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.

Jonny Craig came downtown to work with me today!

Everyone was looking forward to meeting him, since he’s such a big departmental name. A few weeks ago, I was thinking about this, about how almost all of my co-workers know of his existence, and I said to Henry, “I bet Jonny Craig never imagined so many attorneys would know who he is—-” and then I stopped myself short as the stupidity of that statement sunk in. Of course there are attorneys who know who he is. He’s a drug addicted* criminal.

(*Sober. For now.)

Carey took me and Jonny to Arby’s for dinner. My Creamcicle shake came close to matching the orange hue of hsi ginger camaro-coif.

Here Jonny lounges next to the Keurig that I broke (and Nina fixed) last week.

Relxing next to the Conflicts puzzle and the rogue banana that I claimed 25 seconds previously from the kitchen table.

Hanging out in a tree, which I learned by accident is real and not fake.

OMG YES CAN I.

Drinking in the nostalgia at MY OLD DESK.

:(

Reflected Mullet.

Balancing on Julie’s yoga ball.

Playing with Lee’s toys.

Chillin’ in a bowl of his #2 fan, Wendy.

Jonny’s happy to see me, you guys!

Commiserating in ginger harmony with That Fucking Orange Ball.

I actually did work very hard today and almost cried at one point because I had so much to do. But I got it all done and thank god Jonny Craig was here to help me decompress, ya’ll.

THANK GOD.

Earlier at work, Lee said to me, “How pissed would you be if Chooch woke up on Mother’s Day and said, ‘I wish we could have two Father’s Days instead’?”

“I would be so pissed!” I cried. “I’d pack a bag and leave, sleep in my car if I had to.”

Amber chimed in to tell Lee to stop being mean to me, and he defensively said, “I’m not being mean! Chooch just likes Henry better!”

I was already starting to bristle, but then Lee added, “It’s because Henry is a better roller skater” and then I almost died of boiling fury.

Henry, Henry, Henry!

***

In “I Have a Child” news, Chooch has been really been a literate whiz these last few months. His teacher has stopped to tell us multiple times about how much he’s advanced with reading this year and it definitely shows at home. He wants to read EVERYTHING. When Bill, Jessi and Tammy were here for his birthday weekend, they took him to the Pittsburgh Comicon and he came home with several comic books, which he has been devouring ever since.

I can’t even tell you how happy this makes me. He’s already more advanced than Henry!

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

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

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

I have nothing but good memories from that room.

Chooch is clearly unfazed by clowns, too:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

Henry was pillaging through Chooch’s bag of Easter candy from his class party and unearthed a bag of Jesus Promise Seeds. We both had this “Is time totally standing still for you, too?” moment before I started loudly laughing and snatched it from him.

Scripture Candy, are you kidding me!? This is beyond fantastic! I love candy, but I love clever candy even more. Went to their website and the selection is incredible. Jesus candy for every holiday! I’m totally buying this shit in bulk to send out with my non compos card orders and maybe to pass out on the trolley so I’ll fit in more.

Obviously I’ll keep some in a bowl on my desk at work, too. Maybe even in an urn.

***

I just learned yesterday that I’ve been using the word “macaronic” incorrectly. Apparently, it means:

adjective

1.

composed of or characterized by Latin words mixed with vernacular words or non-Latin words given Latin endings.

2.

composed of a mixture of languages.

3.

mixed; jumbled.

 

I know you must be thinking, “But wait — I’ve been using it to describe objects that bear macaroni-like characteristics.” I know right, me too!  It makes me feel better to know that you too have been saying things like:

 “Your cock tastes macaronic today. No, don’t wash it! It’s good, I like it.”

 

or

 

“Baby, please. All my ex-boyfriends’ weeners are macaronic compared to your XXL conchiglie, big guy.”

All this time, we’ve actually been talking about verbose, yet confused, genitalia.

 

***

 

Jeannie just brought me an alread-sliced apple! God, my co-workers make it so easy for me.

 

 

Weird Al (& his macaronic pubes) would like to wish you a Happy Friday the 13th.

 

[I feel like I got brain matter all over this blog post. I’ll just get Henry to clean it.]

 

I feel like this is what I look like every time someone at work tries to talk to me while I’m eating my apple, which is EVERY TIME because evidently there are some people who just physically can’t speak to me unless I have a wad of apple mush lodged between my teeth and uvula. And I’m like, “Really? Because you’ve had SEVEN HOURS where there was nothing in my mouth but perhaps a jellybean and disturbing commentary fighting to break loose.”

Speaking of apples, Aaron walked past me around 6:30 yesterday and said, “There’re apples in the fridge.” I was like, “Um, OK great, but everyone knows I brought a Jonagold today.

” And then I turned to my right to lovingly stroke it BUT IT WAS GONE.

I frantically pawed around my desk drawers, my purse, gave the surface of Lee’s desk a cursory glance, to no avail.

Then I replayed Aaron’s announcement and it occurred to me that he said, “YOUR apple is in the fridge.” So I ran to the fridge where I found my little baby shivering on a shelf.

Aaron told me later that Chris took it as payback for the Great Orange Ball Kidnapping, but Aaron felt compelled to tell me because he is supposedly my ally but IS HE REALLY?

One time a few weeks ago, he told me I was his best friend, but then kept narrowing it down so it became “in the department” and then “in this quadrant” and then “in this quadrant but only while Barb is out on medical leave” and then “in this quadrant but only after everyone else goes home at 5:30 because you are the type of girl a person can only be secret best friends with due to all the shame.”

I’m making most of this up now. Because I am HYPER! I am HYPER because Christina is coming to visit this weekend for the first time since October 2009! I have reason to believe it will be a little less angry and tense as when we spent the afternoon together in Columbus last month trying to see if we could be in the same city without my anger dismembering her. It went OK. I think this weekend will be better, though.

UPDATE: Chris said he did NOT take my apple last night and I’m inclined to believe him.

Henry completely rushed me out of the house before work today and in my haste, I forgot to grab an apple. Luckily, Gayle offered to split her gigantic orange with me. I’m making Saint Rita watch me eat it.

In other “Henry Ruined My Life” news, I had a mini crisis a few minutes ago at work as I regaled to Lee my hot dog nibbling scandal from Saturday.

“If Henry really loved me, he would have stopped me,” I whined.

“Wow, I can’t believe you took it there,” Lee, who is ALWAYS on Henry’s team except for when Faygo comes up, said.

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.

Now that I’m full time, I get to take a legit lunch break. I thought that perhaps this would be a good time to venture outside of the building and try to learn something about the city in which I’ve lived my whole entire life. I mean, at the very least it might help to know what street I work on. (And help snuff out future jury duty-spawned directional meltdowns.)

It was kind of a big deal. Several people even said out loud, with mild interest, “Oh wow. Erin is leaving her desk.”

Barb (SHE’S BACK IN CASE YOU DIDN’T CATCH THAT YESTERDAY) suggested, “You could go to [foreign place] to get a map.” But then after we stared at each other stupidly for two seconds, she added, “But I guess you would need a map just to get there in the first place.”

So today, Carey offered to take me under her wing. I guess I’m her new project, and I’m OK with that. I need all the help I can get.

Before I left, Nina wished me luck and then reminded me to take my phone in case I got lost.

“Don’t worry, Carey’s going with me!” I assured her, and she looked sincerely relieved.

In the plaza area outside of our building (which I’ve walked through once before I even worked there but had no idea!), Carey showed me places where I could stand and smoke if I ever decide to give back nicotine that old best friend charm.

Then we saw Pirates fans en masse and a half-demolished building, which was pretty nice. Carey promised me it’s not always that crowded out there, which is good because god only knows what picture Henry would submit to the milk carton people.

Carey deemed Market Square a good starting point, but I think it was just because she wanted to go to the gyro place. Boyz II Men’s seminal hit “I’ll Make Love To You” was pouring sexily from the ceiling speakers when we walked in, which seems like an awkward soundtrack for ordering lamb, but I think I was the only one noticing this.

“We’ll go back a different way,” Carey said, informing me what streets our building sits on. (I already forgot.)

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “There’s that half-demolished building again; I sort of know where we are!”

“Ok,” Carey said slowly. “But don’t use that as a landmark because it’s clearly not always going to be there.”

Oh yeah.

“You can see our building down there.” Knowing that I would need a little more than that, she added, “It’s big. And red.”

On Tuesday, we’re going to walk toward the Convention Center, whatever that means.

I feel like I should have bought some souvenirs while I was out, like an I <3 Pittsburgh pennant. But I wouldn't know where to go to get something like that. Back in the office, Carey's gyro stunk up the place, but all the meat-eaters kept remarking in sleazy porn-voices about how divine it smelled.

Best back of a head EVER!!! I found out today that she gave her plants to someone here to take care of in her absence. Thank god she knew better than to ask me.

Oh my god, it’s been way too long. Now I don’t have to make idle conversation with Glenn anymore!

I spent most of work last night printing out photos of Bill Paxton to use as desk decorations.

It’s amazing how many times this exact exchange happened here yesterday:

Them: Who is that?
Me: Bill Paxton.
Them: ?
Me: “Twister.”
Them: Ohhhhh.

These are probably the same people who believed Henry really did propose to me on April Fool’s Day.

Henry even picked up a box of cupcakes for her from Vanilla Pastry Studio and I only made ONE topple over on my way to work. What a great day!

I am more than ready to hand over my newly-obtained popularity and go back to being a shrinking violet.  Being a flimsy Barb substitute has NOT been easy.

Go back to sending your complaints to Barb!

Some fucker at Henry’s work had the nerve to take off Monday through today, which meant I had to take the goddamn trolley to work since Henry had to go make stupid Faygo deliveries.

Everyone is always like, “Riding the T is not that big of a deal, Erin. There’s a stop directly across from your work!” And there really is! It’s super convenient, and the closest t-stop to my house is within walking distance. But for someone as tightly-wound as me, the simple act of riding public transportation is enough to ruin my entire day (not to mention my relationship with Henry).

For example, when Andrea was here last September, she had to take my trolley fare from me because I was sitting on a bench counting and re-counting it like a textbook OCD sufferer and my clammy palms were laundering the money in the very true sense of the word.

Monday, my eardrums were treated to the incessant childish whine of a crackhead who slurred loudly into her cell phone all the way to downtown. Fucking crackheads. Then a man with Downs Syndrome danced onto the T and continued his Soul Train while standing next to my seat. I smiled at him, but I think he was seriously trying to poach my seat; after looking around, I was like, “Get real, bro.” There were unlimited empty seats for him to choose! So finally, he danced his way to the back of the trolley. But then when I arrived at work, I was standing outside the building, talking on the phone, when another mentally handicapped man in a hunter green parka came at me out of nowhere, scooped me up in an airtight embrace, and squealed, “Happy Easter!”

I returned the sentiment (after panicking that I missed Easter) and then had to squat down and duck beneath his arm to escape his kidnapper hold on me. It was intense, and my friend on the phone nervously laughed and then asked, “What the fuck is happening over there?!” Probably the worst part was that immediately afterward, I had to ride the elevator up to my department with GLENN, who laughed demonically at my expense and then said, “No seriously, welcome to work, it’s nice to see you. Wow, I almost said that without laughing!”

I spent the next 2 hours trembling at my desk.

Tuesday was normal!

Today seemed like it was going to be normal for the first 2 minutes until I noticed it for the first time. This abrupt, bark-like outburst from the man sitting across from me in the handicap seat. Following the bark would be a hand-flap, and then a violent shake of his head.

Look, we all make noises sometimes and pretend to be motorboating invisible tits, I know this. However, there was something about this man and the way he was staring at me (I COULD FEEL HIM STARING AT ME) that was starting to make me clench up. And the way he kept inserting his hands into his coat pockets made me close my eyes tightly and pray to Saint Rita.

Probably he just had a nervous tic, maybe something akin to Tourette’s, but all I could think was, “THIS GUY DIDN’T TAKE HIS ANTI-PSYCHOTICS AND NOW HE’S GONG TO STAB ME FOR THE SIMPLE FACT THAT I’M WEARING PINK SOCKS, HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I DON’T KNOW.”

By the fourth stop, I was hugging my arms against my body so hard, I had somehow turned into my own personal straight jacket.

Occasionally, he would talk to no one in particular. Of course, no one would answer. I kept looking away from him, out the window, until it occured to me that his lack of responses might eventually set him off. I didn’t want to wind up with a Mexican necktie because I didn’t acknowledge his trite observation that it was raining in the morning and now it was not raining.

So when he shouted, “The weather is CONFUSED!” I made brief eye contact and shouted back, “I KNOW RIGHT HAHAHAHA” and the sound of my forced laughter made me close my eyes and cringe, but he seemed pleased at my consideration. Everyone else, however, was now looking at me like I was just as fucked up.

This kept going on and on with the weird UNGGGHHs and motorboating and nervous hand-stuffing in his pockets, while I continued to look out the window and think about what it’s going to feel like when a butterfly knife finds its way between my ribcage and how unfortunate it was that I was wearing one of my favorite sweaters, goddammit I didn’t want to get blood on my favorite Lauren Conrad sweater.

And then the T started its course across the river, so now I’m hyperventilating about the T falling off the bridge and into the river, where I will undoubtedly become entangled with dead river bodies, and all of this was making my vision have colorful dots in it.

Suddenly, an electronic beep fluttered from his person. “SHIT!” he spat angrily, and I braced myself for the explosion from the bomb that he accidentally detonated in his pocket. But it wound up just being his watch.

So when the T cruised to a halt at the stop before the one I needed, I bounded up from my seat and ran out the accordianed door, straight onto an unfamiliar trolley station. There were multiple signs pointing out the directions one would want to take depending on which street they were hoping to emerge onto, but I DON’T KNOW ANY STREET NAMES DOWN THERE.

I just stood there, like I was part of a scene from some lame indie movie where the main broad is all in slow motion while the rest of the city speeds past her, except for me what lies beyond is not the Jonny Craig I waited my whole life for (or at least a grilled cheese on a gold platter), but a plethora of ways to get myself lost real good in the city.

And that’s when I realized that my skittish body language probably had me looking a lot like that guy on the trolley; or worse—a tourist.

I chose a man with a purposeful stride and followed him up a set of steps and out into the daylight, where I called Henry, who was technically on my Non-Speaking list since it was all his fault in the first place that I had to ride the T and ALMOST GOT STABBED.

In a hyper-panicked, out-of-breath voice, I relayed to him my horror and then panted, “So now I don’t know how to get to work.”

“Ok…well, what do you see?” he asked, and I could tell he was stifling a laugh, that motherfucker.

“Tulips,” I said confidently. I saw lots of tulips behind a chain-link fence.

“What STREET are you on?” he asked, sighing wearily. And then, “Are you walking toward the river?”

“I don’t know where the river is!” I cried. But Henry eventually figured out where I was without the aid of the river.

To make him feel worse about what he did to me, I lied and said, “And just so you know, some car splashed me when I was walking to the T from the house, so now one side of me is entirely drenched.”

“Really? One entire side of you is wet? I’m going to call Wendy and ask her.” I never should have let Henry become friends with my co-workers.

Once I got to my desk, I was whining to Nina about what happened, who did her best Barb impression and coddled me like I need to be coddled. Carey overheard my woeful account and, after offering to draw me a map of important downtown landmarks, said, “You know, if you lived in the South, I bet people would say ‘bless your heart!’ to you a lot.”

I had to cross countless perilous streets to get to work, but at least it kept my Lauren Conrad sweater from getting slashed.

In between playing Draw Something and actually working (I swear*), the subject of Jonny Craig always seems to come up at work.

(I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.)

(*Seriously, I don’t piss around here NEARLY as much as I have at other jobs. I don’t even take a lunch break, that’s how stupidly dedicate I am!)

Today, Lee threatened to tell Henry that I’m going to leave him for Jonny.

“I actually wouldn’t leave him for Jonny, because Jonny won’t do everything for me like Henry does.”

“You’re right, he definitely wouldn’t,” Lee agreed. And then after a pause, he said, “I’m glad you’re smart enough to realize that.”

Then he said Jonny would be too busy hocking my wares for drug money, and then crack-raging on me, but it would be OK because he would probably do it in song.

“Ugh, and he’s a fucking ginger,” Lee said in disgust as he walked past and caught a glimpse of my latest Jonny Craig desktop eye candy.

“I know, that’s the worst part,” I exclaimed. Totally not that he’s a heroin addict.

In other work news, I brought a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. Wendy was all, “No jelly? There’s some here in the fridge—” but I quickly cut her off by saying, “No! I brought Cheez-its to put on it later.”

Today is good because I have a good sandwich and I’m feeling good that this place provides so many good distractions. That last sentence is the new writing style for Oh Honestly, Erin.

As my two year anniversary at The Law Firm nears, I received some good news tonight: I was approved for full-time! I think I’ve mentioned on here before that when I was originally hired as a temp, it was just to cover the late shift from 4-9.

And those hours worked wonderfully for me! I got to watch loads of MTV, harrass the cats, write bullshit in my blog, work on my dumb book  spend time with my kid once he got home from school, and then after 6 months they made me a real Law Firm employee. But now that Chooch is in school for full days, there’s really no reason for me to be home. And Henry was all, “If you can convince them to bring you on full time, I will worry about what to do with him in the summer. You leave the summers to me.”

So that is what I’m going to do: leave the summers to Henry. He’ll be having Chooch pushing cases of Faygo on a forklift and napping luxuriously at a desk  in no time.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been working mostly full days to help out while Barb is recuperating, but I wasn’t sure how necessary that would be once she comes back.

In any case, I can always be Barb’s afternoon gofer.

Man, this is going to be great. Just think of all the extra time I’ll have to mastermind more office pranks and annoy the shit out of Barb once she returns. And then maybe someday this can afford us to move the FUCK out of Brookline, which eats a little more of my soul with each passing year. Or maybe that’s the effect of the local meth fumes.

It might not seem like that big of a deal, but it really matters to me. I am so happy/relieved/grateful right now. Seems like just yesterday we were about to be evicted.

;

Something weird happened between me and Orange Ball. No, nothing that you’d have to pay to see, but kind of like a reverse Stockholm Syndrome: I WAS STARTING TO BOND WITH THE BALL. I knew I had to give it back to Chris—and soon—not only because I was afraid of growing too attached, but I never know how far I can take these things. Some people only have so much patience when they’re on the receiving end of pranks! I will never forget when I worked at the Tina and Eleanore Company, my one co-worker Collin ate a Hot Pocket every night. So another guy, Bob, decided, “Hey wouldn’t it be funny if we took Collin’s Hot Pocket out of the freezer and hid it?” I of course thought this would be the best idea ever because who I am to ever say, “No, one musn’t pull pranks on another colleague.” So I encouraged Bob to do it and Collin absolutely had a Hulk-caliber freak out, almost busted out of his shirt to make room for all the rage. He was beyond-pissed, slamming shit around in the kitchen, and we were all afraid of him for a little bit after that.

I also have a mildly adverse reaction to Hot Pockets now, too.

I didn’t want to see this happen to Chris. I don’t like it when men yell. Unless they’re on a stage at Warped Tour making Henry hate his life.

So I decided last night that today would be the big reunion. But not after posing Orange Ball with Michael Myers.

Aaron originally had the twin to Orange Ball, and he agreed to sacrifice it for the prank’s sake. I knew that I wanted to cut the ball in half and place it in this little coffin that my friend Octavia sent to Chooch two Christmases ago.

(Not because she was sinisterly insinuating! It came with a zombie doll inside. God!)

However, Aaron CONVENIENTLY couldn’t find the ball in his office yesterday. Was he telling the truth and now there’s a Chris-wannabe out there on the 10th floor? Or is Aaron PLAYING BOTH SIDES? I may never know, but what I did know was that my finale now needed to be modified and I was not happy about that. I went over the possibilities again and again last night, but I knew that unless I could come up with a similar ball, I was fucked and this was about to be the worst prank in Law Firm history.

(Considering I was busted five minutes into it, I’d say it already took that honor.)

Today, I skirted the astonishing amount of Brookline crazies and walked several blocks to the nearest CVS, where I found a foam basketball set in the kids aisle. Of course, because it’s a drug store, it was over-priced at $8 (EIGHT DOLLARS!) but I was desperate and bought it. (Not before witnessing kan irate ex-hippie flipping out because the equally-irate cashier wouldn’t honor his coupon; I hid out by the nail polish, so that explains why my total bill was over $20, sorry Henry.)

I cold hear Henry in my head saying, “Please don’t put actual money into this stupid prank” but I had to finish what I started, which is how Chooch wound up with a miniature basketball hoop and no basketball. I cut the ball into pieces and once I got to work, I rubbed some of the ball shrapnel in fake blood and placed it all inside the coffin, with a note written in blood.

Then I sent one final email from Orange Ball to Chris, with the above picture attached and a simple message of “Check under Lee’s desk.” Moments later, Chris emerged from his office and I heard him behind me saying to Lee, “Orange Ball sent me under message. We have to look under your desk.”

(I really appreciate that he continued to play along after the flimsy veil was blown off my anonymity before I even really started.)

Right away, Lee exclaimed, “THIS IS NOT ORANGEY. IT’S THE WRONG TEXTURE!”

But Chris still feigned horror. I got the real “Orangey” out of my desk and tossed it to him, causing a collective eruptive of “NOOOOO!

“s to fill our quadrant. That ball is not very loved around these parts.

Here are some reactions to Chris and Orange Ball’s reunion:

• A weary: “I know, I heard him bouncing it.”
• “I heard that damn ball and immediately clenched up in anger.”
• “WHY DID YOU GIVE IT BACK!?”
• The start of a high-five, which was retracted once the owner of the hand realized that the ball guts did not actually come out of the Orange Ball.

I also got several, “Of COURSE you have a miniature coffin. Why wouldn’t you?” (“It’s my son’s,” I kept correcting)and, in mocking tones, “Of COURSE you randomly carry fake blood in your purse because you never know when you’re going to need it.”

Needed it today, DIDN’T I?

Some people were really impressed with my effort, but I’m sure there were just as many if not more who were annoyed at this complete waste of Company time.

I think I’m going to keep the coffin and remains on my desk as a permanent installation. After all, I didn’t pay just to discard it in a dumpster like a dead hooker.

Orange Ball, I kind of like you now. Come visit sometime! (Just not through the air, at a fast pace.)

I suppose I could have just played keep-away with that damn orange ball last night, maybe a rousing round of Monkey in the Middle, but instead I decided to make it more interesting. I waited for Chris to leave the office for the night and then Orange Ball and I went on a photo-taking rampage.

The first thing Chris would have seen this morning was a picture taped to his office door of a frightened Orange Ball being Xeroxed.

I rubbed an orange Sharpie all over a napkin and then stuffed it in an envelope marked URGENT in red left-hand writing. Chris’s first email today from the Orange Ball address told him to check his work mail box. Since I was still at home for all of this, Nina was texting me with updates. Apparently, a frenzy ensured and handwriting analysis was done.

Someone suggested right away that it was me, but Chris wasn’t so sure.

Second email had this picture attached to it. Chris’s response was begging me not to hurt his son, and to take him instead. And then Nina texted  me and said that somehow, Chris had placed his suspicions on Lee, so when Lee asked to see the third email, Chris said, “Why do you want to see it, you already know what you said.”

I took delight in the fact that they were turning on each other because I just play a kind, smiling sweetheart at the Law Firm. I’m actually quite cutthroat, just don’t tell the 2 remaining co-workers who think I’m an angel.

But then one of Chris’s cohorts googled the email address and found out it was me. “Oh great triumph! I cracked the flimsiest crime of all time!”  Did anyone ever really doubt it was me from the get-go? I’m surprised it took them as long as it did.

Nina said that Chris, Lee and Tyler were scoping out my desk for something to steal in retaliation, and apparently they had my Michael Myers doll for awhile, but I guess someone felt bad and put it back before I came to work. I was reading all of Nina’s texts to Henry when I was still home, and he scoffed and said, “If they really knew you, they would just take your stupid Jonny Craig pictures.” AND THAT IS SO TRUE. Except that there are like 100 more on my desktop (I have a Jonny Craig folder) that I can print out to replace anything that’s stolen or defaced.

I did, however, bring an extra apple because I thought for sure they would have taken the one I left on my desk from last night.

Orange Ball and Chris’s dog, Porter. I printed this out and left it on his desk when I got here today (after getting the stink eye from him).

“No! Porter will kill him!” he yelled from his office.

Chris walked past me once today, making a sad face and bouncing an invisible ball. Another time, he yelled BOO HISS, which made Lee crack up, but I was unruffled because this actually happens to me a lot.

I still haven’t returned Orange Ball (which they now apparently call Orangey, I guess because they needed a name for the Reward flyer they made). This isn’t over!