This is Henry’s face while I listen to new Jonny Craig songs on my phone, holla.

However, he’s not even trying to put up a fight about going to see Jonny Craig in March*.

Either he has lost his will to fight, is cheating on me, or is banking on Jonny OD’ing before then.

*OMG JONNY CRAIG IS COMING TO PITTSBURGH IN MARCH!!!

I GET TO SEE JONNY THREE DAYS AFTER SEEING PIERCE THE VEIL, WHATTTTT!

My Jonny Craig doll has been pretty lonely so Chooch suggested that I have a Vic Fuentes (Pierce the Veil) doll made. So I went straight to Maya, who can pretty much make ANYTHING because she’s a creative genius. And damn, she is FAST! I think this whole process only took a little over a week once I got some pictures sent to her.

She even gave him a little nose ring, OMG!

The first time I saw Pierce the Veil, Vic was wearing a Jaws t-shirt, which Maya replicated into a tiny baby size (even embroidered teeth on him!).  I can’t wait to get him in the mail and squeeze him! (Although, Chooch totally thinks that it’s HIS doll.)

I can see Chooch and I are going to be doing a lot of sibling-esque fighting over Vic.

Earlier today, there was a gentle, friendly knock upon my door. “Probably Hot Naybor Chris wanting to use Henry for sex tools,” I thought.

(*Or SEX TOOLS!) 

Then there was another congenial little rap, followed by the sound of the door opening.

I was in the middle of making new serial killer Valentines*, so you can imagine where my mind went.

(*More on this later; I’m super excited about it!)

But it was just the mailman, putting a giant box between my doors. A giant box of FRUIT from my friend Andrea in California! She hooked me the fuck up. Persimmons, guava, honey tangerines, cactus pears, a giant Mexican papaya that didn’t survive the flight…plus CANDY!

You know I’m on a fucking fruit kick when I literally toss the CANDY aside in order to gain better access to the FRUIT.

 Henry came home from work and I screamed, “HURRY UP AND CUT THIS FRUIT FOR MY FRUIT SALAD!” He glanced at the mound of exotic Californian fruit and growled, “Andrea!” in the vein of Pee Wee finding out Francis! stole his bike.

Look at that bitchin’ prickly pear! When I have to Wiki how to eat the fruit in my fruit salad, you know shit’s about to get cray. I should have done my research beforehand, but then I wouldn’t have found out that eating the green part of the prickly pear is a bad idea. Tasted like spicy cucumber and I openly wept a little, loud enough for my office neighbor Angie to ask me WTF was wrong. When she learned that I was just being weird with my fruit, she seemed to lose interest in my plight. I could have been seriously injured!

Then my friend Kevin from Miami (another place that probably has much better fruit than stupid Pittsburgh) told me on Facebook that he bought a sapodilla today. I Googled it and learned that it tastes like brown sugar and ROOT BEER?! WHAT!? I emailed the link to Lee, who is working late shift with me tonight, and he told me I have a full blown problem.

I put in a call  to my fruit purveyor and she’s putting her feelers out for sapodilla. She said she might even have a cherimoya hookup!

What if I became a fruit blogger?

[See also: This Post.]

A few weeks ago, I made one of my bi-annual trips to the grocery store, much to Henry’s chagrin. He’s very focused on the things we need, like milk and toilet paper, but when I’m there with him, I like to jack up the bill with my natural ability to sniff out expensive foods.

On this particular day, I saw a gross-looking thing called a Sharon. No, not your ex-wife. It was some kind of ugly tomato thing, so I tossed it in the cart.

“You don’t even know what that is!” Henry cried. Oh noes, I just added $1-something to his stupid tab! Get over it!

Anyway, I googled it on the way home and it is apparently a persimmon from Israel. You know what else it is? Fucking delicious. Henry totally thought I was going to hate it, I could tell by the way he slid the plate of cut-up Sharon across the table and then ran for cover. But instead, I was pleasantly pleased by the gentleness of the fruit, the subtle cinnamon notes, the non-grotesque texture.

I can’t believe you guys let me become 33 years old without ever knowing that I like persimmons. THANKS A LOT.

So now of course, I’m on a persimmon pilgramage straight to a little place I like to call Palate Paradise. I brought a Sharon to work with me on Monday and then texted Christina about it. She lives near the best grocery store of all time, Jungle Jim’s. I figured, if some asshole can walk into that place and purchase a durian, surely they must have an array of persimmon that’s downright pornographic. I wanted her to find out for me, so she called the produce department and ended up getting an extensive oral history.

Now I’m jealous that Christina might know more about my beloved tree diamonds than I do.

Anyway, the verdict was that, while Jungle Jim’s typically has three persimmon types to offer, they currently are only selling two. Sharons are one of them.

At lunch with Carey on Monday, I tried to strike up a friendly and not at all awkward conversation about persimmons. Funny, but I guess there isn’t a whole lot to really be said about them beyond “I like them a lot.” And then I spent the rest of the day at work looking up dessert recipes for them.

“THERE’S PERSIMMON PUDDING?!?” I email-shouted at Carey.

“I guess so,” she replied. I clearly need to find myself a more enthusiastic produce pal.

Wikipedia taught me that persimmons are popular Asian fruits, so I decided that it was imperative to visit the Asian markets yesterday. Maybe we’d get lucky and arrive right after a massive persimmon harvest.

Chooch is really into Asian horror movies; his favorite is “Ju-On,” which is funny because I don’t think he’s even seen the original, just all the sequels. However, he just doesn’t understand that “Ju-On” is not the name of a character, but rather a concept. It literally means “grudge.”  So he is always saying things like, “What if Ju-On is hiding behind that bush?” or “Look Mommy, I’m dancing like Ju-On to ‘Call Me Maybe’!” We even wrote “To Chooch, From Ju-On” on one of his Christmas presents, because if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right?

Chooch got Ju-On 2 for Christmas.

Chooch was stoked when I found this thing I filled out in 2004 on LiveJournal, where I listed “Ju-On” as being one of my Top 7 movies. (LOL @ Alice Doesn’t LiveR Here Anymore.)

In front of the second market we stopped at, a group of Asian girls were outside, stuffing food into suitcases. (Seriously, I have no idea what that was about.)

“They all look like Ju-On!” Chooch exclaimed. “That’s a good sign.” I tried to tell him that he was being rude, but you know, he’s six. To him, he’s being observant.

Chooch walked around the market, casting accidental aspersions every which way. “Ew, that looks DISGUSTING!” was his very succinct review of every single Asian food product, except for the box of Pokemon-like trading cards.

And then he started singing Gangnam Style.

There were no persimmons in either market we went to, however, there were copious amounts of treats in temptingly-packaged bags. Henry wanted to buy nothing but a bag of fresh green beans, but I just kept coming at him with the harajuku of snackfoods: plum candy, durian taffy, pudding marshmallows, Pocky (really, the only safe bet in these joints), some kind of 3:15pm Rose Milk Tea that I am only going to drink at exactly 3:15 because I’m scared to do otherwise.

“You’re not going to like any of that!” Henry cried, but I insisted that I knew what I was doing. (Just like that time in 2004 when I came home from Cincinnati with a durian.)

“We have to get this!” I shouted, shaking a container of some kind of fried sesame balls in the air.

“How much is it?” Henry wondered, pushing down his glasses to get a better look.

“Can you really put a price on a happy mouth?” I shot back, and it was literally the first time in maybe 2 years that Henry actually laughed at something I said. Too bad I was being serious.

Persimmon-less and with $50 less in the bank, we were in the car and I was tearing open bags of Asian crap-candy. “You’re going to eat all of this whether you like it or not,” Henry said in his Scary-But-Not-Scary Dad Voice just as I stuffed a taro/sweet potato “cake” into my Western mouth.

I like taro.

I like sweet potato.

I like cake.

Still, I should have known that in Asian cuisine, these mean completely different things. I tried to act like it was the equivalent of sucking on Jonny Craig’s tongue, but no amount of ginger mouth-muscles could get me to stop pulling my face into a montage of dry-heaval.

I almost killed myself trying to spit that shit out the window. It tasted of sewage and fear.

Long story long, persimmons were procured at the regular grocery store and, with the addition of longan (my favorite froyo topping!), lychee and jackfruit all purchased in the canned food aisle at the Asian market, I brought the most exotic and overpriced fruit salad to work with me today.

Fuck an apple. They’re old news.

Look out co-workers. I’m bringing in my rejected candy bounty for you guys. Plum candy all day long! Mmm, happy mouths for you! It won’t at all taste like you’re sucking on the toes of Takashi Miike’s nightmares.

I won’t share my Sharons, though. Not even with Ju-On. I might have what you’d call persimmon parsimony. OH, I WENT THERE.

After asking Henry repeatedly to buy me “No Room For Rockstars,” a Warped Tour cinéma vérité, for my birthday last summer and then not receiving it because God forbid Henry should break his streak of never buying me a gift, ever, I finally bought it for myself as an early Christmas gift.

(It’s the only way, really.)

I watched it yesterday before work and wouldn’t you know I cried through the whole thing? Ask my cat Marcy. She was there.

I cried because there was so much footage of a premortem Mitch Lucker and his little girl. And I cried because Kevin Lyman, the Godfather of Warped, has made so many dreams come true for so many little bands. And then I cried some more knowing that I’m given that one day every summer as a vacation from being a “grown-up,” from sitting in an office, from never really belonging anywhere else. I’ve been ridiculed about it so many times from people who just don’t get it, or can’t be bothered to try and understand, but that doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s where I feel at home. In fact, I brought some of my Warped Tour photos to work so whenever I feel overwhelmed or down, I can look up and do a quick countdown in my head to next summer.

And yes, I already have my ticket for next summer. Presale FTW!

Anyway, here’s the trailer for anyone who might be curious.

Hi, hello! The first week of the new Law Firm Walking Challenge has been going swimmingly (walkingly?). The first day, I lapped my way to an easy 20,000 steps by walking to Seri’s house, which is only 1.88 miles away, but to be fair to my awesomeness, I didn’t get there by walking a straight shot – I zig-zagged up and down several side streets, whaddup.

Anyway, I allowed myself to stay temporarily idle long enough for Seri to say nice things to me, stick a bottle of water in my mouth and ply me with a cookie. I had 6800 steps when I arrived at her house, but after walking one block into my departure, I still only had 6800.

STOMACH: SINKING.

But then I realized I had the pedometer showing the aerobic steps, which don’t move until you’ve been walking at a quick pace for a certain period of time.

I had 12,000 steps by noon!

I wasn’t even angry when Teammate Barb called off work! Or when Amber¹ didn’t seem as gung-ho as last time. I even chose to ignore the fact that Carey had less steps than Stephen Hawking and opted to focus instead on the fact that she was even wearing her pedometer at all.

By the time I left work at 8:30, I had 20,000 steps!

This time, I’m doing things differently. I’m staying calm. I’m not going to berate my team members (for now). But apparently, I’m still verbally Bobbiting Henry as ruthlessly as I was last time.

“Oh boy,” he said with mock surprise as he drove me to work on Tuesday (I’d walk if I could). “It’s only day 2 and you’re already being a bitch. Can’t wait until day 5.”

Two hours later, he was driving back downtown to deliver me my TOMS after I discovered that the shoes I wore to work were too painful to aggressively walk in.

God, what a sucker. I mean, thank you Henry! You’re my hero!

Chooch being in school this time around has given me ample opportunity to rack up tons of steps before work. However, Wednesday I had to contend with him being home from school plus RAIN. So I made him mall-walk with me and all the elderlies.

He was thrilled. But we actually had a pretty good time. I was even going to be a decent mom and buy him something for going along with my walking madness.

We walked into Claire’s because he saw Frankenweenie swag as we walked by.

“What brings you here today?” the store manager asked us, and I launched into this manic explanation of the Law Firm Walking Challenge, flashing my pedometer at her as Chooch groaned and the manager appeared sorry that she asked. I guess she was expecting me to exclaim, “Just wanted to buy some sweet ass Hello Kitty pasties.”

Chooch ended up finding a wallet he liked. (“IT’S SO SOFTTTTTTT!” he kept cooing. Meet the lighter side of Chooch, fan of furry panda change purses.)

Speaking of wallets, this was the part of the day when I realized I left mine at home. The Claire’s manager looked super pissed that she listened to my walking challenge story and didn’t even get a sale out of it.

Before we left, Chooch, around a mouthful of giggles, “dared” me to go into Victoria’s Secret. Then he saw a spotted stuffed dog in the middle of the store and said, “Um…I’m just gonna run in there real fast and look at that….stuffed dog.” And that is exactly what he did, rubbernecking around to ogle all the over-sized pictures of models on the wall while he was half-assedly petting the stuffed dog.

Just now, Henry saw Purple Pants walk past the house and said, “She’s probably at about 70,000 steps by now.”  Ugh! I have to go walk some more! I want to walk to Lisa’s husband’s graduation party today but I don’t think I’d make it there on time.

The fries I had with my sandwich at Frank & Shirley’s were the kinds that make me close my eyes and cry out in disturbing ecstasy. Deep-fried crispy shell with a buttery middle that melted on my dirty tongue, holy shit I ate those bitches like it was a fucking religious experience.

“I can’t remember the last time I had fries this good,” I moaned. I’m the kind of broad who will pick through fries on my dining companions’ plates, searching for “good ones.” Past boyfriends have written case studies on it.

“California,” Henry answered.

“Huh?” I asked, tonguing a masticated potato like I was being filmed for money.

“At that Greek restaurant, remember?”

“Um, Henry? I barely remember anything about that trip [to Coachella in ’04]; I had major rage blackouts.”

And then Henry finished the rest of his omelet with a frown, because I guess that trip meant more to him.

The pet cemetery where Speck and Don are buried isn’t exactly conveniently located, but we try to get out there as much as we can with bouquets of flowers, because I just can’t bear the thought of them thinking we’ve forgotten them. And laying flowers on their graves really makes me feel a little bit more at peace.

We have to go back up with a Sharpie because Speck’s name is wearing off her temporary grave marker. Next year, both burial plots will be ready for real, fancy plaques. (Henry is off somewhere as I type this, psychically cringing at the cost.)

I’ve always been obsessed with death. My pappap dying in ’96 really fucked me up good, as evidenced by the way my life spiraled and snowballed out of control after that, leading up to my eventual decision to drop out of high school. I spend more time in cemeteries than most people, even celebrating Christmas there every year, and I once strongly considered going into mortuary science. (I even toured the school and still think about doing this often.)

I know, it’s surprising I’m not Goth. But I never really felt the need to “look” the part, I guess.

Speck and Don dying five months apart from each other has really made me hit rock bottom. I’m even more obsessed with death and old funeral home paraphernalia and have been decorating our future home around this morbid fascination and also the old wheelchair thing, which seems to complement the other beautifully. I’ve been buying post-mortem pictures and old photos of handicapped people on eBay. I might be losing it, I don’t know, but it has been distracting me from how much I hate our current home and it’s been keeping me sort of calm, so Henry just keeps his mouth shut. There are just too many memories here and I want out. And somehow my subconscious has decided that my next house needs to be decorated with other people’s memories, if that makes sense.

I don’t really know what is happening.

I am in a complete state of comedown today. Yesterday was such a blur: I wait all year for it and then it’s over in a whiplash-inducing flash. I’ve already cried in mourning. But the euphoria definitely outweighs the depression!

Before the gates opened.

Finding out Pierce the Veil’s set time was our (my) main priority.

Henry, dryly before Chelsea Grin even took the stage: I can already tell I’m going to love THEM.

I try to let him sit every couple hours.

Emily’s Army. I had a crush on the boy scout.

Ugh, Funeral Party was so sick. Of course there were only 10 people watching them with me because there were no gimmicks or ridiculous wardrobes or KISS-copying.

Waiting for Pierce the Veil.

;

Took this for Chooch. Missed him so much. :(

On the phone with his sister, fondling a broken pair of sunglasses he found on the ground.

AUSTIN CARLILE MAKES ME HAPPY. He screams the demons right the fuck out of my body.

Seriously, the best Mexicans ever. I love Pierce the Veil so hard and will probably start crying about it in 3….2….

The ever-omnipresent Jeffree Starr.

Our annual “I’m Stoked, Henry’s Not” picture. Henry actually did smile a few times though.

LIKE WHEN KELLIN QUINN SANG WITH PIERCE THE VEIL, ADMIT IT HENRY.

Backne popping during Sleeping with Sirens. Please join me in my repulsion.

Finally succumbed to exhaustion around the 7PM mark and crashed on the lawn during Breathe Carolina.

I still have to take the pictures off the regular camera, and I’ll be back with those and an actual account of Henry’s agony.

Fuck, that was the best day of the summer and I can’t wait to do it all over again 100 more times.

You with me, Henry?

This will never fail to make me lose it!

Ironically, listening to Drake (the rapper formerly known as Jimmy “Got Shot” Brooks on Degrassi) has been an immense help in getting through the Law Firm Walking Challenge.

As soon as this is over, I need to have a Degrassi marathon. My brother Corey doesn’t know it yet, but he’s bringing the (Canadian) snacks. My house is a pit, but you guys can come too.

Honestly, I had no intentions of buying anything at the flea market this morning; it was just an excuse to collect some leisure-steps on my pedometer. But then I saw this little Nativity set, and then the guy selling it saw me seeing it and shouted “$2!” How could I say no when I have literally always wanted a Lilliputian nativity set for my desk?

(Might not be entirely based on truth.)

I wish I was fast enough to snap a picture of Henry frowning as he begrudgingly slapped a five in my palm.

The broad in the yellow shirt almost speared my eyeball on the sharp pitchfork she was carrying, dispelling my theory that no one actually goes to the flea market to purchase rusty farm equipment.

Immediately after I took this, my son Mouth yelled, “MOMMY DID YOU JUST TAKE A PICTURE OF THAT MAN’S BUTTCRACK?!” which of course prompted the plunging crack offender to whirl around and glare at us. My solution was to look all around and hum while rapidly (and stiffly) waking to the next table.

He kept yelling, “Hey!” but my completely innocent whistling rendered it impossible for me to hear him, you see.

Look, it’s the guy (and his wobbling eye mole) who educated me about Saint Rita and sold me the majestic Last Rites box! Walking past him, something clicked and I realized that he’s also the same guy from whom I (and by that I mean Henry) bought an old portrait of a child, which I immediately named Uncle Otis and wrote a nonsensical biography.

I can’t wait until I’m this old and stylin’. Mixed animal prints: 100% acceptable past the age of 80.

(The heads of fashion bloggers are now capped by mushroom clouds at the very thought of this ever being OK. But high-waisted shorts and rompers? Wear with dignity!)

Chooch is REALLY into flea market shopping and takes it very seriously. This is him impatiently waving wrestler figurines in the air, trying to get the vendor’s attention. The problem is that later when we’re at Target, he doesn’t understand why all the toys aren’t $1, arguments ensue, we come to blows, you know how it is.

Since I wasn’t looking for anything, I of course found the most amazing clown artifact for the collection I’m going to put in the house in my head. It’s a 1982 Shriner’s relic and if you pull up on the yellow knob and push it back down, the clown spins in a top-like fashion.

I was enamored instantly, but Henry was not particularly in love with the price. But by the time we were ready to leave, Henry sighed and handed me cash, at which point I walked in my usual walking challenge pace (“I hope no one bought it already!” I cried to Henry, who mumbled, “No one bought it, believe me.”), slaloming around asshole kids riding bikes down the pathways (seriously? You can’t just walk, you little menaces?), caterwauling toddlers in strollers, and sun-ravaged biker broads boasting faded rose tattoos on their wrecked bosoms, until I made it back to the men with the prized tin clown.

It was a no nonsense, “here’s the cash, gimme the fucking clown” transaction. I even made real life, unscripted small talk with a tall man passing by, who told me he used to be a clown for parties; we agreed that clowns are so misunderstood when all they want to do is bring joy (and possibly stuff a body or 24 under their floorboards).

Good day at the flea market!

Somehow, someway, Team Apple is #11! I am astounded, to say the least. But this inspired Carey to increase her meandering to a steady gait!

And she even found her pedometer!

OMG I’m one of those 22 people! Actually, my grand total for the week was 152,075. I have the suntan and delirium to prove it.

Two? Three more weeks to go?

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.