I met Andrea through an Etsy street team, but I always thanked my blog for luring her in. I use it as a friend-capturing device to make people believe that I am really this cool broad from Pittsburgh and then by the time they realize that I’m pretty boring and average, if not wildly whiny and ditzy, in real life, IT’S TOO LATE. THEY’RE ALREADY IN MY WEB. I AM FEEDING FROM THEIR STOMACH CAVITIES RIGHT NOW.

Anyhow, Andrea has been such a big cheerleader for my blog and whenever I get down about it, she gives me a good dose of Tough Love; a kick in the ass via text message; and sometimes, if I’m lucky, a care package of new My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow colors and gummy body parts. Being able to call her a friend is one of the best things that came from this blog.

She has been supremely busy out there in California, yet still made time to dig through for some of her favorites. Thank you, Andrea! (Everyone thank her! God!)

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1. McDonald’s Got Racy

Andrea’s favorite Chooch story.

2. Date Night at the Home

According to Andrea, this is a good cross-section of my BRILLIANCE, you guys. Take that, absentee SAT-score.

3. At Least It Wasn’t Chucky

“That one where you almost hooked up with that Chucky guy,” I believe is how Andrea referred to this one.

Fun fact: the actor who played Andy in Child’s Play actually found this blog post and we’re now Facebook friends because of it. Even though I was practically sexually harassing him via the Internet. Good to know I can get away with that shit.

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4. How Not to Talk to Strangers In a Cemetery

5. Bullying, Chooch and Mommy-style

This is Andrea’s favorite one of all time. I could write a post that would lead to me befriending Lil’ Wayne in real life, which would then lead to me setting him up with her on a blind date and that would inevitably lead to a marriage full of shiny gold grills, facial tattoos and gratuitous jock spritzing and she would still say, “No, the one about you and Chooch being assholes is still my favorite.”

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And don’t forget to come back at the end of the week to sign up for the Oh Honestly, Erin giveaway, which will include 5 full-size jars of My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow and one blush (your choice of colors)! If you’re a dude, you should still go for it. I’ll have a painting and a set of my zombie notecards in the mix too, plus other stuff which I have yet to decide. Besides, you might look nice with some lavender lids.

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I’ve been friends with Janna since sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. She’s always been one of my few “IRL” friends who supported my blogging efforts (habits?), but fear could have something to do with that. Next to Henry, she probably knows me better than anyone else, so I’m honored that she chose some of her favorites to share. Especially considering I drag her through the mud nearly as much as I do Henry.

So without further ado, here she is. Thank you, Janna!

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Picking my favorites from this blog was not an easy choice because there is SO much good stuff here that Erin has written over the years. Eventually I was able to narrow my list of favorites down to five. I’ve got to say it was fun to read far back to the beginning of this blog to remind myself of some of the early stories and rediscover those baby Chooch pictures.

1. Franklin’s Bar

I wanted to have one of the short stories in my list because these were so well written and enjoyable to read. Out of Erin’s short stories, (which she needs to write more of), I picked Franklin’s Bar. I think a lot of my explanations for my favorites are going to hard for me to verbalize other than “I just thought it was great”. This story is great. As with many, if not all of the stories Erin’s written, the last few lines are the best. They’re something twisted and funny and dark and make me finish the story laughing. Well, the whole story is that stuff. This is my favorite line(s) from Franklin. “Back then, if you would have told me that Franklin’s was where I’d meet the man I was going to rape, I’d have laughed at you. Then kicked your ass.”

2. A Really Lame Carnival

I was there, believe me, it was lame. BUT the way Erin wrote about it made the thing way way WAY more interesting than I ever observed it to be. So why I like this post and added it to my favorites is basically the amount of sarcasm used to describe things that make me weeze with laughter to this day.

3. A Cure Pilgrimage:Part 1

(Though the whole entirety of this trip is amazing.) Again, I’m going to have to go with “This thing is just great” because of my lack of ability to really explain why I love this. I guess I really enjoy the details and comedy in Erin’s story telling. This trip is a great example of that. Two things mainly stick out for me- trying to get Henry to give directions over the phone “Henry: What are you near? Me: A black lady in really high boots.” and the description of that motel make this post completely awesome.

4. Haunted House History

I can tell from the writing (and personal knowledge) how much these memories are important to Erin. I love it not only because it’s nostalgia for me, but I can see how much this stuff means to her.

5. Undead Abduction

I picked one of the photo posts to be part of this list because, just like the short stories, the pictures are an important part of this blog. I chose the post with the pictures of Andrea and Chooch in the cemetery. Not only are they ridiculously fantastic, I LOVE these because of the story that they show.

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On October 24, 2007, I left LiveJournal (where I was affectionately and rather grotesquely known as “vagynafondue”) and started Oh Honestly, Erin. It was scary, leaving a comfortable home for my writing after 6 years, but I felt it was time to move on, to claw my way out of the pigeon-hole, and to hopefully reach people outside of the members-only club that is LiveJournal.

It took me awhile to find my voice again, and WordPress caused a thousand knockdown-dragouts between Henry and me, but now I can’t imagine writing anywhere else. I don’t even know for sure if many people still read this thing, I know I lost a lot of my old LJ friends when I jumped ship, but it’s OK. Because it’s a part of me like a bad coke habit and I only see future possibilities, Henry exposés, and late night benders on the horizon.

With that, I’ve asked some of my friends to pick a few of their favorite OHE posts from years past, which I will be highlighting all week. Because maybe if people see that my friends actually read this shit, it will seem more legit. Otherwise, if left up to me, it will be a post full of county fair bullshit and Jonny Craig videos.

(Henry even said he would pretend like he knows how to read by choosing some of his own favorites. I’m not holding my breath on that one; blue never did look good on me.)

And if any of you have any personal favorites, please leave a comment and let me know. It would be like a virtual birthday cupcake for me.

And make sure to stop back at the end of the week, because there will be a “thanks for reading this shit” giveaway*. I felt bad that I dropped the ball on that last giveaway over the summer since, you know, my grandma died. But you forgive me, right?!

(*I promise to try and make it worthwhile.)

My friend Casey (formerly of the band Joke Flower) is here to kick things off. Thanks, Casey!

An Open (Love) Letter To Oh Honestly, Erin

Hello, Oh. How are you today?

On this occasion (your 4th birthday!), I wanted to let you know what you mean to me and how important you are in my life.

I know we haven’t been acquainted for a vast amount of time, but every moment I’ve spent with you has been precious to me.

I’ve been asked what my favorite parts of you are. How am I to answer this? I may as well be asked my favorite song, book or film.

It’s an impossible question to answer, for they are far too numerous!

Of course, I have been with many blogs in the past (haven’t we all?), but never have I laughed so much, or felt so at home, as when I’m in the warm embrace of your (often sarcastic) words and (frequently macabre) images. From the artistic beauty of blossoming zombie friendships in the cemetery, to the perfectly placed, exquisitely timed “motherfucker”s; from hilarious tales of law firm shenanigans, to images of Henry The Elder surrounded by gigantic, bright yellow cocks…each new missive becomes my favorite!

But I can’t even say that zombies, giant yellow peenz and “motherfucker”s define my love for you in themselves. You have also taught me so much. Through your words and pictures, I have discovered that Jonny Craig, although unquestionably talented, is a supreme douchebag; I have been introduced to the infinite joys of the wondrous Wacky Worm; I am now convinced of the timeless genius of Robert Smith and his merry band of minstrels, THE CURE. (TOLHURST!)

Oh, when I immerse myself in you, it’s like venturing into a small, warm room (perhaps like a closet) that’s full to the ceiling of treasures, just waiting to be discovered.

So, I just wanted to wish you the best of all possible birthdays, and I look forward to spending many more days with you, enjoying your endless charms.

In short, I love you lots like tater tots!

Yours truly,
Casey

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I don’t really remember how it started. I know it was 1995 and something that my mom and I liked to do together, back when we actually liked each other and were able to get along for longer than one half hour at a time. We would get the weekend newspaper and scour it for haunted house ads, mapping out all the ones that were close enough in proximity to ensure we could fit in at least two a night.

It was a sickness. Some of my friends caught the bug from my mom and me and soon we were salivating for weekends in October, piling seven or eight people in Lisa’s minivan and driving down dark country roads to farm fields where we would scream like motherfuckers in the chainsaw guy’s face and horror-flirt with Michael Myers, not letting ourselves believe that it was really some Clearasil commercial douchebag in a cheap K-mart mask. It was an opportunity to play scared, helpless victim around boys I had crushes on and to be one of those obnoxious teens in lines that I want to punch in the face now that I’m a “grown-up” with a low patience threshold.

Fighting with Keri over Jason Voorhees outside of Terrordome (she won and ended up taking him to our high school’s Christmas dance that year, but he ended up being a real motherfucker, so I guess I won after all); peeing my pants inside the claustrophobic fog-machine-stenched halls of Victory’s Haunted School and scream-singing Superdrag’s “Sucked Out” with Lisa in order to be let out of one of the rooms; wrecking into the chainsaw guy’s car at that same haunted house years later and sometimes literally wondering, “OMFG WHAT IF THIS IS REAL & I’M GOING TO DIE TONIGHT?” while having some strange man snarl in my ear and coat my neck with his warm, sleazy breath: These are all some of my favorite memories and why, even as an adult, my stomach does little flip-flops every October. That adrenaline rush of being someone’s horror movie prey for 30 minutes a night and the release of tension when it’s over is what makes me continue to fork over money to this crazy industry year after year. (Though there are some that I refuse to go to because they’re over-hyped and just not good. Keep your animatronics and give me all the old-fashioned garbage bag-curtained VFW haunted halls; it’s the simple things that scare me.)

It started with a scrapbook of sorts, just a regular notebook into which I modpodged ticket stubs, newspaper ads and other haunt memorabilia. (Like a penny I found at the now-defunct Castle Shannon Haunted School. Who keeps shit like that? A future hoarder, that’s who.)

That same year—1995—I was in a writing class in high school and we had to keep journals which would be turned in to the teacher weekly. I would basically write about shit that I did, just as I still do, but when my mom and I went to the Terrordome that October with my best friend Christy and I wrote about it, my teacher particularly loved that entry because haunted houses were something she was scared of, so scared that she refused to go to any. She wrote in the margins of my journal that she enjoyed reading about it because it was her way of being there without having to leave her house. Around that same time, I realized that as much as she liked reading it, I loved writing it. So the following year, even though I was no longer in her class anymore, I continued writing about every haunted house in that same journal until I ran out of room and my friend Angie bought me a new journal.

I still keep hand-written haunted house journals which is why I don’t often write about it over here on my blog; in fact, I’m almost out of room in the Goosebumps journal I’ve been using. There are so many stories (literally tomes-full!) and photos that I should probably start sharing them on here, too; maybe start a series if anyone is interested in it.

Someday, Chooch will be old enough to do this shit with me and I just honestly can’t wait. Because when I think back on my early haunted house experiences, it makes me remember how awesome my mom used to be. I wish this was still “our thing.”

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With all this desk-decorating hoopla going on, and planning for tomorrow’s pie party (ha-ha, that’s all Henry), I haven’t had much else to write about.

But since the pig mask has been such a popular topic of conversation here at work, I started reminiscing about all the great times Pig and I have had together and decided to share one of those memories with you guys, here, tonight, on the blog.

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My Oinkin’ New Years, 2008

This New Year’s Eve was very significant for me because it marked the first time that I got to spend it with my bestie,  Christina. Usually I end up calling her the next day, crying about how lame my night was. This time, we woke up the next morning and proceeded to laugh about how obnoxious we are. It was nice. We may not have had a party banquet, a free-flowing fountain of Patron, or pulsating club beats, but what we did have was all the makings for an evening of wildin’ out: a pig mask; a Thomas the Tank Engine flash light; a stock of Disaronno, Woodchuck and (cheap) champagne at our gluttonous fingertips; and an arsenal of bitter jabs at Tila Tequila.

Henry started off the festivities by going upstairs to take a nap since he was running on a low tank of energy. (I mean, when isn’t he?) By 10:30, I was a little annoyed and really wanted him to come downstairs because “things were about to get real krunk.” I believe those were my exact words. I turned the bedroom light on and he promptly pulled the blanket over his face.

At this point, I did what any other rational human would: I invited the pig mask to hump my face and then proceeded to stand in the front yard, alternating between calling out a blood-curdling  “Happy Oinkin’ New Year!” at passing cars while thrusting a warrior-like fist in the air, and hurling stones and rolled-up newspapers at the bedroom window.

Suddenly the light went out and I found myself very troubled.

I assumed he had shut the light off and went back to bed, so I was a little surprised when I saw (and heard) the front door slam shut. It didn’t take me long after that to deduce that he had locked us out. My incessant banging and yipping was enough to blackmail him into letting us back in, thank god, but mostly because he didn’t want me to embarrass him in front of the neighbors.

Because Henry is a Grown-Up, he spent most of his new year’s eve on the computer, channeling the patron saint of ear plugs and searching for his reserves of patience to mainline, while Christina and I acted like drunk fools in the living room. (And all over my block.) This is what he looked like, pretty much all night:

[2011 Erin here, chiming in to say OMG WHAT A MOLESTER.] Leaving Henry to sulk at the computer, Christina and I cased the neighborhood, which unfortunately was not so much a hotbed of activity as I had hoped. Several cars passed but no one seemed to notice the piggy asshole gyrating on the sidelines. I even had a gang sign especially for the occasion. It was just the universal fornication sign conveyed by sticking the forefinger of one hand into a circle made by the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. (Wait, which finger is the forefinger? Is that the same as the pointer?) Flashing that sign really added some punch to the rest of my routine. One car beeped and a woman walking down the street nervously turned her head and veered onto a side street.

At 11:59, I frantically pulled my hair back into a taut bun and stuffed the damn pig mask over my face again.

Precisely at midnight, I flew out the front door, duly forgot that sound reverberates underneath the mask, and started shrieking “It’s two thousand fucking double quad ya’ll! Oink oink!” I insisted on saying “double quad” all night and there was a point where Christina was like, “Would you stop saying that?” and Henry echoed, “Yeah, please. That’s stupid.”

Christina dressed me up in her thuggish cash-love hat and we pretended like I was a Jersey Yo-Girl, right down to the streaks of orange across my face. She dropped Blue into my hands for the final touch, because nothing gives a gangsta street cred than a plush dog from a Nick Jr. show.

What’s that glaring red rectangle emblazoned across my ample bosom, you ask? Why that’s my Chiodos hoodie. See, all I wanted for Christmas was a Chiodos hoodie. I’m always pretty specific with these things, yet no one listens. Just in case Christina and Henry might think I forgot what assholes they are for not making sure my torso was buffeted by an over-priced example of my fan-girl love for a band, I fashioned my own Chiodos hoodie with a little bit of ingenuity, Henry’s Everfresh hoodie and a piece of red cardstock. On Sunday, I used a blue sweatshirt and white paper, crudely ripped into a small box just large enough for me to scrawl ‘Chiodos’ with my Sharpie, but it wasn’t as eye-popping as the black one. Both days, I sported my makeshift hoodies with pride. Even though on Sunday my hoodie didn’t even have a hood.

Henry and Christina didn’t seem to feel very bad, though.

My favorite part was later on when Christina and I were on the porch having a smoke break. The mask had been long abandoned by this point (my breath causes condensation to drip down the insides of it and it’s really gross; really fucking gross) but my vocal chords were still begging to be used. (Seriously, you think I like being so mouthy all the time?

I can’t control it.) I can only imagine how much my neighbors appreciate me. So there I was,  still very hyper and buzzed, running all around the yard, when I spied a car coming down the street. As a person who has always yearned to be part of a hit and run, I charged toward the street and started screaming and essentially shaking my body like a schizophrenic with a bit of a skin-crawling affliction.

The car effectively slowed down. Then the car stopped and I noticed it was a fucking taxi. Still a 12-year-old at heart, I laughed hysterically into my hands like I had just cold-called a crush and hung up, and rushed back into the house and left Christina to handle it. She stood out there, waving the cab on, and yelling, “No. No! No one needs a ride. NO! JUST GO! LEAVE!” Then I laughed in Henry’s shoulder about it for a few minutes while he desperately tried to shrug me off.

This New Year’s Eve was much better than the one back in 2003, when I completely flipped my shit at my mom’s house over a stupid game of Trivial Pursuit, lunged over the coffee table at Henry and called him a motherfucker, left all of my friends there while I drove home drunk, and then broke my phone into pieces when Henry called from my mom’s to lovingly tell his bi-polar girlfriend that all of her friends were pissed off at her for having another episode.

This pig mask is the best thing I’ve ever purchased.

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Thank god it’s Wordless Wednesday because I’m being tortured slowly by fuckerbitch allergies. Anyway, here is a scan of a photo from when I met The Cure in Canberra, Australia back in 2000.

Someday maybe I’ll tell that story on here.

But not today.

Definitely one of the Top 5 Moments of my life; but right now, at this moment, I’d be happy with just meeting The Cure for allergies.

(I’m the girl on the left with the long, stupid hair; not the man in the doorway, tonguing himself.

)

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Also known as: HOW ARE THEY STILL TOGETHER?!

A couple of you (literally, two people) expressed interest in seeing this video of Henry and me in Cleveland back in 2004. We were there for Curiosa, but I talked Henry into going a day early so we could do touristy things. And by touristy, I clearly mean drive aimlessly through Cleveland’s ghetto in search of E.99 and St. Clair, the crossroads that Bone Thugs n Harmony commonly rapped about. Most of my high school career was spent being a hyper fan girl for Bone, calling record stores demanding to know when their new releases were going to come out, cutting pictures of them out of Rap Pages and The Source, and trying to con my best friend Christy into taking a field trip to Ohio when she got her license. (She wisely said no.)

When Art of War came out, I made my then-boyfriend, Psycho Mike, drive me an hour away to a certain record store that was promising a FREE COLLECTOR’S MEDALLION with the purchase of the new release. It was totally worth being berated and emotionally denigrated in his car the whole time.

I do not have that medallion anymore. But I loved it dearly (although briefly, I guess).

Anyway, Professional Driver Henry had difficulties finding it (blamed it on Cleveland, not his refusal to LOOK AT A MAP) and we became even more Sid and Nancy than usual. We finally made it to E.99 (aka the double glock, yo) and I should have been dying of happiness but considering douchey Henry was next to me, my joy was clearly negated.

I posted the video on LiveJournal years and years ago, but somehow THE ORIGINAL FILE DISAPPEARED, WHADDUP HENRY. So I made him re-edit it and today he finally finished. He said he would have done it much faster if I had been nicer to him about it. But I think he just wanted to put off the inevitable: that everyone will coo sarcastically over his luscious locks of yore. The quality is super bad. Probably Henry’s fault.

Annoying, right? (Me, not the video quality.) This is why I rarely post videos.

The last time I had this on YouTube, I was barraged with hateful comments from REAL BTNH fans who are neither stupid, white, nor girls. Hopefully that doesn’t happen again.

P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

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At the flea market on Sunday, someone was selling a huge box of Pogs. Remember Pogs? They were big in the 90s, probably around the same time as those dumb Tamagochis. And in this case, “dumb” of course means TOTALLY FUCKING RAD.

There were kiosks at the mall that sold Pogs. My friend Keri and I would dump out bins of them on the floor and sit there Indian-style, sifting through the cardboard disks emblazoned with pictures of the Simpsons and Looney Toons characters until we found ones that interested us.

One day, I hit the motherlode—the OJ Simpson trial series. Are you fucking kidding me, I thought as I slapped my mom’s money on the counter before anyone else could snatch them away from me. I even invested in the slammer (slammers were thicker, harder Pogs; there was a point to Pogs but I never played, just collected) which was something like brass and had OJ’s face embossed on it, flanked by the word INNOCENT. It was the king of all slammers and quickly became my prized possession.

I was kind of obnoxious about OJ Simpson, which even got me booed out of a classroom during the trial. I’m sorry, but I can’t turn my back on someone who had a cameo in Back to the Beach.

People knew about my slammer. Word travels fast about an asshole who believes in OJ’s innocence. This could be because I was very boastful about it, flashing it to classmates whenever possible. I remember receiving a particularly incensed reaction from a group of people in my homeroom (the same group who wouldn’t teach me how to play Magic!). And then, the slammer went missing.

I never did get it back, but I promise you I know who took it. (Same person who convinced me to stick a foil gum wrapper into an electrical outlet!)

Favorite 90s craze? Go!

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“Beauty Has Her Way” is the epitome of the ’80s for me. It’s impossible not to associate it with The Lost Boys, which will always be one of the best vampire movies of all time (get fucked, Twilight), and to this day it’s still my favorite movie soundtrack based on the strength of this song alone. It’s one of those gems that I would never, ever skip over when it comes on.

I always wanted it to be about me.

But then, what girl (and Henry) wouldn’t?

I had their only release on cassette, which I found years and years ago on eBay and it was already pretty warn. Today, I found it on soulseek and I almost died, hearing “Chestnut Tree” again.

It’s making me want to have another 80s party.

What song defines the 80s for you?

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I went through a ridiculous 80s phase in 1999-2000 which commanded me to buy every obscure collection of audio relics that I could find. (I miss the days of Mommy’s American Express card.) I scoured the Internet for all the underground gems, stuff that would never be played on your local pop station’s Flashback Friday. None of that Toni Basil ear-diarrhea, 99 annoying balloons and fuck your walk on sunshine while you’re at it. I really only liked the new wave, goth and synthpop 80s souvenirs. One of the CDs I bought had Cock Robin’s “When Your Heart is Weak” on it and it immediately went on one of the millions of mix tapes that littered the innards of my Eagle Talon. I used to sing this song with such exaggerated relish that my boyfriend at the time—Jeff— eventually banned it from being played in his presence.

My favorite part is when he says he’s going to come without warning. ORLY? I prefer it when my men blow a little trumpet to announce the arrival of their ejaculate, so I consider this to be a threat.

I thought this was the greatest song of all time. Then I saw the video and realized that this is also the greatest VIDEO OF ALL TIME. Yeah, I said it Kanye.

So now I have this sick fantasy of recreating it, which has really made me apply extra pressure on Henry because how great would it be to recreate this AT OUR WEDDING RECEPTION?

I made him watch it the other day while I stifled my laughter into his shoulder. He made it through 30 seconds before his eyes looked elsewhere.

And that’s when the biggest, brightest light bulb to date flicked on in my brain and I shouted, “No, fuck recreating it at the reception. This should BE OUR ACTUAL WEDDING.”

He looked at me dumbly. My inner sense of reality also looked at me dumbly. Don’t worry, I’ll work out the logistics. All you need to know is that by the end of the reenactment, Henry and I will be husband and wife. (For real, not the band husband&wife.)

Henry already has the flaming dorkiness of the singer down pat, and I’m sure I could figure out a way to pop up in front of the camera with a smoldering look that doesn’t at all look like the universal expression for constipation. I can already hit a ball of twine with the best of them, so I don’t have to worry about that part. And whoever I choose to be the drummer should consider himself one lucky motherfucker. That’s the BEST PART!

This song is about two minutes too long. He gets a little carried away at the end, so you can just imagine what it sounded like coming from me. (Jeff always maintained that I sounded like Pee Wee when I sang the “mmm-hmmms” at the end. Which is a great honor.)

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I’m taking the day off. (Because I do SO MUCH on here, you know.) So here is an oldie about littering and cops, and cops who litter.

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Another Reason to Hate the 5-0

May 2007

It was the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon in Hamilton, Ohio. Christina and I were lounging around her room and I was making her cry by talking about how I hate God. I suppose I should have been penciling in a time for church in my day planner since “He” evidently spared our lives the night before when we got caught in the midst of a hail storm on our way from Pittsburgh to Ohio. It was probably the single most terrifying moment of my life and it took place right after I had been talking about Hell.

Over top of Christina’s mighty exaltation for her love of all things Christ, I heard the squelch of a siren from behind her house. We ran over to the window and discovered that there were two police officers on the street behind her house and they had pulled over a man in a truck. It seemed like it was just a traffic violation and I was quickly becoming bored. Luckily, I hung around long enough to witness the most appalling act of crime I have ever seen with these green eyes.

The officers were beginning to wrap things up and as the one cop made to get into the passenger side of the patrol car, he poured out the remainders of a can of what appeared to be Pepsi and then deliberately tossed the empty can into Christina’s back yard.

“Oh no he didn’t!” I exclaimed to Christina, right before shaping a makeshift megaphone with my hands and shouting “LITTERER!” and then ducking, leaving Christina framed alone in the window looking like the sole perpetrator.

Stomping over to her bed, I grabbed my shoes and sat down hard.

“What are you doing?” Christina asked nervously.

“I’m going out there.” I walked out of the bedroom and bounded down the steps, leaving her pleas in a cloud of my dust. She caught up with me before I made it to the back door and grabbed my arms.

“Look, I really don’t think going out there is a good idea. The cops around here are dicks.” She had thrown herself between me and the door so I knew she meant business. I walked dejectedly back into her kitchen as she explained to me that her neighborhood is kind of bad and that the cops are always looking for a reason to, well, be cops and that she really didn’t want to have to make that call to Henry.

“Henry!” I exclaimed in remembrance of my boy-toy in Pittsburgh. “Let’s call him for legal counsel.” And of course he wasn’t home. I left a message and that dickshitter never called back because he figured it was “something stupid” I was calling about, as I would later learn.

The cops had left by then, leaving me alone with a heightened sense of extreme community failure. I didn’t want it be over yet so I continued pacing and spouting vulgarities until I finagled Christina into calling the police station. “We have their patrol car number! Do it, Christina, for all of us civilians. And the environment. It’s God’s will.” I knew that would clinch it.

Christina finally relented, only because she didn’t want me making the call because supposedly I’m too “hot-headed.” But I would have used words like ‘reprehensible’ and ‘detestable’ to convey to the sergeant how appalled I truly was. And I would have thrown in the words ‘law’ and ‘suit’ somewhere in between mention of dying babies and that our earth is God’s playground (HAHA).

But Christina still wouldn’t hand over the phone; she was eventually dispatched through to Sgt. Ebbing (a man I will never forget, bless his heart). Explaining the complaint, she actually said, “Sir, I know this may seem trivial.”

Excuse me, trivial? Are you kidding? That prick littered in her back yard. He did something that people like us would get fined for. Oh, I was livid. She was being too nice and congenial during the phone call and my body was burning. I started to envision what would have happened if I had managed to get out of her house while the cops were still there. They don’t scare me. Plus, I have big boobs.

This was when I decided that I really, truly, and legitimately hated that littering officer. My ears were roaring with the sound of large, wavering sheets of metal and my heart was pounding like I had just run ten yards after ingesting fourteen fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and an eight ball. I imagined scratching his face (out of malice, not passion) and striking his nose with the heel of my palm in an upward motion, just like Mr. Miyagi taught me. Then I would retrieve his discarded aluminum can and crush it against his jock.

Oh heaven, I have finally reached you through my fantasies.

Christina ended the call and jolted me out of my daydream. She explained to me that Sgt. Ebbing was going to call her back once he reprimanded the officers and that he also informed her that she could go to the courthouse and file for a citation, to which she said would not be necessary (I would have done it – fuck the police). I felt a tiny bit reassured and calmer but Christina was a little leery that Sgt. Ebbing had asked for her full name and address. “I’m a pot head! What if they’re going to be watching me now?”

“What do I care? I live in Pittsburgh.” And then I laughed. And if you know me, you know that laugh, and are probably wanting to bitch-slap me just at the mere thought of it.

In the meantime, we called Henry to fill him in. “You didn’t go out there, did you?” was the first utterance from his fat mouth. I began to feel a complex developing and asked, “No, I didn’t go out there but would it really have been so bad if I had?”

“Uh, yeah!” he answered. “With your temper? I don’t need to be bailing you out of jail.” I have to say I’m a little insulted that I’m not trusted to handle situations such as this one on my own. But Christina was happy because Henry shared in her apprehension.

Sgt. Ebbing called back about two hours later (presumably because he was banging broads in the drunk tank), at which time Christina’s sister Cynthia answered the phone and yelled to Christina, “I don’t fucking know who it is!” The sergeant (I don’t trust him, by the way; I think he’s a cocksucker to be honest with you) relayed the disciplinary action that was sanctioned, and might I add it only entailed asking the officers if it was true and then telling them to come back and pick up the can.

But he lied to us and I know it. Sgt. Ebbing, you’re a lying cocksucker. He told Christina that the officer admitted to tossing the can, which was purportedly an “illegal can of beer” which was confiscated from the man who had been pulled over. In the midst of the confusion while they were making an arrest, it must have slipped the officer’s mind that he had littered.

Except that I didn’t see them make an arrest. I saw the man get back in his truck and leave. What did they say, “Just meet us at the station”? Oh, I don’t think so.

In other words, the sergeant wanted us to think that it was admirable of the officer to be honest about the littering, but at the same time he tried to make us feel guilty or ashamed that these men were in the throes of serving justice and that they should be excused of such a trivial act.

“I’m going out there to wait for them to come pick up the can,” I announced as I ran for the door. Christina came with me and we discovered that the can was no longer there. That asshole sergeant waited for them to come pick it up before calling back because he knew that I was about to get all Firestarter on their asses. I just know it!

I don’t feel like justice was served. And I didn’t get to swear at anybody.

I’m going to pay one of her neighbors to let me slice their baby with a Pepsi can and then pretend it happened on the one in the Christina’s backyard. THIS IS FAR FROM OVER.

[Ed.Note: Obviously, it was over. Christina plied me with pie and the day quickly turned into “Sgt. Ebbing who now?”]

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Easter isn’t a holiday we celebrate with much zeal in my family. I think it’s probably because it was the first holiday we had to face post-death of my Pappap. Occasionally, depending on her social state, my mom will suggest having dinner at her house, but it’s usually pretty low-key.

Which is fine. Since we’re still not speaking, this is one of those half-assed Easters. Which is also fine. Chooch got his basket though, and that’s all he really cares about so my job is done for the day.

Earlier, I sent Henry to the basement to look for an old cake pedestal for the lamb cake. While he was down there, he found this old photo album of family pets that I put together when I was a kid. Inside, there was a picture of my brother Ryan and our husky Blitz from Easter ’87 and how apropos, right?

What a weak Easter basket. Mine were always lofty vessels of quality candy and My Little Ponys.

But that was back when my mom still liked me.

Yesterday, I found one of me with the Easter Bunny from 1997. (I’m disappointed that no one coughed any of theirs up as an entry for the eye shadow giveaway.)

I’m on the far right, in case you were wondering.

Easter is pretty lame now. We don’t even hide Chooch’s basket. I’d like to say that I plan on changing that for next year, but I have pretty severe holiday apathy.

But have a great one, anyway!

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After I broke up with my boyfriend for Henry in 2001, one of the last things he said to me was, “Have fun drinking IC Light and listening to country music.

“

I’m assuming he was trying to insinuate that Henry is white trash, his only basis being that Henry is fourteen years older than me.

In these last ten years, I have not once brought an IC Light up to my lips (I’m a wino), and last I checked, there are no country bands playing at Warped Tour.

Nice try.

[It is not the opinion of this blog’s writer that the enjoyment of either of these things, separate or in tandem, makes the person partaking in such “white trash.”]

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We were talking about George Benson the other day, Henry and I. Well, mostly just I was. I think I was making a painfully stretched comparison between a Dance Gavin Dance song and George Benson, and I’m sure it only made sense to my ear drums, as evidenced by the aghast look on Henry’s scruffy face.

“Seriously, this song could have been in Short Circuit 2,” I cried, pleading my case. And then, “George Benson always make me think of Joe (our ex-boss from the early 00’s).”

Henry snorted. Joe is a sore subject ’round these parts.

“I remember when he found out about us,” I said.

“He came into my office, shut the door and said, ‘Let’s have a little talk.’ I was sure I was getting fired.”

Henry and I did pretty good for awhile in the beginning, keeping our relationship as clandestine at work as a bi-racial love affair in the ’50s. Of course, I’d toe the line by making out with him in the break room. He’d always get so nervous and try unsuccessfully to push me away, but I’m too much of a harlot to get shooed away like some dung-caked horsefly.

I will never forget this one fateful night in October of 2001, Henry and I were on our way to a haunted house. At a red light, I sat in the passenger seat, holding Henry’s hand across the console, when I casually looked out the window. I made eye contact with the driver of the car next to us, and of course it would happen to be a co-worker, Jim.

Motherfucking Jim Landis.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and I flung Henry’s hand far away from me like it was the heroin-packed rectum of a corpse and a wagonful of DEA had sidled up next to me.

The light turned green and we sped away.

That Monday, I had to pull Jim aside and beg him not to tell. And especially since he was one of Joe’s Golden Boys, I was panicked and paranoid.

Joe eventually found out, albeit months later, which was where the absurd, but kind of cute I guess, Concerned Father chat stemmed from. It was the whole, “This man is much older than you and I don’t want to see you get hurt” spiel, which I guess I should have considered more seriously, on second thought. BECAUSE LOOK AT ME NOW.

“You know, our old landlord gave me the same talk, sat me right down in his office when I went up there and told him you were moving in with me,” I told Henry, remembering it with a certain fondness because that guy is dead now and he was such a great land lord. “I guess he wanted to make sure I had thought it through.”

“I wish someone would have had that talk with me,” Henry mumbled.

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My Pappap was friends with the guy who owns Blue Flame, so we spent a lot of time there when I was growing up. It’s the sort of establishment where the food is consistent and if you go there enough times, you will eventually hear a Chuck Mangione tune. There used to be this  section of two large round goldenrod booths that were sort of separated from the rest of the restaurant by low wooden walls; that’s where we would sit if my Pappap’s friends were there, and I always felt like I was sitting with the Mob, like I was a real 4-year-old big shot.

All the waitresses knew my Pappap, so he would be real obnoxious with them, thwapping a fork off the side of his water glass to get their attention. They’d roll their eyes and exasperatedly ask, “What do you want, John?” but they’d always lose their faux-attitude long enough to dote on me, the shy little blond who was always there with her Pappap and treasured stuffed dog, Purple.

I never even had to say what I was ordering. They just knew: grilled cheese. Every goddamn time.

And even when dining in a family restaurant, my Pappap would always order his glass of Lambrusco. We would go there often after church on Saturday nights, usually accompanied by my best friend Christy. She and I would always order the same thing, prompting the waitresses to call us the Bobsy Twins and causing my Pappap to rub his eyes tiredly and say, “Why don’t you girls try ordering something different. There’s an entire menu.” Then, Christy would almost always fail to finish her food, resulting in a good-natured chiding from my Pappap. God, I miss those days. (And not just because it was my pre-vegetarian times and that meal Christy and I always ordered in unison was a cheeseburger and fries. It was only a phase though, and I would soon go back to my true love – grilled cheese.)

Eschewing the five-star restaurants we could have easily chosen, Blue Flame is where everyone went after my Pappap’s funeral in ’96. We had the entire back room reserved and the waitresses (Monica was always my favorite) were absolutely beside themselves. A bunch of my friends were there with me and I remember feeling OK. It felt like the right place to be, full of comfort and familiarity; after the nightmarish days following my Pappap’s death, it was the one thing that had a calming effect on me.

I continued to go there in high school with my friends, but never with my family. It had always been this giant brick receptacle of good memories for me, all involving my Pappap, that I couldn’t bear to stop going there. I just couldn’t let go of it.

I think the last time I was ever in that big back room was the summer after my Pappap’s death, when Lisa and I paraded through with about fifteen of our friends and, much to the chagrin of every waitress on staff that night, pushed about five tables together and held (a very obnoxious) court right there in that same room where everyone had gathered post-grieving a few months prior. I was a little on edge, because the Blue Flame people knew me, and I didn’t want them to think I was an asshole, that my friends were assholes. Even though we were, of course. Since this was the height of my obsessive camcorder-carrying days, I have video of Lisa standing by the door as our friends filed into the room, repeating, “Erin said to be good. Erin said to be good.”

No one was good. We were complete fuckers and I have no idea how we weren’t kicked out that night.

Blue Flame has kind of gone downhill over the years. Not so much the food, but more of its popularity. The sons took over and there are times when I drive past and it looks like it’s closed for good; my stomach falls every time. Henry and I take Chooch there several times a year and, in a land of chain restaurants and fast food joints, never fail to be close to the only patrons who chose this hashery on Rt. 51 as the place to be fed. It makes me sad because I can vividly remember it being loud and bustling, so busy that all of the sections are open. Now, the back room almost always has the doors shut, with a sign propped in front that says “Section Closed” and the private little boothed-area has long since been gutted in favor of a salad bar. One of the worst things that place has ever done, if you ask me.

I miss that little section with every last 1980’s-surviving piece of my heart.

***

Earlier in the week, we became aware that Chooch has two loose teeth. His dentist told us this over the summer, that they were slightly loose, but it didn’t seem noticeable to him so we sort of forgot about it. But last week, Henry and I both noticed that the two in the front had become VERY loose. Like, hopefully-he-doesn’t-swallow-them-in-his-sleep loose. He’s been messing with them all week, aggravating them with his finger, prodding them with his tongue.

We ate at Blue Flame for lunch on Saturday, after our first two choices were too crowded. We were in the area, and I shouted, “Oh, duh! Blue Flame!” We pulled into the lot and I was surprised to see it almost filled to the brim. Turns out it was just because there was a baby shower in the back room. (That’s almost where I had my baby shower, by the way, until someone snagged me a private room in a fire hall, where I could be more free to carry out my weird Halloween-themed activities. In March.)

Sometimes I still the old waitresses, like Monica and Mae, but typically they’re only there during the weekdays. Weekends are made up primarily of young high school waitresses, which is kind of a bummer. But on Saturday, we had this cute and extremely attentive quasi-scene girl waitress who didn’t fuck anything up and was always there when we needed her. She even made really non-irritating small talk and caused Chooch to blush and bury his face in my side.

And then, while eating his cheeseburger and fries, Chooch pulled out one of his teeth. Just gave it a good hard yank, and there it was, in between his two fingers, held up high for us to see.

I gagged a bit and Henry gave me that stern “DON’T SCARE HIM!!!” look that he’s had no choice but to master over the years. But Chooch wasn’t freaked out. In fact, he was pretty stoked and asked, “Am I a grown-up now?” Then the waitress came over, noticed the commotion, and exclaimed, “Did you lose a tooth?!” Chooch looked so proud. And also extremely embarrassed, as he always does when pretty older girls pay attention to him.

Seriously, what a perfect place for him to lose his first tooth – in a restaurant that already is bursting with memories and affable childhood ghosts. I kept tearing up all day when I would think about the poetic happenstance of it all. (Sort of crying a little right now, too.)

Luckily, I almost have at least one empty plastic gumball toy container in my purse, which ended up being the perfect tooth vessel. (Especially later that night when his second tooth fell out in the car. He officially has a Cindy Brady-lisp now.)

We were walking to the car after I paid the bill when Henry said, “You left her a big tip, didn’t you?” When I just silently shrugged, he said, “You did,” and then laughed. What? She was an awesome, young waitress who was there to see my kid lose his first tooth. It’s what my Pappap would have done.

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