The fries I had with my sandwich at Frank & Shirley’s were the kinds that make me close my eyes and cry out in disturbing ecstasy. Deep-fried crispy shell with a buttery middle that melted on my dirty tongue, holy shit I ate those bitches like it was a fucking religious experience.

“I can’t remember the last time I had fries this good,” I moaned. I’m the kind of broad who will pick through fries on my dining companions’ plates, searching for “good ones.” Past boyfriends have written case studies on it.

“California,” Henry answered.

“Huh?” I asked, tonguing a masticated potato like I was being filmed for money.

“At that Greek restaurant, remember?”

“Um, Henry? I barely remember anything about that trip [to Coachella in ’04]; I had major rage blackouts.”

And then Henry finished the rest of his omelet with a frown, because I guess that trip meant more to him.

I found some pictures I took inside my grandparents house from 2007-2008. It’s mind-blowing to me how a house that was once so open and inviting (to family, anyway; most of my friends were afraid of it) turned into a bolted-up, secretive fortress. I haven’t been inside there since 2010, and that was for about 30 minutes before Sharon was shooing me out.

This painting was supposed to be mine. This was all I wanted, plus all the old photo albums. I don’t care about the money. I would rather continue living in pseudo-squalor than taking their handouts.

Chooch in the Clown Room, standing near a sharp-edged glass table, wooo parenting!

Master bathroom, one of my favorite rooms as a kid.

Someday I hope to have a house to cover in strange wallpaper.

Chooch in the kitchen. I just wanted to post a baby picture, that’s all.

WTF.

Someday, before the house is gone, I want to break in and take more pictures and just get one good, long look at what seemed so normal to me as a kid.

I spent some of the best days of my life at that house, watching “Golden Girls”, “Empty Nest” and “Hunter” during Saturday night sleepovers, eating grilled cheese, and playing PacMan in the game room while “She Bop” blared out of the jukebox.

It really depresses me to know how Grey Gardens it all has become.

(Susie, if you’re reading this and you have any photos of the house from when you were a kid, I would love to see them!)

My brother Corey sent me this picture yesterday when I was at work and I just lost it. It’s from Thanksgiving at my grandma’s house in 2002, when we were all still skilled at maintaining a shiny familial veneer in front of company. In fact, I think this may have been Henry’s first holiday with my family so I’m sure everyone was on their best behavior and my grandma probably only referenced me being a literary failure three times over the course of the night. (She used to lie to her friends at our tennis club and tell them I was going to Kent State for journalism because she was embarrassed that I was a lowly office manager in real life.

Oh geez, there goes my shoulder chip again!

Anyway, I love this photo because it captures us so well: Henry, looking exhausted, mildly frightened, and certainly sleazy. Me, looking adorable, mildly pouty, and certainly plotting.

I often find it incredibly surreal and hard to believe that we’re still a couple.

We sit closer together now, though.

Have you ever met someone who touched you so deeply even though your interactions were the equivalent to the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things?

I picked up a hitchhiker in 1998. He was thumbing it on an exit ramp in Washington, PA, and I just happened to be driving around aimlessly that night in my white Eagle Talon named Cassie Lane. I did that a lot back then – gas was cheap and driving around til the wee hours of the morning listening to painstakingly-made mix tapes was my therapy.

Yes, it was late at night.
Yes, I was alone.

But something in my gut told me to pull over for this guy.

Idling on the shoulder of the road, I asked where he was going.

“Pittsburgh, but I’ll go with you as far as you can take me,” he yelled through the open passenger window over top of passing big rigs.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” I asked sincerely. He seemed amused at my bluntness and promised that he had no such intentions. Probably Ted Bundy found himself in these same amusing situations too.

He got in the car and we made formal introductions. His name was Justin and he had hitched all the way here from Baltimore, having just gone through a bad breakup with his boyfriend. I told him to put his seatbelt on because I’m kind of an aggressive driver.

“YOU’RE not going to kill ME, are you?” he laughed.

It’s a short drive from Washington to Pittsburgh at that time of night on the highway, and the conversation never wavered. He told me all about his travels (this wasn’t his first time hitch hiking), the truck drivers he’d encountered, and his struggles living with AIDS. The level of comfort I felt with this complete stranger next to me was something I had never quite experienced before. There was a connection and in a short 30 minutes I found myself really caring about this guy.

When I had left my apartment earlier that night, I had no intention of driving downtown Pittsburgh, but I went with it. Clearly that was what fate had in the books for me that night. I could have dropped him off anywhere, but I took him all the way into the city. It was almost like I didn’t have a choice.

We were driving through the Fort Pitt tunnels when he was telling me that he had a friend in Pittsburgh who was going to be picking him up. Just then, my car burst through the other side of the tunnel and Justin stopped mid-sentence, just totally choked on his words.

He was staring out the window at the city skyline, all lit up and reflecting off the river.

Finally, he managed to whisper, “Wow…” For the first time in my life that night, I saw the beauty in the city in which I was born and raised.

Justin said his plan was to find a pay phone to call his friend, and even though he kept insisting that I just drop him off anywhere, I was determined to keep circling around the empty city streets until I found him a pay phone.

Finally he said, “Ok, I have to tell you the truth.”

This could have been the point in the story where he pulled a knife on me and I admit to my blog readers that I was once a boy until my penis was sliced off that night like a hunk of bratwurst from the deli. But really, he just wanted to tell me that there was no friend he was meeting, and that his only plan was to find a shelter and a job.

I couldn’t bear the thought of him sleeping in a shelter, or worse—the streets, and begged him to just come back home with me until he had a better plan, but he refused to impose. I gave him my number and, since my 35mm camera was always in my purse, asked if I could take his picture. Not like I’d ever forget him.

I went home and cried so hard.

He never did call me, and I still wonder every time I’m in that tunnel what ever became of him. In our brief encounter, that chance passing, he managed to get a 19-year-old girl to feel more compassion and humanity than she had yet to experience in her sheltered rich girl suburban life.

There a lot of things about this city I don’t like, but because of a hitch hiker, I still smile at the way the Pittsburgh skyline lights up the river and the sky. How could I ever forget him?

Chooch started nosin’ through some of my old stuff in the bedroom while I was focusing on ruining Henry’s nap, when suddenly he laughed behind me and exclaimed, “What IS this?!”

Oh god, please don’t let it be some archaic vibrator or drug paraphernalia, I thought.

But it was just an old Bobby Brown cassette single, probably purchased at my favorite record store, Waves.

“Oh shit, we have to play this!” I screamed, while Henry was trying to convince Chooch we don’t have a tape player because he didnt want to deal with it. (You know, trying to nap and all.)

So then I spent the next 15 minutes struggling to mend an old tape player while Henry begged us both to just go downstairs. Finally, I achieved success! (And also a large quotient of dust in my nostrils.)

Finally, my bedroom was pregnant with the tinny tones of Bobby Brown crooning about humpin’ around while Henry rolled his weary eyes.

“Mommy, what’s this?” Chooch asked innocently, handing me a holographic bullet-like object, which for a moment I actually did mistake for a lady toy.

“Oh, that’s just a lighter that doesnt work anymore,” I said, but as I absent-mindedly struck it, a flame squirted out. “Oh, shit, it does work!” I laughed, tossing it back at Chooch’s chest.

“Yeah, so give it back to him, that’s great,” Henry mumbled, dragging a hand down his dark eye circles, at which point Chooch chucked the lighter at his face and we died laughing. And by “we,” I of course just mean Chooch and me. Henry has to relearn that function after the accident. And by “accident,” I of course mean out relationship.

There was no point to this, but Andrea is coming to Pittsburgh this week (she arrives after midnight!) and I am hyper! And I have at least three posts to write about my beloved Big Butler Fair but can’t find the time so I’m all stressed out but then I remembered, wait—this isn’t my job and no one cares.

Speaking of my job, I’m off all week!

This will never fail to make me lose it!

Ironically, listening to Drake (the rapper formerly known as Jimmy “Got Shot” Brooks on Degrassi) has been an immense help in getting through the Law Firm Walking Challenge.

As soon as this is over, I need to have a Degrassi marathon. My brother Corey doesn’t know it yet, but he’s bringing the (Canadian) snacks. My house is a pit, but you guys can come too.

It was August of 2008 and we went to a really lame carnival. Here, let me tell you about it.

******

“When are we going? Hello? When are we going? The carnival, when can it expect us?” For three days, I hounded Henry about some wimpy-assed fucking church carnival after we saw a sign for it.

“You know this is going to be a small thing, right? Probably not very many rides, if any,” Henry kept reminding me, probably hoping to change my mind. But my mind is unchangeable without something of equal or greater awesomeness to replace the void. And no one came knocking on my door, inviting me out to play with moon boots, so I remained fixated on the Saint Sylvester church carnival.

We got there around 6:30 and I immediately became aware that what this was, right here, this carnival, was really goddamn lame, a real sad affair. The rides weren’t running yet, so we cautiously followed the signs that promised us CRAFTS and FLEA MARKET, and led us into the church basement.

The CRAFTS were sparsely strewn amongst tables forming a small horse shoe on one side of the room. Taking over the rest of the room was a fucking holy picnic of some sort, with people straddling tables and shoveling haluski and other church food into there religious maws. We awkwardly circled around the crafts, not even pretending to admire, me saying something obnoxious, before returning to the Little Church Carnival That (Possibly) Could (If Father Would Go ‘Head and Order Those Belly-Dancing Pygmies).

After two seconds of taking in my surroundings, I realized that this wasn’t a carnival so much as an asshole parade. All the moms strutted around, haughtily greeting each other, their mauve eye shadow caked on in thirteen layers and pooling in their crow’s feet. I of course did not fit in. Especially when you consider the fact that I am not a parishioner of this or any church, other than the church whose bell tolls in my head.

There were three of them that I especially hated:

• a tall corn-fed hoe with tightly-wound brassy curls that were clumped and heavy-hanging with Dippity Do, probably semen.  She really looked out of place without the plow she should have been pushing on the farm, that dumb bitch. I bet she was a Majorette in high school.
• some haggard broad in an ugly pink shirt (not the awesome hue of pink that MY shirt was) who was friends with Olga the Plow Pusher. She had the worst eye makeup of them all and stood right in front of me with her saggy-assed chinos and pleather fucking fanny pack and the two of them dove right into a nauseating display of waving. It’s a sport for those people, you know. Church people? They wave for entrance to Heaven. And it’s phony, too. Their “hellos” are so nasal, like they’re playing Operator with their toy phones, and they stand there with their fists on the waistbands of their flood jeans, fluttering their costume-ringed fingers in their pretentious little waves and you know what? Go home and bake me some pumpkin bread, you assholes.
• rounding out the iron arc of pretentiousness was some bitch that was younger than those two, and it was clear, so so so clear to me that she only fraternized with them because they made her feel like the token spunky young mom with the poorly executed tattoos and too-skinny husband who I think I might have went to school with. I was glaring at her about the time Janna arrived and I didn’t even say hi, just pounced right into a hateful tirade that started with, “There’s a bunch of cunts here that I want to kill, Janna.”

And the rides! Oh, my brothers and sisters, please don’t get me started on the rides. There were only four of them: a rickety ferris wheel whose too-fast revolutions made me clutch my heart while watching from the ground, stupid ass helicopters, a tiny carousel that appeared to be fashioned from orphaned horses, and some dumb little kid spinny thing.

EACH RIDE WAS TWO FUCKING DOLLARS. Two dollars that would be better off tucked into a g-string. But Chooch seemed to enjoy the helicopters, and Henry reminded me several times that that was really all that mattered. I guess.

We stopped and bought three fried Oreos.

They were pathetic. I ate half of one and begged Henry to take the rest. He was angry that I was complaining and reminded me that they only cost a dollar so what did I expect.

I DON’T KNOW. Perhaps for them to be drizzled with a nice ganache? Some kind of delicate rum sauce? LACED WITH COCAINE?

We walked over to the petting zoo, figuring Chooch could at least meet his animal manhandling quota for the month, but there was an extra fee for that.

“WHAT A RIP!” I yelled, purposely, hoping to be heard. “THIS CARNIVAL BLOWS.” Just then, the priest walked past me and Henry grabbed my arm, grabbed it the way a father does to an out-of-line child, the way my step-dad used to when I would spit YOU ARENT MY REAL DAD in his scruffy face.  So Henry grabbed my arm and squeezed, hissing, “This is a CHURCH CARNIVAL. It’s to raise money FOR THE CHURCH.”

WELL. For someone who was so against Chooch being baptized, Henry sure seemed intent on defending the carnival. The holy fucking ghost must have anally entered him when I was busy looking for scene kids.  Probably why he was walking like he had chronic jock itch. Meanwhile, we were going to sit at table but some undulating diseased genitalia stole it right from underneath us, an entire table just for her and her fucking hot dog.  I was tirading all over this side of Pittsburgh by this point, pushing Henry to tersely say, “OK, that’s it. We’re leaving.”

I had sinful desires to jack this truck. I have a lot of things I could use it for. And I’m not just talking about carting crates of chickens around town.

On the way home,  Henry lectured me about being hateful and that no one there gave me a reason to be so angry. IT IS HOW I AM WIRED. CANNOT, WILL NOT, CHANGE. it’s how my mama made me. And sometimes I don’t mind people. Like today, on my walk to the post office, I said hello to ONE ENTIRE PERSON and even exchanged weather-related pleasantries with a  crossing guard. Granted, I considered changing my route home so I wouldn’t have to talk  to her again, but I didn’t scowl at a single soul. And I walked, like, eight blocks or something! (Actually, I don’t really know how to count blocks when they’re not obvious.)

Janna didn’t seem to mind the carnival. I bet she went home and wrote about it in her diary.

Dear Diary,

Jeepers, I went to a carnival up at Saint Sylvester’s tonight and it sure was swell. They even had fried ice cream! Can you imagine, Diary? It was so dreamy, like really tremendous! Fried ice cream outside of a Mexican restaurant!

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Almost better than a malt in a frothy glass with a spiral straw! And pony rides! I ought to have straddled one of those ponies, Diary, if only I had the courage. Gosh, it was the craziest scene! Real life ponies! And people sporting their fanny packs, no shame whatsoever! I totally ought to have worn mine! And my best cuffed plow-pushers! My only regret is not bringing enough money to buy a macrame tissue box holder from the craft table. But overall, what a night! I mean, it was really the limit!

I guess the Westmoreland County Fair spoiled me after all.

Back when I had a corporate AmEx card that mommy paid for (my name was spelled ‘Eirin’ on it, and I had grown so accustomed to signing my name that way that, for years, I would have to consciously think about the correct spelling in all other circumstances), I used to buy CDs like they were going out of style. (Oh!) CD Baby was my all-time favorite online shop of music and I would often order CDs based entirely on the site’s recommendation without even listening to a sample. I added some exceptional albums to my collection that way. (And also some exceptionally terrible ones.)

The Flir was one of those CDs. All I needed to see was that it was categorized as trip hop and in the cart it went without a second thought. The first time I listened to it, it was a muggy summer’s night in 2003 and I was on my way back to Pittsburgh from visiting my friend Moira in Greensburg, few cars on the highway, and I was entranced. The only way I can describe this EP is steamy and aphrodisiacal, a baby-making record with subtle, bass-driven hints of Disintegration-era The Cure. (Though Henry could never hear that.) We took a ton of road trips that summer and the Flir came along every single time. (This was back when Henry didn’t abhor the music I listened to. You know, when he was younger and hipper.)

(No wait, that never happened.)

I’m drawn to this kind of music every summer, and even though it’s technically not summer yet (someone would say it if I didn’t!) I’m sharing this on here today because it’s one of those hidden gems that sometimes you never find on your own. (And also because I’m killing time, waiting for Henry to finally finish his kitten story which he has been writing for approximately TEN DAYS now.) If you like it, you can get the whole EP here for FIVE BUCKS just do it.

I was listening to the new Spill Canvas today when I felt this nagging urge to revisit one of my favorite songs by them, even though I knew it was going to make me all pathetic and wistful. (What else is new, am I right Jonny Craig doll?)

My 2007 Warped Tour experience was my least favorite of all the years I’ve gone to it, mostly because I went to the one in Cincinnati and it was kind of a clusterfuck, we missed Chiodos, and I was with people I didn’t really want to be with. (Oh, and my car’s engine blew out on the way home.) But, The Spill Canvas was there, and even though I nearly passed out during their set (it was close to a hundred degrees that day; people were passing out all up in that joint), it was one of the few highlights for me.

“The Tide” is actually my all-time favorite Spill Canvas track, but that song makes me emotionally handicapped. It’s just so fucking depressing.

Goddammit, I just listened to it.

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.