The butterfly ring I’ve been wearing on my ring finger since I was 18 broke today. RING FINGER VACANCY! I’m going to hang up fliers everywhere.
Unless Henry wants to do something about it.
Personally, I think it’s a big fat motherfucking sign.
Spending the afternoon watching the hockey game and messing around with old pictures. The one with the barn was taken in Lancaster.
Tonight is Soul Skate and I’m still (still!) not feeling 100%, but I’m going to try my best not to collapse while on skates.
I doubt I can count on Henry for any support tonight. That might give away the fact that we’re a COUPLE.
Here are some pictures of Chooch from this weekend. (I took the time to write that sentence for all the people who suffer from Title Illiteracy.)
God help us.
Harmoniously sharing. (This like, never happens, because we are secretly siblings.)
He can never leave the fucking cat alone. The cat can never stay away.
I like this picture too much not to post it here, too. SHE’S MY BABE.
I think I mentioned last week that I’ve been trying to take a picture a day of Marcy, mostly because she is so hated among my friends. I’ve been having fun with it (when I remember to do it) because the look of disdain Marcy flashes me each time is priceless.
Seriously you guys – when/if Marcy dies, stick a fork in me.
Looking down on me. (Everyone’s favorite sport!)
Skeptical of one of Chooch’s toys
Fishy kisses!
Marcy Dorklestein, early for class.
The Reigning Queen
In other weekend news, I obviously survived my first real life ghost hunt! It was an amazing, visceral experience and I have no idea I will put it all into words.
But trust that there will be a write-up about it sometime this week, with photos. And there was more rollerskating today! So far, the winter is losing the war against my sanity. Fuck off, winter depression.
OMG PRETTY RAINBOW SPARKLES! I might seriously need to be tossed in an asylum when/if (good chance she’s immortal) Marcy perishes.
Nicotina. (See also: Speck, Pickles, Breakfast Nook, Chooch’s Ragdoll)
In other Sunday happenings, I have game night hangover. There was not much game-playing going on last night but it was still a fun time. My stomach hates me for turning it into a cauldron of wine and Strongbow and then plunging so many savory, cream-cheesy dips into it.
I guess we’re getting our Christmas tree today, so that should be annoying.
I might need to go puke a little first.
We were supposed to get some big shot snow storm today, so Henry made me cancel all my plans.
That means I was stuck in the house all day with these assholes.
They’ve been monopolizing my phone like, all day.
I got nothing accomplished during this unwarranted house arrest except for yoga, watching the Capitals get raped by the Rangers, and ruining Henry’s cupcakes by throwing a fistful of marshmallows into each unbaked cup.
Fuck winter.
Chooch walked in while I was having my lips frosted and said, “You’re the biggest idiot, Mommy.”
“Did you already post those pictures?” Henry asked after saying my post-frosted face looks like a chemical burn. When I said I had, he looked all let down. Turns out he wanted me to take a picture of my stained face and tell Andrea that her My Pretty Zombie makeup tried to kill me. He’s just mad because she sent Chooch a whistle.
Pretty much sums up how I feel about 90% of the world’s population lately.
If I didn’t work for a law firm, I might even be persuaded to get this tattooed to my lips permanently. Then I’d walk around, doling out insulting kisses.
But even in spite of all the stupid people, I had a rad weekend with fantastic friends and hope you all did too!
(My lips are totally stained now.
)
Henry brings home a donut for Chooch every Sunday. He looks cute eating it for approximately .002 seconds before all the sugar activates his Asshole Switch.
We decided to take Chooch to the Evans City Cemetery yesterday, where Night of the Living Dead was filmed (even though at least 5 cemeteries in the surrounding areas of Pittsburgh claim to hold that title). I think he was disappointed that there weren’t really any zombies there.
There was, however, a freshly buried body, and two old men hovering atop the loose earth who stared at us suspiciously across the way. I’m sure the locals just love getting visits from assholes like us.
They’re coming to get you, Barbara.
It was about as anticlimactic as you can probably imagine.
Afterward, I was hungry, so hungry; the kind of hunger that’s so intense, it devours any shred of patience and rationality that might still exist somewhere within my dark self, and I turn into the type of woman who might yank the steering wheel from the hands of the driver, causing the car to careen over a bridge into some disgusting river, if only to prove her point that dead bodies do exist beneath the filthy surface.
“How about Hank’s?” Henry suggested. “It’s Mexican.”
He made to pull into the lot and I yelled, “Um, I am NOT eating at a Mexican establishment named after some guy named HANK.” Then I saw that you ordered through a window and were expected to eat outside, at dirty picnic tables. (So maybe I wasn’t close enough to actually see the surfaces of the tables, but I just know. I just know.) “Oh and I am NOT eating outside,” I added, crossing my arms and scowling out the window. This is truth right here, not hyperbole.
“You know, I think you only do this shit to me,” Henry said, on his way to poutsville. “I bet when you’re out with other people, it’s never this hard to find a place to eat.”
At least three dozen traumatic food-finding scenarios with Christina flashed through my mind, but I said nothing.
“If you did this shit to Alisha,” Henry added. “she wouldn’t still be friends with you.
“
This is probably very true.
We settled on a stupid place called Ree’s Family Restaurant. It was bad enough the cheese wasn’t melted on my grilled cheese, but when you bring me a slice of blueberry pie and it’s been over-refridgerated to the point of coagulating into a pie-brick, and the crust tastes like the less-flavorful bastard offspring of one of those packaged Hostess pies, you can go choke on a dick, OK? It’s not often that I pass a piece of pie across the table after one fucking bite.
I should have just buried my food expectations in the Evans City Cemetery. Maybe they could make a cameo in the 8th remake of Night of the Living Dead.
Not sure if you heard anything about it, but we got some snow.
Yesterday, Jessi won the title of Best Fiancee in the History of People Getting Engaged by buying Bill two tickets to today’s Steelers game.
Anyway, if you live in Pittsburgh (which I do) and know anything about the Steelers (which I don’t, on purpose even), then you know tickets are kind of hard to come by and not very cheap when you do. So it was kind of a big deal for Bill, whose dream was to see the Steelers play in Heinz Field, and he cried.
I kind of want to steal Jessi from Bill so she can make my dreams come true, too.
This was right after the ticket deal went down at a nearby gas station.
My favorite part of this picture is totally Jessi in the background, God love her.
And here they are today, before they left for the game. You’d never know they’re from Michigan. Until they start talking all weird.
Actually, I guess I had a dream realized as well. Last night, we went to Cheeseman’s Fright Farm, and Freddy Kreuger totally hooked me up with Michael Myers.
I’m talking about Freddy straight up went and FETCHED him for me after Bill and Jessi were all, “Whoa, back up, g. Michael Myers is her boo, not yo’ triflin’ ass” when he tried horror-flirting with me. Plus, on the hayride, one of the chainsaw guys totally sat next to me and gyrated all up on my side while waving the chainsaw in my face, and I have to say, it was pretty fucking erotic.
Bill had an opportunity to do something nice for Jessi in return by letting her pick out one of the bunnies that were for sale (and desperately coveted by her) at Cheeseman’s farm, but Bill hates all things cute and cuddly.
Pass it on.
Also we ate lunch at Kelly O’s yesterday (which has graced an episode of Diners, Dive-Ins and Drives*), where Jessi had her first taste of haluski and also managed to go the whole weekend without getting maimed by my cat Marcy, so I think it’s safe to say we all had a good weekend. Except Henry. He’s always miserable.
I’m sad that they’re leaving today.
[*Apparently, Bill hates Guy Fieri, and one of the things on the menu was “Mush, the way Guy likes it”. Bill ranted, quite disgustedly, “I don’t know what mush is, but if it’s the way Guy likes it, then I know it’s the way I don’t like it.” Maybe I still had some of that apple pie in my system, but that was the funniest thing in the world to me and I wanted to make a plaque to monument that moment.]
I’m not really too much of a neat freak. Anyone who’s been to my house can testify that there is clutter on top of clutter on the coffee table, painting shit & packing supplies all over the dining room table, and toys emerging from every furniture orifice. But the one thing that really gets under my skin is a messy-mess. Play-Doh, the way it leaves trails of little colored turds all over the house. Pudding, the way it never makes it into my son’s mouth and falls into wet puddles on his clothes and the floor. I know that I can clean him off when he’s done, but it’s excruciating for me to have to watch the mess unfold right before my obsessive-complusive eyes.
Yet for some stupid ass reason, I decided (OF MY ACCORD) to squirt some of my paint on a pallette, slide some canvas under Chooch’s nose, and let him go to town. It was funny, because he gingerly dunked his fingers in the yellow and then he kind of just stood there, watching me suspiciously, as if he was waiting for me to freak out that he had sullied himself with the Devil’s art supplies.
But I breathed in real good (Blue’s Clues taught us to stop, breathe and think. It works well for Chooch, but mostly I still want to slaughter a hamlet, collect the eyelids of the citizens for pinata stuffers, and steal their crops for one last kick in the nuts) and reassured him that it was not a trick, that I really wanted him to paint.
And paint he did, for a good hour. And while I feverishly ripped off great lengths of paper towels and stopped him every ten minutes to wipe him down, I was pretty proud of myself for letting him go at it without getting too tightly wound. (And I’m pretty tightly wound to begin with.) And I wasn’t even too stage-mom about it!
Doesn’t he look exhausted here? Like he’s my little Etsy sweatshop worker. MORE PURPLE, YOU LITTLE SHIT! MAMA WANTS AT LEAST $100 FOR THIS SO YOU BETTER MAKE THIS LOOK BETTER THAN A POLLACK!
As he would smear the paint into patterns, he’d walk me through his process.
“This is a road. And this is Kara, and she’s standing with Janna’s parents.” I would like to make a note that my friend Kara hasn’t lived in Pittsburgh for about a year and a half, and though Chooch barely sees her he still includes her in his stories and art. Even after she broke his heart by getting married last summer! I’m not sure if she should be touched or terrified, to be honest. He’s also obsessed with peeing in Kara’s potty, so now I’m worried that he’s going to grow up to be a serial killer with a penchant for leaving his mark in the toilets of his victims.
“I can’t believe she’s not bitching at me for making a mess.”
He seemed to really consider where he wanted to place each color, which impressed me. He’s much more methodical about it than I am. I’m just kind of spastic. He’s going to be so much better than me at everything. (I hope, anyway. Mama wants a beach house.)