Get fucked.

All the pre-school kids get to bring in treats on their birthday. Since there was no school on Monday, Chooch is bringing shit in tomorrow. I thought perhaps Henry could bake some cupcakes; Chooch suggested cookies.

But Henry went off on his own and decided to make chocolate lollipops. He bought three different sets of molds: pirates, dinosaurs and monkeys. Also procured were bags of white chocolate molding things, food coloring and paint brushes to help aid in a potential murder-suicide situation.

Because solid chocolate is too easy.

Before sitting down to “help,” I considered relisting* myself as “in a relationship with Henry Robbins” on Facebook so that I could re-breakup with him after fifteen minutes, because the two of us working side-by-side on anything involving food and arts and crafts is surely going to end with our home criss-crossed in yellow crime scene tape.

(*Technically, according to Facebook, I’m still single after Henry failed to take me roller skating Saturday night.)

Henry wasn’t even done setting up yet when Chooch spilled a jar of orange food coloring on himself THREE TIMES. This was partly because I was too busy perfecting my Negligent Teen Mom act and partly because no one ever listens when Henry says not to touch something, which would explain why I’ve found myself in so many philandering situations over the years.

So now my child looks like he was sired by Pauly D after a reckless night of beatin’ the beat in Snooki’s kuka with his spray-tanned guido venereal-rod. Have fun selling booty shorts on the boardwalk this summer, son.

Meanwhile, I managed to paint the miniscule crannies of a pirate skull, a pirate ship and two dinosaurs before completely flipping my shit.

“IT WON’T STAY MELTED!” I kept screaming at Henry, who would calmly tell me to “work faster.”

%&*%*^$*^%

Listen here, Wonka. Unless you want to see how fast I work when equipped with a sausage grinder and your dick in my hands, best BACK UP OFF ME.

Fifteen minutes — pretty lofty expectations on my behalf. I only made it ten before rage and a quickly diminishing temper had me demonstrating full-body palsy shakes before launching my paint brush into a death-spiral to Hell and stomping off to pout on the couch.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Henry murmured, hard at work filling his molds with plain milk chocolate and not even bothering to PAINT THE FUCKERS LIKE HE WAS MAKING ME DO, while I yelled a bunch of vulgarity-drenched death threats to the entire institution of chocolate candy and made promises to insert leftover lollipop sticks into Henry’s asshole while he sleeps tonight.

He’s currently in the kitchen, making exaggerated motions of extreme harriedness while I sit here listening to Emarosa, loudly and with my feet up, because I have no obligations to fulfill. Life is good.

Enjoy yourself, bro. This was all your idea, remember? If it were my choice, I would gladly just jam a stick of Juicy Fruit in each of those little fucker’s mouths and be done with it.

God, I hate doing things.

Nothing says Happy Birthday like half-assed chocolate shit on sticks born from rage, dysfunction and pure, unadulterated hate for life. Eat ’em up, kids.

Chooch and I were fucking around outside before I went to work. I love this picture so much.

I like this picture too much not to post it here, too. SHE’S MY BABE.

The sun was beating down on them that day like a space-hung magnifying glass search-lighting for human ants. On dehydration’s horizon, a collective of construction workers toiled at a work site, beleaguered with dry mouths and Sahara-strong hallucinations of sparkling oasis.

Manfred was the first to experience a slack in perseverance. “If we don’t take a break, we’re all going to melt,” he assured the crew. “Or worse,” he mumbled, stealing a glance at Anthony’s sun-beaten face and quaking knees.

“He’s right, you know,” Lenny wheezed, stabbing his shovel into the cracked soil, which a summer-long drought had turned into an uncanny semblance of over-baked chocolate chip cookies, sheet-form. “And we’re running out of water, to boot.”

The others needn’t be told more than once, and a symphony of metal clunking ground resounded through the site; brows were mopped in tandem; chests heaved in exhausting unison.

“The b-boss’s not going to be pleased when h-he sees we’re not w-working,” Anthony panicked, anxiety bringing forth the stutter of a five-year-old’s first day of school.

“I wouldn’t worry about that old prick,” Carlos laughed. “Found his body slunched over back behind the scaffolding; been dead at least six hours.” And with that, he doled out what little aqua remained in the boss’s confiscated Hello Kitty SIGG water bottle.

***

This painting was sold awhile ago, but it is available in pendant-form, which I’m wearing tonight and felt inspired to repost its story. Just so you know.

After taking in a matinee of Burnt Offerings from our Netflix instant queue, Chooch must have decided he better squeeze in some age appropriate programming, because the next thing I knew, the house was filled with the Blue’s Clues theme. This particular episode ended with Blue and Steve performing the cyclone experiment.

“I want to do that,” Chooch said.

“I kinda do, too,” I decided. Luckily, we were able to catch Henry right before he left work and he grabbed two empty Faygo bottles.

Chooch was so excited. He even found a funnel in the bread drawer; I didn’t even know we had a funnel. (But I did know we had a bread drawer, amazingly enough! We never keep bread in it though.) But then of course Henry came home and his testosterone pills made him hijack our project.

“We don’t need that,” he said, batting away the funnel.

“Yes we do! Steve—-” Chooch started to cry, but Henry had already filled up one of the bottles directly from the faucet. Then he grabbed a roll of electrical tape and began wrapping a long length of it around the two bottles, joining them together at the spouts.

“Steve only used one small piece of yellow tape,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’m sure there was more holding it together than just that,” Henry spat with indignance.

“No there wasn’t!” I cried. “We watched him assemble it from scratch!”

But Henry put it together his way, and then got to be the big man on campus as he flipped the bottles and gave it a quick shake, creating a cyclone in the upside-down bottle as the water flowed down.

Chooch, who had felt the need to strip down to his underwear for this experiment, was pretty captivated. I guess I was too, for a few seconds. I hadn’t done that since elementary school. I mean, why would I have done it since then? Although I guess I am enough of a dork to pull out some lame parlor trick like that in the middle of a kegger or one-night stand.

After all the fuss was over, I went upstairs to get ready for work. When I came back down, Henry was sitting on the couch, still playing with the bottles.

“Seriously?” I scoffed. “It’s not that great.” But he said nothing and flipped the bottles over another time, causing a brand new cyclone to be born. This is probably how he wiled away his days in the SERVICE while his buddies were strutting around in their fatigues, getting blow jobs: the cyclone experiment & baking brownies for the staff sergeant in his Easy Bake Oven.

I bet he’s at home doing it right now, when he SHOULD be getting his chores done.

Low budget and it shows, mediocre-to-poor acting, horrible sound quality, but somehow it manages to be extremely effective. Of course Henry didn’t think this was scary at all, but I was very messed up by it, to the point where I was pretzeling my limbs around Henry in bed later (when typically, I’m kicking and punching him for snoring) because I was THAT SCARED to go to sleep.

Trust me when I say I dealt with his animalistic snoring for the night.

I tried to find a picture of this weird wooden box that’s used in the movie. It’s like a small, almost coffin-shaped black trunk of sorts (decorated with a crucifix, of course) which opens up wide enough to fit around a head. At the top of the box, which is the end that is looked out of once it’s being worn, a picture of the murderer’s husband (some sort of pastor) and JESUS is slid inside, so that’s what she’s looking at when her husband is going to town on her, kind of like a full-cranial S&M Viewfinder. I think that was the scariest part of the movie for me.

But now of course I really want one of those fucking helmets. I bet Lady Gaga knows where to find one.

(Totally should not have watched this movie. I’m getting so wussy in my old age.)

More fun for Henry, delivered today!, originally uploaded by appledale.

I’m so excited about this, I could puke!

Oh wait, I just did!

Our tickets to the Dance Gavin Dance show in March also arrived, and Henry can really barely contain himself.

You should see him. You would probably say, “Henry, get a hold of yourself!

” and then I would say, “Who are you?” because maybe then I would finally get to know who I’m referring to all those times I say “you.”

Nain posted last week about man caves and how her husband is finally going to get one when their house is finished being built.  I think–ideally–that we all need our own space though, don’t we? In our current residence, no one really has their own space (bedrooms excluded).

All the time, I tell Henry that if (a big if) we ever actually own a house, it is essential that I have my own room. It only needs to be big enough to hold my music collection, a bangin’ stereo, enough wall space to be adequately covered with my music memorabilia, and of course–a big motherwhompin’ bean bag chair. (Though in a perfect world, the bean bag chair would be swapped out for one of those devilishly retro egg chairs.)

“So basically you want a teenager’s room,” Henry summarized.

Yes, and with all the haphazardly strewn used condoms, door slamming and cutting apparati that comes with it.

This footage wasn’t from the night I was there, but my people saw (a) door(s) opening as well, while watching the monitor from the safe room. I didn’t see it myself that night, but just the idea that someone there with me saw it was enough to sufficiently creep me the fuck out.

The doors there were pretty solid and none of them seemed loose on their hinges.

We’re meeting up next Saturday to go over the evidence culled from the investigation. One of the girls commented on the Meetup site and said that she and her friend picked up some EVPs from one of the recordings they had in a classroom that night. I’m probably going to pee my pants.

I still have so much to tell you guys about that night! Finally went through my unfocused, blurry photos.

Didn’t really see anything but I also have absolutely no idea what I’m looking for. My new ghost hunting friend Jimmy Wenger said I can share some of his photos on here, though.

I’m way more into this than I thought I would be! I know I have been causing Henry’s eyes to roll a lot this past week like dice in an alley, because it’s all I’ve been able to talk about. I think mostly it just feels nice to be a part of something.

(Here is where the studio audience would all coo a canned “Awwww” in tandem.)

And now I’m going roller skating. I’m having my birthday party there this summer. Ya’ll better be there.

I sent this Sea Monkey video to Barb yesterday at work after she was pouting over not being able to see the newly-birthed sea babes on my desk, and she apparently was so taken by the music that she was watching it again today and showing it to other people.

My favorite is that third three-eyed bastard who comes poking in halfway though the video.

I just love him.

I never thought these things would be such a hit around here, but curiosities have definitely been piqued and several people have been chiming it with name ideas.

One of the processors admitted that he never knew they were real things, but thought they were mythological dragons.

Which makes me wish they actually were mythological dragons. Except less mythological, more logical.

P1010056, originally uploaded by appledale.

I will forever miss working with Tina, her mysterious oozing facial gashes, her need to remind the world that she knows it all, and – most importantly – her man-stance. According to another ex-co-worker, she has apparently moved back to Wyoming, a state whose existence I always forget. Wyoming is SO LUCKY.

And I’m sure (all) you long-time blog reader(s) really miss reading about her. (Yeah right!) No one at my current job comes close to emulating her crudeness, her need to remind us all she was IN THE SERVICE, and – most importantly – her femmullet. I’m pretty sure this is a very good thing, though.

I have a real post on the way. I have been sick and staring at the NHL Network with glazed-over eyes all morning while Chooch is in school and I should be getting real stuff done. NOT SO MUCH.

I’m sitting in a church, waiting for the roof to collapse, and also for Chooch’s fucking class to get their asses out here and sing Jingle Bells so I can peace the fuck out of this God structure.

There are a lot of obnoxious parents here.

One of them is in front of me with her screaming baby and she is seemingly under the impression that he is precious; well, I’m here to tell you that he is not. And Henry is next to me, trying to crack jokes, but my only response is hissing.

His mom is here too. She asked me what I do at my job and I was like, “You wouldnt understand.”

My inner Grinch is suffocating my will to fake smile.

The sole purpose of this post is  just that I wanted to be able to say I blogged from church.

Guys, stop what you’re doing! I have a guest post today over at Brandy’s blog! To keep with a Christmas theme, I lent her the best original recipe I have ever created and she was brave enough to share it. And it’s a good thing too because I am feeling a little burnt out.

But I want you to promise me something! While you’re over there, read some of her other posts too. Her blog has everything from DIY ideas, weekly confessionals, really incredible pictures, the cutest dog, and just all-around great stories about her life. She is really fantastic. And come on, you know how few blog friends I have, so it must be true! I only pimp out the things I actually love.

Now go bake those cookies!

In other news, I am on the phone with my friend Lisa right now while she searches for her nose ring in her car. (She called while I was in the middle of writing this, which is why I discovered an hour later that I completely left a sentence unfinished. GOOD JOB LISA.)

After a day of Amish-spotting, it was just getting dark as we drove back to the hotel. To the right, we saw a wide expanse of Christmas lights so Tommy pulled into the parking lot so we could see what was going on. It turned out to be Dutch Wonderland, a small amusement park I BEGGED Henry to take me to the last time we were in Lancaster but he was all, “This is a CHILD’S park!” OK, and? Turns out that Dutch Wonderland has special holiday hours, complete with a “spectacular light show.” Admission was only $11.95 and I guess Henry figured Chooch and I deserved to cut loose after spending all day looking at arts and crafts, our least favorite past time. Tommy and Jessy opted out of the adolescent festivities, but I really think they would have enjoyed it.

It was already 6pm by the time we made it back to the park after getting our car from the hotel, so that gave us three hours to ride the shit out of that park.

Chooch and I got to take in the “spectacular light show” as we rode the Sky Coaster, which was the longest and most heart-in-throat 10 minutes of my life. “Could you please stop trying to make yourself fall out?!” I kept yelling to Chooch as he clotheslined himself across the bars in order to get a better look at the concrete walkway below us. Jesus Christ, no fear. Meanwhile, I spent the whole ride having anxiety about the inevitable end when we would be forced to slide out of the car while it was still in motion.

And oh my Lord, they have this little tiny Chapel in the middle of the park. Just sitting there, hoping to hear your prayers. Of course Chooch and I had to barrel through it and act completely ignorant to everything it stood for, while Henry waited uncomfortably outside.

Seriously, what a fucking creepy park! Made me love it twice as hard.

There was this little building that held a diorama of Dutch women quilting at a table. There was a button you could push and the women would come to life, creepy mechanical voices warbling out of a speaker, giving a lesson in Dutch people, I don’t fucking know. The only part that stuck with me was when the one old bag was saying something about how someone was late because “the horse was lame,” and then I couldn’t stop saying that all weekend, in the same weird accent she used. I’m pretty sure it was a man doing the voices.

Unlike Kennywood, Chooch was game for anything and even seemed let down that the little wooden roller coaster wasn’t one of the rides open for winter operation.  All three of us rode the Twister together, and I thought for sure Chooch was going to hate it but he was cheering behind me while Henry was trying to keep his glasses from flinging off. Then Henry went off to find the bathroom, which probably had Scripture graffiti’d in the stalls, while Chooch and I rode some baby airplane ride and I embarrassed him by squealing “Wheeee!” while throwing my arms up. He kept shrugging away from me and saying, “OK! Stop doing that now! It’s not funny.”

I walked away from that in wide-eyed horror.

But it got worse. While Chooch was riding some mini-whip thing, there was a small gingerbread house nearby. I ducked inside to check it out and honestly haven’t been the same since. It was another mechanical scene. This one involved deranged serial killers in bakers hats, mixing up intestines for “gingerbread cookies,” I don’t even fucking know. But it sped up my heart rate something fierce.

Look at the weaponry behind him! OMFG. He was in my dreams that night. It was not erotic.

She looks like that fucking broad from Dark Crystal, which is weird because Dark Crystal came up twice that weekend.

Ahhhhh! Uncle!! Uncle!!! MAKE IT STOP!

After my experience in the gingerbread house, I walked robotically back to Henry.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, and all I could do was stand there and stare at him, my face frozen into a grimace.

Dutch Wonderland is fucked up.

The three of us went on some space shuttle ride that played a video from 1978 and I’m not quite sure what was going on exactly but I think we were being shot at in outerspace? Chooch didn’t like it because I kept falling into him every time the ship rocked to the side in a rusty-geared fashion. It was pretty lame, but I imagine Henry thought it was to the limit.

But my favorite ride was the Wonder House! Oh my God the Wonder House! I want one for my front yard! Everyone sits in the middle of this little tiny house, on a large suspended wooden bench, and the operator then says, “If you start to feel sick, just close your eyes OKHAVEFUN” and then LEAVES while the house revolves around, giving the appearance that you’re upside down. Chooch unfortunately did not grasp this concept and kept yelling, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THERE IS A ROCKING CHAIR ON THE CEILING. I WANT TO SWITCH SIDES” after the ride operator specifically said not to stand up under any circumstances lest you knock your head off the ceiling or floor.  Then there was a little cupboard in the corner for decor purposes and he was desperate to open it WHILE THE HOUSE WAS SPINNING.  This is what happens when rides don’t belt four-year-olds the fuck in.

It was three hours of perfect family bliss, as nauseating as that sounds. But it’s true! Earlier in the day, Chooch and I were not getting along at all. It’s hard to keep him stimulated when there’s nothing to do but look at jars of jam and quilts. So he was acting up a lot and I was losing my patience and there were several moments that threatened to morph into Really Bad Scenes. It was exhausting and aggravating. But Dutch Wonderland kind of brought us back together because we were having so much fun and it was non-stop action. He and I joked around a lot, like when we were in line for the Turnpike and some old man was bending over in front of us and I pushed Chooch’s face into his ass. Good times between mother and son.

Even the pretzels were winter-themed! And there was a s’mores-making station too! AND A SOUP HOUSE. SOUP!

We saw some kid jump up and attempt to punch the Frosty mascot in the nose. It was pretty intense. I couldn’t stop laughing, but everyone else who saw it was appalled and Frosty backed away with his hands protectively guarding his carrot-nose.

Everyone there was so happy. Maybe I’m just used to the jaded teenagers schlepping around in Kennywood polos, but these kids working at Dutch Wonderland? I bet they go home and tell their parents over a snack of apple sauce how grateful they are to be spearing cigarette butts off the grounds of Dutch Wonderland. Even on the train ride, as we chugged through the park, all the employees stopped watching their respective rides to turn and give us cheerful waves. Custodians waved latexed hands at us. Even the guy ejaculating behind the Wonder House gave us a good shake of his dick.

In other words, it would be no place for me to work.

The lines were short, the other park-goers weren’t too obnoxious, I didn’t even run into any Kate Gosselin-wannabes. Plus all the boys running the rides appeared to be legit Dutchmen and they all stared at my boobs. God, Dutch Wonderland made me feel fantastic.

And Henry held my hand a lot. When does that ever happen? In Dutch Wonderland, apparently.

It was the highlight of our weekend. My face hurt from smiling so much.

It was kind of hard to miss it when we came home from Lancaster Sunday night. The web was strung from the bottom of the porch roof, to the right of the front door, and lounging in the middle of the web was the biggest motherfucker with eight legs I’ve ever seen in Pittsburgh.

The front window of the house is directly on the other side of the web and it’s common practice for me to run up the front steps and lean off the front porch so I can peek in the window to see what the cats are doing. I like to observe them when they think no one is watching. If I were to do that now, I’d be face-planting myself right in this bastard spider’s lair.  I thought of this immediately on Sunday, as we all stood there staring in disgust, and the thought of it gave me full-body shudders.

“Is it poisonous?” I asked Henry. His “probably not” didn’t sound very convincing.

A few minutes later, Henry frantically called me to the front door. “He caught something!” Henry said, probably reminded of all the nights he spent street walker-watching when he was stationed in Panama.

We stood with the front door open, watching this big brown blob of horror drag a small bug up to the middle of the web, where he then proceeded to cocoon it. It was fascinating, and I decided that Marcy shouldn’t be missing this so I ran in to the house to get her.

“She won’t look at him!” I whined, holding Marcy up to the web.

“She’s a CAT, Erin. She doesn’t give a shit,” Henry said in annoyance. And then he repeated, “She’s a cat!” in an exaggerated sing-song voice when I pushed Marcy closer to the web like a sacrificial lamb.

The rest of Sunday night was spent with me confusing Henry with someone who actually knows things. “Is it going to come in the house? How long is it going to stay? Will it jump off the web at me? Is it going to suck the blood out of that bug now? Can we just throw bugs into the web? Will it eat this dead stink bug? What if it gets in my hair? What if it attacks the mail man? What if one of my enemies planted it there OMG we’re all going to die now!”

Monday night at work, Henry emailed me the photos I took of the spider Sunday night so I could show Barb.

I know my southern friends are laughing right now and thinking, “You dumb Yankee, that ain’t SHIT.”

Barb seemed adequately horrified when she opened the photos, as did everyone else in the office who had the misfortune of strolling by while the picture was up on her screen.

“Do you own or rent your house?” Derek asked me.

Before I could even finish saying that I rent, he blurted out, “LEAVE. Just leave. Don’t pack your stuff. Set the house on fire and leave.”

He really doesn’t like spiders.

One of the analysts, this big tall guy who I recently discovered is much less Fearless Leader than he looks, glanced at it and said, “KILL IT I WOULD HAVE KILLED THAT THING BY NOW OMG.” Another analyst recommended I give it its own Twitter account.

Meanwhile, Barb was scouring the Internet to see if I was going to land my ass in the Exotic Bites ward of the hospital. “Well,” she said around dry heaves. “It’s not a brown recluse.” I didn’t even need to know what she was looking at; the gagging concert behind me was enough to make involuntarily shudder.

I snagged Jeannie as she was walking by, because she’s a genius so I figured, “If anyone knows if I’m sharing my house with a murderer, it’s Jeannie.”

“I doubt it’s going to hurt you,” was Jeannie’s verdict after looking at its mug shot. “I mean, just don’t go out and PLAY with it.” And it’s a good thing she said that, because I was already thinking of looking for dresses for it on Etsy. It would be greater than the time I was 10 and my dad caught me in the garage teaching a Praying Mantis how to count change. (100% true tale.)

When I came home from work that night, he was gone. I was kind of sad about this. I had somehow grown attached without even realizing it. But then I was angry! What, my fucking front porch wasn’t good enough for this elitist arachnid? What a motherfucker! And then my anger turned to horror and I screamed, “What if he’s in the house? WHAT IF HE’S IN MY HAIR?”

“He’s still there,” Henry said. “He retreated into that little crevice up there.” And sure enough, next to the web was a little hole in the ceiling of the roof, out of which one of his spiny legs was dangling.

My friend Gina lives in the same part of town as me, and she said she recently had a similar-looking spider at her house, too, but now he’s gone.

“Are they like, new to the area?” I asked her, because I have never seen spiders this big around here.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” she said. I’m now convinced that it’s the same spider, driven away by her sarcastic attitude. So now I feel like I have to care for the poor thing. I want to give him a blanket and a copy of Us Weekly but I’m afraid to get too close. God, this is already just like every relationship I’ve been in. Except I haven’t blown him yet. Sorry, spider. But I wouldn’t even know where to start.

***

When I got to work yesterday, I had just sat down and went to put my hand on the mouse to log on when I noticed it.

“Aw, who put that there?” I asked out loud, and was answered by snickering.

“I was waiting for you to notice it,” Derek said from his desk, but it was Kaitlin who did it! Sweet, demure, macaron-slinging Kaitlin. Bravo, Kaitlin!

“Did it scare you?” Barb asked excitedly, like she had been waiting all day for this. (Too bad she wasn’t even at her desk when I sat down!)

“Well, no. It has glitter on it.”

***

I still have to think of a name for him. Right now, I’ve just been calling him Sir.

As in, “Good day, Sir; you’re looking mighty majestic today, Sir. Please may I pass peacefully, Sir? I brought some more of Henry’s blood for you, Sir.”

This is way more fun than the pet mouse I had in 2008.