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.)

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.

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?”]

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!

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.”]

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.

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.

When I broke up with Psycho Mike back in 1998, it was for good. Done-zo. Fini. We didn’t really maintain a friendship, but there were several occasions where we did find ourselves hanging out with each other in the three years that followed.

The last time I saw him was the summer of 2000. We had drinks at some Chinese restaurant for my 21st birthday, and shortly after that he moved to Maryland with his current girlfriend. I never sought him out after that, never even considered it. Just the fact that I was occasionally hanging out with him post-break up was playing with fire. Our relationship was extremely tumultuous, and he remains the one and only guy who ever had the pleasure of controlling me, psychologically and physically. Actually, I attribute to him my extreme dominance and desire to emasculate in every following relationship, because after two years with that guy there was no way I was letting another man tell me what to do or physically bully me. (Sorry Henry – imagine what life would have been like for you had we met prior to 1996. I mean, after you’d have served jail time for statutory rape.)

In early 2006, I started having fleeting memories of Mike (much to Henry’s delight, I’m sure). The memories weren’t of the pining variety or anything, just random flashbacks here and there, such as an instance where Henry and I were driving around and I pointed excitedly out the window at a parking lot and said, “Look, that’s one of the places where Mike kicked me out of his car and told me to have fun walking home, bitch!” And another time when Henry and I were at the grocery store and the song that was playing via the store’s stereo was the same one that played in my apartment the night he tried to kill himself with a butter knife.

You know, little snippets like those.

This went on for several days, these weird memory tuggings, until Henry called me from work and said, “Hey, you know how you’ve been thinking about Mike a lot lately? His mom just died; it was in the paper.”

***

That was five years ago. To be honest, I barely even remembered that happening until I started having dreams about Mike. The first one was about two weeks ago and left me coated in a cold sweat. The dream was subtle, but extremely effective; in it, Mike stood before me, naked from the waist up except for a sinister grin. No words were exchanged; it was just me sitting there, watching him before me, waiting for him to presumably strike.

That tiny vignette stayed with me for days.

Then I found a raunchy love letter he had written me, casually sitting on top of Chooch’s desk. It must have been in a box of VHS tapes that Henry brought down from the attic now that Chooch has inherited a TV/VCR combo. Honestly, I didn’t even think I still had that piece of amateur Penthouse trash, but of course I quickly re-read it and then made Henry read it too; we had a good laugh. But damn if it didn’t give me a little jolt to see that tattered envelope, to have my memory bitch-slapped with his handwriting, to fucking hear his voice in my head as I stumbled through this letter of misspelled words. (Apparently, I used to call his weener “Russell.” I don’t remember that.)

I didn’t go looking for this letter. It was just laying there. In my kid’s room of all places! Thank god he can’t read yet.

The other night, I had another nightmare. This one was more involved, more blatant about the fact that he really did intend to hurt me. Henry and Chooch were in the dream, we were all in my mom’s basement with Mike, but I couldn’t get them to see what was happening; I kept trying to act like I hadn’t picked up on his murderous ruse and would make up excuses to try and sneak away, saying that I was going upstairs to make popcorn, really had to have popcorn, which would only lead to me speeding down highways and trying to get strangers to let me hide in their homes. I woke up with my pulse racing and relieved that Chooch had found his way into my bed sometime during the night. It’s sad when I feel protected by a four-year-old.

Henry and I had a conversation about it later that day, and he said, “Hey, remember a few years ago when….” and the syncronicity all came flooding back. “You’re probably going to run into him,” Henry teased, because IT’S GOING TO BE SO FUNNY WHEN MIKE LODGES A BUTTER KNIFE INTO MY NECK.

“Of all the people I’ve dated, he’s the one I could totally see being a serial killer. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said to Henry in the high-pitched squeal of a woman who fears for her life. I had flashbacks of the times he strangled me and threatened to “poke out my eyes and shove them up [my] vagina.” And that’s a true motherfucking story.

***

I came home this morning around 8AM, having just deposited Chooch across the street at school. I was on the phone with Henry, probably cellularly demoralizing him, when I walked in the house. I noticed it right away.

“Henry. The piggy bank,” I said in a hoarse whisper.

“What about it?”

“IT’S MOVED.”

Chooch has this creepy fucking piggybank, lovingly named Pignaceous, which I like to keep against the wall in the living room for all to grudgingly admire. But when I came home, he was pulled out from the wall and moved to the center of the room, facing the dining room table.

I knew exactly who did it. It was Mike. That motherfucker was in my house, probably come to reclaim his Neil Diamond boxed set.

“You need to come home. Right now.”

Henry laughed. “There’s no one in the house.”

How would he know?

“Then I’m leaving. I can’t stay here,” I shouted, pacing like a crazy lady.

Henry laughed again and asked where I was going to go. “I don’t know! I’ll sit on the front porch until Chooch is done with school!”

More laughter from Henry, then I told him to fuck off and hung up on him.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a steak knife. Together, the steak knife and I stood at the bottom of the steps, where I whispered, “Is anyone up there?” to no response.

The steak knife and I then watched “Vampire Diaries” before taking a shower, making sure to lock the door behind us. I was fully prepared to pull a reverse-Psycho.

Eventually, I forgot about obsessing over a home intrusion and resumed my normal–yet completely glamorous–Chooch-free morning routine.

It wasn’t until Chooch had been home from school for nearly an hour when I remembered the piggybank, which I had nervously nudged back into its rightful spot with my foot.

“Hey, Chooch?” I asked tentatively. “Did you move Pignaceous this morning?”

“Yeah,” he said, very matter-of-factly, popping a Cheez-It into his mouth.

“Show me where you moved it to,” I prodded, wanting to test him.

He sighed in annoyance and stood into the exact spot where I had found Pignaceous that morning.

Relief flooded over me, and I laughed out loud. “Why did you move him?”

“Because I wanted him to say ‘oink oink’ to the cats,” he explained, shrugging.

Maybe Chooch also has a rational explanation for these Mike-centric nightmares. But if I suddenly stop posting here in my blog, know that it’s likely because I came home to find Psycho Mike standing in Pignaceous’s place.

Probably the only thing Henry enjoys more than receiving a swift punch to the guts/knee in the nuts combo when I get into bed every night is being forced to stay up for a half an hour and listen to me rattle on about my new love.

“You’ll never guess what happened tonight!” I gasped as I climbed over a blanketed mound of Henry and kicked my legs under the covers.

I paused for a second or two, waiting for enthusiastic curiosity to gush from his mouth. I prodded him in the tailbone to gain back his attention.

“I talked to my crush!” I squealed into his sleep-veiled face. He murmured unintelligible syllables which I took to mean, “Oh, what an exciting development. I am grasping my penis, like a baseball bat, in a fit of impassioned anticipation. Please recap the entire conversation, preferably on a stage and in costume!”

And so I turned over on my side and spilled forth my secrets.

“OK so I was walking out of the building because it was the end of my shift and I was leaving, right? And he was standing outside and so I was like Ohmigod should I say it? and I did! I said ‘Bye!’ in that really sweet baby voice I use on people who don’t know the real me, or maybe I said ‘See ya,’ I don’t really know now but whatever I said I’m sure it was fucking brilliant and seductive and then you know what he said back? Oh my god, he said ‘Hey, have a nice night, now’–” And here I paused briefly to shake Henry with my quivering hand so he could understand how profound this exchange truly was. “–like he was struggling to hold himself back from ravishing me right then and there and then I said ‘You too, hehe.’ Isn’t that fucking incredible?”

“Who are you talking about?” Henry moaned into his pillow.

“The security guard at work, you idiot!” I mean, I don’t expect a lot from this relationship, but at least have the decency to keep my crushes in check. “I think his name is Chris,” I cooed, reverting back to my puppy-love intonation. And Henry deemed this a good time to get up and leave for work.

Earlier that night, thanks to Tina’s primal need for gossip (I always get this visual of Tina slurping the gossip out of coworkers’ mouths, like an oyster from a shell. I hope you will now, too!), I learned that the old security guard had been fired for, in Tina’s exact words, “doing the illegal.” I took this for a good opportunity to engage Eleanore in friendly banter regarding the whole situation because she also is a carrier for the Talksalot gene.

Leaning back in my chair, I reached my arms into a stretch and asked, “Oh, so is that why there’s that new guard out there now?”

“Yeah, babe. I guess so.” Eleanore seemed more primed for discussing the aforementioned illegalities, but I forged ahead anyway, hoping that my interest in the new, drama-free guard wasn’t raising suspicions.

“What’s his name, I wonder?” I mused, making sure to sound like I didn’t care too much, though my ears perked at the slight jump in octave near the end of my question. I’m no stranger to moments of out-of-control crush-induced mania, after all.

“I don’t know, sweetie. I think his name is Chris. But don’t quote me!” I found myself breaking into a smile and slowly mouthing his name to my computer monitor. Visions of Christmas morning gyrated through my mind: his stocking emblazoned with a silver glittered “C” hanging joyfully from the fire place mantle, while I poured coffee into his C-monogrammed mug with one hand while adjusting my “I ♥ Chris” pendant with the other.

Eleanore leaned back in her chair and peeked around the divider. “Why don’t you just ask him when you see him?” she suggested.

I nodded and said I would do that, tousling my hair against my cheeks to mask the fast-spreading blush. Then it became giggle-suppressing time.

During one of our breaks outside, Tina and Eleanore were still buzzing about the security guard soap opera. Tina went on to lambaste the new guard by complaining that when she left early the night before, he wasn’t even inside the guard station.

I was furious. I couldn’t have her making such serious accusations about my new boyfriend like that. So when I noticed a slight movement in the guard station across the parking lot, I interrupted the conversation by over-zealously shouting, “He’s in there!

The new guard! I just saw him move!” Tina, Joe, and Eleanore quieted down and stared at my finger, wildly pointing across the lot. I lowered my arm and, toning down the TRL-esque shrillness in my voice, concluded by saying, “See, he’s doing his job. That’s all.”

And they resumed their boring discourse in property taxes and cost of living. Bo-hor-ing.

I can’t really tell you why I’m already penning the story of our eternal love. It’s not that his hands are clad in erotic security-strength gloves, because they aren’t (although could you imagine? Ho boy!). It’s not because he coifs his mane in the style of Robert Smith and recites idyllic sonnets about the way the sunlight vaults off my golden locks the same way my boobs bounce when I chase after the ball in a sweaty match of kickball. Because he doesn’t do that either. Christina does, though.

Look, it’s not even fueled by superficial desires to put my hands all over his security-badged chest, because to be honest, I haven’t been close enough to see how attractive he really is. My eyes are bad!

I think it’s because he’s black. I’ve been listening to a lot of Bone Thugs n Harmony lately.

[Ed.Note: Found this when doing some Tina-related digging on my old LiveJournal!]

Call me a hypocrite, but my favorite part of traveling through Europe as a kid was all the cathedrals and churches I got to poke around in along the way, from Westminster Abbey to the Cathedral of Notre Dame to the Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi, where I witnessed an enraged monk flinging a thick chain against a stone wall and had nightmares about it for weeks. It’s not the religious aspect for me, but more the architecture and art. Old religious art scares the shit out of me, which only makes me want it more. It’s why I have a small (but growing!) collection of it in my bathroom. Nothing will top that $2 mosaic of the Last Supper made from aquarium rocks, though.

The Vatican of course always had the greatest impact on me. Even just waiting to get inside is scary. It’s been awhile since I’ve been there – over a decade – so I’m not sure if the rules are as stringent, but from what I remember, shorts had to be at least knee-length if you wanted any chance at all of eking past the Swiss guards. (I took a picture of them once and I thought my family was going to have a heart attack. “DO NOT TAKE THEIR PICTURE! DO NOT EVEN MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THEM! IN FACT, JUST STOP BREATHING!”) And don’t even think about slipping inside the Vatican with exposed shoulders. I always brought a windbreaker with me on days where any sort of religious facility was going to be toured, just to be safe.

Plus, it’s as icy as Herod’s heart in those fuckers.

Once inside the Vatican, I would always cry. Always. The history alone is enough to make you catch your breath, but then you look up at the Sistine Chapel and it’s the most realest Shut the Fuck Up moment you might ever experience in your life. Just knowing that one man accomplished that expansive work of art, it’s just, I can’t even. And to stand below it, to see it with your own eyes? Even if art isn’t your thing, I can’t imagine anyone looking at that and not feeling something. Even if that something is just a slight sense a vertigo.

My most vivid memory though has nothing to do with St. Peter’s Basilica or Bernini’s baldacchino (I will have someone make me my own baldacchino before I die, count on that), but of an Asian tourist kneeling down on the ground to take a photo and promptly being converged upon by guards and escorted out without so much as a warning. Let that be a lesson to all you Asians and kneeling aficionados!

I am not a spoiled little rich girl anymore, and God only knows (haha, see what I did there?) when or if I’ll ever make it back over there. So when I heard that Vatican Splendors was rolling into the Heinz History Center, I sent out a frantic tweet to find someone who would be down for ogling priceless religical relics; Kara immediately replied. (Kara is my go-to-girl for looking at things and eating weird food.) This was in September.

Two weeks ago, I was in the car with Henry and Chooch when I saw that the billboard for Vatican Splendors now had a warning of FINAL DAYS! slapped across it. Slight panic set in. “Oh shit,” I said to no one who cared. “I forgot that for a split second I was interested in that!” Kara and I quickly solidified plans after that; great marketing plan – the sense of threat always makes me less ambivalent when it comes to plan-making.

It was packed when we lined up for the tour last Friday. Groups are sent through every 30 minutes, and the groups themselves didn’t seem too overwhelming, but that wasn’t accounting for all the die hards in earlier groups who would pause for eternity in front of an ancient mold of a man’s head and ask their companion, “Now how do they know this was a man’s head?” at which point their pretentiously-scarved scholar friend will swan dive into a dissertation causing the rest of the groups to pile up and shuffle impatiently in place behind them because we too want to see this half-destroyed chunk of cranium-shaped stone and hey bitch, just go home and GOOGLE THAT SHIT.

Inside the exhibition, it was quite literally a Red Sea of fanny-packs, velour track suits on liver-spotted bodies, dentured smiles framed with coral lipstick. This one old broad kept running into me, so I started “accidentally” elbowing her, smashing my purse against her broad backside, purposely planting my feet a few seconds longer in front of a particular reliquary that has her craning her Aqua-Netted coif over my shoulder and shaking her blood pressure pills, that’s how badly she can’t wait for it to be her turn.

I quickly remembered that I don’t get along well with other people who want to look at Jesus art.

“There are so many people here I hate,” I whispered to Kara, and she gave me a knowing nod. She carried her billion-pound slumbering baby through the whole exhibit, so I think she was probably more focused on hating her own life at that point.

While the demographic was mostly in the 65 – Holy Ghost range, there were a few kids there as well. One guy behind me was quietly observing a painting with his son, who was probably five or six, and asked him, “What do you think is going on in this picture?” at which point they had a quiet, intellectual dialogue. It gave me pause. I tried to imagine Chooch there with me, but all I could hear ricocheting around my head was: MOMMY I CAN SEE THAT ANGEL BROAD’S BOOBS! WHO’S THAT DEAD BASTARD? WHY IS DEAD JESUS LOOKING AT HIS MOM’S BOOBS??? DOES JESUS HAVE A WEENER? AW, CHRIST.

This is why I leave my child at home with his uncultured father.

At one point, a pernicious tickle cropped up in my throat. I knew this tickle well, we go way back. He likes to present himself anytime I’m in a situation where I’m in a crowd of people, looking at things, and trying to be respectful. He was at my child’s Baptism. He was at the Salem Witch Museum during a presentation where everyone was asked to STFU, and there I was, trying to smother myself in Henry’s side to silence my uncontrollable coughing.

“Do you think I’ll get yelled at if I sneak a sip of my water?” I whispered to Kara, who probably couldn’t have cared less about my tickling throat situation, considering her arms were about to atrophy under the weight of her slumbering baby. There were History Center employees ducked into shadowy doorways and corners all throughout the place, but I chanced it. I was fine after that, but unfortunately I didn’t put the cap on all the way so water slowly spilled out onto the contents of my purse the whole time I pretended to read the plaques next to things like Very Important Deeds Behind Glass. I wouldn’t discover this until I was on my way home, of course. Good thing I didn’t have my Mogwai smuggled in there, am I right?

Of course, there was no photography of any kind allowed, which is a shame, because I was mostly interested in taking photos of all the people I couldn’t stand.

Like an old lady and her even older mom, who I think was handicapped, actually I think they both were. They were behind me for awhile, and the daughter had some gilded nugget of information to add to every artifact. Like the Pieta.

“They say the replica is so similar to the real one, that it’s hard to tell the difference!” she cooed to her mom, who muttered an “mmm” in response. Then they dipped out of line and flitted off yonder. “But I was learning so much from them!” I whined to Kara, whose baby-cradling biceps had inflated to the size of dwarves by that point and it’s a good thing they weren’t that big on the way in because she probably would have been charged admission for them. You know how the Church is.

There were definitely a few moments where I got all choked up, not because I was having some crazy religious awakening, but just being face-to-face with so many pieces of history. Even looking at one of Michaelangelo’s tools encased in glass, I got a little awe-struck. I don’t necessarily believe in God and all that, but I do believe in art, and the existence of Michaelangelo, Bernini, Botticelli, Guercino. (His Christ with Crown of Thorns was there and I seriously almost lost it; that painting is so goddamn scary to me, I can’t even. My favorite part was when two teenage girls pushed their way through the crowd and one of them yelled, “Hey! That’s that really famous painting!” They looked at it for .005 seconds from about 10 feet away, then took off.)

So, you know, don’t think it’s so weird that I bumped elbows with Vatican fuckers for an afternoon.

Remember when color bars were all the rage? Me neither. But apparently they once were, at least on LiveJournal. I found one that I made when Henry was sick.

Sick Henry is Yuck

I started doing that work-at-home data entry bullshit that I was doing briefly last winter, after receiving an email out of the blue asking if I’m available for more work. I said yes because we’re going to the beach next summer so I thought maybe I could make some extra cash to help fund that, or at the very least pay for the quotation marks I’m getting tattooed on my fingers this month.

Five minutes after I logged in, I remembered just how boring 10-key is and started looking at things on the Internet.

Like color bars.

And now you’re caught up with my life.

For a self-proclaimed harbinger of social anxiety and awkwardness, I’ve really been enjoying reuniting with old high school friends lately. A few weeks ago, I met my friend Kim at Mad Mex, after having not seen her since 7th grade (she tried to argue that it was 6th but she forgot that she came back to visit in 7th grade after moving to Indiana & we ran into each other at a football game – notably the only football game I have ever attended. Hail hockey!). It was awesome seeing her, and I am still kicking myself for forgetting my camera as it was way too dark in there for an impromptu iPhone photoshoot.

I will always associate Kim with telling me my first dirty joke in elementary school, and I am completely let down that she doesn’t remember listening to the Lolliwinks record in Mrs. Metzger’s music class.

Then last Sunday, after a month of rescheduling, I wrangled my old high school friend Stacey into going out to dinner. I figured, I’m on a roll with these reunions, catching up with Stacey via Facebook has been awesome (I even snagged hockey tickets off her last year & got to see a Sidney Crosby hat trick, holla!), and I’m finding that surrounding myself with people lately has been very prudent for my sanity not taking too many sudden dips.

I arrived at La Hacienda a little early, and hid inside the cold vestibule. Seeing Stacey approaching from the parking lot, I ran outside to meet her and admitted that I was afraid to go inside by myself. I was like this in high school too, so I figured she might be charmed to know that I hadn’t much changed.

She laughed and asked why, but she would soon find out when we both attempted to tell the Spanish-speaking host how many people were in our party and his inability to understand us was projected as utter disgust for stupid white women and I was scared.

It was my fault really. I confused him when I explained that there were two of us right now, but soon we would be three. He probably thought I was trying to fuck with him, like, “Yeah right, honky. What, I need to splash water on you and then your ignorant Americana flesh will sizzle and bear more stupid white women?” He had to call for back-up and some broad finally sat us in a booth, laughed when Stacey tried to order alcohol, and then promptly forgot about us for 35 minutes. That’s OK – we were too busy getting drunk off gossip.

Then Lisa arrived and got to wow Stacey with her complete lack of rememberance for 90% of what went on within our class all throughout high school.

Conversation went like this:

Us: “You know who she is!”

Lisa: “Did she have red hair?”

Us:  “No, blond.”

Lisa: “Oh, was she the one who had the brother who ate gerbils and then got killed by that bearded transient?”

Us: “WHAT HIGH SCHOOL DID YOU GO TO.”

My favorite part was when Stacey asked Lisa why she moved back to Pittsburgh from Colorado and before Lisa could even hug her lips around the first syllable of an answer, I blurted out, “Because she missed me!” and then rested my head on Lisa’s shoulder in the same breath. It was fun watching Lisa try to deny this.

“Remember that video we made in English—-” Stacey started.

“LONGFELLOW!” I finished for her. That video clearly made a lasting impression on me. I told her the other day that I still have a copy on video so she better stay super sweet to me because there’s this thing now called the Internet and I bet our Longfellow video would feel right at home in a cute little sublet on YouTube Boulevard.

Stacey made a comment about how annoying it is when you just get married and people immediately ask, “So when are you going to have a baby?” For some reason, I emphatically said, “Oh my god, I know!” Like I am married and as though anyone in their right mind ever tried to hint around that I should have a baby. Ever.

Then we all had dessert. Stacey had a sopapilla, which that Mexican host probably rubbed on his genitals first. Lisa and I both had flan, which looked nothing like the over-pixelated photo on the dessert menu and had frozen blackberries in lieu of the FRESH assortment of fruits we were promised. However, it was definitely stewing erotically in its own sweet sauce, just as the description warned. I feel bad that Lisa had to get saddled with the “sweet sauce” as well when she had no parts of offending Jorge up there at the host podium.

Overall, it was great food, great company, great gossip, capped off with some sleazily delicious dessert. I hope that Stacey will hang out again!

Some things about this picture:

• It’s from 2003
• I am wearing  my mom’s Jackie Sorensen shirt that she got when she attended some gigantic aerobics orgy back in the early 80s at the Civic Arena. (“They put down Astroturf over top of the ice and it was so neat!”) I stole this from her dresser many years ago and have cherished it ever since. Ask Henry – it is so ratty and stained that even a gutterpup would shy away from it. Jackie’s aerobics video is my favorite thing ever. It was made in the leotard-era, has a soundtrack featuring Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time” and  some Streisand joint that makes for some excellent stretching motivation, and features a back-up exerciser who bears an uncanny resemblance to Tim Curry’s Frank-n-Furter.
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  I used to get drunk and bust out Jackie-approved moves, such as the taffy pull, in the basement of my old house while my friends watched in horror. The Internet just showed me that there is old school Jackie apparel available for purchase. OH, SANTA I haven’t been very good but I will dole out some oral pleasures for a purple Dancing Queen sweatshirt.

• I REALLY need my blond hair back.
• I have no idea what I’m eating, but my hand sure makes a deep bowl.
• Henry took down my Cure wall-hanging when he was painting last year and never hung it back up.
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  I don’t think that was by accident, either.

Some things about this picture:

• We were en route to Lancaster in 2003, lol.
• I was eating pretzels.
• I have an affinity for showing Henry the masticated contents of my mouth, unprovoked, and he acts like he doesn’t care but we all know that’s secretly the reason why he has stayed with me for ten years now.
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• Henry has the same pair of glasses only now they are so crooked that he has to slide them all the way down the bridge of his nose just to be able to see. He blames this on me and Chooch for being too rough with him, but everyone knows Chooch and I are delicate little flowers in a garden of patience.

The last words I said to Chooch and Henry before leaving last Sunday afternoon was, “I won’t be gone long. We’re just having lunch.” Sure, I hadn’t seen Lindsay and Lauren since senior year of high school so I was sure we’d have a lot to talk about, but never expected that our lunch would creep into dinner and my tab would be over $70 – 95% of which was for the FOUR BOTTLES OF WINE that Lindsay and I chugged between the two of us alone.

I typically avoid people from high school, but Lauren was my first friend in elementary school. We built giant rabbit nests together during recess one day by gathering armfuls of cut grass. You didn’t know rabbits need nests? Then I guess Lauren and I were just ecological geniuses.

I have tons of pictures of her throughout elementary school, from birthday parties, school Halloween parties, bullshit Girl Scouts outings. I was tempted to scan them and post them here, but then Henry reminded me shit like that is why I have no friends.

And Lindsay! She moved to my street in eighth grade from the CITY. I felt like since maybe sometimes my mom gave her rides to school, that maybe some of her urban flava would rub off on me, so my Cross Colours wardrobe would maybe look less ridiculous on my lily white suburban body, but Lindsay would consistently remind me that I was a dork, so I guess osmosis is a fucking joke!

Lindsay and Lauren have been best friends since high school, so I was a little intimidated walking into The Library that day. Plus, they were cooler than me in high school.

But then Lindsay yelled, “YOU LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME!” and I thought, “OK, if she’s going to keep saying shit like that, this will be fine.” And within minutes I had my first of 7854952 glasses of riesling, which quickly had me opening up about my stint as a faux-lesbian and the great lengths I went to stalk Scott Dambaugh in 8th grade (and possibly a great many grades beyond).

Lindsay dropped a bombshell on me by mentioning that one of our friends lost her virginity to him back in high school.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I slurred-yelled all dramatically, lurching forward.

“You didn’t know?!” Lindsay laughed.

Obviously not!

I told them about how a certain motherfucker who to this day I still want to fight in an alleyway even if she outweighs me by 300 pounds and is oft mistaken for a man tried to spread rumors in high school about me being a whore.

“I don’t remember you being a whore!” Lauren said, laughing. “I remember you bringing your tree frog to school in your purse!”

And are tree frog smugglers whore? I didn’t think so!

Every time the bartender came over to replenish our wine glasses and bring Lauren a new beer, he would ask, “Ready to order any food yet?” By the third hour, we finally acquiesced and split two orders of appetizers three-ways. Obviously, it wasn’t nearly enough to balance out the gallons of alcohol Lindsay and I were pumping into our system, and by the fourth hour, she was drunk-dialing Henry after I readily shared his phone number, despite Lauren shaking her head and urging me not to give it to her.

Lauren probably felt like a goddamn babysitter. Next time, it’s her turn to get trashed! We owe her.

At one point, I looked out the window and was shocked to see that it was dark. This was about the time the wine and severe lack of carbs started to get to both Lindsay and me. I had an incident after peeing where I felt hot-flashy and was sure I was going to puke, but I somehow breathed my way through it. Also, realizing that Lindsay was worse off than myself helped sober me up a little bit. Especially after she went outside and, how can I phrase this delicately, decorated the sidewalk of East Carson Street like it was a Christmas tree and her stomach contents was all the pretty, if not ecru, tinsel. People walking by didn’t pay much attention though, because sidewalk pukers are standard fixtures on the Southside, even on Sunday afternoons. Maybe.

Lauren and I signaled for the bartender and had him bring her a glass of water and a warm, soft pretzel which she refused to eat so Lauren and I picked at it and it came with this really great cheese sauce but I didn’t say that in front of Lindsay.

A sobering moment for me was when we got the check, which was $166 – nearly $140 of that was made up of wine. As Lauren sent the bartender away to split the wine between Lindsay and me, and the food in thirds, I laughed nervously and said, “Good thing I work in a law firm!” and then immediately texted Henry and said, “OMG I AM SO SORRY.”

But it was worth it. They both had so much juicy gossip to divulge, it was everything I had hoped it would be, plus a few extra chapters for my upcoming blackmail novel. I can’t wait to do it again! Only next time, I hope the night doesn’t end with my bedroom spinning while Henry is stuffing my lifeless body into pajamas.

Henry and I stayed up late the night before Thanksgiving, drinking and listening to the new My Chemical Romance, when we started talking about our recent trip to Lancaster and how it’s changed so  much since the time he and I went there in 2003.

“I remember taking pictures of people’s laundry, and that’s about it,” I said.

“No – I don’t think that was Lancaster…” Henry said, thinking about it. So I decided we better pull up the photos from that trip so I could prove that once again, Henry is a clueless dillsack.

“Wow,” Henry said as we looked at all EIGHT photos from that trip. “You sure were a picture-takin’ fool.”

And aside from the one of the laundry line, the rest were basically photos of random people I decided to hate for no reason. Except for the guy in front of us on the train ride in Stausburg. I had good reason to hate that motherfucker.

So we started looking through the other pictures from back then and sat here in front of the computer cracking up. I bet 75% of pre-Chooch pictures are of people I’m stalking. Just utter asshole-y randomness.

“Why did I take a picture of that car?” I asked.

“Who knows, but with you, there was probably something about it you hated.”

Then we came across the picture I took of Henry honest-to-god leading a blind man down the sidewalk in Norfolk, Virginia; I lost it. I was laughing so hard, I’m not sure how I didn’t poop my pants.  Henry frowned. “I don’t understand why helping a BLIND PERSON is so funny,” he said, but I could tell he wanted to laugh really hard too. I’m a super good influence.

There was a picture of the muffin Henry chucked at my head.

Copious shots of the cable guy that Robbie, Blake and I pretended Henry had a crush on. (“Pretended.”)

The fake Italian guy my old friend Cinn brought over to my house one year for my birthday, making me think he didn’t speak English; naturally,  I pantomimed and shouted things to him.

He was not Italian.

But my favorite was unearthing a picture of Henry worshiping at my altar. I think it was for some LiveJournal meme where people got to tell me what sorts of photos they wanted to see, and some wise-ass felt that was a pretty great way to emasculate Henry further.

(There’s also one of him in his underwear, gagged and on all fours, with me on his back.

Second fave.)

Various pictures of bands at Mr. Small’s inspired us to talk about all the shows we’ve been to (he swears we’ve seen TV on the Radio and I feel like I should remember that but I don’t?).

“Who’s that?” Henry asked when we came across a picture of a girl singing.

“Emily Haines. That was the night we went to see The Stills and Metric in 2004 and I found out we are political opposites. Then came home and made a fake LiveJournal for you.

Also, I was wearing white pants at that show and kept thinking I was about to get my period.”

Henry nodded as it all came flooding back.

I know this is a day late, and it’s not that I needed Wednesday night to make me realize this, but god fucking damn I’m thankful for Henry. I can’t believe we’ve been together since 2001, how did that even happen??

And I’ll tell you right now, don’t let him fool you – he still worships me, altar or not.

Today, this man is reminding me of the girl I used to be, the girl who would never let a bitch treat her poorly. And I know he would not approve of those who have been doing just that.

So today, I’m closing a door that I honestly thought would be open for a long time. And of that, I know he would approve.

It gets easier and easier.