The downfall of Blogathon is that there are 49 posts in all, and not many people have time to read 49 posts. Especially when most of them occur smack-dab during the prime time of Saturday night. And especially when they’re written by me.

So here are my favorites, hand-picked and waiting for your lovin’.

#2: Henry Gets a Stripper

#8 Something Nice About Henry

#22 Girl First: A True Account!

#24 My 19th Birthday!

#26 The Laughter: A New Band <——–MY FAVE

#31 The Plaza Cafe

#32 Purple: An Erin’s Best Friend

#34 Alisha’s History Hour & Steel Magnolias

#37 A Necessary Weenie Roast

#40 Henry & Baby Selleck

#41 Chooch

#42 The Trunk

#48 Percolator

Tom Weston made a video of people reading from really God-awful books; among them: Miley Cyrus’s biography and that waste of paper Sarah Palin tries to pass as a book. It’s really fun, so go watch!

Rotten Writing from Tom Weston on Vimeo.

If you left a comment on my blog Monday night and it’s since been deleted, it’s because Henry was fucking around with the database.

Not because I’m a bitch or a whore.  Well, I am both of those things, but you know what I mean.

P1010028, originally uploaded by appledale.

My friend Mose came over Saturday night to drink wine and be a porch-sitter with me. Somehow the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast came up in conversation and I felt inspired to go back and look at the pictures from when Henry took me there for my birthday. I think it was in 2003. So now we know that 2003 was the last good birthday I had.

Anyway, he and I were the only guests that night in July, aside from this really goofy guy named Mike who was house-sitting for the summer. I remember being beyond scared to the point of barely sleeping, and then cracking my thigh on the underside of the super-low dining room table the next morning over a breakfast of jonny cakes. Scared and bruised, that is my summation.

This is a picture of me and my big arms, sitting on Lizzie’s parent’s bed, writing a very un-ironic postcard to my death row pen pal, Greg. “Hey Greg, I’m in a house of murder. IS THIS WHAT YOUR HOUSE FEELS LIKE!?”

I would like to go back there someday.

A few months ago, Hot Naybor Chris’s wife became fed up with her inability to back down into the driveway without driving into the grass, side-swiping pedestrians, and having to occasionally move her turkey neck a fraction of an inch to look around cars parked along the curb. So she did what anyone else would do – threw a fit and had Hot Naybor Chris call the city for them to send workers to paint yellow lines on the curb around the entrance to the driveway, ensuring no one would have the nerve to park too close, thereby impairing her chances of properly swinging her HUGE! GIGANTIC! Hyundai from the road to the driveway.

I remember coming home that day and seeing some City workers in front of the house, painting yellow lines. Here, I thought it was for something important, marking a water line or something, not a fucking house call.

One day, Henry had the audacity to park on the street, a little too close to the yellow line, rendering it IMPOSSIBLE for Ruth to leave! Hot Naybor Chris donned his suit of armor and jogged over to ask Henry to please back up. “M’lady is trying to pull out of the driveway, and your carriage is not allowing her ample room,” he explained, while his fat-bottomed queen huffed past in her gilded sedan. Henry grumbled about this for awhile. “If she seriously can’t pull out of the driveway because of where my car was parked, then she shouldn’t be driving at all,” he said.

Last night after I came home from work, a cop was outside of the house. Henry, who springs a hard-on every time a man in uniform is within a two-mile radius, ran to the door to inspect. He heard the dispatch say “maroon SUV” and knew they must have been here for our mysterious next door neighbors, the matriarch of which Ruth has engaged in several imbroglios.

Then the cop knocked on our door and Henry was so excited to point next door when the cop asked who owned the SUV. I’m surprised his arms didn’t pretzel in all his excitement to point perfectly to the left. Yay, Henry helped a COP! Rejoice!

A few minutes later, our neighbor left her house and moved her SUV.

She was parked over top of the yellow line. That bitch! She must be racist against people who think they drive big rigs.

Now, Ruth had just come home prior to the cop arriving. I’m sure it was an enormous struggle for her to pull into the standard-sized lip of the driveway. All the millions of other people who do this successfully every day must be MAGIC, Ruth. It’s not you, it’s THEM.

Anyway, oh my god, who called the cops? DO THE MATH.

I can guarantee that Ruth has been waiting for the moment she could call the cops on our neighbor for parking over the yellow line. Waiting with steepled fingers! I wonder what it’s like to have nothing better to do than to sit around causing a ruckus over someone who’s a good half foot away from blocking your driveway.

The most awesome part is that I get to live smack in the middle of these two feuding broads, one of whom keeps some questionable company that I know I sure wouldn’t want to fuck with. They’ve already had one huge blowout in my front yard (everything always happens in my front yard) awhile ago. It sounded like two feral cats mewling at each other.

Perhaps Ruth should just forgo driveway parking and utilize the lot across the street.

All you wonderful people who have been insisting for YEARS that I check Zenni Optical for glasses will be very proud of me. I finally bought a pair. But not without a plethora of panic attacks and mid-grade anxiety. Ask Henry. He had to live through it.

These were the largest ones I could find without upgrading to SKI GOGGLES. And I am still not sure these will even be large enough.

I had to lie about my pupillary distance (which Henry had to measure for me because it wasn’t on my prescription) just to be able to order these, because my actual measurement is too small. I don’t even know what the fuck a pupillary distance MEANS, it’s been so goddamn long since I’ve had eye glasses.

Goddammit, the more I look at these, the more I start to doubt their girth. It would be helpful if Zenni Optical had photos of people wearing all the glasses. (Maybe all at once, too.)

And of course, my left eye is all fucked up now! It doesn’t hurt, but there’s a red mark on it, like I must have poked myself perhaps? In any case, I was too afraid to slap a contact on that eyeball yesterday, so I went to work half-blind. That wasn’t a disaster or anything. Halfway through my shift, it was pretty much like being without both eyes, because my right eye got so tired of doing the work of two. It’s not like I’m working with LEGAL DOCUMENTS OR ANYTHING.

At one point, one of my co-workers asked me why I was acting weird, or maybe it was scared she said. It was probably because I was trying to figure out who was standing three feet away from me.

I had a real “startled rabbit” charade going on last night. Well, that or a tweaked-out raver.

I’m going to ask the Olson twins to start an eyeglass line. It’s the only way.

And here is the thing I said I was “quite fond of” and would be posting later, about my dick of an ex-eye doctor. It’s from March of 2008, in case you need to know for your Erin scrapbook.

**********

“Your prescription hasn’t changed,” my eye doctor said, pushing the butterfly-shaped apparatus away from my face. I started to relax in the orange leather seat, thinking that I would get to leave sooner than I imagined.

He pulled out a pen light and some sort of magnifying glass and after blinding me while forcing me to stare at his ear, he started pressing down on my closed lids.

“Have you been in a car accident recently?” The question made me pause; I answered no.

“Any sort of trauma? Been hit with a basketball?” he suggested. I said no to both, but started wondering what Henry does to me in my sleep that would change the shape of my eye balls. Am I going to lose them now?

Then my doctor dropped the false concern from his voice, adopting instead a tone of mild irritation. “Oh never mind, it’s because you wear your contacts too much.” He wheeled his seat back behind his desk and began scribbling in my chart, shaking his head at my irresponsibility. He told me that my over-used contacts have caused an allergic reaction to my upper eye ball area in both eyes. The name he gave it sounds like an STD gone optical. The good news is that my medical insurance will cover it, because what was originally just a routine exam (back when the sun still shone and birds chirped my name) was now an appointment to treat a medical condition.

“I’m going to prescribe you some eye drops. Use it for ten days, then I’ll see you again to check the progress. Don’t wear any contacts for the next ten days! I’m serious. I’ll know if you’ve been wearing them.”

I’m certain this was the point during the exam where I gulped. I’d have rather been getting a pap smear right then.

The conflict lies in the fact that I don’t have any glasses. I broke my last pair in an Incredible Hulkulean fit of rage, instigated by my extreme agitation of viewing the world through lenses. But I couldn’t tell my doctor this because five breaths ago I was swearing that I alternate wearing contacts with wearing my glasses.

I’m sure he could smell the stench of bullshit seeping through my cheese-clothed lie. He’s an eye doctor, for Christ’s sake. But I’m stubborn, so I left his office armed with a prescription and no eye sight. I tripped a few times on my walk home, flopped down on the couch and proceeded to panic.

How would I drive to work? How would I see who’s walking past my area? How would I spy on the creepy cleaning guy? Oh yeah, and how would I work?

I cried to Henry about it, but received no consoling. “That’s what you get. You idiot. Just go back and tell them you need to order a pair of glasses.”

“No, I don’t want to pay for them! I just spent $150 on a contact supply,” I whined.

I slapped my old contacts in right before I left for work, so that I could at least see while driving. Except that the lenses have grown ornery in their old, abused age, and refuse to stay suctioned to the curve of my eye. I blink and they ride up, like my eyes are trying to reject them. Even my EYES aren’t as retarded as me. I had to drive with my head tilted back, peering down my nose. Christina, trying to find the bright side, pointed out that at least I’ve had a lot of practice with looking down my nose.

Work was long and arduous. I had to pull my monitor as far out as possible, without knocking the keyboard off the edge. I  couldn’t slouch in my seat.

The worst part of the night was when I tried to pay my coffee bill. The lady in charge of the coffee club was gone for the day, so I was instructed to give it to her friend Sharon.
I’d never been to see Sharon before, but the coffee lady told me in an email that Sharon sits near her.

I did my best to walk over to their area of the building without reaching with my arms, an inherent reflex when vision becomes obstructed, or so I’m learning. Convinced that Sharon had an office, I began pressing my nose up to the first several closed doors I came upon, squinting to see the names. The third or fourth door (blindness renders me dyscalculate, apparently) was open. I know this because a bright haze emanated from within, like I had finally reached Heaven’s gates.

I could detect a blurry outline of a human situated behind what I assumed was a desk. “Sharon?” I called out hesitantly. I jumped a little at the sound of my voice, which I had raised the volume on to compensate for my lack of sight, I suppose.

“No, this isn’t Sharon’s office,” answered the voice of a man.

I squinted and brought my hand above my brow, like I was trying to see into the sun. This did nothing to sharpen the man’s outline. I know, I was surprised, too.

He tried to point me in the direction of Sharon. “No, the other way,” he said, as I turned to leave. I couldn’t see where he was pointing, so I was trying to fake it. He had to correct me THREE TIMES before I finally pivoted to the right and walked right into Sharon’s cube.
>
He probably thought I was autistic.

On my way back to my desk, I took comfort in the fact that I didn’t even know who I was acting like an asshole in front of, so when I get my sight back, I won’t even know to be embarrassed if I ever encounter him again.

Until I inadvertently found out from my friend Jenn, who works during the day, that this guy in her department just got his seat changed. His name is David and I had a brief crush on him during our Christmas party, wherein I spent a good twenty minutes taking clandestine pictures of him sitting alone and brooding. After she mentioned that, it occurred to me that the man in the office sounded like him. I tried to imagine David with a blurred face. Later, when all the dayshift people were gone, I groped my way back to that office, stood with my nose an inch from the door, and read a line of fuzzy letters that spelled out “David [Hopefully-Erin’s-Future-Surname-But-Certainly-Not-Now].”

Great.

Today, I had planned to go to Goodwill and see if maybe they have a box of unwanted eyeglasses that I can pick through, maybe find a nice old man pair or fabulously over-sized owl-frames, in the style of Brett Somers. But Henry argued that Goodwill doesn’t just collect a box of prescription glasses to re-sell. “They probably send them to old people homes,” he reasoned. But how will the poor people see?

“Here’s a thought,” Henry posed over the phone this morning. “Why don’t you just call your fucking eye doctor and tell them that you can’t fucking see?”

“Because I don’t want them to know I lied! Ooh, unless! What if I call them and say that I left my glasses on the bus yesterday and I need an emergency pair?”

“Or, why don’t you just tell them you’re a re-re who has never had glasses.” When he came home from work, I had the bean bag pulled two feet from the TV and I was lurched forward, squinting to make out the undulating forms of Danity Kane. “Is this where the blind people sit?” he asked, with a roll of his eyes.

Once I’ve woven a tangled web, the lies and deception just get deeper and deeper; there’s no turning back now. And it’s stupid things I lie about too. I mean look, I’ve been writing on the Internet since 2001. You would think that if I was so into knitting ridiculous afghans of aspersion with a distorted reality fringe, I would do a better job constructing a polished image of myself. Like, maybe I would lie and say that I went to an Ivy League, perhaps Oxford, Photoshop my pictures and pretend to be in porn. But no, instead I’m like, “Hey, I’m a fatso! And a high school drop out! I’m not even awesome enough to have a hot boyfriend!”

But glasses I’ll lie about.

Henry sad he might have his old glasses, a pair of 1980’s aviators. I really hope he finds them, because I bet they’d cover at least half of my face. Until then, Christina is sending me her glasses.

I’m starting to lose sight (ha-ha) of my initial point. Why am I doing this again? Oh right, because I’m an idiot.

To know me, to really know me, is to know that I am almost constantly having some sort of eyesight drama. I kind of feel that someone could easily write an entire sitcom around on it.

Now, I haven’t been to my eye doctor in two years, because he is MEAN TO ME. One time, he called me a crack head! Yeah, he did! Because I tried to tell him that I thought I had an astigmatism and God forbid I should be attune to my eyeballs, you know? He finally admitted that I had a slight astigmatism but that it wasn’t enough to prescribe me toric lenses. I had to FIGHT him on it because I had been reading up on the lenses and was pretty sure they would help me, considering I couldn’t see out of regular lenses without squinting, even when the prescription was brand new, and I had a hard time keeping the lenses from popping off.

“Fine, I’ll pacify your neuroses,” is what he actually said, I’m NOT LYING, as he went to find a sample pair of toric lenses.

They were amazing. They didn’t do gymnastics across the arc of eyeball like regular lenses did, and I felt my eye sight was more balanced. He didn’t seem to believe me when I went back a week later to tell him this, like it was all psychosomatic. Yes, we all know I’m a crazy-ass, thank you; maybe even a little bit of a hypochondriac. But when I say I can’t see, I REALLY FUCKING MEAN THAT I CAN’T SEE. He seemed to be smirking when he wrote down my order for a full supply of the toric lenses.

I’ve continued to order them on my own, and I’m proud to say I haven’t had any jumpers since switching to the toric lenses.

Unfortunately, I needed to order more contacts last week, but my doctor denied my 1-800-contacts order since my prescription is expired. Goddamn fucking LAWS.

“I am NOT going back to that guy,” I yelled to Henry. It seemed like every time I was there, I was finding myself caught in some stupid lie. And besides, the last time I was there, I apparently had some infection and was supposed to go back and see him after 10 days of not wearing contacts, but I wore my contacts that entire time and was too afraid to go back and suffer his wrath. (In fact, I will re-post that entry later because I’m actually quite fond of it.)

(I should be slapped for saying that I’m “quite fond” of something.)

This morning, I had an appointment with some broad at Pearle Vision. As soon as I entered, she exclaimed, “You must be Erin!” in a slight Southern drawl. “I already checked you out, you’re good,” she said cheerfully as she slid my insurance card back to me.

As I sat in a small room, removing my contacts, some older gentleman passed by and said, “Oh, that must be Erin!”

“Everyone’s excited to see you today,” the doctor laughed.

“I like it. Makes me feel like a celebrity,” I said as I plucked out my right lens with a nick on the edge.

In the exam room, she slid back from the eye machine and said, “Well, you have an astigmatism.

” As she scribbled on my chart, I told her about my war with the other doctor.

“That’s scary,” she said. “That you would know more about it than your doctor.” She looked appalled.

“Yeah, thank god for Google!” I laughed. But I was serious. Thank god for Google.

“I don’t know how you were able to see, wearing regular lenses.”

“That’s the thing! I thought I was getting more blind by the day. And my contacts were always popping off my eyes.”

She fit with me a pair of Acuvue toric lenses and they were ten times better than the off-brand ones the other guy prescribed to me. “I really think you’re going to like these ones so much more,” she said all nice and Southerny.

Everything was so crisp! It made me want to grab a parasol and start singing.

No one there pressured me into ordering a full box, or trying on glasses. They were vultures in the other office. It was a good start to the day.

Henry had dropped me off at the eye doctor,  because Chooch had a check-up at his pediatrician’s office down the street. To kill time, I walked down to McDonald’s to get an iced coffee, and then sat in front of Old Country Buffet right in time for all the old people to arrive in droves. What is it with geriatrics and buffets? Old people, when in swarms, walk remarkably like zombies. I was a little fearful, but the fact that I could SEE it was old people staggering up to me, and not mobile sacks of potatoes, negated my fear.

Finally Henry arrived. In the car, he noticed I was drinking directly from the plastic cup and asked, “They didn’t give you a lid?”

“No, they didn’t give me a STRAW, and when I couldn’t FIND a straw, I said, ‘Hey, can someone give me a STRAW?’ and no one answered so I was like FUCK YOU THEN, threw out the lid, and have been drinking it strawless ever since.”

“Wow. You sure showed them,” Henry muttered.

P7220101, originally uploaded by appledale.

Came across this picture tonight at work while I was going through my Flickr photostream, looking at old photos of various carnivals and fairs and getting super excited for the summer.

This is the perfect photographical metaphor for how I feel about parenting: the second you attempt to rest on your laurels is the second your kid is going to attempt to break his crown, splatter feces on the wall, cut the cat’s ear.

This photo still makes me laugh so hard.

My Brookline post from last week got me thinking about my neighbor Robin and how I don’t really see her and her crazy red mane too much anymore, and just like that she came out of her house while Chooch and I were cavorting around our front yard; she and I had a brief, chummy exchange before she got in someone’s car and took off.

And then earlier today, Chooch and I were sidewalk chalking while the Best of Bad Company wafted from Robin’s open front window. Crappy classic rock always perks me up. It was then that I vowed to find a way to ingratiate myself with Robin again this summer, because she is one hot character study. When Bill and Jessi were here over the weekend, I nearly had a stroke pointing out Robin’s son Brandon to them as we drove past her house. “LOOK THERE’S HER SON AT THE FRONT WINDOW, WEARING A RED SHIRT!” Who needs a tour of Pittsburgh’s historical landmarks when there’s so much to show visitors right here on my block?

A few years ago, my friend Sandra pledged a generous amount when I was doing Blogathon, under the stipulation that I would take a photo of Henry with Robin. He was less than enthused about this, but since it was for charity, he knew he’d be a big asshole if he refused. And this is how it went down:

July 31st, 2006

All afternoon, I kept a watchful eye out the front window, hoping to catch Robin outside of her drug den. I didn’t get to see her, but there was some young man crossing the street near our house who put on quite the show for Henry and me. Henry grabbed the camcorder and I squealed in delight as the man weebled and tottered around in his drunken stupor. And then he went to Robin’s house! I think maybe it was her son.

Later on, I decided maybe we should go and knock on Robin’s door, because I really wanted that picture. I asked Henry when he wanted to go to Robin’s, and from his Vigilant Neighbor post at the front door, he said, “Certainly not now. There’s a fire truck there.”

We thought maybe they were there because something happened to that weird guy, because it looked like one of the firefighters had a medical bag and gloves in his hands. But the ambulance never came and no one was brought out. And why was Robin running down the street?! Who was she flipping off?

After a certain point, my nosiness was killing me so I got in the car and drove around the block first before pulling into the parking lot across the street, so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I sat slumped down in the driver’s seat and felt like a sex predator. It was awesome.

The man standing on her porch near the end of the video is her equally-fucked up neighbor. He talked to us once about Riley and how precious babies are but I had a hard time hearing him because I was fixated on his gray teeth and trying not to get drunk off his whiskey breath.

So, after all that excitement, Henry put his foot down.

“I’m certainly not going over there now. Robin’s been wearing that same outfit since Friday. She’s clearly on a bender.” This could have very well been true, because the other day I saw Brandon leaving with whom I assumed was one of Robin’s older daughters. Screaming, “No, I don’t want to go!”

I reluctantly agreed that Henry was smart about not going to her house; I wasn’t trying to inhale any fumes either, so I agreed to wait until we see her outside again.

August 6th, 2006

Robin had become elusive ever since the debacle with the firemen last Sunday, so my efforts to arrange a photo-op with her and Henry were futile.

Henry’s son Blake was here this weekend, so feeling brave in his company, the two of us trampled over to her house last night. No one answered the door. I noticed that her son Brandon was sitting out back with our equally as crazy/drunk/high neighbor, Paul, who has turned stints in rehab into his own Olympic sport. Now that’s a great babysitter.

We couldn’t have been any more obvious last night, hanging around on the front porch and staring at Robin’s house with open mouths. There was the incessant whispering: Where is she? Is she home? What if she’s dead? which caused my neighbor Fish to spy on us from his front door. Then I would throw a ball over to her yard so Blake could go get it and casually peer into her front window at the same time. At one point, a woman came out of the house next to Robin’s and Blake screamed, “Is that her!?!?” He’s clearly a graduate of my school of subtlety.

It brought back delightful memories of when Henry’s kids and I played a fun game called Cable Guy Mania, which consisted of taking recon-style photos of the cable guys as they fixed our cable under Henry’s watchful eye. Basically, we stood on the steps and held out the camera. We’re slick like that. Every time they would go out to their van, we would run into my bedroom and snaps pictures from the window. Henry was supposed to put it all together with Ludacris’s “What’s Your Fantasy” playing over top, until he realized that we were turning it into a gay love story and he was the main character. Then it wasn’t all fun and games anymore. (This was back when he actually tried to set a good example for his kids. What?)

Today, Blake came back over and after feeling like I was going to dry heave with giddiness, I calmed down long enough to try again. This time, she answered. As soon as Blake caught sight of her face, he took a step back and mouthed, “Holy shit!” I hope Blake doesn’t tell his mother about the shit I make him do when he visits.

Robin’s t-shirt was rolled up under her boobs, spotlighting the outline of her rib cage. Sexy.

I told her that we were playing a photo scavenger hunt and Henry needed a picture with a red head; she was the only red head I knew. She misunderstood me at first, and began stumbling around her dining room, looking for a picture of herself.

“No, Robin. He needs to have the picture taken with you.”

She tried to deny having red hair. “Are you sure this will work? My hair isn’t really red, is it? Really, you think it is?” No, I think it’s orange.

I had to run back to the house to fetch Henry, who seemed highly dismayed that this was actually going to go down.

To add even more to Henry’s dismay, we had to enter Robin’s house to take the photo. I was sad to see that she had pulled her shirt down.

I think the Internet would have been impressed by her sunken abdomen.

Henry refused to put his arm around her, saying it was bad enough that he had to enter her den of ill repute. So this was the best I could do:

What I hadn’t anticipated was Robin’s mega interest in our “scavenger hunt” ruse. “What other kinds of things did you have to get?” she asked with hunger in her eyes.

I knew I should have made up that bunk list! On the spot, all I could do was stammer about clowns and then I turned to Henry and asked, “Gee whiz, what else did we need? I can’t remember!”

“I don’t know, but this is the only one I’m doing.” He glared all the way through to my soul. It kind of hurt.

As we left, Robin called out, “See ya, hon! Hope your team wins!”

(Tomorrow maybe I’ll post about the flashlight incident! OH BOY AREN’T YOU LUCKY?)

There’s this fun-lovin’ folk tale that people in my town like to tell. Something about when patients were discharged from Mayview, the local mental institution, they were put on a bus and the driver was only given enough fare to get them as far as my lovely little town.

Lately, I’ve been starting to think there’s less lore to that than I originally thought.

For years, there was a man who lived in the house where 1950’s Housewife lives now, next to our neighbor’s duplex. In the summer, he was constantly outside mowing the yard, where he could be seen with his straight white hair flopping atop his beet-red face, sheer celery-colored shirt half-buttoned, fist punching angrily at the air as he yelled, “You motherfucker! Fuck you, bastard!”

At nothing.

He’d march down the sidewalk, perma-scowl weighing down his jowls, pointing at all the houses he passed and cursing us all. I always wondered if he was seeing something else, in lieu of the brick houses lining my street. Like maybe  claymation figurines of all his ex-lovers, pointing and laughing at him while they fuck his dead father on all our rooftops.

There were times when I’d cross the street just so I wouldn’t have to pass him. But one time  (just the once), I was brave enough to say hello to him. Just typing that made my shoulders scrunch up in memory of the horror. My hello wasn’t reciprocated, but was devoured, I’m sure, by his roiling aura. Still, I like to think that my brief moment of reaching out might have saved a life that day. If not potentially endangered my own.

I took to calling him Tourette’s.

He moved a few years ago, but he’s still in the area. Almost every time I go to Tom’s Diner down the street, I see him eating alone. Last week, he was leaving CVS as I stood in line to pay. And sometimes I still catch him walking past my house, muttering and spitting in rage. With no one around.

There’s also this woman (maybe?) with whom Henry and I have been obsessed for the last eight years. Her skin is sun-damaged, has the texture of leathery tree bark; she’s always alone, always expressionless and staring straight ahead.  We see her walking everywhere and she’s almost always wearing a dirty parka, no matter the temperature. Up until a few weeks ago, she always wore purple sweatpants. Now she has white ones! After eight years! HUGE news day. I called Henry immediately and we then marveled over this together.

I don’t think they’re new pants though. They have that aged look to them, like Henry’s face.

One time, I was out walking around the neighborhood and saw her approaching from the opposite direction. I was so excited! As we were about to pass each other, I said hello to her.

She fucking growled at me.

Yesterday, less than 24-hours after the incident with my methodically paced neighbor, Chooch and I walked the few blocks up the street to CVS. I promised him sidewalk chalk because he’s been really good all week, almost like he knows about my “I hate being a mom” post and is trying to make me feel like shit.

After leaving CVS, we crossed through the parking lot and got on the sidewalk, where a woman in a red shirt was walking in front of us. I recognized her from inside CVS; she was standing next to the cooler as Chooch painstakingly tried to decide what kind of juice he wanted. I had that feeling we were in her way, and tried to get him to speed it up. I get nervous around people who don’t smile or acknowledge my kid in any way, because not to be all “I have the best kid ever,” but he really is infectious and almost everyone will at the very least throw him an amused smile. Even young guys! Just yesterday, a kid who couldn’t have been older than 20 was walking by our yard in a studded belt and a black workshirt covered with anarchy patches. He literally slowed down to watch Chooch’s front yard antics, smiled real big at him and called out, “Hey buddy!”

This actually sucks for me though because sometimes Chooch can be a small-talk catalyst and I don’t really like small talk. It’s awkward and I generally have nothing polite to say so I come off sounding robotic and perhaps slightly stunted.

So this red-shirted lady was now on the sidewalk in front of us. As we got closer, she stopped. Just stopped dead in her tracks and stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, in this weird hip-jutted one-knee-bent pose that I haven’t seen since the last time I laughed at photos of Henry from the ’70s. Chooch and I skirted past her, leaving her in all of her Sha-Na-Na glory, and continued along the sidewalk.

That’s when she started shouting.

I quickly glanced back and she was moving again, gaining on us, shouting hysterically in a voice that was dragged down a few octaves by the weight of her testosterone reserves.

“ANGIE GODDAMN YOU! I’M SO FUCKING SICK OF THIS, ANGIE!” Her arms were taut at her sides, slightly flexed; her hands were squeezed into crazy fists.

She was not yelling into a phone like I had originally hoped. And there was no girl standing anywhere near where the woman’s eyes were focused.

I grabbed Chooch’s hand and picked up the pace, forcing him to keep up. She began moving again too, shouting out unintelligible slurs and maybe I’m paranoid, but I watch a lot of crime shit on TV and couldn’t stop envisioning her pulling a blade out of her big white purse and sticking it in my spine. Maybe it would be because Chooch and I hogged the CVS cooler for an entire thirty seconds. Maybe because I was wearing a green tank top. Maybe she’s barren and wants to kidnap my son.

YOU DON’T KNOW, OK?

“Chooch,” I whispered tersely. “Get ready to cross the street.”

“WHY, BECAUSE OF THAT WEIRD LADY!?” Chooch asked in his normal too-loud-for-public who-needs-a-bullhorn shout.

Of course we had to wait for eighteen cars and trucks to pass, because we live on a fucking busy asshole street. But once that busy asshole street was separating us from the schizophrenic, and I’m pretty sure she was a legitimate schizo, I felt safer. Until I started wondering if she had a gun in her purse. That was when Chooch and I started running.

The feeling in my stomach reminded me of when I was little, five or six, and used to play this game called the Villagers with my neighbor Adele. Essentially, we would run around her background, hiding around her above-ground pool from the invisible Villagers who were trying to kill us. My stomach would churn while we hid, the adrenaline making me nauseated.

Adele had pitbulls. I was more afraid of them than the Villagers.

But that’s how I felt yesterday, as Chooch and I ran down the sidewalk away from the crazy lady in the red shirt. Only it’s less fun when you’re running from something real.

Once we made it home, Chooch ripped open his package of sidewalk chalk and resumed being a kid, while I quickly called Henry to regale him with the story of how his girlfriend and son almost died.

“OH MY GOD, SHE’S COMING!” I screamed into the phone as I saw her in my peripheral. She must have crossed the street after Chooch and me, because she was thankfully on the sidewalk across the street from my house. That was still too close for comfort so I hissed, “Chooch, get in the house.”

“You’re going to scare him! Stop that!” I could hear Henry reasoning on the other end.

“I HAVE TO GO!” I yelled at him, ending the call before he could say anything.

Mostly it was because I wanted to go in the house and get the camera though.

Look at her hands!

After she walked past, she went to the end of the block, turned around, and came back. Before she made it across from my house again, she abruptly turned and began walking toward the church across the street. She then roamed aimlessly around the sidewalks over there for a few minutes, before coming back down to the street. Walking back down the block, I watched as she squatted in front of a Jesus shrine, rummaged through her purse, blew her nose, and then continued on her way.

Oh, Brookline. I can’t wait to leave you/don’t want to leave you. They should film anti-psychotic ads here.

A few weeks ago, Chooch and I were outside eating lunch when this strange man came out of one of the houses on my block and began methodically pacing back and forth along the sidewalk with his head down. Every time he’d get to my driveway, he’d pause, pivot, and begin walking back up the sidewalk.

This went on for several repetitions.

“What is that guy doing?” I asked Chooch in a hushed tone.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled around mouthfuls of waffle. “Walking?”

But it was suspicious to me, especially since I remember Henry mentioning that he thought the house next to Hot Naybor Chris’s had been converted into a halfway house.

“Maybe he’s on house arrest,” I suggested to Chooch, because all four-year-olds know about house arrest. “And he can’t go any further than our driveway before his ankle bracelet alerts the authorities.”

Chooch gave me a “yeah, whatev” shrug and went back to licking the syrup from his plate.

Paranoia got the best of me and I quickly ushered Chooch back in the house before the deranged pacer had a chance to brandish a bloody machete or a lethal pedometer.

“What the hell,” Chooch complained. “He’s just WALKING.”

I quickly called Henry at work and told him how Chooch and I were almost victims in a mass murder.

“I know who you’re talking about,” Henry said, ignoring my hysterical conclusion jumping. “I think he’s just a little slow or something.”

A few days later, we were coming home from somewhere, probably the crack house, just in time for our criminal neighbor’s daily leg stretch.

“Don’t get out of the car yet!” I yelled at Henry. “I don’t want him to get scared and leave before I can get a picture of him.”

“Do not —-” Henry began arguing, but it was too late. “Oh, he totally saw you. That wasn’t obvious at all,” Henry muttered as I slunk my entire torso back into the car.

***

Just a few minutes ago, Chooch and I were outside embroiled in a pathetic mess of Thingie Ball, when the criminal neighbor exited his front door and began his slow amble toward our house. It’s at least eighty degrees out and he was clad in the winter jacket he wore in his photo above.

I was hoping Chooch wouldn’t see him, but he threw a glance over his shoulder just as the criminal neighbor came to a stop in front of our yard.

“HEY,” Chooch exclaimed. “IT’S THE WAFFLE GUY!” Apparently Chooch now associates waffles with the freak up the street, awesome.

I quickly put my finger to my lips and tried to use the sheer power of my eyes to will Chooch to lower his voice. Instead, Chooch chose to drop his Thingie Ball paddle and stare as the criminal neighbor slowly tromped back up the sidewalk.

On his second lap, Chooch screamed to him, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, ANYWAY?” The criminal looked up at me and I had no choice but to smile and say hello. He half-raised his hand into a wave, hinged on his heels, and lumbered back up to his house, never saying a word.

If Chooch can’t find the answer, then it truly is a mystery.

I don’t really know why, but I have always had this weird neurosis about public and work rest rooms. Not really in that I love to unload in them, but it’s more of an observational hang-up I have, I guess. You can tell a lot about a place by the rest rooms. (Which is why Target > Walmart.)

I especially like truck stop rest rooms because you never know what kind of savory souls you’ll run into there. Plus, pratfalls abound.

At my last job, the inside of each stall had bright pink notices reminding every bleeding female to deposit their menstrual armor in the provided “recepticles.” Every night, I considered taking a Sharpie and correcting the spelling. Maybe dotting the “i” with an ovary.

None were worse than the company I worked from 2006-2008, though. Just, ew.

I went from this, to this:

I can like that.

Hello I got the job! They apparently are able to see past the fact that my incompetence shines when faced with the dubious task of opening doors and are willing to test the theory that I’m actually intelligent, as stated by my glowing references.

And it’s temp to perm, so no more getting bounced around like the forgotten child in a divorce.

After 3-6 months, I’ll be making more money than I was when I was working full-time; more money for less work? This really panders to my lady of leisure lifestyle.

I start on Monday. I’m so happy I can breathe again.

I left Chooch sitting in front of the Toys R Us website and told him to go wild. Just not too wild. Like, under $50 wild.

OMG now I can eat! And buy new jeans! TODAY I LOVE EVERYONE!

Dear people who read this:

First of all, thank you for reading this crap that spews from my head. I’ve been writing shit since I was a young kid and it is HARD to get people to read what I write, and even care about it, so I really am grateful for the people I’ve picked up along the way. I can’t even get my own boyfriend to read it.

But I was curious: What do you like best about this blog? What makes you come back and read more (assuming you do)?

I’ve been blogging since 2001, and you know how everyone always says, “Oh yeah, I write for myself, no one else”? Fuck those people, they’re lying. Yes, I partially write this shit for myself, for my own posterity, but I also write in the hopes that some random person might stumble upon this site and find something that resonates with them or makes them laugh.

I just don’t know what that might be, to be honest. I’m kind of all over the map with this and that’s sort of how I like it, because variety can be nice.

When I was on Live Journal, it was easier to gauge what people liked, mostly because LJ users were quicker to drop a comment.

So if you feel like it, leave a comment here, on this post***, and help me figure shit out. Tell me what you like, if there was a post that stood out to you, what you’d like to see more of. Please don’t be mean though. Not today, at least. My psyche is feeling kind of fragile this week. Ha-ha. (No, I’m serious. Lots of spontaneous crying-while-driving, lol.)

I’m not exactly fishing for compliments here; consider it research. Because I feel like I’ve lost my direction.

Naming fruit since 1996,

Erin.

(***For the people who comment on the LiveJournal feed, I don’t always get those comments. They’re not emailed to me since it’s a feed and not an LJ, so I have to physically go to the feed page and check. If you don’t always get replies from me, that’s why and I apologize. I’ve already lost a LiveJournal friend because she thought I was being rude/too good for LJ, when really, I wasn’t getting any of her comments, and that makes me sad. It’s always better to comment on the actual site to ensure that I see what you have to say, because it’s important to me! <3)

EDIT:  OK, LiveJournal people, I get it. Commenting over here is HARD and ANNOYING. You don’t ever have do it again.