It started with some blue and yellow, and ends with this.

Nice to know that you care.

Alisha and I had plans to meet down the street at Eat n Park for lunch.  I don’t mind walking there because it’s only a few blocks away, but I hate that I have to cross over a main road; it’s a phobia.  Fortunately, there was a young guy ahead of me who was about to cross, so I ran and yelled, “Wait! Wait for me!” He turned mid-step to eye me up suspiciously. Catching up to him, I panted, “I don’t like crossing the street by myself.” It wasn’t awkward at all. But then I made the mistake of telling Alisha and she was like, “Why are you so stupid.”  Later, she ordered a turtle sundae but that is a story for another time.

__________________________________________________

OK, it’s time. Alisha decided we should get dessert and since she was buying, I heartily agreed. “I’ll have the dutch apple pie,” I said to our waitress, Barb. This was after I recovered from the shiver session I had when, in passing, Barb imprisoned me in an intense eye-lock. I really don’t know what that was all about, but afterward I was literally trying to bear hug my way through to my soul, you can ask Alisha.

Barb nodded and duly jotted it down.

“And I want the turtle sundae,” Alisha mumbled with the general disdain she reserves for strangers.

“Ooooh, the turtle sundae!” Barb exclaimed in an intonation preschool teachers must master before getting their own classroom. And then she let loose with some celebratory sound before shuffling away.

Shocked, I asked Alisha, “Did she say ‘God damn’?!”

“No,” Alisha shook her head, looking alarmed. “It was just some excited noise. And why was she talking to me like I’m 8 years old?”

When Barb came back, she made some monotoned comment about, “Here’s your dutch” before raising her voice several octaves and cooing, “And here’s your….turtle sundae! Ooooh! Look at that!” Alisha gave her a fake smile and was all, “OK bye bye now.”

“What the hell, it’s just a sundae,” I said. And not even a signature one at that. But then I remembered I had the pie of the Dutch beneath my face and focused on that for awhile.

Barb reappeared a few minutes later to make sure we were competently devouring our desserts. “How’s your TURTLE SUNDAE?!” she shouted, fawning all over Alisha like she was a visiting diplomat, because don’t all visiting diplomats stop at Eat n Park for a turtle fucking sundae while visiting Pittsburgh?

Alisha, refusing to make eye contact, assured her it was fine. Satisfied with that review, Barb began to retreat. She made it a few feet before turning, as an after thought, and asking over her shoulder, “Oh, and how’s the pie?”

Oh, why it’s no turtle sundae, Barb.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that this situation seemed redundant. Like, I was having some major deja vu. And then I realized I had been in that same situation before, three years ago, only that time I was in the Queen Seat. I went home and checked LiveJournal, and sure enough, this was not my first run-in with Barb, the Dessert Snob:

July 2007

Lisa temporarily resides in Colorado so I was excited to get to see her Wednesday afternoon during her Pittsburgh visit. We walked down the street to Eat n Park for coffee and dessert, the perfect pre-work sugar fix.

Our waitress Barb was an older woman with the easy-to-talk-to charm of a seasoned server. Lisa immediately overshadowed me with her big smile and confident voice.

“I’ll have the chocolate cake!” Lisa cheerfully ordered.

Barb smiled and jotted it down.

“And I’ll have the blackberry pie with ice cream,” I ordered not as cheerfully, but I sort of smiled. Which is big for me.

Barb’s body shook with pleasure. “Yes! Good choice!” she sang as she scratched my order on her pad with a flourish.

“That’s my favorite!”

I smirked at Lisa after Barb retreated. “She likes me better than you,” I chided.

“What makes your pie so much better than my chocolate cake? I mean, it’s chocolate cake!” Lisa’s visage melted into a befuddled glaze.

“Chocolate cake is a menu mainstay, Lisa. My pie is a seasonal delight.” This seemed to distract Lisa long enough for me to continue droning on about my life’s conundrums. It’s nice to have counseling ears across from me sometimes.

Barb returned with our desserts and the reminder than I am, and always will be, better than Lisa. She set down Lisa’s plate with an unremarkable motion, but then turned to me with the fanfare of a queen’s arrival as she gently placed my pie beneath my fat face and took a step back.

“Look at that pie, would you?

Oh, I hope you will enjoy it. It really is the best!”

I hesitated before crushing into the crisp sugary crust, unsure if Barb was going to stand there and gawk. She smiled once more and carried on with her rounds of coffee refills.

Lisa was absently slapping her cake with the back of her fork, scowling at me. “Enjoy your freaking pie,” she mimicked.

During our meal, Barb came back later with our separate checks. She was delighted to tell me that my check was special. “Lookie here! There’s a number at the bottom to call and complete a real short survey. Then you write down the code they give you and bring this back next time for a two dollar discount!

” She clapped her hands together and held them under her chin, waiting for me to call my mommy and thank her for birthing me so that I could one day experience the jubilation of getting an Eat n Park survey check.

I feigned happiness for the sake of Lisa’s plummeting self-worth. “It’s because I was smart enough to order the delicious pie and not the boring cake,” using my words to further wheedle away at her ordering inadequacies.

We continued to pick away at our desserts and imbibe (too much) coffee, when Lisa spilled her water all over the table. Barb came running over with her rag and we all tried to make light of Lisa’s fumbling fingers.

“At least it didn’t get on her pie,” Barb sighed.

The worst part of today’s episode in dessert racism is that suddenly Alisha likes cherries now and no longer gifts me with her unwanted maraschino sundae toppers. FUCK.

__________________________________________________

Just a few moments ago, Chooch started shouting some nonsense about how there’s a Valentine card for me in the car.

“No there’s not,” Henry said tersely, all but making throat-cutting motions to get Chooch to shut up.

“Yes there is!” Chooch battled.

“No there’s not!” Henry said through gritted teeth, like the subject was hidden paternity and not some flimsy supposedly secretive greeting card for a holiday that I know is tomorrow, sorry, but I have a calendar and people on twitter reminding me every .005 seconds that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

“Yes there is!” Chooch shouted, getting visibly upset at this point. “We bought it in the Valentine card section!”

The jig is up, Henry!

Some girls have a lot of shoes; I have a lot of purses. So many in fact, that occasionally I run into one while scouring the house for something else. This never fails to turn into a treasure hunt. I tear through that sucker like I expect to find wads of crisp greens or that damn SWV cassette single that’s been AWOL for the past decade. Sometimes I find lip gloss that I had written off as a pick-pocketing casualty; other times I only find a lone tampon and a broken cigarette.

Once, I found a testicle.

But a few years ago, I stumbled upon quite the bonanza. One of my lunch box purses had been negligently shoved under the couch (probably by that worthless sack of shit, Henry). I flung open the top and found four (4) lip glosses that I can’t even remember ever using (let alone buying), tobacco dustings, a free cd acquired at a local concert that I’ll never listen to, more pens for my house to devour and a note from myself.

But wait. What’s that? Oh yes, the pièce de résistance. A vintage picture of one of my pen pals past.

Eddie was my pen pal back in 1992 or so, when I was a spunky, yet highly naive twelve year old. I thought it was such a nice act of charity to be pen palling with a prisoner (and old habits die hard, let me tell you). His letters were filled with such tittilating nuggets of news like how much weight he bench pressed that day and how the canned pears at lunch were floating in just the right amount of syrup. Sometimes he would even placate my fiery loins with a love poetry or two.

As you can see from the cryptic question mark in the photo’s inscription, he really wasn’t sure if I was nice. Or if I was really a lady? Or young? But he probably figured it was a vary safe assessment.

Our friendship was really beginning to blossom until one fateful day. That damn mailman was late again and my mom ended up getting to it before me. My letter from Eddie was intercepted, something about how she saw the stamp from a state prison and felt it was her motherly duty to confiscate it. I saw right through her thinly veiled mask of jealousy – she just wished a hot, smoldering inmate was writing to her.

After unearthing this photographic gem, I curled up with a cup of tea and allowed a montage of what could have been to run through my mind. That is, assuming Eddie is out of jail now.

I could very likely be sharing a double wide in an Alabama trailer park with Eddie, shooting at pigeons with my cross-eyed son’s BB gun, swilling on the neighbor’s moonshine while talking about that day’s Jerry Springer and Judge Judy with my mother-in-law on the tellyphone. Evenings could be spent with Eddie and I giving eraser tattoos to our eighteen younguns. Bathrobe, cold cream and curlers a given.

Fortunately, my life with Henry is not too far off from that.

And just a few months ago, while rummaging in one of the kitchen drawers, I came across a photo of a more recent jailbird. (One could say I was once a bit obsessed with harvesting dangerous friendships.) His name was Mason and he was in there for drugs. Nothing fancy.

The back of this photo says: Erin, I took this picture in August. I hope you like it.

It was scrawled in blood. No I’m kidding. He just used regular old boring black ink. What good is having an inmate penpal if they’re not going to send letters written on chunks of prison guard flesh?

I never did get to ask him if that’s how he always dresses because Henry freaked when he saw this picture and started screaming, “I can tell by his sandals that he has a huge cock; stop corresponding with him immediately!” I mean, does he at least have a matching tie for Sunday mass?

And those were just two of my inmate suitors.

Some girls have a lot of shoes; it appears I have a lot of death wishes.

Dear Internet Diary,

It appears that when I was born on July 30, 1979, I was bestowed with the flimsiest immune system this side of AIDs. I had intended on writing about Alisha’s and my very fortuitous evening at the Penguins game last night, but my throat hurts so bad that I am in tears and my skin is pleading with me to dunk it in a tub of hot, sudsy water. I don’t know if this is some kind of obsessive-compulsion, but I get real nervous if I go more than a day without writing in here. What does that mean?? I don’t know. So I hurried up and found something old to post from LiveJournal. It’s from the secret locked-entry vault because it’s about co-workers, but since I no longer work there, who gives a fuck, am I right?

—————————

Murder Girl and the Coat Hook Conundrum

January 2007

Thursday night, I walked into the kitchen to get a coffee refill. Two girls, Kristy and Allicia, were conversing near the counter. I was just in time to catch Allicia saying, “…and now I’m facing murder charges…”

I was stunned into silence and tried frantically to suppress nervous giggles. Two weeks ago, I had heard Allcia telling someone that she teaches bible study and that anyone who knows her knows that ministry is her whole life. My presence apparently didn’t faze her one bit as she continued telling Kristy things that would probably be best told to a lawyer. I tried to shake myself out of the stupor so I could hear more and try to piece together what she did, but the situation only proved to further unravel as Allicia noticed the empty coffee mug in my hand and reached over with the pot to fill it.

Horrified, I watched as coffee rose up to the brim. I have a system and she completely shot it to hell. So while she was diving deeper into the tumultuous situation she’s created for herself, I was too busy dwelling on the fact that she poured my coffee before I had a chance to lace the bottom of my mug with the flavorings of my choosing. I always add this stuff first because I’m lazy and it cuts out the dirtying of the spoon step, you see. Why bother pissing around, meat-fisting a spoon, when you can already be slurping the surface of the hot brew? So while I was standing there, now staring into a piping hot mug, Kristy–who earlier had seen the picture of Riley on my desk asked if he was “what, like three?” when he’s clearly still a baby– leaned over and handed me the cannister of sugar. I use sweetener, not sugar, but what did I do?

I thanked her and poured it into my mug.

Peer pressure works in mysterious ways. It’s amazing that I’m not waddling around with my asshole corked with bags of heroine, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think I purposely don’t say no, just to make things uncomfortable for myself. Why sit back at my desk with a cup of coffee garnished the way I like it when I can grimace through a seemingly never-ending cup of bad-tasting sludge?

Why didn’t I simply raise my hand in a halting fashion and say, “No thanks, Kristy, I prefer a pack of sweetener” or “No, Allicia, I’ll pour my own damn cup of coffee”? Because I’m Erin, that’s why! I mean, what’s the worst that would happen, Allicia’d kill me? Oh wait.

Sometimes my brain doesn’t work quick enough and get myself into these dumb scenarios. I really think it does this to me on purpose, to see how situations will play out. Awhile back, when some guy in the cemetery told me to have a nice walk, as we stood near my car, why didn’t I just say, “Thanks, but I’m actually finished with my walk and now I’m going home”? Or better yet, not said shit and just got in my car and left? Instead, I walked past my car and continued to walk, even though my legs were killing me and it was kind of fucking hot that day.

So now I had a cup of coffee prepared out of order and with real sugar instead of sweetener. There was nothing to stir my coffee with, and instead of dumping it for an improved cup I retreated back to my desk with my crappy cup of caffeine and sipped through the bitterness with a puckered face.

What if some day, Kristy is in a good mood and takes it upon herself to gift me with a cup of coffee and thinks that I like it with a dusting of sugar and not stirred?

But I guess the bigger question here is: I wonder who Allicia killed?

***

At first glance, Tina appears to be kind of white trashy, with her femmullet hybrid in gray. But I think maybe she just makes bad choices when it comes to her hair, much like Hoover. Tina was hired a week before Bill and me but one would mistake that she’s been here much longer, with her air of superiority and need to take charge. She wears high-waisted mom-jeans, sweatshirts with turtlenecks peeking out of the collar, and she caps off the ensemble with a pair of plain white Reeboks.

She’s a walking billboard swathed in United We Stand banners and yellow magnetic mini-van ribbons. Her daughter writes pro-war poems which Tina submits to Fox News and is then shocked when she doesn’t receive a response.

Allicia (aka Murder Girl) is a large-framed black woman who speaks softly yet each word is tinged with annunciated assurance. Usually she wears a golden weave but lately her hair has been pulled back into a natty ponytail held in place by a too-large and ruffled Scrunchie. At her last job, a co-worker told her that she liked her Coach purse, so Allicia gave it to her. A valiant and upstanding gesture for a suspected murderer, am I right?

During a quick meeting Tuesday night, there was a situation.

“Does anyone have any questions?” Michelle asked as she brought the meeting to a close. We were all gathered around the section where Allicia and two others sit.

Allicia slowly turned in her seat and  said, “Someone took my coat hook.” Each employee has a hook which attaches to the top of their cubicle wall, but in Allicia’s section, she and the other two employees have theirs hanging all in a row, on a shared wall. I looked over and noticed that now there were only two.

Michelle said she would get Allicia a new one. I thought this meant the meeting was over, so I started to turn on my heels.

“But Michelle, someone took my coat hook,” Allicia repeated. Michelle nervously repeated that she would simply get a new one for her.

“Wait, I think I took it,” someone piped up from behind me. It was Tina. Great.

“Well, it wasn’t your coat hook to take,” Allicia spat, flavoring her complaint with ebonical verve. (And that’s the best kind of verve to have, really.)

“I needed a coat hook and asked Michelle for one. We didn’t think anyone was using one of the ones on that wall, since there were three,” Tina retorted, not balking at Allicia’s increasing agitation.

If I hadn’t walked in on Allicia’s murder-talk last week, maybe this would have been easier to exit, but instead I stood there, glued to my spot, waiting excitedly to see how it would play out. Everyone else stared at their shoes or picked awkwardly at their cuticles while my head snapped back and forth like I was following a tennis ball during match point. Would it come to blows? Would I get splattered with blood? Maybe it would make the news. Oh, mama, one could only hope!

“There were three coat hooks because there are three people who sit here,” Allicia seethed behind her character-building gapped teeth. Michelle shifted in her seat and was probably desperately trying to find a way to diffuse this escalating situation. Once again, she offered to get Allicia a new hook.

“I don’t want a new hook. People should axe before they take.”

Tina turned up the volume when she shot back, “I did ask!” Her face was flushed with spreading florets of anger.

A heavy drapery of tension hung over the room.

Allicia turned her back on the room as she mumbled, “Next time, axe the right person.” That’s my girl, right there.

Michelle stood up and we all dispersed. On our way back to our section, Bill and I discussed our relief to be basically sitting in a desolate area of the room, ostracized from the rest of them.

This way, we wouldn’t get caught in any impending crossfire.

Later that night, Michelle was sitting with me at my desk, going over some new applications. I tried to press her for more information regarding Tina and Allicia but all I could squeeze out was that Tina and Allicia are both strong-willed women who clash and that the coat hook debacle was the stupidest scenario she’s encountered as a supervisor.

“I mean, do you know how easily I could have just gotten her a new one?” she said with tired eyes.

Yeah, what was the big deal, I thought. But then I discussed it with my super-sleuth friend Bill From Michigan who theorized that perhaps the coat hook was Allicia’s murder weapon which would explain why she was so desperate to get it back. I did notice the next night that the wall was once again decorated with a trio of hooks; I wonder if Allicia got hers back, or if she settled for a new one.

I bet everyone else forgot about the incident quickly after it ended, but I childishly obsessed over it for the rest of the shift. Besides, Eleanore wasn’t there for me to record snippets of her conversations with my cell phone, so I had to busy myself some other way.

Allicia stopped by my area near the end of the shift. I guess I should be thankful that Allicia likes me and will jiggle the back of my chair when she passes by and then laugh a Michael Jackson-esque “ha-HEE!”. She was complaining to Michelle and me about how tired she was and that she thought walking around the parking lot, in the brisk air, would wake her up but it hadn’t. Michelle implored her to be cautious while walking around out there at night, because the facilities border on the cusp of one of Pittsburgh’s seedier neighborhoods.

“I’m not worried,” Allicia drawled. “Besides, I have a knife.”

I think I’m going to ask Allicia if I can join her on her next walk, get her to open up to me. Maybe I can force her to say something mildly humorous and I’ll give her a playful shove and squeal, “Oh, you KILL me!” Do you think that would trigger anything?

God, I am so attracted to danger! It makes me giddy and hyper.

Really, no one flinched when I told them I was going on a date with a lesbian.

Sure, I got several memos reminding me that I wasn’t gay, but that didn’t deter me.

Because the fact was, I just wasn’t meeting any cool guys. Not that I was looking for any, really, but more that I was addicted to the thrill of blind dates. My personal ad even said, in large font, that I was just looking for casual encounters, something to bud into a friendship. And then I would go on for a paragraph swearing that I wasn’t a whore. And I wasn’t. I never went home with any of those dates. I just honestly lived for the opportunity to meet new people.

My friend Brian, upon perusing my ad (which actually started as a joke), deadpanned, “Oh yeah, you won’t get KILLED or anything.

Have fun with that, weirdo.”

But the guys I was meeting were all vapid, bore me with football talk, and wanted to get into my pants. (Well, I was shocked!) So I decided it was time to switch things up and try my hand at a girl date.

And that’s how I found myself meeting Wendy and her friend Ron at Eat n’ Park.

Wendy was vapid, wore an offensively large Dallas Cowboys belt buckle and wanted to get into my pants.

I found myself in a silent prayer, thanking God for sending Ron with her.

During our meal (I had grilled cheese, that much I know), Wendy sat across from me and failed in her attempt to seduce me with her eyes. Instead, she just looked drowsy from psych meds. I was a bit let down that Wendy didn’t seem much involved in the conversation, or in getting to know me. At all. Unless it involved the exchanging of bra sizes and saliva. I was content chatting casually and comfortably with Ron while demolishing my grilled cheese (which he paid for and I can’t remember if I said thanks) and ignoring the salacious stares and ribald posturings belching from the Wendy Zone.

Toward the end of the meal, Wendy had been silently dragging her spoon across her sundae, presumably bored with the conversation topics which did not include:

• belt buckles and where to buy them the biggest
• ecru work shirts and the women who wear them
• the perils of dating outside of your sexual orientation

But suddenly, she looked up at  me, and with those weird drowsy eyes, drawled, “I like whipped cream…and cherries.”

And then she licked her lips. And her eyes flittered down a little and I found myself hugging my boobs protectively, trying not to pee.

That night, while retelling the details to my friends, I felt so violated. So objectified!

“Well, was she hot?” I was undoubtedly asked.

“No!” I yelled.

“If she were, would you have—?”

“Maybe! But she wasn’t. It’s OK, I gave her no inclination that we’d be seeing each other again. Plus, she lives an hour away.”  

Until the next day, when the phone calls began. Oh, the phone calls! Her primary job became calling me. In fact, I’m pretty sure she quit her actual job to make this so.

“So, I’m thinking of moving back to Pittsburgh,” was what I was presented with one day, with all the pleasure and joy of getting slapped in the face with a dead fish. “Ron said I could move in with him again.” And then, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Ron’s cool,” I said, at a loss for how to address her proclamation, and feeling a strong urge to peek out the blinds and make sure she wasn’t squatting behind a tree.

“Hey, what’s that song you have in your email?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s ‘Question of Lust’ by Depeche Mode,” I offered reluctantly. Why did she want to know? Was she going to give it to the DJ she already hired to play at our wedding reception, oh my God what I have done?

“I love it,” she slurred in her own warped version of sexiness. ” I play it all the time and I made my whole family listen to it.” When I said nothing, she went on to add the AWESOME admittance of, “They know all about you.”

I went on to handle Wendy the same way I handle the gas men: ignore the assholes until they go away. She called me for months. Hands down she was the toughest blind date to shake. Probably she’s forgotten about me by now, but I’m still cursed with her memory every time I hear that damn Depeche Mode song (which used to be my favorite!).

I’m not even sure Wendy was her name. I had written “Ron and the lesbian” beneath their picture in my photo album.

Now that I think about it, maybe it was Michelle.

When I was in high school, way back in those scary times known as THE NINETIES, FX started showing reruns of a 70’s show called “Vega$” starring a pre-cancer Robert Urich. I don’t know what it was about that show, but I was sucked in. I mean, I would drop everything when “Vega$” came on. I could have had Robert Smith’s dick in my hand and I would’ve dropped that too. Or probably multi-tasked, but still.

I was in the attic not too long ago, looking for incriminating evidence against Henry to post here on the blog, when I stumbled upon an old VHS tape that boasted VEGA$ MARATHON! in orange marker (and under that in pink: Bone videos! Bone on the VMAs!) and it just all came flooding back. It feels like that show consumed years of my life, like it was with me when I got my braces off, learned to drive, lost my viriginity, graduated (oh, wait. haha). But really I think I only watched it for a few months. But that was long enough to make fond memories! Walk with me.

• In 11th grade English, we were put into groups. My group had to make a video about Longfellow. Because that’s not a boring subject or anything. I remember this to be at the height of my Vega$ mania, as evidenced by the ridiculous cameos I made in other people’s scenes, walking slowly in the background while holding a large posterboard sign urging people to watch Vega$ on FX, with air times and maniacal exclamation abuse following. But everyone in that class knew I was retarded so I don’t think it illicited much reaction, aside from maybe a few eye rolls.
• That same year, FX was having a Sunday MARATHON. Can you imagine? An entire afternoon of that beloved 1970’s wok-wok disco soundtrack carrying a polyestor bell-bottomed Dan Tanna across my television screen. The only thing that would make that day better was to have a PARTY to go along with it. Of course, none of my friends thought this was a very enticing way to spend a day off from school so I ended up making a sign to advertise my Vega$ party, and I tied it on the street sign at the end of our lane. With balloons. Don’t worry, I’d never forget the balloons. Oh, it was going to be grand! I could imagine cars pulling over left and right and random strangers showing up with arms full of spinach dip, wine coolers, and disco balls. Of course, it was only me and my brother Corey home at the time (and he was only 5 or 6), so this came as a nice surprise to my mom when she turned onto the lane later that day and saw my open-to-all invitation billowing on the street post. Then she burst into the house and saw that it was just Corey and me, eating chips and watching Vega$ together. If I remember correctly, Corey was wearing a dishtowel on his head. I have video of this somewhere.
• One of my favorite episodes featured an appearance by WAYNE NEWTON! He sang this one song that went something like “Daddy, don’t you walk so fast” and I was OBSESSED with it. I made all of my friends watch it. They were like, “Ok?” Luckily, my friend Lisa was mildly amused by my Vega$ infatuation, so when I asked her to sing that Wayne Newton song with me on my answering machine (I had my own line in high school, which didn’t get me into any trouble at all), she agreed and it was my favorite answering machine greeting ever. Maybe tied with “Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina” which angered my Aunt Sharon so much, she quit calling me for awhile. That’s a winning situation if you ask me.

And I could go and on about Robert Urich’s appearances on “Battle of the Network Stars” (I was so obsessed with that too, but that didn’t happen until much later, which was awesome for Henry because it meant he got to witness me taking a good thing and running it into the ground). But instead, I will leave you with the opening sequence to my beloved “Vega$.”

What old shows did/do you obsess over? I really need to know. It’s for… research.

My first internet boyfriend was wrangled back in the fall of ’98. His name was Misfit and we met in a now-defunct goth chat room called Darkchat (where my nickname “Ruby” flourished to the point where it’s now hard to shake, and no, I was never really “goth”). Misfit and I became soon embroiled in a hot-and-heavy phone relationship, even watching Sleepless In Seattle together while cradling the receivers between shoulders and ears. He asked me to come to San Diego to spend Christmas with him, and I went through great lengths to make it happen. My mom thought it was cute (she was secretly hoping that he would see to my demise, I’m sure), and promised to help me get a plane ticket. Then I called him one night and heard the giggling of a horny female from within his dorm room.

My internet lust did not die with Misfit; there were plenty more faceless nicknames scattered around the world for me to fall for, like Fade who was in his twenties and admittedly never had a girlfriend; and Darq, the adrogynous Brian Molko wannabe from England who would send me angry ICQ messages if I wasn’t home when he would call. Each time I met someone new, I’d break up with my boyfriend Jeff. He was the most lenient boyfriend I ever had. Probably because he wasn’t very threatened by some dude who lived a thousand miles away and knew I’d be back after the initial white horses and rainbows of it all fizzled.

Until October of 1999, when Narcissus from Vancouver and I realized that after a year of chatting in Darkchat and over ICQ, we were soul mates. His real name was Gordon and I charged ludicrous amounts of calling cards to my mom’s company gas card. My friends Jon and Justin, who were always with me back then,  hated Gordon because he had a knack for calling at inopportune times. Like when we would all be engaged in dead baby hypotheticals or watching my friend Jon model wigs.

But he’s my soul mate, I’d remind everyone as I kicked them out of my house so I could call Gordon.

Through all the mix tape swaps and late night phone sessions, Jeff toughed it out. He’d sit there and listen to me gush about how educated and refined Gordon was, and how someday I was going to bear his child and we would raise it on love, chatroom etiquette and The Cure.

But then a pivotal moment occurred:

Gordon was flying to Pittsburgh.

He had arranged a flight in December with the intent of shacking up with me for two weeks. It was going to be perfect — we would obviously fall even more madly in love and then I would go back to Vancouver with him and we would get married and live in a big house filled with coffins and pictures of Robert Smith and it was going to be all so very perfect.

Jeff cried.

Jon and Justin vehemently vetoed this plan and begged me not to get my hopes up, that he could arrive and all illusions could shatter. But he’s my Gordon, I argued. There ARE no illusions, just buckets and barrels of twinkling True Love.  

I was subsequently mocked every time Gordon would call in their presence. But one evening, my friend Justin could bear it no longer and reluctantly crossed over to my side. “Let me say hello to him,” he asked. After making him promise to be nice, I passed him the phone.

“Hey Gordon, how’s it going?” The air hung heavy as Jon and I waited expectantly for Justin to wrap it up. “Yeah? Well fuck you too!” Justin slammed down the phone and yelled, “Your friend’s an asshole, Erin!”

Gordon had replied to Justin’s greeting with a “Fuck all.” This was a new phrase for Jon and Justin, and no matter how hard I tried to explain what it meant, they assumed I was trying to cover for Gordon, and that clearly it was the Canadian way to say that he wanted to kill Justin’s mother and rape his sister. They took offense and set off on the war path. Plans were made to drop by while he was visiting, and parade around my house in “Fuck Canada” t-shirts while mocking the dialect. I even heard whispering about a maple leaf burning.They were going to hold this against the entire country.

I eventually got them to cease fire and they agreed that they would be civil when he arrived. I had two weeks left to prep them, reminding them of sensitive subjects and other sore spots to avoid.

“His brother died of AIDs, so don’t make any AIDs jokes,” I warned.

Jon was appalled by this. “How often do we tell AIDs jokes? I don’t even know any!” Still, I feared that he would go home and start putting together an act.

Finally, Gordon’s arrival date was upon us, and I rushed to the airport. I couldn’t wait to run my fingers through his coal black 80s retro hair, and oh how I hoped he would be wearing the military jacket that I had seen him in in one of the pictures he emailed me.

I leaned up against a wall and waited as a stream of passengers poured off his flight. I saw a young, tall guy with a long gray pea coat and wobbly red head approaching. We made eye contact, but I quickly pulled away. Weirdo, I thought. I looked past him, waiting expectantly for Gordon, when I realized Big Red was still staring at me and smiling goofily.

He was Gordon.

But where was the shiny blue-black hair that flopped so precisely over his left eye? Where were the big black stompy boots? What I saw in front of me was a walking ad for Banana Republic.

I wanted to run but my feet were frozen to the ground. I had never in my life seen a pate that enormous. Even when he came to a complete stop before me, his head was still jiggling around on his shoulders. Biggest head ever. How was it even possible for a neck to support a head that large without some sort of brace, I wondered. I tried my hardest not to stare, but my eyes kept wanting a tour of that globular cranium.

We exchanged pleasantries and Gordon moved in for a kiss. “Oh, hey now. Ha-ha! Let’s go get your luggage first!” I pulled away much too quickly, with my hands out like a shield, even; but he didn’t seem fazed.

And so I spent the next forty minutes trying to ward off any public displays of affection that he mercilessly flung my way. I finally acquiesced and allowed for one quick, impersonal hug before we got into my car. I had to try not to cry into the breast of his coat.

Jon wanted to come over to meet him that night, so I called him as soon as we arrived home and insisted that Gordon was really tired and not up for a visit, because really I was entirely too embarrassed. I could just hear all the “told you so”s. Could TASTE them, even. “No, I’m quite fine. Tell Jon to bring his jolly ass over!” He really said that. Jolly ass.

“In-person Gordon” evidently liked to speak with a faux-British accent. I would also find that he would slip over into a Scottish brogue as well, all the while never omitting the “eh”s and “aboot”s. He was an accent mutt. I could not allow Jon to witness the monstrosity on my couch. I would never hear the end of it.

Through my patented gritted, toothy smile, I hastily suggested that we order food. If he’s eating, maybe he won’t talk, I prayed. Gordon insisted on placing the order, which turned into a condescending, one-sided shouting match with the pizza place through the phone.

“Hey, we’re Americans, not deaf,” I reminded him when he hung up.

While we ate our pizza, Gordon began asking me about what I had planned for his visit. Nothing that we can do now, I thought, as I glanced at his quaking head. There was no way any of my guy friends were going to be hanging out with him. I would be teased for the rest of my life. I wasn’t sure I could risk ANY of my friends meeting him, to be frank. He was a giant, bobble-headed manifestation of my naivete and Internet love abuse.

Two weeks of this oaf hulking around my house — could I stand it? All those marathon phone calls had left us with little to say to each other. How was that possible? We were supposed to have everything in common.

Gordon needed cigarettes and suggested that I take him to my favorite gas station that I had told him about in one of our many all-night phone sessions, the gas station where hundreds of my mom’s company dollars were spent each month on groceries, toiletries, and Slushies. I began to resist until I figured that it was late at night and the only person there would be the night employee, my buddy Mitul. We had a love-hate relationship, but he wouldn’t say anything about Gordon.

As Gordon roamed the aisles in search of American goods, I stood at the counter with Mitul. Maybe I was just paranoid and reaching to find flaws in Gordon. I bet no one else will even notice his head size.

“That the Canadian you in love wit’?” Mitul asked in his thick Indian staccato. I rolled my eyes and shrugged, prompting Mitul to bust out with a laughter-coated, “Erin’s goofin’ wit’ Big Head!” For two years I endured this mockery from my supposed friend Mitul. Two years. If Mitul was able to see past the language barrier to make fun of the situation, then there was absolutely no way I could bring him around anyone else. They’d collect enough fodder for the biggest, bloodiest roast of Erin of all time.

Later that night, Gordon was leafing through my photo albums, while simultaneously bitching about how horrible American cigarettes are. I was trying to show him high school pictures of my friends and me, but he insisted that he just wanted to see Jeff and the other guys I hung out with; I watched as the flesh covering his over-sized skull grew redder and redder. Someone was jealous. To curb any impending outbursts and awkward trust conversations (because clearly I must have been fucking every friend with a penis), I grabbed a new photo album from the pile and flipped to a random page, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, and this one right here? That’s Tex. It’s a bad picture of him. Doesn’t he look like an AIDs patient?” Several decades of silence passed and I slapped my hand over my mouth. All that rehearsing and pre-damage control I practiced with my friends, and I end up being the idiot who makes light of AIDs.

“My brother died of AIDs,” Gordon said, the weight of his enormous head causing him to hang it. And he cried.

Not knowing what else to do, I gifted him with pity sex. Yeah, that’s right, Erin goofed with Big Head. I was going through a dangerous “sex is the answer” phase, OK? I was YOUNG.

(Henry wishes I was still in that phase.)

And that was awkward, I have to say. I didn’t want to touch him, but a few times I slipped and placed my hands on his head, causing me to experience internal vomiting. I took a hot shower afterward, locking the bathroom door to curb any attempts for him to join me. I was afraid that the soap suds would be unable to penetrate the smarmy pretentiousness that I was so sure had coated my flesh, so I scrubbed myself raw.

(I’m shuddering right now, at the memory.)

The next morning, I called my friend Keri and begged her to come over. She’s the one who took me to the hospital when I had a condom lost inside me, so I figured if anyone would be blase about the situation, it’d be her. “I don’t want to be left alone with him. I might say more stupid things and be forced to have more Big Head sex!” Keri agreed to be my buffer and came right over.

“Where is he?” she asked, looking around the room, as if anyone’s eyes would not immediately be drawn to the mother whompin’ head, like flies to a carcass.

“He’s engaging in a shower,” I answered with air quotes, imitating his phony accent.

We sat on the couch and I purged and ranted as long as his shower enabled me to, until he made his grand entrance down the steps.

Wearing nothing but a towel.

He nodded at Keri while he walked across the room, slapping his big feet against the floor, and spraying droplets of water in his wake. He stooped down in front of us and rummaged through his suitcase, which he had left laying open in the middle of the room. He stood up with his chosen wardrobe for the day, and nodded again at Keri and me, before retreating back to the bathroom.

Keri sat rigidly, her eyes opened wide in horror. “That’s the biggest fucking head I’ve ever seen! Does he have some sort of condition? Why is it so big?”

“I don’t know. He’s very pretentious, do you think that’s why?” But then it came down to: “Is his head big because he’s pretentious, or is he pretentious because his head’s big?” For the fifth time since he arrived in Pittsburgh, I started to cry.

The three of us went to Denny’s for lunch, where Gordon proceeded to cut Keri off every time she tried to speak. He sat there and droned on and on about how great Canada is and what a poor country we live in here in America, and my god, this restaurant was terrible. And then he talked about British comedy and how rich his grandparents were, all while I stuffed my mouth with grilled cheese and stared out the window. Keri tried her hardest to make conversation, but he didn’t even attempt to feign interest, talking right over her as though she wasn’t even there (Kind of like how I do around Janna. But that’s different!), all the while twirling and flicking his scarf in his hands.

Yes, we know your scarf is cashmere, motherfucker. This is what I longed to scream while wrapping it tighter and tighter around his thick neck until it turned a pretty azure hue.

Keri left as soon as we returned back at my house. She couldn’t be paid to stay. I don’t even think she said goodbye.

“Would you care to join me in some viewing of ‘Fawlty Towers’?” Gordon invited as he procured a tape from his suitcase. With him? No. With someone else? Gladly. I politely declined so I wouldn’t have to sit with him, and busied myself with a magazine, figuring we could at least have some quiet time.

And then the simulated British tittering began. Not wanting to stick around long enough to hear him bust out with a “Chortle, chortle, that was a  jolly fine joke,” I played the headache card and excused myself, locking the bedroom door behind me. Laying in bed and wondering how the fuck I was going to survive two entire weeks of Bobble Head, I picked up the phone and called the one person who could rescue me.

Cinn arrived a short while later. I heard her knock and waited for Gordon to open the door. There was silence, and then I heard her knock three more times with increased impatience. I ran downstairs and realized that Gordon wasn’t even there.

“Where the hell is he?” Cinn demanded, pushing her way into the house. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I explained to her how he was rude to Keri and how he was being so negative about America (and I’m not even patriotic) and that I literally had nothing to say to him, and he was clingy, oh so clingy, and I couldn’t breathe and every time I closed my eyes, I pictured the butcher knife in the kitchen.  Cinn said there was little time and began to rummage through his suitcase.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I cried, pulling back the curtains to ensure he wasn’t on his way back from whereever he had disappeared.

Tossing aside his underwear and socks, she found his return flight intinery and called the airport. When she hung up, she assured me that he could be out of here and on a plane by morning, without losing his mother’s frequent flyer miles.

All that was left was for us to wait. Maybe he won’t come back at all, I hoped. Maybe he’ll get mugged or wooed by a carnival committee, that could happen, right Cinn?

When he eventually returned to my unwelcoming arms, and explained in his haughty British accent that he had “gone for a walk around the block,” Cinn took him by the arm and led him back outside. On the front porch, she sat him down and first chastised him for leaving the house without telling me, like he was a seven-year old who took a detour to the arcade instead of coming straight home after school. Then she explained to him that Erin was a little overwhelmed by the idea of him staying for two whole weeks, and frankly, she felt very uncomfortable to the point where it would be best to cut the trip short. How short, Gordon asked. Oh, like tonight, Cinn answered.

And so, with all the flair of a menopausal woman, he burst into the house, crying, and implored me to change my mind. I tried to be compassionate and told him that I just wasn’t ready, but when I was, I would come and visit him in Vancouver. This is all just moving too fast, I said dramatically. Do you still love me, he asked me through the tears. Of course, I lied.

He ate it up, like it was just another chapter in our perfect love story.

Cinn helped him book his flight and then spent a few more hours chaperoning us, ensuring that I wouldn’t succumb to more pity sex, and, you know, have to talk to him. But eventually, she had to leave. That left me with about five hours to kill.

“You know, you should probably get to the airport early,” I recommended. He asked me how early I was thinking and I said, “Oh, you should leave now, maybe.”

He asked me if I was ready to take him and after thinking it over for, oh, half a second, I explained to him that I would be too sad to go to the airport with him, and that he should just call a cab. And so I handed him the Yellow Pages. I hardly wanted him to slobber all over me at the airport, in front of people. It was bad enough he was doing it in the privacy of my house.

The hard part was next — trying to stay awake in the middle of the night, so that he wouldn’t miss his cab and/or his flight. I sat on the couch in a very annoyed and disgusted position, as he lay with his head in my lap, serenading me with Joy Division songs.

I’m not kidding. To this day, my skin crawls when I hear “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” It’s not love tearing us apart, moron, it’s your watermelon-sized dome and accompanying ego. I couldn’t believe how much someone could differ in person. The Gordon I knew via the phone was sincere and sweet and funny. The Gordon who was snotting all over my lap was brash and arrogant and pretentious, and worst of all – rude to my friends. That’s intolerable.

Just as Gordon was humming the opening notes to track 5 of his Joy Division Sob Fest, I leapt off the couch.

“Oh my god, I didn’t even get a picture of you while you were here!” I realized. I went to grab my camera, leaving Gordon with a few seconds to wipe the tears from his eyes and blow his nose. I took his picture just as the cab pulled up the house. It’s disappointing how the true enormity of his head is camouflaged in this photo; my friends and I have lamented over this for years. But take my word for it — others saw it and cowered in its shadow.

He called me from the airport in hopes that I had changed my mind, as though the twenty minutes we had been apart would have made my heart swell with lonliness and regret. I assured him that nothing had changed. He said he still loved me. I tried not to puke.

Needless to say, we haven’t spoken since; and last I heard, he was in Ireland, so one can only imagine how incredible his accent collage is these days.

Jeff and I reunited, but there would be more boys down the line to break us up. You know, like our friend Henry.

Back in the day, I used to read a bunch of indie music magazines that came with CD samplers. Admittedly, most of it was filled with throwaway tracks (except for the awesome European synthpop rags I would get lucky enough to find), but I remember there was this one sampler that had the most inspirational song I had heard in years, and I thought, “Wow, this would have been a good song to have heard in high school,” which is practically a pay-per-view kick-you-while-you’re-down emotional bloodbath in a large brick building. At least, parts of it were for me, anyway.

Somewhere along the way, the sampler was misplaced, but that song has always stuck with me. Periodically I’ll scour the Internet, searching for it. I finally found it the other night and was surprised at how well, lyrically, it has held up. And it still makes me feel good. Like no one can fuck with me, and if they do? Ohwellzorz, I’ll just get right back up.  I really think this song should be out there bumping elbows with My Chemical Romance’s “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” and it is, in my bullheaded opinion, worlds better than Saosin’s “You’re Not Alone.”

I thought it would be fun to share a song every Sunday, so here it is. Listen if you want!

[mp3_embed blog_plyrs=”2″]

This song should be passed out to every kid upon entering ninth grade. And even though I’m 30 fucking years old, I still cheer when I hear it and feel like having a fucking pep rally.

The following is an account of only the second time I ever hung out with Alisha, and also the reason why she might not be attending our skating fiesta this weekend.

Wanted: A Skating Costume

Originally posted February 2005

The typical skating troika of Janna, Henry and myself was thrown askew  as we added a new member to our elite skating club: Alisha.  She had no idea what she had subscribed for.

Let me just say that she made Janna look like a bona fide Olympian out there. The new catchphrase of the night became, “Are you going to cry?” which replaced the traditional, “Where did Janna go?” It took her about a half hour to make it around one lap, but to her credit most of that time was tied up in untangling herself from the amassment of limbs and wheels after she crashed into a roller blader. I was proud of her, though; she accepted the blader’s helping hand to get her back on her feet, brushed off her jeans, and went right back to hugging the wall. She’s got moxie, that girl.

There were some new faces there in addition to MulletTail, Spandex Dancer, the YaYa Sisterhood (a quad of doughy middle-aged women who eke around the rink leisurely, clipping coupons and trading masturbating tips), and Knee Pad Girl. Most notably was the desperately aggressive lesbian who honed in on Alisha instantly. Apparently, her attention was making Alisha uncomfortable. I can’t imagine why – I thought she was quite attractive; the way her cotton potato sack shirt billowed atop her lumpy body in the most flattering hue of olive, her crew cut bristling in the breeze while her pacifier bounced up and down against her floppy bosom. She was probably one of the hottest folk there and Alisha was totally snubbing her. I found that very rude.

We had an off-rink conference where, judging by the minutes I kept, Alisha vehemently insisted that the boxy broad was not her type, so I promised that if it would make her feel better, I would steer the lesbian toward Janna’s direction, whose type is “Breathing, and even then sometimes not.” I asked Alisha later what her type exactly is, and she goes, “Blond, amazingly hilarious, nice rack. You know…you” and I was like, “Yeah I know, I just wanted to hear you say it.”

I think the real issue was that Alisha was pissed she wasn’t the token lesbian of the night.

Henry was glad for the girl drama because it gave him quiet time on the rink to reflect upon his days in the service getting screwed (in the very non-sexual sense) by prostitutes.

“Look at me now, whores,” I imagine he was saying in his head while power fisting the air. I also turned my head just in time to see him attempt some weird swirly thing with his feet.

Suspiciously, Janna didn’t have to exchange her skates once, not with Alisha there. Instead, I believe she was trying to mentor Alisha, Then it occurred to me that Janna was using false compassion toward Alisha as a new excuse to take copious breaks. Every time I looked around, I saw Janna cozying up to her along the wall. But then she’d get cocky and push off the wall like she was about to speed skate, because for once she was better than someone and felt compelled to visibly display her skills. It was a shame when, by the end of the night, Alisha had matched those skills. Janna was crestfallen.

Frugal Henry was just happy because we didn’t have to pay for our pizza, which by the way was comped and already placed in the oven in anticipation of our arrival by the fine Vallerena proprietors. That’s a good feeling, right there. It was probably free because we brought them a newbie. Or Henry’s peddling free BJs again.

During Limbo, Alisha was relieved to see that the awesome and talented Spandex Dancer had fallen.

“See look! He falls, too!” She looked too smug and I just couldn’t have that, so I explained to her that it was different when someone of his wheeled endowment falls as it’s generally because they’re attempting to do something wildly skillful, not complete half a lap around the rink. I mentally applauded myself as I watched her face begin to sag back into a frown.

Something happened to me last night, though, that brought skating to the next level: I skated through an invisible blanket of odor. That’s right, I broke through the curtain of someone’s goddamn fart.

It was entertaining imagining whose anus generated the noxious fumes, if it maybe temporarily got caught in a psychedelic spandex web before wafting into a flatulant wall. I’d love to blame it on one of those in my company, but their location at the time rendered it physically impossible. Though, Janna’s raunchy ass could probably produce a stench that lingers.

Alisha whined incessantly about breaking two nails, but those are the sort of sacrifices one needs to make for the love of the skate. Now she’ll have memories that will last a lifetime.

ETA:
Upon reading Alisha’s journal, I am sorry to admit that I have misinformed everyone. She broke three nails, not two. My condolences, Alisha.

What Roller Skating Means to Me

Or: Where it is determined that skating has become a thinly veiled guise for Henry to take me where that delicious snack bar pizza is made.

Originally posted January 2005

Tuesday Night Adult Skate can be broken down into segments:

Pre-Skating Car Ride

It is here where one can witness lots of arm flailing and yelling about famine. The hunger pangs also make me an unstable song changer; if I feel little interest in the current song, I will shout, “God, I hate that song!” (even if I don’t, for I am at my appetite’s will) and slam my fingers against the skip button.

Sometimes, in my peripheral, I can see Henry shudder a little. Janna is usually silent during the voyage to the rink, unless she is granted my permission to speak. This doesn’t usually happen. Then someone will “innocently” ask why I didn’t eat before we left, at which point you will find me hawkering the essense of Satan into their face.

Preliminary Skating Laps

I skate around the rink once before deeming my skates too loose. Exiting the rink, I stand near the lockers, looking lost and confused until Henry notices me and skates over to assist.

Henry unties each skate and tightens the laces real good because he is a big strong man with a bandanna. Satisfied with the results, I glide back onto the rink and cruise around a few times, while Janna is still sitting on a bench, lethargically putting on her roller blades. She drags this part out so she’ll have less rink-time.

Henry skates past me and I can see the pain in his face as he fights the urge to pirouette. Then my knees start to buckle under the weight of my voracious hunger and I have to lean against the wall. I consider collapsing into a heap of malnourishment for good measure but not enough people are paying attention. Henry watches my faux-famine unfold and decides it’s time to order the pizza before I embarrass him.

Waiting for the Pizza

The next thirty minutes are spent skating lackluster laps around the rink through blinding flashes of light brought on by starvation. Janna, after three roller blade exchanges and one wheel change, has finally entered the rink (the catchphrase of the night is always, “Where’d Janna go?”). I begin showing off in case she forgets that I’m so much better than her. Then I realize that Henry has been off the hook for a good ten minutes, so I fall into place next to him and chant, “When will the pizza be done? When will the pizza be done? I’m hungry!” until he picks up the pace and leaves me in his prima donna dust. He’s getting good at shaking me. Catching up to him, I incessantly probe, “Is it done yet? Is it done yet?” until he quite brusquely shoulders past me. I contemplate screaming, “That man hit me!” until I realize that the only other people on the rink at that moment is a man who wears spandex to afford more comfort while performing spins and kicks in the middle of the rink, and a girl wearing knee pads. I might be on my own here.

Pizza Is Ready

I ravenously devour two pieces of pizza before Henry and Janna even have a chance to sit down with their drinks. Despite Henry urging me to slow down, I cram another piece into my rabid mouth in between colossal gulps of cherry Icee. Fearing Henry might be eying the last slice of pizza, I slam the palm of my hand into the greasy cheese, claiming my territory. I would have pissed on it if it came down to it. Oh, like you’ve never done that.

After-Pizza Skating

Janna claims that she “sprained her ankle” and opts to sit on the bench so she can watch the skating prowess of us real athletes. Really, she’s moping because this guy who she thinks is so hot has called it a night. He skates just like her, too – like he’s trying to outrun a too-touchy uncle while wearing plastic Fisher Price skates. Enough about Janna. I’m able to perform a few fluid laps amidst the “Oooh”s and “Ahhh”s of my fans, but then the night quickly unravels and I find myself stumbling around the rink with my hand on my stomach, groaning and admonishing myself for eating too fast.

I burp a lot, too.

Car Ride Home

Even in the throes of major gastro-intestinal discomfort, I cannot be quieted. I spend the hour in the car reflecting upon the evening’s affairs and making fun of anyone I may have overlooked while at the rink. Henry is quiet because he is thinking about the man with the mullet that magically flows into a tailbone-grazing pony tail; he admires him from afar. Janna is replaying over and over the scene where her crush (I call him Snape because of his hair) breezed past her while singing along to Ludacris. And by breezed, I mean clobbering around the rink while clinging to the wall.

So when I say that we went skating, now you’ll know.

One of my resolutions is to plan more shit that will get me out of the house.

I was thinking about when I last felt really content, like I wasn’t wasting time, and the first thing I thought of was the winter of 2005 when Henry, Janna and I used to go roller skating. (That sounds like we played derby or something hardcore, but the reality is that we only went about four times.) So I decided I don’t care if I have to rollerskate while strapped to a gurney, I’m doing it this weekend. Time to get back to my roots, yo.

To commemorate this greasy-wheeled occasion, I decided to dig out my old roller skating entries from 2005, because they make me happy. And my belly hurts because God forbid I tried to eat a substantial dinner, so I could use a little happy-happy.

—————————————–

January 2005

Lately, I’ve felt the need for speed. I lay awake in bed for countless hours, tossing and turning while remembering fun times had in the roller rinks of my youth and longing for that smooth surface to enrapture my wheels once more.

Luckily, my friend Google pointed out that there really is still a smattering of good old fashioned roller rinks in the area. I chose one that was an hour away because it was the only one that hosted an adult skate. After Henry sat me down and said, “You are aware that adult skate doesn’t mean there will be strippers, right?” and I nodded slowly in recognition, he promised that we could go. I had an entire week to wait out, though, and boy was it excruciating.

However, the wait gave me something that I hadn’t experienced since I was kid waiting for my sea monkeys to grow: Anticipation. For a week, I’d fling back the comforter of my bed each morning, declaring the number of days left before I was free to skate. I found myself absent-mindedly sketching skates during class. I was comparing everything to skating:

“You know what’s just like paying the electric bill before they shut us off? Roller skating.”
“Oh, you know what would be really good with this sandwich? Roller skating.”
“You know what’s just like that war in Iraq? Roller skating.”

I wasn’t annoying to be around at all. At all.

And finally, yesterday was the day. Janna decided to join us, and every few minutes, I excitedly inquired about their degree of excitement. My inquisitions were met with despondent mumbles of, “Sure” and “I guess.” I began to question myself why I keep such lackluster company.

No matter, because I had enough exuberance to pass around. I shook in my seat the entire length of the trip, getting myself so riled up that I had to pee. Then I would bellow animalistic, guttural battle cries through clenched teeth while pumping my fist in the air.

I was really excited.

Once we eventually arrived at the Valarena Roller Rink, my hands were clammy and it felt like someone was fisting my heart. While I took deep and calming breaths to keep from choking on squeals, Henry decided to forgo his blades and rented an old school pair of quads. As did Janna, who would prove to be our own little Goldilocks as she exchanged her rentals three times before settling on a pair of inlines.

Since I am a very responsible and capable person (I’m excellent to travel with, never mind the time I left half of my wardrobe in a hotel closet in Australia), I spent the day making sure I had everything required for my skating bonanza. I came prepared with new hot pink laces, an appetite for that delicious snack bar pizza that I kept going back to ogle on their website, moxie and what little stamina I could muster from my out of shape self.

What I hadn’t prepared for, however, was Henry morphing into Disco Delight as his wheels hit the creamy surface of the rink. He was showcasing flamboyant little twirls and twists with his hands clasped behind his back; his long brown curls billowed behind him in the wake of his self-made wind. And then there was the surreal arm choreography: he’d stretch his arms out in front of his body, spread his fingers and violently shake his hands like he was skating to ragtime. I’m hoping I don’t need shock therapy to erase those images from my mind.

Every so often, I’d catch him running his hands up and down his body and plucking his imaginary rainbow suspenders. I like to believe that in his tiny delusional mind, he envisioned that he was wearing his best polyester play suit and holding not my hand, but Kristy McNichol’s. It was like he had skated right out of an episode of After School Special, circa 1977.

I was really beginning to get pissed because he was showing me up. This doesn’t sit lightly with someone of my egocentric caliber. I finally lost my temper and shoved him, and he immediately pointed out the numerous signs and placards warning that horseplay is cause for removal and banishment.

So once the rink started bumpin’ to my Def Leppard jam, I had no choice but to bench him. We exchanged words as he implored me to reconsider, stating, “But I can’t help that I’m better than you. I’ve been skating since before you were born! Well, I have!” Oh, the pleasure that coursed through my veins each time I’d skate past him; the puppy dog eyes pleading to be allowed back on the rink. My body, even while suffering from extreme fatigue as this was probably my fifth trip around, managed to shake riotously with greedy laughter.

And then our pizza was pulled from the oven. I took a long enough break to savagely gnash my teeth into my share before barreling back onto the rink in time for S Club 7. The videos for some of the songs were projected onto the back wall. Let me tell you, nothing is more liberating than skating through flashing disco lights worthy of giving any good epileptic nightmarish seizures while Marilyn Manson’s face is slathered across the wall, rockin’ the rink with his rendition of “Tainted Love.” It truly was adult night.

Where was Janna throughout the evening of wheeled debauchery? When she wasn’t hugging the wall, her ass was glued to her post in the game room as she guarded our beverage. She seemed ok with that, and our drinks made it through the evening unmaimed.

Sadly but inevitably, 9:30 rolled around and it was time to leave our new haven. I felt an unbreakable bond with the eight other skaters, like I should have stood in front of them while beating my breast bone.

I discovered as I was replacing my skates with societally regulated non-wheeled shoes, that I had broken one of my Goodwill relics. But this is good news because now Henry gets to buy me a brand new pair with blinking wheels.

Oh, and that pizza? It was delicious, as I knew it would be.

Henry, emulating Brian Boitano’s victory lap around the rink,
while cradling an armful of make believe flowers.

This was me, New Years Eve 1999. I was all set to get all lampshade-wearin’ crazy again this year too, but a stomach bug had other ideas for me. So instead, I rang in 2010 laying on the couch under a blanket, eating Doritos (the only thing other than frozen yogurt I could fathom injesting 10 hours after my stomach cavity had been exorcised), and playing Words With Friends with Henry, who gets so mad at my 60+ point words that he yells, “You bitch!” and I know deep down it’s full of love. I was supposed to have gone to a party and was really looking forward to that, but all in all I didn’t hate my New Year’s Eve. I’ve had plenty worse. And my mantra is: If the night doesn’t end with me paddling downstream on tears, then it must have been pretty good. 

So I expected going into this post with the “Fuck 2009, bring on 2010” mindset, and then I realized that, yeah, maybe some aspects of the past year were shitty, like getting laid off and then testing positive for a drug I haven’t smoked in 10 years, but really 2009 was full of some pretty cool shit. Please excuse me while I reflect.

• THE PENGUINS WON THE STANLEY CUP, HOLLA!!
• After years of knowing him on LiveJournal, I finally got to meet Bill and his awesome lady-half Jessi.
• Discovered I’m really fucking awesome at bowling.
• Saw a lot of awesome shows
  • The “Where’s the Band?” Tour with Dustin Kensrue, Chris Conley, Matt Pryor, and Anthony Raneri
  • Cold in Cleveland, which was the first time since 2005 they toured, and it turned out to be a big waterwork sesh for me
  • Craig Owens!! in Cleveland with Alisha! I think this was tied with Cold for my favorite show of the year
  • The Used
  • Chiodos in Columbus: my big hot date with Henry
  • WARPED TOUR!!
  • The Giglife Tour with Gravemaker, Fireworks, The Swellers, Set Your Goals, and Four Year Strong
  • Brand New and Manchester Orchestra in Cleveland
  • The “Squash the Beef” tour with Of Machines, Tides of Man, Of Mice and Men, Dance Gavin Dance and Emarosa (awesome show with the exception of douchebarrel Jonny Craig from Emarosa getting blitzed and singing like shit.)
  • Thrice!!! with Polar Bear Club and the Dear Hunter!
• Got some of my Somnambulant shit in a real brick and mortar shop here in Pittsburgh
• Watched Bill and Jessi get married in Vegas via webcam
• Made it another year without managing to neglect or endanger my child
• Had some photoshoot fun
• Made it a priority to spend more time with friends
• Went to the wedding of one of my oldest friends, Lisa. And cried.
• Was served a broken toe by Henry (Wait, wrong list.)
• Reconnected with my mom, for better or worse
• Got to go to my first Penguins game since 1997!

Please allow me to be cheesy for a second, but the best part of 2009 was reuniting with Alisha. We met back in 2005, became fast friends, but then had a falling out. Mostly because I’m a bullheaded psycho (and even worse, I was a bullheaded psycho amped up on pregnancy hormones). But we’re friends again and I’m not sure how I would have dealt with some things (that seem so insignificant now anyway) if she hadn’t been around. Plus, I have big plans for her involving cherry pies, blindfolds and stilts.

I think the greatest lesson I took away from 2009 is that no matter how much the universe shits on you, you just have to get up and brush it off. Wallowing will get you nowhere. It’s a tough mindset to uphold at times, but I’m not sure where I’d be right now if I let myself stew in self-pity. It also helps to have someone like Henry around who gets all mother hen and will say shit like, “OK, that’s enough. Go call someone and go out.”

I hope you all had a great New Year’s Eve and that 2010 will be full of delux awesome! Thanks to anyone who still continues to read this shit!

I’m impressed. Chooch has had his jack in the box for nearly a week and is still playing with it. Then he gets mad when our cat Speck (see also: Nicotina, Breakfast Nook) ignores the anticipating arrival of the sock monkey. Meanwhile, I’m clutching my heart and trying to shake off the numbness in my left arm.

Remember Mr. Men? It’s good to see something from my childhood making a comeback. I noticed awhile back that Target had some Mr. Men t-shirts in the kids department so I snagged a Mr. Grumpy for Chooch. And Bill and Jessi bought him a Mr. Noisy book when they first came to visit us last year. Mr. Grumpy, Mr. Noisy – both very apropos. I remember having a bunch of Mr. Men activity books that kept me mostly quiet in the backseat of the car when I was a wee lass.

So when Chooch came across these little miniatures in Target’s toy aisle and expressed interest, I was excited. Because now we can collect them together! The pack rat in me loves a good collection. I’m currently collecting these limited edition Penguins medallions. There’s a new one available each day, and they make it sound like you HAVE TO GET IT THAT DAY or you’re fucked for life. Of course, I know this isn’t true, but I’ve bestowed this very gallant responsibility onto my mother, who has been having panic attacks because I’m so high strung about it. She brought a new load over last week and I realized that five out of six were the same player. “These are all Dupuis,” I said, as I slid them back across the table. Have you ever actually seen the color drain from someone’s face before? I have. It’s fun to watch. My mom then drove around in a snow storm trying to exchange them for the ones I still needed. Collecting shit is awesome.

Chip and Dip! OMG it’s Chip and Dip! Chooch thinks they’re his but they’re really mine and I will love them and squeeze them and hug them and kiss them. They make me really want to adopt another Pac Man frog though. (RIP Hubert and Gustav.) When I was a senior in high school, I would sometimes take Hubert to school with me in his little pink-topped terrarium. I used to carry this large black and grey plaid pouch with me, and it was easily concealed. Everyone used to call that pouch my Barney Bag. I had so many toys crammed in there, travel games, Floam, candy frogs apparently. Study halls were awesome that year. Fuck, that was a great bag.

I also had a White Dumpy tree frog named Louie. I remember bringing him to school once and having him climb up the wall during homeroom. Then the teacher, Mrs. Hanlon, came in the room, glanced at the frog, and with hilarious nonchalance said, “Erin, put your frog away.”

The only thing I didn’t like about having frogs as pets was the whole cricket-as-food thing. Stumbling across a cricket outside in the summer, it’s like, “Oh, look. A cricket. Cool.” But buying them in air-filled bags at the pet store and storing them in a coffee can, it’s like, “OMFG these things are nasty motherfuckers.” And during the night, I’d be laying in bed and hear them scratching the sides of the canister as they formed a disgusting insect pyramid, trying to reach the top.

I am so repulsed right now.

Thank God Chip and Dip only eat pellets.

(Originally posted March 20, 2007)

There I was, at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant enjoying my meal when suddenly, a man behind me started coughing with extreme force. The sheer volume and abruptness of it startled my hands into gripping the table’s edge. Once my sense of panic subsided, I started to laugh but managed to quickly stifle it. I went back to spearing tofu with my fork.

And then he coughed again, like the very essence of life was being expelled through his lungs. He coughed and coughed and coughed, hearty and resounding staccatos of sonic warfare. Feeling thankful that my back was mostly toward him, I turned even further away so that I was seemingly laughing at the wall. I’m sure it wasn’t obvious at all.

My whole body was quaking from trying to suppress the laughter, and I begged Henry to talk to me so I could pretend like I was laughing at him. He turned away and focused all of his attention on Chooch, leaving me alone, red-faced and choking on chortles.

They finally left a few minutes later and I let it all out.

“Oh my god, did you hear him?! It was so hysterical! Weren’t you afraid you were going to laugh since you were directly in the line of his coughing?” I asked Henry in between breathy laughs.

“Um, no, because he was choking. It wasn’t funny.” Then he did that thing where he closes his eyes and gives his Bo Brady-coiffed head a swift shake, and then chases it with a frustrated and exhausted exhale.

I couldn’t stop imagining what he must have looked like in the throes of his choking fit. Were his hands clasped around his neck? Was his tongue sticking out like it does to choking victims in cartoons? If I was his wife, I’d have booted him in the balls as a nice cherry on top.

“Did they see me laughing? Was his wife laughing at him, too?”

“No, because he was choking.” Henrywas choking too — on disgust.

This made it even more hilarious and I couldn’t stop laughing at all. Then I was jealous because  Chooch got to stare at him through the whole thing because he’s a baby and babies get away with spying all the time.

I kept thinking about it the next day when I was driving and I had streams of mascara painting skinny banners of “Choking Is Funny!” down my cheeks.

Why do I have a feeling that I’m inevitably going to meet my demise by choking to death? I hope it’s at least on something exciting.

Like a dick. (And not Henry’s. Someone who will gain me notoriety. “She died from choking on Carrot Top’s penis!

” will be splayed all over the tabloids. And then I can only wish it will become a witty slogan for kids signing yearbooks. “Have a good summer! Don’t choke on Carrot Top’s dick and die like that one broad did!”)

——————————————

Ed.Note: OK, that was almost three years ago and not only can I close my eyes and relive this exact moment, but the thought of that guy choking still makes me laugh so hard it hurts. Please tell me someone reading this knows what that’s like.

I have this new toy at the top of my blog, kind of like a billboard for “featured posts.” So this morning, while Chooch was watching cartoons (and by that I mean playing games on the phone I never get to use), I decided to go back into the archives and find some more oldies-but-goodies (goodies to me, anyway) to add to it. Basically, this is just another life distraction. Every time I came across an old post from my data processing night shift job (I worked at that place for a year and a half and still don’t know what to say when people ask me what I did there. Stalking? Blog-writing? Candy-stealing? Co-worker-annoying?), it made me miss having a job. And not even so much of the part where I had money, but moreso the extracurricular activities I partook in, like stalking the cleaning staff and developing faux-crushes on boys in other departments just so I could annoy those around me.

This post from March 2008 made me especially inspired to find a job.

————————————————-

Creepy Cleaning Guy Visual

For over a week, I had been trying fruitlessly to capture a picture of the creepy cleaning guy at work. One night last week, I tried four separate times but my asshole flash went off, blowing my cover; twice he and I locked eyes, me frozen like a deer for an excruciating moment of timelessness, before finally pivoting and running away.

I tried over-the-shoulder shots, from-the-hip shots as I (probably very conspicuously) paced in front of the cleaning office, through-the-window shots which only resulted in the flash ricocheting back and blinding my eyes.

It was hard to stalk him this week, due to my lack of vision, but my luck changed last night.

Toward the end of the shift, I heard Eleanore in the kitchen saying hello to someone. When she came back to her desk with a cup of coffee, I hoarsely whispered, “Was that him??” She laughed and nodded. I was so angry that she didn’t even try to stall him! I ran out into the hallway by the loading dock and I noticed that his big wagon of garbage bags was parked at the far end of the hall.

I ran back inside.

“Bob! Pretend like you’re getting something out of the vending machine so I can act like I’m taking your picture,” I ordered. So Bob and I went back out into the hallway and loitered in front of the vending machines, waiting for the cleaning guy to return to his wagonmobile.

“I don’t think he’s coming back. You’re going to have to just go look for him,” Bob said, tired of standing around like an asshole.

So we went back inside.

Shortly after, one of the security guards — a friendly young man named Aaron — came over to say hello. I decided it was time to recruit new reinforcement, so I told him what I was trying to accomplish.

“Oh, you mean Bill?” he asked, laughing. “You know what to do? Throw some paper on the ground. He’ll have to stop and pick it up and that’ll afford you some time to take his picture.”

Best idea ever.

I grabbed an empty package of peanuts from my desk and told Collin, Bob, and Eleanore that Aaron agreed to go on watch for me.

“What’s he going to do? Whistle when he sees him?” Collin would not take any part in mission. But I know he’s secretly sad that he’ll soon be missing out on the shenanigans. I offered to start sending him a newsletter and he was like, “Of what? All the weird things you say?” Then he tried to recall a time I said something normal, and came up short.

Ignoring him, I ran back out into the hall, looked around frantically, and tossed the trash in front of the vending machines. If there was a surveillance video of me, it’d be a ridiculous montage of me side-stepping, ducking around corners, crouching down, peering through windows with cupped hands, and fleeing with my hands up and waving.

“He’s not a rodent, you know,” Bob said, accelerating my giddiness when I came back to my desk to wait for Aaron’s signal.

Unfortunately, one of the other cleaning guys picked up the peanut bag, so I replaced it with a crumbled sheet of notebook paper.

I waited for hours (probably 20 minutes, really) and just when I was about to give up, I heard the gentle squeaking of a wheeled garbage can, followed by the swishing sound of a broom against carpet. Standing on my tiptoes, I peered over the edge of our divider wall and spied the top of Bill’s head from over top of someone’s cubicle.

“Hey Bob,” I said loudly. “Now would be the PERFECT time for me to take that picture of you.” He looked at me, confused. “You’re the only one here I don’t have a picture of!” I enunciated each word and widened my eyes, hoping Bob would catch on.

“Oh. Okay. Where do you want me to stand?” I pointed to the area right by where Bill was about to emerge and Bob said, “No, that’s a stupid place—oh, unless I’m just a decoy?” I ended up not needing Bob anyway because Bill walked right past us and started going down another corridor in between cubicles. I hurriedly snapped two pictures.

“Here I thought you actually wanted my picture,” Bob said, pretending to be hurt. But I think he really was crying A LOT on the inside.

“Oh Bob, if you only knew how many pictures I have of you that you don’t know about,” I said with a wave of my hand. He probably thought I was kidding BUT I WASN’T.

I ended up getting more pictures of Bill later as he was helping himself to a cup of coffee. I felt very satisfied by the end of the shift. Another chapter closed.