Sorry guys. Sometimes I just REALLY want to post music videos on here!

First, here is an incredibly awkward video of Jonny Craig freestyling with Kurt Travis at one of his post-rehab I’m Back, Bitches shows that he’s been doing in (stupidly far away from Pittsburgh) California. I’m posting this because it’s basically his “pledge” to his fans that he will stay clean and that he “loves” us, but as Henry said while he was watching this: “Thanks guys! Don’t come talk to me after the show.”

We’ll see, Jonny. We’ll see.

And I think I posted this song two years ago, but every time I listen to it, I imagine fake dancing with Henry at our imaginary never-wedding, so I am posting it again, because I do what I want.

Carry on with yo’ Tuesday.

Because sometimes it’s nice to give the words a rest.

Note to self: Don’t leave Jonny alone with Henry.

Late night cable access laffs: Hip Hop with Cassie. (Couldn’t get Henry to participate.)

Choochelina: Shoe Model.

Jonny and I went to see Cabin in the Woods Sunday night. Don’t worry – Laura chaperoned.

Ended the weekend with new nails. Studded swag, y’all.

(“Shit. If only she were always this succinct,” said everyone who is forced to read this blog.)

Foreword: Yesterday at work, Lee was lambasting me for stalking the Jonny Craig lookalike at Delgrosso’s and even went as far to say that he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if I grew up to be a serial killer. The whole time he’s talking, all I can think is, “Oh, but I’ve done so much better when it comes to stalking people” and of course the first thing I thought of was JIMMY, the pizza boy I stalked for three whole days back in 2005, during snowy November nights WHILE PREGNANT. I even made a(n extremely poor quality) video, which is at the end of this post, and after watching it for the first time in 3+ years, I STILL get a thrill when I see Jimmy. You should note that most of the video is me saying, “OMG THAT’S HIM!” and Henry mumbling, “No that’s not him,” until the very end WHEN IT’S HIM.

OK go on.

Originally a LiveJournal post from November, 2005.

The Jimmy Set-Up

One night while taking a leisurely stroll with Henry, I insisted that we walk past the pizza place which employs the latest delivery guy that I’m stalking (I have a thing for pizza guys: Exhibit A / Exhibit B). His name is Jimmy. This I know because last week as Henry and I were ambling past, Jimmy was sitting in his car, waiting to pull out when another employee of Pizzarella came running out, yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy, wait!” Alas, Jimmy didn’t hear him and pulled out into traffic with a squeal of his tires, the Pizzarella sign adorning the top of his car. “Huh, there goes Jimmy,” I said as we looked on.

Big deal, right? Well, on our way back from our walk that night, we were crossing the street. All was clear, but suddenly, while we were in the middle of the road, a car came flying up over the hill, forcing me to run the rest of the way. I was clutching my stomach and yelling, “Don’t hit me I’m pregnant!” (LOVE playing that card), when I happened to toss a glance over my shoulder and I saw that it was Jimmy in his dinky white sputtering car with the Pizzarella sign on top. “Aw, it’s Jimmy!” I yelled, as I tugged on Henry’s arm. He didn’t care.

One block over, and it was time to cross the street again. We had just stepped off the curb when another car came barreling at us. I started to yell threats about being pregnant when I stopped and screamed, “Hey, it’s Jimmy again!” His window was down and he clearly heard my zealous exclamations of his name; they were rather orgasmic. Henry was embarrassed. So I decided that it was fate; I mean, obviously. Maybe there’s supposed to be a movie made about us, I suggested to Henry. A romantic comedy!

I began to outline the premise for Henry. Man drives recklessly around town with the intent of running over any and all pregnant women he comes across, because he hates babies and the vessels which bear them. One fateful night in November, he sees me walking with Henry. Henry selfishly dives out of the way, leaving me in the headlights of Jimmy’s car. He hits me, but unfortunately for him, I survive, and so does the baby, which ends up being his, so he spends the rest of his life hunting down me and the kid, trying to kill us with his pizza delivery car.

“How is that a romantic comedy?” Henry asked. Well, maybe it’s more of a thriller. Or it can be a dark comedy and we’ll just have Pee Wee Herman doing something occasionally.

Ever since that night, no matter what Henry and I are involved in, I make time for Jimmy. “Hey, remember Jimmy?” I’ll ask. “No,” he’ll say. Maybe his lack of a Jimmy memory is because he’s trying to trick me into having sex at that particular moment or he’s too engrossed in “Good Eats,” but I know deep down there will always be room for Jimmy’s memory in Henry’s heart. Someday, maybe he’ll be secure enough with his manhood to admit it.

Unfortunately, Jimmy wasn’t at the shop last night. However! As we walked past, a man exited the pizza shop, carrying a precariously-stacked tower of trays. We watched him walk over to his parked Audi and struggle with the opening of the passenger door.

I’ve never seen Henry move so fast in my life. “Here, let me get that for you!” And then an awkward exchange of “No, it’s cool, I got it” and “Are you sure, man?” followed by “Yes, thanks man” and ending with “Oh, OK, bud!” ensued. I was able to hold it in long enough for Henry to rejoin me on the sidewalk, but then it all came tumbling out of the loose cannon.

“Oooooooh! Henry’s new boyfriend!”

He wouldn’t talk to me after that and even tried to walk me into a street sign.

Anyway, I’m going to order from Pizzarella this weekend, but only after I make sure Jimmy is working. Then when Henry is paying him, I’ll be hiding by the window, or maybe behind a bush*, taking his picture. You just wait, Jimmy.

(*I should plant a bush.)

The Jimmy Fake Out

But I don’t even like their food, I thought, after I urged Henry to place an order to Pizzarella that Saturday night. And when Henry brought up that tiny detail, I of course lied and said, “You must be thinking of another place, buddy. I love Pizzarella. It’s like being in Italy. With all that real Italian food. Mmm. Trevi Fountain, holla.” Indigestion brought on by sub-par Brookline Italian fare was a small price to pay in order to lure Jimmy to my doorstep.

Thirty minutes later, Henry began pacing back and forth in front of the window, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Wow, I thought, Henry is nervous too!

Turns out he was just really hungry.

When I heard a car pull up to the house, I lurched for the camcorder and yelled, “Is it him!?”

It wasn’t. It was some worthless piece of shit who could never match up to Jimmy’s talent for pizza slinging.

My pasta tasted like poison. I ate bitterly as I reflected on how Henry refused to grant me permission to cut him earlier that day. Just one little slice across his chest with a box cutter, it was all I asked; a small token of our love, I begged. “Shed your blood for me, you son of a bitch,” I hissed with my fingernails at his throat. If he really loved me, he’d have let me. So now I can add this to the list of his other vetoes: me vomiting in his mouth; him dressing as Michael Myers and raping me (I would have loved to one day tell my child that that’s how (s)he was conceived); allowing me to take a Danish lover; and the list goes on, my friends. The list goes on.

And so I start thinking. I don’t have the money nor the appetite to continue ordering shitty food every day in hopes of drawing Jimmy to my front door; I would just have to go straight to the source. I begged Henry to give the night one more chance by walking with me to Brookline Boulevard, where we would have a real life stake out.

“Either do this or let me cut you”: a proposal in which I win either way. I suggested that we pack a small bag full of sustenance, maybe some crackers and peanut butter, because there was no telling how long we’d be gone.

“Oh, we won’t be gone that long,” Henry mumbled as he zipped up his jacket. I tucked the camcorder snugly into my pocket and pulled my hat down low over my eyes.

It was time.

****

There was no sign of any of the Pizzarella delivery cars as we walked past the shop the first time, me giggling uncontrollably and Henry telling me to shut the fuck up. When I’m giddy, I walk like a drunk, forcing him to grip my arm hard to pull me out of the way of other pedestrians. I hoped it would bruise so I could show the cops, but it didn’t. Damn those cold-weather layers. I plan on battering myself in time for my sonogram next week so all fingers will point to Henry.

We passed this guy Brice who used to stalk me, and his dog took a dump in the middle of the sidewalk. He acts like he doesn’t even know me now, I thought, as my wave and bright smile were met with a vacant stare. I looked at Henry in disdain. It’s all his fault. All of my stalkers retreated with their tails between their legs once Henry came barreling into my life, disrupting the natural order of things. (Gas station grocery shopping, inviting people over from chat rooms, blind dates, roller skating in the house. This list deserves its own entry. Or book.). I walked in silence for a few seconds, shedding invisible tears for stalkers past. Tossing a quick glance over at Henry, I felt a thousand pounds of hatred as I watched the way he scrunched up his shoulders to block the wind; the way he looked like a hoodlum with his hood pulled up tight around his fat face. Look at what he’s done to me, I thought, thinking of all the fun he’s driven out of my life. Maybe he can give me some STDs too, to ice the cake; make sure no one will ever want to stalk me again. No more Brices or Gothic Carls or Johnny Blazes. I’ve been tainted by domesticity. What stalker in their right mind would risk peeping into my window only to catch a glimpse of Henry traipsing around in his underwear? Who wants to stalk a boring quasi-housewife? (If you answered “I do” to that, my address is available upon request. I can also send pics of Henry’s bare legs to requested parties, as well.)

Luckily for Henry and the fate our unborn child, I distracted myself from further thoughts of running away by making zombie noises. The first one I did was the best, but then I couldn’t remember how I did it and I began to try too hard, which resulted in me sounding like I had emphysema. Still, I practiced on and on, relentless, because I’m no quitter. Plus, I wanted to test it out on unsuspecting passers-by.

“Was that it?”

“No.”

“Was that it?”

“No.”

Finally, Henry stopped answering me altogether, but it didn’t matter since we were now across the street from Pizzarella. I dusted off a spot on a retaining wall and made myself comfortable. Cracked my knuckles a few times, blew on my finger tips, punched Henry in the crotch — you know, all the things people do when they’re preparing to undergo some heavy surveillance.

While I was getting nestled, two young kids pedaled past on their bikes, so I hit them with my zombie sounds. And then I laughed about it for a few minutes and kept saying, “Hey Henry, remember when those kids rode by and I made zombie noises at them?” He wouldn’t answer; that happens sometimes. I guess it’s because he’s old.

As luck would have it, right when I got the camcorder all set up (you know, extracted from my pocket and turned on), a drunk old black man came from our right, slightly staggering with his head down. So I taped him, with Henry whispering, “Don’t. That’s not nice. Stop.” See what I mean? I am so oppressed. Too bad Henry then started to laugh. Mr. Fucking Humanitarian. This is the same guy who comes home from work and brags about seeing prostitutes fighting and a woman wearing white pants with a menstrual Rorschach pattern on her crotch.

But I’m cruel for videotaping a wino.

While I was fully immersed in this anthropological specimen, Henry jabbed my arm and pointed across the street. A delivery man had returned. I swung the camera in his direction and began squealing, “Oh my god it’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy!!” The butterflies were ricocheting all over my stomach as my laughter shook the camera, and then Henry said, “Oh wait. That’s not him. Jimmy had a white car.”

What, daddy? There’s no Santa?

I was crushed. Even more so than when I lost the Alternative Press “Number 1 Fan” essay contest last year. (I lost to some cunt in California who wrote something similar to this: “OMG I DON’T HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER BUT THANK GOD I HAVE AP BECAUSE YOU ARE LIKE AN OLDER BROTHER WHO SHOWS ME GOOD MUSIC.” How does that make her their number one fan? I would say that makes AP her number one imaginary friend. Fuck you and your non-brother, you fucking slut. Of course, I didn’t follow the rules and my essay was about three hundred words — give or take a few hundred — too long. In any case, I know that girl’s name and where she lives. And in one of my lowest and darkest moments, I even tried to find her on LiveJournal so I could flame her. There, I said it.)

You see, we don’t actually know what Jimmy looks like; just his car. Still, I really think I’m in love with him.

I really am, I think.

We waited a little longer, huddled together against the wind. “Sweetie, I don’t think he’s working tonight,” Henry said as he patted my head. You know it’s dire when he calls me sweetie.

But then the clouds parted and another delivery car pulled up.

“That’s not him. That’s the guy that delivered to us earlier,” Henry said with authority because he excels in all things pizza and vehicles. But while Henry was shooting me in the face with his smugness, he totally missed the delivery guy emerging from his car. Suddenly, one of his legs completely gave out, like it was made from putty, and he fell back against the side of his car. I laughed, and I mean laughed, with enough volume and zest for him to hear and look over at me. This made me laugh even harder and I’m going to admit something here because I’m honest: I peed. Yes, I pissed my fucking pants, right there, sitting on the wall. Erin urinated. Granted, it was the tiniest dribble, maybe the size of a gum ball at best. But it was enough to feel warm and uncomfortable.

Look, I’m pregnant, OK? This shit happens. And by shit I mean piss.

This was the final straw for Henry and he urged me to get up and start walking home with him. Also, he was pouting because he missed the stumbling delivery man.

“Wait,” I said. “Not until I know for sure. Give me change, I need to make a call.”

And so I walked a half of a block down to the gas station and called Pizzarella from the pay phone, because I’m proud to be part of the world’s 10% without a cell phone. While I dialed the number, Henry stood beside me but I pushed him away because I didn’t want to laugh. I needed privacy for this one.

A girl answered and, while my mouth was wide open, there was this ill-timed delay in my speech. I almost hung up but didn’t want to waste the fifty cents. (Fifty fucking cents to use the pay phone now? It’s been a long time since I had to use a pay phone. Jimmy, my man, you’re raping my pockets.)

I had it all rehearsed in my head. A simple, “Hello, is Jimmy working tonight?” would have sufficed. But instead, I ended up sounding like a head gear-wearing 12-year-old Bobcat Goldthwait making his first prank call at a slumber party.

“HI!!!! [pause to bite back laughter] IS JIMHAHAHAHAPFFFFFFFFT WORKING TONIGHT!?!?!?”

“Who?” She was clearly annoyed. I hoped it wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Jimmy.” I wasn’t laughing now, but rather trying to hold back more spurts of urine.You know how hard it is to manually shut yourself off once you’ve started!

And so I was informed that Jimmy was not working that night.

“THANKS” I yelled and slammed down the receiver. And then I laughed all the way to a stomach ache, while the urine burnt my thighs as it dried.

The next day, at exactly 2:20 PM, I was on my way to Pitt to schedule classes and I totally passed Jimmy and his white car on the road. I made a slight detour on the way home, parked across the street from Pizzarella, and finally captured him for a lifetime of pleasure on video.

Chooch constructed a model of Jonny Craig out of Legos and then what appears to be a stage with an audience.

“I put Daddy under here so he’s stuck and now he has to listen to Jonny Craig forever.”

Fuck, did I derive so much glee from that.

I love the cap of ginger atop Jonny’s broad Lego dome.

In other news, Craig Owens is back with Chiodos, wtf. Even though he is my nemesis now, I’m still beyond stoked and was all overheated at work after I found out. My friends at Alternative Press even had the smarts to check in with me to make sure I was still breathing after the news was twitter-bombed.

In other-other news, Chooch is getting his tonsils out on July 2nd. :(

At work the other day, I said out loud, “I wish I had a Jonny Craig doll.” This of course was met with tons of groans and low-grade mumbling.> But then I started googling, because YOU NEVER KNOW.

Well, there aren’t any Jonny Craig dolls out there, at least none that Google is aware of. But I did find a picture of Jonny with a doll, which I thought was just adorable. My friend Gina the Enabler suggested that I photoshop my face on the doll.

But damn, what I wouldn’t give for a plush Jonny Craig. Any dollmakers out there? Just don’t put a needle in his arm; I don’t want to get pricked in my sleep.

Somehow, the subject of coulrophobia tends to come up frequently at work. Maybe because I have photos of John Wayne Gacy and a paper mache flower-grasping clown on my desk. (Although, I just realized the Gacy photo was never returned to me after I interoffice-mailed it to my co-worker Brad who was dumb enough to tell me he’s scared of clowns.) I practically grew up in my grandparents house, and the stereo room was replete with the merrymakers in all forms: stuffed, Murano glass, paintings, music boxes. So I’m pretty desensitized to the clown chapter in the encyclopedia of horror.

I don’t know how my grandma started collecting clowns, but that room was definitely larger than life. I never understood how people could be so scared and creeped out by something that I grew up surrounded by.

I used to dust those things for my grandma, for Christ’s sake! I listened to Frank Zappa for the first time in that room when I was a little kid (“Valley Girl”). I sat on that couch looking through photo albums taken from the clown room closet.

I have nothing but good memories from that room.

Chooch is clearly unfazed by clowns, too:

And the fact that so many people abhor clowns just makes me like them even more.

My grandma passed away last summer and, if you’ve been reading this blog for awhile, you won’t be surprised to know that my crazy aunt Sharon is doing everything to tie up the estate. I’m sure she’s sold most of the bric-a-brac on eBay by now, but damn – if I could take any of those clowns, especially the paintings, I would be so happy. With both of my grandparents gone now, I really can’t bear to see that collection broken up; I just want to keep it going forever, but I know Sharon and my mom won’t make that easy.

I bought these original clown pictures from my co-worker Cheryl and I’m just so thrilled with them, I could die. Some guy made them for her mom in the 60s; she knew him from the campground they use to go to and he liked to sit around, drawing clowns apparently. And thank god he did!

They were waiting for me at work yesterday and 90% of my co-workers were totally skeeved out by them, so that made me love them even more. I couldn’t stop smiling! I love that one of them has a bird nest on his head!

“They’re so majestic,” I whispered, and everyone around me laughed BUT I WAS BEING SERIOUS. They were way more amazing than I could have imagined. Totally worth it.

Then Glenn meandered over, and in a total Henry-esque moment, he picked one up and to get a better look at the frame.

“These are nice frames,” he said, admiring the it closer now. “The wood is really good,” he added, tapping on it. “I think it could be wormy oak.” I started laughing so hard, totally couldn’t help it. He looked annoyed, made some last minute disparaging remarks, and retreated.

When I put the pictures in the car last night, Henry also went right for the frames. “Those are really nice frames,” he said, and I began having deja vu. “Maybe wormy chestnut….or oak.”

Jesus Christ.

Considering I will probably never see the inside of my grandparent’s house again, I might as well start my own collection. And this is a beautiful start!

One of my dreams is to have an entire red wall full of baby doll heads. Henry promised me I can do this if we ever buy our own house, even said he would make one of those recessed wall thingies for Malachi, but I’m thinking I want Malachi to be near the front door so that he can greet all of the guests that will come over in my imagination.

“That sounds so….inviting,” one of my co-workers dead-panned when I elaborated on my interior design.

Christina works at an auction house and scored an entire box of dolls for her niece. Supposedly, it was a box full of “normal” dolls, like Cabbage Patch Kids, etc. However, she apparently didn’t know what was underneath all of that….

Until her sister found it, freaked out, and said, “Get this out of my house!” and then suggested that Christina give it to me, which is beyond flattering that some creepy, genetically-altered doll made her think of me.

Look you guys! Henry’s alcoholic crackhead hooker mistress finally had the baby!

We’re thinking that maybe the was meant to be a model for fetal alcohol syndrome?

It even has an uncircumsized weener and umbilical cord, WTF!? Plus it’s wearing a dress and bonnet, so I’m thinking that’s pretty progressive.

I love it to pieces, of course.

This happened accidentally, I swear.

The baby was a part of our Easter portraits yesterday (more on that tomorrow) and came to work with me today.

“I have to show you something!” I said to Bridget when she came over to my desk today.

“If it’s that weird baby doll —” she began to protest just as I whipped it out of my purse. She saw the pictures of it I posted on Facebook over the weekend so she was already repulsed by it, but I don’t think anything could have prepared her for what its presence is like in real life. Then she lectured me for the second time since December about handling dirty, unsterilized dolls.

A lot of people at work had pretty strong reactions to my new babe, and things like “Why is that here?” and “That’s really disturbing” were said a lot. Obviously, my co-workers don’t like dolls. That’s OK – MORE FOR ME.

This bastard needs a name and I’m taking suggestions.

(Seriously, if you have any spare doll heads lying around, please send them to me so I can nail them to a future wall.)

Last December, I found the most majestic religious artifact this side of the Vatican: a Last Rites shadow box with a statue of Saint Rita inside. (Coincidentally, this is how my Saint Rita obsession started.) Of course when Henry heard the asking price, he kept walking. Erin and her stupid collector’s quirks, right Henry? You asshole.

Sunday morning was warm and gorgeous, so we decided to kill some time at the flea market before the 12:30 Pens game (no comment on that).  Everything was fine, Henry and I acted cordially to each other, even allowing our hands to graze at one point. Even Chooch was obedient and seemed content with the pack of Pokemon cards and 25¢ Happy Meal toy we let him buy (I would totally not have been content with that at age 5, for the record. – Silver Spoon Girl.)

And then it happened: several rotted-teeth Steeler fans parted at just the right moment to allow a sliver of the most wondrous wood-encased sight to peek through. Henry was the one who saw it first; I almost kept right on walking but he stopped me and pointed to it.

It wasn’t the Saint Rita, but a Pieta; still,  its level of divine beauty paralleled it, for sure. And it was the same man with the dancing eye-mole who was selling it.

“$75,” he told Henry, who then walked away. But not me. I stayed there, lightly running my fingertips down the side, drooling just the tiniest bit and feeling a sense of longing I haven’t felt since I was Scott Dambaugh’s 8th grade science partner.

The man noticed that I was still standing there and he came back over to tell me its history, how it was over 90 years old and belonged to his grandmother who had it built into her wall; he opened it up and showed me the spoon that was used to pour holy water over the foreheads of the sick and dying.

Meanwhile, some man began encroaching on us and I felt myself moving closer to the box, shielding him from its availability, readying my foot for the impending crotch-kick it was about to perform.

Turns out he was only looking at some stupid baseball memorabilia on the table behind it. KEEP IT MOVIN’, BUDDY.

The seller left me alone with my painful materialistic yearning to snatch money off some dummy buying something lame.

Determined, I gave it one lingering caress with the promise that I’d return, then I did my Phoebe-run down the walkway to Henry, who was several tables away by this point, looking at rusty tools and vegetables, which is all he cares about.

“I only have $50!” he yelled when I careened to a halt in front of him, pouty-lip and sad-eyes at the ready. I was really starting to lay it on thick (he still owed me for making me miss the Sleeping With Sirens show at the beginning of the month! I don’t forget this shit) so he sighed and said, “See if he’ll take $50.”

“You!” I wailed.

“This is all you! I don’t want that thing, you do!”

OH REALLY THEN WHY DID HE POINT IT OUT TO ME. I would have probably walked right past it! He just likes seeing me hurt, that’s why.

I snatched the money from him and stalked back over to the guy’s table, stood sentinel next to the Last Rites box and waited for him to finish a much-lesser transaction.

When I proposed the new price of $50, he shook his head, dragged his hand over his eye-mole, and said, “No, I couldn’t. I gotta get at least $65 for this because it’s my sister’s in North Carolina and I gotta send her some of the money. These things are worth a lot of money,” he went on. “Just shipped a really rare Saint Rita one to Philly for $125.” (MOTHERFUCK!!!!!)

And then my lip went out and the tears fell down. I was kicking myself for getting him to spend $2 on cookies moments earlier. Then I’d have $52! $52 might sound more enticing to Dancing Eye Mole than $50. “Oh sure, you can have it for $52! That is so much more lucrative for me than $50!” he’d surely not say.

But when he saw my newly distressed state, all the tears and such, he sighed, looked up at the sky and said, “Get him to give you 10 more dollars and it’s yours.”

“OH THANK YOU!” I said in my best Shirley Temple voice, swiped away the tears and galloped over to Henry.

“No,” he said immediately.

“IT’S JUST TEN MORE DOLLARS!” I screamed. “I have a $20 at home that you can have!” (Of course I had no intention of actually giving him that though.)

“No,” he said, holding firm. “I have other things that need paid that are more important than that.”

“But you OWE me!” I hissed.

He just kept walking though, so I fell back and walked alone with my arms crossed.

“Do you want to get some incense?” Henry suggested.

“…..”

“Do you want to look at the stuff inside?”

“…..”

“Do you want me to throw away your coffee cup?”

“…..”

“Oh come on, don’t do this,” he pleaded.

“…..”

He could have asked me to marry him at that moment and my reply would have been a resounding, “…..”

I made Chooch walk real fast with me back to the car. My plan was to leave without Henry until I realized he had the car keys. By the time he had left the parking lot, I had totally wore him down with my pouting and he angrily drove to the closest ATM and got out $10.

It had started raining by the time we made it back, and as I raced over to the man’s table, he was just starting to pack everything up.

“WAIT! I’M BACK! HERE I AM!” I shouted, huffing and clutching my chest.

As he was removing the candle holders and putting them inside the box with all the last rites accoutrements, he reiterated that it would have been mine for $50 if it was his and not his sister’s. Yeah yeah, just give me my fucking treasure!

He placed it carefully into my arms like a baby, and I whispered to him, “I will give it a good home.” And then I tiptoed back to the car, mouthing the words, “Don’t drop it” over and over.

As we left the lot, the shadow box resting handsome-awkwardly on my thighs, Henry mumbled sadly, “Now I don’t have any money to get pretzels.”

(Don’t worry, he dug up change.)

This is just so aesthetically pleasing to me. I seriously couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. I have always been so smitten with religious art, relics, Jesus depictions, even as a little kid, and sometimes it will move me to tears. (I have cried every time I’ve visited the Vatican.)  I can’t wait for the day when I have my own house and I can fill a deep-blue room with my collection. I just can’t wait. (This room will be separate from my blood-red doll-head room, of course.)

Words cannot describe how happy I am with this flea market find. Henry is totally off the hook! For at least a week!

Henry bought a new (to me) apple-brand home last night called Kiku.

IT’S EXOTIC YOU GUYS. And I’ll tell you what else it is: It’s the goddamn Sumo wrestler of apples. Motherfucker was so wide, it got itself stuck a quarter of the way down in the apple corer at work. I had to seek out the nearest Man for help. That happened to be Nate, and it (probably) required him to imagine he was pushing a cranial-sized corer down onto the face of some Batman villain. (Nate likes Batman.)

(I don’t know what I’m talking about.)

It even peeled itself on one side.

Misplaced your bowling ball? The Kiku’s your guy.

My verdict is that while it’s semi-sweet, I did not get any flashes of exotic lands while eating it. The slices were so thick that it was extremely difficult for me to maintain my delicate flower facade while trying to force my teeth all the way through. Carey came over to talk to me while my molars and jaw were exhausting themselves trying to break down the chunk of Kiku meat in my mouth and felt like a horse on display. Someone needs to teach me how to eat an apple like a lady, short of turning it into juice, and not a farmer dishing out slop.

I feel like people in other departments can hear the snap of the skin every time my teeth sink down. I am so hyper-aware of my cacophonous apple snacking.

It officially took me an hour to finish it, and the whole time I could hear Pee Wee Herman’s voice in my head chanting, “It’s like an apple that someone keeps on chewing, a-h-hand chewing, a-ha-hand chewing, a-ha-hand chewing, A-HA-HAND CHEWING.”

However, once all the work was done, the Kiku was pleasant with slightly sweet undertones and although it was on the crisper side, I would probably eat it again.

Or just use it as a gag for that bitch I’ve got stowed in the trunk.

EDIT: Henry asked me how it was and I said, “It was neither exotic nor sweet, although if I closed my mouth and breathed out through my nose, it filled my mouth with a slight undercurrent of sweetness.”

“What are you, tasting wine?” Henry scoffed.

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

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

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

Some of my favorites from Henry’s fake journal:

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

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

Jumping B-Listers:

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

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

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

Tammy Faye shout out:

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

I really liked Bob Uecker:

Keeping the killers close to my heart:

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

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

Came into work today to find a large box beside my desk, all wrapped in a candy cane print. It was from Barb and she told me to open it immediately; within seconds, a small crowd of people privy to the box’s contents had gathered at my desk

I opened it and immediately almost pissed my pants. A few weeks ago, I was at the flea market with Tommy and Jessy and took a picture of this creep-factory of a doll. Of course, by the time I got home that day, I was kicking myself for not buying it. I even checked when I was there two weeks ago with Andrea, but didn’t see it and felt extreme sadness and regret.

Barb knew that I was coveting it and went back and bought it for me for Christmas and I can’t even believe it I am dying of happiness right now punctuation what!?

Of course, everyone was like, “That is so creepy! Why do you want that?!” and then it was fun to watch as they realized they had already answered their question.

Sean came over and caught me cradling my new (old) doll. He shook his head and said, “Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Bridget was like, “OMG THAT’S SO DIRTY HOW CAN YOU PUT THAT SO CLOSE TO YOUR FACE!” or something equally as chastising and oh look she just came back and said, “I wouldn’t touch that if you paid me and I sincerely suggest that you anti-bac your hands.”

Nina and Wendy cried a little bit when they saw it. Mitch and Lee seemed to approve. Chris, who was here when I opened it and looked thoroughly flabbergasted, just walks by now and gives me leery motive-questioning looks.

He fits in so well with all my creepy shit and Jesus pen!

He’s coming home with me this weekend for our annual Christmas picnic in the cemetery, but I think after that, he’ll reside here in The Law Firm. I like the reactions he’s provoked.

This just solidifies what I already knew: Barb is the best co-worker ever and most attentive friend. (Plus, she reads my blog like a good girl.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

• I just learned that Barb bought this the same day I was at the flea market with Andrea looking for it.
• I have been carrying it around the department with me and it occured to me that I am holding it with more natural panache than I have ever held a live baby. 

After lunch at Melt, Emily peaced out to run some errands (when I was little, I always thought people were saying they had Erins to run, and I still sometimes instinctively flinch when I hear this, like any minute now a car is going to come plowing through my torso) and the rest of us went to My Mind’s Eye. Going to record stores post-Chooch is bittersweet for me because I can never throw down like I once could. My music collection has all but flatlined since 2006.

“That’s why we only have a cat,” Terri said to me, and I was like GODDAMMIT I KNEW HAVING A CHILD WAS A MISTAKE. Just kidding.

Kind of.

Henry and I are currently aspiring to be the couple on the right. Except orange is like, my least favorite color. But I can definitely rock an antagonizing smile and smug stance.

“Can I get this?”

“No.”

“What about—”

“No.”

If it weren’t for Henry reminding me every thirty seconds that we need to worry about Chooch’s Christmas presents before “stupid music” (YES HE SAID THAT), all of our utilities would probably be shut off right now. I did buy two CDs, despite his sharp looks of disapproval.

I bought one called The Valerie Project by Jaromil Jires.

“You don’t even know what that is!” Henry criticized harshly.

“Yes I do! It’s based off the movie Valerie and Her Week of Wonders and we loved that movie!” I replied in a pitch dangerously close to tantrum levels.

“Did we?” he asked, trying to remember.

“Yeah, because it was weird.”

“That doesn’t mean we loved it!”

I also snatched up a Coffinberry album.

“Have you even heard of them?” Henry asked, in one of his staunch SERVICE stances, with arms akimbo.

“No,” I said thoughtfully. “But with a name like Coffinberry…”

This prompted Henry to ridicule me for purchasing music based on band names and cover art, but I have been doing this since high school! And the success rate is at least 20%. I never would have known that I love the Ultralounge collection had one not been swathed in faux leopard fur!

When we left the record store, Jason opted to ride with Terri and Christian this time.

“Why? Because you don’t want to listen to Coffinberry?” I chided, and that’s when Henry noticed the BIG FLYERS STICKER on the back of Terry and Christian’s car.

“OMG they’re FLYERS fans!” Henry sneered good-naturedly, and they booed the Penguins in response. I can’t believe I shared a meal with Flyers fans!

So a friendly war of the hockey fans was ignited. Henry even made a point of pulling his Penguins hat out of the trunk.

(Meanwhile, the first track on the Coffinberry CD was this slow dirge that sounded like Joan of Arc and Shudder To Think having a knife fight during a funeral.)

The next stop was Big Fun, which I always make a point to stop at when I’m in town. Emily met back up with us here and I bought Chooch some little things for Christmas, including a book about boobs. What? He needs to know about them.

Jason was sitting outside and when I went to join him, he said, “If you’re into vintage furnishings, you should check out that store,” while pointing at a place called Flower Child. Maybe he really was trying to be helpful, but I will always in my heart believe that he was just so jealous of my Coffinberry purchase that he wasn’t ready to be near me yet.

Nothing could have prepared me for the life-altering experience I was about to have within those walls. It was practically a catacomb of psychedelia. There were vintage cameras in droves making my knees weak (I quickly texted Henry: GET IN HERE NOW! after spying those slick shutters), mannequins luxuriating in posh positions, paisley percolating like sick hallucinations from walls and moth ball-scented clothing racks.

The basement level, which requires one to walk down a narrow staircase which appeared to be uneven, was replete with over-stuffed walk-in closets that made me feel like I was backstage on Laugh-In.

It was the most glorious place in the world.

But it only got better when I was engulfed by the pea green carpeting* of the basement: The granddaddy of all Jesus pictures, with its cheaply gilded frame, was resting sovereignly on the wall. It LIT-UP. It was 3D. I had to have it.

(*This may or may not be accurate. I also want to say that the walls down there were wood-paneling, but the truth is that my memory is clouded by all that Jesus glory. I will report back with details when I return in two weeks.)

I ran back upstairs to find Henry who, with no hesitation, said no.

“We’re coming back on the 17th. You can get it then,” he compromised after I made him come downstairs to see it for himself. Terri was down there with us too but she kind of had this nervous “I don’t want to get involved” smile on her face.

“IT MIGHT NOT BE THERE WHEN WE COME BACK!” I cried. Henry just shook his head in concession and rejoined Jason, Christian and Emily outside.

So I bought it. Took that bitch right the fuck off the wall and bought it.

“I don’t have a bag big enough to fit this in,” said the aging hippie behind the counter.

“That’s OK, I’ll carry it proudly,” I gushed, running my fingertips over Jesus’s face.

I walked outside with this lumbering slab of religious kitsch banging off my thigh. Everyone had a look of “Oh Jesus Christ” on their faces.

“And it lights up!” I proudly exclaimed.

Oh Jesus Christ, indeed.

This is what it looks like lit-up in my house at night:

Barb and I found out recently that our co-worker Bob is dating some broad from Morocco, but we’re not supposed to know that Bob is dating some broad from Morocco which means we can’t outright ask him about it because then he’ll know we know when we’re not supposed to know.

So we have been thinking of ways to bring it up in conversation, when I realized, “Holy fuck! Let’s just talk about my Moroccan souvenir bracelet that I just got from the flea market!”

And that is just what we attempted to do earlier this evening, except that Bob wasn’t paying attention when Barb loudly exclaimed, “OH WOW IS THAT A PRETTY BRACELET WHAT IS IT SUPPOSED TO BE?” to which I giddily replied, “WHY IT IS A MOROCCAN SOUVENIR BRACELET. FROM MOROCCO.” And then I had to turn and face the wall to hide the fact that I was laughing.

Nothing. Not even a slight twitch indicating that he heard us.

But because I hatch plans like Michelle Duggar hatches flesh-suits for her Biblical name collection, I wasn’t deterred. One of the reasons I was at Barb’s desk in the first place was because I had brought an unmarked apple to work with me. The sticker must had fallen off en route.

Side Note: I am keeping a log of all the different apples I eat because that is what obsessed people do, and probably also people who murder their mother and use the corpse as a body pillow. Henry has been trying to purchase different hybrids of apples each time he goes food shopping; however, I had already eaten one of each of this last batch. So I knew that the apple in my hand was one of probably five, and not knowing wasn’t really going to affect my “research” considering I had already sampled one of its kind. Different apples really do taste different! I never would have imagined.

I thrust my right apple-clutching fist near Bob’s face and said, “Do you know what kind of apple this is?” while creating subtle wrist quakes paramount for a good bracelet-jangle.

A thing you should know about Bob: he knows pretty much everything. So my inquiry was not dismissed, yet embraced by a do-or-die mission to prove to me that he knows some shit about a goddamn apple.

He considered this thoughtfully, turned the apple in his palm, held it up the light and began spouting off some nonsense about its shine. Of course Bob would be some sort of apple dork.

“I really want to say Honeycrisp, but something about it is screaming ‘Gala’ to me. Why don’t you just eat it and find out?”

I laughed at how nonchalant this suggestion was. “I’m just learning about apples, Bob!” I said. “I’m not going to be able to tell.”

Now, I really didn’t give too much of a fuck about this apple other than the fact that it had a hot date with my mouth later that night and we were going to go all the way. But now I felt like I had to pose my quandary upon Nate as well, who sits in front of Bob, to make it seem more realistic.

Nate immediately went for his phone and typed in “What kind of apple is this?” When that produced no results, he resorted the archaic methods of just looking at it. I believe he also guessed Honeycrisp, but I can’t remember for sure.

A few minutes later, I returned to my desk to find Nate, in a thoughtful crouch, gazing intently at my apple. He retreated with slumped shoulders, unable to be the apple hero of the day. I could hear him and Bob intently discussing the apple case behind me. A veritable produce parade of apple varieties were being tossed about in serious tones.

Then Nate came back with his phone, which he held up next to the specimen to compare it to photos of other apples. Bob soon joined him with a KNIFE and I was certain he was going to snatch my apple and pare into it in a manner better reserved for Grizzly Adams. Or that Survivor Man who drinks his own piss.

Barb was just coming back from the kitchen, so she stopped to watch Nate and Bob stroking their chins thoughtfully, knowing that this was all because of Bob not taking the bait when we loudly talked about my Moroccan bracelet. Glenn, who would rather be riding the Wacky Worm, paused to see what the fuss was about.

“Why don’t you just eat it?” he suggested in his “I’m Too Old to Understand All This Hullaballoo” tone. (Note: Henry has this same tone.)

“Because I eat my apple every night at 7pm,” I explained like that was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, right. Of course,” he said sarcastically while shaking his head.

Then someone asked me what the big deal was with me and apples and I said, “Oh, because I just learned that I like them.” I was met with no less than three blank stares, so I elaborated that it was mostly because I just learned to cut them.

Bob was incredulous at this point. “You don’t need to cut apples to eat them!” he exclaimed.

“You do when you don’t like to bite into them,” I said. Glenn was giving me one of those Henry Looks so I said, “I have fears, OK?”

“There’s a lot of issues going on in this corner over here,” he said, waving his hands around my desk.

I resented that.

Later on, Barb sent over George, whose family has apple orchards.

“It looks like a Fuji,” he said and looked at me with an ‘Am I Right?’ smirk. At his desk, I heard Nate say, “Ooh, that’s the first time Fuji came up!”

I sat in silence for a few seconds before realizing that George thought this was some type of afternoon work quiz and was looking for his prize.

“Oh, I have no idea what kind it is.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how you acquired this apple?” he asked slowly, with a hearty dose of skepticism.

“Oh. Some store, I guess. Henry does all that grocery store stuff.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be shocked if that was a Pink Lady,” George said, before walking away. Final answer?

Apple o’clock has come and gone and I have since eaten our little anonymous John Doe. At first I was like, “Oh this is not pleasing.” But then by the second slice, I was all, “Wait. This is good.” It was crisp, which I actually do not like, and slightly tart with a strangely familiar, sweet aftertaste. My produce palate is about as refined as Flava Flav so that’s really the best I can do. Does that help?

Maybe pictures will. It has to be one of these type:

Gala, Pink Lady, Honeycrisp, Ambrosia, Jazzy (Jazzies?), Cameo. Whatever it was, I want another.

EDIT!! HOLD UP! I got in The car after work and was excitedly telling Henry about the night’s events. Before I even got a few sentences into it, he interrupted and said, “It’s an Ambrosia. Chooch took the sticker off but I made sure I checked first.” Oddly, another co-worker, Aaron, was telling me earlier that he recently ate an Ambrosia and it was the only apple he’s ever disliked. He said it had a soapy bite to it and now suddenly all I can taste in my throat is something akin to goddamn Palmolive. Sonofabitch.

Game over. Everyone loses.

On the phone this morning with Henry, I was spazzing out about a horrible dream I had about Jonny Craig, in which he was so much of a crack addict that he was beginning to lose his teeth. Even now, when I shut my eyes, I can see him with his mouth open all wide as he’s singing, and he’s missing a front tooth and the one next to it is all snaggled and he looks like he should be selling blow jobs at a truck stop in West Virginia, not touring the country with a Scene-popular band. (Except that in real life, he’s not even doing that.) And when this was happening in my dream, Sandy was there with me, seeing it all for herself and in my head, I was thinking, “Oh god, oh fuck no. Why does he have to be flapping open his crack-obliterated maw right now in front of SANDY? She’s going to torture me with Photoshopped portraits of his new tooth-lite look.” I was really panicked about this, not worried that Jonny Craig was about two hits away from stealing from kids (oh wait), but panicked because Sandy was going to make fun of me.

Henry laughed disgustedly. “That’s not so much a dream as it is reality.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT’S HE’S LOST ANY TEETH YET!” I cried in defiance.

In other parts of my dream, I was on a cruise with Andrea, but the cruise ship was actually just a docked Motel 6 which at some point we were driven off of by Romanian gypsies so of course I woke up with my extreme yearning to travel to Romania rejuvenated. This clearly means that Andrea is supposed to go with me. I’ll start looking at itineraries, Andrea, while you get your palate primed for some placenta pie.

ROMANIA 2012, HOLLA.

I should be en route to Columbus, Ohio right now to see my beloved Dance Gavin Dance, but since their singer Jonny Craig is such a class-act and got arrested a few weeks ago, the rest of the band canceled the tour. So instead, I’m sitting at home watching some of their old live videos on YouTube and driving Henry nuts.

Chooch even let me rest my head solemnly on his shoulder for a few seconds. That helped. Except that he had peanut butter on his cheeks, which then got in my hair.

Fuck you, Jonny.

WAIT NO, NEVER MIND, I STILL LOVE YOU, JONNY.

The crowd in this video is priceless.

(I finally made a Jonny Craig category for my blog. It’s going to take me hours to tag all my Jonny posts. Good thing I have the night off work. Because I would NEVER do anything blog-related from work.)