8 comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your shirt.”

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

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

For all my clown-lovahs out there.

World’s first clicker aka remote,  I think.

GERMAN TV!

PURPLE TV!

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

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

7 comments

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

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

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

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

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

10 comments

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

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

(originally posted June 2007)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*(This is not an embellishment.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 comments

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

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

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

Some of my favorites from Henry’s fake journal:

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

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

Jumping B-Listers:

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

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

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

Tammy Faye shout out:

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

I really liked Bob Uecker:

 

 

Keeping the killers close to my heart:

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

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

 

7 comments

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

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

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

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

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

Weener cleavage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 comments

Speck and Marcy, 1998

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 comments

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

buy tadacip online buy tadacip generic

I instantly knew she was someone I wanted to know, and she was the only person I kept in touch with after the Photo Shoot That Never Came Close To Happening.

buy doxycycline online buy doxycycline generic

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

***

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

I’m not sure yet.)

(*Vagynafondue, ya’ll!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re wicked talented.

(..Shut UP.  You ARE.)

4 comments

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

Blame Henry ’11.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

The following 3 were chosen by my brother, Corey:

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

4. Signed, Sally (Sadly)

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, little blog.

3 comments

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!)

***

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.

buy elavil online https://www.rehabilitace-vrsovice.cz/module/emails-templates/elavil.html no prescription

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.”

***

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.

4 comments

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!

***

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.

5 comments

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

12 comments

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.”

7 comments

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.

****

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.

3 comments

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.

)

5 comments