I’ve been really stressed out lately so my Aunt Charmaine sent me some free zoo passes, assuming that taking my wild child out to a public place would solve all my problems. I never would have taken him by myself, because I’m not too proud to admit that I know how much I can handle, and that is not one of those things. Luckily, there were four passes and Alisha had off work on Friday. Blake expressed interest so by Friday morning, we had put together a quaint little zoo expedition.

The only thing missing was Henry the Chooch-Wrangler, but I figured with three sets of capable hands, we’d be fine.

Yeah, right.

It was a rainy day. I hoped deep down that would deter most people from coming out.

Yeah, right x2.

It was more crowded than I have ever seen the zoo. So crowded, in fact, that we were banished to some gravel lot riddled with tall weeds, empty Newport boxes, and probably if we looked hard enough, a syringe or two.  I hoped Blake and Alisha would be all, “Fuck it, let’s go to a strip club instead” but no, they were under the impression that braving solid human walls was worth it since our passes were free.

Chooch refused to pose for this picture because we wouldn’t let him scramble to the top like he wanted. So he posed for this pouting shot instead.

0.5 seconds after this photo was taken, he kicked mud all over my shoes and ankles, which was very refreshing. My pink Converse looked so plain without wet sod splatters all over them, anyway.

Blake was super worried about his hair getting wet and washing away scene points, so he hid under Alisha’s umbrella the whole time. Alisha hid under her hood, while I braved the rain, allowing it to jeri curl my bangs. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because rain or not I’d have still been drenched with sweat from chasing Chooch around. Jesus Christ, that kid does.not.stop EVER. He’d approach an exhibit, glance at whatever was behind the fence, and say, “Aw how cute, OK let’s go” and then all we’d see was a flash of his shirt as he jettisoned deeper into the crowd.

And speaking of the crowd — sure, there were small pockets of people huddled together at each animal exhibit we came upon, but nothing as bad as I was anticipating, which made me wonder where the fuck everyone was because judging by the parking lot, half the city was out ogling wildlife. Of course, there were the obligatory fanny-packed wide asses that shove their way past and stand in just the right position to block your view with their frizzy heads.

Aside from all the people-ogling, I’d have liked to have stopped to gawk at the elephants a little but that wasn’t on Chooch’s agenda.

Running through the monkey house was, though.

That’s what Chooch looked like the whole time: a blur. Even with three of us, it seemed like all we did was bolt after him. It’s time to invest in a leash, a taser, and a straight jacket.

Blake spent $2 on a zoo key so he could jam it in the box, make some annoying animal song play in the key of 80s power ballad, and then walk away after twenty seconds of it. In this particular photo, he was lamenting that no matter what side of the key he plunged in, the box would only spurt out animal facts AND NO SONG. I bet if he was on Twitter, his followers would have felt tremors.

Later, when we arrived at the aquarium, it was clear that THAT’S where the contents of every parked car was. It took all the braun and crowded room-germ alert endurance I had within in me just to snap a quick photo of the penguins, and it was only dire to me because of the Penguins banner.

Chooch would have nothing to do with anything in the aquarium, yet later on when we asked, “Hey Chooch, what did you see at the zoo?” he’d spit out, “Nuffin’! FISH.” And then roll his eyes in disgust that we had the audacity to bother him with such asinine questions.

On the way out, Chooch walked ahead of us and I hoped that maybe that could be his new family. Like if I could just sneak him inside that woman’s bag.

As we were leaving down the steepest escalator in the world, Blake wistfully said, “I wish there was a CD with all those awesome zoo key songs on it” and no more then fifteen seconds later, a recording came on through the speakers in the escalator, informing us that a CD of the zoo key songs could be purchased in the gift shop. At that moment, I was so relieved that I wasn’t Blake’s parent and therefore under no obligation to take him back to the gift shop and fork over some exorbitant sum for a CD with songs about what zebras eat for dinner.

Why I continue to go to the zoo is beyond me. I mean, you think I would learn my lesson by now. [Ex.1. Ex.2. Ex.3.] I love animals, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t like people, and I don’t like humidity, and I especially don’t like these things while I’m chasing after my child, making sure he doesn’t become a snack for the lions or the Silverback’s new bouncy ball.

So at the end of the day, was I any less stressed out? No. But I guess it was still kind of fun. A little bit. Hey, at least I saw a Penguins banner?

It wouldn’t have seemed right not to go, so Henry came home a little early on Monday and by 10:30am we were en route to the Penguins Victory Parade downtown. Now, I live a 5-minute’s drive from downtown, so I suggested that we just take the trolley, which is within a few blocks from our house. But Henry, good ol’ Henry, he’s all, “Oh no no no, we’ll drive and park at Station Square (which is right across from the river from town and has several parking lots) that way you can just drop me off at work after the parade.”

Immediately I was leery of this great plan.

We reached Station Square and, naturally, were met with gridlocked traffic because of course every fucking person outside of the city limits swarms en masse like fucking Syrian locusts looking for a parking spot to plague. (Just remember who suggested taking the trolley.)

We crawled ahead a few feet in five minutes,  and it occured to me to ask, “You have money to park, right?”

“No.”

Let me reiterate that for the few people who might think Henry is actually smart: He said no.

OF COURSE HE DIDN’T BRING MONEY. Why should I have been surprised at all.

What happened next may seem like an accident but I’m convinced it was carefully plotted stratagem.

“Jump out and go to that ATM,” Henry ordered, pointing across the street. “No one’s going anywhere, so don’t worry about me leaving,” he laughed, sweeping his hand out the window at all the cars idling ahead of us.

Funny how in the ONE MINUTE it took me to take out money, he was GONE. I’m not kidding. And where I had gotten out was right about where the road split, and then there were three different lot entrances he could have gone through.

I convinced myself not to panic and for the first minute I did really well. But after that, I sat on a retaining wall and cried behind my Mary-Kate sunglasses while throngs of excited Pens fans trampled past me, on their way to the parade that I just wasn’t destined to attend. I kept thinking I’d see Henry and Chooch amid one of these packs of fans, but they never emerged from any of the lots. I was four years old again, lost in the grocery store and all the faces looking down on me had the morphed and oblong faces of the kidnappers in my nightmares and I just knew the rest of my childhood was going to be spent in a moldy cellar eating stale crackers and Cheez-Whiz in front of a constant loop of American Gladiator reruns, if I was even that lucky.

Oh but I could just call Henry, IF ONLY I HAD MY PHONE. Which was in my purse. Which was in the car.

I WAS OMG LOST I’M GOING TO DIE. And scared. And pathetic. My future was looking grim, like I would never reunite with my family and left to my own devices, how would I ever survive long enough to make it home? I had a twenty in my pocket but if I came upon a panhandler, you just know I’d be guilted into buying that bastard a Big Mac, Hustler, and a jug of Old Crow.

So I sat there, on that wall, hugging my knees to my chest and feeling desperate and completely sorry for myself, and I even heard myself whimper once or sixteen times. And then I thought, “Jesus Christ, did I just whimper in real life?”

It took me twenty-minutes to find someone willing to let me use their phone. His name was Tyrone and he was a janitor who literally LEANED BACK and slid his glasses down so he could ogle my tits while I was trying to locate Henry.

“Your man LEFT YOU?” he asked when I handed the phone back, clucking his tongue to illustrate just how appalling this was to him.

Look Tyrone, NOT ON THIS DAY, my friend. I thanked him, shook his hand (he held his grasp a little too long and I was honestly bouncing on the balls of my feet because hello, I was about to miss this fucking parade. I had to walk in the opposite direction to meet Henry and Chooch. They were relegated to a lot a good half mile away from where I was with Tyrone, and Henry needed the cash I took out so he could get his license back from the lot attendant who was leaving soon.

I ran as fast my boobs, sans sports bra, would allow me, and when I finally met up with those two assholes, I yelled, “Do you know how scary it is being lost???” to which Henry replied, “Um, you’re an ADULT.”

Yeah, adults go missing too, asshole. I was practically a sitting duck back there, any serial rapist could have dumped a burlap sack over me and THEN WHAT. My body becomes a penis cozy, that’s what.

To summarize what happened next – Chooch was being an asshole, Henry was being slow, and I lost my fucking temper on a walkway next to the RIVER, and I hate the RIVER. I hate a clusterfuck. I mean, who doesn’t. And it was about a second away from defeating me. I was ready to go home. I was sick of ambling around that fucking parking lot with no direction and I took this plastic snack bowl of Chooch’s and whaled it against the pavement, screamed “FUCK” in several different contexts, and demanded Henry take me home. Seriously, Henry had parked so far away that there wasn’t a soul around to hear my moment of crazy lady anguish. But Henry got that hissed tone of his and goes, “I am NOT going home after making it this far, we’re going to this fucking parade.”

We eventually caught up with the rest of the last-minute stragglers, walked across the Smithfield Street Bridge, which of course made me convulse and re-eat my breakfast, and somehow, someway, found a really nice spot right on the parade route that wasn’t clogged with gyrating and sweaty fans fifteen-heads deep.

And all the frustrating pratfalls of that morning became worth it as soon as the parade started and I found myself crying again, but in a good way this time.

Seriously. Mario Lemieux.

Typically, I’d have found 1,000 people to hate in one minute flat on any other day, but on Monday I loved everyone. (Not Henry, though.)

Hossa: Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

You guys! Billy Guerin, you guys! You guys OMG!

Three of my faves, one truck: ORPIK!!, Cooke, and Sykora. I cried.

Malkin was the only one I couldn’t get a good shot of, because every girl started boinging up and down with thrusted boobs, waving their ring fingers frantically. I may or may not have been apart of that.

Oh hello, best hockey player in the world. Fleury was on the other side of him.

I want so badly for Jessi to have this shirt, and to always stand in that exact pose while she’s wearing it.

These were set off as we were making the long trek back to the car. Henry told Chooch they were day fireworks, but Chooch heard it as “gay” fireworks, so that’s all he’s been talking about. “Mommy, remember when we saw the gay fireworks?” And then I have so many things I want to say to that but there’s only so much a three-year-old’s mind can handle.

More pictures (and larger sizes) here. 

(We may be the “City of Champions,” but I still don’t like the Steelers. Except when they’re playing the Bengals.)

All the months of finger-nail gnawing and heart-clutching paid off last when the Penguins won the fucking Stanley Cup, motherfuckers. No one thought they would do it, everyone hated on Crosby, blah blah blah. That was the  most vindicating sporting event I’ve ever witnessed and I sent Chooch into a fit of hysterical crying with my screaming. Sorry Chooch. And Alisha. And my neighbors whom I’m not sure even give a shit about hockey.

Thank god  for Alisha who consistently babysat me during the games and fielded my manic texts when she was unable to be here with me.  And thanks to Bill & Jessi for pulling for the Pens even while being in enemy territory. It was fun having you guys to cheer with!

Now I have a few months to grow back my nails and re-learning how to breathe. But I’m sure by the end of next week, I’ll be whining, “I miss hockey!”

Missing the Craig Owens show last night in order to watch those guys hoist the Cup was the best decision I’ve made since, well — April.

[Photos taken from espn.com. Plz don’t be suing.]

You know how I’m never like, “Hey everyone, pimp me out?” Because I feel extremely weird and uncomfortable about doing stuff like that? And because, well, it’s just me? Yeah, I’m going to break my rule real quick because I got a batch of magnets made for my Somnambulant gig, and I was JUST WONDERING if maybe some of you guys who read this thang would maybe like to have a few mailed to you, with some of my business cards, to maybe possibly pass out to your friends, priest, bartender, deathrow penpal? Kind of like a street team OMG?

I have enough to ration out to the first five or so people who comment here on this post, but I always have a ton of business cards so if anyone still wants to help after that, I am quite capable of hookin’ a bitch up.

I’m working on Appledale sweatbands next. (Seriously.)

Wanted: Random photos in order to write my standard brand of dumb stories, recalling the glory days (day) of Blogathon 2007. If you have one, and would like to see what lame yarn I will weave about it, please leave it here on this entry or email it to me: butgavincantdance [at] gmail.com. I can’t promise anything good will come of it, but I suppose if you read this blog semi-regularly, you don’t really expect too much to begin with. Ha-ha-z0rz.

And now I am preparing to watch the Penguins game. I really wish I had  never gotten back into hockey.

Dear friends,

Please help distract me. I’m bored and restless. Talk to me. Recommend cultural delights. I feel like my fingers want to be dancing but have no music, so ask me things you want to know about me. Yes, let’s have a Q&A session. I need interaction.

This is your chance to ask me about my bra size.

Signed,

This Girl Right Here

My only experiences with bowling have revolved around birthday parties for childhood friends where sporadic granny-rolls were interspersed with running amok around the lanes, annoying the shit out of the grown-ups who were there to bowl seriously, and wondering when the fuck cake was going to be served. In fact, the last time I ever set foot in a bowling alley was twelve years ago and I didn’t even bowl. Instead, I pretended to know how to keep score for my friends and some wrinkled ho working the counter kept coming over to yell at me for doing it wrong, all wrong.

But for some reason, lately I have been having this strong urge to re-visit the bowling scene. Even if I never actually bowled, I always enjoyed the atmosphere, especially of the dingier, old-school alleys.

After trying unsuccessfully for a few months to round up enough people to join me, it magically gelled. And that is how Collin, Dyanna, Justin, Alisha, Henry and Blake found themselves joining me at Dormont Lanes for THE BEST NIGHT OF THEIR LIVES.

Alisha came over early and I pumped her for info.

“So like, what do we do when we get there?” I excitedly wondered.

“Um, we go up to the counter, pay for the games, and get shoes. I think you will be disappointed with how anti-climatic it is.” Then she briefed me on some bowling etiquette, like how I should never bowl at the same time as the person in the lane right next to mine.

“And probably I shouldn’t be too vulgar, right?” I added.

“Well, that’s just COMMON etiquette,” she said. That Alisha, she always was so smart.

What. I like to be prepared.

It was a nice evening so we decided to just walk the several blocks to the alley. Dyanna and Justin brought a six-pack since I read that the alley was BYOB, but Henry kept drilling doubt into me because I was going by several outdated reviews that I read online. We weren’t even a block away yet and I was starting to worry that this alley wasn’t even open anymore.

So when Dyanna pointed to a house across the street that had decorated its rock garden with bowling balls, I laughed nervously and said, “They probably got them from Dormont Lanes after they went out of business.”

And when we got to the small shopping center that Dormont Lanes is underneath, the parking lot was all but empty and there was a giant FOR LEASE sign under Dormont Lanes.

“Yeah, it’s real crowded, Erin,” Blake sarcasm’d, since earlier I was panicking about that as well.

Much to Henry’s chagrin, it was a storefront that was for lease, not the bowling alley. However, there was a sign on the alley’s door that advised against glass bottles. I looked at Dyanna and Justin, toting their six-pack of glass bottles, and said, “Oopsies.”

They decided to each drink one outside while we waited for Collin to arrive. Justin had the sense to at least be a little discreet about it, but Dyanna was all, “What? I’m drinking a Mike’s out in the open, ohwellzorz.”

Dyanna and Justin slid the rest of their booze behind the propped-open door, but Henry was really nervous about this. You know, the latent police officer in him and all. After paying for our games and getting shoes, he paced back and forth at the bottom of the steps, waiting for Collin to arrive so he could stash the contraband in his car.

Inside the alley, I clung excitedly to Henry while he paid. I was immediately enamored of the alleys dingy wood-paneled 1970s interior and hoped to see some sideburns and bell bottoms trouncing around. Dormont Lanes even has their own surly lane technician who I’m sure stashes the slumped corpses of his conquests behind the pins after hours.

Ideally, I’d have preferred to bowl in my socks, but Henry goes, “You aren’t a seven year old,” so I settled for those ugly two-toned shoe things. I wasn’t sure if I should get my shoes in a 7 or 7.5, and the sun-ripened broad behind the counter leaned in and said, “You can’t exchange them if they don’t fit.” Then, laughing at my sad face, she followed with, “Oh, I’m just kidding hon!” Look, I was really anxious about this entire process and plus I’m naturally gullible and tightly wound, so it wasn’t funny! Henry laughed, which made me angry. Then everyone was all, “Go pick a ball” and that was a task in and of itself. I wound up with a delightful ball of pink and purple swirls, only to find that Dyanna had previously picked an almost exact replica, that ho!

The teams were picked without me. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I’ll tell you how I feel about having my name entered for me on the scoreboard: APPALLED. I pushed past Alisha and typed the elegant and regal APPLEDALE over top the plain and bourgeois ERIN. The people lucky enough to round out  my team were Alisha, Henry and Blake. I’m sure Collin rejoiced when he arrived LATE to find that he could get cozy with Dyanna and Justin on the enemy turf.

I was a little bothered by the fact that it was 4 against 3. I like things to be even. Henry tried to explain a dozen or so times that even though we were on teams, it was still every bitch for themself. And even still, I was bothered.

Collin brought his own ball. It was green. I laughed.

With Alisha’s guidance, I managed to not make too much of an ass of myself as far as form and gutter balls go. (Though Collin and Blake are probably sitting somewhere with raised hands, waiting to interject.) It was my first time doing it the right way, fingers plugging the holes (oh, ho ho ho) and all. I wasn’t able to perfect that cute little kick-thing that you professional/non-Erin bowlers do though, but at least I didn’t fall like Henry almost did. (I missed it and Blake said it was a magnificent moment. Fuck.)

Somewhere during the first game, I got my first ever strike and everyone was pretty much like, “Why? How?” Collin looked especially nauseated, especially when I approached him after my big show and said, “Collin, isn’t it funny how I’m so good at every single thing I do?” I think if I was a boy, he’d have cold-cocked me. Instead, he asked me to please go away.

I was having so much fun that I could barely stop laughing. I’m not sure anyone else was having that much fun, though. In fact, Blake seemed pretty annoyed by me and Henry was off somewhere calling sex hotlines.

The counter lady came over to wipe down the video game I was sitting next to, and struck up a convo with me. I bragged that I hadn’t been bowling in twelve years, and apparently I’m some kind of natural. She praised me, as was expected, and then began talking about how painful Blake’s gauges looked. I was a  little turned off, since we were no longer talking about how I’m a secret sensation, but I humored her nonetheless. By the time we both admitted to crying when we had our cartilage pierced, a lifelong bond had formed.

By the end of the first game, I was tied with Blake for last place, but Alisha and Dyanna said it was still respectable considering it had been thirty years (in Collin’s words) since I last bowled.

The second game is a blur to me, mainly because I was so used to getting strikes by then that it was no big thang at that point. My fans just pretty much expected it from me, you know? Plus, I had found out that the jukebox had free requests and I spent a large portion of my time looking for the perfect jam and then trying to get Blake to give it to the counter lady. Alisha finally grabbed the slip of paper and turned it in for me so I wouldn’t have to talk about cartilage-crunching again.

And then, at the start of every song, Dyanna and Alisha would ask, “Is this your jam?” And it never was.

By the time we started the third game, I noticed that everyone was slinging excuses left and right. “I’m tired,” was the general consensus, but the two bitch-babies — Blake and Collin — were complaining of mysterious thumb ailments, though I’m pretty sure I saw Collin squatting behind a table, self-inflicting a flesh wound with a switchblade to make him look less girly for losing to me.

Oh, I didn’t mention? I BEAT COLLIN AT THE THIRD GAME. In fact, I beat almost everyone, except for Henry who is suddenly gunning for sponsorship. Blake at one point said, “Maybe if I bowl like Erin, I’ll do better.”

I guess he meant “like a professional.”

But yeah, that third round, I totally dominated. I ended up with 120 points, 289 overall. AYO! I guess that means I can buy MY own ball now. Right, Collin? And now I’m completely amped to go back soon, very soon, wish-I-was-there-right-now soon.

On the walk home, everyone was saying things like, “Oh ho, I’m so tired. We’re going to be so sore tomorrow, ya’ll!” But I wasn’t tired at all when we left. I forget who, but someone said, “Probably because you weren’t doing it right.” Or maybe I said that about myself. In any case, it was clearly tongue-in-cheek because I am amazing and very swan-like in my bowling form.

I’m in the process of making t-shirts for my new bowling crew. Except for Collin because I don’t want him to get the impression that he’s included.  (We were going to have league until Henry explained that you have to pay for that shit and Collin added that the whole point of leagues is to win, where I thought it was just to hang out, be stupid with matching polyester shirts, and maybe at some point be on TV.)

We never did get to hear my jam. (Omarion’s “Ice Box,” I know you were dying to know.)

I was really hoping to do Blogathon again last summer but it was called off,  and I was bummed because I had an organization all picked out and I was ready to annoy the Internet with twenty-four hours of non-stop nonsensical drivel. I was thinking about that organization again recently and felt kind of helpless and frustrated that I’m currently unable to do as much for them as I’d like, but then I realized that there are things I can do, so I’m donating 10% of my entire sales (both Somnambulant & Appledale) for March to a great cause that hits close to the heart and that I have supported for some time now, To Write Love On Her Arms. I’m generally bitter and spiteful, but there actually are a few things I care about, can you believe it?

Please spread the word. It’s a good cause!

It is the end of Day Three: Henry’s Working Two Jobs Now.

I won’t try and be all courageous on your shit, saying that it’s all been fucking swell. It hasn’t. It has been really fucking stressful.

I know that there are people out there who do this shit every goddamn day of their lives and I feel like starting up a charity foundation in their honor because Jesus Fucking Shit-Packing Christ, these are some hard ass, arduous days. Right now I’m a little tanked on wine, I won’t kid.

Chooch is just —I mean, he’s my fucking kid, I love him, but good goddamn, one of us isn’t going to survive this. And I’m pretty sure that someone is me. I am laughing sardonically at myself for spending all this time fretting about the fact that I might have to actually boil a pot of water, when meanwhile, it’s the child-rearing that has me digging a grave.

This kid is going to kill me. He thinks he’s going to walk all over me, but he forgets that I bore him. He and I? We share the same stubborn gene. And we go round and round, we do.

Tonight, I decided to conpile a list of synonyms for “crazy.” I only made it as far as “loco” before being distracted by a ruddy-cheeked hooligan charging through the room growling “chicken blood asshole,” a not so cute and whimsical departure from the semi-adorable “cookie cake asshole.”

THE WEEK IS HALF OVER NOW GIVE ME SOME TEQUILA AND A STRIPPER.Oh, and a job-thing.

I do this every year, because let’s face it, I enjoy pretending like it’s third grade and I’m opening my little handmade Elmer’s-soggy mailbox while scraping the icing off a cupcake and simultaneously deep-throating a heart-shaped sucker, and then rifling through all the chicken-scratched, store-bought Valentines until I find the ones that come wrapped with candy.

You know, back when Valentine’s Day meant something.

Get your own valentinr

If you have one, link me to it! I like writing Valentine wishes. Because inside, I’m just a vat of churned marshmallow fluff. Forget what you heard.

I must be getting old. It used to be there was nothing more fun to me than attempting to cram my house near capacity with friends, bounty hunters, and random strangers from the street and Internet, fill them up with Jello shots and proceed to piss off most of the block. Sometimes I’d cap off the night by pulling on my roller skates and having guests whirl a frisbee at me as I coasted up and down the street.

But now I just want to hunker down with some family-friendly board games, maybe wrap myself in a shawl, perhaps  nibble on some Melba toast.

OK fine, maybe I still like to drink a little and get sort of kind of a lot too loud. But now I almost can’t imagine having a party without games. Games bring people together, ya’ll. Or, in the case of Henry and me, push people apart.

The guest list for Game Night #1 of ’09:

• Corey & his not-girlfriend-but-should-be-girlfriend KC
• Blake
• Niffer and Weird Paul, who brought Pretzels and only the most fascinating board game of all time
• Collin and a lovely bottle of wine for me for me for me
• Rhonda & her wonderful Jill, who brought a cute hippo for Chooch and delicious baked goods for me
• Brenna

It was unusual not having Janna there, but I guess it’s my fault for not keeping better tabs on her, otherwise I’d have known not to schedule game night on the same weekend she was out of town.  She’s the only person besides Henry who I feel I can physically assault when a round of Scattergories gets particularly tense and heated. Her absence also meant no homemade guacamole or platter of fancy cookies, which is really the only reason I invite her anyway. Surely it has nothing to do with her game-playing braun.

Rhonda filled Kara's position of Game Night Rule Nazi

In my Evite, I swore that, unlike Game Nights past, we would not be fixating solely on Catchphrase. I was dying to play Last Word, which was veto’d at the last game night, so I plopped it down in Jill’s lap and said, “Here, you do it.” She looked like someone who might enjoy reading and relaying directions, I don’t know. She quickly deemed it confusing, as did Rhonda, so Last Word was kicked away like a pissing puppy.

Instead, we played the Pop-Up Video game that came with Rhonda and Jill, but it was kind of obscure and Collin kept whimperingabout not wanting to sing (meanwhile KC was begging to sing – I will never again be able to hear Tracy Chapman singing “Fast Car” – even if it wasn’t her turn, and then she’d catch herself and slap her hand over her mouth. That girl would be my bff if I wasn’t an old lady!) so we switched to Catchphrase, which erupted into a near-lethal debate over button-pushing right from the start. If Kara had been there, she’d probably have started shanking people. She is very serious about her Catchphrase.

My favorite moment of Catchphrase was one of Blake’s turns. He kept shouting out clues like: “What I would say when I’m really excited to go somewhere! I’m in the car and can’t wait to get there!” So his team is shouting things like, “Are we there yet? Shotgun?” and Blake, he’s getting real frustrated now, and has taken to accentuating his clues with a series of wild gesticulations, pumping his arms and pulling faces. “I’m so excited to be going somewhere and this is what I say!” he shouted one last time before the buzzer went off. No one could guess it, and he exasperatedly said, “Away we go!”

“I’d like to see a video of you saying that in the car,” Collin said, sulking because his gay team lost a point, boo-hoo. And then I couldn’t stop picturing Blake – with his plethora of piercings, tattoos, and gauges large enough to stuff with bratwurst – skipping to the car, swinging his arms, and cheering, “Away we go!” Corey and KC left during Catchphrase. It was simply too fast-paced for them.

Niffer, bracing herself for some wild Uncle Wiggily gameage

Paul brought with him an old board game called Uncle Wiggily. I found myself gawking at it, ogling it even, from across the room. I’d find reasons to go to the dining room so I could slowly walk past it, dropping hints here and there about how, gee whiz, that game sure looked swell. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it intrigued me nearly as much as the time in ninth grade when I walked in on Jameelah and her brother smoking pot from a crushed can of Cherokee Red.

This game demands to be played harder than a hooker with a whipped-creamed checker board on her tits.

Paul regales us with details of Uncle Wiggily's journey.

The Uncle Wiggily game referenced odd-sounding herbs (Niffer, who is wiser than the rest of us, had to educate) and name-dropped characters who had names stranger than the ones I make up. Collin goes at one point, “What the fuck, was this shit written in the ’20s?” Apparently the books it’s based on was. Jill laughingly said, “Whoever made this game was high,” to which Blake retorted with, “Yeah, high on vocabulary.” Do not underestimate the power of a sixteen year old’s comedic timing.

Brenna readz0rz for the win.

Team Brenna&Collin won. It’s true, they were more skillful at card-drawing than the rest of us thought. I thought Brenna was going to get up on the table and do the Big Shoe Dance, she was so pumped up. Collin funneled his enthusiasm onto a pink balloon.

Those two got so cozy, I wouldn't have been surprised if one of them birthed baby pink condoms at the end of the night.

I decided to suggest one last time. Paul and Niffer hadn’t yet arrived the first time I begged to play it, and Paul made the mistake of admitting that he had played that game before. I pawned it off on him and he proceeded to freshen up on the instructions.

Jill's just as confused when OTHER people have the instructions. I will say that she got further than I did, which was the third line.

Up until this point, I feel that I was pretty well-behaved. I hadn’t been punching Henry or engaging in loudly slurred conversation, even though I had been quietly sipping vodka. But when a game is centered around having the last word? I don’t know, I could have been imbibing Shirley Temples laced with the essence of Sunday School all day long and I still would have been an out of control, must win at all costs, token person you want to coldcock at the party. Besides, games with timers have a certain urgency that make me shout my words to compensate for the rising panic.

Henry sucks so bad, he's the caboose of Last Word

When I sat back down, Brenna goes, “Calm down” and patted my thigh or some shit, as I recall, but that’s what game night is all about! Getting the blood pressure up! Being the best! BEING A WINNER. Besides, I was having all the fun.

Speaking of winning, I won that game even when Henry vetoed my last word of “fang” for the “Things That Are Metal” category, even though I stamped my feet and screeched what would he know, he’s never been to Dracula’s Ball? And then he said, “But then the letter would have had to have been ‘m’ for ‘metal fang'” and I was all, “Are you a fucking retard?”

Blake considers enrolling in Camp Cool Like Erin so he can be a WINNER.

Everyone was exhausted after having their minds obliterated by my genius, so game night came to a satisfying close.

Two concluding thoughts:

• I should have these more often
• I am not proofreading this
• I would like to hang out with Rhonda more than just once a year

(Pretend 3 is the new 2.)

The 51st comment was left by Michelle. Congratulations! Your monster will be delicately wrapped in a paper blanket and sent out asap.

Thanks for playing, everyone!

The holiday spirit hit me late last night. It was probably one of the several glasses of Merlot talking, but let’s not argue about it. It’s  not often that I get all inclined to do something good, something for nothing, but I really want to give away one of my monster mini’s as a holiday thing. A gift, I guess you would call it; or an apology even, for coming here and reading this shit.

The details:

• The contest is open until a week from today, 12:00pm EST December 28, 2008.
• Comment on this entry, and this entry only. If you read this from a LiveJournal feed and comment on that, it won’t count.
• Make sure you use a valid email address so you can be contacted if winner.
• Winner will be chosen at random, using random.org.
• I like having contests. They make me feel presidential.
• The painting will also be chosen at random, but it will be one of the 5x7s, not 4x6s.
• You can only enter once, else your soul will be mine to play drunken frisbee with.

Entire collection of miniatures can be found here.

Hurry, before I change my mind!

Hello. It took me TWO HOURS to copy and paste that last fucking post.

Apparently, I’m not allowed to edit it, but I should just be thankful that WordPress allowed  me to publish it AT ALL considering it completely devoured my last attempt, which was actually formatted correctly, and left no evidence that it was ever posted.

So I apologize for the pisspoor, hard to read formatting, and I apologize to my subscribers for basically getting spammed by me today.

I’m really fucking over this whole blog thing, motherfuck.

I need to go jab myself with something sharp.

L8r.

EDIT: I love u Henry. Marry me.

It’s a Friday night in 1999 and my boyfriend Jeff and I are lounging around, paying vague attention to some non-MTV music video show.
  Suddenly, a pulsing beat (not unlike one of those horrible MIDI files web-dorks have been embedding into their angelfire homepages) kicks in and the cutest/sluttiest school girl in pigtails is baring her midriff and gyrating her pelvis in a gymnasium. I’m mesmerized. SPELLBOUND, you might even say.

“Who IS THIS?” I whispered.

“Oh hell no, don’t even tell me you like this shit,” the boyfriend says nervously, trying to wrench the remote from my hands before the world of homogenized pop devours my soul and caulks my heart’s cockles with coconut taffy and Love’s Baby Soft. “This is the gateway! You give in to THIS and next you’ll be wearing taffeta bows in your hair and going to concerts at the mall. Now tell me you don’t like this.”

“I think I do, dude. It’s undeniably catchy. And she’s kind of hot. I mean—what? NO. Ew, I don’t like this.” A minute later, while I’m laughing nervously, I learn that it’s some strumpet called Britney Spears. Under a cloak of darkness (i.e. online), I buy her album.

For awhile, I try to hide it. I kick it under the couch when people come over. When friends are in the car with me, I make sure not to ever, not ever in one hundred million thousand fifteen years, pop in the mixtape that spins  “Crazy” and “…Baby One More Time.”  It’s the street cred kiss of death; there would be no way to talk myself out of that one.

But then one day, I’m like, “You know, I want to rock out to some fucking Spears and I don’t give a shit who knows.” So maybe I just got done breaking plates over my head to Bring Me the Horizon, or maybe I just cut myself to the plunky suicide notes of Xiu Xiu, but if I want to smack on some fucking bubblegum bubbles while jumping on the couch to a little tune called “Womanizer,” then dammit, I don’t care who knows it.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS.

I penned death threats in my diary to K-Fed. I wept openly while watching her documentary.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS. And now my son does too.

Now, what’s your guilty pleasure?