In 2009, I wrote a blog post that I had no idea would become the most-viewed thing I had written. It was called “Jonny Craig is a Piece of Shit.” Back then, I thought I was the only one who had shitty experiences with him in person. But it is consistently viewed to this day, do you know why? Because “why is Jonny Craig an asshole?” is a popular search term. Occasionally, someone will leave a comment on that post, too. Most of those comments are from ex-fans who want to share their own horror stories with me, but there are also the scathing ones from rabid supporters, telling me I’m pathetic, that he doesn’t owe me anything as a fan, and that I’m clearly butt-hurt.

Look. I’ve only been butt-hurt once in my entire life, and that was when I lost my footing on a pile of pumpkins at Trax Farm and wound up sitting on a stem. True fucking story for all of you pumpkin porn fanatics out there.

Anyway, the catalyst of that post was meeting him for the second time during the Dance Gavin Dance/Emarosa Squash the Beef tour. He was standing behind me at the bar in Mr. Small’s and literally all I wanted to do was tell him how much I enjoyed Emarosa and what an impact their music had on me emotionally, how it stimulated my creativity (back then, I had based some of my paintings off their lyrics), and how interwoven it had become with my life. I wasn’t trying to sit on his lap (let’s face it, I’m too fat, much ugly for him anyway) or make him sign shit. I wasn’t trying to pull him away from his alcohol for a photo session. I just wanted to say nice things to him for < 30 seconds, God forbid. It took every ounce of courage I could muster just to even say hello to him, after years of allowing his voice to be the personification of my dysfunctional friendship with my ex-BFF Christina.

But he just stood there and stared at me, making it clear that I was boring the shit out of him, so I mumbled, “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh” and walked away with my head down. It was humiliating and I know that he was making fun of me as soon as I walked away.

Because that’s what douchebags do.

When you put so much stock in a person like that, raising them up on some shaky pedestal, creating images of them in your mind, and then the reality of their personality shatters everything you had built up, it’s devastating. Maybe that sounds pathetic, but music has always been how I have coped with things. It enhances all of the good times and softens the bad. So now when the singer of a band that had made me feel so good has single-handedly made me feel AWFUL, well, it was a little emotionally traumatic.

It’s amazing how we deify these underserving people in the name of fandom.

He sounded like shit that night too. Drunk, stumbling, forgetting lyrics. It was my friend Alisha’s first time seeing Emarosa and her succinct review was: “They’re terrible!”

No, Jonny Craig is terrible.

I vowed to be done with him after that, and I was doing well until Emarosa released their next album in 2010 and I couldn’t resist. I still hated him. But I felt if I could separate my personal feelings for him from the music, I would be fine. Besides, wasn’t that what all of my detractors were telling me to do in certain harsh terms on my blog?

The problem is that as soon as I hear his dumb voice, I melt. It has nothing to do with him. I forget what a douchebag he is and all I can remember is how good it feels to be that into music. And it somehow kept me psychically connected to Christina, even when we were no longer speaking. It always goes back to that anyway.

Meanwhile, Henry was totally annoyed. He doesn’t get the whole “OMG JONNY CRAIG SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL!” argument, and it drove him nuts how I would turn into a 30-year-old fan girl at the mere mention of his stupid name. You know how I have pretty much based this entire blog on hassling Henry, right? I mean, unless this is your first time reading it. So if he hates Jonny Craig, then I am going to FUCKING BE OBSESSED with Jonny Craig.

My obsession can be broken down like this:

5% immaturity // 10% mental illness // 10% sincere love of his voice // 75% desire to drive Henry into an early grave.

(I triple-checked to make sure that added up, btw.)

And let’s face it: I thrive on being obnoxious.

I ran with it. Jonny Craig became my shtick. I made a Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper. I had my friend Maya make me a Jonny Craig doll. I hung up pictures of him around my office at work (if you go to the Law Firm and start questioning people on my floor who Jonny Craig is and they don’t know, then obviously I must never talk to that person, ever). This whole time, it was helping me cope with issues that Christina had left me with. I know, some people would just get therapy. But I’ll just sit over here and hug my Jonny Craig doll. Because projection is normal. Right?

The MacBook scam happened. The detox. The rehab. I was prepared for this to be the end of the Jonny Craig story, but then he started dating a girl who seemed to really change him, or at least, she was trying. And the crazy part was that she didn’t seem like a basic groupie. She seemed pretty intelligent, which one might argue about since she got involved with JC in the first place, but love is blind, you guys. I’m with Henry, aren’t I? Of course, I had to keep up my Crazy Jonny Craig Fangirl Persona and act like a nutcase when they got engaged (I think I might have even referred to her as Jonny’s penis-cozy in one of my faux-fits, what the fuck is wrong with me), but really–I hoped that she would save him.

Because as much of a loose cannon as he is, he really is a bright spot in a scene overflowing with generic, formulaic background noise.

All of these things I was willing to overlook because the music meant that much to me. I was so excited when Henry reluctantly agreed to drive five hours to Allentown last weekend so that I could see Jonny’s new band, Slaves. But then when I was going through his twitter feed to get screen shots of the nasty things he was saying about Emarosa (I wanted to have those as visual aids for my Emarosa blog post; can you stand how thorough I am?), I ended up seeing some terrible things.

Really awful things.

Jonny and his fiancée are currently going through a messy breakup, and he had a tweet that said if he saw her being raped, he wouldn’t stop to help.

He had another tweet saying that he never beat her when they were together but now he wishes he had. He deleted the original tweet but his retweet of this smart girl’s response still existed on Twitter:

This asshole seriously needs to have someone monitoring his social media accounts. Like, I don’t know, maybe his MOTHER?

“Really fucking nice guy, Erin,” Henry spat when I showed him.

(Even worse is that these asinine girls were tweeting things like, “Jonny Craig could have his hands around my neck and I would still love him.” Which of course he was retweeting because these are the things that make King Shit’s ego swell. Keep encouraging him, girls. Make your mamas proud.)

At this point, it was too late. We had already bought the tickets. Rented the car. Booked the hotel room. Whether we went to this show in Allentown or not, I had already inadvertently supported a misogynistic douchepig and it made me sick to my stomach. So sick that I had a mild panic attack standing outside of the venue that night and we almost didn’t go in. Henry had to take me back to the car so I could calm down.

Look, I don’t know his ex-fiancée, but as a woman, I can’t stand for shit like that and I will automatically have her back. This is the reason men run the fucking world, because they say shit like this and no one does anything. They’ll have tons of men cheering them on in between disgusting chugs of beer, wiping Hooters wing sauce off their lips with their unwashed football jerseys of rapist athletes.

There could be actual video footage of Jonny Craig beating a woman, and he will still have fans. I mean, Chris Brown still gets played on the radio, doesn’t he?

“I just feel like if I see him, I’m going to fucking punch him!” I kept saying over and over. I was so disgusted. I kind of wished that I had worn my Emarosa t-shirt, like I had joked about last week. I brought it with me and at the last minute, Henry agreed it was a bad idea because it wouldn’t be Jonny who noticed, it would be his legion of scantily-clad side broad hopefuls and I wasn’t trying to get clawed at by their nasty acrylics. Talk about a petri dish of I Don’t Wanna Know.

We went inside. I scowled at all of the meatheads in their Jonny Craig is My Homeboy shirts. I cringed at all the girls wearing barely nothing, knowing exactly why they left 89% of their clothes at home. I suddenly felt so protective of all these little girls.

Slaves took the stage and as expected, the crowd went nuts for Jonny. But for the first time ever, I felt nothing. I just stood there with my arms crossed, refusing to clap, refusing to do a single thing Jonny demanded. And then he dedicated the last song to his ex, Amanda. “Til death do us part, bitch!” he spat and everyone was like “Yay!” because that’s cool, right?

I looked at Henry and my eyes started to well up. I felt like such a traitor to women everywhere just by being there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to Henry afterward. “I can’t keep supporting this asshole.” And I think that was the happiest I have ever seen Henry in the thirteen years we’ve been together.

Meanwhile, King Shit was standing a few feet away from us, going through the motions of showing his fans what a “changed person” he is by posing for pictures with them. Two moms (like, I know I’m a mom, but these were MOMS wearing mom jeans with their mom purses slung across their mom boobs) ran over to him, took his picture, and then ran back giggling to show their respective daughters, who didn’t look more than 15-years-old. The daughters predictably squealed and were dragged back over to him by their moms.

“I guess these old broads don’t know he loves demoralizing under-aged scene girls,” I yelled to Henry. Oh, it was sickening to watch. And then afterward, I saw someone’s picture with him on Instagram and the caption said something about how Jonny was rushing everyone along because there was “quite a horde” of fans waiting. I didn’t know “roughly fifteen people” constituted a “horde,” but OK.

I’m not going to lie: I’ve always looked at fans of Ronnie Radke and wondered, “How could these kids love a guy who is such an asshole?” And duh, hello. Look at me. Blindly supporting a dreg of society since 2008.

More than anything, I feel like I owe it to my 8-year-old son to wash my hands of this guy. What kind of an example would I be setting for him if not? He already knows the guy is a drug addict (but the piss test! it was clean! blah blah!) and just a flat out mean person, but I definitely don’t want him to think that it’s OK to make those kinds of violent comments about women, publicly no less, and still have girls falling over you. “Hey, this guy acts like a douchebag and my mom loves him, so…..”

So maybe, if you’re a Jonny Craig avenger reading this, some girl with low self-esteem anxiously awaiting your chance with him, some bro who thinks it’s cool to treat people like dirt, then you might think this is a lame reason to throw in the towel. And that’s fine. Because one person writing a blog post like this is not in any way going to hurt his career, don’t worry JC afficionados. But I have too much respect for myself and at the end of the day, it’s all about girl power. I won’t stand for comments glorifying domestic violence, whether they were empty threats or not—-doesn’t matter. This guy clearly needs help, and I wish his new bandmembers luck with all of the future statements they’re going to need to release, swearing that their singer “has changed” and “is clean.” Seriously, good luck with that, and I hope he doesn’t destroy your careers.

I think I’m going to tell my kid, when in doubt, to ask himself “What would Jonny Craig do?” And then do the opposite.

Last week was a whirlwind. Never got a chance to go bullet-crazy up on here, so I JUST made Chooch give me the computer so I can do some kind of half-assed life summary thing. I’m sure Chooch has some sort of secret timer on the computer so if this post just ends abruptly, it’s probably because I’ve been electrocuted.

• In the last two weeks, I’ve been told “You’re my favorite mommy blogger!” and “I like you because you’re not a mommy blogger.” I don’t necessarily think of myself as a mommy blogger, but I guess I don’t care how you have me pigeon-holed, as long as you’re reading this. I will sit in a hole with your pigeons! Just read this fucking shit!
• The look on Henry’s face when I wrapped up a 60-minute workout with a 25-minute one was priceless. Fitness disgusts him.
• Racism came up a lot last week:
  • When Bill, Jessi and Tammy first got here last Friday, I was telling them about Marcy’s tumor and how we have to constantly spray it with this wound stuff from the vet. “Sometimes it starts to stink really bad, like the Oriental Market,” I explained. Realizing how terrible that sounded, I quickly tacked on, “That’s actually the name of the Asian market we go to all the time, I swear I’m not being racist!” Everyone was like, “Suuuuuuure” and then we all laughed uncomfortably.
  • Later that weekend, Chooch hilariously mispronounced some word that I forget now, and I said, “You guys should have heard how he pronounced Nigeria a little while ago.” Everyone laughed, and Bill joked, “Oh my god, what kind of racist household is this!?”
  • Some PSA commercial came on last Sunday night, wherein a little white girl gets invited to play with some black girls on the playground, but her mom stops her and nervously says, “Um…why don’t you go play over there instead?” and points to a group of white kids. I was like, “OMG WHAT A DUMB BITCH!” and Chooch said, in this totally patronizing tone that makes me want to punch him in the head (CYS, I’m joking!), “It’s called segregation, sweetie.” Ugh, that kid!!!
• The Pens shit the bed. Nothing to see here, you guys. Next news story, please.

• Henry has been playing with some annoying remote control helicopter that makes Marcy hate her life.
• I made a Spotify playlist yesterday for all of my mixed CD staples,. You know, the songs that you could hear every day for the rest of your life and not be mad about it? Anyway, if you want some new shit to listen to, go check it out! It has everything from El Debarge to the Refused.
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•  Ugh, VIP day at Chooch’s school, you guys. It was terrible. Basically, it’s where the kid gets to bring someone special to school with them. Henry went last year for some reason, and this year was my turn no matter how many excuses I threw out. I had to choose between three activities to do with Chooch that morning: gardening (fuck you, no), painting a bird house, or shadowing Chooch’s class. The latter is what I really wanted to do, but Chooch wanted to paint a stupid bird house, so that’s what I selected, because I guess being a VIP doesn’t mean getting to choose your own shit. Henry swore that it was just going to be the parents in Chooch’s grade, but as soon as I got there Friday morning, I quickly learned it was the WHOLE SCHOOL, K-8. FML.
  • Chooch ditched me as soon we walked into the school, so I had to stand in line ALONE. But then my neighbor was standing next to me and told me that we were allowed to take our kids with us to the cafeteria (where donuts and coffee were to be had) as long as our kids were eating breakfast. The school provides free breakfast every  morning but Chooch declines this 99% of the time, so after I signed myself in, I tried to summon him to come with me but that little bastard pointedly ignored me because he was being a big shot and sitting outside of his classroom with all his homies. So I had to walk over there and force him to come with me, despite his cries, “BUT I DON’T WANT BREAKFAST.” Too bad, fucker. You got me into this mess, you’re going to suffer with me.
  • The cafeteria: PARENTAL ARMEGEDDON. Motherfuck. It was so unorganized and crowded with kids who were eating breakfast and parents who were not selecting their donuts quick enough so the line was getting longer and slower. Chooch managed to grab his free breakfast  before me, and made finding a table seem effortless. “SAVE ME A SEAT!” I cried to him, and he was like, “Jesus Christ, I will, calm the fuck down.
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    ” I’m assuming that’s what was implied with his shitty eye roll, anyway.

  • A MILLION INTERACTIONS WITH MR. FINGERS. Humiliating and exhilarating, all at once.
  • Tons of donuts to choose from, and I took one with pink glaze even though my brain was like, “DO NOT TAKE THAT ONE.” Naturally, I didn’t like it very much, but my nerves prevented me from taking more than one bite anyway, so even I picked the perfect donut, that thing was still going to see limited mouth-time.
  • Got to sit next to Chooch for all of 5 minutes before he had to go back to class (the students had to be in their classrooms for morning announcements and things), leaving me to sit alone in a too-small, low-to-the-ground stool attached to a child-sized cafeteria table. I had to fill out some stupid survey for a raffle ticket with parents on both sides of me, trying to keep my elbows pinned to my sides while forgetting over and over again that the stirrer in my coffee cup WAS NOT A STRAW.
    • Hate when that happens.
  • Suffered through a few songs by the school band. Jesus, did I sound that bad back then? Of course I did.
  • All the parents who were gardening were escorted out a side door, but that only opened up a few seats because who the fuck chooses to garden? That just sounds awful. I was getting anxious for the principal to dismiss the shadowers next, so the cafeteria would be even more cleared out, but instead he was like, “All the bird house painters, start making your way up to the front here and find a table with paint.” Just as I was feeling relieved that I had a table, I realized I wasn’t at one of the ones set up for the activity.
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     Motherfucker.  Thought I found table on the stage, but no: Candy Cane and her fashion cane had claimed the entire table, and her stupid chainsmoking side kick was taking up the one next to hers, so then I was stuck on the stage with nowhere to sit because no one would fucking move so I could get back to the steps and I was honest to god considering walking backstage and finding a fire escape. I just can’t with people.  But just then, all the kids were coming back into the cafeteria with their blank bird houses and I could see Chooch waving to be excitedly from the back and I just sighed and pushed my way back down to the floor. You guys: People. SOS. Uncle.

    • Here is the comical scene where I kept telling Chooch to stay were he was, but we still ended up passing each other like ships in the night, constantly finding ourselves on opposite ends of the cafeteria. Finally I screamed, “STAY THERE OMG!!!” and was able to elbow my way through the sea of confused, displaced parents and children until I was close enough to grab him by the shirt and pull him to me. BEING.A.PARENT.BLOWS.SOMETIMES.
    • And then we couldn’t find a table. “Hi, is anyone sitting here?” over and over while parents purposely averted their eyes. It was like being in school again, for real.
    • Finally found the best table ever: WITH ALL DADS. DADS ARE NICER THAN MOMS. Particularly the one who was sitting across from me. He got us better paint and looked at me and smiled every time he made jokes and I would just giggle sweetly BECAUSE HE WAS KIND OF MY TYPE, OK? Not particularly bright-seeming and very blue-collared. Plus: NECK TATTOO. Later, I was telling Henry about him (because Henry is my BFF and I tell him about all my crushes, SO BUTT OUT) and I said, “I hope he thought I was Chooch’s sister. Like, I was considering calling Chooch ‘Baby Brother’ at one point.” Chooch actually SCOFFED and said, “There is no way anyone would think you were my sister.” STFU, boy.
    • Eventually, my 90 minute prison sentence was up and I got to take that fucking bird house home with me. Oh, and also Chooch. He got to come home too.

•  Yesterday, Corey and I revisited Gaby et Jules and made the excruciating difficult task of deciding what to order (we’re not made of money, y’all) and then took our foo-foo French  treats to the Homewood Cemetery, where we strolled leisurely while inhaling macarons. It was kind of The Life, to be honest. The macarons I picked* were poppy, lavender (because lavender), and the flavor of the month which was strawberry peppercorn. STRAWBERY PEPPERCORN IS AMAZING, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW. Because I didn’t know until yesterday. But now it’s strawberry peppercorn everything. First up: toothpaste.
  • *Picked. Like they grow on trees. I WISH THEY GREW ON TREES.
    • Not in noses, though.

•  That Slaves (Jonny Craig’s new band) show I desperately want to go to is officially one week away and Henry still hasn’t committed one way or the other. Last week, I was so desperate, that I posted his phone number on Facebook and asked everyone to simply text the word “Allentown.” His response was, “Nice to see you got your little friends to do your bidding.” And then as more texts came in later in the day: “Your posse doesn’t scare me.” I’m pretty much on my knees at this point.
  • Literally.
  • I WILL DO ANYTHING, UGHHHHHH.
• Got to paint a custom name thingie for my friend Carey last week. I love painting these so much! COME GET ONE!

• TOMORROW: CLEVELAND FOR CHIODOS AND EMAROSA! MY HEART IS EXPLODING!!!!

Chooch’s LOLCat Party Attendees:

• Bill, Jessi and Tammy (all the way from Michigan for the meowtivities!)
• Corey
• Chris and Monica
• John, Jenn, Abby and Gavin
• Kara, Harland and Theo
• Christy, Claire, Anthony and Julia
• Kristy and Sarah
• Danielle, Cory and Ean
• Lisa and Gigi
• My dad
• My sister Amy, Dick and Brooke
• Kari and Katelyn
• Patty, Tim, Tim’s mom Sue and sister Kaylie
• Angie and Rachel
• Wendy
• Judy
• Red Sticky Hand
• Missy, Jim, Jemma and James
• Janna
• Owen
• Liam
• Lucy
• Sharyn
• Sophia and Olivia

I’m going to try and keep this short and sweet since there are so many pictures, but Chooch’s 8th birthday party went off without a hitch! Well, mostly. It rained the entire time. And I don’t just mean a light drizzle. It poured, and there was the occasional clap of thunder too, which was fantastic. So, OK, I guess that counts as a hitch, whatever a hitch even is. But the kids gave no shits about the spring downpour and ran around like maniacs, getting all disgusting and muddy. Their moms didn’t seem to care, so I decided that I shouldn’t care either. Which is hard for me, relinquishing care.

Decorating was super easy this year because I have finally surrendered to streamers. We just don’t get along, and it’s OK. No one cares about streamers anyway. I would like to add though that Henry had absolutely no hand in decorating because he so conveniently took an entire hour to pick up the cake and grab “odds and ends” at the dollar store. I interpreted this to mean that he parked his Faygo van in an alley somewhere and listened to the Frozen soundtrack.

Thank the lord I had Jessi, Tammy and Bill here to help. They are heaven sent! (Or “Michigan sent.” Whichever.) I can’t believe I just used such a cheesy description, but I am just THAT thankful for their extra helping hands, I guess. Get off my back.

Bill blew up balloons, which Tammy and Jessi hung with great care and precision. They don’t fuck around with balloon-placement.

Tammy and Jessi helped me decorate cat cookies the night before the party. It was actually a lot of fun (there was wine involved)! The cookies didn’t last long though—they were a big hit with the kids and approximately zero were left over! Pretty damn happy about that. Even though Pillsbury actually made them.

Originally, I wanted to make Grumpy Cat donuts using bakery donuts and then decorating them the rest of the way on my own, but it ended up being so humid on Friday night that it was a failed effort from the start. All the icing was dripping down the sides plus Henry bought the wrong kinds of donuts and if we hadn’t had company in the house, I probably would have used one as a boxing glove and sucker punched Henry in the mouth.

So, that’s what’s up with the Grumpy Cat sign up there.

These were my idea! PB&J cat heads in the house! Henry made them though because what do I know about Rice Krispie treats? Not a damn thing. It was so hard not to put them all in my mouth though when I was helping Henry press them into cat heads Saturday morning, because they smelled so goddamn good!!

I just wanted a reason to have a Marcy lookalike saying “Balls!” The kids ate the shit out of this jug like they’ve never seen a damn cheese ball before, and it was nuts. At first, they were using a serving spoon to fill cups with cheesy crack balls, but after awhile, it became a snack-fisting free-for-all. There was a little bit left in the jug by the end of the party, but I made the executive decision to pitch it, because—gross.

Every year, I get all nervous about the kids from Chooch’s school because I suck at talking to parents. But Bill reassured me that I was doing a great job after I talked to Owen’s mom in a (what felt like) effortless fashion because thankfully Chooch had gotten stung by a bee the day before on his way home from school, so I had something to talk about. “Thankfully.” You know what I mean!

Anyway, three cheers for being relatable for once.

And just as people started to arrive, Henry decided that it was time to start grilling, which he impressively dragged out into a three-hour task. HOW CONVENIENT.

I know, Gigi. That’s how I feel when I look at Henry, too

Here is where I was too tired to use the real camera anymore and relied entirely on my phone.

Thank god we had the foresight to buy these stupid cat things and provide crayons and markers because this kept the smaller kids happy and the bigger kids occupied when the rain started to fall too hard.

Meanwhile, Henry was grilling.

I think the children responded well to my sarcasm all afternoon.

My old office-neighbor, Angie. I MISS HER!! :( Also, she just ran the Pittsburgh Marathon, you guys. THE WHOLE THING.  She’s a beast.

Where was Henry? Oh, yeah: grilling.

FAMILY! I was so excited to have so much of it there. Here’s Henry’s mom and my cousin Cory. Not shown: Cory’s mom Danielle and brother Ean, my brother Corey, my dad (yay!), my sister Amy and her family. I was bummed that Henry’s sister and her kids couldn’t make it. It was really weird not having them there! But even still, this might have been the most family I’ve had under one roof in more than a decade, I’m not even joking right now. I know Chooch was too busy splashing around in the rain with his posse to care, but someday when he’s older he’ll get to look back on this and see that there are lots of people who love him. And for me, it showed that there is still hope for my side of the family. Maybe we all didn’t get to grow up together, but we’re together now and that’s pretty fucking cool. SORRY TO GET ALL SERIOUS AND HALLMARK CHANNEL. I’ll add more swears to my next blog post.

Chris and Monica sat at the kids table and loved it.

No sign of Henry! Must be grilling! I didn’t realize we even bought that much to grill so if your burger tasted weird, perhaps it was one of the guests who mysteriously didn’t show up.

Or just a squirrel.

Squirrel, why do you have to be so challenging to spell? I want to type “squireel” every single time.

OMG the cake. The goddamn cake. Those kids WOULD NOT STOP TOUCHING IT. And then someone  closed the lid because they were tired of the cake collecting fingerprints and no one told that person that the box wasn’t supposed to be closed because the cake would get smashed. OK THAT PERSON WAS ME, GOD! Sorry for ruining the cake! (Also, this is the first time I’m admitting it so now I’m starting the countdown to when Henry finds out.) SORRY SORRY SORRY!!

Anyway, when we decided on the cat theme, I knew right away that we had to get the cheeseburger cake from Bethel Bakery. It’s pretty legendary, but I never had a use for it before. Especially because I’m a vegetarian. (Although I guess we could pretend it was supposed to be a Boca Burger?) My plan was to order the burger cake and then print out the I Can Has Cheezburger cat to stick into the top of the cake, and it seemed to be a pretty big hit, so thank you Bethel Bakery and your novelty cake offerings.

“I always wanted the cheeseburger cake for my birthday!” my brother Corey sighed.

“Aw,” I deadpanned. “I guess your parents didn’t love you enough.”

And then we laughed because it’s true!

So then we all sang Happy Birthday and I had to fight my way to the front like I was at a Jonny Craig show, wtf he’s my kid, MOVE OUT THE WAY! MOM WITH A CAMERA COMING THROUGH! Kids get so clingy and possessive at birthday parties!

Henry was there long enough to light the candles and then disappeared. So everyone was standing there, about to riot because they wanted cake and they wanted it now, but no one was there to cut it! I started to panic and made eye contact with Sharyn’s grandma, who started cracking up.

“Where did he go?!” I cried, and she pointed over to the grill. (AGAIN WITH THE GRILL!) He does this shit to me every year, I fucking swear to god. So I had to do the bottom lip-jut and ask my cousin Danielle to take the cake by the reins, and she did just that! Thank god for Danielle! My mom was such an astute cake cutter, but she never thought to pass those skills on to her dumb daughter, I guess. One time, I had a birthday party for Lisa and was so frustrated when it came to cutting the cake, that I threw down the knife and started plating fistfuls.

Meanwhile, Corey somehow fell into the role of a babysitter while Christy went to pull her car down closer to the pavilion and he was panicking about it because he’s about as fluent in childcare as I am. Then when she came back, one of her kids was sitting at an entirely different table and had a piece of cake. I think Corey should start a nanny service as a real estate side gig!

Kristy’s wrap-job was one of my favorite parts of the day! AND SHE BROUGHT ME A PACK OF PEE WEE’S PLAYHOUSE CARDS. Later the weekend, Henry saw them sitting on the table and asked, “Who got Chooch the Pee Wee—–”

“THOSE ARE MINE!” I snapped before he could finish.

Here’s Bill making sure no sticky red hands try to take off with Chooch’s presents. He had a lot of fun interactions with the under-10 set that day and I think he should dust off the ol’ LiveJournal to tell us all about it.  Meanwhile,  the gift opening segment of the day was basically the only time Henry stepped in so I could actually talk to my friends for a hot minute. Apparently, Lucy and one of the twins had Chooch flanked and were assisting him, because deciding which present to open next is apparently rocket science.

I wasn’t there when this happened, but Henry supposedly made some comment about how nice it must be to have TWO girlfriends to help when he can’t even get ONE girlfriend to help and then Monica said something that he didn’t hear and I’m willing to bet it was hilarious so Monica, if you’re reading this and you remember this part of Rain Fest 2014, please tell me!

Corey was so excited to tell me that Lisa’s baby threw up on Janna.

“See that wet spot on Janna’s leg? THAT’S WHERE THE PUKE WAS!” and then we just started laughing uncontrollably. I was so excited about it that I high-fived him. This was the highlight of the day for me and I didn’t even get to see it!

One of the girls started crying near the end of the party (not because of me! She was scared because her grandma left) and I honestly was so awkward and uncomfortable about it. Only I’m allowed to cry at parties, you guys, come on now. Unfortunately, “go go, maternal instincts!” is not something that actually works for icy broads like me.

I should have just told her to go sit with Corey.

We only had one game planned, because there’s a playground next to the pavilion and anytime we’ve had parties in the park, the kids seem fine with free-form play. Plus, I don’t know how to do the whole “structure” thing. Can you imagine me being all, “Children! Children, come now! Time for ring around the rosy!” No, you can’t. But then we decided that in lieu of a litter box cake, which is overdone and just disgusting anyway, that we should have a game involving a litter box. So we filled this pan thingie up with sand (Henry bought the wrong kind and it was damp and sooooo gross to touch, which I guess is a good thing in this case) and then numbered a bunch of Tootsie Roll poop.

I spent ALL WEEK painstakingly wrapping dollar prizes with corresponding numbers written inside of cat heads. Just like the rubber duck game that pretty much all carnivals do. PRIZE EVERY TIME. Just not good prizes. But one of the prizes was more annoying than the other prizes.

I almost forgot about the game, so some of the kids had already left by this point (again: structure what now?), but I hurried up and made the rest of them sift around for poop, and then of course they all fought over the prizes they won and some of them kept begging to go again and asking if they could trade. Finally, I was like, “DO WHAT YOU WANT I DON’T CARE OMG” because kids, amirite? I can actually still hear them hounding me. AND WHERE WAS HENRY? Where indeed.

I don’t think Wendy kept her stupid prize. How insulting!

Everyone started heading out around 5. Lisa asked me to throw away a napkin that she had wrapped in plastic. “Be careful, Gigi’s puke is on that,” she warned. As I was walking toward the garbage can, I saw Janna sitting at a picnic table with Henry’s mom and I COULD NOT RESIST, HAD TO DO IT, NEEDED TO OR I MIGHT HAVE DIED.

“Hey Janna,” I said sweetly. “WANT SOME MORE OF THIS!?” and then I pretended to shove the pukey wad of napkin in her face, but it FELL OUT OF THE THING LISA HAD WRAPPED IT IN AND LANDED ON JANNA’S CHEST!

Holy shit, new highlight of the day!

This is what Chooch looked like by the end of the party. So damn disgusting. Aside from Bill throwing one of the guests out, it was a pretty drama-free party! Can I retire now?

It’s crunch time. Totally stressed out trying to get everything done (piñata’s not gonna make it, guys). Decided that stuffing treat bags is its own ring of parental hell and Henry and I have already had 87 fights while Chooch does NOTHING to help! Oh my god, we get it—a bee stung you on your stomach today. God, cry about it some more, why don’t you?

OH AND IT’S SUPPOSED TO STORM TOMORROW, THANKS “GOD.”

Anyway, I’m so agitated that I had to put on the Never Shout Never YouTube channel to chill me the fuck out. How can you be mad when your house is full of twee-ness?

We still have a million cookies to decorate and donuts to turn into Grumpy Cats, FUCKMYLIFEEEEEEEEE.

If Henry and I ever break up, I’m putting some sort of birthday party clause in the custody agreement. It’s all yours, dear HenHen!

And now you know what’s going on. Go Pens.

Special? Not really. But I thought it would be fun to do a Dance Gavin Dance show edition of the bullet point posts which have somehow turned into a weekly thing. My apologies, Internet colleagues. But yes, it really does make more sense to write about the show in bullet points because my mind and emotions were all over the map Wednesday night. But I woke up the next day feeling more refreshed than I would have after a day at the spa, sorry I’m not sorry but I actually am sorry that I typed out “sorry I’m not sorry.” OK, onward, fat girl. (Points if you know that.)

Henry being unhappy standing in line to get in.

• This show was May 7th at Mr. Small’s, which is my favorite venue in Pittsburgh and I haven’t seen DGD play there since 2009 when Kurt Travis was their singer (I’ve seen them numerous times since then, but just in different places), so I was really excited. Henry? Not so much. See above picture again if you need a visual.

• I remembered my ID this time so once we got inside, we went right for the 21+ area. The bartender informed us that the balcony was open for the night and Henry was like YES and I was like NO. Old people sit in the balcony. :(
• Henry whined a lot about being up since 3AM while I giggled and smiled at all of my DGD brethren.

Frowns for DGD.

• I was trying to remind Henry of the time we saw DGD last year because these shows all blend together for him. “Were they with these same bands?” he asked. “No, they were with A Lot Like Birds, remember? You hated them.” “There’s a lot of bands I hate,” Henry said dryly. “And I have to go see all of them.”
• I randomly got angry at Henry for not being a sound guy.
• Something came over me and I decided we could sit in the dumb balcony since Henry was tired and there was a lot of shit I needed him to do over the next few days for Chooch’s upcoming birthday party. It was kind of cool though because we essentially had the whole balcony to ourselves and there were no moms up there writing out shopping lists or reading Better Homes & Garden. Plus, I could actually see now, yay!

SOME LOCAL BAND

• Some local band that wasn’t on the bill ended up coming out first and I’m not going to say that they sucked because, you know, kudos to them for getting up there and doing their thing, but my god the singer NEVER STOPPED TALKING. They might as well just be a spoken word band. I got the impression that this was the first time they played somewhere other than Aunt Jackie’s garage, because during sound check, they were taking pictures and filming the crowd, and their enthusiasm was kind of embarrassing. But then the mom in me came out and I remembered that these are someone’s kids so then I felt bad.
  • “It sounds like they’re all playing all different songs. Why did they come out like they’re the headlining band?” Henry asked with concern.
  • One of their choruses sounded like “Make a crump mess.”
  • During one of the singer’s many monologues, he asked the crowd if any of us have parents who (indecipherable hoo-haa), to clap. I did not clap because I had a feeling  that the indecipherable hoo-haa had something to do with parents being supportive, and…no.
  • UGH TALKSOMUCH!
  • I started clapping and cheering REALLY LOUD at one point, but it was only because I was following along with the Pens/Rangers game on my phone and MALKIN SCORED, MOTHERFUCKERS. (Got to see the replay later and holy shit, Geno.)
  • They dedicated the last song to the Pens so I love them now.

Here is a picture of Henry sleeping during the local band, something Project.

• Henry realized that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. NOT MY PROBLEM.
• The crowd would sporadically bust out into “Let’s Go Pens!” cheers between bands and it made my heart swell. I don’t often love that community feeling, but when I do it usually has something to do with hockey. (NEVER THE STEELERS THOUGH.)
• Even after I let Henry sit in the balcony, he had the audacity to complain that the seats were uncomfortable. I posted this on Facebook, because I wanted the 25/450 people who haven’t hidden me yet from their newsfeed to see that Henry is an ungrateful cockface. Sandy commented and said that she has a portable seat cushion he could borrow for next time. “There won’t be a next time,” Henry muttered.
• Bleach Blonde was the next band. They were good. The singer reminded me of Adam Lazarra. Henry fell asleep again.
• But then Palisades came on and WOKE HENRY THE FUCK UP. I got really excited because I started putting two and two together and I realized that I watched one of their videos a few months ago and loved them immediately but then forgot about them, probably because I got distracted by Jonny Craig again. Anyway, I’m in love.
  • By the second song, I had totally lost my fucking mind and kept beating on Henry’s arm and screaming.
  • “I FEEL LIKE TAKING MY SHIRT OFF!” I screamed in Henry’s face, which turned into the perfect expression of horror, disgust and “Grow the fuck up.”
  • OMG DID I INGEST MOLLY?! THIS BAND IS SO FUCKING GOOD I WANT TO SCREAM!
  • Made a note to add 30 minutes of Palisades-inspired cardio to my fitness challenge total for the day.
  • AND THE SUTTER GOT A SHORTY SO I THOUGHT I THREW MY ARM OUT SOCKET WHEN I SHOT IT UP WITH ALL OF THE FORCE.
  • The singer Lou (WHO I AM NOW IN LOVE WITH OK) yelled, “Have you ever been judged for the clothes you wear (etc etc)? Then put your motherfucking hands up!” I kept trying to get Henry to put his hands up but he wouldn’t budge. “Put your fucking hands up, Henry, I fucking judge you all the time!” I screamed.
  • I posted a video of them on Instagram and THE SINGER LIKED IT OMGGGGGG SOCIAL MEDIA MAKING ME FEEL IMPORTANT AGAIN.
  • Yesterday at work, Barb said she watched my Instagram video of Palisades and it made her feel stressed out, LOLOLOL.

• Capture the Crown was next and Henry was like “Y SO MANY BANDS UGH” and then immediately hated his life once the singer started screaming. And it was my favorite kind of screaming too! Th ekind that gets real high like a screaming eagle and then super low and guttural like SATAN. So, I loved the screaming parts of this band, but I was otherwise bored and besides, it was the third period by then so I was pretty much 100% invested in my phone.
• PENS WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Henry went to the bathroom so I decided to hide from him under a table. I waited until I saw him down below, getting ready to come back up to the balcony, before taking my place. As soon as I saw legs enter our empty section of the balcony, I jumped out only to see that it was some broad instead. OF COURSE someone would pick that moment to come to our area after it had been empty all night. Henry was right behind her and was like, “Good. Good for you.”
• Motherfucking DANCE GAVIN DANCE YOU GUYS UGHHHHH!!!! Henry was like “PLEASE STOP!” because I was losing my shit and doing these weird screams that I have no idea where they were coming from and I was just going completely spastic while he sat very calm and still next to me.
  • They opened with The Jiggler which was perfect. I love this song so much because it reminds me of a circus:
  • Obsessed with Jon Mess. (If anyone wants to buy me one of his paintings for absolutely no reason at all, I wouldn’t be mad about it.)
  • Several other people came up the balcony at this point and some drunk hippie dropped his beer bottle on Henry which I totally missed and didn’t find out about until later.
  • TILIAN WAS ON POINT. He was even singing the Jonny Craig-era DGD songs so much better than the last time, but he totally killed it on the songs from the new album.
  • LEMON MERINGUE TIE!!!!!!!! UNEASY HEARTS!!!! CARVE!!!!
  • Honey Revenge is a song from the perspective of a stalker and Tilian made it even creepier live by making these precious faces when he would sing the lines “Oh, can’t wait to get you all alone.” He can stalk me any fucking day, dear god.
  • Crying right now. This band is so entangled with memories and emotions from 2008 that sometimes it feels like my heart is on fire when I listen to them.
  • I have stuck with DGD through three singers, the departure and return of Jon Mess, and various other line-up changes. But after that night, I have decided that this current DGD is my new favorite DGD. They just sound so cohesive and smooth together now. They will always be in my Top 5. I’m just sorry that more people don’t get how talented they are. Matt Mingus and Will Swan are extraordinarily underrated musicians.
  • On the way home that night, Henry said the next best thing to a marriage proposal: THAT HE LIKES DANCE GAVIN DANCE AND HAD A GOOD TIME. What world am I living in!? After 9 years, he has finally accepted that he has to share my heart with a bunch of dudes from Sacramento, I guess.
  • HASHTAG BLESSED ALL THE WAY HOME.

Anyway, last night Henry and I stayed up late watching DGD videos (he willingly did this!). “You can tell Tilian is a lot more comfortable now. He isn’t trying to sing like Jonny Craig anymore, he’s singing all of those old songs like himself,” Henry said in full seriousness and I almost died. Henry is making Dance Gavin Dance observations? I am so in love.

“I don’t like how Tilian dances, though,” he went on to say, killing the mood.

STFU, Henry.

If you’ve been reading me (and by “me” I mean “my blog” and not the secret etchings I scratch behind my knees) for awhile now, you probably have picked up on the fact that I loathe my neighborhood. Technically, I live in the city of Pittsburgh, but it’s one of the more, god I can’t believe I’m about to use such a nice word on this place, SUBURBAN parts of Pittsburgh. But only in that the houses aren’t as sardine’d together as other areas, though. You still need to lock your front door. (Fun fact: I never locked my door until Henry moved in with me because I was so accustomed to growing up on a private line in an affluent area because burglaries NEVER HAPPEN out there, right guys?)

Being born and raised in the REAL suburbs, this is like extreme city-living for me. I moved to Brookline in 1999 when I was 19. I loved it because it was only about 15 minutes away from my home ‘burbs (read: close enough to go home to do laundry) and so conveniently located to all of the artsy urban areas that I felt like I had waited my entire life to be nearer to.

But then I had Chooch and suddenly I started thinking about grown-up things, like OMG THE CITY SCHOOL DISTRICT IS TERRIBLE. So Henry and I were determined to move out of the city before Chooch was school-age.

But then something crazy happened instead: I decided that I actually wanted to stay in my neighborhood. (Just…not in the same house. OMG I hate this house.) There’s a performing arts school downtown that we’ve been hoping to get Chooch into. City residents get free tuition and it was recently ranked #14 in the state. Chooch seems super gung-ho about it too, so hopefully he gets in. (He can audition in 5th grade to get into the middle school program.)

I was looking at their writing program awhile back and started crying.

Their mascot is a unicorn, for fuck’s sake. That school sounds like PARADISE.

So instead of fixating on all the shitty parts of this town, I have been trying to be more upbeat and appreciative (?) about this Yinzerville. Plus, I’ve grown so accustomed to being able to walk to so many places (CVS is only a few blocks away! I am never in need of nail polish anymore!).

(OK that’s a lie. I’m always in need of nail polish!)

For instance, if I want ice cream, THERE ARE TWO PLACES I CAN WALK TO GET ICE CREAM:

The first place is Scoops, which has the best hard ice cream and like 87 flavors, including the best birthday cake ice cream I’ve ever had (as seen in the picture above, crowning a scoop of banana cream pie). Also, they have red velvet ice cream. RED VELVET ICE CREAM. Sometimes I like to get that made into a milk shake and sometimes I cry when I’m done sucking it down. I used to hate them though because they took over a place called Boulevard Ice Cream or something equally generic, but that place was like an institution run by an affable old man who loved to chat and now it’s just a bunch of teenagers. (Although one of the guy-scoopers told me he liked my finger tattoos, so there’s that.)

(Speaking of tattoos, some broad who was the runner-up of that Dave Navarro tattoo show has a tattoo shop on the Boulevard.)

And now, in case I’m in the mood for soft serve, there’s Carnival Treats! It’s only like half a block further down from Scoops, but I’m scared that it won’t stay in business. So if you’re in Brookline ever, please go patronize Carnival Treats. You can buy a funnel cake without suffering exorbitant amusement park admissions!

Chooch and I were just there Sunday night and I have to say, their soft serve is delightful, but the sprinkles are too squishy, if that makes sense. However, the cake cones might be the best I’ve ever had! Like cinnamon is baked into them, OMG.

But maybe you don’t want ice cream or fried Oreos. Maybe you want olives and baklava. Thank god I got over my unfounded fear of Pitaland, because that place is a fucking babylon for fresh dates, holy shit. I love going there for a pound of them and also mysterious candy that Henry automatically insists I will hate. (And…sometimes I do.) Pitaland recently renovated and have a cafe now which is exciting.

If you don’t want to get yelled at for incorrectly pronouncing the National Breakfast Dish of Lebanon (I’m sorry, but “foul” looks like “foul” to me, not “fool.”), there are other more Yinzer-friendly places on the Boulevard, like Zippy’s (it’s a bar that LOVES THE STEELERS but they serve food too), some place called No Name Cafe or something that I honestly see like every day so you’d think I’d remember the name that they don’t have, a “coming soon” joint called Bama’s, and a cute little Greek spot called It’s Greek To Me. Henry and I used to go there a lot when we first started dating, but now we rarely go at all so I’m wondering if we experienced some sort of trauma there that is subconsciously keeping us at bay.

Or if you’re just in the mood for pink donuts with sprinkles (HENRY’S FAVORITE) or packzis (don’t ask), we have two bakeries on the Boulevard as well, OMG! DONUTS AND COOKIES, FUCK YES. Wash that shit down with coffee from Cannon Coffee down the street, you guys! God, I love that place. I wanted to stop there on the walk home from the park on Sunday but Henry had the biggest stick of all time penetrating his asshole, so instead of just going in without him, I decided instead to use this as an excuse to blame him for ruining my entire day.

And that’s exactly what I did, too. And that’s also why he cried like a bitch when Chooch and I went to get the aforementioned ice cream that night and Chooch also had a taco from the beloved Las Palmas taco cart because that’s what happens when daddies are being assholes. (They miss out on tacos, just in case you weren’t sure.)

(I was going to call Las Palmas “Brookline’s Best Kept Secret” but the hipsters already know about it, so….)

Some of the neighbors have nice flowers in their yards, if you’re the type that likes to pick them. In addition to free flora, there’s also a veritable bouquet of entertaining townies, too. Some days I wish I could just stay home and watch them walk past my house all day. (See also: Purple Pants; Tourette’s; Cheerleader Girl.)

If you smoke e-cigs, Brookline’s even got a vape shop classin’ up the Boulevard, so come on out.

And then when I have to take the TROLLEY TO WORK, UGH, my walk is only about 10 minutes long and it’s through a cute little neighboring town which has a froyo joint, a hot dog place that also serves veggie dogs (praise the vegan overlord), some diner that was inseminated with Guy Fieri’s hair gel & featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives (does not live up to its hype, IMHO), and an awesome old theater that plays fantastic B-movies, indie flicks & classics.

So sometimes I have to remind myself that, while there might be an occasional discarded hypodermic needle in my yard and I fucking hate the guido douchebag* up the street, sometimes it is necessary to stop and think about all of the things I sincerely enjoy about my dumb town, and fondly imagine turning into one of the scary old people who stand in the middle of the sidewalk, conversing in angry Polish.

You should all come visit me and I will take you on a tour of nothing interesting and then we can take the trolley somewhere more exciting, OMG!

*(Seriously though, if you want to be flashy with your Corvette, Hummer, stone lion statues guarding your steps and FRONT YARD FOUNTAIN ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THAT SHIT, move the fuck out of Brookline, maybe to Long Island? Just a suggestion. Henry said the guy is a city LIEUTENANT which is so fucking rich to me because that motherfucker was pretty much the WORST offender this past winter with literally never shoveling and salting his sidewalk, way to lead by example, asshole! (I have a real thing against authority, you guys.) I HATE HIM AND HIS CONSTANT LAWN-SPRINKLING and lavish, grown-up frat parties and Chinese lanterns hanging in his perfect trees. We saw him roll up the other day in his Corvette and when some broad got out of the passenger side, Chooch said, “God, how did that guy ever get a WIFE?” BY BEING A GUIDO DOUCHEBAG, SON. Try to keep up.)

I just stressed myself out so bad.

Here is a rare bullet point post on a Sunday because Chooch is playing video games and Henry is cooking and I’m bored.

• There was a Penguins game on last night and I was so nervous that I kept trying to find dumb ways to distract myself, which is how I found a Hungry, Hungry Hippo hair fascinator on Etsy. I was going to buy it, but then the Penguins won and I forgot about it. Maybe during tomorrow night’s game…
• Last week, Chooch was bitching about me being mean, so I yelled YOU ARE THE REASON I’M MEAN! To which he responded YOU ARE THE REASON I TWERK! I just can’t with that kid anymore! He’s too quick. Also, he has been saying “literally” in almost every sentence, and I know I too am an offender (one of the worst) of using this word incorrectly (and I DGAF), but Chooch has just been so excessive about it. So I am going to make him a blog called Chooch, Literally. Janna kept trying to be the Literally vs. Figuratively Cop at dinner last night and we were all like STFU Janna.
  • At least we know that if Chooch grows up to be a stripper, it’s my fault and not Henry’s.
  • And he’ll be stripping to this song:
  • And he will probably LITERALLY have more money than Janna.
• I have vacillated between OMGLOVINGHENRY to wanting to bury his rotting body in a Pittsburgh pot hole so many times this weekend that I feel like I have whiplash. And a personality disorder.

• Emarosa released their first single with their new singer Bradley Walden last week and it gave me goose bumps and then made me cry in my office-thing at work. LOOK AT HOW BEAUTIFUL HE IS! ^^^^^^ And his voice is the perfect complement to the rest of the band. It feels so good to be an Emarosa fan right now. This single was a sweet reward for not giving up on them these last few years and I have kind wanted to run around the office making everyone listen to it, but I refrained and stuck to just listening to it on repeat by myself.
  • Not a shocker, but Jonny Craig is being a royal poor sport about this because I guess Emarosa was never supposed to move on without him, even though he’s been doing his own thing for the last two years and has a new band of his own now. But still, I LOVE SCENE DRAMA!
• I had a couple of very stressful trolley experiences last week, so when I got to work, I immediately went to the CNN website to get me a little perspective, because somehow there are things happening in the world that, while hard to believe, might actually be worse than the trolley fare machine not working.
  • One of those stressful experiences was sitting across from this guy and his Mads Mikkelson-as-Hannibal mouth. I couldn’t look away! Mostly because I was afraid he’d turn my fat ass into a 10-person banquet:

• So, the Penguins are currently embroiled in a heated 1st round playoff match-up with the Columbus Blue Jackets and the one player I hate the most, Brandon Dubinsky, is from ALASKA. Of COURSE he’s from that disgusting hell-on-earth! So every time he’s on the ice, I get to unleash some of my pent-up Alaska disgust and it feels good but also like my heart is going to implode. It’s weird to have my stressful passion for hockey and dedicated hatred for glaciers collide.
• OMG I’m having so much fun planning Chooch’s LOLCat birthday party! And my long-distance friend Bill just confirmed that he, Jessi and Tammy will be coming out from Michigan for the entire weekend and I am giddy with excitement! I haven’t seen them in two years!

• OMG this employment opportunity was in the weekly school email last week and I was so tempted to apply, except that my shift at the Law Firm starts at 1:30. But can imagine how mediocre and complacent I would be as a playground monitor?! Ugh, what a failed opportunity. Also, I’m pretty sure I would pass all of those clearances.

• It’s 2014 and I still have no idea what goes on in Autocorrect’s head. Also, be a better housewife, Henry.
• Today, Chooch asked, “If you guys aren’t married, how was I born? Wait—was I adopted?” Have fun with that talk, Henry.
• I’m pretty sure my Internet presence has ensured that I will never get a boyfriend ever again.
• HENRY JUST WALKED PAST ME AND HIT ME FOR NO REASON I HATE HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

• On Chooch’s birthday, I got THIRTY DONUTS in the Mystery Box on Tapped Out! I was stoked but this was like the greatest affront to Chooch of all time. I thought he was going to try and murder me in my sleep.
• We went to Toys R Us last night and I ditched Henry and Chooch for the Tween aisle, because that’s where my jam’s at, and I found this disgustingly awesome grilled cheese & tomato soup lip balm pack! It was so sickening that I had to buy it, and I’m here now to tell you that it is just as gross and vile as your imagination probably immediately told you it would be as soon as you read the words “grilled cheese & tomato soup lip balm.” Actually, the grilled cheese one wasn’t TOO bad, and if we’re being honest here, it was kind of exciting to have the stench of my favorite meal wafting around below my nose. But today, I was on the way home from lunch with Wendy, Evonne, and Evonne’s friend Barbara, when I decided to be bold and put the grilled cheese one on my top lip and the tomato soup one on my bottom lip and then basically spent the next 20 minutes trying not to throw up in the backseat of Evonne’s car. I mean, sure it tasted like tomato soup….that has just been regurgitated. Just in case you’re a mental asshole: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. Let me be your example of what things should never be rubbed on the lips.
• 
• And then Chooch wanted this stupid robot dog and cried, “BUT IT’S SO COOL! YOU TELL IT WHAT TO DO AND IT DOES IT!” So I said, “That’s what Daddy is for.” BOOM, SON.
• Yesterday, I was out and about in the neighboring town of Dormont trying to rack up pedometer steps, when I stumbled across this interesting specimen strumming a guitar outside of someone’s window. He needs some more practice, I think:

• Today Henry cried actual tears because he had bleach on his hands and then touched his eyes. Instead of caring, I yelled at him for interrupting me. He is really so rude.
• Eight hours later and I’m still smelling that vile tomato soup lip balm, what have I done?
• If some of my words are missing letters, it’s less likely that I’m a spelling derelict and more so that Chooch has ruined yet another keyboard.

It is mandatory for bloggers to commemorate birthdays of their offspring every year and pretend that the entire world has halted. You didn’t know? It’s written somewhere, I don’t know. I’m not a real blogger, so you’ll have to ask one of these ones.

But back to Chooch! Eight years ago today, I was having this 10lb 2oz sack of chunk extracted from a SCARY INCISION THAT STILL HURTS SOMETIMES, OK? It seems like an eternity ago, but I can still remember how excited/anxious/horrified I was like it was yesterday, and the nurse asking me if I had a Living Will, OMG just what I want to think about right before I go in for a stomach filleting. And I think here is where I’m supposed to insert some flowery prose about how hard parenting is, but so worth it. It’s true though. Once I quit wondering when things would get easier and accepted the fact that this parenting job will NEVER get easier, I think I became kind of better at it. (I still fuck up A LOT, though, don’t get it twisted.) Chooch himself has made me so much better in so many ways!

I was the first one out of all of my friends to get pregnant, and I heard a lot of predictions like, “You’re not going to be fun anymore.” And that makes me laugh because I have more fun now than I ever did back then, so thanks Chooch! (I am also not friends anymore with the people who said shit like that to me, because fuck them.)

Here’s Henry sleeping in the hospital room that day, which is probably one of the last times Chooch and I have let him take a nap.

LOLworthy:

1. Bandanna

2. Faygo sweatshirt

3. Mr. Mom jeans and shoes

4. Awkward holding of his own hand

And here’s the birthday boy himself, on our walk to school this morning! You guys, he was in the best mood and a total fucking joy to be around for once. I LOVE BIRTHDAY CHOOCH, OMG.

Anyway, I guess we’re going to dinner tomorrow at Olive Garden of all places, because this is what he has requested we do. He’s never been to Olive Garden before and he hates pasta, so…..

We are pretty apathetic when it comes to traditions in our house. I remember really loving the whole egg dyeing experience as a kid, and then getting stoked for it out of nowhere a few years ago to the point where I had an egg dyeing party (and, because I looked at the wrong calendar, I accidentally had it like 4 weeks before actual Easter, oh well), but mostly I’m just totally ambivalent about it. Chooch hadn’t even mentioned it, so I assumed we were going egg-free this year, but then at the last minute Henry was like, “Are we dyeing eggs?” and then Chooch and I were suddenly Egg Dyeing’s Biggest Fans.

“This is dumb.”

Chooch immediately cracked every egg he dropped into the dye cup-things. Did I mention that HENRY bought the dye kits without us? Immediately made the process 87% less fun. WHO DOES THAT?!

Goddammit, so did I.

Erin + Jonny = Easter pukes for Henry.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

I love that Henry stands around acting like some superior King Pinterest douchebag, judging our slipshod handiwork with smug smirks and disgusted lip curls, but then never EVER steps in to “show us how it’s done.” God, why don’t you just open an Etsy shop of judgments, Henry?

You deserve this, Henry.

Chooch and I lost interest in < 10 minutes. Henry tried to get us excited by adding vegetable oil to some of the colors so we could try our hands at marbling, but…bitch, please. That’s not enough to stroke our attention erect.

Henry said this is the last year for egg dyeing. #toomanyweeners

Then the Penguins lost game 2 of the playoffs and my night was over. (And, in turn, so was Henry’s.)

Read more: http://www.post-gazette.com/local/region/2014/04/20/Brookline-man-arrested-after-fight-with-girlfriend-police/stories/201404200224#ixzz2zYWREwCv

I was able to knock out a few more Biblical/Easter Glenns before my eggs were cast aside for more commercial ones. Kind of like a plastic egg version of vinyl vs. mp3: only the cool kids liked my eggs.

BUT I’M NOT MAD BRO.

Here we have: David Glenn & Goliath Glenn, Vatican Glenn, Swiss Guard Glenn, Friar Glenn.

Fire & Brimstone Glenn, Tenebrae Glenn, Hatching Spring Glenn, Glenn Falls For the 2nd Time.

Jeannie finally opened her egg while Nate played dramatic Game of Thrones music, even though for some reason I felt something from the Wicker Man would be better but I can’t explain why. Nate’s epic music suited the situation just fine though.

Anyway, Jeannie got Saint Lucy in her egg and was like “I don’t know who this is” which reinforces my claim that this was a FUN, LIGHT-HEARTED & EDUCATIONAL way to fuck off work.

Happy fucking Easter.

Henry hates it when Chooch & I walk to the bakery and buy him a donut because he knows there is absolutely nothing altruistic about it. We just want to take pictures of pretty pink frosting grazing his bristling moustache so that we can endlessly mock him later. It’s one of my favorite past times.

So now Henry tries to act like he doesn’t want the donut. In fact, he was only pretending to eat it just so I would take a picture and leave him alone.

Henry’s dumb lunch.

He kept trying to sneak bites without me noticing so I wouldn’t take any pictures but I’m too fucking good. Get real, Henry.

It never gets old.

And this concludes my Law Firm Fitness Challenge Cop Out Blog Post. I feel guilty if I waste too much time sitting and typing when I could be pacing and lurking. (I lost two pounds since it started yesterday morning! My body fucking hates me today!)

Henry’s sister Kelly posted this on Facebook for sibling day or whatever and I couldn’t stop laughing because the idea of Henry ever being a child (or someone who smiled, for that matter) is endlessly hilarious and intriguing to me. And then!! Then there’s the cone-headed Easter bunny with alien eyes.

That’s apparently some weird Easter egg Henry is holding. I thought it was a bike helmet.

Thank you for this gem, Kelly! It’s nice to see that while Henry may have outgrown that whole “smiling” scene, he’s still way into striped shirts.

I kept saying that I didn’t want to do anything this weekend.

“I don’t want to do anything this weekend,” I said to Henry. See? It happened. And these words were like the theme music of NCIS to Henry’s ears. This is all he ever wants to do on the weekend: NOTHING! I really thought that was what I wanted too. We have been doing so much lately that I was starting to feel a little run-down, physically and mentally, anyway. So aside from taking Chooch to his piano lesson Saturday morning, nothing else happened that day aside from binge-watching HBO while it was free and screaming at the hockey game.

I WAS SO FUCKING BORED.

The next day, Chooch went to the neighbor kid’s birthday party, which was right next door so we didn’t have to do anything but open the door and boot Chooch out of it. It was glorious! But then I became immediately bored again. I left the door slightly ajar because all of the jackass birthday party kids were running around outside the house making me super nervous and annoyed and I needed to adapt my role as Crotchety Bitch-Neighbor in case something happened that would provide me an opportunity to run outside and chew out some dumb kid.

About an hour into the party, someone started to knock on my door, which blew open because of the wind; this left me in an awkward predicament because I absolutely hate answering the front door but now whoever was knocking could basically see into my house.  DO YOU WATCH THE FOLLOWING!? It seems like every motherfucker that opens their door for someone gets stabbed to death. I don’t want to get stabbed to death. WHO DOES? (I mean, I’m sure there are plenty of people who do, but they’re probably singing Crash Test Dummies song(s) while coloring walls with their feces in a mental institution.) I figured it might be one of the parents, that Chooch probably fucked up somehow (he’s my kid, after all), so I exhaled and bravely pulled the front door open the rest of the way.

It was an older man looking for his missing cat. RED FLAG, right? Total Yinzer, dishelved, possibly a little buzzed, and definitely dressed worse than Henry. So, your basic Brookliner. Whether it was true or not, I indulged him while he struggled to not only describe the cat, but remember her dumb name. (Tia.) And then he struggled some more to tell me where he lives, which is literally like 5 houses down the street.

“OK, we’re the first house down there that has a porch that sticks out. Do you see the porch sticking out? Maybe you can’t see from here,” he squints real hard, practically hemorrhaging while digging in his brain for a house number. “OK, you see that gray car? Not the one on the street. The gray car in the driveway. That’s our house past the driveway.”

I promised him I would keep my eyes open for his car and we shook hands after he told me his name is Gary. He was just about to leave when I reminded him to watch his step. (Our front porch steps are all crumbled on one side and are hopefully about to be repaired soon. The landlord knows, and I hope he doesn’t want a law suit. But maybe he does. Maybe getting sued gives him an erection.) At my simple suggestion, Gary took that as an invitation to pause and study the porch.

“You know, I painted one of these porches awhile back,” he said. And it suddenly all started coming to me and I knew exactly who he was.

“I remember that!” I exclaimed, because he and his weirdo brother-in-law (who lives next door to him) kept me wildly entertained that day with their half-crocked banter. “Hey, do you by chance have a cat named Teddy?” I asked.

“Teddy! Yeah, he’s dead now though. He was a good cat!”

“He really was!” I agreed. “He got my cat Marcy pregnant in 1999,” I explained.

“Oh, no! Do I owe you kitty support?” he laughed, and we went on to talk forever about cats. I told him that Teddy used to come and sit on the windowsill after Marcy had the kittens, like he wanted to check in on them, but Marcy would go absolute ape shit on him through the screen. She used to make these terrifying, gutteral screams that I have never heard from a cat before.

Don looked exactly like his father Teddy.

“Hey, you should come over in the summer and go swimming!” Gary suggested happily after finding out that we’re basically in-laws. That is definitely not going to happen, but I cheerfully went along because CATS! What a great topic.

Something like 15 minutes later, I was pulling the door closed behind me just in time to find Henry on the couch cracking the fuck up.

“What?” I squealed. “We were talking about CATS!”

“Have fun swimming at his house this summer,” Henry tried, and failed, to say without laughing.

That’s one of the few times you will ever find me not resisting human contact.

***

I still wasn’t feeling 100% myself (obviously something was wrong with me if I willingly spent time small-talking with a neighbor) but it was really nice and sunny out that afternoon so I made Henry go for a walk with me.

Jo’s Salon decorates for every holiday. Love the bunnies and sexy Jesus-in-a-basket!

There used to be this totally sketchy bar on the Boulevard that you had to walk down steps to get to, basically a rape-trap, but it was closed down (I think there were a lot of drug busts there) and now it’s some strange church-thing.

I was hoping that this would the day I could finally get Henry to go inside the African market but he’s still being a baby about it. Aside from him being secretly racist, I’m not sure WTF is going on with Henry and the African market. Maybe he tried to get them to sell Faygo and they laughed at him?

So we went to Pitaland instead. I used to be inexplicably terrified of that place, but then I learned that they have the freshest dates around, and also a super-hot guy working there named I forget now but he is really handsome and I like to remind Henry of that fact every time we go there.

Cactus pears & nub-things.

I got to witness some incredibly old man with a walker pick up a box of Mediterranean candy and honest-to-god bellow, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS” before slamming it back down. Dude, they’re ANGEL KISSES AND THEY LOOK DELICIOUS SO STOP SLAMMING SHIT.

(Henry just responded to my urgent text. The Hot Pitaland Guy’s name is Marvin. Thanks for paying attention when I kept dreamily saying his name in your ear yesterday, buddy.)

Then I made Henry buy a container of these delicious looking powdered pastries that the non-Marvin Pitaland guy described to us in a bored mumble. Turns out they were $10 and DISGUSTING. I couldn’t taste anything but ROSE and the choking was almost as terrible as the time Janna tried to drown me in rose water at the Palace of Gold.

Back outside on the Boulevard, I stopped abruptly and tried to take a picture of this guy standing in front of the red door of one of Those Weird Churches, but I wasn’t fast enough and he had already started to walk down the steps. I was so upset that I missed such a great photo-op, but Henry was perplexed and annoyed.

“What the hell are you trying to take a picture of!?” he hissed, wanting to continue on so we could get home already.

“The way that man was standing at the top of the steps, it was such a Jesus pose!” I cried irritably, knowing he wouldn’t understand.

And he didn’t.

It’s funny that all this religious stuff was happening on our walk because I just ordered a bunch of religious candy to stuff in plastic eggs because it’s time for another EASTER GLENN HUNT! Just a little while ago, I made a Veronica’s Veil Glenn and a Hot Cross Bun Vendor Glenn. I love religious Glenns.

This was when we were fighting about who likes dates more.

“I’ve been eating dates since before you were born!” he bragged.

“YEAH WELL I ATE DATES IN MOROCCO!” I cried and then kicked him, because that’s what I do. But then we started reminisicing about the date milkshakes we drank at a date farm in California, so that was nice.

***

Almost as soon as we got home, Henry “suddenly” got a fever, WTF? So he spent the rest of the day in bed which affects me greatly because no one was available to make me dinner. I kept calling him, and I could hear his phone start to ring (he has a Dance Gavin Dance ring tone for me and I didn’t even download it on his behalf!!) and then it would stop suddenly because that dumb motherfucker was DECLINING MY CALLS. So then I would march upstairs and be him to come down.

“Just order pizza,” he mumbled in a (fake!!!!) fever-induced drawl.

“THEN I HAVE TO ANSWER THE DOOR FOR THE PIZZA GUY!” I wailed.

“Oh my god, tell me you are not even crying right now,” he sighed and rolled over, putting his dumb blanketed back toward me.

I ate a dumb bagel and Chooch had Apple Jacks. Sorry kid, but I’m not one of those broads who rises to the occasion and suddenly knows how to make a roast. (Not like Chooch would ever eat that anyway.)

I was telling Barb about the dinner tragedy today and she asked me something dumb, like, “Did it feel like Henry was burning up the bed?” or something.

“Yeah, that’s funny,” I laughed sarcastically. “I slept on the couch last night because I didn’t want to get sick.” And Barb looked like she wanted to say something about that but then remembered who she was talking to, so she kept it at a simple, “Oh, Erin.”

Way to ruin the whole entire weekend, Henry. You’re so selfish.

Chooch started bitching about his underwear Friday morning, how I gave him a baby pair and they were falling down, wah wah wah. I got all annoyed because if they’re too small, throw them out!! Stop putting them back in the hamper for Henry to wash, for god’s sake. This was right after he bitched at me for pointing out that he hadn’t finished his homework. SO FAIL SECOND GRADE THEN, WHAT DO I CARE.

One time last week he bitched because I pointed out that his shirt was on backward and then he OMG had to turn it around, but he didn’t do it right so it was still backward and I was like “Your shirt is still on backward” and it was like [MAJOR BITCHING]. Sometimes I wonder if he’s eating estrogen pills.

“All you do is bitch,” I yelled as we splashed along the rainy sidewalk to his dumb school. “You’re like a nagging housewife. You should have your own damn show where you can just bitch about your whole life to everyone. Because that’s all you do! Bitch!” And then I started singing a jingle for his hypothetical show—because I love making up jingles—which went like this: Chooch’s Morning Bitch Fest….Monday thru Friday!*” And it was totally loud and theatrical like an orgy between the Boylan Sisters from “Annie” and Joey Gladstone from “Full House.” Also, it obviously had jazz hands (only one though because I was holding an umbrella) and it concluded with a little dance.

*(This recording was way less inspired & boisterous than the original heat-of-the-moment jingle & I apologize. But I’m sure I will be provided with ample opportunities to sing it. Again and again and again.)

And then something made me turn around, that strange sensation of paranoia that sometimes radiates into your back when you’re being watched, just in time to see that Chooch’s gym teacher was right behind us AND I MEAN RIGHT BEHIND US, cracking up. I was kind of embarrassed but Chooch was REALLY embarrassed and just shook his head.

“Hey what’s up Swaggy?” he laughed over the rain. Chooch earned that nickname last year because he’s got swag, y’all.

Chooch, still shaking his head and perfectly mimicking Henry’s patented smile-without-mirth, just gave a little grunt and kept walking.

“He’s miserable in the mornings,” I confided, hoping to detract from my makeup-less morning visage and pillow-tousled curls (that’s a fancy way of saying I had The Bed Head and it was not hot) by throwing my own flesh and blood under the bus.

Still laughing, the gym teacher assured me that he’d straighten him out later and I unclenched when he parted ways in order to enter the school from a different side.

“Good one,” Chooch spat.

“I mean, maybe he didn’t hear everything…” I suggested naively

Chooch just glared, his lips upturned in a disgusted scowl.

I have to say though that his gym teacher is not the worst looking gym teacher I’ve ever seen. So if he likes my jingles, he’s welcome to come over for more.

I briefly mentioned last week that my friends Kevin and Lizzy sent me a box of fruit from Miami and I went into fruitiac arrest right there at my dining room table. It was actually the first time I used #blessed without an iota of facetiousness.

Literally every single fruit in that box was something that had never once graced my filthy lips. And I knew this because I didn’t recognize anything. Thank god they packed along a brochure from the fruit stand Robert Is Here, which is now my favorite place ever and I can’t wait to go to Florida.

Of course, Henry was in a “rush” to get back to work (I just like to put random words in quotes, OK? It makes my finger tattoos tingle) so he claimed he didn’t have time to cut anything for me. Luckily, one of those small beige balls was slightly ajar, so I swept it away into the kitchen and started ripping it open with my bare hands, until Henry finally sighed and confiscated it. He cut the rest with a knife and packed it away into one of my plastic fruitainers (a container for fruit, duh) like a good father getting his child’s school lunch ready.

According to my brochure, what I had so savagely opened in the style of caveperson was a sapodilla and I rejoiced because Kevin is always BRAGGING on Facebook about how he’s sucking back sapodilla MILKSHAKES, no big deal, and I get all jealous because what is a sapodilla, I have no idea but I want it.

The description in the brochure says that a sapodilla tastes like a pear with brown sugar. I am here to confirm that it tastes like a pear with brown sugar, how is that possible?! It was also a little bit reminiscent of root beer candy, HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!? The texture itself is a little bit grainy, definitely pear-like. I wish I had some in my mouth right now. (I wouldn’t share this with anyone, FYI.)

In my haste to devour all of the sapodillas, I never got around to ramming my phone up into their grills, so please enjoy a stock photo that I procured from the Internet. I can’t wait until Henry plants sapodilla seeds in our tropical climate backyard biodome that he doesn’t know I’ve enrolled him in college to learn to build. And then he can peruse his beloved Pinterest for candied sapodilla and Kevin & Lizzy’s sapodilla milk shakes and sapodilla-on-the-cob and sapodilla lampshades. Sapodilla moustache rides?

Sapodilla chevron mason jars suspended from sapodilla pallets! Don’t forget to put a motherfucking bird on it.

Get on that, Henry.

When I came home from work that night, I made Henry cut another fruit for me, the lone yellow guy up there. At first, I was confusing it for the mamey sapote because I am apparently dumb at matching. (Never mind the other day when I bragged about being excelsior at it; just call me Mary.)

(Because I’m contrary. God, go read a fucking nursery rhyme once in awhile.)

OK, so how can I describe this fruit to you without grossing you out….it’s like sticking a spoon in a yeasty vagi—OK WRONG, WRONG. Let me try again. The texture is custard-like and squash-y, not your typical pulp-y fruit innards. Do not be afraid of it. There is no squirting of juices to ruin your clothes (I know I’m not the only one that winds up walking around with fruit-jizz splotches on my shirts after wrestling with an orange). It’s soft and velvety, and even though it stinks of raw pumpkin, once you move past that, it is the most gentle sensation upon your buds, and I liked to imagine that when Robert Smith wrote the line “the strangest twist upon your lips” it was while watching some broad slowly masticate the shit out of a canistel, which is what this fruit is, and not a mamey sapote. Now that I’ve made you read 18 sentences wondering WTF fruit this is. I write good, y’all.

The flavor of the canistel isn’t in-your-face sweet like fruits that you average Americans are accustomed to, but it’s more of an egg custard. So there were times that I was spooning it into my maw where I would get a little skeeved out, remembering that I wasn’t eating some kind of exotic cheesecake, but the actual entrails of a fruit right out of its skin. It kind of made me feel like a savage. AND I KIND OF LIKED IT.

It had a very interesting moist:dry ratio and made me think fondly of Thanksgiving because now I want this shit in a pie shell.

Texture Freaks: This one might just tickle your gag reflex.

Next up was the weird eggplant ball and the oblong cactus-thing. I determined these to be a star apple and guanabana, respectively. Coincidentally, my friend Eve had just recommended the guanabana to me a few weeks ago! I like having fruit friends. I mean, literal humans that also enjoy the sweet spoils of nature, not actually friends that are made of fruit.

(Although in 9th grade, I did have a friend that was an orange. His name was Marcus Aurelius and my asshole mom threw him away because he was starting to rot.)

Henry blew out a harried sigh when I shouted, “WAIT! I need to take a picture” right as he was about to start hacking away at the star apple with that big knife in the background. (Don’t tell Henry, but sometimes, even though I’m not supposed to be handling sharp objects, I carry that knife with me around the house because I watch way too much shows like The Following and read too many home invasion news reports and yeah, I’ll probably wind up accidentally slicing through my femoral artery and then Henry will come home to find Marcy lapping up the pooling blood around my dead body. And then she probably will live forever after that.)

(Don’t be a bitch, Marcy.)

I know, this inside of the guanabana is pretty gross; all glazed-over and white like the inside of an earthworm. (I think? It’s been awhile since that day I vomited in high school Biology.) It’s impossible to do anything with either of the above two fruit other than just spoon it into a bowl and go for it. Nicer boyfriends may have picked the seeds out first, but Henry told me to just spit them out. :(

He put both fruits together in a container, and by the time I was ready to eat it at work, they had kind of melded together into one gross lump of mash. Visually unappetizing (if I posted a photo of what it looks like right now on my desk at work, it would be the worst promotion ever), but each was delicious in its own right. Let’s talk about that.

The description of the guanabana says it tastes like pineapple cotton candy. How can this be possible, I do not know, but it’s pretty accurate. The pulp was firmer and wetter than the canistel, and reminded me of the cherimoya. Perhaps they are cousins. The guanabana had a mild tropical bite to it, not unlike that of the pineapple, but much less tangy and juicy. And it’s true: the lingering flavor at the back of my throat reminded me of cotton candy! (However, I can’t say that I would have naturally picked up on that on my own. Reading the description beforehand might have swayed my opinion—-like when Henry watches Fox News.)

I really expected this white piece of mangled flesh to be the winner here, but the star apple (or caimito, if you’re trying to be fancy) blew me away.

My favorite cake at Bethel Bakery is this almond majesty full of the softest raspberry buttercream frosting that I have ever suckled. It’s so regal-tasting that I always upgrade regular old birthday cakes so that they’re inseminated with raspberry splendor. The star apple—somehow, someway—reminds me of that fucking buttercream. The texture is thick and mostly smooth with a slightly grainy consistency that mocks sugar granules. It has subtle raspberry notes and a gentle saccharine tongue-hug that makes you remember that nature has its own sweetener. And I’m not talking about God’s ejaculate. (OR AM I.)

However, eating either of these fruits probably looks hideous to innocent bystanders. Especially when I’m orally chucking seeds into a spitoon. Today, I mixed in blueberries in an attempt to offset the general visage of eyeball paste and mashed-up road kill kidney. It didn’t work.

Babe. <3

Aaaaand, typing that while I’m still sitting here eating it was really dumb. This would have been fine a month ago when I was a casual bulimic for a few days.

Yesterday, I attempted to wield my knife-guardian and began hacking into the remaining beige ball in the box. I thought it was another sapodilla, which are soft and Erin-friendly as far as cutting goes. But instead, I made it less than an inch before the knife encountered the hugest pit I’ve ever seen in a fruit. So I had to wait for Henry to come home and finish the job.

In the meantime, I was unable to locate this big-pitted bastard on the brochure so I had the genius idea to EMAIL ROBERT IS HERE. I attached the below picture and made sure to also tell them that sapodillas are the best fruit in the whole universe.

Within a few minutes, Employee Tracey emailed me back!!

OMG ME AND ROBERT ARE FRUIT BROS!!! I started screaming and fanning myself, totally fruit fan-girling, while Henry sat there and glared at me in his typical Henry fashion. Sorry you find joy in nothing, old man.

Anyway, the mamey apple tasted like an apricot, indeed. Just more exotic, and more like a dried apricot, even though it didn’t have a dehydrated texture. I let Wendy try a piece and now she’s mad at me for making her like fruit that she won’t be able to get at the grocery store here. Welcome to my world, Wendy. :(

There was one last fruit that Henry cut for me yesterday, and he RUINED IT because it wasn’t ready. (It’s that football-looking thing in the first picture.) The insides were really tough and it kind of looked like a cantolope, and it had the most amazing stench. I kept shoving a piece up Henry’s nose.

“I KNOW! OK! IT SMELLS GOOD!” he kept screaming at me while swatting away my hand. I’m just trying to make moments with him, you know? Memories to include in our never-to-be-written vows.

But he was supposed to wait until the fruit was much softer and the skin was wrinkled, and after that it was supposed to taste like STRAWBERRY PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE because it’s a mamey sapote you guys! It’s what I originally thought the canistel was! Henry’s lucky I didn’t take the knife from him and [withheld so it cannot be used as future evidence].

But don’t worry. I’m now a registered user over at the Robert Was Here website, so: one mamey sapote coming right up!

[A million thank yous to Kevin & Lizzy for broadening my fruit horizons. When we visit—and we will!—, please take me to Robert Is Here so I can get him to autograph my brochure!)