Henry’s nieces are so pretty and deserve a repost.

*From February 2012*

A few years ago, I bought a 1980’s prom dress off eBay but it doesn’t fit over my rack; it finally occurred to me that I should just dress up Sam and Steph in that and my all-purpose tutu. So I spent yesterday doing just that.

;

I figured Green Man’s Tunnel would be a good location, because it’s grunge-y and abandoned, and hello – The Green Man lives there. Steph’s boyfriend Kian came with us and he really triggered that small “Mom” alarm that’s hidden inside me by doing the sorts of dangerous things that teenaged boys are born to do. Every once in awhile, he would say things like, “Hey, I have an idea” and I would find that I was spontaneously bracing myself.

He was, however, the most polite teenage boy I think I have ever met, and even carried all my shit for me. Good pick, Steph!

Meanwhile, Henry wouldn’t come anywhere near the tunnel with us because he thought the police were going to show up. So he just walked up and down the road looking like a walking sandwich-board for Megan’s Law. I was a little pissed because he’s my designated lens holder.

I lost sight of him eventually and became convinced that he was fishing in the creek across the street.

After I took the first few shots by the creek, I realized Henry was creeping in the background and had to yell at him to leave, which made him hate his life even more.

God, I really needed that.

Saw this list of 21 Songs To Help You Wake Up From Those Morning Snooze Marathons
circulating around this morning and while I’m mostly nodding in agreement, I can’t help but think they REALLY dropped the ball by not including this seminal Was Not Was hit:

(Yes, this is totally my current rise & shine go-to. WHAT’S YOURS?)

Corey found our parent’s wedding album and texted me pictures from it this afternoon, which I can honestly say has been the high point of this week. Even though I was 5 when I made my debut as a flower girl (my dress had tiny bells sewn into the ruffles, you guys! and my shoes were Candies!), I have only vague recollections of this day at best. (Because clearly all I cared about was what I was wearing.)

Thank god my mom’s facial expressions and vacant eyes fill in the gaps. I feel like she FOR SURE popped some pills that morning.

Fuck, they hated me, lol.

My Pappap looks PISSED. My grandma is totally hissing, “SMILE. THE NEIGHBORS MIGHT BE WATCHING.” Susie knows her dress is the shit (seriously, Wendy and I both agreed that we would totally wear that dress right now in 2014). I’m too afraid to look at Sharon. She looks like she’s casting a spell and I don’t like it.

BUT LOOK HOW HAPPY I AM!

I think someone didn’t want to get hitched that day.

(Also, thats my great-grandma in the rocking chair. She was from Yugoslavia and didn’t speak English*. Also, she scared me.)

A poster for REGRET.

****

I honestly cannot stop laughing at these. I mean, I’m thankful they DID get married because otherwise, I wouldn’t have my brothers, but Jesus Christ their marriage was loveless before it even began! They make Henry and me look like a cover of a romance novel.

*ED.NOTE: I’ve just been informed by a family member that my great-grandma was very kind and DID speak English, so what we have here is an example of another lie my mom told me when I was a child.

For most people, it would have been, “Try this ice cream that I think is bomb” and that would have been the end of it. But not if my dad was the one bestowing ice cream with explosive superlatives. Janna and I had stopped by my parent’s house one night in 2000, probably because I needed to panhandle, and we got stuck in my dad’s garage while he told us his saga regarding Reinhold’s Caramel Caribou, some goddamn ice cream that he was inexplicably obsessed with, wanted to marry, was ordered to stay within 500 feet of, is currently getting its name lasered off his bicep.

I refer to it as solely my dad’s garage because this story is set during the awkward time between my parent’s separation and subsequent divorce, so my dad was essentially living in the detached garage. Don’t worry—he was fine. He had a jukebox, a TV, a couch and a vintage Pepsi machine full of bottled beer. He was just fine.

So this ice cream, Janna and I had never heard of it because we were going through that stage where all we did was basically drink and eat food that could be ordered via telephone, and as far as we knew, there was no Mike’s Hard Ice Cream and the local pizza joints seemed like they were sticking with “just cannoli” as their takeout dessert option. This just made my dad even more excited to tell us about his newfound freezer aisle romance. We were all prepared for him to just give us a goddamn bowl of it, but first we had to listen to A Story.

I guess my dad had fallen in love with Caramel Caribou at first spoonful, and this is the part where we assume it was made from the milk of a crack-addled cow. Too bad for my dad, but going back for seconds was about to get challenging. He told us about all the time he spent looking at the grocery stores, but there was nary a carton of Caribou to be found. God only knows where he ate his first bowl of it. Some black market creamery in Chinatown? What the fuck.

“And then one day a Reinhold’s delivery truck drove past me,” my dad said, getting all excited and I think probably losing sight of how grand of an audience he actually had. I mean, come on, Guy. Janna and I were in a hurry. “So I pulled a U-ey and followed him.”

Like you do when you’re feenin’.

He followed him a few miles down the road until the truck pulled into a school parking lot, at which my point my dad waited for the driver to exit the truck before veritably accosting him for a hookup. (Trust me, I know my dad. I can only imagine the fervor he laid out during this encounter. I equal-parts wish I had been there & am grateful for not being there.)

Now I wasn’t there for the verbatim exchange, but I’ve always believed it for sure went something like this: “Hey palsie, ya gots any of that sweet ass Caramel Caribou back there?” In hushed tones. With my dad shaking him by the collar of his work shirt. Like it’s some kind of new marijuana blend that is eventually going to be the subject of a future Degrassi episode.

Reinhold’s Driver indulges him, but he does not in fact have any on his truck, or on his person, but offers to check the warehouse when he gets back. So they exchange numbers, like you do when you’re stalking someone for ice cream.

And a little while later, the guy actually fucking called my dad. He sounds like a really great guy, but I’m wondering if there was any sort of cash handoff.

I guess the guy’s boss was all, “You can’t sell products from our warehouse to a street-person, fuck off.” So the driver instead gave my dad a list of where he could MAYBE find certain ice creams named after reindeer by total ACCIDENT and not because some Reinhold delivery driver SNITCHED.

Eventually, my dad bought some multi-gallon jug reserved for ice cream parlors and single broads on Valentine’s Day and was finally able to celebrate his Caribou love in the privacy of his own home (garage).

After enduring his story, he served Janna and me each a bowl of what was essentially just vanilla ice cream with Rolos. It was OK.

I thought of my dad’s heroic efforts last week though when I ate my first Sonya apple.

We almost didn’t stop at Shop n Save that day because Henry is a heartless bastard who thought it would be just fine to visit Speck and Don’s graves at the pet cemetery without bringing a floral offering. Who does that? Fucking asshole Henry, that’s who. He also kicks albino puppies and wants to eat seals, not save them.

Anyway, I got all huffy so Henry turned the car around and drove to a grocery store about 10 minutes away from the cemetery because he’s afraid of The Huff. That’s when I saw the glistening bushel of Sonya apples. (Not when he turned the car around, but when we went inside Shop n Save. Don’t be stupid. I don’t eat fruit off the side of the road. Anymore.)

When I saw the Sonyas, I’m not going to front and pretend like some dubstep Hallelujah chorus kicked into effect, because as of that moment, it was just an apple I had never had.

You know how I am with apples. Ever since Barb duped me into falling in love with them all the way back in 2011 (I was a late bloomer), I’ve since been on a mission to try every single “brand” of apple I can get my decorated paws on. Lately, though Henry has only been bringing home the ubiquitous Jonagolds and Galas, sometimes a Honeycrisp if I’ve been good, because apparently it’s slim pickins in January.

But this Sonya apple. My god, it tasted like fucking candy. Like no other apple I have ever had. Literally, this motherfucker was a natural candy apple. I couldn’t believe it. Pornography on my tongue. Can’t type in full sentences.

All I knew was that I needed to eat these gems like, every day. The problem was that Henry, the official grocery shopper of the household, said that he had never seen these apples anywhere in his pantry raids. (Or panty raids.) And the Shop n Save we bought them from (just two because Henry “refuses” to buy a metric shit ton of something he’s not sure I’m going to love or reject) is approximately 20 miles outside of Pittsburgh and Henry just doesn’t love me enough to be making weekly Sonja pilgrimages.

And thus the burgeoning obsession was born. No, I didn’t stalk a farmer a la Erin’s Dad, but I did take to the Internet, where I found the official website of the Sonja apple, which presented me with the opportunity to leave customer feedback. SO I DID.

AND THEN A SONYA APPLE REPRESENTATIVE EMAILED ME!

I was so stoked about this that I of course wanted to shout about it to everyone at work. The blanket response was: “I mean….OK. Good job.” And that’s when it hit me. He might not be my biological father, but holy fucking shit, I am just like my goddamn dad. Casing creepy Asian markets for persimmons, having my BFF mail me cherimoya from California, ingratiating myself with Sonya apple breeders–what is my life??

Fruit is my Caramel Caribou.

Don’t worry about me. The local Shop n Save is also selling Sonyas, so I’m stocked up for now.

For now….:(

Originally posted February 8, 2008

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.

Sometimes I get all nostalgic and pick a random year to look at on Flickr. This morning I blindly clicked on the summer of 2007 and, aside from a ton of pictures of an adorably chubby-cheeked 15-month-old Chooch that made me want Henry to inject me again RIGHTTHISSECOND, I was ready to peace out of that particular year. (I think I’m fat now? Yikes. I don’t think I had yet lost even an ounce of my pregnancy weight.) But before I picked a new year, I noticed that there were pictures from that summer’s Warped Tour on the next page—I don’t think I’ve looked at those pictures once since 2007. And even though I was there with Christina and her sister, it was still kind of fun to revisit some of those bands that I haven’t thought of in years. (My American Heart? Monty Are I? Straylight Run?!) And I forgot that Paramore was there that year!

I am infamously picky when it comes to female singers. I don’t know why, but girl vocals usually don’t trigger that part of my brain that makes all of the feelings shoot out of my eyeballs like boy vocals do, but there have been a few over the years: Fisher, old Tegan and Sara, Eisley, Barbara Streisand (LEAVE ME ALONE) and Hayley Williams of Paramore.

The summer of 2007 was not a particularly pleasant one for me and Paramore’s album “All We Know Is Falling” accompanied me on many cemetery cries. (Particularly the song “Conspiracy,” which was even a ringtone on my precious pink Razr.) And when I got that close to Hayley at that summer’s Warped Tour in Cincinnati, I had a major fan girl moment even though I was 27 and she was like, 18 there I think. The music scene I’m into is so male-dominated that usually anytime a female-fronted band starts to make its way up, its time is unfortunately limited. But Paramore was the real deal and I think everyone knew it back then, too. I’m not surprised that it’s eight years later and they have not only proven that their talent is legit, but they have become mainstream darlings without alienating their original fan base. (In my opinion, anyway. I totally don’t think they sold out at all—they’ve just grown up, musically and as people, which makes sense unless you’re Avril Lavigne who’s 30 and still singing about skater bois.)

There really hasn’t been any female-fronted band that has come up in the scene since Paramore that have really grabbed my attention, and it doesn’t help that each subsequent female singer is automatically compared to Hayley. I admit that’s the first thing I thought of when I first saw Automatic Loveletter and Versa Emerge, and that’s not fair.

Paramore also gave me one reason only to be thankful for the stupid “Twilight” movies:

And Hayley can even beautifully & effortlessly pull off the Molly Ringgold look (this song makes me cry every time I hear it, btw; perhaps it makes me think of Henry, who knows):

Seriously, I could fill up this post with every one of their videos, but that would be obnoxious, and that would be SO out of character…

I spent most of this morning listening to old Paramore and it’s funny how much of a time capsule music can be. It brought back some good memories that I had otherwise forgotten, so I guess the summer of 2007 wasn’t really all that bad. Chooch was super cute then, at any rate.

DON!!!! :(

There’s really no point to this post. I just wanted to be a fan girl for a minute. Carry on.

I’ve been getting all nostalgic over past Christmases (in a good way, though) and tonight I found this picture of that time I ruined Chooch’s first Christmas by making him chill on a couch with clown dolls. (Merry Christmas, Chooch, have a hearty dose of coulrophobia!

) So I decided to post it as a wordless Wednesday-type thing because I’ve had A Day and can’t really contribute much else to the Internet right now. Plus, hockey is on.

Two more days of work and then I’m off until the day after Christmas, wooooo.

Found these old diary pages from when I was 8.

I only filled three pages of that diary, probably because my two year old brother, Ryan, had beaten me so badly that I was unable to hold a pen.

I’m totally not that dramatic anymore. Thank god, right? RIGHT?

As Thanksgiving gets closer, I’ve been feeling a little less depressed and MAYBE even slightly excited. We spent most of the week getting some things together for our version of Thanksgiving (Hanksgiving) and keeping busy has been extremely helpful. We’ve only ever hosted one holiday dinner at our house (with the exception of the Xmas Eve soiree we did last year) and that was all the way back in 2008! I can’t believe we waited so long to try it again. I couldn’t remember if it was a success or not, so I went searching through my blog archives the other night and after reading it, I still can’t tell if it was a success. But Henry apparently burnt himself, so I’ll take that as a win.

It’s not Throwback Thursday or anything, but we can just pretend that Memory Monday is a thing so that I can repost this 2008 Thanksgiving tale. The format of the original post is all wonky and I can’t fix it. So sorry. Mayeb after you read it, you can leave a comment and tell me what your favorite Thanksgiving side dish is, because we haven’t finalized our menu yet and that’s just what Henry needs is MORE OPTIONS.

******

The night before Thanksgiving, Henry stayed up until 2:00am, rifling through his grandma’s recipes like a normal man rifles through porn. I don’t know what he was looking for, considering that I procured an entire feast worth of gourmet recipes from this little thing I just heard about recently called the Internet.Of course Henry found something wrong with every selection: Too-expensive-ingredients (“That will cost more than the turkey!”). Lack of industrial kitchen. Not enough education completed to comprehend recipe wording.

In the end, he settled on:

Smashed rutabaga with gingered pears

Turnips gratin (hello new edible husband)

Scalloped corn

Meatless stuffing

Mustard mashed potatoes (“OMG Tyler from the Food Network made them!”)

Sweet potato pie

Oh, and that over-hyped turkey bullshit that everyone is always buzzing about.

My contribution to the day was taking Chooch to my dad’s house so that Henry could cook in the highest, most divine level of tranquility. Now, you should know that I only see my dad on holidays. Shame on me, sure, I know. But it’s awkward because our relationship was once more strained than the ab muscles of a man attempting to suck his own dick. Technically my step-dad, he legally adopted me when I was in the fourth grade. We engaged in non-stop battles of wits and psychological warfare for the entire duration of my teenaged years. Then he and my mom divorced and ironically, we now get along famously; and in an incredible twist, he was the only family member who talked to me while I was pregnant.

Corey, who was staying there while home from college, failed to tell him that Chooch and I were coming over, so my dad was genuinely shocked when he saw us on his doorstep. It was probably 75% of an act, but he seemed happy to see us and proceeded to dole out peanuts, JuJu Bees and cans of pop. He even gave me some Bagelfuls to take home, complete with single-serving packets of cream cheese. A trip to his house is always like a mini-grocery trip.

While he cooked, I made sure Chooch didn’t fall down the basement steps, eat paint chips, or break any of my dad’s classic car memorabilia, while Corey acted disinterested in our presence and my other brother Ryan napped on the couch. I got roped into sitting down for dinner with them, wherein my dad immediately picked a fight with Ryan, who evidently didn’t load his plate with enough food. “I told you not to eat all day!” my dad steamed, to which Ryan grunted, “Jesus Christ, Dad, I only ate some cashews!” My dad countered with a surly, “I saw the cheese you opened up in the fridge!” at which point Ryan hunkered down lower over his plate which seemed plenty decorated to me.

In an effort to break the ice, I chirped, “These mashed potatoes are really good, daddy!” He muttered that they were too runny, but really, anything tastes delicious when the butter ratio is 50/50.

Corey and Ryan didn’t speak at all throughout the painful meal, and I’m sure they were just thrilled at how kind our dad was being to me. He even noticed my hair and enthused about its aesthetic merits for just a note longer than natural.

 I love my dad, but I was glad that I had a legitimate reason to shirk my way out the front door. Tension, it just doesn’t sit well with me.

Dinner at my house was supposed to be at 7, so that those who had other dinners to attend (Janna, Corey and Blake) would be newly starved by the time they came over for seconds. However, Henry’s tardy ass didn’t serve shit up until EIGHT O’CLOCK and everyone was bored, angry, hungry. Look at those mugs on Janna and Corey. You’d think they were watching a slide presentation of Henry’s mom dusting her ceramic kitten collection, that’s how glazed with ennui they are.

Sensing that a revolt was on the rise, Henry served up deviled eggs for us to stuff our mouths with while he frantically finished cooking.

For some reason, Henry was really impressed with himself. He kept boasting that the eggs were deviled with STONE GROUND MUSTARD. I’m not even sure what that means. They tasted regular to me, like he could have squirted in a quick fart of French’s for all I know. Something weird clearly went on in my house while Chooch and I were at my dad’s, because no one gets THAT excited over deviled eggs.

Finally, the moment for feasting was upon us, and we all loaded our fancy paper plates with mounds of seasonal slop. Blake pretty much questioned everything aside from the turkey, which was easily recognizable (good job, Henry). I explained to him that I wanted to eschew the expected and serve new twists on tradition. “You mean, you wanted my dad to make things that even YOU can eat,” Blake corrected. And oh how we laughed. (As I silently wished for Blake to choke on a turkey bone.) (Just kidding, Blake.) (No really.)

As I tore into my plate, I realized Corey didn’t have a fork. “It’s OK,” he promised. “I don’t mind waiting. I’ll just have a roll.” He paused, considering that statement, before holding up his broken hand and adding with the slight hint of chagrin, “Though, even THAT is a challenge.” He should have been giving less lip and more thanks for the fact that he has a hand AT ALL.

It would sppear that Henry is in the middle of saying an intense delivery of grace, but really he’s just acclimating to his newfound seated position after standing in the kitchen all day long.

Later, he momentarily lost his appetite when he mistook the really expensive paper napkins to say “Joyous Fetus” instead of the much less interesting “Joyous Fetes.” We all laughed, but I don’t think Henry understood what was going on because he probably doesn’t even know what “fetes” means.

We’re so classy that we used our best plastic serving bowls. Not even TUPPERWEAR. Just generic, microwave-ravaged plastic. And there’s the gravy that burnt Henry’s hand and thank God it did because I really enjoyed hearing him cry about it all night long. I thought his mom was going to rush him to the Veteran’s hospital. I could almost see Henry’s mind churning: “Remember what they taught you in the SERVICE, big guy. You will pull through this! YOU WERE IN THE AIR FORCE, GODDAMMIT.”

And then Henry’s mom called Janna a myriad of other J-names (Janet, Janice, Joanne) but never Janna, and swore she hated sweet potato pie before admitting that she had never had it. Now she’s had it and likes it, though I maintain that Henry’s version (apparently it was EMERIL’S RECIPE, what a fucking carving knife to my heart) tasted unlike any sweet potato pie I’ve ever had. Ever. Like, no semblance at all.

Overall, I thought it was pretty good for our first time hosting a holiday in my ridiculously small dining room. I know I had fun, and Blake and Henry’s mom seemed content. Janna basically looked like she had just finished watching a double feature of “Benji” and “Old Yeller,” and Corey just looked bored as usual. The shit Henry made was good, and even the gravy was vegetarian. I learned later that my mother translated Corey’s spot at my table into meaning that –oh my god — he’s on MY SIDE. And this is exactly why I was happy to do my own thing this Thanksgiving.

Last night, I yelled, “I can’t wait to have Christmas here too!” but Henry remained curiously silent.

When I brought out my “Christmas decorations” at work the other day, I got all sentimental over my beloved voodoo Santas that Andrea and I made almost two years ago. TWO YEARS AGO! :(  So I thought it would be fun to re-post this for Throwback Thursday. It also includes a link to the original tutorial by my crafting genius friend Brandy, you know, if you felt so inclined to make your own.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I’m not a crafter at all. Give me craft supplies and the end result will be nothing short of a horrific eyesore, with a trail of blood and tears in its wake.

But when Brandy gave me her Santa Voodoo doll tutorial to post on my blog, I was inspired to make one myself, but I decided to wait for Andrea to come to town to do it for me help me.

I thought this would be a good way to include Chooch in things, since everything else we did while Andrea was here involved nipple tassels, Mexican cock fights and butterfly knives. He got off to a much better start than me. I just sat there with a long-sleeved shirt spread out before me, not knowing where to start. Meanwhile, Andrea (having only read Brandy’s instructions once) began twisting up a shirt and shaping her Santa’s soon-to-be limbs with wrapped rubber bands.

Andrea was so sweet and encouraging to Chooch. She kept saying things like, “You’re doing such a great job, Chooch! That looks really good!” and I would start to say, “Nuh-uh, it sucks; mine’s better” but then I would quickly swallow my competitive spirit and mimic her sentiments in a begrudged monotone. Because really, at least he wasn’t being a crybaby bitch about it like I was.

I was so frustrated. Mine wasn’t looking like Brandy’s and I wanted it to look like Brandy’s! I’m very anal when it comes to following instructions. Once I see what the end result is supposed to look like, I have my blinders on to any deviations. So then I dropped my balled-up shirt in a heap and started whining pretty intensely while Andrea cooed and said soothing things about Saint Rita and Jonny Craig before eventually losing her patience and coming at me with straight pins and the hot glue gun.

Suddenly, it occurred to me to think outside the box (which I almost never do when it comes to crafts because in order to do that, you have to be at least mediocre with crafts to begin with, I’d imagine, and I do not craft enough to be mediocre or even whatever term falls below that). I decided it would be easier for an incompetent fool like me to work with something that had less girth, so I unraveled what I had accomplished (it wasn’t much, I promise you that) and cut off the sleeve, figuring I could just mold my Santa from that and have it be smaller and hopefully much less work. (I’m lazy and always looking for short cuts.)

Unfortunately, I didn’t know what to do with it once I cut it, so Andrea had to slam down her own Santa, hiss a pissed-off “Jesus Christ” through her clenched teeth, and make snips in the fabric so I could easily visualize where the arms and legs should be, probably wishing she was snipping my flesh instead of the thermal shirt fabric.

I was crying again at this point because I strongly dislike when things don’t go my way (i.e. easily). I had a fleeting image of Brandy whipping up her voodoo Santa with one hand while sipping on a cognac from a vintage rock glass and watching Michael Jackson videos, a homemade batch of cupcakes plumping in the oven and a fleet of freshly-painted DIY Peter Pan collared t-shirts drying on a clothesline. Brandy is a DIY powerhouse and I am not acquiring any of these skills through blog-reading osmosis like I had hoped, but I still keep reading and admiring her, that’s for sure. Next time, I will probably just pay her to make an extra of whatever project she’s working on.

Henry came over to smirk and judge, probably calculating a hundred different ways he could have done this better than us. He should just shove his dick inside that “She’s Crafty” bitch and be done with it. To be honest, if Andrea hadn’t been visiting that week, I probably would have just had Henry make one of these for me. At least Andrea encouraged me to try it for myself. (She did give me a hefty pair of proverbial water-wings though, and I noticed she’d watch me from her periphery every time I would grab the scissors.)

Andrea’s arms turned out all chunky and elephantine compared to the legs so I derived great pleasure in mocking her. She sure showed me by embracing it so fully that she even decided to turn one of the arms into the neck instead, making it purposely ridiculous so every time I would jeer “That’s so stupid” what I really meant was “I’m so jealous of your crafting joie de vivre.”

The whole step where a head is fashioned from a sleeve cuff really had me perplexed. I’m not sure how that part alone wasn’t the catalyst to Andrea’s patience imploding, but she calmly walked me through the step and suddenly, my Santa had a head.

Chooch gave up around the time the roll of yarn was introduced into the mix, because like me, he wants instant gratification and was kind of like, “Wait, I have to do more work? This yarn isn’t going to wrap itself around Santa’s body? Fuck this noise.” He went in the other room and made up murder games with his toys, which was basically what I was doing with the craft supplies in front of me.

Thank god I had the foresight to buy two rolls of yarn, otherwise the night could have climaxed with a violence-laden ripoff of the Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene, no sharing, love or even moderate mutual respect involved in this version. The first step of Santa-wrapping required the end of the yarn to be hot-glued to Santa’s body, and Andrea was quick to do that part for me. “No glue gun for you,” she said, making sure the cord wasn’t long enough to reach my side of the table.

Andrea handled her roll of yarn with panache while I struggled as expected. She had turned her Santa-wrapping into a smooth process, like she was a well-oiled sewing machine, even in spite of my cat Willie attacking her from the floor; meanwhile I was in danger of mummifying myself in the shit. I kept accidentally binding myself in between the yarn and the Santa. It was a fucking mess.

Andrea, spinning yarns while…spinning yarn. I told her I hated her (and her fucking stupid Santa) every other minute. It took forever to cover the entire body and my hands felt all arthritic afterward, like I had spent all night doling out hand jobs at a truck stop and desperately needed a bowl of Ben-Gay to soak them in.

My favorite part was the buttons. I found a package of Christmas buttons at Pat Catan’s and Henry was like, “Those are $5, how about we get these stupid ugly buttons that only cost $1?” Yeah, fuck you. I’ll use the cheap ones when I decorate your asshole.

Andrea conceded and let me finally use the glue gun for the button part and I immediately got hot glue all over the pads of my fingers. “And this is why I wanted to do it for you,” she said.

It took nearly two hours to achieve the finished product. Spearing the Santas with straight pins was extremely cathartic after waging war with the crafting gods. At first I hated Brandy for making me want to try this.

But then I sat back and really took a long look at the Santas and was overcome with an almost crippling sense of accomplishment.

“So this is why people like to craft!” I exclaimed, knowingly, as if the spiritual awakening I was supposedly in search of earlier that day at Saint Anthony’s had finally ensconced me.

It was totally worth it, you guys. Even though everyone is all, “OMG I LOVE THE ONE WITH THE LONG NECK! BEST SANTA EVER!” while jacking off to images of that ginger claymation Kris Kringle. Go check out Brandy’s tutorial and make your own! If you’re not in it to win it like we were, you could probably make tiny ornament-versions from small fabric scraps, which is what I might have Henry do this week after he finds a spell to bring our cat Speck back to life. (Yes, I’ve seen Pet Sematary, but I’ve already spent the last 13 years with Marcy, so it shouldn’t be much scarier.)

The only thing I really remember about the night is cradling my face in my arms and crying a lot, but it was worth it. LOOK HOW CUTE THESE FUCKERS ARE! I dare you to make one. Please show me pictures.

I must have got all of my anger out on Halloween because Sunday was really peaceful (well, until Chooch and I totally shit the bed with giddiness Sunday night, which is always Extreme Fun for the first hour but always ends in tears because we’re bi-polar motherfuckers the Mania Coaster has to come down at some point; perhaps this could be a Henry Guest Post?). We went to the mall and I bought the newest Dance Gavin Dance CD at Hot Topic. I pre-ordered the limited edition 6 vinyl box set which Henry was really irritated about but I’m sorry, music is something I don’t consider a splurge—it’s a fucking necessity. Anyway, this isn’t due to ship until December, and I wanted to have the CD too so STFU Henry. Go listen to Ted Nugent in the warehouse at work.

****

That afternoon, I went to my favorite cemetery for a jog (I don’t do “running”) and listened to the new Dance Gavin Dance. The cemetery is my favorite place to listen to music because I can be 100% invested in it—Chooch isn’t interrupting me, work isn’t interrupting me, road rage isn’t interrupting me. There might be a zombie here and there, but otherwise, it feels like I own that fucking cemetery and I love it.

<3

I was 26 or 27 when I started listening to Dance Gavin Dance. They have gone through probably as many lineup changes as I have gone through best friends. But no matter how much they change (Jonny Craig got the boot again and now Tilian Pearson is the singer), and how much I change, there is something about their sound that weaves its way into my brain and massages my snapping synapses while blanketing my heart. It’s kind of the perfect music for a loner like me. And I love taking them with me to the cemetery.

Not to get all existential and sentimental, but I have literally grown into an adult in a place reserved for death. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent in cemeteries in general, but also this one in particular: laughing, crying, pregnant, alone, with friends, with Henry, with Chooch. I’ve puked in this cemetery, had Christmas picnics here, contemplated suicide, considered leaving Henry…(YES, HENRY, IT’S TRUE! But don’t worry, that was a long time ago.) There’s just something about this place that makes me feel everything on another level. The end result is always peace. I ALWAYS leave in peace.

(Unless Henry and Chooch are with me and we were trying to do a photo shoot. Then it might not be so peaceful…)

*****

I was playing this song this morning while Chooch was upstairs getting dressed for school. “Is that The Robot With Human Hair Part 4?” he called down the steps. “I LOVE that song!” See?! I think it takes a certain kind of fucked up brain to appreciate Dance Gavin Dance. Chooch, you’ve got it, buddy. I’m sorry.

So, I’m not going to do that November Thankful thingie that everyone else is doing, but if someone asked me yesterday what I was thankful for, aside from the obvious, I would have said “Cemeteries and Dance Gavin Dance.” Hope your Sunday was peaceful, too!

Hold up, wait up a minute. It’s more than halfway through October and I haven’t already posted 87 times about haunted houses? Shit son, let me stuff the word cannon.

This Halloween season, I have been pretty nostalgic about the “old days.” Way back in the age of flowing flannels and Contempo Casuals (where I would buy all of my slutty “I’m a slut who has money” slut uniforms), it was possible to go to two, sometimes even THREE haunted houses in one night for under $20. True story! It seemed like every last VFW, YMCA and Boy Scout Troop had hoarded enough black garbage bags over the course of a year and used their dues to stock up on slipshod Halloween masks from K-Mart to pull off a “haunted house.” And it may have been hokey and rudimentary, full of blacklit Jason Voorhees masks and “accidental” boob-brushes, but fuck if it wasn’t fun.

In high school, I would scour the newspaper for haunted house ads and then my friend Lisa and I would stuff her parents minivan with our ragamuffin group of friends and proceeded to exercise our god-given vocal prowess. We were Those Kids that everyone else hated standing in line with. And I was That Girl who flirted obnoxiously with Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers, hoping to make my crush Evan jealous. (HE NEVER EVEN NOTICED.) There was the Bethel Park Haunted Yard, Clairton’s Haunted Pool, the Glassport Haunted Fire Station, and then all of the Haunted Schools: Castle Shannon, Victory, the Tri-City Jaycees one that I lost my keys in and then it burnt down (no correlation to my keys). Before there was Hundred Acres Manor, there was Phantoms in the Park and Terrors By the Lake. Before Kennywood had their Fright Nights, Station Square transformed into Station Scare and offered carnival rides just in case all of the fog machines, hyper-jealous boyfriends and diet pills* didn’t get you nauseated enough.

*(What? My weight issues go waaaay back.)

But then the behemoth, corporate haunted houses started popping up and taking over. The ones that pay to have haunted house listings and the Travel Channel call them the #1 Haunted Attraction. The ones that make you wait in line for upwards of 3 hours because OMG WE ARE THE BEST IN THE BIZ SO STAND AND WAIT, JAGOFFS. They pour loads of money into their advertising, production and animatronics, but they lack the true Halloween spirit and moxie that the smaller haunted joints have. Money can’t buy moxie, you guys. I’d rather walk through a haunted trail lit by flaming jugs of moonshine in some hick’s backyard than give those corporate bastards my money, if we’re being totally frank here.

People are usually shocked when I start waxing contrary about the city’s most popular haunted attractions, so I have compiled a list to offer some insight into what makes a “good” haunted house.

Here is the official Oh Honestly Erin Haunted House Criteria:

1. Will There Be Chainsaws?

It doesn’t matter how many times Henry exasperatedly assures me that there are no chains on the chainsaws, the moment I hear that whirring, no matter how far away it is, I am suddenly in booty shorts at Camp Crystal Lake and Jason Voorhees is mad as fuck because I just had sex on a hammock, and where the hell did this adrenaline come from? I don’t know, but look! I can scale the backs of the people in front of me!

Even when I’m standing in line chanting, “I hope there are no chainsaws. I hope there are no chainsaws” the truth is that there better be at least one fucking chainsaw guy who takes his position really fucking seriously because I just gave you $15 to scare the shit out of me, so please, do just that. Henry does my laundry, so what do I care.

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Chainsaw Guy at Cheeseman Fright Farm. It was really cold that night on that bale of hay, and your persistent wielding provided warmth to my shivering extremities. Also, you didn’t give up even when I used my 7-year-old son as a shield. Good for you, Ambitious Non-Hockey Mask-Wearing Chainsaw Guy. You were way better than the apathetic Voorhees-wannabe at Freddy’s Haunts who whir-whir-whirred for approximately 10 seconds before walking away.

2. Will There Be the Possibility of Simulated Horror Porn by Michael Myers?

So, maybe it’s just me, but when I’m singled out in a crowd by some dude who looks like his face got violently bear-hugged by bologna slices and green olives, maybe even corners me and snorts and snarls in my ear, I am REALLY FUCKING EXCITED to be there at that haunted attraction. Especially if it’s a particularly sexy-savage Michael Myers. And for those 30 seconds you’re towering over me with your fake machete and vacant eyes, I promise to pretend that you’re not actually some pizza-faced 17-year-old band nerd. NO, YOU ARE A FUCKING HOT PSYCHOPATH WHOSE EVERY PRIMAL INSTINCT IS TELLING YOU TO KILL ME, BUT WAIT! WHAT’S THAT!? YOU ARE FALLING IN LOVE WITH THIS CHUBBY MOM-BROAD WHO IS SCREAMING HER FACE OFF!

And then I’ll go home and write about it in my haunted house journal and it goes something like this: Holy fuck, I am so hot for Michael Myers! I bet he doesn’t pay that much attention to anyone else in that wing of the haunted maze! When we made eye contact, I think he winked at me but it was hard to see over the strobe lights. AND SPEAKING OF HARD! I’m not sure if that was Michael’s tumescent cock-machete or the Pizza-Faced-Kid-Dressed-As-Him’s satchel of dork dice, but I’m totally probably maybe pregnant now, you guys, right?

Just to really illustrate my alarming Michael Myers crush, my kid wouldn’t exist today if I hadn’t thought his dumb dad looked like Michael Myers when he would wear his stupid blue Weiss Meats coveralls back when we were co-workers in 2001. THAT IS WHAT MADE ME WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM, OK?

Anyway…

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Rich’s Fright Farm Michael Myers. You smashed your fist into the wall in front of me every time I tried to escape and at one point BROUGHT ME TO MY KNEES while Janna stood off to the side, staring at her imaginary watch. I could feel your hot murderous breath on my neck and it was, well, fucking hot. Now your demon seed is sprouting inside my womb. Womb, womb, womb.

3. Will Someone Please Entertain the Fuck Out of Me?

Hi. I just dropped the cost of a concert ticket* down on your haunted establishment, so please prove to me that I didn’t make a mistake. *(What? I like underground bands, you guys.) If you’re charging me approx. $18 for 30 minutes, then I better come out the other end feeling like I just came. I mean, feeling entertained. Ridicule my blondness with your biting wit! Tickle my eyeballs with your macabre decor! Make me follow directions! Engage me! (No really—do you want to get engaged? Because Henry apparently doesn’t.) Pay attention to me, to me, to me!

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Castle Blood, duh. You still never fail to call me out for being a dum-dum. (Remembering three talisman is trying. IT’S HARD FOR ME TO PAY ATTENTION, OK!?) You still make me believe I’m going to be poisoned in Professor Scrye’s lab and turned into mortal mana pua by some convincingly realistic witch. (I don’t know why I picked a Hawaiian food that I have never eaten.)

But let me tell you something about this sanguine estate—if you came looking for chainsaws and robotic corpses hemorrhaging on toilets, queue the Sad Tuba soundbite. This is half past Saw, more toward Nosferatu. Castle Blood’s tagline is “Halloween the way it oughta be” and they mean it. It’s elegant and unique, it’s intelligent and interactive, it’s humble and passionate about the season. I’ve been going to Castle Blood since the late 90s and it’s still just as refreshing and inspiring as it was when I was a teenager. We’ve been taking Chooch since he was a baby (first to the no-scare matinees; he’s since graduated to the nighttime tours) and he loves it because it’s magical while still maintaining a high creep-factor—-plus, sometimes Henry gets presented with a death certificate.

4. Will You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman Teenager Again?

As previously mentioned, I long for the old-school haunts of yore. The ones in vacant buildings that charge $12 and under and probably meet the safety standards of a treehouse in 1954. The ones that aren’t mentioned in the obligatory WHAT TO DO THIS OCTOBER newspaper write-up or any of the haunted house listings online. The small haunted house put together by members of a local community and advertise by tacking up flyers in Spirit Halloween stores or sticking bright orange signs in the ground next to the highway. I like giving these people my monies! They know how to crack me up while also making me pee my pants. (I had a longstanding reputation at the now-defunct Victory Haunted School, and every year, from the moment I set foot inside, the “monsters” would start chanting, “Erin’s here! Erin peed her pants!” So fucking obnoxious but I loved every second of it.

If I’m in such pitch-blackness that I need to walk with outstretched arms while simultaneously screaming to no one and everyone that I AM SO FUCKING SCARED OMG WAS THAT A BREAST I JUST TOUCHED, then this haunted house rules. If I’m told, “GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND CRAWL THROUGH THE TUNNEL OF LOVE…OR DEATH!” and I literally find myself scrambling on my hands and knees over top of what I really really really hope are pieces of a CLEAN mattress and I start screaming about how I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO DO THIS! I AM SO SCARED! OW I JUST HURT MYSELF! then this haunted house rules. If the volunteers are so over-the-top with their theatrical lines and fake gunfire that I am literally doing pee-squats from laughing so hard, then this haunted house rules. If I tell the guide that my name is Erin and he decides that “Smellvin” is a better name even though that would only make sense if my name was Melvin, but everyone else thinks it’s hilarious, then this haunted house rules. If some kid pops out of nowhere and freaking feeds me a mouthful of Silly String and even HENRY laughs, then this haunted house rules.

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: Ohmygod it’s a tie! Teen Quest’s Scaremare in Mon City and the haunted basement of the Sewickley United Methodist Church. Can we please admire the irony here, that two of this heathen’s favorite haunted houses are Christian-based? IDGAF, these two haunts made me laugh until I almost peed. (ALMOST, I swear!) It was like being in high school again, faced with the threat of falling down a staircase and inhaling asbestos. And the volunteers at these two places had way more enthusiasm than any of the ones anywhere else, especially Terror Town, who apparently pays their actors and that is just ridiculous because for the last two years, their “employees” were relatively ineffective and I’m officially done giving them Henry’s hard-earned Faygo money. Especially after seeing one of those “actors” on Facebook turn her nose up at people who, god forbid, volunteer their time to play zombies. The people at Scaremare and the church in Sewickley had HEART. The church even had a babydoll displayed in a very horrific, decidedly un-Christian way! I applaud them for that, for being able to recognize that it’s OK to be outrageous and controversial in the name of Halloween, and for being so balls-to-the-wall. I actually wish I had the time to revisit both of these places this month. Even if it’s just essentially dropping money into a collection plate. I’m OK with that.

5. Do You Have a Worthy Haunted House Companion?

Chances are, during this season you are going to sometimes be driving great distances and are probably going to get lost at least twice (are you going to a hayride on some jackass’s farm? Yeah, good luck trusting your GPS with that), so you better make sure you don’t bring some douchebag along with you who is going to drive you so insane that you need to buy your first pack of Camel Wides in 7 years at some sketchy gas station in the middle of downtown Sharon, PA. (True story.) And then once you’ve arrived at the haunt, you might be standing in line for an hour at least. DON’T BRING A DUD OR YOU ARE FU-HAHAHAHA-UCKED. I was lucky this year and have gone to haunted houses with quality peeps (and Henry), but I have been pretty unfortunate in the past. Your company can make or break the haunted house experience, especially if you are so fucking over-the-top annoyed at who’s ripping your shirt in faux-fear that you forget about the actual haunted house itself. Did you like it? WHO EVEN FUCKING KNOWS?!

*THIS SEASON’S UNOFFICIAL WINNER*: And the award goes to my good friend Janna. No one handles being pushed and shoved into chainsaw guys with quite the panache as she, nor can anyone tolerate my extreme giddiness with such a steely veil of patience. Except Henry, but he hates going to haunted houses. I like to believe that every time I scream, and I mean SCREAM, “JANNNNNNAAAA LOOOOOOK OUTTTTT!” that I’m actually saving her life for real. And she just kind of chuckles a little at first, but by the end of the night, I sometimes detect some eye-rolling and sighing.

________________________

Those are my unofficial winners because I still have at least four more haunts to attend before Christmas starts shitting all over my fun. And remember, all of this is subjective. The things that I look for in a haunted house might not be the same things that make you scream like Laurie Strode or make popular local radio DJs jack off into each others’ cupped hands. If your haunt isn’t going to be gonzo enough to scare the FUCK out of me, at least entertain me. Make me laugh, make me push Janna into a chainsaw guy, have a hot Michael Myers, make me have some F-U-N if I’m giving you twenty goddamn dollars out of Poor Henry’s wallet.

(And let me just tell you, now that Chooch is brave enough to go to every haunted house with me, October is officially waaaaay more costly than December.)

Some extra tips:

• Look for coupons! Sometimes haunted houses will offer them on their website. Hundred Acres Manor usually offers $3 off coupons at Eat n Park or Burger King. (They’re only good on Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday nights, I believe.) And you know, check Groupon and Living Social or have a boss that forwards every single haunted house deal to you like I do. Maybe stop in your local corner pub and gather up enough barflies to qualify for a group rate. Just trying to save you some bucks, OK?
• Go on off-nights! If a haunted house is open on a Sunday or Wednesday night—GO THEN! You will beat the crowds and probably have a better victim:monster ratio. Have you ever gone through a haunted house with just the one person you arrived with? SCARY AS FUCK. Real talk.
• Try to remember that no haunt is perfect and “bad nights” can be expected. Maybe I went to Cheeseman’s Fright Farm last weekend and had a blast, but you went earlier in the month on a night where they happened to have a lot of volunteer no-shows. Shit happens, ya’ll, and most of it is behind the scenes. This is why I try not to do too much bashing. (And believe me, I’ve been to a few duds this year.)
• If you go to a haunted trail after it’s been raining all day, you’re PROBABLY GOING TO GET MUDDY. Don’t be that dickhead who complains about it. Maybe you should have stayed home and watched a Duck Dynasty marathon instead.
• Bitching about standing in line isn’t going to make the line move any faster and pro tip: NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR STUPID YINZER MONOLOGUE ABOUT IT, EITHER.
• Pretend that you are actually running for your life. BECAUSE YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.

Today I was going through old Flickr sets and came across the one from when Janna, Blake and I toiled over a batch of STD cookies. (While Henry frowned from a distance.) That was such a fun night. I miss those days! Let’s have a reprise, Blake and Janna!

Here’s a snippet from that September night in 2008:

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

Click here for more gnarly STD cookie photos, k bye!

This last week, I’ve been thinking a lot about my family, and how grateful I am that my brother Corey and I have managed to maintain a good relationship through all the bullshit and drama. My hope is for Chooch & Blake to stay tight in spite of their great age difference.

That being said, I think it’s time for a new brotherly photo shoot! These photos are from last November. It was a good day.

This was originally posted in LiveJournal, March 4th, 2006 back when cell phones were less smart and more quaint. I was obsessed with pink Razrs thanks to being brainwashed by Us Weekly. I wanted to be like Paris Hilton, OK?! Don’t hate.

*****

Most of Wednesday afternoon was spent with me perched on the chair, leaning over the back and peering through the curtains of the front window, waiting for the UPS man to deliver my pink Razr. When it finally arrived, I barely held the door open long enough to thank the delivery man before slamming it shut in his face and tearing open the box with one of Henry’s off-limits box cutters. My hands shook with the anticipation of a teenage girl giving her first hand job as I plugged the charger into the wall and watched as the screen of my sparkling Razr lit up with a “Charging” notification. And then I sat there on the couch, phone cradled in my lap, glancing at the screen every three seconds with more fervor than I expended on that damn pregnancy test last August.

When it was finally charged, I turned it on and began adding pertinent info, like five of my 37 AIM screen names. I then sent out emails to my friends, announcing the arrival of my phone, spawning an onslaught of questions about battery life and other technical logistics, but the only answer I had to offer was that my ring tone was “All Cats Are Grey” by the Cure. Then I sat there with my phone in my hands and waited for it to ring. And it never did.

Henry and I went out to dinner when he came home from work, and I promptly turned off the phone. But once we were leaving, I hurriedly dug for it in my purse and flipped it open. I want to know if anyone called, I filled in Henry. “Did anyone call?” he asked. “No,” I said dejectedly. As we left Denny’s, I walked with my phone held out at arm’s length.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked.

“I want people to see that I have a pink Razr,” I said. Duh.

That night, Henry decided that he wanted to go out and get himself a cell phone, too. We went to Radio Shack where the cheap bastard scooped up an LG phone for $19.99. I kept holding my Razr up to his phone and snorting. This made him mad, and probably made his dick shrink a little out of inadequacy. Then we sat in the parking lot and acted like two people who had never seen cell phones before, pressing buttons and taking pictures of each other. I kept sending him pictures and connecting to the internet, causing Henry to freak out. “We got cell phones to save money, asshole! Your first bill is going to be $300 and I’m not helping you pay for it!”

Now he has me such a nervous wreck that when anyone calls me I freak out because I’m afraid to use any of my minutes. But I’ll throw down cash on ring and answer tones. Those things are important.

I programmed in Henry’s new number, with a voice command of “Ass boobie,” but every time I’d try and use it, I’d laugh too hard and it would say that the voice command couldn’t be found. With practice, I was able to use my serious voice and I can now bark out “Ass boobie” with the stone-faced austerity of a newscaster broadcasting live from the scene of a drive-by shooting.

Yesterday, when I was walking home from getting my hair done, I remembered that hey! I have a cell phone now and I think I’ll call my loving boyfriend. So we chatted for a lively two minutes until it came time for to cross the street and I remembered that I still can’t do much of anything while talking on a cell phone and yelled, “I HAVE TO GO OH MY GOD!” and then waved the phone wildly at my side while running across the busy street.

It was also unfortunate to have to say “Ass boobie” in public, because it was the only way I knew how to make the phone call him. I had to duck into the stoop of a store front, face the brick wall and pull my jacket up over the side of my face to give myself privacy. I was put in an awkward position again yesterday while on the phone with a Cingular representative. I was trying to get help with an answer tone that I downloaded but wasn’t working. I was using my regular phone for the call and the man I was speaking with told me to go ahead and call someone with the cell, just to establish a connection. I don’t know anyone’s phone number off by heart because I’m so used to having it programmed into whatever phone I’m using. The only programmed number in my cell phone was Henry’s. The only way I knew how to call him was to say “Ass boobie.” I didn’t want to say “ass boobie” with this dude on the other phone, so I began struggling, leaving streaks of perspiration all over the phone. I lied and said, “Haha, I can’t seem to get any of my friends to answer!” and the man was all, “Oh they don’t have to answer. As long as someone’s voice mail picks up, we’re fine.”

I felt so pressured and began to tell myself Think, Erin, think!. All I needed was one fucking phone number to call and naturally I couldn’t think of any. This went on for what felt like the entirety of a pap smear followed by the insertion of a catheter by the hands of an ill-tempered nurse with an alcohol problem complete with a grand finale of a “7th Heaven” marathon; I would mumble things like “Sorry I don’t have my address book programmed yet” (and even if I had, I wouldn’t have known how to call anyone from it!) among other flimsy excuses when the Cingular guy knew full well that the girl who was talking to was a friendless loser and probably wondered why she had even bothered getting a cell phone in the first place.

Finally, the Cingular man (probably overcome with pity) interrupted my witch hunt for a number to call and said, “OK here, call this number. It’s a restaurant down the street from me and it’ll be a free call for you. Just hang up once someone answers.” Then while he and I were both waiting for tech support to do their thing, I attempted to make jokes but he wasn’t laughing. There was no saving this conversation, so I kept quiet for the rest of the call.

I’ve since learned myself other ways to place calls with my phone. I guess it’s like how they say if you push a kid in water, he’ll learn to swim.

Today in the car, I was trying to figure out how to access my voice mail and Henry was like, “Um, it’s the same as any cell phone,” and he reached over to show me. Then he paused thoughtfully and asked, rather accusingly, “Don’t you know how to do anything with your phone?” Sure I do, I assured him, as I sent him a text message. I could see the dollar signs spinning in his eyes.

I give it two more days before the novelty wears off.

Marcy not caring about my Razr