My friend Sandy and her husband Ben hosted Thanksgiving at their house this year and invited us along with two of their other couple friends.

Sandy said her one friend Brian reminds her of Henry and couldn’t wait for them to meet, but I have to disagree because Brian was definitely way more awesome than Henry. (This implies that Henry is awesome at all.)

Anyway, Henry’s contribution was some complicated mushroom and acorn squash risotto that took forever for him to cook. (“YOU CAN’T RUSH RISOTTO!” he kept screaming, so then why does Chef Ramsey expect his Hell’s Kitchen bitches to cook it that fast? And speaking of good ol’ Gordon, I prayed no one at Sandy’s had Ramsey-caliber palates.)

At one point, I heard him cry out, “OH FUCK!” which is probably not ever a good thing.

It turned out fine though; all the food was amazing. Props to Sandy for making Brussels sprouts taste like something super bad for you.

It’s always nice when my sweet son makes puking motions instead of just saying “No, thanks” when he’s offered something he doesn’t like. I don’t know where he gets that.

What?

Brian is Canadian and made some Yorkshire pudding things which I apparently missed the full experience of since they’re meant to be served with gravy and PETA tells me I mustn’t eat gravy. However, the fact that the puddings were cooked in bacon grease did nothing to deter me.

Meanwhile, Chooch acted like he lived there. He always does that, he has no modesty or restraint whatsoever. If he wants more chocolate milk, he’s going to have no problem telling Sandy’s friend Paul to get the fuck up from the table and prepare him a refill.

Henry and I spend a good portion of our social time doling out apologetic looks to Chooch’s victims.

After dinner, Chooch and Paul went downstairs to work on a 500 piece Charlie Brown puzzle that Chooch had spotted as soon as we got there and went upstairs to retrieve Ben after Henry told him to leave the puzzles alone and just play with the toys he brought in his backpack.

Ben of course pulled the puzzle off the shelf and once again, Sir Chooch got his way.

Then my friend Sarah shared a horror movie cast Thanksgiving photo on Facebook; I showed it to Chooch on my phone, who in turn shared it with his puzzle partner Paul and Brian’s wife Louise. He expertly roll-called all the villains for them, prompting Louise to ask, “Have you seen these movies?”

“Yeah,” Chooch started thoughtfully. “But mommy always covers my eyes so I won’t see the boobs.”

Everyone started cracking up and I was slowly dying on the inside.

“Boobs are bad, but all the blood and violence is Ok!” Louise laughed.

Later, Chooch shared with Paul that, “Mommy draws pictures of Daddy—”

I braced myself, expecting him to say “and his weener.” Instead it was, “with weeners all around him.” So, not so bad right? Henry pointed out later that either one was equally as horrifying for him.

Chooch was really doing a great job illustrating me as a horrible mom.

Henry was engrossed in Dora episodes with Elena, who is 2 while Chooch found two man-children to work on a puzzle with him. Later, all the adults watched three back-to-back episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba, even after Elena left the room to get a bath. I was too brain-dead and bloated to object. One of the episodes showed a plate with glistening slices of apples and then all I could think about was the bowl of apples in my kitchen and how Henry just refilled it that morning with a bunch of varieties recommended to me by my twitter friends and only then did it occur to me that I might have an apple abuse problem but it was still all I could do not pop up off the couch and cheer, “I’m thankful for apples, motherfuckers!”

Hey guess what? You don’t need family to have a wonderful Thanksgiving! Not when you have amazing friends who invite you to spend holidays with them. Thank you, Sandy and Ben. So this is what drama-free holidays feel like!

My friend Evonne and I are currently at Wendy’s, drinking wine, eating fruit and cheese. We messed around with the Psychic Circle for awhile, and it gave a shout out to Jonny Craig, y’all.

And that is what I’m doing on this fine Saturday night.

I also learned tonight that there are different kinds of grapes, more than red and white, and the ones I like are GLOBES.

I was on the phone with Henry yesterday when he asked if we were sending out Christmas cards this year.

“I don’t know,” I answered, followed by a suspicious, “Why?”

“Because it’s been a really long time since we sent out Christmas cards,” he said. I started thinking about that and realized the last time, not including the year I sent out homemade serial killer cards to my LiveJournal friends just to be an asshole, was in 2003.

That was kind of a long time ago.

We didn’t even send out “Our Baby Is Cuter Than Your Baby” cards for Chooch’s first Christmas.

“Can we put Jonny Craig on it?” I asked eagerly.

“Goodbye,” Henry said.

“Robert Smith was on our last one!” I wailed in argument.

“I don’t want a druggie on my Christmas card,” Henry growled.

So I guess we’re sending out separate Christmas cards this year. Holla at me if you want one! butgavincantdance@gmail.com

Here’s the last/only Christmas card we made. Thank god we only have FOUR cats now. Jesus Christ.

That was a pretty shitty card.

I always say that if it weren’t for Barb, I probably wouldn’t have lasted very long at The Law Firm; she made me feel welcome from the get-go, showed me all the ropes, and by the end of the my first night it became extremely clear to me why she’s pretty much everyone’s favorite in that department. Since April 2010, she has quickly become one of my favorite people of all time and has let me cry about my asshole family to her on countless occasions, which skyrockets her out of the plain and ordinary “co-worker” category.

Here are her picks!

I’m so glad that my blog waited until the week of its fucking birthday to break. There are error messages galore and I’m sure this is somehow Henry’s fault.

Blame Henry ’11.

(Which reminds me, I still need to make those buttons.)

Anyhow, while I’m at work decompressing from a long day on a juror panel (I didn’t get picked, but that’s a story for later), I figured I would round up the posts that some of my friends have picked as favorites and share them on this here blog. You know what’s nice? Not having shit to do. Thanks guys, for doing all the choosing for me!

***

1. The Gingercrack House : picked by Chris, my new haunted house friend!

My first exposure to OHE was a link to your blog about Trundle Manor about a year ago when I was researching TM in one of those “how the hell don’t I know about this place already” fits. I enjoyed the insight as well as the writing style.

Then came the first Castle Blood Matinee article, which I still think is the best thing that has ever been written about us. The “hyperbole that rings true” struck a chord in all of us and we literally couldn’t wait for a visit that year. (I write a lot for the attraction and am VERY nit-picky when somebody else puts something in print, and this one raised the bar for all other articles.)

Omitting anything personal in the blog due to bias, I would say that my favorite things are the fair/amusement park trip reports because they relate so well to what Kari and I do in our spare time and the adventures play out in a similar manner. The stand-out exception to all of this is the “Gingerbread Crack House” story, which I loved from start to finish and wish that I had been so clever as to come up with that particular gem of an idea.

2. Alisha’s Secret & Turning Religious : picked by Brandy, whose blog you should be reading.

I can’t tell you exactly what it was about this post but when I read it I was instantly hooked.  and I can prove it with this post. It’s been a little over a year now that I’ve been reading your blog; one good thing to come from Blog Frog.

The following 3 were chosen by my brother, Corey:

3. From the Photo Album (totally forgot about this)

4. Signed, Sally (Sadly)

5. The Cure Pilgrimage, Part 2: Pat’s Pizzeria

6. ROBIN : this was chosen by the inimitable Sandrababy, who inspired the second part of it in the first place.

Well, why don’t you just take me to a buffet and ask me which is my favorite dish?! My dear, every one of your posts shines by itself. Even when you expound more than once on a particular subject, I find you are never repetitive. Do you realize how difficult that is to accomplish in the often unforgiving world of writing? Quite simply, I adore you. I adore your family. I adore your art. I adore your superfunk nail designs. Just…everything.

Oh, alright. My favorite LJ post was when I asked you to make Henry take a pic with your cracktastic neighbor (the one with the Bozo hair), AND YOU DID. How I laughed. How I still laugh! Poor Henry.

 7. If You Ever Wanted To Induce a Heart Attack : picked by Kara, because she laughs so hard she pees a little every time she reads it, so now I want you all to picture Kara with a soggy crotch as you read this.

Happy birthday, little blog.

Hello, I’m on my jury duty lunch break. The valiant Henry was waiting outside the courthouse, casually leaning against a lamppost, to take me to lunch.

ISN’T HE NICE. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have left the jury room.

“If it weren’t for me, you probably wouldn’t have left the HOUSE yet,” he said with a scowl.

This is not far from the truth.

So far it has been super interesting.

I brought a book and the new issue of Alternative Press, but to be honest, I’m too captivated by the CRIMINALS sitting in the front of the room to do more than gloss over a few sentences.

I’ve already been questioned for one of the cases and it was extremely scary and my palms were sweating and even though they were like, “THERE ARE NO RIGHT OR WRONG ANSWERS” I answered everything and then screamed to myself, “OH MY GOD THAT SOUNDED WRONG.”

And I know I’m not a fan of cops, but there is one CILF that keeps coming into the room.

More later. I have serious business to tend to.

Clearly.

I met Andrea through an Etsy street team, but I always thanked my blog for luring her in. I use it as a friend-capturing device to make people believe that I am really this cool broad from Pittsburgh and then by the time they realize that I’m pretty boring and average, if not wildly whiny and ditzy, in real life, IT’S TOO LATE. THEY’RE ALREADY IN MY WEB. I AM FEEDING FROM THEIR STOMACH CAVITIES RIGHT NOW.

Anyhow, Andrea has been such a big cheerleader for my blog and whenever I get down about it, she gives me a good dose of Tough Love; a kick in the ass via text message; and sometimes, if I’m lucky, a care package of new My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow colors and gummy body parts. Being able to call her a friend is one of the best things that came from this blog.

She has been supremely busy out there in California, yet still made time to dig through for some of her favorites. Thank you, Andrea! (Everyone thank her! God!)

***

1. McDonald’s Got Racy

Andrea’s favorite Chooch story.

2. Date Night at the Home

According to Andrea, this is a good cross-section of my BRILLIANCE, you guys. Take that, absentee SAT-score.

3. At Least It Wasn’t Chucky

“That one where you almost hooked up with that Chucky guy,” I believe is how Andrea referred to this one.

Fun fact: the actor who played Andy in Child’s Play actually found this blog post and we’re now Facebook friends because of it. Even though I was practically sexually harassing him via the Internet. Good to know I can get away with that shit.

4. How Not to Talk to Strangers In a Cemetery

5. Bullying, Chooch and Mommy-style

This is Andrea’s favorite one of all time. I could write a post that would lead to me befriending Lil’ Wayne in real life, which would then lead to me setting him up with her on a blind date and that would inevitably lead to a marriage full of shiny gold grills, facial tattoos and gratuitous jock spritzing and she would still say, “No, the one about you and Chooch being assholes is still my favorite.”

***

And don’t forget to come back at the end of the week to sign up for the Oh Honestly, Erin giveaway, which will include 5 full-size jars of My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow and one blush (your choice of colors)! If you’re a dude, you should still go for it. I’ll have a painting and a set of my zombie notecards in the mix too, plus other stuff which I have yet to decide. Besides, you might look nice with some lavender lids.

I’ve been friends with Janna since sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. She’s always been one of my few “IRL” friends who supported my blogging efforts (habits?), but fear could have something to do with that. Next to Henry, she probably knows me better than anyone else, so I’m honored that she chose some of her favorites to share. Especially considering I drag her through the mud nearly as much as I do Henry.

So without further ado, here she is. Thank you, Janna!

***

Picking my favorites from this blog was not an easy choice because there is SO much good stuff here that Erin has written over the years. Eventually I was able to narrow my list of favorites down to five. I’ve got to say it was fun to read far back to the beginning of this blog to remind myself of some of the early stories and rediscover those baby Chooch pictures.

1. Franklin’s Bar

I wanted to have one of the short stories in my list because these were so well written and enjoyable to read. Out of Erin’s short stories, (which she needs to write more of), I picked Franklin’s Bar. I think a lot of my explanations for my favorites are going to hard for me to verbalize other than “I just thought it was great”. This story is great. As with many, if not all of the stories Erin’s written, the last few lines are the best. They’re something twisted and funny and dark and make me finish the story laughing. Well, the whole story is that stuff. This is my favorite line(s) from Franklin. “Back then, if you would have told me that Franklin’s was where I’d meet the man I was going to rape, I’d have laughed at you. Then kicked your ass.”

2. A Really Lame Carnival

I was there, believe me, it was lame. BUT the way Erin wrote about it made the thing way way WAY more interesting than I ever observed it to be. So why I like this post and added it to my favorites is basically the amount of sarcasm used to describe things that make me weeze with laughter to this day.

3. A Cure Pilgrimage:Part 1

(Though the whole entirety of this trip is amazing.) Again, I’m going to have to go with “This thing is just great” because of my lack of ability to really explain why I love this. I guess I really enjoy the details and comedy in Erin’s story telling. This trip is a great example of that. Two things mainly stick out for me- trying to get Henry to give directions over the phone “Henry: What are you near? Me: A black lady in really high boots.” and the description of that motel make this post completely awesome.

4. Haunted House History

I can tell from the writing (and personal knowledge) how much these memories are important to Erin. I love it not only because it’s nostalgia for me, but I can see how much this stuff means to her.

5. Undead Abduction

I picked one of the photo posts to be part of this list because, just like the short stories, the pictures are an important part of this blog. I chose the post with the pictures of Andrea and Chooch in the cemetery. Not only are they ridiculously fantastic, I LOVE these because of the story that they show.

On October 24, 2007, I left LiveJournal (where I was affectionately and rather grotesquely known as “vagynafondue”) and started Oh Honestly, Erin. It was scary, leaving a comfortable home for my writing after 6 years, but I felt it was time to move on, to claw my way out of the pigeon-hole, and to hopefully reach people outside of the members-only club that is LiveJournal.

It took me awhile to find my voice again, and WordPress caused a thousand knockdown-dragouts between Henry and me, but now I can’t imagine writing anywhere else. I don’t even know for sure if many people still read this thing, I know I lost a lot of my old LJ friends when I jumped ship, but it’s OK. Because it’s a part of me like a bad coke habit and I only see future possibilities, Henry exposés, and late night benders on the horizon.

With that, I’ve asked some of my friends to pick a few of their favorite OHE posts from years past, which I will be highlighting all week. Because maybe if people see that my friends actually read this shit, it will seem more legit. Otherwise, if left up to me, it will be a post full of county fair bullshit and Jonny Craig videos.

(Henry even said he would pretend like he knows how to read by choosing some of his own favorites. I’m not holding my breath on that one; blue never did look good on me.)

And if any of you have any personal favorites, please leave a comment and let me know. It would be like a virtual birthday cupcake for me.

And make sure to stop back at the end of the week, because there will be a “thanks for reading this shit” giveaway*. I felt bad that I dropped the ball on that last giveaway over the summer since, you know, my grandma died. But you forgive me, right?!

(*I promise to try and make it worthwhile.)

My friend Casey (formerly of the band Joke Flower) is here to kick things off. Thanks, Casey!

An Open (Love) Letter To Oh Honestly, Erin

Hello, Oh. How are you today?

On this occasion (your 4th birthday!), I wanted to let you know what you mean to me and how important you are in my life.

I know we haven’t been acquainted for a vast amount of time, but every moment I’ve spent with you has been precious to me.

I’ve been asked what my favorite parts of you are. How am I to answer this? I may as well be asked my favorite song, book or film.

It’s an impossible question to answer, for they are far too numerous!

Of course, I have been with many blogs in the past (haven’t we all?), but never have I laughed so much, or felt so at home, as when I’m in the warm embrace of your (often sarcastic) words and (frequently macabre) images. From the artistic beauty of blossoming zombie friendships in the cemetery, to the perfectly placed, exquisitely timed “motherfucker”s; from hilarious tales of law firm shenanigans, to images of Henry The Elder surrounded by gigantic, bright yellow cocks…each new missive becomes my favorite!

But I can’t even say that zombies, giant yellow peenz and “motherfucker”s define my love for you in themselves. You have also taught me so much. Through your words and pictures, I have discovered that Jonny Craig, although unquestionably talented, is a supreme douchebag; I have been introduced to the infinite joys of the wondrous Wacky Worm; I am now convinced of the timeless genius of Robert Smith and his merry band of minstrels, THE CURE. (TOLHURST!)

Oh, when I immerse myself in you, it’s like venturing into a small, warm room (perhaps like a closet) that’s full to the ceiling of treasures, just waiting to be discovered.

So, I just wanted to wish you the best of all possible birthdays, and I look forward to spending many more days with you, enjoying your endless charms.

In short, I love you lots like tater tots!

Yours truly,
Casey

The last time we took Chooch to Castle Blood’s daylight matinee, he was three-years-old; The Lost Boys was still his favorite movie; he was super-enchanted by one Jason Voorhees; and we still spontaneously flinched every time he opened his mouth in public, praying the word “Asshole” (or worse) wouldn’t come rolling out. He spent the whole goddamn tour of the castle bitching about Dracula’s absence.

The denizens had been waiting for Chooch and his silver-tongue to return and we finally had a chance to take him last Sunday. This was my friend Laura’s first October in Pittsburgh so I insisted that she come along because everyone needs to experience the Castle, even if it’s in daylight. Chooch never STFU once during the 40-minute car ride, and guess who was in the back with him? HIS WEARY MOTHER. We eventually joined “Are we there yet?” forces and Henry wanted to blow his brains out. He’s the only one who hates me sitting in the backseat more than me.

When we arrived, some of the denizens were milling about and suddenly it was all, “Chooch! Is that you? Chooch is here!” and he took a giant step behind my back because I guess he thought I was joking when I told him that they were all waiting for him. Normally he handles attention with way more panache than me (I go through life hiding behind Henry’s back like a kicked puppy), but I think the costumes were throwing him off. One minute we were just walking down a sidewalk in a quiet town and then bam—there’s a bunch of dead people in gowns with the facade of a castle behind them.

We got in line after formally introducing Chooch to everyone, and he was sort of starting to get that smart-ass Chooch attitude back while being asked questions by the denizen guarding the entrance, like he was so put out and exhausted having to talk to someone and he kept turning away from her but then I realized he was blushing through his zombie flesh-wounds, most likely because he was trying not to look at her boobs.

Uncle Vlad soon appeared on the front steps and we were sent in with the family of four behind us, the parents of whom I had originally used my Ph.d. in Debasement to prejudge because the dad had a mullet and the mom appeared to be blitzed off Benadryl, but they ended up being pretty inoffensive, plus they had two little girls whose presence alone was enough to hold Chooch’s tongue through the entire tour.

That and the bountiful corsets of the female denizens. I finally found my son’s Kryptonite and it’s the same as every other boy in the world.

He walked through the entire Castle looking nervous and blubber-ready anytime he was spoken to, but this didn’t stop him from nearly knocking a bitch down anytime a candy bowl was presented.

Meanwhile, the mulletted dad would laugh and look to me for some sort of approval every time one of his little girls would say something that was mildly funny but not enough to have Bill Cosby come calling. The mom was always trailing behind with her eyes mostly-closed, laughing to herself and trying TO BOND WITH ME. Clearly my “Don’t even!” exterior is softening because strangers are trying to penetrate my anti-social bubble more and more. Sometimes EVERYDAY.

I need to start practicing that snarl some more.

Oh goodie, the Gypsy Room! There are these beautiful strands of beads that fill the doorway into the Gypsy Room and on that day, I learned that not only are they beautiful, but sharp as fuck thanks to HENRY whipping one at me. One of the half moons or stars, I don’t know which but it was something with SPIKES AND THORNS ON IT, punched me in the lip in such a way that tears spontaneously sprung to my eyes it felt like my top lip had been triple-shot with Botox.

Of course, I couldn’t bitch about it to Henry right away because I didn’t want to interrupt the Gypsy and get a talking-to from our (extremely intimidating) guide, so I sulked in the back and periodically checked with my tongue for blood. But you better believe as soon as we walked out of that room, I gripped Henry’s arm and yelled at him the best I could without raising my voice above a strained hiss. If it had been bleeding, I would have sued his broke ass for a hard copy of his entire SERVICE history because I know he did it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the mom of the two girls in our group kept slurring for me to go on ahead of her, probably because she needed privacy to huff beneath a gargoryl.

In the pirate room, Henry was volunteered by our guide to get up in there and show his bravery, which made me snort to myself because unless bravery involves reading Food Magazine and having a foot run over by a pallet jack with no retaliation, Henry had no business being up there.

But on the bright side, it helped him realize he has a pirate fetish.

After the tour, we hung around outside and talked to our new friends while I tried to appear as socially together as possible but inside my head I was screaming, “MY HANDS! WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY HANDS!?” I ended up just keeping them inside my hoodie pockets.

Someone mentioned that Chooch was way quieter than they imagined; Henry and I, nearly in tandem, said, “It’s because there are girls around.” Even Laura seemed surprised at how docile he had become.

This was all the knowledge of my son that Professor Scrye and Lady Die’s little girl needed to know before chasing him around and antagonizing him with little else but her femininity. At one point, I think he was trying to dive into a garbage can.

The good thing about Chooch’s voice being smothered by estrogen was that he actually paid attention in there and took something away other than candy for the first time. Granted, he was still too young the other times we took him to really grasp the concept. I think 5 is the perfect age for a trip to Castle Blood. 5 and surrounded by little girls.

“I thought those little girls on the tour with us had makeup on, but then I realized they were just dirty,” Henry laughed like we’re so much better than them, I guess forgetting that people probably say that about our kid, too. Yesterday I unknowingly sent him to school with half of his head still caked in fake blood and he usually has last night’s meal hugging the corners of his mouth. My eyes don’t start properly seeing until at least noon, OK?

Chooch ate his whole bag of candy on the way home without me knowing (and by that I mean I wasn’t paying attention) and then caused a scene inside the gas station, making everyone in there believe that he earned his facial bruises and contusions.

Today is Barb’s birthday! Happy birthday, Barb!

Something you should know about Barb is that she sometimes cannot tell the difference between giraffes and zebras and that she thinks Bill Paxton is the worst actor of all time. She lost a hockey bet last year at work and her punishment was using a picture of Bill as her desktop wallpaper.

Because I can’t ever not be a dick to the people I like best, I made her a birthday card.

I’m sure she will cherish it forever. I mean, she better.

I’m not one of those people who has a dream and then needs to bore everyone with it immediately, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about (and feeling) the one I had two nights ago.

Chooch and I were at a party for someone who was late to arrive and there was no one else there we knew, just a bunch of family members looking at us all weird. The party was in a one-room house standing on cinder blocks and all I knew was that we needed to leave.

And so we did, despite being grabbed at by white trash alcoholics trying to forcibly tug us back into the house. I kept trying to run faster but I was having a hard time because I didn’t have any feet on account of Henry cutting them off the day before.

I wasn’t mad at him for doing it though. I understand that in order for him to fix my pants, he needed to cut off my feet, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to see them back on. So Chooch and I began our search for Henry, who worked in some seedy clinic for poor people.

On the way, I ran into some people I knew who casually asked, “Why are you running around with no feet again?” and then it occurred to me that this wasn’t the first time Henry had found a need to remove parts of me and as my REM-camera panned out I began to notice the accumulation of shoddy stitch-work across my body from all the times Henry had reassembled me.

My ankles have felt tender and ticklish ever since I woke up that morning.

Then there was this whole interlude where I inadvertently left Chooch* neglected and alone in the car when we arrived at the clinic  & only realized what I had done when I turned around and noticed a couple peering at him through the window and looking alarmed. I ran back to the car and gave them my best “I meant to do that” Pee Wee impression.

[*Like anyone could just “forget” that Chooch was in the backseat. That’s kid never shuts the fuck up.]

What the fuck does all this mean, other than that I should dump Henry and someone should call CYS on me.

ETA: I SOLVED IT! Yesterday, Barb gave me an apple. I put it in my purse. Today, I really want to eat that apple, but I have a biting-into-whole-apple paranoia. And of course I don’t know how to cut an apple. Why would I?

I wanted Henry to come home from work to cut it for me, but he was all, “Blah blah, I have a job and that is more important than your nutrition” so, outraged, I decided to do it myself.

But on my way to the kitchen, I had a flashing premonition of me slicing off my hand and then Henry having to come home and sew it back on.

So my dream was clearly a reminder to not try and cut foodstuffs with knives on my own. (And also that I’m a bad mom.)

I am extremely manic today.

Killer Ken Lobe’s shopping list. Glenn, the co-worker that Ken is based on, apparently likes cashews.

That’s the only specific food I could get anyone here to tell me that he likes. Metamucil because he’s old, olive-colored shirts because I just made fun of him recently for wearing an olive-colored shirt, lipstick because I picture him slathering it on after he makes a kill.

Bloody latex glove strewn across my desk light.

Hot Naybor Chris let me borrow an old table lamp, in which I promptly stuck a red light bulb. I still need to find an old lampshade for it that I can slash and splatter with blood.

Splattered blood is kind of the theme around here.

On the outside of the glass in front of my desk.

My blog bro Brandy has been posting some awesome DIY Halloween ideas and when she shared one about creepy things in jars, I knew my desk would be amiss without some of that action. Thank you, Brandy!

Once the festivities here at work are done, I’m not going to want to take everything down. I’ll probably just set up a permanent area for it at my house. Maybe in Chooch’s room. I’m sure that will help with the issues he’s having at school.

I set up my Killer’s office yesterday at work to a mixed bag. Some people loved it, some people were seriously repulsed (but commended me on it), some people didn’t get it, and one person mumbled, “I hate Halloween.”

But the greatest reward was that one of the analysts who never really talks much, to me or anyone, lingered by my desk to take it all in and actually showed emotion. I think it was the longest interaction we ever had.

The first thing you see when you walk down the hall is the pig mask propped on top of my closet thing. My boss stopped by last night to say goodnight and laughed heartily at it. “That’s perfect!” she shouted. Wait until you see the rest, I thought as I smiled nervously. I guess I’ll find out what she thinks today.

Aside from the pig mask, it’s fairly subtle. Yes, I have my desk covered with blood-splattered plastic, but nothing’s really in-your-face. You have to stop and really look. My favorite is the page from a used car catalog that has an Econoline van for sale, which I circled with blood.

I found a handful of old photos of my mom and aunt* from the 70s and several old Polaroids of some of my friends* from when we were teenagers, so I’m using those as my victim collection. I thought having actual photos would be scarier than just writing a list of names under a “Victim” heading. There’s a map of a random residential area which I hung up and as it gets closer to the end of the month, more and more victim photos will be taped up next to it with red lines drawn to the street where they were taken.

(* Susie and Christy, if you’re reading this—you’re two of the victims!)

Thank god I made Henry keep his old Weiss Meats coveralls (the ones that made him resemble Michael Myers and in turn made me like him; I’m sure he rues those coveralls now), because they add a nice touch, peeking out from my desk closet with a bone protruding from the pocket.

One of my co-workers came trolling past last night, stopped in her tracks when she saw the pig mask, and shot me a super condescending, “O-kaaaaaayyyyyy?” Then she hovered around my desk, inspecting all the details with this fucking “not impressed” smirk on her face and it put me in such a foul mood. I can’t wait to see the folk art she’s going to shit all over her desk. If she doesn’t have at least one pumpkin wearing a Leprechaun hat, I’ll write something nice about Katy Perry.

Today I need to find an old curtain or something that I can cut and hang up as a backdrop because it’s way too white in there. I need something that will give it a seedier ambiance.

Once I have it all complete, I’ll take real photos.

Also, how wonderful that this coincides perfectly with employee evaluations.

I’m skipping to the end even though other shit happened which I’ll get to later; chronology is so overrated anyway.

Andrea was still packing when I arrived at her luxurious Comfort Inn suite that late Monday morning.

“Do you need help?” I asked with a patented non-committal laziness to my voice. She said no and I cheered. I’m pretty sure she learned a long time ago that Erin Rachelle Kelly is the last person you’d want to ask for help.

After she checked out, she was quick to remind me of the real reason she flew to Pittsburgh in the first place: to dine at Chik Fil-A. Did you know that all they have at Chik Fil-A is chicken? Bizarre. Luckily, I was able to get waffle fries and some weird carrot raisin cole slaw shit which I thought I would hate but you’d be hardpressed not to find this shit at the reception to the wedding I’ll never have.

On the way back home, Henry sent me a pathetic text saying that he was locked out of the house. We pulled up and found him sitting on the front steps, staring intently at his phone and pulling off hearty bites of a soft pretzel. Even after I unlocked the door, he continued to sit there.

“He has Words with Friends on his phone,” Andrea reminded. “He doesn’t even need to go in the house.” We immediately left again for one last Starbucks run while she was here. As I was getting in the car, Andrea prompted me to be a good girlfriend and ask Henry if he wanted anything, which I did in a monotone sigh.

The look Henry flashed me in lieu of an answer made Andrea crack up, only because she’s not around to see him to do it EVERY HALF HOUR, this annoyed, “Don’t be stupid” smirk.

“He hates coffee,” I explained. “He thinks even the chocolate chip cookies have coffee in them.” The only thing Henry hates more than Starbucks is when we go to one that has a drive-thru and he has to stutter and stammer out my latte order to overly-perky voices chirping out through the speak

On the way back from Starbucks, I turned up the radio. “You might like this song,” I said.

“Let me guess—Jonny Craig?”

I was insulted! Besides, I think Emarosa (Jonny’s ex-band) only came on in the car a few dozen times the whole weekend she was here. That’s what I like to call “consideration.”

We had a little bit of time after that to hang out at my house. Even though I hate having my picture taken, there was no way I was letting her get on a plane without some kind of photographical evidence that we hung out in real life. First she took one on her phone but I my face had the girth of three footballs.

“We can’t use that one; I look like an Eskimo.”

This prompted Mama Evils to lecture me about racism. Really though, I can’t be expected to know this unless I see a PSA on MTV about Eskimos. Until then, they’re fair game.

I look like Popeye in this one, but it’s whatever.

Then the moment came where we had to take her to the airport. Chooch refused to get out of the car, and I could see him in the backseat all hunkered down and crying.

“Stupid geogaphy,” I said when she hugged me. WHY DID SHE HAVE TO COME HERE?! I mean, goodbyes are hard enough, but when you’re saying it to someone who lives clear across the country and you don’t know when you’ll be able to see them again, it’s like being finger-fucked in the heart by Freddy Kreuger.

The whole way to work, I whined about how sad I was. When I got to work, Wendy came around the corner and, knowing that we had just dropped Andrea off at the airport, she looked all Eeyore-ish too. The only upside was that I got to blather on to everyone about how fantastic the weekend was.

***

That night, I was sitting with Chooch on the couch. Suddenly, he looked at me and wailed, “I can’t even remember how Andrea laughs!”

It was the saddest fucking thing.

I’d like to think that Andrea took home a wealth of knowledge from Pittsburgh; such as: its residents are condimentally adventurous, Steelers jerseys are pretty much a second skin, and riding in the car with Chooch and me in the backseat serves as really effective birth control. But on the bright side, she still texts me as much as she did before so I guess that means I didn’t completely annoy her!