I sent Henry off to the market with his little wicker basket to fetch the ingredients I need for my SECRET pie.

He just called and yelled, "I’d like to thank you for sending me to Giant Eagle so I could have some jackass back into me!"

I was really panicked about it, wanting to know the degree of damage, but first I had to sit through Henry’s painful (because he’s a crappy storyteller) account of the accident. "….and I was just sitting there, at a complete stop, waiting for someone to pull out of the space ahead of me, when this dick comes backing out real fast into me and then he has the nerve to get out and yell at me! ‘Don’t you see people backing out?!’ Yeah, and I’m at a standstill!"

"And is there a lot of damage?" I cut in.

"….he just gets back in his car and leaves. Dumb bastard."

"Damage?" I ask again.

"I mean, if he hadn’t pulled out so fast…."

"Damage?" I ask with a mouthful of fingernails.

"….didn’t do any damage to the van…."

"Oh, you’re in the company van? Then I don’t care. Good bye."

I like this picture because it shows off my awesome Pacman arm warmers. And my kid! And my kid.

Look, I lost an eye in the Great Kidney Battle of ’07. You win some, you lose some, I guess.

Today was a day for thanksgiving indeed: Henry had the doctor call me in an alternate prescription because I apparently am allergic to Cipro. Or my pain threshold just does not have the braun to withstand the brain-swelling sensation that the side-effect head aches were giving me.

(Oh, don’t worry! I’ll be back later with a thorough recap of each and every kidney twinge I endured this past week!)

Anyway, today was the first day since Sunday that I actually: looked un-sick, dressed in clothes made of fabrics other than cotton, and applied makeup to my face. We went to my Grandma’s and my mom cried over the phone about having a “headache,” her stand-by excuse for every little situation she wishes to escape (I jumped at my chance here to smugly remind my grandmother that I had just been to the hospital but I still made it and she solemnly concurred, probably feeling even more disappointed with her daughter thanks to my interjection), I got to eat my first actual meal of substance in days, and there were onions in my un-meated stuffing. However, I was happy. My belly was happy. My head was happy, thanks to the large pain killer the doctor also prescribed.

Happy Thanksgiving, yee-all.

[Edit: It is sad when I’m so out of it that HENRY catches my typos.]

I’m currently battling the worst kidney infection of my life. This is the first time since Saturday that I’ve even been able to sit at the computer long enough to write this.

BBL!
(Hopefully.)

You know how
People will write about
How they got
their heart
broken by some prat in
         the 8th grade
whose eyes were
too CLOSE together
and maybe he had athlete’s foot a lot
and then

they might
     Say something about how
their dad used to rape
  their mother
every Friday night
and they could hear it
from the other side of the
bed posts      and
that
they secretly kind of
liked hearing it
and

       sometimes

it would RAIN really hard
on days when the sky was
blue and
what, was God playing games?
Like when he took away
the family dog

           Oswald?
and then
just because they
basically have written
a paragraph
detailing the saga
they call L.i.f.e
and s p l i t up the sentences
into artful little stanzas,
they call it a
Poem?

I
don’t
get
it.

Enter Henry, returning home from a day of doing little at his job. Spies something awry near the computer.

Henry: What has happened to the keyboard?
Keyboard is half-dead, whimpering, with its space bar dangling from its socket. Those plastic-proppy things are snapped clean off the back and lay in a dilapidated fashion on the computer desk. A mysterious prong-y apparatus also sits in discarded discord.&

Erin, nervously: I don’t know. It’s been like that all day. Fiddles with cuticles.

Henry, inspecting it closely: Strange, it wasn’t like that last night.

Erin, self-righteously: I DID NOT DO THAT. I SWEAR TO GOD. IT WASN’T ME.

Henry, in a goading tone: Erin.

Erin, screaming hysterically and obviously: IT WASN’T ME I SWEAR TO GOD!

Henry: This is an Erin-move. It has your name written all over it. So, what pissed you off and made you smash it?

Erin: OKFINEITWASMEITWASN’TWORKINGANDIGOTANGRY!

Henry provokes Erin some more, laughing at her state of frantic imbalance. Walks over to shuffle through the mail.

Henry, holding up a flyer from Full Sail, a recording arts school, reads it out loud: “Create a career in music.”

Erin, still ruffled about the appropos inquisition: I don’t want a career in music! I want a career underground, in a casket.

Henry, still perusing the flyer: Let me help you with that.

Today, a motorcycle-straddled cop set up a speed trap in front of my house. I was very bothered by this for two reasons:

1. I hate (most) cops
2. I hate cops on motorcycles

I’ve hated cops most of my adult life, and the motorcycle clause was a fast addendum. Six years ago, I had just pulled up to the curb in front of my house after a long day at work. Unaware of the cop who had been trailing me the whole way down Brookline Boulevard, I casually opened my car door, which in turn slammed into the side of his motorcycle, which he had idled on the sidewalk.

So before chastising me for me speeding, this old white-haired popo screamed at me for “nicking” his crappy cop cycle. I dished out my usual cop hate-tinged sass (seriously, it’s a wonder I haven’t been night-sticked by now) and then pushed my way past him. ”

And to top it all off, you parked your car facing the wrong way!”

Oh fucking well, dickham.

Henry watched the whole thing from the sidelines, having returned home from work right behind me, and it’s still brought up occasionally.

I wanted to pelt expired foodstuffs at the cop today, but Henry was very serious about protecting the cop-douche, like he’s the one-man secret service of the police department; protection for our supposed protectors.

“And to make it even worse, he has a MUSTACHE,” I said with disgust and a crinkled nose as I sulked near the front door.

“So now you hate people with mustaches too?” Henry asked, annoyed.

“No, just cops with mustaches.” I really have to spell it all out for him.

(Although sometimes I hate mustachioed convenience store clerks.)

“See,” Henry continued from the kitchen, “this is why people think you’re a serial killer. You have a serial killer mindset.” Why, because my hate is based on very specific criteria? I’m just very organized with my discrimination, is all.

Today I left for work with the sounds of zooming toy cars reverberating through my house and I can’t really explain why, but it made me feel very happy. Maybe it reminded me of growing up with two younger brothers. Ryan and I used to play with his Hotwheels and Micro Machines; I loved playing with cars more than My Little Ponys. (But it my toy car passion was probably tied with my obsession for Sweet Secrets, those things were bomb. Toys AND jewelry in one?!)

We used to build a tiered parking garage out of waffle blocks and lose ourselves in valet heaven for hours. Sometimes Egon and Slimer and Donatello and Splinter would join us.

I guess this is what I’ve been waiting for: My son is finally not a baby anymore and he plays with toys independently and says “whee whee” as he pushes a dump truck into Don’s hind legs and it’s just going to keep getting better (until he starts shop lifting and impregnating girls and joining whatever version of the Trenchcoat Mafia will be infecting society in the next decade).

In a surprising twist of fate, I got a new Secret Santa recipient. My boss — who kicks my chair to get my attention in lieu of, oh I don’t know, saying my name — took Gum Girl off my hands in exchange for Young Lindsay, whose wish list was making my boss all a’fluster.

“I don’t know any of this stuff!” she moaned last night. It turns out Lindsay and I have more in common than I imagined and I’m taking this as my signal to mold and sculpt her into the best Mini Erin she can be.

Shopping for her will be way more fun than picking up a Tyler Perry DVD.

Hello,

My boss just asked me if I’m a serial killer.

I laughed.

She echoed my laugh, nervously.

Day has officially been made.

Good bye.

When Henry told me about Chooch’s accident, the last thing that crossed my mind was, “Shit, people are going to think we did this to him.” Until I walked into the emergency room with him, anyway.

It’s amazing how quickly Chooch has bounced back from his accident, but his face sure looks painful. The swelling has gone down some, bringing out a bright purple bruise across the bridge of his nose, and pink rings under his eyes.
Yesterday, he kind of looked like a baby Quasimoto. Or that kid Rocky from “Mask.” (Really, his profile makes him look like a completely different child. It’s depressing.) Even though it was all Henry’s fault, I still felt so overwhelmed by guilt that the only solution, other than a nice cup of Vodka, was a trip to Toys R Us.
People did double takes as we trucked on by, with little Sloth in the cart. I kept thinking I heard judgemental whispers between the ears of tongue-clucking moms. “Look, they beat their child into oblivion and then buy him presents. That’s just sick.”

Tonight, we went to Eat n Park, but I decided to be slick and mold his hair into a mohawk, in an effort to detract from his shiners. It didn’t work, as evidenced by the manager’s very forward outburst as soon as we walked through the doors.

“Wow, you had your first brawl already?!” and then proceeded to tell us about the accident his young son had recently, involving tiled floor and a split chin.
The hostess also commented on it as she seated us and regaled us with various injuries her own daughter has lived through.
I preferred this, though. Being confronted by it outright, rather than have people quietly speculate behind our backs. I made sure to speak loudly though, so that everyone around us knew I didn’t hit my child with a frying pan for talking during “Days of Our Lives.” Who needs a white elephant?

Of course, we were seated right by the door so Chooch deemed himself the honorary greeter, further drawing attention to his marred appearance.
Two of the waitresses teased Chooch about his nose, too, which he seemed to get pleasure from. None of the Steelers-clothed diners seemed ready to run us out of the restaurant with anti-child abuse picket signs.

Thank you, Eat n Park employees. And thank you to your balls, too.
Toward the end of the meal, I realized that I should have written BROWNS on a piece of paper and pinned it to my shirt. You know, to divert eyes from Chooch’s nose.

Ok, also because I’m an asshole.

Hi. It’s like the middle of November. Do you know where your holiday cards are?

Now’s a good time to start thinking about shit like that, you know? Get it out of the way so you have more time to get blitzed off egg nog. I’m currently running a promotion for my serial killer cards where you can get a set of 10 for $25. (They’re $5/ea, normally.) These cards are big and sturdy, made from heavy cardstock and some even come with a cute little poem to help further spread the holiday cheer. A lot of time and idiocy is spent on these.

Choose from:

Lizzie Borden
Richard Ramirez
Albert Fish
Jeffrey Dahmer
Elizabeth Bathory
Ed Gein
John Wayne Gacy
Ted Bundy
BTK
Berkowitz

Check it out!

Henry called. He’s on his way home. Oh my god, please hurry.
I talked to Christina and she said I sounded like I have been stranded in the desert for the past three days with no water. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to dress myself these past few days (OK fine, he’s only really been gone for one full day). Christina said if Henry ever left me, I’d turn into the mom from that Spill Canvas song “The Tide,” in which the mom’s true love leaves her and she quits giving a shit about anything and stops paying attention to her kids and they’re swept away by the tide. I sighed and murmured, “I know, that’s a good comparison” and she yelled, “OH MY GOD stop talking like you’re dying!

”

In more uplifting news, I received my Pacman arm warmers in the mail and not only do they keep me toasty (cold office air be damned), but they’re fucking awesome too. Go get your own, she has a varied selection. Tell her Somnambulant sent ya.

A Nox Arcana song came on my Zen last night at work. It was an interlude with a child chanting “Satan come for me tonight, comfort me till morning light” and I swear ice cicles sprung off my spine.

Then Mandy Moore came on and I LOL’d.

Nothing tempers a chilling gothic chant quite like some Mandy Moore-brand bubble gum pop.

Oh my god I’m so sad. Fuck you, Faygo.

Dear Diary,

Henry is leaving tonight for Detroit. This will be the first time in the rollicking history of our courtship that I’ll be on my own, fending for myself, foraging for berries in the woods behind the porn shop. Scratching my own back.

Oh Diary, it’s true that we’ve been apart before, when I’ve run off to visit Christina in Ohio, but when you boil that down, it’s basically leaving one Henry for another. All of my meals are prepared for me, just like at home. All of my whims are met, just like at home.
The freezer has been stocked with an assortment of frozen meals to help curb starvation. Janna is bringing me Subway tomorrow. If we all come together, I just might make it.

He’ll be home sometime this Friday. I hope he doesn’t find my son hunched over my dead body, pillaging my guts.

Yours,
Erin, quaking in the face of responsibility

I brought one of my favorite Gary Numan cds to work with me tonight, hoping it would aid me in blocking out Eleanore’s persistent phone-bitching which lasts approximately 75% of the shift.
So far, it’s doing a smashing job, and has earned a bonus by providing the perfect soundtrack while I worked on the poem for my Elizabeth Bathory Christmas card.

One of things that has always struck a chord with me about this CD is the line “your nightmare is breathing.” I fell asleep to one of his albums once, sans “Cars”-homaging with the Tubeway Army, a long time ago, and one of the worst nightmares of my life ensued.

I was roller skating at night around a neighborhood that was unfamiliar but I seemed to know it well in my dream. I realized I was near a house that I was interested in renting (in real life, as well), so I skated up to it and let myself into the front porch. It was still scattered with boxes belonging to the previous owners. I stepped around them, wanting to peek into the window to get a look inside the house, when I noticed a young black-haired girl squatting in a corner.
The sight of her jolted me, but I laughed when I realized she was just a kid. I said hello and she returned it, using my name.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“Marcy told me.” Her eyes lit up with flames and I woke up.

The next day, in real life, the realtor called and told me he was accepting my application, and I’ve lived there ever since.

With my breathing nightmare, <a href=”http://sinistermitch.livejournal.com”>Marcy</a>.

Ed. Note: I’ve always thought that Gary Numan knew what was up, because he also has a song called “She’s Got Claws” and could any title be more appropos of my Satanic cat?

OK, I was seriously locked out of the house for two hours on Saturday. I didn’t know that Henry wasn’t going to be home when I came home from class, so I left my purse in the house. And my cell phone.

I got home at 11 and sat on the cold porch steps for about thirty minutes, doing some Calculus and attempting to manage my anger. Fake Nurse (The Original, not the New Neighbor Edition) came home but we’re still doing that Mexican Standoff thing so I didn’t dare ask to use her phone. Then I was afraid I’d get hemmorhoids, so I moved back inside the car, which was surprisingly toasty thanks to the late morning sun.

11:35: I stared at my Calculus book.
11:40: Played with split ends.
11:41: Sucked on hair.
11:45: Cried.
11:50: Fell asleep.
11:57: Woke up, remembered, cried.
12:00: Almost peed.
12:01: Felt sorry for myself.
12:03: Shot at joggers with my finger gun.
12:05: Practiced finger-snapping. (Still can’t.)

This cycle continued until 1pm, when I finally broke down and knocked on the door to Robin’s Meth Lab. Fortunately, Henry pulled up to the curb just then, looking confused by my whereabouts.

Of course I blamed him.

“Why didn’t you go to a payphone and call me?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

I didn’t have my wallet!

“Why didn’t you drive down the street to McDonald’s to use their bathroom?”

Because…*^*(&*(&)(*!!

And then he just started laughing. Laughing in the face of my tears.
“You would die. You know that? You would die out there.” He said he wished I had a camera on my head, like the survivor guy on that Discovery Channel show, so he could see me kicking around pebbles and roaming the yard in tight circles.
Henry’s going to Detroit for two days this week for job training. Please send someone to feed me and my child.