I know this might be hard to believe, but before Henry, there was another old man on the receiving end of my affections.

It was the summer of 1996 and I was on a Trafalgar tour of Italy with my aunt Sharon. She was the worst traveling companion because she always had to be the center of attention and would get snotty anytime someone on the tour had the gall to speak to me. Mostly, she would answer questions for me, which would make me rampant with teenage temper-flares and pout sessions. But on this trip, which would end up being our last trip together since I was soon to become a disgrace to the family (i.e. a high school drop out), I decided to branch out on my own.

In previous years, my grandparents used to come with us and after day two, I’d be clinging to my Pappap, scowling when I would have to sit next to Sharon on the tour bus. When Sharon and I started to take these trips without them, it was hell for me. I would spend a lot of time crying on the bus because she was just so mean to me sometimes, and would put me down in front of the other travelers. She’d go off and make new friends with the other adults while I would have to be content with being the silent tag-a-long. And the thing with Sharon is that she lived for flaunting the fact that she was a “seasoned pro” at these European vacations, and would butt into people’s conversations to tell them where to get the best pasta in Rome or the best leather deals in Florence. And she would do this thing, whenever the tour guide would share something that Sharon was already planning on including in her own tour book, she would close her eyes and nod her head knowingly, making her stupid fucking chandelier earrings tinkle with pretentiousness.

Oh my god, this is making me hate Sharon so bad.

My grandma’s brother Eddie and sister Donna were also on this particular trip with their respective spouses, which was awesome because I never really got to spend much time with them since my grandma got all weird a few years earlier about, oh I don’t know, having familial relations. The four of them had already booked the trip when Sharon found out and decided it would be fun to surprise them. It was great for me to have them along because it allowed me to have allies in the very certain case that Sharon would try and ostracize me as usual.

Since I was 17 this time around, I was a little more secure in myself, had less complacency when it came to Sharon running the show. So I branched out. (I had tried this, mostly without success, on the trip prior to this one. Sharon caused a few scenes, but that’s another chapter involving a guy named Udo from Austria.) While she would be taking naps in the room, I’d wander down to the lobby in hopes of stumbling into some other people from our tour. In Lugano, I ran into Anahit, an Armenian lady from our group who Sharon hated. Probably because she was wild, extremely well-preserved for her age, and loved to drink the vino in excess every night at dinner. Since she was a single traveler, she was paired up with another single, Jackie. Jackie was in her 50s, wore fanny packs, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Nathan Lane. Sharon didn’t think very highly of Jackie either (“She gets on my fucking nerves” is what she’d hiss every time Jackie would breeze past us to her seat on the bus),

Our evening stroll took us down to Lake Como, where vendors were in abundance and the atmosphere was pregnant with romance and drunk laughter. I know, writing those words is extremely cheesy and out-of-character for me; but the truth is that I remember it so vividly, wishing I was older and there with a man. Not my mom’s possessive older sister and busful of retirees.

While there, we ran into more people from our tour, one of whom was Stefan—a very handsome Australian with well-coiffed prematurely white hair. He was there with his two (less attractive) friends, David and Ted, who were absent from this lovely nighttime stroll. It was the first time on the trip that I had really been around him, and we wound up walking back to the hotel together, as everyone else had found themselves paired up. I was in a panic. What could I possibly say to this older man that wouldn’t make him think (nay, believe) that I was just an immature kid. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I’m sure at some point I said, “OMG I play tennis and love rap music! My bedroom has purple carpet!”

From that moment on, I had big plans for Stefan. I only wore my tightest shirts for the rest of the trip. During walking tours, I would try to weasel my way near him, find some excuse to talk to him. Stupid shit like, “Look what I bought today!” and the chance of it being something that didn’t reflect my age was about 1 in 1,000,000.

If you were to read my vacation journal, you would notice a suspicious lack of Stefan entries. This is mostly because that journal was passed around between Sharon and my aunts and uncles every day on the bus, wherein they would laugh at my exaggerations, which to me were fairly accurate depictions of my surroundings and the subsequent events of the trip.

(Events like: “August 15th, Milan: Sharon pointed out a zit on my chin in front of a group of people from our tour; I found a seat in the back of the bus and cried.”) The thing with my family, any family really, is the moment they catch a whiff of some blossoming crush, you better go out and buy the biggest Lady Gaga-approved hat to die beneath. However, my journal does learn me that at dinner that night, my Uncle Eddie withdrew a stack of Steelers trading cards from his shirt pocket and tried to exchange them with the waiter for bigger portions.

Near the very end of the vacation, we were on a day trip in Siena, during which Sharon and I had one of our signature rows. I used this as an excuse to ditch her and I sought out Stefan, who was with David and Ted. In my very dramatic nature, I filled them in on the horrors that is traveling with Sharon, told them how she was always trying to keep me down when all I wanted to do was make friends with everyone on the tour. I remember, all these years later, that I was wearing a sheer white tank, under which the slightest hint of my bra could be detected. I hoped Stefan would notice.

(I hadn’t yet learned the definition of “tacky.”)

(Or “SLUTTY,” apparently. Don’t worry—Henry is a ticketing slut patrolman; he makes sure I don’t leave the house with my vagina hanging out nowaways.)

Stefan and his friends took great delight in hearing my woes of Sharon and suggested that I fight her. We all laughed at this and I thought it was so amazing that I was just a kid, sharing an inside joke with these three men. Later, on the bus, Stefan made his way back to where Sharon and I were sitting to see if we were fighting yet. I laughed at this, probably with more gusto than it warranted, just to make Sharon question what was going on.

“Nothing,” I said, when I was able to talk again. “Just an inside joke.” My ego practically did a pole dance, it was so turned on to see Sharon feeling left out.

Later, on the bus, my Aunt Donna asked in her I’m-Going-Yell-Since-I’m-On-A-Submarine voice, “What’s that Australian’s name who had a birthday?”

“Ted,” I answered.

“Ken?”

“No, Ted.”

“Ten?!”

Sharon, unable to take anymore of this, hissed, “TED.”

“Oh!” Aunt Donna exclaimed. “Theodore! Now what about that handsome one up there with the white hair? That’s the one I like.”

Knowing the shade of my face was quickly on its way to matching the heat of a rolling boil, I mumbled, “Stefan.”

Loudly, real loud, she said, “Oh, STEFAN! I like the name, too!”

Meanwhile, Ted and David were sitting diagonally from us and were probably asking each other, “Why the fuck are these Yankee broads throwing our names around?”

This is why I never wanted anyone to know I was practically drawing up blueprints to find a way inside Stefan’s suitcase so I could go home with him and live a glorious life in Brisbane as his American concubine. Their mouths, they are loud. Every night at dinner, my Uncle Eddie would get all Heidi Fleiss and try to pawn me off on any waiter he deemed cute enough. This would send the rest of them into giddy histrionics, making them shout things like, “Oh, Erin, he’s a cute one! Look at his butt!” and drawing everyone’s attention to the young blond girl with the lobster-hued cheeks who was just trying to enjoy her caprese salad in peace.

The last day of the trip, everyone congregated in the lobby of the hotel in Rome, crying and hugging, promising to keep in touch. (No one ever does.) Some of the people had later flights, like Stefan, and didn’t make it down in time to say goodbye.

But Stefan did. He found me in the lobby, waiting for the airport shuttle, and came over to hug me goodbye. The tears were on their marks, getting ready and set to go, but I postponed the race in favor of allowing my hormones to throw a party against my pelvis because oh my GOD, I was in the arms of an older man.

I left Italy positive that I was in love with him.

***

When I found this photo, I was quick to point out to Henry that he wasn’t my first old man crush, and then proceeded to tell him all about Stefan.

“I think Sharon must have liked him too, because any time Stefan and I were together, Sharon would rush over with a reason to pull me away,” I said angrily, holding the picture of him adoringly.

“Or! Maybe she was pulling you away because you were only seventeen?” Henry hypothesized in that tone he uses when he thinks I’m stupid and that he knows everything.

“Oh, yeah. Or that.”

Remember making those stupid cardboard mailboxes so our classmates could slip in Barbie and Hot Wheels Valentines, and then acting repulsed when you got one from the kid you had a crush on? That’s what I had in mind for my non compos cards serial killer Valentines, and last year I finally made some. Three different sheets of 6, to be exact! Each sheet is perforated, so you just tear them apart and pass ’em out to whoever is on your hit list this year. I have several of my own people in mind.

I’m giving away a full set of all 4 sheets to one (un)lucky commenter! Just visit the shop and then leave a comment here telling me what you’re favorite card is. Be sure to comment with a valid email address where you can be reached if you’re the winner. Get extra entries by tweeting, sharing on FB, etc etc. You know how these giveaways are: “I told my church group about it via Google+!” “I pinned it to my ‘disgusting people’ board on Pinterest!” Do what you gotta do, friends. Contest ends Sunday at noon (EST).

I also thought these would be fun to pass out at the office, your AA meetings, church collection baskets. Leave them on the bus for the next person who sits in your seat to find! Stick them in those things called “books” before you return them to that weird place called “the library.”

The possibilities are endless! I just don’t endorse giving these to your kids to pass out at school. Unless their school is super progressive like that one on Victorious. (Don’t they have an app for passing out Valentines now anyway?)

(The backs are set up for printing in this particular photo, so it looks like they don’t match up to the fronts, but they really do, I promise. Blame Henry.)

These are printed on high-quality paperstock in eye-popping ink. I couldn’t be happier with them!

Need a birthday card? Check out the whole line of non compos cards here!

DISCLAIMER: These are meant to be tongue-in-cheek. I do not think murder is cool, nor do I condone it. But what’s life without a little humor?

The weather, while still damp and dreary, was a vast improvement over the sub zero temperatures we endured last week during that weird polar vortex thingie, which sounded like some shitty ghetto ice cream shop’s answer to the Blizzard. I’M SORRY, BUT IT DOES. Fuck a polar vortex.

Unless you can get one made with persimmons. AND SONYA APPLES.

Anyway, the 36 degrees we were #blessed with on Sunday was downright balmy in comparison, so after having lunch with my friend Kristy at some boat house place in North Park where I kept missing my mouth and splashing water all over my dumb face, she took me on a short tour of creepy shit around the park.

First up was the Fountain of Youth, which is this thing that had natural waters springing out of it and then something about a golf course. Ugh, fuck it. Just read about it yourself!

We had to park on the side of the road and then Kristy, somehow the better-balanced of the two of us even though she had marveled several times about the alcohol content in the beers she chugged at lunch, had to take my pathetic hand and patiently pull me down a muddy path while I whimpered because I am so afraid, constantly, of falling.

And then we were standing right in front of the opening of the Fountain of Youth and I was whimpering again because I am so afraid, constantly, of being murdered. I’m really glad we didn’t stumble upon any Hepatitis C-infected vagrants or Congressmen smoking crack rocks inside there, because I’m 99% sure I wouldn’t have been able to run back up that muddy hill to the car.

It was creepy as fuck inside that piece. We could hear the tinny echo of water dripping from somewhere within, and Kristy was all, “I wish I brought a flashlight and a six-pack.

” It reminded both of us of the Goonies, so I kept trying to fixate on that instead of the serial killer who was using the bowels of the well as a human flesh kite-making workshop.

Hey, speaking of great places to fly a flesh-kite. The next stop on Kristy’s Tour of Abadoned Terror was this creepy log shelter elsewhere in the park.

Abandoned beer. Kristy’s immediate inclination was to check what kind it was. God, I hope she can teach me how to drink that shit. She told me that one of the only beers-which-isn’t-really-beer that I have been able to drink without twisting my face in a “I just drank the piss of Satan fresh from an asparagus buffet” manner tastes like Luden’s cough drops to her. So now that is probably what it will taste like to me, because I’m super easily persuaded.

Veritable putty in Manson’s hands.

Kristy is obsessed with old-timey graffiti, which makes me picture her carving weeners and swastikas and “Roosevelt is a limp-dick” on the wall of an orphanage and then hitching a ride on the back of Mr. Bundle’s laundry truck while flicking a switchblade at an outraged Miss Hannigan. Because that’s what went on in the 1930s, right?

Satanic baby stove.

Even with the Evil Dead cabin behind us, it was nice to finally have a day where being outside didn’t compel me to carve a hole in my stomach and climb inside like my body was some bloody disgusting Alaskan igloo. We stood around and talked about cats and horror movies while some asshole woodpecker thing mocked us from a nearby tree.

“I wonder what kind of bird that is, exactly?” Kristy said out loud, surely not expecting me to answer because I never know things regarding nature.

“Oh god, if Henry was here, he’d probably know,” I muttered. One day I’d like to see all of the patches he accumulated with his imaginary Eagle Scout troop.

After getting our fill of nature (and seeing a Christmas tree graveyard) I was driving Kristy back home when I commented on a house that’s for sale on her street.

“Someone died there,” she said gravely. And apparently his dead body was left to rot away for quite some time before being discovered. So that was a really apropos end to a day of being chilled by creepy things in broad daylight.

However, I’m going to go ahead and say that the scariest part of the afternoon was when I almost turned a jogger into a pavement pancake as I was pulling out of the boat house parking lot. Kudos to Kristy for keeping calm and carrying on.

“Joggers are assholes,” she said with a shrug.

***

I was so excited to tell Henry about the bird we saw. It was the first thing I told him when I came barging through the front door. (My entrances are grand.)

“And then I was like—-”

“‘Oh I bet Henry would know! Hurrrrrr!‘” Henry cut me off, using some terrible Corky-esque tone that I hope wasn’t supposed to sound like me.

Because it didn’t. AT ALL.

Shut up, Henry.

Chooch decided he wanted to have his own game night and I was like, “That’s fine because I don’t feel like having my own. You do it.” So he invited Janna, his cousins Zac and Steph and Aunt Kelly for a riveting night of “Wait, where did we put the games?”

GOD FORBID JANNA was late, so we had a relaxed social hour while waiting for her, a social hour which consisted of Chooch pretending to know how to play his keyboard (I’m 5 for 5 so far with piano instructors not reponding to my inquiries, so that’s rad) and me chanting, “Can we have pizza? Will you order pizza? Did you order pizza? WHERE IS THE PIZZA?” in time with Chooch’s make-believe piano ballads.

Here’s a rough timeline of Chooch’s Game Night for those of you who were not (un?)fortunate enough to receive your own Chooch-emailed invitation.

Around 7:00: Let’s play Apples To Apples Junior! Chooch will be the judge and try to only pick his brilliant mommy’s card, which makes Janna and Zac say things like, “We want a new judge!”

7:20: Chooch cries for the first time of the night because Janna and Zac said they want a new judge and EVERYONE HATES HIM!

7:21: Chooch runs off to his bedroom.

7:22: Flimsy accusations of how he’s “JUST LIKE ERIN” poop out of Henry’s dumb mouth.

7:23-7:35: People try to coax Chooch downstairs, but then he wipes his tears off and says, “Send Janna up here.”

7:36: Janna goes to Chooch’s bedroom and is almost killed. She’s all, “Let’s talk about this” and Chooch is all, “Thanks but I would rather dice you up with my ratchet and eat like a fucking Dinty Moore stew.”

7:40: We play Scattergories without Chooch, and Janna tried to fashion a garrote from the memories of 15 years of surrendering to my impenetrable Scattergories gauntlet.

7:42: I forget how to spell Mary Magdalene. God, who does that?

7:45: I make up a dessert called raspberry ramalade because that is a word I heard once on the Food Network but it’s apparently spelled “remoulade” and is made with pickles and mayonaisse and sometimes anchovies, so clearly I was justified in giving myself 2 points for that dessert. And then I put “rapist” for “Things on a Map” and the room gets quiet. “I can see why Janna hates playing this with you,” Kelly says, laughing nervously.

7:50: I scream at Janna for continuing to write after time runs out. Kelly and Steph learn why I have no friends.

7:55: Give myself a pat on the back for winning another three rounds of Scattergories while being super mature about it for once.

8:20: Chooch and Zac play Twister after us Old Timers explain that adults have been known to break things by playing Twister, and sometimes those “things” are “children.”

8:45: Janna drinks all of my wine and then starts drinking Henry’s beer, too.

9:00: Kelly, Zac and Steph peace out. Wouldn’t you?!

9:05: OMG I drink a beer!

9:10: I remember that we have Old Maid, which just so happens to be the only card game I can play. After downing a lot of wine, this seems like the best idea ever, even better than the time I decided to vaccuum the fridge to “save time.”

9:11: I’m still drinking the same beer.

9:20: We manage to fuck up Old Maid, and then Chooch loses interest.

9:21: We play Story Cubes and Chooch makes me proud by effortlessly name-dropping Lizzie Borden in his story. He is so good at that game! I wish I had recorded one of them.

9:30: Henry participates in approximately zero games, which makes Janna and I reminisce about this one beyotch we used to be friends with (who, incidentally, threatened to kick me out of her wedding party one night after I slapped Janna while playing Scattergories, haha) who would always bring her weird boyfriend/now-husband to my game nights but he would never play so we were certain it was because he was illiterate. I know that Henry is at least partially-literate, so clearly his problem is that he HATES FUN. Shocker.

9:45: I’m almost halfway done with my beer!

10:00: Speaking of literacy, Janna and I talk about books.

10:30: Janna accientally hits Chooch in the face with a chair, WWF-style.

10:31: Chooch cries for ONLY the second time that night and then uses said tears to guilt her into watching him play Minecraft.

11:00: Janna tries to escape and Chooch says, “You hit me in the face with a chair. You’ll do what I tell you to do.”

11:01: Henry draws Chooch/Erin comparisons for the 87th time that day.

11:20: I (mostly) finish my beer!

Great game night, Chooch. You have a real future in hosting. JUST LIKE YOUR MOMMY!

While Henry was cleaning on Saturday, I did what I do best: get in the way, shove my phone in Marcy’s face (she totally turned her back on me!!!), and document Chooch and me being total sweethearts who are too fragile to pick up a broom, so sorry, Henri the Manservant*.

I’ll be back later with a riveting account of Chooch’s first game night. (Spoiler alert: Chooch cries, haha.)

*My friend Christy dubbed him this many, many moons ago and we just don’t use it often enough.

Sometimes I get all nostalgic and pick a random year to look at on Flickr. This morning I blindly clicked on the summer of 2007 and, aside from a ton of pictures of an adorably chubby-cheeked 15-month-old Chooch that made me want Henry to inject me again RIGHTTHISSECOND, I was ready to peace out of that particular year. (I think I’m fat now? Yikes. I don’t think I had yet lost even an ounce of my pregnancy weight.) But before I picked a new year, I noticed that there were pictures from that summer’s Warped Tour on the next page—I don’t think I’ve looked at those pictures once since 2007. And even though I was there with Christina and her sister, it was still kind of fun to revisit some of those bands that I haven’t thought of in years. (My American Heart? Monty Are I? Straylight Run?!) And I forgot that Paramore was there that year!

I am infamously picky when it comes to female singers. I don’t know why, but girl vocals usually don’t trigger that part of my brain that makes all of the feelings shoot out of my eyeballs like boy vocals do, but there have been a few over the years: Fisher, old Tegan and Sara, Eisley, Barbara Streisand (LEAVE ME ALONE) and Hayley Williams of Paramore.

The summer of 2007 was not a particularly pleasant one for me and Paramore’s album “All We Know Is Falling” accompanied me on many cemetery cries. (Particularly the song “Conspiracy,” which was even a ringtone on my precious pink Razr.) And when I got that close to Hayley at that summer’s Warped Tour in Cincinnati, I had a major fan girl moment even though I was 27 and she was like, 18 there I think. The music scene I’m into is so male-dominated that usually anytime a female-fronted band starts to make its way up, its time is unfortunately limited. But Paramore was the real deal and I think everyone knew it back then, too. I’m not surprised that it’s eight years later and they have not only proven that their talent is legit, but they have become mainstream darlings without alienating their original fan base. (In my opinion, anyway. I totally don’t think they sold out at all—they’ve just grown up, musically and as people, which makes sense unless you’re Avril Lavigne who’s 30 and still singing about skater bois.)

There really hasn’t been any female-fronted band that has come up in the scene since Paramore that have really grabbed my attention, and it doesn’t help that each subsequent female singer is automatically compared to Hayley. I admit that’s the first thing I thought of when I first saw Automatic Loveletter and Versa Emerge, and that’s not fair.

Paramore also gave me one reason only to be thankful for the stupid “Twilight” movies:

And Hayley can even beautifully & effortlessly pull off the Molly Ringgold look (this song makes me cry every time I hear it, btw; perhaps it makes me think of Henry, who knows):

Seriously, I could fill up this post with every one of their videos, but that would be obnoxious, and that would be SO out of character…

I spent most of this morning listening to old Paramore and it’s funny how much of a time capsule music can be. It brought back some good memories that I had otherwise forgotten, so I guess the summer of 2007 wasn’t really all that bad. Chooch was super cute then, at any rate.

DON!!!! :(

There’s really no point to this post. I just wanted to be a fan girl for a minute. Carry on.

As usual, this past year had its ups and downs, but my overall opinion of 2013 is: I’m not mad at ya, 2013. Besides, it was relatively drama-free, because after 30+ years I’m FINALLY learning to walk away from situations and people that just aren’t worth it. That’s not always easy for a stubborn motherfucker like me! The worst parts of 2013 were definitely health-related: There was a really scary health-bomb dropped on someone very close to me this past October, but here’s hoping that will become nothing more than a bad memory in 2014. And then we discovered a tumor on my precious cat Marcy, which the vet thinks is breast cancer. I’m grateful that she has made it through another year, though. One day at a time, right Schneider?

But let’s focus on the good! Because there were definitely some good times. And let’s face it: any year that we manage to get thru alive can’t be ALL bad.

We’ll start with Henry’s Top 5 Favorite Moments of 2013, which also happen to be mine, that motherfucker. “What do you expect when we literally do everything together?!” he retorted when I got all angry that he stole my picks. I GUESS I’LL HAVE TO START DOING MORE THINGS WITHOUT HIM THEN.

HENRY’S DUMB PICKS:

• Lancaster One of my favorites , how could it not be. Chooch’s first roadtrip concert, and unlike me when I go with Erin, he actually liked this band.
• Knoebles: First time at Knoebles for opening day with that group that I’m apparently not a part of this year (that’s a story for another time, Eh Erin).
• New England Road Trip This was one of my favorite vacations ever. Got to hang out with good people (Alyson, Matt and Kristin and met 1 new person Jessa.) and see places that we were at before but I was sick and its a little foggy, except for the part of being tortured while sick.
• Warped Tour because of Chooch (<–Thanks for clarifying, Henry.) It’s getting closer to me just driving through the parents drop off circle and kicking the two kids out.
• Never Shout Never : Surprise Almost didn’t turn out like we planned, all worked out in the end.
• Never Shout Never: Cleveland Besides the snow and not getting any sleep, turned out to be an awesome night.

ERIN’S AWESOME MOMENTS:

• Laura’s Kennywood Picture: Seriously, this whole thing provided so many psychotic giggle fits from me, it’s unreal. I will cherish this picture forever, THANK YOU LAURA!!
• Coffee table DIY: Actually, all of the furniture repurposing that we (haha “we”) have completed over the last half of the year has made me totally not hate my house as much as I have lately. It almost feels like a “home” again, which makes the house “Will we ever be able to buy a house?!” conundrum a LITTLE easier to handle. Plus, you guys know how much I love the fucking Beverage Buffet—it has totally rejuvenated my desire to have parties all the goddamn time like I used to before Henry ruined my life!
• Palace of Gold: This September afternoon with Corey and Janna was so fun that I literally peed my pants when I was trying to tell Henry about it later that day. JANNA LOOK OUT!!!!
• Interviewing the Walrus: Henry frowned at me when I told him that this made my top 5, but it’s so much more than just “Hey, that was a fun day!” for me. It was kind of like finding myself again, I guess. I might post on this blog daily, but it’s not really writing to me. I fell out of love with writing years ago—I don’t even write short stories anymore. Spending a few hours with a stranger, feeling totally uncomfortable and out of my element and taking my own experiences out of it enabled me to accidentally LEARN THINGS OMG. Writing about someone else was also wildly freeing & made me remember why I went to school for English Writing. (Even though my signature writing style these days is Typo Galore, otherwise known as Redneck Message Board.) I loved it.
• ICE CREAM!: It’s the small things, you guys. Having a weekend ice cream ritual last summer helped make the work week a little less stagnant, and it was super fun finding new ice cream joints to hit up. Plus, having enough photos of Henry licking his ice cream cones to create a collage is priceless.

CHOOCH’S FAVORITE THING ABOUT 2013:

• Twerking. (Seriously, he answered with no hesitation.)

CHOOCH’S WORST MOMENTS:

• Getting stuck on a goddamn boat: Screw that day!
• Being forced to dress as an ice cream cone

All things considered, that was a pretty good year. I’m always so afraid to jinx things by posting shit like this, so please please please let 2014 be full of good stuff, but mostly: stability & good health. That’s all I want!

Not that I’m surprised, but my friend Maya from SWStitchery has done it again. I broached the idea of possibly making a Christofer Drew doll for Chooch at some point. I knew she’s been swamped with custom orders and studying and life in general, so I didn’t demand any set deadline or anything; I just sent over a few pictures of younger, wolf-hat-era Christofer Drew and left it at that.

I didn’t even know that she had started to work on him, so when she sent me these progress photos last week, I was totally surprised and stoked: LOOK AT THAT HAT! THE HAZEL EYES! THE DOUBLE LIP RING! THE ANCHOR TATTOO (ON BOTH HANDS, EVEN!), THE BRACELETS!

(Photo by Maya)

Maya has totally outdone herself on this one! That hat kills me.

Christofer with Vic and Jonny. (Ju-On was busy haunting Chooch’s room at the time of this photo shoot and besides, she doesn’t want to be in the band.)

I think it’s safe to say Chooch is stoked for life over this one. Thank you for feeding our obsessions, Maya!! I’m constantly floored by your talent!

The worst part about my work schedule is that I never get to eat a single meal with my family during the week. I absolutely hate it. And the worst part about eating healthy is that I never get to eat a fucking French fry.

I absolutely FUCKING hate that. So sometimes a weekend diner trip is a must. Except when I decide that I want to go somewhere different and then we drive around aimlessly looking for something that’s not closed on a Sunday.

Seriously, restaurants that are closed on Sundays can go suck God’s dick. Which is probably what they want to be doing anyway.

Assholes.

But then Urban Spoon directed us to Bob’s Diner in Carnegie. And I know you must be thinking that it was either realllllly good or phenomenally abysmal if I’m devoting a whole blog post to it. But it was neither. Just decent, really. It’s just that I became obsessed with Bob.

Henry kept saying, “I doubt that’s Bob. I REALLY doubt that’s Bob. IT’S NOT BOB OK?!” Why was he so passionate about it not being Bob? WHAT DOES HE KNOW ABOUT BOB?!

OMG HE WAS CLEARLY IN THE SERVICE WITH HIM!!

That’s the only explanation.

Meanwhile, our waitress was obsessed with my coat.

“Oh I just love this. It reminds me of a sofa. What do they call that? BROCADE!” she cried while literally STROKING MY ARM UP AND DOWN like it was a golden tapestry-swaddled elephant penis.

She was really into us for about 90 seconds but as soon as I slipped out of my coat, she dropped us like a bunch of jizz-stained brocade sofa cushions.

The rest of the time there was OK. I mostly fixated on the whole Is It Bob? quandary.

“WHERE IS HE?” I would hoarsely hiss to Henry, who would mumble things like “I don’t know. In his office. Dead. THAT’S NOT BOB.”

“Mommy, is that Bob?”

And then this happened:

Waitress 1: “I just found out a good friend of mine died.”
Waitress 2: “Oh no! How?”
Waitress 1: “Herpes.”
Waitress 2: “Showoff.”

Sometimes I hear what I want to, but I swear to god this really seemed accurate.

Henry was irritated because I ordered cole slaw after he did. He hates it when we both enjoy the same sides.

Bob’s might not have been much to write home about (though I clearly did) but I must say: their fries are the GOOD KIND! I would go back just for the fries. And obviously to unlock the mystery of Bob and Henry and the porno they filmed in 1983.

After people started to receive our Christmas cards, I was asked several times if I put those heads on us using Photoshop. I promise you, these were real piñata-versions of us that fit over our big dumb heads:

So I figured I would post real quick about how obnoxiously frustrating this stupid “family portrait project” really was.

Over the summer, I was spending another mind-numbing evening at work when my eyes rested upon the paper mache clown head I made for my Halloween desk last year. I started thinking about how much fun it would be to make paper mache versions of Henry, Chooch and myself and then do a family portrait, since it’s occasionally pointed out to me that I have little to no family portraits of us guys. It wasn’t my intent to use the result as a Christmas card, but considering how many times this project kept getting pushed back, it kind of made sense after a point. I think Henry and I started working on these in November, sometimes with entire weeks of neglect in between because I kept stupidly filling up our weekends with all those extraneous outings that Henry loves so much.

I was trying to be quiet about it because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s saying that I’m doing something and then not being able to finish. And I’ll be honest, there were a ton of times when I thought for sure this project was going to fail, and even more times than that where I would scream, “JUST FORGET IT I QUIT!!” because paper mache is annoying. And messy. I’ll be honest and tell you that Henry did more of that part than me. (But he did NOT do all of it, like I caught him telling him our friends Rick and Tammy.)

There were a lot of pictures I couldn’t post before now because the damn heads were in the background, like this one of Marcy chilling out on a Saturday morning with a donut scrap, watching Christmas Cats TV with her Grandma Judy.

Once each head was fully dry, I was able to start decorating them in our likeness. Eventually, it started to come together and I didn’t feel so anxious or hateful about it anymore. Except that we missed out on all of the beautiful November weather by that point and had to settle for doing the photo shoot on a Sunday morning in 10 degree weather at a location that wasn’t where I really wanted it to be, but I guess we can always do another one at some point since we surprisingly haven’t whacked these things to pieces yet like your basic piñatas.

We finagled Janna into taking the pictures for us, and she was all nervous about having to use my camera, but I think she did great! The hardest part was not knowing what the hell Chooch was doing since none of us could see out of those heads. I hate hate hate feeling so vulnerable. And I hate not being behind the camera. But it wasn’t too bad since I knew at least no one could see my ugly mug.

I think next year, we’ll just buy our cards from the store, haha.

Merry Christmas, you guys! Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some kind of awesome egg nog to make for tomorrow night.

I was surprised when I met Never Shout Never. they mean so much to me like this much ——————————————————————————————————– that’s how much they mean to me.

When we met them, I did NOT know what we were going to do. So Jason was there, I told him that I wanted to meet Christofer Drew and then he said “yeah and I want to meet Christina Hendricks.

” When we walked into the room to meet them I was like OMG really you’re making me meet them? OMG. Christofer said nice shirt and I said thanks, actually I was shy. He took my hat off of me and put his hat on me and my hat on him and I felt like OMG now I have his ghost inside my hat and my ghost inside of his hat.

I got my picture with them I still was shy.

Christofer gave me a guitar pick I broke real quick on an accident. They told me to play the tuba and that I would get all the girls haha and then they told me to go to Chicago with them.

My favorite part of the night was when they played my favorite song Lost at Sea. It’s on the album Time Travel. When they played it I sang the whole song.

OMG I finally met them and I probably will never again.

You should listen to Harmony. It’s an album. My favorite song on that album is First Dance! And Trampoline. Actually, Trampoline is mommy’s most favorite.

Because I love her. So there.

• You would think today was Christmas Eve by the complete lack of interest everyone has in their work. (I mean, even moreso than usual.) Earlier, I listened to my office-neighbor Patrick watch vintage Japanese video game commercials on YouTube and then spend fifteen minutes obsessing over the name Fronia, which means “gentle” in case you were considering using that on your next goldfish. Both of these tangents were somehow perpetuated by Nate, so thank you for today’s entertainment. All of this was after Nate and Patrick had a heated dispute over the office heating system.
  • While I was writing this, I couldn’t remember the name “Fronia” but thank god Nate is still here so I went over and made him stop doing actual work. “Is this for the blog?” he asked, and then after I shook my head affimatively, he said, “Well then it’s important.” Nate Knows. (Knate Knows?)
• We finally got our Christmas tree last night.
• Henry and I had lots of fights in the last week!!
  • First, we fought because I was enraged at how poorly monitored the sidewalks have been during all this hazardous weather we’ve been having. Every day last week, Chooch and I practically ice-skated to school because dumb motherfuckers don’t know how to sprinkle salt on their dumb sidewalks. EVEN ERIN RACHELLE KELLY KNOWS HOW TO DO THAT! The one day it was REALLY BAD, so bad that I nearly turned around and took Chooch home. I saw numerous kids fall! I almost fell! On my way home, some mom had to take my hand and help me step off the curb that was coated in slick, solid ice and onto the street. I came home and screamed to Henry about it and he calmly said, “Well, people have 24 hours after it storms to shovel.” I countered with the fact that it had been like this for days and he was all, “Well, that’s because it keeps snowing, melting and then freezing.” LIKE IT AIN’T NO THANG. Oh, that’s because HE doesn’t have to walk—EVER. “I hope I break my face open,” I threatened. “And then I’m going to sue Brookline. No, I’m going to sue the entire city of Pittsburgh!” And Henry was all, “Good luck, you can’t sue them. It’s the home owners.” So I said I would sue the homeowner and he was all, “Good luck, they have 24 hours to shovel.” GO FUCK YOURSELF AND YOUR LAW KNOWLEDGE! I need to look into this, I think. Maybe there’s a lawyer here at the Law Firm that specializes in sidewalk maintenance ordinances.
    • THAT IS ALL ICE IN THAT PICTURE BELOW!! This particular stretch of pedestrian property belongs to some Yinzer sloth who sits on her front porch every morning slurping coffee out of her Stillers mug, sucking on a Newport, and BARKING DRAMA INTO HER PHONE. She was sitting there when I took this picture too and she can fuck right off, hopefully on her ass while sliding down her icy sidewalk. Yinzer cunt.
• 
  • Then Saturday morning we had a fight because I said Katy Perry sings like someone with Down Syndrome, because I’m sorry, but she’s terrible. AND I DON’T HATE POP MUSIC SO DON’T GIVE ME SHIT ABOUT HOW I’M A BEING A MUSIC SNOB. I like Lady Gaga and Ke$ha just fine. I just have very strong opinions about Katy Perry and I’m, to this day, baffled at how she was able to dupe the music industry. “That’s really mean,” Henry argued, appalled that I could make such comparisons. “Yeah, I know,” I shouted. “MEAN AGAINST ALL OF THE DOWN SYNDROME PEOPLE!” And for that I am deeply sorry’ I shouldn’t have said that. I should have said Bobcat Goldthwait instead. Did you know I’ve heard Katy Perry sing live before? It’s true. She was, for some fucked up reason, at Warped Tour in 2008 and we happened to be walking past the stage she was “performing” on and she sounded like the time Henry accidentally stepped on Marcy’s tail.
  • Our last big argument was Saturday night when I put on some fucked up TV show called Buying Alaska, which follows several idiots around that disgusting state of ALASKA while they look at sickening cabins in varying degrees of repulsion with gratuitous shots of blood-curdling GLACIERS and it only took about 2 seconds before I was screaming at the TV, and then of course Henry had to defend Alaska because he can never just be on my side. Here’s a tip: try buying a house in a state that’s not hideous.
  • I had to go to Chooch’s Christmas concert on Wednesday morning (haha, I “had” to go; I’m such a fantastic mom) and it was, you know, a Christmas concert. With kids. I prayed for the gods to take me peacefully. The music teacher at that school is so self-aggrandizing, like he’s conducting down at Heinz Hall and not at some city elementary school. And then he kept reminding us that it was a LIVE SHOW, in case some of us thought it was DVRd. So when some band kid needed his violin tuned, the music teacher was all, “HAHA what did I tell you? THIS IS A LIVE SHOW!” like we’re sitting in NBC Studios watching Carrie Underwood do that Sound of Music thing and he proceeds to explain to us the art of tuning a violin and like, no one gives a shit about your anecdotal interludes. We want to see our kids sing and then go the fuck home. And thank god they don’t perform in order, else I wouldn’t have had the chance to watch 10% of the 5th graders sing “Feliz Navidad” while the rest of them stood there stewing in racism. Finally, the second graders came out and sang “Jingle Bells” and Chooch fucking cracked up the whole time. I found out later that it was because his cougar girlfriend from last year had returned and was throwing him horns from the front row.
• Also on Wednesday, I was leaving the house to walk to the trolley stop when I realized that I shut the door behind me without grabbing the housekey. Which is no big deal usually, because it’s not like I ever come home from work to an empty house. But the problem was that I was fairly certain that I didn’t have any money on my trolley card thingie and my wallet was in my other purse in the house so I had no way of either adding money to my card or taking money out from the ATM and paying the old fashioned way. I had no way of knowing for sure though until I got to the trolley stop and checked my card balance on the fare machine thingie, and it was as I suspected: $0. Henry was like an hour away so that wasn’t an option. So then I attempted to panhandle which was a terrible idea and people were actually turning their backs to pretend that I didn’t exist, as if it wasn’t already awkward enough for me to have swallow my pride and ask for change. One old man was a total asshole to me and said in a super rude and condescending tone, “I don’t understand what you’re asking me.” So I explained to him one more time, while holding up my trolley fare card thing, that my balance was ZERO and that I didn’t have my WALLET on me and he just shook his head and laughed without mirth, like this generation gap is just so confusing to him and I’m probably actually asking him for the last $2.50 I need to finally be able to buy that crack rock on my Amazon wish list. Kids these days, blah blah blah. WELL I’M SORRY IF I DON’T HAVE A FUCKING CUP TO SHAKE IN YOUR FACE, YOU GERIATRIC ASSHOLE. I hope your family puts you in a fucking home for Christmas. Anyway, SUPPOSEDLY no one around had any change, so I shuffled away from the trolley platform (one guy wished me luck at least), and then literally froze on the sidewalk. Because that’s how I handle things: I panic and shut down. Instead of calmly thinking of a plan B, I go straight to Plan STAND HERE AND THEN DIE. The worst part was that I had this big bag full of all the Secret Santa stuff that I was so excited for, and now I wasn’t even sure if I was going to be able to get to work! I was ready to call my boss Joy and tell her that I couldn’t pay for the trolley and therefor would be roaming around Dormont until Henry was done with work. But then I remembered that I know other people! So I called Janna and she was thankfully home and able to come pick me up and take me to work, THANK YOU JANNA OMG. But still, I totally lost it and openly wept as I walked back to my house to wait for her outside of the front door I was unable to unlock. I promise you that a lot of people witnessed this, so that was terrific. Then I got to go to work and act like I hadn’t just come in off the street after weeping like a crazy lady.
• Earlier, Chris and I had our hands held by Santa. Our work friend Lauren was asking us about it and at the same time Chris said it was creepy, I was saying that it was tender. Because tender is a word that I don’t get to say very often, and I will now always equate it with the comforting caress of Santa’s softly-gloved hands.
• I hope Jeff Gutt is OK. #ThingsIWouldHaveSaidIfILiveBloggedTheXFactorFinale
• Carlito’s Eulogy. #ThingsIWouldHaveSaidIfILiveBloggedTheXFactorFinale
• STFU Mario Lopez. #ThingsIWouldHaveSaidIfILiveBloggedTheXFactorFinale
• Thank god I DVRd this so I can fast forward through Lea Michele. And Pitbull. And One Direction. And the last half of this weird Leona Lewis Christmas song. #ThingsIWouldHaveSaidIfILiveBloggedTheXFactorFinale
• Why not just rename the show The Honda X Factor? #ThingsIWouldHaveSaidIfILiveBloggedTheXFactorFinale #AggressiveProductPlacement
• Had a talk yesterday with Sue and it looks like I might get to work on a fun little project where I actually get to be creative instead of telling people they’re not pushing the right button, which seems like all I do here anymore. So, fingers crossed on that.
• Last night when I was leaving work, some man approached me and asked me if I could spare fifty cents so he could get on the bus. I knew I didn’t have any change on me, but I told him to wait there and then I ran to where Henry was parked and started digging through the console until I had a fistful of nickels and dimes. “What are you doing!?” Henry asked me in that annoying squeal he gets when I’m doing something he doesn’t like. So I told him that man needed change and then Henry was even more annoyed and I stopped dead and hissed, “I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE, OK!?” God, fuck you, Henry. Like he would know anything about what people like us go through everyday!
• Found my wallet in my huge fucking hobo purse later on Wednesday evening, so you know…turns out that whole panhandling incident didn’t need to happen. Um, but at least it gave Janna a chance to show for the millionth time what a great friend she is?
• If there’s one thing this whole Duck Dynasty fiasco has taught me, it’s that I’m friends with A LOT of radical homophobes on Facebook. I’ve been on a “hide from timeline” frenzy.
• In approximately 30 minutes, I’m done with work until next Thursday so I guess I better start getting into Christmas mode. We still haven’t really done any shopping! And we’re having a Christmas Eve party! I AM SO UNMOTIVATED SUDDENLY.

When Debbie S. suggested a few weeks ago that we organize a department Secret Santa, my vote was of the FUCK YES variety. I love surprising people almost as much as I love pranking them! And then I proceeded to do nothing while she did 100% of the planning and organizing. Debbie set a budget of $10 for the gift exchange, plus 5 days of $1 gift-giving during the week leading up to the big reveal/office holiday party. We somehow managed to get a good 15 or so people to sign up and I was excited because some of the people were co-workers that I don’t get to interact with very much, so I would have been happy no matter who I picked because I think it would have been fun to get someone random and then ALWAYS HAVE THAT CREEPY SANTA BOND with them.

Kind of like Stockholm Syndrome?
No?

The day of the name-drawing, I was walking past Sue’s office right after I picked my co-worker Sherry to be the receiver of my Santa-ly sneaking.

“Did you know those two bullied Glenn into signing up at the last minute?” Sue laughed as she gestured toward Debbie and Barb’s desks. “That man deserves combat pay!”

My immediate reaction was, “OMG I hope he didn’t get me!” and Sue started cracking up even harder.

By the time I made it back to my office, I already had an email from one very generous co-worker (OMG it was totally Bridget) which said, “I got your #1 frenemy” and then proposed A TRADE.

So that’s how Glenn wound up with me as his Secret Santa. (And that’s coincidentally also how Sherry wound up getting much better gifts than she would have.) His list of $10 gift options included: a Wines and Spirits gift card, a Starbucks gift card, or “any food item.” OH REALLY GLENN. At first I was like, “Asian Market, holla.” But then I got a better idea. Because this is Christmas after all, and I didn’t want to be a total asshole and waste Henry’s money on a bunch of bullshit that he’ll end up throwing away, because—ew. But, more on that later.

Do you know how hard it was for me to keep my mouth shut and just be cool about this? Really fucking hard. And I think I did OK, but there were a select handful of people here who knew (Barb immediately forgot though, so that’s good), and I quickly learned that if I just avoided eye contact with Glenn at all costs, I wouldn’t start cracking up and totally out myself as his big-bellied present-dropper.

And I was really subtle about it too! The first day I left him a candy bar that had beef jerky in it. The fact that it was being sold at Target and not out of the back of Jim Bob’s John Deere made it seem like this was an OK thing to give someone, and even Henry agreed that it was a manly candy bar and I was like, “How the hell would you know?”

His next gift was a One Direction journal, which I thought was useful because he goes to meetings sometimes and who doesn’t like to write their name 13,987 times on scratch paper, placemats, war monuments and bathroom stalls? That can’t be just me. Then I bought him some stuff from Big Fun when I was in Clevland last week, like a tiny book of office wisdom, a mini Vanilla Ice cassette case full of gum, and an Office Brown Noser that grows in water. All good things, yet no bombs or things with his face on it, so why would he think it was me?

Meanwhile, I was getting candy and nail polish every day, which was AWESOME. (On my list of things I wanted, I put: nail polish, cheap jewelry and exotic fruit.) I was convinced that my Secret Santa was either a boy or me, because I got chocolate-covered pretzel rods wrapped in a CVS bag and everything else was delivered in plain white envelopes. And boys, like me, don’t generally get into the whole “wrapping” thing. Especially the ones here, I wouldn’t imagine.

I don’t know what happened to my Day 4 photo, but Day 5 was a set of cotton candy scented nail polish wrapped with a Little Tykes advertisement, which made me laugh. My Secret Santa made coming to work way more enjoyable!

So for the final gift exchange, I did one better than a Wine and Spirits gift card and instead bought $10 worth of mini liquor bottles.

And then I designed Glenn-centric labels because you know I have to put his face on everything. (When my friend Elizabeth found out I was Glenn’s Secret Santa, she replied to me on Twitter: Did you put his face on all his presents?)

I’m not going to tell you the duress that Processor Punch caused me. Maybe another day, but I promise you I was a fraction of a centimeter away from shattering my phalanges and knuckles on a plaster wall.

And Other Glenny Flavors.

Glenn is a processor here at the Law Firm, which means he does stuff that I don’t care to understand. All I know about processors is that they import batches and sometimes refer to something called a synonym list. I wanted to incorporate those things on the Processor Punch label so that the processors could laugh while no one else would care. LET THEM HAVE THEIR MOMENT, YOU KNOW? Yes, even Mean Amber.

So that’s where “This batch was imported!

” and “On the synonym list for delicious” came from. I was pretty proud of it because it shows that I have learned something in the almost-four years I’ve been here.

40% Orphan Tears, you guys. Because Glenn is a sonofabitch.

But the real present was a box of oversized cupcakes modeled after the infamous Glenn Would Rather Be Riding The Wacky Worm incident of 2011. Glenn actually still has this hanging up on his desk because it was clearly the best thing to ever happen to him. I turned him into a Law Firm celebrity, basically! OK, not really.

Henry made the cupcakes and brought them to me the night before so that I wouldn’t have to carry them on the trolley the next day, because he’s such a fucking peach.

(As it turns out, I didn’t take the trolley that day after all, but that’s another story to tell at the same time I tell the other story I said I was going to tell.)

So I got to work yesterday, with all of my things, totally giddy because I couldn’t wait to give Glenn his stuff, when Mean Amber was actually being Nice Amber long enough to point out that the gift exchange was scheduled for 2:30 that day AND GLENN LEAVES AT 2:30. I had been having A Day so this was enough to put me over the edge and I almost cried real tears when I told Barb, whose best solution was to send an email to the department reminding everyone that Glenn and Sherry both leave at 2:30 (so I would have been screwed either way!) and their Secret Santas should think about giving them their shit sooner rather than later. I didn’t like this solution, because I wanted all of the Secret Santa players to be there when Glenn was being humiliated. :(

My boss Joy saw how upset I was, and agreed that everyone should be there, but instead of just emailing the group doing the Secret Santa thing, she replied to Barb’s departmental email, essentially telling the WHOLE DEPARTMENT to meet her at Glenn’s desk now. God love her. Thankfully, not the entire department showed up (most of them don’t like being told what to do) but a lot of non-Secret Santa people did mosey on over and you could tell they were thoroughly confused as to why they were being commanded to stop doing work and watch Glenn open presents of his face.

Anyway, he was totally thrilled, if not a little stunned as to why a small crowd of oglers had surrounded his desk. He even proudly took down his Wacky Worm picture and held it up next to the cupcakes so everyone could see. And then Nate said I win at Secret Santa, so I wasn’t as stressed out after that. Thank you, Nate, for always saying the right things!

“Where did you get that beef jerky candy bar?” Glenn asked.

“Why, did it make you sick?” I tentatively asked.

“No, it was actually pretty good,” he admitted. Dammit.

You guys, I am just so bored here sometimes (all of the times) that when I get an opportunity to have a little bit of fun, I fucking run with it. I would have still had fun with any other name I could have drawn, but getting to be Glenn’s Secret Santa totally made my holiday season, so thanks for looking out for me, Bridget!

I wanted to also make him a Starbucks-esque mix CD of Lilith Fair Christmas songs, but my fucking CD burner quit working.

(I also got Glenn a rubber band gun, what was I thinking??)

Then at 2:30, everyone’s Secret Santas were finally revealed! Only one person guessed correctly. And mine wasn’t a boy after all! It was Rachel, which explains why all of her tags were printed out because I used to work on this monster of a spreadsheet for her so I’d recognize her handwriting in a heartbeat. Especially if it was written in red ink. Anyway, my final gift was a bunch of bracelets that I love and I’m wearing three of them right now as I type this.

Me, Cheryl and Rachel.

But the moral of the story is that for a week, everyone got to be excited about something and it was so awesome seeing people giddily sneak around, trying to put stuff on their person’s desk while they were away. I suggested that we do this as often as we can, like have Clandestine Cupids, Lurking Leprechauns, Mystery Martin Luther Kings Jrs….? Yay? Nay?

Found these old diary pages from when I was 8.

I only filled three pages of that diary, probably because my two year old brother, Ryan, had beaten me so badly that I was unable to hold a pen.

I’m totally not that dramatic anymore. Thank god, right? RIGHT?