe if I concentrated real hard on that, I could block out the fact that Henry was two feet away from me, making me hate life.

By then, it was midnight.

I did that high-pitched shriek that happens when something isn’t going my way.

“What?” Henry yelled.

“THIS BLACK GEL IS TOO THICK! THIS FRANKENSTEIN IS RUINED!” I hurled it into the garbage.

“Great,” Henry said sardonically. “Now we’re going to be short one marshmallow.” Turns out there was just enough green sprinkles for fourteen marshmallows, the exact number of kids in Chooch’s class. “If you weren’t being such a BITCH, I probably could have fixed that one,” Henry sneered and I wanted to skin him alive.

“Oh you think you’re so fucking perfect!” I spat. And we broke up so badly that I created a profile on Match.com.

Whoever lives in this house after us is going to be haunted by all the ire left clinging to the walls from our mutual belligerence. And that’s assuming we both make it out alive. Otherwise, someone might want to consider taking a wrecking ball to 3021 My Street.

Being short a marshmallow, I made the executive decision to only use half and do spiderwebs on the other cupcakes. Oh great idea, Erin Rachelle. Next time, maybe try to remember that you have an unsteady hand and SUCK at decorating.

How do you bitches make this look so easy?

I was standing over the oven, dragging a toothpick over these bastards, and GRUNTING. It was excruciating! You need precision for this shit. And precision and me? We’re not friends. We’re not even frenemies. In fact, if precision turned into a zombie, I’d push everyone out of the way so I could be the one to shoot it in the motherfucking head. Precision makes me cry, you guys. And I think I have arthritis now. I fucking hate you, too, spider webs.

I hate anything to do with baking! I hate frosting! I hate food coloring! I hate the kitchen! I hate Henry!

I do like licking the batter off that mixing contraption though.

The worst part is that I kept catching Henry trying not to laugh when my sanity was very clearly slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, so are the days of our lives.

Of course, they looked nothing like Frankenstein and I had a failure-induced panic attack. Then I realized that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have a variety.

“What if the kids start fighting because they all want one with a marshmallow head?” I freaked out.

“It’ll be a good lesson for them. You don’t always get what you want in life,” Henry said matter-of-factly. That’s great, but I didn’t want to be there when parts of Mr. Potato Head began flying as the kids fought each other with tinker toys and glue sticks and teachers staggered away with pencils jutting out from their femoral artery. You might be wondering what sort of impression I have in my mind of preschool classes. Obviously a very Mad Max, post-apocalyptic one.

It was nearly 1:00am by the time we finished decorating the fuckcakes. Henry and I slept in separate rooms.

FUCKERS!!!!

[Ed.Note: Henry can attest this is not an accurate account. It has been toned down. A lot.]

People are always telling us, “Erin and Henry, you guys need to go out alone once in awhile, good Goddamn.” Because we don’t usually do that. Warped Tour might have been the last time it was just the two of us, out and about, without a demanding, possessive four-year-old in tow.  Although we did have a double date a few weeks ago, I still thought it was time for just the two of us to grab some dinner and struggle for things to converse over. Politics would definitely not be one of those things.

I have a Groupon for the Gypsy Cafe on the South Side that needs to be used by November 1st, so I thought that would be a good date place for us. We both really enjoy quirky ethnic places and I’m part gypsy so it all made sense. There was a vegetarian moussaka on the menu that I had been eying.

My mom even said she would babysit, but that we would have to bring Chooch to her house. I was looking forward to it all week.

So, there it was: last minute, Saturday at 4:30, when I went to print out the Groupon. That’s when I noticed the not-at-all-fine print about reservations. I made Henry call and of course it was too late to get in for that evening, unless we waited until after 10pm. I can’t eat dinner that late. I could risk dying.

Plan B was to still drop Chooch off at my mom’s house, eat dinner at Blue Flame and then go to a haunted house, as there are several out in my old ‘hood. Blue Flame isn’t exactly a romantic restaurant, but it’s cozy and quaint and the type of place you might catch Chuck Mangione playing on the sound system while roast beef sandwiches and beef barley soup are being served. Plus, my Pappap was friends with the owners so I pretty much grew up there. It was always the first choice on the nights my Pappap felt like eschewing the finer establishments in favor of slummin’ it with a burger, because even though he was filthy rich, sometimes he liked to keep it real.

He would still get his glass of Lambrusco though.

Unfortunately, the economy hasn’t been kind to Blue Flame. People apparently would rather go to chain restaurants these days than authentic mom and pop establishments so choosing Blue Flame is always a crap shoot because there’s never a guarantee it will be open.

And as we drove past last night, it was honestly hard to tell. There were people in the lot, but it could have been a drug deal. We decided to just find a restaurant closer to the haunted house.

“There’s a place in Rostraver called the Roadside,” Henry recalled. “We can try that place.”

I didn’t care. Probably, I was going to end up with a grilled cheese anyway. Most places specializing in American fare hate me.

We rolled up into the parking lot just in time to see a pack of elderly zombie-walking their way to the front door.

“Well,” Henry bright-sided. “The food must be good. Old people always eat where the food is good.”

“Where did you hear THAT?” I asked, appalled. “That’s not true at all.”

And we both knew I was right the moment we walked into the Roadside and were slammed with the funk of nursing home and boiled carrots. I can’t emphasize how much I am not exaggerating right now. And the walls, they were wood-paneled. The floors? Green and white linoleum.

“Oh, Henry,” I murmured, as a table of white-heads turned to look at the two young’uns who just walked in. Yes, they were even coveting Henry’s youth with gummy, open-mouthed stares, like he was squirting the Fountain of Youth from his dick.

“Yinz can sit anywhere!” a haggard broad hollered from the kitchen, making my shoulders rise up like they were being puppeteered.

I chose the side of the restaurant that did not resemble a Bingo hall.

We only got one menu, and a Xeroxed copy of hand-scrawled specials. The waitress came over, pad in hand, ready to take Henry’s order.

“Oh, I’m not ready yet,” he said, and while he was still talking, she aggressively asked me for my order.

“Um, I didn’t even get to see the menu yet. You only gave us one…?” But she was already huffing back to the kitchen.

“What do you need a menu for?” Henry teased. “You’re only going to get a grilled cheese anyway.”

To the chagrin of our olfactory organs, our table was right next to the salad bar, which I quickly deduced was a large source of the offending stench. It was included with Henry’s $8  dinner special, and our red splotchy faced waitress made sure to remind him of it three times. He stood up, leaned forward to get a better look, then sat back down.

“That’s OK,” he mumbled. You know it’s bad when Henry passes up a salad bar.

Although, I’m not so sure where they got the license to call it a salad bar. It only had: lettuce, huge onion quarters, an entire vat of BEETS, tomatoes, mandarin oranges and a double-wide tub of butterscotch pudding that looked like it was scraped out of three dozen diapers. The other side had carrots, corn, mucous-y chicken noodle soup and two pans of apple sauce.  Clearly this was nursing home cafeteria leftovers being pawned off on people gullible enough to pay for it.

Suddenly, there were FIVE old people converging around the salad bar, plopping beets and apple sauce onto white plates. I was squealing at this point. It was like a bad zombie movie.

In addition to a medley of dream catchers and framed photos of lighthouses, the Roadside Restaurant had strung several of these elegant lampshades from the ceiling to better light the festering salad fixins below. I’m pretty sure the shades were embellished by Lite Brite and a gut feeling tells me if we would have walked through the kitchen, we’d have found ourselves in the nursing home rec room where a flock of blue-haired dementia patients could be found sitting with hunched backs, knocking out more restaurant decor.

The only thing on the menu for me was a grilled cheese. “Hard to fuck up a grilled cheese,” Henry said, jinxing my whole meal. Up until that night, I was the only person I knew who could ruin a grilled cheese. I’m so bad at it, that now I  just use the microwave now when Chooch says he wants one.

Roadside might have me beat.

“What the fuck—” I started, having just took a large first bite. “What kind of cheese is this?!” I cried.

My face must have reflected my cheese consternation, because Henry was doing that fucking laugh of his where his face is all scrunched up and his head bobs up and down on his shoulders, but no sound comes out.

Trying to suck the orange paste out from the backs of my molars, I realized it was a set-up. They managed to make me eat like I had just taken out  my dentures, like everyone else in the joint.  But the cheese, it was so sticky and Elmers-esque, I couldn’t get over it.

“It’s like goddamn bomb shelter Velveeta,” I spat to Henry. “I bet it’s been sitting underground since the motherfucking 50s! Taste this shit,” I thrust my grilled cheese over to Henry, who took a tentative bite and promptly started laughing all over again.

“Don’t forget to go to the salad bar!” the waitress said again, sashaying past with a pitcher of iced tea.

Our entire meal was only $12.99.

“Hey, you forgot to get your free dessert,” I reminded Henry as we left.

“That’s OK. I’m pretty sure it was just that butterscotch pudding.” The mere mention of it made me burp bile.

And then Henry, because we dined with octogenarians, drove like one the whole way home.

Even though I was deep inside your Grandma Edna’s heaven last night, we did nothing but laugh the entire time. And I guess that’s really what it’s all about anyway, right haters?

(Plus, the Penguins pummeled the Flyers. It was a night of win.)

Last week, I was walking away from the school, having just retrieved Chooch, when I heard a series of “Mrs. Robbins!”s coming from the school steps. It didn’t dawn on me until the third call that the teacher’s aid was actually yelling for me, the decidedly non-missus.

I responded awkwardly and unnaturally, because, well – that’s just not my name.

On Monday, the same thing happened. This time I responded after hearing her call it twice.

I considered correcting her, telling her that it’s MISS KELLY, thank you.

But that’s just as weird to me, because this non-marriage thing is kind of like my pet stigma, and I drag it around everywhere with me on a leash. Just bought it a new collar, actually, in a pretty shade of non-commital.

Oh, I know, I know – no one cares, it doesn’t matter, blah blah blah. Says you. I don’t care what other people think.

  It’s what I think.  The end.

This morning, Henry and I were talking about this in the bathroom. That’s where all the good conversations happen. It’s also where I tried to kill him one time.

Anyway, I was whining about it (I know, try really hard to imagine that one) and Henry asked, “What’s the big deal?”

“It offends me!” I cried. “And just so you know, if we ever get married, I’m not taking your name anyway.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Henry muttered.

“I’ll use it as my opportunity to have my last name legally changed to Appledale,” I said, the idea just then coming to me. “Will you change your name to Appledale too?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Henry grumbled, leaving me in the bathroom alone. I shrugged and turned my attention back to putting on eyeshadow.

Henry’s Porn Hand.

This is what happens when one carelessly knocks over an entire rack of PORN in the back of a seedy video rental store.

Circa 2007. Thems was the days, ya’ll.

All week, we had plans to go to Laurel Caverns on Sunday. Because that’s just where good parents want to take their hyperactive four-year-olds: 40 feet down into the earth, surrounded by 16,000 ways to injure or kill oneself. 

But first, I had to go through this panic-riffic hour where I was convinced Henry was dead. He has a second job on Sunday mornings, just to give us some extra cash since I screwed us all up by not working for so long. He usually gets home from that job around 7am. 

It was nearly 9am. I began to notice he wasn’t here only when I found things he did wrong around the house and my need to berate him began to grow impatient. I called him and it went to voicemail. 

Then I called him 28 more times and texted him saying, “If you’re not dead, please reply.” 

At this point, I really started to feel scared. All the things he does around the house and in life in general began skull-fucking me and my stomach took on a fast descent as I realized, “Holy shit. I might have to do things for myself. Who’s going to make my non compos cards?!”  I kept envisioning his work van, engulfed in flames, and how bleak my future looked when  filled with chores and financial responsibility and single parenting (yeah right, I’d find a new daddy, and fast). 

I was trying not to get too crazy around Chooch, because he’d only end up feeding off my panic and then there would be two hyperactive people panicking and crying and wondering who they’d find to take care of them.It was complete pandemonium inside my chest. 

“Can we still go to the cave even if Daddy doesn’t come home?” Chooch asked, quite sincerely. 

“Yes, but let’s make sure he’s alive first.” Then I had horrible visions of me taking Chooch to the caverns without Henry and one of us “accidentally” pushing the other down the Devil’s Staircase. Maybe we would just go to the park instead. 

Henry wasn’t dead. He pulled into the parking lot a little bit before 10 and Chooch and I raced across the street to meet him. I could see the look of fear on Henry’s face, because we never go out of our way to greet him. He probably thought the house was on fire. 

“I thought you were DEAD!” I yelled. Turns out it was his phone that was dead, though. Or he had it off while he was having sex for money, whichever. Plus, he didn’t get to his job until late because he slept in.  I was really clingy for the rest of the day. No, that’s a lie. Only for about an hour, then it went back to the normal with me bitterly suggesting that he just stop breathing altogether. 

So yeah, Laurel Caverns! I love that damn place, but haven’t been there since 2004 with my brother Corey when we stalked a yuppie couple in the gift shop. We made sure Chooch peed before entering the caverns, and then had a few minutes to kill in the gift shop. There were people already lined up, waiting for the tour to the start and I noticed they kept looking at Chooch with expressions seeped in disdain and disgust. 

“These people already hate us,” I whispered to Henry. “Let’s make sure we stay in the back.” 

And you know, for as chatty as my son is, he really wasn’t all that bad. There were moments where the guide would stop us to point out stalagmites and Chooch would start to fidget. I mean, I was fidgeting too so I can’t really hate on my kid. He was pretty good about not talking while the guide was talking though, which is more than I can say for the family with two kids behind us who ended up being the collective Chooch of the group. The kids weren’t really being that bad, just asking questions, which inspired both parents to shush them with such intensity that it was like the entire Slytherin house was behind me hissing. Their dad was some geology geek and really wanted to make sure everyone knew it. 

Ten minutes into the caverns, Chooch started to do a slight pee writhe. “I have to pee,” he whispered. Let me remind you that we were in a CAVERN. Even if pissing over a ravine was an option, the shitty family behind us kept lingering behind to take pictures so there was no whizzing opportunity. 

He made it sort of almost to the end before doing a pee-jig so grand scale, the tour guide stopped mid-sentence and asked, “Do you guys need to leave?” Luckily, it was at a point near the end of the route where there was a quick way to the exit. 

You best believe I stayed for the rest of the tour. Laurel Caverns is my jam. 

Not having Henry and Chooch there for the rest made me focus more on the rest of the group and I realized they were all assholes. Except for this one guy who pointed out a bat to me. 

I spotted the top of Henry’s bandanna undulating through the gift shop when the tour ended. Then I saw the rest of his face and it looked strained and annoyed. Apparently, Chooch made it to the bathroom. Just not the toilet. So Henry had to wash Chooch’s shorts the best he could in the sink and dry them under the dryer. 

“And now I’m not wearing any underwear!” Chooch cheered. Just add negligent mom to the list of other flaws I was given yesterday. 

Pissy Pants. (I was referring to Henry, but I suppose it works for either.) 

Walking out into the parking lot, I was bitching angrily about the shushing geology family when I noticed they were only a few feet away from us. I don’t think they heard me, because the mom offered Chooch a fruit roll-up. 

“I feel bad now,” I whispered to Henry as we approached our car. 

“No, you don’t,” he swiftly corrected. 

Laughing, I said, “Yeah, I know.” 

We stopped for lunch at some crappy family restaurant in the mountains where I had the least satisfying grilled cheese ever and our waitress with little green gauges asked to read my tattoo. 

“It’s Chiodos,” I said, and she smiled and walked away. 

To Henry, I muttered, “I thought maybe she would know, since she has gauges.” And then I pouted every time she came back because she wasn’t all “OMG CHIODOS” like I am. 

And of course we would get a flat tire on the way home. It was actually a good thing, because we’ve needed new tires in a very bad way, so now Henry has no choice but to get that done today. We pulled over in the Gene and Boots candy store parking lot. What magical timing. 

Chooch, who had been sleeping when this happened, flipped out. 

“I don’t want the tire to be flat!” he wailed, as though I had just told him one of the cats died. I couldn’t get him to stop crying, so I was left with no choice but to take him inside the candy shop and get him candy.  The perils of being a mom. 

There was some broad in there who watched Chooch and me like hawks from the moment we entered the shop. Oh I know, look at these two raggamuffins, right? Make sure we don’t steal anything! I didn’t even bring my purse with me, just my wallet, and Chooch was clearly tossing items into a basket so I don’t know what the issue was. But it almost made me want to chuck the basket at her and leave. 

There’s an ice cream shop there too, and when Henry was done with the tire, we all went inside. That same broad was behind the counter, taking her good old time scooping ice cream for someone who wasn’t even in there, and never once said, “I’ll be with you a minute” or even turned to acknowledge us with a smile. Nothing. 

And then I took a picture. She whirled around and very tersely said, “Oh, you can’t take pictures in here.” The way she said it triggered something in me, something 16-years-old and disgustingly petulant. I looked at Henry, smiled fakely and said, “Let’s not buy anything here!” and stormed out the door. I wondered why he wasn’t following me and saw that he was waiting to buy a Mountain Dew. I stuck my head back in the door and said shittily, “Just buy that at a store, she’s taking too fucking long.” Henry dejectedly put it back and stopped at a convenience store down the street. 

The inside of Gene and Boots. All their secrets revealed on the Internet in ONE PHOTO! PASS IT ON! 

Passing an Exotic Dancers sign outside of a seedy bar, Henry felt inspired to regale us with his history of strip clubs. 

“You were eleven the last time I went to one,” he laughed. The thought of that made me cover my breasts. 

He went on. “I got kicked out of one in Texas for giving a stripper a quarter.” 

“You can get kicked out for that?” I asked incredulously. 

“Yeah, when you throw it at her,” he clarified. 

Last night at work, I received a string of really sweet emails from Henry. Totally out of the blue, he apologized for letting me down, especially on my birthday(S!!!). That’s the one day that always makes me realize how alone I really am in this fucking city, and Henry doesn’t really do much to help in that regard. But at least he’s acknowledging it. Baby steps!

Anyway, his emails were so nice that I actually started to cry a little while reading them. It made me realize that it doesn’t really matter how many people let me down, as long as I’ve got that Henry guy. (Ew, gross I know. But this only happens once every three years, so deal.) So today’s post is a Henry-centric flashback to 2007.

*****************

Things I Learned From My Fridge

April 18th, 2007

When I moved into my current home in 1999, my step-dad gifted me with a refrigerator. But not just any fridge! This was a true relic of his bachelor stint, a tangible slice of the 70s. One could tell at first glance that this box was old, but it was good enough for a single girl who acquired her groceries from the gas station.

The crisper had lost its lid during one of the fridge’s many locale changes, but what did I care? I didn’t even know what a crisper was until Henry moved in. Pre-Henry, I had adoringly referred to it as the Alcohol Receptacle. When he schooled me about its function, I laughed because the last time I checked, there was no produce department in Sunoco so why would I need to know what a crisper was? (I’m the world’s worst and unhealthiest vegetarian. I lived by the philosophy of “Can’t cook? Cheese curls!” But now I have a Henry1965 so I eat vegetables.)

And when various liquids and syrups hybridized into a mysterious pool along the bottom of that crisper, I learned that using the hose of a vacuum to suck it all out was not a Smart Idea, as evidenced by the exasperated “Oh, Erin, no!” evoked from Henry.

The freezer, bless its heart, was comprised mostly of a giant iced growth protruding from the top. One time my friend Wonka and I went homicidal on the ‘burg with screwdrivers and hammers. It was one of the most violently rewarding moments of my life. It taught me that therapy was a waste when I could be simulating crimes of passion on gigantic ice cubes as a stress-reliever.

And of course there was the time it smelled so bad and then Henry finally cleaned it, providing yet another great photo op.

I thought about all of these things Saturday morning when the fridge completely fell to its knees, totally gave up its rank ghost. But mostly I thought “Good riddance.”

Yesterday, Henry rented a Uhaul and went to my grandma’s to pick up her surplus refrigerator. It must be nice to buy a fridge to keep in your game room “just in case” and then oopsies, never use it because you never needed such loft in the first place. If I ever get to that place in this lifetime where I can have duplicate appliances on the off chance that I might someday house another family under my roof, then maybe I’ll sling a little less hate. Maybe!

Of course, Henry has no friends so he was all on his own with the Fridge Acquisition, which made me laugh. When he returned with it, chest puffed out like a man coming home with a freshly slain buffalo carcass slung over his shoulder, he made me stand on the front porch and hold the door open for him. As he stood there, he mumbled “This will be the true testament of my strength” and with a swift intake of breath he hoisted the fridge up the (only two, ha-ha) steps and into the house.

Now, I’m not one of those females who gets all panty over men exhibiting random acts of Herculean strength, so I was surprised when my obnoxious laughter — the usual soundtrack peppering Henry’s every movement — became strangulated in my throat by an impetuous sense of attraction.

But how could this be when my embarrassing crush on him had ended in March! Two days after it started! I was so angry at myself for succumbing to such typical womanly persuasions.

As I jumped around him and fulfilled my duty of Getting In the Way while jabbing the camera in his face, I realized that it was probably not so much the act of fridge transportation, but more so the gloves he was wearing while doing it.

Real manly, blue-collar worker man gloves. The kinds with the little black nubbies on it. I would be lying to you, Internet, if I said it didn’t make even the tiniest beads of sex-sweat bubble within me. To think, I might not have unearthed this new personal idiosyncrasy had the fridge not intervened.

I admitted my new found delight to Henry and he seemed annoyed. Probably because I never say things like, “Your pretty face turns me on. Hey, your weener makes me hot” but instead I blurt out mood-inducing gems such as, “You remind me of Michael Myers, please simulate a rape” and “The gloves that you (and millions of other people) wear make my nethers drizzle and sizzle, touch me all over.

But only if you’re wearing them!” I think he’s also afraid because this means hello, new role-playing scenario! Sure, Henry, I’ll spread the legs for you, but not until I watch you lug that fridge upstairs. Give it to me, Papa H.

Before I left for work today, he was telling me that one of the guys at work is plying him with blank DVDs, to which I excitedly responded, “Oh good! Now go find some glove porn to download. But none of that fashion glove bullshit. I want the big bulky ones. Like the kinds that garbage men wear. You know, dirty.”

The last thing Henry said to me was a tired sigh paired with “You’re disgusting.” Honestly, he couldn’t have slipped in an “I love you” somewhere in there? He better pray I don’t have a car accident and die tonight, because now everyone will know how callous he is and I’d love for that to be seared upon my headstone. Fantastic, yet disgusting, partner to Henry. She had a big mouth and a fat face, but still she will be missed.

We’ve only had the fridge for two days, and already I’ve learned so much.

We’re in a typical disorganized frenzy to enroll Chooch into pre-school. Naturally, like any good parents, we can’t find his birth certificate so Henry was sitting in a pile of personal affects yesterday, hoping to find it. And to not get bit by something living amidst the relics.

Chooch was “helping,” as he does so well. Suddenly, he comes running into the living room where I’m sitting on the couch and shouts, “HAHAHA, LOOK WHAT I FOUND!” And then, “LOOK HOW BIG MOMMY’S BOOBS ARE!” and somehow I knew what it was going to be. I just knew.

And then I saw the flimsy purple plastic photo album in his hand and my fears were confirmed. Before I could steal it from him, he had flipped to the page he wanted me to see and held up, covering his mouth with his other hand and laughing.

Pictures from Henry’s 30th birthday party in 1945.

Pictures from Henry’s 30th birthday party in 1945 WHEN HE HAD A STRIPPER GRINDING ON HIS LAP.

Snatching it from his hand, I shouted, “This is not me!

This is a STRIPPER!”

“No it’s not,” he chided. “It’s YOU!”

Maybe I might have been flattered if it was some hot piece of 20-year-old ass, but this broad looked past her prime, not to mention I’m pretty positive she was a Steve at some point in her life.

Besides, had this been me, I would have been SIXTEEN. I mean, I had a rough childhood, but it wasn’t bad enough to send me gyrating against poles and the laps of moustacioed creepers.

I was going to wait until later to post these  great retrosexual photos of Henry but I want to humiliate him while he’s still in the house. He’ll probably go AWOL here soon, because it’s Blogathon and he fears Blogathon Erin.

She actually looks somewhat hot here. Like Kristen Bell a little! Must have been a good angle.

This is my favorite! What a fucking loser. “Oh mama, there is a female ASS in my face right now!

HOOOOO BOY!” I bet he called all his old SERVICE friends to tell them about it. “And this time, I didn’t have to pay for it! Someone ELSE did!”

Seriously, I’m not convinced that’s not a man.

Also, I’m glad I didn’t get “Clean Shaven, Sleazy Henry.” I prefer “Bearded Woodman, Sleazy Henry.”

I bet Henry’s wife had sex with her later.

Remember that old series “Goofus and Gallant” that was in that kid’s magazine, Highlights? I was thinking about it this morning and how much Henry and I are like the Goofus and Gallant of the 21st century. So I’m reinventing the series.

Here’s the first one:

My hair is actually darker than that. But everything else is TRUTHFUL, right down to Henry’s empty box of hemorrhoid paste.

No wait, I lied! Our garbage can is blue.

[A Note: The last time I read Highlights was the summer of 2004. I had taken my grandma to her doctor appointment and as we sat in the waiting room together, I took great pleasure in reacquainting myself the aforementioned Goofus and Gallant, and also the Timbertoes, whom I loved!

Guys, they were a family made from TIMBER. After getting completely cocky from finding all the objects in the Hidden Picture thing, I began reading a page of riddles and jokes. There was one joke that I totally did NOT get (and can’t remember, so don’t even!), and had to actually ask my grandma to explain it to me.

One of the many millions of times she’s mumbled, “Oh honestly, Erin.”]

Hey, what do we do around here for Mother’s Day? Nothing. What do we do for Father’s Day? Oh, spend the day at an amusement park, no biggie.

But I don’t mind too much because it’s more for me than Henry anyway. He’s all, “I’m just happy I get to spend the day with the people I love” and, after barfing in a boot, I’m like, “Who, skanky teens in bikini tops and booty shorts? Middle-aged broads spilling out of their tank tops, boasting Tasmanian Devil tattoos and stretch marks?” Because these are the types of people with whom Kennywood is predominantly filled.

It turned out to be a miserable day. It was super hot, which I didn’t really mind, but I was worried about how much money we spent to go in the first place, never mind how much we’d be spending on food and beverages once inside. Blake wasn’t feeling well so I didn’t want to drag him on too many ridiculous rides, and Chooch was just being a wishy-washy cry baby bitch.

I wanted to start out easy by going on the super lame Garfield-themed boat ride that’s right near the entrance. I thought it would be a good first ride for Chooch, as it’s proved to be in years past. But I was vetoed because what do I know anyway, I’m a high school AND college drop out. Henry decided it was best to start him out big, so we took him on his first non-baby roller coaster, the Jack Rabbit. It’s a pretty non-threatening wooded coaster, but it does have a double-dip, and that’s what I was worried about for him. I kept imagining him being sprung from his seat and thirty years from now becoming an urban legend because no one actually remembers if some four-year-old actually did plummet to his death on the Jack Rabbit back in those crazy 2010’s or if it was just a story a clave of moms made up to deter their children from ever wanting to ride a roller coaster,  ever again.

I don’t really think Chooch knew what he was in for when Blake guided him straight to the front seat. Henry and I sat directly behind them, and I watched as Chooch scrunched up against Blake’s side for the entire duration. He didn’t cry, but I could tell, just by his body language, that he probably thought my threats of him going to Hell were finally coming into fruition. He seemed fine when we got off the ride, but when I asked him if he liked it, he very sincerely and sing-songily replied, “No, not really!”

It ruined him for the rest of the day, I know it did. We would get to the front of the line for the basest of family rides, like the types rides that pregnant women could ride and feel confident that they won’t get off leaving a trail of miscarriage in their wake, only for Chooch to say, “Um, no, I’m not riding this. Let’s go, kbye.” There were times when I wanted to push him, but people were looking. So we were good parents and left the lines with him every time, while threatening him in terse tones through taut lips.

I think I told him like 67865 times that he was ruining my day, and then Henry would have to remind me that mothers shouldn’t say things like this to their children and I was like, “Bitch, don’t you know I’m not a mother when I’m at Kennywood? I’m a fucking KID who wants to RIDE some mother fucking RIDES.”

We did, however get him on the Raging Rapids, which thoroughly pissed him off.

Slightly amused after a light sprinkle

Complained a lot about his new shoes getting wet

Not actually crying, but REALLY FUCKING BENT OUT OF SHAPE

Chooch was relatively mild-mouthed for most of the ride, until getting assaulted by the waterfall, to which he exclaimed in a very angry tone, “Oh, FUCK THAT.” He sounded so dire that I didn’t even have the heart to yell at him for taking his swearing side show on the road.

At one point, I tried on a suit of graciousness (it didn’t fit me very well, but at least I tried) and suggested that Henry and Blake ride the Phantom’s Revenge together because the line looked short. And you know, it was fucking Father’s Day after all. I figured Chooch and I could go on Noah’s Ark during that time. Noah’s Ark is just this large walk-through ride that thankfully doesn’t have the religious overtones you’d think it would. It’s like, every child’s favorite ride though, because it’s dark, fun, has moving floors and fake animals to look at.

Chooch has been through it three times in the past, but apparently he doesn’t remember because once we got in line, he deemed that it was going to be “too dark in there, let’s go.” I was like, “Asshole, this ride was fucking built for children! It is NOT SCARY! You watch motherfucking Friday the 13th and don’t bat an eye lash, but you’re afraid to walk through some lame ass boat with a bunch of fake ass fucking props in it?” Oh my lord, I was so disappointed in him.

So we spent a half an hour sitting on a ledge, waiting for Henry and Blake. By the time they got off the coaster, I was in full-blown sulk mode.

“I’m ready to dip up out of here,” I said disgustedly to Henry.

“What, why?” he asked.

“BECAUSE CHOOCH WON’T RIDE ANYTHING AND THIS WAS A WASTE OF MONEY AND MY WHOLE DAY IS RUINED!” I wailed. And the camera battery died after 30 minutes! And half the rides were closed! And I didn’t have a friend to take with me! And I felt fat!

But then Blake, worlds more mature at just seventeen than I am at thirty, suggested that Henry and I go ride something like a real life couple and he’d take Chooch to get pizza.  So Henry and I rode the Music Express, which was fun because I got to add extra curricular punches and pinches on top of the standard pre-packaged pulverizing that comes included with spinny rides. And after that, I dragged him on the Cosmic Chaos, which is still relatively new and he’s never actually seen in action. Until he was stuck smack in the middle of line when the next round started. As Henry watched it do its thang, he gravely murmured, “Oh, Erin…” I think that was my favorite part of the day. Either that or when Blake and I were on the Aero 360 and I asked him if he knew the scene kid who was sitting next to me. “What, I’m supposed to know him because he’s a scene kid?” Blake asked, upset with my assumption, like it was racial profiling or something.

After that, we tried to get Chooch to ride more things but he was being a big baby, and not even a cute one, but the kind you want to punch and then leave on someone’s porch in a laundry basket, so I threw my own fit and stalked off toward the entrance, where I sat on a bench alone. Literally, I sat there with my lip all pursed and quivering, arms crossed, and a thousand murderous scenarios screeching through my broken mind like a rusty train on chalkboard tracks.  This was around the time I tweeted, “I wish I could stuff Today in a cadaver and fuck it in the ass with a blow torch.” Then I decided, I’ll show them, I’m going to leave! So I texted Blake and said, “I’m leaving!” to which he replied, “But you have all the money!” and then Henry left Blake and Chooch in Kiddieland to come calm me down.

Which he did by buying me food because, being the Erin specialist that nine bi-polar years have made him, he recognized in the situation all the signs of Erin Famine. And I was cool after that! We went back to KiddieLand and Blake was like, “You kids go on and have fun. I’ll stay here with Chooch.” Really, this was because Blake wasn’t feeling well and standing among parents watching small children oscillate slowly on hideous animal faced-carriages was more appealing to him than getting whiplash.

So Henry and I got to be a Real Life Couple and ride things together! I can’t remember this ever really happening too often at Kennywood. I know that he and I have never been there alone together, so this was sort of like a DATE. It was weird! And he was really giddy and kept trying to kiss me and I had to remind him that I hadn’t suddenly abandoned my hatred of PDA. He even grabbed my boobs right as our photo was taken on the Log Jammer and I was like, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did Blake give you E?”

Then I had to stand around impatiently while he played that money-guzzling game Pong Pond, where you get like, seven chances to bounce a ping pong ball and hope that it lands in a plastic lily pad. I’ve yet to see him win at this game.

“This is the only game I’m good at!” he whined after I begged him to stop spending money on it. “I’ve won it, like three times!”

“Seriously? You’ve won three times in the thirty years you’ve been coming here?”

He thought about this. “Yes. So I’m about due for a win.” I had to pull him away. Unless he was going to wrap a stuffed animal around my goddamn finger and propose, I wasn’t about to stand there and cheerlead for him while he blew through all of MY MONEY.

Then the night turned sour. Blake wanted to leave because he wasn’t feeling well at all, which was understandable, but Chooch had to play fucking mind games with me the whole way back to the entrance. “I want to ride this.” We’d get in line. “No, I don’t think so.”

I was so over it! Walking past Garfield’s Nightmare, the extremely docile family boat ride Chooch pussied out on twice that day, he begged us to take him on it.

“Hell no,” I said. “I’m done playing these games with you. All you’re going to do is get in line and change your mind, so stop wasting my time.” And he threw a full blown fit, right there in front of all the other children who were like, “Yay! We’re at Kennywood! We appreciate this opportunity so much, Mommy and Daddy! We are going to ride every single ride to make sure we get our money’s worth, and you will be so proud of us! And before we go to bed tonight, we will be sure to read from our Bible!”

This was the point where I quickened my pace, and left Blake and Henry behind me to pull Chooch along, kicking and screaming. He cried and screamed the whole way home while I stared out the window and tried to remember what it was like to be single.

Happy Father’s Day, Henry! I’m leaving!

The thing that made Henry angry about my inaugural lesbian dalliance wasn’t the fact that Christina and I, you know, DIDSTUFF (I’m still awkward as an eighth grader when it comes to this girlie shit, but if it was a dude I was writing about, I’d have no qualms telling you all about that), but that she and I literally slept together. I suppose if she was some Mexican whore that I discarded by the train tracks upon conquering, he would have felt better about it. But no, she and I had slept together in her bed and Papa Henry was a little jerked off by that. Oh, and also he maybe had a slight issue with the fact that she went and got a tattoo to commemorate our weird friendship.

So it was a little awkward and tense when she came here to Pittsburgh a few weeks later.

She arrived early on a Friday morning in April. It was still dark when I picked her up from the Greyhound station after dropping Henry off at work. He had spent the entire car ride expressing his malcontent for the upcoming weekend, but I ignored him because I’m selfish and spending time with Christina made me happy.

Later that afternoon, Henry called, bitching that I never came to pick him up from work. “I’ve been trying to call you all fucking day,” he said angrily. “But the phone has been busy!” This was back when we still had a landline, and the phone was definitely hung up all day. In fact, the later it became in the day, the more worried I became. I kept checking the phone, wondering why Henry hadn’t called yet.

Of course, in Henry’s mind, this meant that I had purposely left the phone off the hook so Christina and I could have sex all over the house, probably with 17 wigged strangers and a horse.

He didn’t believe me, probably still doesn’t, but she and I honest to god watched music videos on On Demand all day, and I even read aloud from my vacation journals while we drank coffee outside on my sidewalk. Seriously, we didn’t need to be running around with studded strap-ons to be entertained by each other. It wasn’t about that for us, though I’m sure Henry imagined it was all “Cue porn soundtrack!” every time we were alone. But no, there was definitely innocence there between us. We were just two little girls, giggling a lot, being stupid.

We always kept it platonic when she’d visit. I’d have felt weird DOINGSTUFF with her in my house, and didn’t want Henry to have to feel weird about it too. I mean, somewhere inside of me, there actually is a little tiny atom-sized pocket of respect for the man.

I can’t imagine how annoying it must have been for Henry though. She and I had a language that consisted solely of strangulated giggles, sighs, and choking motions from laughter gone wild. Everything was an inside joke, a knowing glance, a secret smirk.

In fact, he and I just spoke about this and he said, “Of course I wasn’t happy that weekend; I don’t trust you.” I suggested he should just leave that as a comment on this entry, but he mumbled, “No. I don’t want any involvement in this. I’ve already had enough of it.” That’s real talk, straight from Henry’s mouth.

***

Henry had to work that Saturday, and we arranged for me to pick him up when I was done with my English Comp class at Pitt that afternoon. Christina decided she didn’t want to wait at my house, so she hung around on campus while I was sitting through tedious discussions of Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried.” I had explicitly told her what time to meet back outside my classroom, but when class got out, she was nowhere to be found. I roamed around the Cathedral of Learning for nearly an hour looking for her, before giving up and sitting on a bench outside of my classroom. It turned out the idiot forgot to set her watch ahead and thought she had way more time than she actually did.

So once again, I was obscenely late picking up Henry from work and the wheels of adultery were surely spinning wildly in his head. No Henry, we weren’t having sex with mop handles in the campus supply closet, I promise.

This was probably the Universe’s way of saying, “Hey, kid. The jig is up. You can’t handle this new lifestyle, so please hand over your dual citizenship to Sexkatchewan and have yourself a nice heterosexual day.”

In spite of the tension and lack of trust on Henry’s end, it was still one of the most gut-bustingly hilarious weekends I had with her, or anyone. Everything was always funny when she was around. Everything. I miss laughing until I’m nearly puking. I miss finding meaning in a blue marble and sharing a root beer float. I miss being a part of something that must have appeared so strange and unusual to anyone attempting to figure us out; it must have been like looking through fun house mirrors.

It’s important for me to remember these brief moments in time, because I don’t want to be full of hatred for her, and sometimes as I’m writing these stories, I feel that I’m letting my anger take over, that I’m starting to be biased based on the recent falling out. There were so many beautiful memories from back then, when she was still Christina and I was still Erin and we were strong enough to not let the words and actions of other people come between us. So to keep true to the story, I’m going to end this with something I wrote after she left that weekend, and if you can, imagine me telling it to you in a voice high-pitched and sped-up with giddy delirium, because that’s pretty much the tone I always used back then when she and I were together. It’s the tone I use when I’m so happy I could die.

***

Last week, when I asked Henry if he was excited that Christina was coming to hang out, he unfalteringly shook his head and said, “No, you guys act so middle school and weird when you’re together.” I was appalled and determined to show him that Christina and I were adults who acted in a very mature manner when in each others company.

Typically, when an out of state friend comes to visit, people like to show them around the city. Have a good time, see a show, be touristy, throw down a few dead prezzes for a hooker. Not me, though.

The weekend with Christina was spent watching quality TV, such as Charles and Camilla’s wedding, music videos on On Demand (the same ones repeatedly, much to Henry’s delight), the Eternal Word Television Network, and golf. I love golf now. And not just as a joke like before. I even joined Phil Mickelson’s fan club and within five minutes of getting my member confirmation email, I was already defending his name on his message board. Some idiot had the audacity to go in there and say that he heard Phil had sired an illegitimate child with a prostitute. Can you imagine? This was unacceptable, so I knew I had to take action. My reply was “STFU.” That’s right. Christina said she was uncertain if golf fans knew what that meant, but I’m confident that they’ll figure it out.

Unfortunately, when you pair us up, Henry’s correct in that we regress into two middle school girls and our giggling drives him right into the arms of Migraine. We all went out to eat Saturday night and he actually had the brass to grab my arm and admonish me for being immature and obnoxious. I know, I know – me, obnoxious? Henry’s got the wrong girl, obviously. Then he told me to stop fake laughing. Excuse me, but fake laughing? I engaged in no such thing. I was really just that out of control.

Sunday, we took a breather from watching bad television programming because it was getting completely ridiculous. I should have deduced this Saturday morning when I almost herniated a disk because some man reporting from Windsor Castle was wearing a tie with tiny blue dots on it. That’s not funny and I had no right to laugh. Except I did and then Christina fed off it and we couldn’t stop laughing and slapping each other and I nearly swallowed my tongue.

So, it was obvious on Sunday that we needed to get out of the house, plus Christina and I wanted to take our show on the road. Henry piled us into the car and we went to the Homewood Cemetery. I love going on Sundays because there’s always a bunch of Chinese people there and they like, have bonfires and stuff (although Henry maintains that they’re just burning incense).

We arrived and I was already bolting out of the car before it even came to a complete stop. Almost immediately, I unearthed a huge tree branch and started parading around with it. Christina decided that we should pretend like we were honoring the Pope, but that we needed a flag at the end to make it complete. We begged Henry to give us his bandanna but he held his ground. He was trying to be all firm and hard core, until we walked past a man with his little daughter near the pond. The man nodded at Henry, who demurely returned his sentiments with a feminine “Hi.” I think he blushed, too. So the next three minutes was spent carrying on about Henry’s new boyfriend, until I found a pile of leaves to trample over.

I left Henry and Christina for awhile because there was a path leading up a hill that was just begging for my feet to touch it. It felt empowering being so high above them on a parallel road. Henry was OK with me straying until I threw a huge rock down the hill at them and let loose my warrior cry. Henry snapped his head up to look at me and hissed, “Be quiet!” while pointing at the Chinese people who were honoring the dead.

Hanging back a bit, I let the two of them round a bend before I made my way stealthily back down the hill, stopping halfway to crouch behind a bush. Every so often, they would stop walking and look up the hill, scratching their heads when they couldn’t find me.

Christina told me later that she had mused out loud, “I bet she’s going to try and hide from us” and Henry, without so much as a glance over his shoulder, quickly informed her that, “She’s right over there.” How does he do it?

I knew I had been spotted so I ran the rest of the way down the hill and fell into place with them. I asked Henry how he knew I was hiding.

“How are you going to try to hide in a cemetery while you’re wearing a bright orange shirt?”

Lots of gravestone heckling ensued and we kept catching Henry trying to pick up his pace. He succeeded in losing us for awhile when we became sidetracked by the cemetery office. I was running around trying to find an unlocked door, despite Henry impatiently reminding me that it’s Sunday and there’s no one there. I had to find out for myself so I started to ring the doorbell while playing with cigarette butts in the big flower planter. I could hear Henry in the distance spouting off about how I shouldn’t touch cigarette butts because they’re dirty.

No one answered so Christina came with me around the back to search for another way in where we became sidetracked by big rusty gardening tools. I was enamored with one that looked like a sickle and she was appropriately fiddling with a hoe or something. We were going to have a sword fight until I noticed that civilians were watching us from the street. We threw down the tools and ran, which was when we realized that Henry had gained a great distance on us.

We knew that he was embittered with our childish antics, so we each procured a bunch of wilted Easter flowers that had been plucked and thrown carelessly from a grave. We presented him with the flowers and he swatted our offerings away! Ingrate.

On the way back to the car, we passed a tombstone that boasted Christina’s last name. I exclaimed in horror, “Oh my god, you’re dead!”

“So are you!” she countered, as she pointed to one further over that said, “McWhiney.” Oh, ok. I see. Henry thought this was incredibly hilarious until Christina pointed out one across the road and said, “Look, you’re here, too Henry! ‘Meanor’!”

Then we came home and watched the final round of the Masters and I gave myself a sore throat from cheering with too much zeal.

And when we returned from taking Christina to the bus station, the house was filled with silence. It was sad, but I bet my neighbors are thankful.

I tried to watch our favorite From First To Last video this morning, but it just wasn’t the same. I didn’t have anyone to punch and squeal with during our favorite parts. I miss her.