Alternately titled: It Was All Henry’s Fault

Redbox Warriors

Chooch and I decided to be strong, independent humans Sunday evening, so we ordered a movie from Redbox (“Possession” — we also wanted to be scared independent humans) and then declared to Henry that we were going to walk to the Redbox a few blocks away outside of CVS to retrieve it all by ourselves.

“And I’m even going to buy TOILET PAPER while we’re there!” I decided, noting that we were down to one roll. (I shudder to think what goes on in the bathroom when it’s occupied by Chooch.

) Henry seemed bemused by this, to say the least.

However, I failed to note that it was about 10 degrees out there. Chooch at least had a heavy coat and hat on so I figured I was probably still within the child abuse margin of error. Although, we had to walk kind of slow because there was ICE EVERYWHERE.

Chooch and Erin against the elements — a scary thought.

Then! Then we stumbled upon a DEAD BIRD on the sidewalk and let out a collective “awwwwww!” We almost retreated after that, but I really wanted that fucking movie.

“What kind of bird do you think it is?” Chooch asked, after hypothesizing on how it died (his theories were way more violent than mine).

“I don’t know, who do you think I am? DADDY?!” And then we started shit-talking Henry, because that is what we do best.

Faces chapped and burning from the icy wind, we had finally made it to the Redbox outside of CVS. It took me three attempts to swipe my credit card because my hands were frozen flesh bricks at this point. After the final swipe, my credit card flung out of my hands and what a real parlor trick that was, trying to pick it up back up with fingertips I could no longer feel. After all of that, Kiosk B said it had no such record of my reservation so we moved on to Kiosk A, which didn’t acknowledge my now-violent credit card swiping AT ALL. (And yes, I was swiping it the correct way! Ask Chooch!!) By this time, there was a small crowd of people waiting for their turn, so I freaked out and announced, “JUST FORGET IT.

THIS IS ALL DADDY’S FAULT ANYWAY!” and drug Chooch inside CVS to hopefully purchase toilet paper without incident. I was totally acting like Splintered Chooch.

Here is a helpful piece of background information: While I have reserved tons of Redbox movies, I have never actually used the machine-thing, except for one time a few months ago, when I thought I would be Really Helpful and walk to the very same Redbox one day and return a movie, but it kept rejecting it. Some woman was standing behind me, causing me severe performance anxiety, and I finally yelled, “FUCK IT!” and went inside to spend money on makeup to piss Henry off, because THIS was all his fault TOO!

Turns out, it was rejecting the DVD case because the DVD wasn’t inside. HENRY’S FAULT FOR NOT PUTTING THE DVD IN THE CASE!!

I called Henry from the toilet paper aisle and completely berated him (in hushed tones, I hate talking on my cell phone in stores!). “This is all your fault! I looked like a complete asshole out there! THIS IS WHY I WANTED YOU TO COME WITH US!” Then I hung up on him.

OK. The part about me and Chooch wanting to be independent humans? That’s not completely accurate. The truth is that HENRY didn’t want to walk there with us so we sort of had no choice but to go alone.

Henry called back. “Were you at the right kiosk?” he asked innocently, which made me see the bloodiest red that ever redded.

“I’m not an idiot!” I hissed, still extremely cognizant of the people around me and God forbid I should start fitting the Brookline stereotype of broadcasting my domestic disputes. And then, “Since this is all your fault, why don’t you just come here and do it yourself!” And END CALL.

In the checkout line, two guys in dirty beige coveralls stood behind me, hawking up a storm and being your basic white trash Yinzer pricks. The guy closest to me took a call on his cell and literally it felt like he was standing inside my ear, showering me with this terrible Pittsburgh cachinnation and coating the back of my head with the essence of date rape and Steelers. I kept inching forward but there was no escaping his grating voice. Meanwhile, Chooch is looking at the fronts of all the gossip magazines, asking me, “Who’s this broad? Who’s that? And her? And him?” because if it’s not someone that’s on the cover of Alternative Press, he’s clueless. But every question made my heart race faster and faster because MOMMY IS IN A BAD MOOD, OK SON?! Commotion was all around me! I just wanted quiet!

“How’s your evening?” the young cashier asked when it was our turn to check out.

“Fine,” I said.

But at the same time, Chooch, in his typical high-pitch, shouted, “MOMMY’S CREDIT CARD DIDN’T WORK IN THE RED BOX SO NOW WE CAN’T GET OUR MOVIE!” And of course, he would pick the moment when Pittsburgh Asshole put away his cell phone and approximately 12 other people had joined our line. And of course, I hadn’t paid for the toilet paper and his fucking apple juice yet so the cashier was kind of looking at me like, “Bitch, if you can’t afford a $1.50 movie from Redbox, you might not be wiping your ass tonight.”

“That’s not why!” I snapped at Chooch, while swiping my credit card. At least CVS recognized the existence of my credit card! “It’s because Daddy is an idiot!”

I don’t know how this was Henry’s fault, but give me time and I’ll write a manifesto.

I snatched the CVS bag off the counter and stormed off outside, where Henry was waiting for us in the car. He took my credit card and JUST LIKE THAT the movie was in his hands.

“I SWIPED THAT MOTHERFUCKER A MILLION TIMES! CHOOCH, TELL HIM!”

Chooch actually agreed! He usually likes to pick these moments to be infuriatingly contrary.

“I believe you,” Henry sighed. “Now get in the car.”

“FUCK YOU! I’M WALKING HOME!” I cried, a little confused about why I was still feeling so much anger but still certain it was all Henry’s fault.

Henry just laughed (HE LAUGHED AT ME!) and patiently said OK.

A block away, Chooch and I lost it and started cracking up.

“I bet daddy’s going to be so pissed that we didn’t get him a drink!” Chooch giggled, which made me giggle to the point of tears. Henry has this thing where he HAS TO BUY A DRINK anytime he’s at a store, no matter what store he’s at. Bonus points if they sell those nondescript jugs of iced tea. And anytime I happen to (rarely) go to a store without him, he acts like I cheated on him if I come home beverageless. Bitch works at a fucking Faygo plant! Bring your own shit home! And really, in 12 years, when have I ever thoughtfully picked something up for him at the store without being told to first? He’s lucky I’m courteous enough to order a drink for him at restaurants when he’s in the bathroom.

Everything we went through and that movie wasn’t even all that good. But at least the new episode of The Walking Dead was on right after.

Chooch and I talked A LOT about that dead bird and how fucked we’re going to be if Henry dies/leaves/quits doing shit for us.

The other day, I was wandering around the streets of downtown on my break. This is only slightly dangerous, as I’ve been learning a lot about my surroundings, i.e. how to find my way back to The Law Firm. I decided that I wanted to check out the Christkindlmarket in Market Square, which is basically a fancy way of saying, “Look, we built tiny store fronts full of European wares.”

Of course, I needed to see if there were any Bavarian-flavored goods being sold, but while I was out there, I noticed that SANTA CLAUS IS THERE! AND HE HAS HIS OWN HOUSE!

I have been around many Santas in my day, but never have I felt so strong a desire to have my picture taken with one.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any money on me, and besides, I was already “accused” of having “no friends” so why get a picture taken proving that? It would be way more fun wrangling some of my work friends, I mean “colleagues,” to join me.

I came running back to work and burst into Carey’s office. After I panted out my request, she promised that she would go with me the next day.

So yesterday I painted my nails all Christmas-like, put on an emerald green silk shirt for extra yueltide flair, and even spent some extra time straightening my hair all nice and un-hobo-like….

…only to get to work and have Carey tell me she was “too busy.”

“But your hair looks really nice today!” she said as a way to compensate for my rapidly falling face.

“Yeah, because I THOUGHT I was getting my picture taken with Santa today,” I said in a huff.

Meanwhile, Barb had left early, Wendy said she was too scared (like I brought my own Santa or something), and Gayle and Amber1 had already taken their breaks. However, Amber2 told me that if I could hold my red-nosed horses until Monday, she would happily go with me. (I should have just asked her in the first place, since she’s also the person who went Furry-hunting with me last June.)

But then today Carey casually proposed that we go get felt up by Santa. At first I was like, “WTF, I look like crap* today!”

*(See also: “normal”)

Whatever. Sane hair or Hobo hair, I was getting my fucking picture taken with Santa’s fat ass one way or another. I was so excited and ran around rubbing it into everyone’s faces (Glenn responded with a blank stare).

But when Carey and I got down there, we found out that it was cash or food donation only. No credit cards. My heart sank—I didn’t have enough time to run to an ATM because my break was halfway over by then.

Carey shrugged and said she had nothing, so I hung my head and we walked away.

As we retreated, I noticed an older black woman up ahead and recoiled at her appearance. But then I thought to myself, “Oh, she has zombie makeup on. There must be a zombie event happening.”

(Pittsburgh is the Zombie capital of the world, so…not unusual.)

But as we got closer, I realized that there was actually something wrong with her. Her face was ashy, about four shades lighter than the rest of her, and she was wearing bright red lipstick.

Her hair? THAT was legit hobo hair.

And then she opened her mouth to reveal a pit full of rotted stubs.

“Excuse me, do you got any money so I can get some dinner?” she asked in a panhandling drawl.

“No,” I replied, walking away and leaving Carey to have her face gnawed off for dinner by Hobo Zombie.

I didn’t really think anything of it. I knew that Carey was going to Chipotle to get dinner and I had to get back to work.

Ten minutes later, I was at Barb’s desk, whining about how once again, I was Santa pictureless, when Carey marched by with her bag of Chipotle.

“Thanks for leaving me with that homeless woman,” she spat. “What a great way to treat your Santa wingman.”

I lost it, totally folded myself in half with giddy laughter.

“Wait, what’s this?” Barb asked. “You conveniently left that part of the story out!”

“And just so you know, when I was in Chipotle I discovered that I actually did have leftover cash, so that’s what you get for deserting me.” And then, as her office door shut behind her, Carey tacked on an effective, “Asshole.”

I walked away, crying with laughter, while various co-workers noted with sarcasm my valiant propensity at having the backs of friends.

Later, upon further discussion, Carey and I deduced that the beggar may have been a black albino.

“How terrible to be TWO minorities,” Carey said solemnly, but I only started laughing harder. Then I returned to my office, where I laughed alone for the next 30 minutes.

In other work news: I used the microwave here for the first time last night and totally fucked that up.

I was actually able to pay attention to the rest of the tour now that Andrea’s picture was planted, but shit — I was tired of listening to organ music and Dick’s scripted adages. Furthermore, I realized that there was not a single wheelchair in Chuck’s collection. (Excuse me while I pause here and Google “German wheelchairs.”)

(OMG German Shephards in doggy wheelchairs – abort mission. ABORT MISSION!!)

One of my favorite parts of the tour happened about 2 minutes after I took this picture, and that was when Dick started bitching about his failure to wear suspenders that day while hoisting up his ill-fitting pants.

Classic Dick.

Then we listened to a machine that some fools consider to be a “calliope.” Don’t be an ignorant asshole, OK? It’s a band organ. If you don’t know the difference, then get off my fucking lawn.

Calliope. Morons.

Meanwhile, Shelly was  right behind me, sitting at one of the 87 bars, making me all self-conscious and completely paranoid. So I folded my arms and mimicked the facial expressions of the Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All to make it appear that I was Really Into It and hadn’t just committed reverse theft.

The completely-wasted, superfluous wine cellar. When having a wet bar in every room of your house just isn’t enough.

Dick didn’t point out the bottle of Mad Dog this time,which proves he only did that last December in hopes that Andrea would shout, “Mad Dog? Why, that’s my jam!” and then he could take her (and the bottle) up to his creepy, cordoned-off Bayernhof bachelor pad.

The weird, man-made cavern secret passageway that leads from the basement to the indoor pool area is the money shot of the tour. Talk about saving the best for last.  Fuck all those weird fake Calliope things!

I wonder how many of Chuck’s old party guests fornicated down in there.

Shit, son!

I can’t express how badly I want to swim in this pool. I might even write some poetry about it.

Um, of course there’s a gnome-covered bar in the pool area.

Yeah, that’s what I thought too, until Dick caught me giggling, sighed tiredly and said, “They’re shoeing a horse.”

At the very end of the tour, Dick had Shelly pass out a basket of comment cards.

“And if you’d like to volunteer and do what Shelly does, please leave your contact information on the back of the card,” Dick added, and I practically pushed people into the pool in my mad dash for a comment card.

Like there was going to be any shortage.

At first, I panicked when I realized every single person was filling out a card, but I think I was the only one awesome enough to volunteer my door-shutting, eagle-eyed services.

“You sure you want to do this?” Shelly asked, and I jumped a little, not realizing she had sidled up that close to me.

“Why?” I asked, with a nervous laugh, half-expecting her to clamp some kind of edelweiss-branded handcuff on me and hauling me off for questioning, where I would be forced to admit my picture frame deviancy while fake calliopes blasted out my ear drums from all angles.

“Well, some people can be annoying,” she whispered and then just as I was sure she meant me, she smiled and I realized she was clearly referring to Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All.

But…probably Dick.

Shelly ended up being pretty cool. I know this because I shook her hand and it was pretty cool.

***

Later that night, I was excitedly telling Henry about my dreams of spending more time at the Bayernhof, getting to know the real Dick (his name is apparently Tony, who knew? I guess everyone who was actually paying attention), and just otherwise immersing myself in weird German crap.

“Yeah, until he finds that picture and goes back and watches the tapes,” Henry said smugly, dashing my dreams.

;

Finally, we got the approval to decorate for Halloween again this year! I’ve known since last October what I was going to do this year.

Last year’s was so graphic and murder-y, so I decided to go a different route: clowns. It seems like most of the department are coulrophobic! And it just so happens I have a few clowns in my collection.

Henry and I had a huge fight about the fabric. I’m sorry but fabric stores are gross! I didn’t want to be there at all, and I threw a massive fit about how ridiculous it was that I couldn’t find striped fabric.

“You only looked in one rack!” Henry cried, whic prompted me to scathe, “Oh, don’t you talk to me that way!

” and storm out of the store. Sunday was a fabulous day!

(Obviously, I sent him back out for the fabric.)

(The randomly jutting clown shoe scares Brad.)

So, one of the first components I began working on last week was defacing pictures of Glenn.

Watching me turn Glenn into a Juggalo, Lee asked, “What started your beef with Glenn, anyway?”

This gave me pause. You know, I can’t be certain exactly what happened, but I know that he sassed me one time. And for that, he will forever be my joke-pony.

Anyway, the seedling of my idea was to get a bunch of those prize machine capsules and fill it with candy and a picture of Glenn (collect them all!).

Crooked Cop Glenn!

Stripper Glenn!

I also made a bunch of department-centric fortunes. My favorite is: Never underestimate the power of a Barb Riley Nastygram.

So I did all of these things, ordered those plastic vending capsules in bulk, and then thought to myself, “WTF am I putting these in?” Certainly not just a random bowl. So I made a beachball-sized paper mache clown head (with Henry’s help—I’m not allowed to use the hand mixer). It took all weekend and was one of the most frustrating projects of my life (hi, I hate crafts, remember?), but I am so in love with him now! My babe!

It’s surprising to me how many people either hesitated or flat out refused to put their hand in his mouth, like I am so untrustworthy! Barb is so thrilled she gets to stare at the back of his bald head all day.

And what goes along with carnivals and circuses? Side show freaks!

Carey as the Tattooed Lady! A Fiji Mermaid!

Midget pacifier-sucking Brad! Bloody circus peanuts!

Ringmaster A-ron!

Chris and Lee, Ultimate Law Firm Bromance! (Lee is so angry and traumatized about this.)

;

Moustache and beard lollipops!

Fiji Mermaid up close!

Barb the Contortionist!

Random babies in a bottle!

So, this is why I haven’t been writing much on here lately: I’ve got a one-track mind!

Mostly, it’s been received very positively. I mean, it’s fun! It’s interactive! It’s mean-spirited toward Glenn (who secretly loves it)! Even some people who don’t usually talk to me have stopped to appreciate it. I just hope that the few anti-fun people here don’t get upset and complain.

But if last year’s Murder Desk was allowed to carry on throughout the entire month, I don’t see why this one can’t, too.

I still have some more things to do, but one thing’s for sure: all the clown haters sure do love me right now.

Knock, knock Toboggan. Mama’s home.

Henry and I took the day off work two weeks ago with the intent of going to Idlewild. I was unnaturally stoked about this, even going so far as to make Chooch sit here with me and watch YouTube videos of various Idlewild rides. But then, the Monday before this was supposed to happen, Henry happened to go to their website and saw that it was closed on the day we were going.

What the fuck kind of amusement park closes on a Thursday in August.

I was devastated. Of course, this became Henry’s problem.  I’m not the kind of person who is going to sit at home doing fuck-all on her day off.  It was Blame Henry all week long, until I finally got him to agree to just take us to crappy old Lakemont instead. Didn’t want to go to Kennywood again, having already been there once this summer, same with DelGrosso’s. Lakemont just seemed logical.

(And I always forget that two hours is a long way to drive for a park that small, but I digress.)

God, I’m on a ride for two minutes and Henry is already practically sticking his dick in some other broad. Yeah, Henry. I KNOW you were ogling White Tank Top tits out of your side eyes.

Going up the Toboggan tube.

Half-senile guy who sells tickets for the OLDEST ROLLER COASTER IN THE WORLD, YOU GUYS. It costs an extra $2 to ride Leap the Dips, but that money goes to keeping it restored so I’m OK with paying it. It’s worth it to ride it at least once….

…even though I totally broke my back on one of the dips, when I was tossed into the air and landed with a sickening crunch as my spine was accordianed.

Chooch and I had a pretty choleric argument on the bumper cars, because he kept turning the wheel the wrong way which made us go in reverse. I kept trying to rench it out of his hands to properly right us, which made him extremely cross.

“Stop doing that!” he cried.

“Then stop turning it the wrong way! You’re making everyone slam into us!”

“THAT’S THE POINT! THAT’S WHY IT’S CALLED BUMPER CARS! OH MY GOD!” he snarled.

“Yeah, but not by GOING IN REVERSE!

” I countered, yanking the wheel from his hands once more.

By the time the ride was over, Henry walked toward the exit looking like he just had the best hand job of his life while Chooch and I continued to shove each other and bicker the entire way off the ride. Totally frustrating and embarrassing. The whole point was that we were supposed to gang up on Henry, NOT EACH OTHER.

Henry was absolutely miserable all day until this became his view.

It was super-crowded that day.

We took a break from the sun beneath a pavilion for a few minutes, which happened to be just long enough for us to witness the  meltdown of a little boy. Chooch was watching this with wide-eyes, and then said, “WOW.” Yeah, like he’s never done anything like that before.

Chooch is finally tall enough to ride the Round-Up. He kept balking in its presence, but I finally wheedled his masculinity enough for him to finally snap and say, “FINE I’LL RIDE IT! GOD!” Of course, he absolutely loved it and giggled uncontrollably as centrifugal force plastered him against the cage. So then we had to ride it two more times.

I mostly didn’t mind because I was exchanging flirty banter with the ride operator like I was still a slutty 18-year-old at the goddamn fair and not in fact there with my 6-year-old son while our old man sat his hemorrhoids down on a bench and waited.

We left after three hours, which is more than enough time to ride the whopping eight rides that Lakemont houses. The whole way back to the car, Chooch had one of those temper tantrums that he seemed to think was so ridiculous coming from some other kid. Thank god he slept nearly the whole way home so Henry and I got to listen to all of my music in peace.

Nowhere inside the Palace of Gold lobby could I find even a footnote about the cafeteria. I thought this was pretty strange, because eating is important, especially since we were in the hills of West Virginia and would probably have to skin a groundhog or worse – a Miley Cyrus fan – if we wanted to replenish all the energy we exerted being faux-spiritual in some dead Indian’s palace. What kind of establishment doesn’t post all kinds of ephemera directing visitors to their cafeteria?

I wasn’t leaving that joint without having my fat, heretic mouth fed the food of Krishna. I waited for the annoying redneck with the baby oiled-hair daughter to suck up by donating $10 to the repair fund, and then I sidled up to our shorn-headed guide and, in a tone reserved for a man inquiring about a happy ending, asked, “So, where’s the cafeteria?”

She seemed slightly surprised, I guess because most whities get their fill of the Palace and all of its splendors and then go back home to eat real food at McDonald’s. But not these whities. We didn’t just drive 80 miles from Pittsburgh for a 30 minute tour without ingesting some sort of edible souvenir.

“The cafeteria isn’t located in the Palace. It’s down by the temple and lodging,” she explained.

“Ok,” I replied, not about to be deterred. “Is it walkable?” She said it was only a quarter of a mile down the street and come on, this is the #7-ranked Walking Challenge Specialist in Pittsburgh, PA. A quarter of a mile ain’t shit.

But first we stopped at the gift shop, where the middle-aged cashier was talking to her friend on the phone the entire time (Seri said they were talking about someone having a mistress; I was too busy trying to keep my eyeballs from aooga‘ing over all the baubles) and had the audacity to ask if I could pay with cash instead of credit because she didn’t want to get off the phone. That doesn’t seem like something Sri Krishna would want his peoples to do.

I paid with my credit card.

Seri and I got matching bracelets to celebrate our independence from our men-folk! The only man for me is Swami P-dawg, anyway.

We walked the short distance down the street, passing nothing but fields, and then cows, before arriving at what I guess was New Vrindiban’s city center. We had to ask about the cafeteria one more time before finding it on the other side of the Lodge and a small playground occupied by happy Krishnan children. (Krishnan is probably completely incorrect but it sounds so, so right.)

Finally, we stumbled upon the open-door to Govinda’s Restaurant and walked in RIGHT BEHIND MY INDIAN ENEMY from the tour. God, I would have thought he had been halfway home on his high horse by then.

We walked into the cafeteria and were immediately met with a strong sense of awkward. The West Virginian red necks had probably bailed on the cafeteria in favor of Jeb’s pig roast, so that just left me and Seri as the outsiders. But I refused to be chased away by racial discomfort. Not on an empty stomach, anyway.

Turns out the secret mystery food of the Hare Krishnas is your regular Indian fare. How did it not occur to me that this was just going to be Indian food? I’m not sure what I thought it was going to be, but I was definitely hoping for some gold-plated pudding at least.

Still, I could be content with Indian food, especially since the last 87 times I suggested it to Henry, I was denied. What’s a girl gotta do to suck down some curry?

Drive 80 miles and consider converting to a new religion, apparently.

Seri, not being a big fan of Indian cuisine, was not as content with the Hare Krishna offerings, though. However, there were traditional American items on the menu too, for all the honky posers who are driven there by the power of George Harrison’s seminal hit “My Sweet Lord;” things like pizza and grilled cheese.

There was no organization to the ordering system, so we just kind of stood in the middle of the cafeteria like two maladroit dummies, until I finally had the foresight to approach the counter. Seri followed me, for I am her leader.

Too bad INDIAN DICK  beat us there and proceeded to naan-block us while scribbling out his family of five’s order. (There was a teenage boy with them who evidently skipped the tour of the Palace in favor of sexting his boo. WWSP-DD?)

(What Would Swami P-Dawg Do? Obviously.)

But then I made eye contact with the guy behind the counter who had a head tattoo. I wasn’t about to piss around with the menu so I just ordered the lunch buffet. Since Hare Krishnas are vegetarians, I felt confident in my decision. Finally, I could eat the shit out of a buffet without accidentally biting into bull testicle.

Part of the buffet had just been taken back into the kitchen when we arrived because I think they were getting ready to switch to the dinner selections, so Head Tattoo told me, “I will just prepare plate for you.” You don’t argue with a man with a head tattoo, even if he bears an uncanny resemblance to Aziz Ansari. (He totally didn’t. I just wanted to see if your Racism Bell tolled.)

While we waited, Seri watched a man eating alone behind us. “What’s that?” she asked me, pointing to a plate in the middle of his table.

“I don’t know. Maybe like some kind of pot pie or something?” I shrugged. It turned out it was naan. In my defense, my eyes are REALLY BAD.

Head Tattoo came back with two full trays. “Oh,” I started. “I ordered the buffet for myself—”

“No! It’s OK. I’ll take it,” Seri said as she retrieved the tray. When in New Vrindiban, eat like New Vrindibanians. I was infinitely proud of her for that.

The non-head-tattooed cashier told me there was a $10 minimum for credit cards, so I told her to add a mango lassi.

“How do you know what that is?” Seri whispered.

“Because I’ve eaten in Indian restaurants before,” I whispered back, hoping that she wouldn’t expose my Caucasian roots.

“Yeah, but how did you know to order that?!” she persisted.

“Because I saw it on the menu!” I hissed under my breath, so INDIAN DICK wouldn’t catch wind of the cracker bitch trying to play like a seasoned lassi drinker. God, that was all I needed was for him to smirk at me.

Indian food is some of the most visually disgusting slop this side of homemade baby food. But Krishnadamn, is it good. And Seri appreciated the nod to the Western World the buffet gave by providing a vat of pasta. Our naan order was up at the same time as INDIAN DICK’S teenage son’s. Seri said he tried to argue with Head Tattoo because our plate had four pieces as opposed to his two-piece plate, at which point Head Tattoo gave him a lesson in counting. “That’s because THEY have TWO buffets,” he supposedly said. I say “supposedly” because who knows if we can believe Seri. We go to the high school track at night and she thinks she sees armadillos and crashing planes.

INDIAN DICK, above the Pepsi can. Even blurred, I can still tell he’s a dick.

“I COULD LIVE HERE,” I moaned, shoveling food into my fat mouth with my naan-shovel. Seri ate slowly and like a normal human not competing in a speed-eating contest. I envy that about her. But the one thing we had in common in that cafeteria is that our faces were both melting off above that tray of food. Hot flash city.

“I’m never leaving!” I texted Henry.

“The Palace?” he replied.

“No, the CAEFETERIA.”

And Seri tried everything on her plate and even liked most of it! (You’re welcome, Pete.) As usual, I ate faster than my stomach could handle and wound up pregnant with paneer and rice. What a stinky baby that would be. Halfway in, my stomach was expanding and the waistband of my jeans were waving the white flag, but I still kept eating because I drove 80 miles for this and by George Harrison, I was eating my fill even if it meant perforating my stomach lining. I really thought I was hungrier than I actually was.

Seri kept trying to rush me out of the cafeteria, probably because she knew I was 2 spoonfuls away from having my stomach pumped, but I was like, “Hello, can I finish my mango lassi? Krishna!”

In the temple afterward, not only did I come close to gilding a deity tableau with my vomit, but I apparently donated my entire iCarly wallet as well.

Henry was gone all day on Saturday, helping out at Castle Blood. I thought, “Oh, this will be OK. Chooch and I can go off and have a cute little photo shoot, celebrate our independence, etc. etc.” But before Henry left, I called him back in the house to have him fetch the wheelchair and put it in the car for me. Independence could wait a few minutes.

“Do you think we can do this successfully?” I asked Chooch when we were on our way to the (damned) location.

He answered quite matter-of-factly, “By ourselves? No.” That kid knows what’s up.

Everything was great. We sang “Call Me Maybe” loudly and repeatedly en route. I even stopped at a gas station and bought him a drink! Look at me! Taking care of my kid’s needs! But then we rolled up on the designated site (Coulterville, an area where many of my photo shoots are located), and that was when I realized I had to lug a wheelchair; a unicorn mask; the camera bag; and a plastic bag filled with clowns, doll heads, an empty bottle of Old Crow and a jack in the box all on my own because my goddamn son is a fucking divo.

This is where Henry’s blue-collar arms would have come in handy.

Originally, I wanted to cross the train tracks and walk toward the river, because there are some really cool spots back there. But then I realized, “Holy shit, I can’t lift this wheelchair up to the tracks” so I started swearing and crying. We were going to take the pictures at the nearby cemetery and abandoned church after that, but Chooch was being totally uncooperative and we screamed, “I HATE YOU!” at each other with enough fury to raise the dead, and then not one but TWO trains passed us and we were both shook to the core because OMG WE ALMOST TRIED TO CROSS THOSE TRACKS AND WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED.

That made me flip out even harder, and then Chooch started crying because he lost his (broken) sunglasses and I wouldn’t help him look for them because the trains were freaking me out so bad and all I wanted to do was push the fucking wheelchair back to the car (IT WAS ALL UPHILL, THANKS).

There are people who live around there. I sure hope they heard our histrionics. Especially when I threatened to orphan him and he snarled, “NOT IF I GO TO THE ORPHANGE FIRST.”

I was NOT going home. Not after driving all the way out there. So we stopped at McDonald’s (after I flipped out for the 79879876th time because the gas light was on and I couldn’t find a gas station and then when I did, I had to make an illegal turn to reach it) and I said out loud, “Fuck this. I’m getting a frappe. I goddamn earned it.” But first we had to wait for the oldest woman alive to send back all of her food and then proceed to sit there in her dumb minivan even after she got the right stuff, and I started yelling at her which made Chooch laugh to the point of tears, but then seriously say, “Mommy, she’s just an old lady.”

AND THEN THEY GAVE ME MY FRAPPE WITHOUT A MOTHERFUCKING STRAW. I didn’t want to park and go inside to get one, because I couldn’t leave Chooch alone in the car (I checked the manual real quick for that one) and he didn’t have his shoes on plus I was all sweaty and tear-soaked and had dirt all over me from god only knows what. So I drank that bitch without a straw and had chocolate syrup all over my face; I can assure you I didn’t really care at that point. I had accepted my new role as the poster woman for Defeat.

Did I leave out the part where I called Henry 87 times while he was trying to cut doors in walls at Castle Blood, screaming at him because I didn’t know how to fold the wheelchair and it was THE WORST DAY EVER and I might as well just KILL MYSELF? Oh, well that totally didn’t happen.

We ended up going to the place where the Easter pictures happened. (Click that link if you haven’t seen those photos; Henry has on makeup in them!) At first glance, I thought the abandoned structures had been demolished, but really it was just because the area was so overgrown with frondescence that it was no longer visible from the road. Where was my machete when I really needed it?

I think I lost 10 pounds that day from crying, sweating, raging & hiking thru weeds and mud with a wheelchair. And we both have cuts and scrapes all over us from trampling through walls of jagger bushes, with Chooch wailing, “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MAKING ME DO THISSSSSS” and me screaming, “IT’S FOR ART, STFU!!”

By the time Henry came home, Chooch and I were both languid on the couch, eyes glazed over, looking extremely pathetic. “Can we go out to eat?” Henry asked. “I worked so hard today and I’m starving.” With my eyes, I mentally castrated him.

Later that night, Chooch was telling Henry something unrelated to the photo shoot, and added, “I think that was when Mommy was in the car, crying.”

Andrea’s mom thought it was hilarious that I almost took my own life the last time Andrea and I crafted together, so she sent Andrea here with more projects: tissue paper art, to be exact. The sole consolation was that it didn’t involve glue guns or reading instructions.

The glue that came with my kit was all jacked up, of course, so Henry had to involve himself which he was really trying to avoid. (Andrea’s mom sent a tissue paper kit for him too, and when Andrea pointed that out, Henry mumbled from the couch, “I’m eating.” Plus, Criminal Minds was on! Jesus!) Meanwhile, I figured if I was going to be miserable, everyone had to be miserable, so I put on Jonny Craig.

Chooch ran out of glue before he was finished, which is one reason why I rarely craft with him – kids and glue make me nervous! However, I just found out that my friend Seri likes to do craft projects, so he can just go to her house and splash around in Elmer’s from now on.

OMG Andrea’s was the worst and she knew it. I couldn’t even figure out what she was trying to achieve, but she left it here in case I ever run into a displaced woodsman looking for kindling.

I hated this project until I realized that I had all the proper hues of tissue to create the most majestic Jonny Craig giraffe. I didn’t use the googly eyes that came with the kit, because I felt that the dots already on the giraffe uncannily resembled Jonny’s beady rodent eyes. Why fuck with that? I added some vomit for good measure, and then made it my Facebook profile picture to further mock the fact that Andrea’s tissue paper giraffe completely shit the bed. She was so irritated that I started out being a hateful brat until Jonny swooped in and gave me the strength to carry on.

I just asked Chooch to give me his review of the craft project and he said, “Boring.”

“Can you give me more information?” I asked, because I’m perpetually unhappy with one word answers, I wonder why.

(Henry?)

“Boring and dumb,” he said and walked away.

That’s just because he’s mad that mine was so much better than his. He threw a fit about it that night, too.

I can’t help it that I win at everything, even gluing tissue paper. I guess it helps to have a ginger muse.

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?

Friday morning, Chooch had to follow me around the house just to have a conversation with me. Poor kid. But he knows that mommy is trying to win, you guys. So he doesn’t complain too much. Besides, he’s known me for 6 years. If he doesn’t know by now that his mom isn’t normal, then I want a refund because this kid’s defective. And then Henry drove me to work, so since I missed all those crucial steps walking to the trolley station, I made Henry drop me off a retardedly far-away distance from the Law Firm so I could try and make up for some of that. There was a time when I would have been concerned about getting sweaty before work. But then I got this fucking pedometer.

Toward the end of the night, my sanity suffered a schism and I just lost it, completely cracked up alone to the point of tears, and then I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything other than an apple, almonds and air all day. Amber² tried to give me an apple but I turned it down because:

1. It was green
2. The last time I ate two apples back-to-back, I got sick
3. It was green

Henry and Chooch met me downtown after work that night because Chooch wanted to see some furries at Anthrocon; thanks to all the furry-chasing that day, I accumulated 23,000 without even trying,  because in addition to walking to and from the furries, we also had to walk home from the trolley stop. The downside to this was that it was after 10:00PM and I had still barely eaten. I wanted to get something to eat downtown, but Henry kept saying, “There’s nowhere down here to eat!”

Oh. OK.

I guess all those places we passed walking down Liberty Avenue were just selling food-scented oxygen to taunt all the hobos and psychotic girls with walking obsessions.

There’s an Eat n Park down the street from our house, so Henry said we could just eat there since we have to walk right past it after getting off the trolley. By this point, Henry’s face was looking like a fine protein substitute, but I followed him into Eat n Park anyway, where I then ended up sitting for an embarrassingly unacceptable amount of time waiting for one of their lethargic waitresses to take our drink order. Henry knew it was coming, he had to have known, after 11 years of being my lesser half. In a terse, yet highly enraged tone, I demanded that he hand over the house keys, because it was no longer humanly possible for me to sit there another minute without food in my face.

“Please don’t do this,” he begged. “Oh god, not here, please not here.” But then I flew off the handle about how he was trying to control me (three days later, I can now see the absurdity in that claim) so he quietly handed me the keys before everyone in the restaurant became privy to the dysfunction at table 15 and I stormed off, marching like a strung out maniac the whole way home, where I made a sloppy and highly uninspired cheese sandwich which I ate so fast I didn’t even taste it, not even the eight times I choked on it. Then I collapsed into bed and was asleep before Chooch and Henry even came home.  I can’t remember the last time I went to bed before 11:00PM, but I can guarantee it would have had something to do with a fever and/or rufies in my drink. So that is how exhausted I was.

***

I had been anxiously awaiting Day 6 all week because that was the day I was going to hit 30,000 steps.

That morning in bed, Henry reminded me what a bitch I was the night before and said that this walking challenge was probably going to break us up. Then when he went to lovingly spoon me (it happens sometimes), he pulled back and said, “Oh my god, did you sleep with your pedometer on?” after feeling it on the waistband of my pajama shorts.

“Um yeah. What if I had to get up to pee?!” I exclaimed defensively.

“I can’t be with you right now,” he mumbled and got out of bed.

Anyway, what a perfect day it was! Henry and Chooch were gone for most of it, opting to help our Castle Blood friends move stuff to their new location (and by that I mean Henry helped while Chooch drove everyone crazy, I’m sure). I went straight to my favorite cemetery and basically did my usual, pre-walking challenge routine and racked up 10,000 steps by noon. It was really hot out there, which I love, but I figured I should go home and maybe rest for a little bit, since I literally had the rest of the day to do nothing but walk. Honestly, when people at work asked me what I was doing that weekend, I looked at them like they were stupid and said, “Uh, walking.” The standard response to that was a sarcastic, “Oh yeah. Duh.”

I am going to be the loneliest person at the Law Firm by the time this challenge is over.

After about two hours of sporadic and intense pacing around the house while listening to a playlist of Drake and The Weeknd (I pace so hard that it actually counts as aerobic steps), I decided to take my show onto the streets of Brookline. Talked to Christina for a few minutes while I power-walked, and she said she was glad I decided to stop hating her just in time for her to come to my funeral. She knows me way too well.

It was even hotter by then, and of course I picked the parts of town with the steepest hills because I’m a sado-masochist. I murdered the pavement until the number on my pedometer seemed adequate, and then made my way back home. This is where things got weird: I was feeling a little spacey by the time I got to my house, so I decided to sit down on my front steps for a little bit before entering  my un-air-conditioned house. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on my front porch. I’m not sure if I fell asleep or passed out, and there was ringing in my ears, but yay—20,000 steps!

I went inside and drank lots of water. Then I laid silently on the couch for awhile, staring at the ceiling.

Henry and Chooch came home around 7:00PM with dinner. (That’s how you know I’m totally preoccupied with this—I allowed Henry to be apart from me for nine and a half hours on a weekend and not once did I call him and demand him to drop everything and come back to me. I mean, not that I have ever done that. Shit, I’m not that kind of a girl.) At the sight of me pacing, the phrase, “You’re a fucking idiot” came out of Henry’s mouth 87 different ways. Later that night, Chooch was being a royal backseat brat on the way home from Target, so I had Henry pull over about a mile away from home and I walked the rest of the way. Thanks for the motivation, son.

I was so close to reaching 30,000 by the time Chooch went to bed that night, but Henry said he refused to watch Pretty Little Liars with me if I was pacing. So I actually had to be still for a little while. As soon as it was over though, I back to moving frenetically until the numbers of my pedometer finally flipped to 30,000. Henry made me sit down for the last 55 minutes of the night because I was “making [him] nervous.”

I asked Henry if he thought I would lose any weight doing this and he muttered, “Yeah, while you’re in the hospital.”

My grand total that day, thanks to Henry keeping me down, was 30,139. It proved that my ultimate goal of 50,000 might be slightly out of my reach, though. BUT I WILL STILL TRY.

MAYBE.

***

 We were at Kennywood for Day 7 and I was absolutely panic-stricken that I wouldn’t continue my 20,000 streak. That’s really all I’m asking. Henry rejected my plan to “get up super early” and walk around the cemetery for 10,000 steps pre-Kennywood, because he didn’t want me to be a bitch that day.

Do you know how excruciating it is to stand in a line for a ride when your body is not used to being at rest? Oh my god, I had the shakes. I did mini-laps whenever I could, since my Kennywood crew spent so much time milling about and strolling.

STROLLING.

On every ride, I would pat down my right side and scream, “MY PEDOMETER!” before realizing it was still there. On some rides, I even left it in the “Leave At Your Own Risk” box with everyone else’s keys, phones, and glasses. My precious pedometer.

Even during a slight drama-laden glitch in the day, I heard T-Pain’s vocoder-voice whisper in my ear, “Walk it out.” And so I did, 20,053 times.

***

Yesterday, Day 8, I came close to failing. I didn’t have a chance to do much before work, so I didn’t get there with my usual 10,000-11,000 like I had been doing last week.  So once all the day shift people left, I just started doing laps around the department under the ruse of  “Oh, I just want to use the other scanner that’s the furthest from where I sit.” I think my fellow late-shift co-workers  saw right through my subterfuge though, because they all know I’m going insane over this. When people at work ask me questions about my step-collecting, I can hear myself answering in this crazed, hyper voice, but I can’t make it stop.

At one point during the night, Carey asked me if I my computer was running slow.

“No,” I answered. “You know why? Because I walk so fast.”

“Asshole,” she mumbled from her office.

That night, I had to put on my professional walking attire and hit the streets of Brookline. I really didn’t want to because Brookline sucks at night (also see Brookline sucking during: the day, dusk, sunrise, Christmas morning, Memorial Day, summer, winter, fall, spring, your grandma’s cat’s birthday, everyday) but I powered on past loitering teenagers at the heckle-ready, drunk people staggering along the Boulevard’s sidewalk, and someone with a smoker’s voice screaming through his phone at his mom that he was on his way home so shut the fuck up, and when I turned around, I discovered it was actually a boy somewhere between 10 and 12 and not actually my old meth-addict neighbor Robin.

I will only stay on the main drag of Brookline at night, which is still scary in spite of all the street lights and constant witnesses (i.e. traffic), so I still needed about 4,000 more steps when I returned home, which meant it was Master Chef Pacing Time.

Henry came out of the kitchen and said, “Wait….now you’re holding weights above your head while you pace?”

“I wanted to make it harder,” I panted.

Henry sat on the couch for the first 5 minutes, before saying, “I can’t watch this anymore,” and retreating to bed. I made it to 20,000 with 30 minutes left to the day. This shit is not getting any easier.

I almost never read the emails we get from the Firm; they’re usually just missives to make me feel like a guilty asshole for not ever giving blood.

So if not for Amber asking me a few weeks ago if I wanted to join her team, I’d have no idea why half the department is scurrying around with pedometers clipped to their waistbands. We then picked the new Amber (Amber² herein) and Carey to round out our team, which Amber named Team Apple.

(First, she wanted me to name it, but then quickly added, “And nothing with Jonny Craig in it!!” I guess at that point she realized I’d be at a loss, so she made an executive decision. Probably a really smart idea.)

Our pedometers arrived a week before the competition officially started and Nina, bless her heart, saw me struggling to open mine. “Here, let me do that for you, buddy,” she said and proceeded to put the whole thing together for me, and then even programmed it for me.

Thank god for Nina!

Amber and I immediately started wearing ours and it was really fun to take the long way around the department in order to rack up more steps. One night last week, I begged Carey to take the steps with me, instead of the elevator.

“For what?” she asked, probably thinking that her constant loop of Adele made her miss a fire alarm.

“To get extra steps!” I snapped.

“You do realize this challenge hasn’t started yet, right?” she said, looking seriously concerned. “I mean, I didn’t even take my pedometer out of the package yet.”

“It’s called TRAINING, Carey!” I yelled in that sweet self-righteous way I’m known to do. Look—I’m the only fat one on our team. My only goal at that point was to not bring the rest of them down.

How humiliating.

We took the steps that night. It was scary, yet exhilarating in a running-from-Michael-Myers-in-a-hospital-stairwell kind of way.

****

The Challenge officially started this past Monday. Amber and I were totally stoked about it, and she even made a group event on Facebook for us to do laps around the building at precisely 3PM, at which time Amber² and Carey were conveniently MISSING. So Amber and I went out alone. I even went back out later that night and did laps IN THE RAIN, that’s how many shits I give about Team Apple.

Meanwhile, Carey had accumulated approximately 1,000 steps by that afternoon and was seemingly proud of this.

“What the fuck, Carey?” I exclaimed. “Are you wheeling yourself around!?” And that’s when I really began noticing that she doesn’t actually walk, she meanders, and now I picture sleepy Southern scenes scrolling alongside of her, weeping willows and plantations, Kevin Spacey in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. (What? That’s all I know about the South.)

And then our Team Leader Amber didn’t even have her pedometer! She left it at her parents’ house – TWO HOURS AWAY! She had them overnight it to her and had the foresight to use her iPod in the meantime. Because she actually cares about our team, Carey!

Amber² at some point realized that she had her pedometer set up wrong and it was resetting itself at noon. I pretty much knew going into this that our team didn’t stand a chance, not with all the pseudo-professional athletes just in our department alone, but after Day One, whatever hope remained had peaced out.

****

Carey didn’t come into work until 4PM on Day Two. Amber asked me if I knew where she was; I shrugged and said, “Probably not walking.”

Meanwhile, Amber² had concocted some lame excuse about how she didn’t do any walking after work because “Dance Moms” was on. I haven’t been very mean to her about this though because she is still kind of new to our crazy department, but I mean come on – Dance Moms would want her to walk her ass off.

I wound up with a little over 15,000 steps for day one. That seemed pretty good to me. But on Day Two, I didn’t get much of a chance to collect a lot of steps before work, so that night after Chooch and Henry went to sleep, I decided to walk in place while watching Master Chef. Walking in place then turned into pacing, and that then morphed into maniacal marching, back and forth, side-stepping, sometimes even in figure 8s. It was like walking on the longest, most retarded broken tread mill.

My cat Marcy was not amused and gave me menacing glares from her orange chair which said, “SIT THE FUCK DOWN, BITCH.”

90 minutes later, I had surpassed 20,000 steps. It wasn’t even really my goal, but my recessive OCD reared its ugly head and I became absolutely obsessed with the numbers and I’d promise myself things like, “Just round it up to 17,000 and you can be done.” And then 17,000 became 18,000. 18,000 became 19,000. 19,000 became I HAVE TO GET 20,000 BEFORE MIDNIGHT OR THE WORLD WILL IMPLODE!

I was marching so hard that I was glazed in sweat and every step had actually registered as a cardio step. I’m pretty sure I burned more calories that day than I took in. BECAUSE I AM SUCH A SMARTIE.

It’s just that competition is my third favorite c-word. I can’t do anything half-assed. Do I need to remind everyone about Blogathon? Or that fucking Halloween decorating contest last year at work and how it completely consumed my life? I was literally thinking like a serial killer for 31 days. (I know, I know—way to low-ball that number, Erin Rachelle Kelly.) As soon as I told Henry about this challenge, he murmured something along the lines of, “Great, this isn’t going to fuck up my life at all. You’re probably going to end up in the hospital. Now all your co-workers will find out how much of a competitive douchebag you really are.” (I’ve actually kept the douchebaggery under control so far. Don’t ask me how. I mean, I’m the girl who straight slapped a friend over a game of Scattergories.)

****

I was on a high for Day Three. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal that I got 20,000 steps, but it was a big deal for ME. I excitedly told Barb and Amber, and before I knew it, most of the department knew.

I was a little embarrassed about it, but mostly I was paranoid because now everyone else had a number to beat. And news travels fast there. No less than 10 minutes after telling Amber, I was confronted by about 6 incredulous co-workers. Some of them are now calling me a freak (I know, only now?!) and one of them was like, “Where are you walking to?!”

I told her that I just naturally walk fast. I mean, I live in Brookline: I walk like someone scary is always behind me. (Seriously, I walked around town when I got home from work that night and all I kept thinking was how I really didn’t want to be able to say, “Totally got raped in the bowels of Brookline, but at least I made it to 20,000 steps!” Plus, there are entire city blocks here that stink of urine, so that helps me pick me up the pace.)

And then this happened:

****

Yesterday morning, while Henry’s mom was watching Chooch, I went to the nearest cemetery and just kept walking and walking and walking until my pedometer hit 7,000. I felt that was pretty good for 10AM. I came home, possibly staggering like I was on bath salts but really it was because I was still tired from my late night Brookline power-walking tour, and Henry’s mom started lecturing me about how I’m over-doing it and I was like, “OKAY MOM.” I actually was feeling kind of sketchy though. Then later I walked to the trolley, got off a stop earlier to add extra steps to my route and then proceeded to lap around the Law Firm building until it was time to start my shift. I had 11,000 steps by the time I got to my desk. Barb sighed and said, “You’re going to walk away into nothing!” and I said, “Um duh, isn’t that the challenge?” Maybe I read it wrong.

In a hyper-pitched, half-hysteric tone, I tried explaining to Barb that I couldn’t stop, and then I couldn’t stop saying I couldn’t stop. I think that was the first time all week I had started to scare myself.

Later, I was straight cornered by three of my work friends whose opening line was, “We heard you’re walking 20,000 steps a day” and then they tried to draft me onto their team.

Went on a furry search (it’s furry convention time in Pittsburgh! More on that later!) and racked up more steps. I saw a furry in a wheelchair who was moving faster than Carey. By the time I left work at 9PM, I had 19,000.

In the car on the way home, Henry said, “And I’d like to thank you for turning on the bedroom light and pacing last night while I was trying to sleep.”

“I had to! I couldn’t just go to bed when I was 200 steps away from 21,000!” I cried. God, he just doesn’t get it.

(OMG I think I might really have a problem, it’s just now occurring to me.)

I’ve been walking something like 8 miles a day – and not moseying or meandering a la Carey, but really walking like a crazed fugitive. When I’m at home, I’m almost never sitting and it’s making everyone kind of nervous. EYES ON THE PRIZE.

And naturally there are some people who are saying I must be cheating, that I’m probably putting my pedometer on Chooch and setting him loose on the playground*. Oh, it’s because I’m Chubs City, right? No way could a fat girl walk that much, right? Because clearly I go home everyday and have Henry, clad in muddied overalls, push me around in a wheelbarrow while I stuff Little Debbie treats in my fat fucking lazy mouth. CLEARLY.

*(FYI, he has pretty much been with his grandma every morning while I’m out breaking my toes around Brookline).

It’s kind of insulting. I don’t care about the Dick’s gift card or the Kindle (the prizes we are walking for), and putting my pedometer on my kid is not going to get me those things anyway because he’s a little slug. (Forced him to go for a leisurely stroll last week and he legit cried, “My hip hurts!” Um, OK, I forgot you’re 60, not 6. Jesus Christ.) Yes, competition motivates me, but what motivates me even more is besting myself. So if I was cheating, I’d only be cheating myself. When I wind up passing out at work, that’ll prove it.

(But no seriously, I’m clearly doping.)

****

Oh shit, Carey left her diary open on her desk, and look what I found!

****

I just want you to know that it killed me to stop moving in order to write this.

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.

Got to leave work around 6:30 because it was so slow, but Henry and Chooch were at Chuck E Cheese for a birthday party, so I had to take the dreaded trolley home. Almost not worth getting to go home early.

Sue kept trying to coax me into taking an entire box of pizza home and I was like, “I can barely carry myself on the T, let alone an XL pizza box.

So she gave it to the cleaning people.

But I blindly chose the correct one and made it all the way to my stop with little incident. Did overhear two hacky-sackers compliment each others dirty hats though.

Clammy Trolley Fare.

Then I arrived at my house only to learn that HENRY wasn’t home yet. HENRY who has the house key. Hot Naybor Chris invited me in since I looked like a poor, shivering sack on the porch, but I declined because I wanted Henry to find me in such state and feel bad.

He did not feel bad.

And that is how I kicked off my Easter weekend.

The other day, I asked Henry why he stays with me and he said, “Because of days like this.” Then he told me not to post that on Facebook because he doesn’t want anyone to know he likes me, but I figured most people will just assume “days like this” means days where he barely has to talk to me.

My world has been in some fucked-up, emotional upheaval the last few months, for a multitude of reasons, but Henry has been here, having my back and picking up the pieces through the whole clusterfuck. I know I’m always busting his balls on the Internet, but I really don’t know what I’d do without him. There. I said it. It will always be Henry, marriage or not.

Plus, the first thing he did when he came home from work yesterday was check to see if I used any expired food when I made lunch for Chooch and myself. He always has our safety in mind. (But if he REALLY had our safety in mind, he would make sure there was no expired food in the refrigerator to begin with. What? It’s a valid point!)

****

I have been listening to Armor For Sleep with some fucking urgency lately, like it’s 2005. Oh, 2005.

Sometimes the past really should just stay dead. But, I guess we needed to find that out on our own. One day, I will finish writing that story, and it will be better than any pathetic poem.