Foreword: Yesterday at work, Lee was lambasting me for stalking the Jonny Craig lookalike at Delgrosso’s and even went as far to say that he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if I grew up to be a serial killer. The whole time he’s talking, all I can think is, “Oh, but I’ve done so much better when it comes to stalking people” and of course the first thing I thought of was JIMMY, the pizza boy I stalked for three whole days back in 2005, during snowy November nights WHILE PREGNANT. I even made a(n extremely poor quality) video, which is at the end of this post, and after watching it for the first time in 3+ years, I STILL get a thrill when I see Jimmy. You should note that most of the video is me saying, “OMG THAT’S HIM!” and Henry mumbling, “No that’s not him,” until the very end WHEN IT’S HIM.

OK go on.

Originally a LiveJournal post from November, 2005.

The Jimmy Set-Up

One night while taking a leisurely stroll with Henry, I insisted that we walk past the pizza place which employs the latest delivery guy that I’m stalking (I have a thing for pizza guys: Exhibit A / Exhibit B). His name is Jimmy. This I know because last week as Henry and I were ambling past, Jimmy was sitting in his car, waiting to pull out when another employee of Pizzarella came running out, yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy, wait!” Alas, Jimmy didn’t hear him and pulled out into traffic with a squeal of his tires, the Pizzarella sign adorning the top of his car. “Huh, there goes Jimmy,” I said as we looked on.

Big deal, right? Well, on our way back from our walk that night, we were crossing the street. All was clear, but suddenly, while we were in the middle of the road, a car came flying up over the hill, forcing me to run the rest of the way. I was clutching my stomach and yelling, “Don’t hit me I’m pregnant!” (LOVE playing that card), when I happened to toss a glance over my shoulder and I saw that it was Jimmy in his dinky white sputtering car with the Pizzarella sign on top. “Aw, it’s Jimmy!” I yelled, as I tugged on Henry’s arm. He didn’t care.

One block over, and it was time to cross the street again. We had just stepped off the curb when another car came barreling at us. I started to yell threats about being pregnant when I stopped and screamed, “Hey, it’s Jimmy again!” His window was down and he clearly heard my zealous exclamations of his name; they were rather orgasmic. Henry was embarrassed. So I decided that it was fate; I mean, obviously. Maybe there’s supposed to be a movie made about us, I suggested to Henry. A romantic comedy!

I began to outline the premise for Henry. Man drives recklessly around town with the intent of running over any and all pregnant women he comes across, because he hates babies and the vessels which bear them. One fateful night in November, he sees me walking with Henry. Henry selfishly dives out of the way, leaving me in the headlights of Jimmy’s car. He hits me, but unfortunately for him, I survive, and so does the baby, which ends up being his, so he spends the rest of his life hunting down me and the kid, trying to kill us with his pizza delivery car.

“How is that a romantic comedy?” Henry asked. Well, maybe it’s more of a thriller. Or it can be a dark comedy and we’ll just have Pee Wee Herman doing something occasionally.

Ever since that night, no matter what Henry and I are involved in, I make time for Jimmy. “Hey, remember Jimmy?” I’ll ask. “No,” he’ll say. Maybe his lack of a Jimmy memory is because he’s trying to trick me into having sex at that particular moment or he’s too engrossed in “Good Eats,” but I know deep down there will always be room for Jimmy’s memory in Henry’s heart. Someday, maybe he’ll be secure enough with his manhood to admit it.

Unfortunately, Jimmy wasn’t at the shop last night. However! As we walked past, a man exited the pizza shop, carrying a precariously-stacked tower of trays. We watched him walk over to his parked Audi and struggle with the opening of the passenger door.

I’ve never seen Henry move so fast in my life. “Here, let me get that for you!” And then an awkward exchange of “No, it’s cool, I got it” and “Are you sure, man?” followed by “Yes, thanks man” and ending with “Oh, OK, bud!” ensued. I was able to hold it in long enough for Henry to rejoin me on the sidewalk, but then it all came tumbling out of the loose cannon.

“Oooooooh! Henry’s new boyfriend!”

He wouldn’t talk to me after that and even tried to walk me into a street sign.

Anyway, I’m going to order from Pizzarella this weekend, but only after I make sure Jimmy is working. Then when Henry is paying him, I’ll be hiding by the window, or maybe behind a bush*, taking his picture. You just wait, Jimmy.

(*I should plant a bush.)

The Jimmy Fake Out

But I don’t even like their food, I thought, after I urged Henry to place an order to Pizzarella that Saturday night. And when Henry brought up that tiny detail, I of course lied and said, “You must be thinking of another place, buddy. I love Pizzarella. It’s like being in Italy. With all that real Italian food. Mmm. Trevi Fountain, holla.” Indigestion brought on by sub-par Brookline Italian fare was a small price to pay in order to lure Jimmy to my doorstep.

Thirty minutes later, Henry began pacing back and forth in front of the window, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Wow, I thought, Henry is nervous too!

Turns out he was just really hungry.

When I heard a car pull up to the house, I lurched for the camcorder and yelled, “Is it him!?”

It wasn’t. It was some worthless piece of shit who could never match up to Jimmy’s talent for pizza slinging.

My pasta tasted like poison. I ate bitterly as I reflected on how Henry refused to grant me permission to cut him earlier that day. Just one little slice across his chest with a box cutter, it was all I asked; a small token of our love, I begged. “Shed your blood for me, you son of a bitch,” I hissed with my fingernails at his throat. If he really loved me, he’d have let me. So now I can add this to the list of his other vetoes: me vomiting in his mouth; him dressing as Michael Myers and raping me (I would have loved to one day tell my child that that’s how (s)he was conceived); allowing me to take a Danish lover; and the list goes on, my friends. The list goes on.

And so I start thinking. I don’t have the money nor the appetite to continue ordering shitty food every day in hopes of drawing Jimmy to my front door; I would just have to go straight to the source. I begged Henry to give the night one more chance by walking with me to Brookline Boulevard, where we would have a real life stake out.

“Either do this or let me cut you”: a proposal in which I win either way. I suggested that we pack a small bag full of sustenance, maybe some crackers and peanut butter, because there was no telling how long we’d be gone.

“Oh, we won’t be gone that long,” Henry mumbled as he zipped up his jacket. I tucked the camcorder snugly into my pocket and pulled my hat down low over my eyes.

It was time.

****

There was no sign of any of the Pizzarella delivery cars as we walked past the shop the first time, me giggling uncontrollably and Henry telling me to shut the fuck up. When I’m giddy, I walk like a drunk, forcing him to grip my arm hard to pull me out of the way of other pedestrians. I hoped it would bruise so I could show the cops, but it didn’t. Damn those cold-weather layers. I plan on battering myself in time for my sonogram next week so all fingers will point to Henry.

We passed this guy Brice who used to stalk me, and his dog took a dump in the middle of the sidewalk. He acts like he doesn’t even know me now, I thought, as my wave and bright smile were met with a vacant stare. I looked at Henry in disdain. It’s all his fault. All of my stalkers retreated with their tails between their legs once Henry came barreling into my life, disrupting the natural order of things. (Gas station grocery shopping, inviting people over from chat rooms, blind dates, roller skating in the house. This list deserves its own entry. Or book.). I walked in silence for a few seconds, shedding invisible tears for stalkers past. Tossing a quick glance over at Henry, I felt a thousand pounds of hatred as I watched the way he scrunched up his shoulders to block the wind; the way he looked like a hoodlum with his hood pulled up tight around his fat face. Look at what he’s done to me, I thought, thinking of all the fun he’s driven out of my life. Maybe he can give me some STDs too, to ice the cake; make sure no one will ever want to stalk me again. No more Brices or Gothic Carls or Johnny Blazes. I’ve been tainted by domesticity. What stalker in their right mind would risk peeping into my window only to catch a glimpse of Henry traipsing around in his underwear? Who wants to stalk a boring quasi-housewife? (If you answered “I do” to that, my address is available upon request. I can also send pics of Henry’s bare legs to requested parties, as well.)

Luckily for Henry and the fate our unborn child, I distracted myself from further thoughts of running away by making zombie noises. The first one I did was the best, but then I couldn’t remember how I did it and I began to try too hard, which resulted in me sounding like I had emphysema. Still, I practiced on and on, relentless, because I’m no quitter. Plus, I wanted to test it out on unsuspecting passers-by.

“Was that it?”

“No.”

“Was that it?”

“No.”

Finally, Henry stopped answering me altogether, but it didn’t matter since we were now across the street from Pizzarella. I dusted off a spot on a retaining wall and made myself comfortable. Cracked my knuckles a few times, blew on my finger tips, punched Henry in the crotch — you know, all the things people do when they’re preparing to undergo some heavy surveillance.

While I was getting nestled, two young kids pedaled past on their bikes, so I hit them with my zombie sounds. And then I laughed about it for a few minutes and kept saying, “Hey Henry, remember when those kids rode by and I made zombie noises at them?” He wouldn’t answer; that happens sometimes. I guess it’s because he’s old.

As luck would have it, right when I got the camcorder all set up (you know, extracted from my pocket and turned on), a drunk old black man came from our right, slightly staggering with his head down. So I taped him, with Henry whispering, “Don’t. That’s not nice. Stop.” See what I mean? I am so oppressed. Too bad Henry then started to laugh. Mr. Fucking Humanitarian. This is the same guy who comes home from work and brags about seeing prostitutes fighting and a woman wearing white pants with a menstrual Rorschach pattern on her crotch.

But I’m cruel for videotaping a wino.

While I was fully immersed in this anthropological specimen, Henry jabbed my arm and pointed across the street. A delivery man had returned. I swung the camera in his direction and began squealing, “Oh my god it’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy!!” The butterflies were ricocheting all over my stomach as my laughter shook the camera, and then Henry said, “Oh wait. That’s not him. Jimmy had a white car.”

What, daddy? There’s no Santa?

I was crushed. Even more so than when I lost the Alternative Press “Number 1 Fan” essay contest last year. (I lost to some cunt in California who wrote something similar to this: “OMG I DON’T HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER BUT THANK GOD I HAVE AP BECAUSE YOU ARE LIKE AN OLDER BROTHER WHO SHOWS ME GOOD MUSIC.” How does that make her their number one fan? I would say that makes AP her number one imaginary friend. Fuck you and your non-brother, you fucking slut. Of course, I didn’t follow the rules and my essay was about three hundred words — give or take a few hundred — too long. In any case, I know that girl’s name and where she lives. And in one of my lowest and darkest moments, I even tried to find her on LiveJournal so I could flame her. There, I said it.)

You see, we don’t actually know what Jimmy looks like; just his car. Still, I really think I’m in love with him.

I really am, I think.

We waited a little longer, huddled together against the wind. “Sweetie, I don’t think he’s working tonight,” Henry said as he patted my head. You know it’s dire when he calls me sweetie.

But then the clouds parted and another delivery car pulled up.

“That’s not him. That’s the guy that delivered to us earlier,” Henry said with authority because he excels in all things pizza and vehicles. But while Henry was shooting me in the face with his smugness, he totally missed the delivery guy emerging from his car. Suddenly, one of his legs completely gave out, like it was made from putty, and he fell back against the side of his car. I laughed, and I mean laughed, with enough volume and zest for him to hear and look over at me. This made me laugh even harder and I’m going to admit something here because I’m honest: I peed. Yes, I pissed my fucking pants, right there, sitting on the wall. Erin urinated. Granted, it was the tiniest dribble, maybe the size of a gum ball at best. But it was enough to feel warm and uncomfortable.

Look, I’m pregnant, OK? This shit happens. And by shit I mean piss.

This was the final straw for Henry and he urged me to get up and start walking home with him. Also, he was pouting because he missed the stumbling delivery man.

“Wait,” I said. “Not until I know for sure. Give me change, I need to make a call.”

And so I walked a half of a block down to the gas station and called Pizzarella from the pay phone, because I’m proud to be part of the world’s 10% without a cell phone. While I dialed the number, Henry stood beside me but I pushed him away because I didn’t want to laugh. I needed privacy for this one.

A girl answered and, while my mouth was wide open, there was this ill-timed delay in my speech. I almost hung up but didn’t want to waste the fifty cents. (Fifty fucking cents to use the pay phone now? It’s been a long time since I had to use a pay phone. Jimmy, my man, you’re raping my pockets.)

I had it all rehearsed in my head. A simple, “Hello, is Jimmy working tonight?” would have sufficed. But instead, I ended up sounding like a head gear-wearing 12-year-old Bobcat Goldthwait making his first prank call at a slumber party.

“HI!!!! [pause to bite back laughter] IS JIMHAHAHAHAPFFFFFFFFT WORKING TONIGHT!?!?!?”

“Who?” She was clearly annoyed. I hoped it wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Jimmy.” I wasn’t laughing now, but rather trying to hold back more spurts of urine.You know how hard it is to manually shut yourself off once you’ve started!

And so I was informed that Jimmy was not working that night.

“THANKS” I yelled and slammed down the receiver. And then I laughed all the way to a stomach ache, while the urine burnt my thighs as it dried.

The next day, at exactly 2:20 PM, I was on my way to Pitt to schedule classes and I totally passed Jimmy and his white car on the road. I made a slight detour on the way home, parked across the street from Pizzarella, and finally captured him for a lifetime of pleasure on video.

I spent most of this morning re-living 2002 via my LiveJournal. I know it probably sounds like I’m torturing myself, but when I’m in mourning, I like to surround myself with nostalgic effects. Painful as it might be, it’s also comforting to remember the way things were when certain people/pets were still around.

While reading entries from that summer, I found this excerpt which talked about how confused Don and Speck (née Nicotina) were when Henry’s kids (Blake and Robbie) began staying at our house on weekends.

Yes, I’m still sad. Maybe a little morose. I still have crying jags. But I’m functioning. I’m not crying at work (anymore, at least). I know that once we bury Don, I’ll be able to find that peace that I need. (His burial was supposed to be yesterday but was postponed until next week.)

I forgot how much I enjoyed the summer of 2002, and how openly in love with with Henry I was. (Seriously, almost every LJ post went on about it! I was so gross back then.) But then I read an entry about how my rapist co-worker at Weiss Meats called me a fucking cunt and all my boss did was say, “Dean, don’t call the girl names” and then pinched my cheek and said, “See how I take care of you?” in a baby-talk voice and suddenly I was all enraged and remembered that the summer of 2002 couldn’t have been THAT great if I was still working at that hell hole.

The only good thing that came out of that place was meeting Henry.

Don’t worry. I’ll shake this off in time and be right back to being an obnoxiously obscene bitch. And then you’ll miss Grieving Erin.

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

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

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

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

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

HAHA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moustache Therapy!

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

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

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

Zombie Barf Night Cap

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

I found one of the extras in a kitchen drawer last week and my fingers spontaneously cramped at the memory of the labor. It took so long to make these, but it was so worth it. It was Chooch’s first birthday after all! I can’t wait until he’s a teenager and tries to pull that “You’ve never done anything for me!” bullshit, so I can scroll through my blog and show him pictorial evidence of EVERYTHING that spoiled kid has had done for him. You know, since he is so endangered and neglected.

***

It’s the moment no one has been waiting for: all of Chooch’s birthday invitations are securely hot-glued together into a foam sandwich and have been mailed off to their respective recipients. For as much anguish as these little monsters cost me, I have to admit that I miss them and I was very sad to see them go. When I handed the last batch off to the postal worker, I felt a lump rise in my throat and memories of the past few weeks bled into my mind — the good, the bad, the extremely painful (glue guns hurt). It was like sending off 23 kids to college.

I free-handed them from foam and made each individual face, and then Hoover’s Big Assignment was to use one of those big bad exacto knives that make him feel like he has a big weener to insert each tongue, which includes all the party info when pulled down.

Hopefully, everyone keeps theirs and then in a year or two we can orchestrate a reunion and play catch up while noshing on Russian tea cakes and whispering outrageous slurs behind Janna’s back.

Monster cupcakes decorated by me, Christina and Christina’s sister Cynthia.

Chooch’s 6th birthday party was last night and it was a lot of fun*. However, the mom in me has been all nostalgic today; it seems like just last year we were trhowing him a 1st birthday blowout at my mom’s house, but then I think of how much things have changed since then, how I don’t even talk to my mom anymore, or my aunt Sharon, and how I’m always trying to overcompensate for this loss of family by trying to lure as many people as possible to my kid’s parties.

(*Unless you’re breaking bones, and then it might be a pretty shitty time.)

Not only was my mom at his 1st birthday, but it was at her house and she even helped me plan it. I spent my break at work today looking at pictures from that day and feeling bittersweet, but mostly happy because that was such a good day.

And I had a tutu.

And Christina was there. She has missed his last 4 parties because of our utter inability to iron shit out between us. Even though she wasn’t at his party last night, just knowing she’s back was enough for both me and Chooch. (Plus, she bought him shit when she was visiting last weekend, so that’s definitely good enough for Chooch. He is very easily won over with tangible tokens of love, just like his mother.)

My friend Bill baked Chooch’s personal  cake and then Kara decorated it in the likeness of the party invitations I made, while I breathed down her back and made idle threats.

….M.C.A.?

Chooch has always been kind of a big deal. I love that kid.

Big shout out to everyone else out there who loves him too. Thank you for making him feel special.

It’s not like I have some vested interest in televisions, but going to the Early Television Museum seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend a chilly, overcast Sunday in March.

Even if it meant driving 3+ hours to the small town of Hilliard outside of Columbus, OH. Nothing weird about that, or the fact that Henry had to keep putting me and my petulant attitude in check, or the fact that nearly every one of my senses was drop-kicking me straight back into the hands of 2005.

I was just there to see some vintage fucking TV sets. Goddammit.

Our current TV is about three years away from being quite at home here.

Andrea would have hated this place because it was an unguided tour. The aging hippie at the front desk took our donation and was basically like, “I don’t give a shit what you do. Touch whatever you want.” And that is exactly what Chooch did — touched every button on every TV. (OK, I did too.)

I can’t remember the last time Jonny Craig sounded so loud in my head, even around the constant hum and squelch of vintage television.

Some buttons actually were off-limits. Thank god there were cameras in every room to make sure that we didn’t touch anything/anyone we weren’t supposed to be touching.

Oh look! It’s Henry standing amongst televisions from his own era!

“I like your shirt.”

“Thanks, I bought it after you quit talking to me.”

When I was five-years-old, there were only three TV channels and I ate sardines straight from the can! Henry to Chooch, who fucked around with his “new iPhone” all day.

For all my clown-lovahs out there.

World’s first clicker aka remote,  I think.

GERMAN TV!

PURPLE TV!

I was worried it wouldn’t be worth it. But it was worth it.

I was so distracted by all the relics from the past, that I forgot to even sign the guest book.

Stumbled across some old photos from my birthday in 2007, where we were fucking around in a cemetery (you know, the usual).

Henry stopped home from work just now to bring me an umbrella and when he saw these photos over my shoulder, he said, “Oh look, back when you and Chooch liked each other.” I laughed, but oh my god it’s so true you guys. We fight like sibs nowadays. (I’d like to note that Henry didn’t even comment on the fact that I have some religious cooking show on in the background. Because ironic viewing of religious programming is just as normal around here as eating cupcakes in a cemetery, I guess.)

I just said out loud, “The summer of 2007 was pretty awesome” but then pieces started rapidly plopping into place and I quickly changed my opinion on that matter.

In other news, I got mostly drunk at NOLA after work last night with Carey and scared the waitress off by shouting about rape. It was a pretty fantastic moment for me. Hopefully someday this week I will write about SOUL SKATE and the ginger bitch who tried to skate-fight me BUT LOST. It has been a crazy week. Crazy-good, but crazy. I need to make my brain stop spinning. I don’t know about you, but I’m about to get my hair all cut-up in TWENTY MINUTES, GOODBYE.

*(Why do I bother trying to be wordless? I mean, really.)

You guys get to enjoy (pretend for me, please) a vintage LiveJournal post because I have been working on the second county fair photo book and those things melt my brain and sear my contacts to my eyeballs. I’m not very good with tedium.

For the record, I have been waiting all week for Henry to make good on his Valentine promise, which was to finally finish answering those questions for my blog, but after 11 years, I’ve grown accustomed to what a broken promise feels like. Not that I’m bitter or anything. I mean, I only BAKED HIM A CAKE.

(originally posted June 2007)

Everyday, I like to give myself challenges. Nothing too ridiculous though, like donating to charity or smiling at babies, but moderately attainable goals such as holding the door open for Tina, making a sandwich all by myself, picking up after Chooch rather than leave it for Henry. I mean, this is all on top of maintaining fresh and tight rhymes, which is an every day thing.

(Oh I hear all ya’ll hatas, talking yo’ shit. “This bitch ain’t writin’ no rhymes” — I write raps like nuns finger bang.

That is to say, religiously. Walk it out.)

Yesterday’s challenge was keeping up the facade of a happy family dynamic while lunching at Eat n Park. I did a little self-kicking after choosing this one, because faking a healthy camaraderie in a public atmosphere isn’t one of my strong points. But I reminded myself that this is why it’s a challenge, you see.

After we were served our beverages, my mission began to look grim as Henry launched into mindless blathering, using his hushed Restaurant Voice because he’s convinced that every asshole gives a shit about his feelings and thoughts on very important matters like running out of diapers and paying the electric bill. And of course there’s the confidential job dissertation. “Everfresh, Faygo, Faygo Faygofaygofaygo, Everfresh, Red Pop….” OK, I get it, I got it, Henry. You work for a beverage company.

Could I possibly endure an entire meal, watching his mustache bristle as he masticated his cheese steak? Could I restrain myself from meat-fisting him square in the jaw and choking him on his own eyeballs?

And then two angels sent from God Himself arrived and were seated in the booth next to us. It didn’t take long at all for me to realize that they would serve as the best form of distraction — the ridiculous “Is this shit for real?” kind.

When the waitress shuffled over to take their drink order, the woman facing me announced loudly that she would like to be enjoying a glass of ice water, go easy on the ice though and that her friend prefers an ice tea, NO ICE!, please bring the ice in a separate glass on the side!

It was that moment that what very well may be one of the biggest decisions of my life was made: I’m going to start ordering for Janna every time we dine out.

I noticed that the skimpy ice woman, who was clearly the harbinger of this pairing, spoke for her friend every time the waitress came back. I thought maybe her friend was mute or retarded, but it turned out she was just being oppressed.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but did you hear that the President has ordered all the doctors in America to kill the Baby Boomers? Oh, yeah. He did. And also the senior citizens, too. You know, three of my kids are Baby Boomers. I told my son and of course he wanted me to tell him how I found out but I told him, I says to him, ‘Boy I can’t tell you, you know that!’ and then I told him he better not let them give him any more shock treatment*. The pills should be enough, you know?”

*(This is not an embellishment.)

Henry and I exchanged wide-eyed glances and then he hunkered down in quiet laughter, leaving me exposed. She looked right at me several times, but this woman was too deluded to realize that I was blatantly laughing at her.

Even when she acknowledged Chooch, it wasn’t with the rosy-cheeked smile of America’s favorite flour-dusted apron-wearing grandmothers, but more of a matter-of-fact bob of her gray-curled head and a firm “Yes yes, hello to you too, sir” like she was brusquely addressing a door-to-door salesman and not a smiling baby eating strawberries at a nearby table. This was not the kind of woman who would serve up sugar cookies and biscuits with marmalade, but more so the type of woman who might purposely mistake a can of Fancy Feast for her Dinty Moore stew every now and again. But really, who doesn’t do that?

When she would pause to sip from her not-too-much-ice water, the table would fall silent; her friend not daring to contribute much probably for fear of saying the wrong thing and having her friend alert the President that she has a senior citizen primed and ready to be snuffed.

In what I mistook for a moment of clarity, Crazy began regaling her silent friend with an update of who I guessed to be her granddaughter. “…and the commencement ceremony is next Thursday, so I had to go out and buy a dress…” A winded description of her dress followed and I lost interest about as fast I do with crushes, so I actually paid a little attention to my kid, can you imagine?

My ears perked again, though, when I heard Crazy casually extend an invitation to her friend. You know, if I was graduating from somewhere, I would really appreciate if my derailed granny brought along all of her fellow nursing home escapees, too.

Why do I have a feeling that this isn’t an academic commencement, but more along the lines of “My granddaughter’s being released from the hospital next week after recovering from her botched suicide attempt, let’s all drink Pine-Sol spritzers and commence!”

Still unable to hear her friend, I didn’t know if she said yay or nay until Crazy retorted with a very agitated, “Oh. I was hoping you would say no because I don’t have any room in the car.” I felt proud to realize that this is the same way I treat my friends, too! It’s nice to know my Crazy Car is puttering down the right path.

As we were getting ready to leave, I overheard her fussing about the tip. “I’m taking this seven cents off the tip. She was a dummy.”

I walked home with a smile, finally knowing the kind of woman whose wrinkled skin I strive to grow into, and feeling good about winning another challenge. For the casual observer, Henry and I appeared to be exchanging loving glances and coy smiles and smirks, like we were in love or something equally as far-fetched, when really we were enveloped in a WTF cloud and growing delirious off the wacky fumes. What the hell, it counts. I think I was mean to Henry again as soon as we walked through the front door, but the statute of limitations had expired by that point.

I hope Henry shrivels into this brand of mentally-razzed prune. I can already adoringly picture him waxing nostalgic about the days when he fought in a fake war with the Air Force. But people will probably think all of his talk about the Thai prostitutes is the part that’s made up. Only we’ll know the truth.

Most of you guys that read this thing know me from LiveJournal. Remember my icons? Motherfucker, do I miss them. I wish I could use them on here.

This was one I used for my fake journal about Sam, an amputated leg:

I showed Carey that one at work just now and she said there is something wrong with me, which means she’s jealous that she doesn’t have a friend like Sam, who obviously loved to loaf with rollerskates.

Some of my favorites from Henry’s fake journal:

Henry really loved his ex-Faygo boss, Ted. You know who else he loved? Some goddamn John Black:

Here are some of my favorites from my main LiveJournal. Goddamn, do I miss them.

Jumping B-Listers:

Before Jonny Craig, I had the hots for Danny Bonaduce:

This one makes no sense other than to illustrate my hatred for Angelina Jolie. (TEAM ANISTON ALWAYS):

Not only do I <3 OJ, but I also cure herpes:

Tammy Faye shout out:

This was inspired by a daydream I once had and used to make Chooch cry:

I really liked Bob Uecker:

Keeping the killers close to my heart:

If anyone knows of a way I can incorporate these into WordPress, please holla. I miss them so much and if I had a use for them, I would start making more and more and MORE AND MORE MOREMOREMORE.

(I ate a candy bar a little while ago and my brain is now spinning wildly out of control.)

New Year’s Eve started off by me coming home Saturday afternoon to a beautiful picture of Speck drawn by my friend Julie. I had no idea she was doing this and I was so touched that I cried. But these were good tears for once. I all but ripped the current picture out of that frame so Speck could have her own home on the wall. I can’t even adequately express my gratitude. Julie, you are wonderful!

Later, my babe and I watched the hockey game together while Henry and Chooch went to the store to get party food. Then Henry came back and walked around, moving all the candles I had just lit because I failed the Flammable course in the School of Life. “You can’t put a flame this close to PAPER!” Fuck, he’s so critical.

I’m not a big New Year’s Eve person; in my history, I have had more disastrous, tear- and drama-filled New Year’s Eve than not, so I’m usually content to just stay home with Henry, doing nothing but making fun of the various NYE bullshit on TV. This year, though, we had a small get-together with Tommy, Jessy, Laura and Mike. It was laid back, devoid of drama and tears, and just nice to spend an evening with some of my favorites.

It wouldn’t have felt right if Tommy hadn’t made Chooch cry eight times in a 30-minute span.

Tommy molded a pink penis out of what remained of the Play-Doh that Janna bought Chooch last week. Chooch NEVER puts the lids on and I wind up sweeping up colored rocks within a week. I hate Play-Doh more than any other toy, except maybe all those Tickle Me Elmo fuckers.

Weener cleavage.

Chooch couldn’t wait for Laura to get there so she could help him with the science project kit she got him for Christmas. You might think having the sweat of strangers rubbed on you in the club is the only way to spend New Year’s Eve, but we made volcanoes and some kind of disgusting yet addicting pink goo that I absolutely could not stop dunking my fingertips in even after it wigged me out to the point of yelping like a girl seeing her first weener on accident.

Earlier in the day, Chooch was being a total fucker so I uninvited him to the party, which made him cry, and this in turn made Henry sigh exasperatedly and say, “You can’t say things like that to him; you’re his mother.” So for 2012, I’m going to buy some Mom Manuals.

After a few minutes of me sitting there, staring at my pink-stained fingertips in some kind of bizarre googly-eyed awe, Henry sneered, “If I had known you’d get this excited, I’d have given you a bowl of cornstarch and water a long time ago.” When Laura first arrived, she asked for a “Blame Henry” pin, but after about a half hour of my antics, she mumbled, “I think I’ll take that Poor Henry pin now.” Turncoat!

Jessy got me an APPLE RING, motherfuckers! A GODDAMN SPARKLING APPLE RING, OH I CAN HARDLY STAND IT! I spent most of the night admiring it; in fact, I even missed most of the countdown because I was so distracted by the glorious rays of crimson light emitting from my thumb. This could have been the perfect engagement ring if someone had been more proactive, just saying. (Operation: Propose or GTFO 2011 was clearly a shining success.)

I drank so much that I was sweating wine. Malachi imbibed his fair share, as well.

At the stoke of midnight, I tore off outside, down the front steps, and embarked on a shortbus journey to the land of inebriated celebrations. I have a vague recollection of Laura, Mike and Henry watching with moderate interest from inside the house. “Good thing there wasn’t any ICE out there,” Henry remarked when I came back inside after realizing I was the only one outside screaming and engaging in some sort of sad jumping jack mutation. Henry is always in Dad Mode, even after drinking vodka all night.

Later, I learned who my real friends were when I drunkenly got a pillow STUCK TO MY HEAD and no one helped save me.

It was a great way to say goodbye to 2011, which was a mostly wonderful year full of new friendships; rekindling old friendships; getting to finally meet my friend Andrea in person; fun trips; JONNY CRAIG; incredible shows; getting to hang out at the Alternative Press offices (this is destined to be one of my favorite memories); amusement parks and county fairs; having my birthday party at a roller rink; and Henry finally dropping some plus-sized, shit-filled baggage. It just sucks that now, whenever I think of 2011, I’m always going to think of Speck dying. But then I just remember all the wonderful friends who helped me through it, and that’s enough to make me smile again. Stoked for all the things I want to accomplish and experience in 2012! Happy New Year, you guys.

(Sorry to get all sappy and introspective. I’ll start being a petulant asshole again tomorrow.)

Speck and Marcy, 1998

Things haven’t gotten any easier yet. In fact, I almost feel worse. It was good to be back to work last night, because at least at the office, there are no memories of Speck. But I kept crying every time my work friends would tell me they were sorry to hear about her. It’s nice to work with supportive people, that’s for sure, and I really appreciated how sweet and sensitive they were being to me. Not a single “It’s just a cat” was muttered.

One of my bosses came over last night to see how my week off was, and I said it was fine, paused, and then blurted out, “But my cat died on Saturday!” and then started crying. I mean, I knew this day would come but no one could have prepared me for how heart-breaking it is. I don’t remember being this distraught anytime one of our family dogs died when I was growing up. I guess I hoped it would be easier as an adult, but no. No, it’s much worse.

Being in the house alone for the first time yesterday gave me way too many opportunities to dwell. I went upstairs and a Live song was on the radio and instantly I was taken back to when I got her.

It was late-spring of 1998, I was 18 and living on my own. I had already had Marcy for two months by that point, and even then, I didn’t consider myself a “cat person.” But Janna and I had been visiting her friend’s mom, whose daughter’s cat had recently had kittens. Janna immediately claimed one but I was more hesitant. I already had one. I was a dog person! What did I need another cat for.

But then I saw Speck, looking like a little Mogwai, and then I looked out the wide-open front door of the house and how it led right out onto a busy street. It seemed like dangerous living conditions for a cat. So Speck came home with me. Of course, she was named Nicotina in the beginning, because I was an idiot 18-year-old chain-smoker. The name was meant to be a joke, but it stuck. Speck became one of her pet names, and that’s the one Chooch chose to use the most.

I started dating Jeff a few months after I got Speck, and he subsequently spent the next three years in her life. I sent him a message on Facebook last night to let him know that she had passed, and just doing that made me cry even harder.

I think that’s the worst part, is that not only did she die, but so did an era. It’s forced me to remember all the different parts of my life that she was around for, how much things have changed, how many people have come and gone, and for a sentimental asshole me, I feel like my whole world is imploding. She essentially grew into an adult along with me. I can’t even look at Marcy and Don without bursting into tears. Henry told me I need to stop worrying about them dying too or I’m going to drive myself crazy, but it already feels like I’ve driven myself to Hell.

Last night, Henry and I were sitting together on the couch. I looked at him and said, “Now who will burrow under the covers when we’re trying to sleep?” but my voice got caught halfway through and I started to sob all over again. Now no one comes scampering into the kitchen every time the fridge opens. Now no one stands on my stomach every morning as a hint to get the fuck out of bed and put food in their bowls. “Please don’t die,” I said to Henry with urgency.

This is so hard. I don’t even want to eat an apple.

I’m totally honored that Dusti wanted to contribute to my little dog and pony show I’ve got going on this week. I met her by chance via a Craigslist ad I placed in 2008 looking for victims to animal mask-up and photograph, and ironically, she was a Castle Blood denizen at the time.

It only took 4 years, but we finally met up for coffee a few weeks ago after years of e-cordiality. I’m happy to call her a real life friend. Thank you for making me a little misty-eyed before Chooch’s parent/teacher conference, Dusti!

***

I’m not actually sure how long I’ve been reading your blog.  Our paths crossed on LiveJournal pre-2007 (obviously), and I’d have lost you to WordPress were it not for the joy of RSS feeds.  (Your LJ name* bewildered me a little, but I loved you anyway.)  (And your LJ is older than mine by 5 months or so.  We may have to have a girl fight over that.

I’m not sure yet.)

(*Vagynafondue, ya’ll!)

*Anyway*.  This all means I’ve been sitting at my computer watching your online evolution.  But my gut reaction to, “What do I love about Erin’s blog?” is, “The photos!”  (You were expecting to hear, “The inmate penpal stories,” weren’t you?)  But it was your Mad Photography Skillz that made me initially contact you in ’08 (oo, you almost mentioned me in your blog yay! The Chuck Saga).

Anyway.  I friggin’ love these.  And I friggin’ love that you’re someone that has kept animal masks in your trunk Just In Case.  And I continue to hope that someday you will put me in a ridiculous animal mask, too.

Bunny Mask:
https://www.ohhonestlyerin.com/archives/7783

When Animals Wed:
https://www.ohhonestlyerin.com/archives/1292

Mmmmmmmonkey:
https://www.ohhonestlyerin.com/archives/701

Bunny in the Cemetery:
https://www.ohhonestlyerin.com/archives/686

And this is probably my all time fav post (and I don’t remember if anyone else has listed it and if they haven’t I don’t care I’m doing it again so there)…
Undead Abduction:
https://www.ohhonestlyerin.com/archives/9139

Whilst I love your amusement park posts and of course your haunt reviews, it’s the photo stuff that I remember the most.

You’re wicked talented.

(..Shut UP.  You ARE.)

I’m so glad that my blog waited until the week of its fucking birthday to break. There are error messages galore and I’m sure this is somehow Henry’s fault.

Blame Henry ’11.

(Which reminds me, I still need to make those buttons.)

Anyhow, while I’m at work decompressing from a long day on a juror panel (I didn’t get picked, but that’s a story for later), I figured I would round up the posts that some of my friends have picked as favorites and share them on this here blog. You know what’s nice? Not having shit to do. Thanks guys, for doing all the choosing for me!

***

1. The Gingercrack House : picked by Chris, my new haunted house friend!

My first exposure to OHE was a link to your blog about Trundle Manor about a year ago when I was researching TM in one of those “how the hell don’t I know about this place already” fits. I enjoyed the insight as well as the writing style.

Then came the first Castle Blood Matinee article, which I still think is the best thing that has ever been written about us. The “hyperbole that rings true” struck a chord in all of us and we literally couldn’t wait for a visit that year. (I write a lot for the attraction and am VERY nit-picky when somebody else puts something in print, and this one raised the bar for all other articles.)

Omitting anything personal in the blog due to bias, I would say that my favorite things are the fair/amusement park trip reports because they relate so well to what Kari and I do in our spare time and the adventures play out in a similar manner. The stand-out exception to all of this is the “Gingerbread Crack House” story, which I loved from start to finish and wish that I had been so clever as to come up with that particular gem of an idea.

2. Alisha’s Secret & Turning Religious : picked by Brandy, whose blog you should be reading.

I can’t tell you exactly what it was about this post but when I read it I was instantly hooked.  and I can prove it with this post. It’s been a little over a year now that I’ve been reading your blog; one good thing to come from Blog Frog.

The following 3 were chosen by my brother, Corey:

3. From the Photo Album (totally forgot about this)

4. Signed, Sally (Sadly)

5. The Cure Pilgrimage, Part 2: Pat’s Pizzeria

6. ROBIN : this was chosen by the inimitable Sandrababy, who inspired the second part of it in the first place.

Well, why don’t you just take me to a buffet and ask me which is my favorite dish?! My dear, every one of your posts shines by itself. Even when you expound more than once on a particular subject, I find you are never repetitive. Do you realize how difficult that is to accomplish in the often unforgiving world of writing? Quite simply, I adore you. I adore your family. I adore your art. I adore your superfunk nail designs. Just…everything.

Oh, alright. My favorite LJ post was when I asked you to make Henry take a pic with your cracktastic neighbor (the one with the Bozo hair), AND YOU DID. How I laughed. How I still laugh! Poor Henry.

 7. If You Ever Wanted To Induce a Heart Attack : picked by Kara, because she laughs so hard she pees a little every time she reads it, so now I want you all to picture Kara with a soggy crotch as you read this.

Happy birthday, little blog.