Corey found our parent’s wedding album and texted me pictures from it this afternoon, which I can honestly say has been the high point of this week. Even though I was 5 when I made my debut as a flower girl (my dress had tiny bells sewn into the ruffles, you guys! and my shoes were Candies!), I have only vague recollections of this day at best. (Because clearly all I cared about was what I was wearing.)

Thank god my mom’s facial expressions and vacant eyes fill in the gaps. I feel like she FOR SURE popped some pills that morning.

Fuck, they hated me, lol.

My Pappap looks PISSED. My grandma is totally hissing, “SMILE. THE NEIGHBORS MIGHT BE WATCHING.” Susie knows her dress is the shit (seriously, Wendy and I both agreed that we would totally wear that dress right now in 2014). I’m too afraid to look at Sharon. She looks like she’s casting a spell and I don’t like it.

BUT LOOK HOW HAPPY I AM!

I think someone didn’t want to get hitched that day.

(Also, thats my great-grandma in the rocking chair. She was from Yugoslavia and didn’t speak English*. Also, she scared me.)

A poster for REGRET.

****

I honestly cannot stop laughing at these. I mean, I’m thankful they DID get married because otherwise, I wouldn’t have my brothers, but Jesus Christ their marriage was loveless before it even began! They make Henry and me look like a cover of a romance novel.

*ED.NOTE: I’ve just been informed by a family member that my great-grandma was very kind and DID speak English, so what we have here is an example of another lie my mom told me when I was a child.

This is going to be a little strange and I have a feeling my fingers might try to recoil from the keyboard, but today, instead of my usual Henry emasculation session, I’m going to reflect on all the things he’s done this week that were nice (read: obedient). Because if there is one thing I was cruelly reminded of this week, a little appreciation goes a long way.

1. Diligent Greeting Card Partner

For some reason, we’ve been selling an unusually large amount of our serial killer valentines, pretty much right after I had a mini temper tantrum about how we weren’t selling anything and I felt like an asshole every time I made feeble attempts to promote them on Facebook. I HATE being pushy about things. Anyway, things picked up for us out of nowhere and Henry has been working hard to make sure orders get filled at a speedy pace. (I sort of help—I handle all the customer service shit because I spell better and am just more personable via typed correspondence in general than Mr. Types Like a Caveman Talks.) Yesterday, I put on England Dan & John Ford Coley (I know, right) and kept him company while he slaved away with his precious paper cutter and printer that I still don’t know how to use, but then he was all, “While you’re sitting there…” and made me start packaging orders, then had the audacity to tell me I wasn’t sealing the cellophane card protectors properly, WTF!?

Wait, this was supposed to be about how nice Henry has been this week. Shit.

2. The Couple that Works Out Together Kills Each Other

You know how I’ve been on this mortality kick since last week? No? Well, now you do. One of the things that I’ve been internalizing is the gnawing notion that Henry won’t always be around. I mean, I might die first, even. But still, I decided it couldn’t hurt to get a little preventative up in here, and somehow got him to promise me that he would start exercising. (It might have had something to do with the fact that I was crying when I asked him because: OMG DON’T DIE.) So Tuesday night after work, we changed into sweatpants (OMG Henry in elastic-ankled sweatpants, you guys) and I put on the easiest Jillian Michaels DVD in my collection (30 Day Shred, y’all). I was even nice enough to let him start on Level 1, which is as basic as one gets in a workout video. I mean, the warmup is all windmills and jumping jacks, which I learned that Henry literally cannot do, and then hip circles which was HILARIOUS to watch him reenact. Anyway, jumping jacks came up again in the first cardio circuit and I kept catching him in my periphery, all flopping around, arms not syncing up with his legs, and I lost it. I started laughing so motherfucking hard that I peed a little. I can’t lie to you guys. I can’t and I won’t. I peed and kept on exercising because I was afraid if I paused it long enough to change, Henry would escape to Hot Naybor Chris’s basement.

“If you don’t stop laughing at me, I’m going to quit!” he yelled, and I laughed even harder. And then every time Jillian would say, “OK ladies” I would pee just a tiny bit more.

I could hear Henry huffing and puffing during one of the strength segments, so I offered up some advice. “Sometimes when it gets too hard, I draw strength from Dance Gavin Dance,” I said, pointing at my DGD painting behind the TV.

“Fuck you,” he panted.

And then, during some shadowboxing, I said, “I used to picture Christina’s face every time I would throw a punch.”

“That’s great. I’m picturing your face,” he wheezed.

I was going to allow him to switch to some good old-fashioned Bodies In Motion last night, which at least has a male instructor (Gilad 4 lyfe, yo), and is also way easier than any of Jillian’s workouts, but Henry was all, “No. You already made me start this one so let’s go.” So last night, we did 30 Day Shred again. (I just want you to know that I am doing these with him in addition to my usual morning workouts, because I’m a wonderful girlfriend who wants to see her boyfriend succeed…I think that’s how I rehearsed that sentiment.) This time, Chooch was home (he was at his aunt Kelly’s the night before and missed out on his father exercising for the first time since THE SERVICE) and when it was time to do hip circles, I screamed, “CHOOCH LOOK HOW SEXY DADDY!” and Chooch and I cracked the fuck up, which made Henry bristle his mustache (sorry guy, that doesn’t count as aerobics) and threaten again to throw in the proverbial towel.

Do you know how hard it is for me not to grab my phone and post an Instavid of hopping Hank doing jumping jacks? Exercising my restraint — now THAT is a workout.

3.  Mustacioed Sounding Board

So, the Grammy’s just happened last Sunday and you might be surprised to know that I did actually watch because I really do like some mainstream garbage every now and then. My favorite parts were when neither Taylor Swift nor Katy Perry won in their categories, but both got faked-out because the albums that DID win both started with the same letter as theirs and I detected a split-second of wile euphoria in their eyes before it registered that it was “Random Access Memories” not “Red,” “Royals” and not “Roar” that had actually won.

Anyway, this prompted one of my long-winded signature late-night diatribes, this one about how fucked up it is that we live in a world where Katy Perry even gets NOMINATED for a Grammy, and Henry just laid there in bed, agreeing with my hysteria and letting me get it all out of my system.

I’m pretty sure he secretly likes her “music,” so I appreciated that he indulged my inherent need to be up-in-arms over essentially nothing.

(P.S. Kendrick Lamar > Macklemore, but that wedding thing was pretty amazing.)

4.  All the Right Words

I’ve been having a pretty shitty week. But luckily, it’s just work that’s making it shitty so at least it’s something that I can work on changing. Every day though I have been sending Henry SOS texts from the confines of my office-thing, recounting all the times I’ve been brought to tears by various aspects of my job.

So today, when he dropped me off for work, he called after me, “Try not to cry today!” But it was half past “sweet encouragement” more toward “sarcastic chide”, and it made me laugh so hard. Like, how ridiculous. Why the fuck am I wasting my precious eyeball juice on this shit when I could be christening my music collection with it? There are so many more worthy causes to be crying over than what I do here every day, so thank you Henry for accidentally waking me the fuck up.

****

Four things is pretty good, right!? Can I go to Heaven now?

*(I was going to call this post “Henry’s Bone” but that seemed a little weird.)

After I made Chooch pose for pictures on Sunday, he stripped down to his underwear and dress shirt, and that is how he remained for the rest of the day; his own version of Risky Business, I guess.

Friday night after work, we went out to eat with our friends the Handa’s. The back of Chooch’s fortune taught him how to say “drunk, tipsy” in Chinese, which is good because now the next time he publicly calls Henry a drunk, maybe no one will understand him.

And then this princess, I can’t even. Can she please just live forever?

***

I actually had real things to say but you know: work. This week has not been great. Hope yours is better!

The snow started early yesterday morning. I sat around, playing music and impatiently watching Henry make the non compos cards we just sold, when I noticed that he was using an unfamiliar paper cutter.

“Is that a new paper cutter?” I asked.

“Kind of. I’ve had it since last June. I bought it at JoAnn’s. It was on sale: 40% off of $90. Plus I had a 20% off coupon!” Henry joyfully exclaimed.

TMI, Henry. TMI.

He finished making the cards and I walked them to the Brookline post office.

I haven’t been out of the since then because this fucking SNOW SUCKS and has taken upon itself to cancel all of my plans and I am so goddamn bored. Sitting around doing nothing goes against everything I stand for.

After Willie’s death sent me spiraling into this stupid funk, I made the executive decision that it was time to start art therapy again. And boy, this would have been a great weekend to paint, but I don’t have any stupid canvas! SNOW, YOU ARE KILLING ME.

We were going to go roller skating today, the one thing I had to look forward to, but it’s snowing again and cars are sliding all over the road in front of my house and Henry keeps showing me goddamn weather maps on his phone and I’m about to flip my shit.

“All I wanted to do was go rollerskating this weekend and instead I’m stuck in the house where THREE OF MY CATS DIED!!!!!

” I wailed.

“Oh that’s nice,” Henry said brusquely. “Because the way I see it, I’m stuck in the house with my best friend* and son.” Oh, OK martyr.

*(I confirmed that he actually was referring to me, surprisingly, and not his paper cutter.)

I feel like the top of my head is going to pop off.

Henry just told me he loves me. Ok, great, BUT IT IS STILL SNOWING.

Chooch and I were off from our respective school/work places on Monday in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. So we made plans to meet up with Kara, Harland and Baby Theo at Cannon Coffee. Chooch loves Cannon Coffee, for some reason. It might be the tattooed barista who always tries to pressure him into trying some exotic form of hot chocolate, but in the end he always just giggles nervously and says, “No. Just regular.”

Things started out great! Harland and Chooch huddled around a phone while Theo sat quietly in Kara’s lap, allowing Kara and me to have real life conversations.

Considering we were there for two hours, they were pretty well-behaved.

But then the Storm Trooper happened. Harland noticed that there was a drawing of one hanging up behind the counter.

“Chooch, look at the Storm Trooper!” Harland called. So Chooch walked over and together they stood in Storm Trooper reverie.

“You want this?” the barista asked, handing Chooch another sketch of a Storm Trooper she had behind the counter. Chooch accepted it, which irked Harland, and rightfully so, IMO.

He asked Chooch for it and I made him hand it over. It was clear that it meant more to Harland, anyway. Chooch was all, “Ugh fine” and they both went back to their respective iPhone games, abandoning the sketch on the table between me and Kara.

But then right as we were all bundling up to leave, Chooch hovered over the sketch on the table and mumbled, “I want this.”

I reminded him that we gave it to Harland, so Chooch put his head down on the table and sighed heavily.

Harland, aware of what was transpiring, said, “But I want it too” and then laid in a sullen heap on the floor.

“But she gave it to me,” Chooch sighed.

“But only because Harland was the one who saw the other sketch first,” I pointed out.

This volleyed back and forth for a few minutes, this totally mild tug-of-war over some dumb sketch on the back of a Brookline community Christmas announcement. No raised voices. No tears. Just two kids quietly wanting the same thing while Theo silently judged them from Kara’s arms. It was the weirdest “fight” ever.

In the end, I told Chooch he wouldn’t be able to play Minecraft if he didn’t just give the damn drawing to Harland. That brought him back to reality real quick-like, and we all left Cannon Coffee as friends.

***

Later that day, Kara texted me to say that Harland was still carrying the drawing around like it was made of diamonds and gold, and that her husband was going to draw a Storm Trooper for both of them. In the meantime, she scanned the barista’s Storm Trooper and emailed it to Chooch, who was like, “Oh OK. Cool.” Totally blasé, LIKE I KNEW HE WOULD BE! That’s why I was so adamant about him giving it to Harland; I knew if Chooch brought it home, he would lose interest as soon as he logged into Minecraft.

Good god, thanks for the turbulence, Storm Trooper. It’s pretty funny though that in the eight years Kara and I have been friends, this was the biggest “conflict” we’ve ever had!

I think having Henry’s mom and Chooch around yesterday when I found Willie dead (RIP) helped me, because, you know, community grieving and all that. But today, Chooch was back to school and Judy was back at her place, so it was just me and Marcy. And it was pretty fucking depressing. Soul-suckingly so. Watching Marcy skulk around, sniffing around the empty cat carrier, poking her head around corners, it was too much. Henry doesn’t think she actually really cares that her daughter is dead. I mean, we kind of chuckled about it last night, how Marcy got her wish, Marcy-Hater-Of-All is the last cat standing. But goddamn motherfucking shit, the house is so empty. What will I do when she’s gone too? Her presence is almost larger than life. She is a force. Even the way she barrels into our bedroom, practically hurtling herself at the half-shut door, is so bombastic. What will the house be like without her, I can’t even imagine.

So then, after running back into the house twice to re-hug Marcy, I was walking to the trolley and crying, which is awesome to do in January when it’s 7 degrees outside. Crying in 7 degree weather. But then on the trolley platform, some guy started talking to me and that was pretty nice, a distraction, human contact. And I realized, for as much as I’m like, “DON’T TALK TO ME STRANGERS!” that basic connection with another person is what I was subconsciously craving at that moment. Please, pick my heart up off the frozen trolley platform and speak words to me.

My new friend’s name is (Not) Jonny (Craig) and he was pretty normal. I mean, he was wearing a Steelers Santa hat and broken glasses held together by masking tape like you’d do if you were going trick-or-treating as “Post-Political Fight with Erin” Henry.

We talked about riveting things, such as taking the wrong trolley and what we do for a living. (He just got a job at Meat & Potatoes, and I said, “Oh cool, I had disgusting absinthe there once.”)

And then we parted ways at the Wood Street trolley stop because he wanted to go to McDonald’s and I had to try and cross the street without getting sideswiped by a bus. He seemed very genuine when he told me to have a good day at work and I almost fucking lost it right there in that cold concrete holding cell for commuters because someone was being so nice to me and now I was all alone with my morbid thoughts again.

I can’t do that whole wallowing thing right now, I just can’t. So…happy thoughts! Here are things that are making me happy this week, because maybe looking at these pictures and typing out positive words will seep into my fingertips and brain-fuck me with positivity.

Dino Ring holder, I’m still way into you. I gave one to Wendy, and it was really hard to part with!  But this one, this stegosaurus (thanks Andrea and Kendahl for the dino name hook-up!) is mine all mine. I love him so.

You know Pee Wee’s Big Adventure is one of my Top 5 favorite movies, right? I mean, it’s basically the only movie I ever quote. My friend Kristy bought me this Large Marge sticker at one of the conventions she went to, because she is awesome and gets it. She really gets it. (Also, for my 31st birthday, she presented me with a framed still of one of Pee Wee’s scenes in Back to the Beach, which is also in my Top 5 favorite movies.) Having awesome people in my life is another thing to be happy about this week. Thank you, Awesome People!

Henry thinking he can suddenly play the keyboard after sitting in on one of Chooch’s lessons is hilarious.

Getting good feedback on Etsy makes me happy! non compos cards, helping people be jerks to their friends since 2006.

Having Monday off (thanks MLKJr!!) with Chooch and Marcy made me happy, but also a little delirious. This picture was our SOS for Henry to get his ass home from work. We can only take care of one another for so long.

<3 <3 <3 <3 Obviously. (Henry criticized me for always making the same face in pictures. I can’t help it!)

I got my special edition 20th anniversary Warped Tour ticket (glad I held off on buying mine when I bought Chooch’s in December, because these were just released)! THAT makes me happy. But then I start thinking of all the dire situations that could arise between now and July 15th and whoa, here comes the panic again.

But then I look at this text message from Henry and I’m laughing again. Ha-ha-ha.

Tell me what things are making you happy this week. LET US ALL HAVE A HAPPY RAINBOW-SQUIRTING FEST WITH EACH OTHER. FUN THURSDAY HAPPENING TIMES! MAYBE START CLAPPING FOR NO REASON?

I’m going to have my fifth cup of coffee right now, because at least when I’m making coffee, I’m doing something and when I’m doing something I’m not hearing a funeral dirge in my shattered mind.

The only time I ever saw my dad cry was when he had to have his beloved Siberian Husky, Blitz, put to sleep. I must have been around 10 or so when this happened, and it was hard for me too, sure; but this dog had been my dad’s bro since before he met my mom, back in his storied bachelor years.

He and Blitz were a packaged deal.

Our German Shepherd, Rama, was only a few years old when this happened. I watched my dad completely shut down and close the door on Rama. I mean, he wasn’t like, abusing him or anything. But it was almost like Rama didn’t exist to him. I didn’t understand. How could someone just shut out an animal like that? Especially one like Rama. Rama was fucking awesome.

This morning, Marcy’s daughter Willie passed away. She would have been 14 right before St. Patrick’s Day. Willie had started acting lethargic and weird last week, her breathing was getting labored. Henry took her to the vet and he re-hydrated her and gave her some shots, but said that he was pretty certain she either had cancer or fluid in her lungs. It always goes back to cancer, doesn’t it? She had lost a lot of weight and he wasn’t sure how she would respond to further testing, because just the process of taking her out of the house had her completely wigged out. Willie was kind of like the recluse of our cat family.

In fact, it’s not uncommon for someone I have known for years to say, “Wait, you have another cat?” She spent a huge portion of her life hiding in the basement from people. Or, sometimes, late at night I’d be watching TV and Willie would come scurrying out from behind the couch.

She was very skittish. She also like to pee on things. An example? The first time Andrea ever visited us from California, she set her purse on the floor and Willie promptly peed on it.

Andrea was a good sport about it. “Thank god it’s vinyl,” she laughed.

I wasn’t supposed to keep her. She was from Marcy’s first litter of kittens in 2000. So was Don. I knew right away that I was keeping Don, even if it meant officially pushing me over that fine line between “cat connoisseur” and “crazy cat lady.” Willie had been promised to a co-worker of my then-friend Keri. (I say “then-friend” because we are no longer friends.) But one day I came home and found Don and Willie snuggling together on my bed and I was like, “OMG I can’t separate them! They have such a strong sibling bond!” So I called Keri and told her I couldn’t give Willie to her friend. (No, this is not why we’re not friends anymore.)

Funny thing about that sibling bond, though. Don and Willie outgrew that pretty fast and spent most of their lives totally ignoring each other. Or gnawing at each others’ throats in murderous fits while Marcy glowered from her perch above.

The last several years, though, Willie had really started to come out of her shell. I mean, she wasn’t the friendliest cat, but she was super fun to tease. She also had a nasty temper–you never knew when she would strike. She attacked Henry and Blake years ago and Henry has tread lightly ever since. One night, I was doing this really high-pitched meow and she went hysterical, growling and attacking me. I had to wrap myself in a blanket and hide behind Marcy for protection.

You can’t tell so much from these photos, but she had really beautifully-colored fur. There were salmon-hued patches, almost pink. And the texture was wiry. We would always say things like, “She’s so beautiful. Too bad she has zero personality.” God, now I’m crying again. Why did we say things like that?

She is the third cat I’ve lost as an adult. The third in the last 2 years. The third from the Original Four. My fur-family is diminishing, and I can’t fucking bear it. This is the most traumatic countdown of all time.

Henry’s mom Judy inexplicably had formed some strange attachment to Willie over the last several months. (Though she refuses to use female pronouns when talking about her.)  Judy has called Henry every day since Willie fell ill, wanting to know how she was doing. She’s been staying us with us for the last several days because Chooch hasn’t had school, so she was there this morning when I discovered a freshly deceased Willie in the basement. Judy was still sleeping and I was freaking out. So I did what any mature adult would do and shook awake my 7-year-old son and cried into his moppy hair.

“Don’t tell Grandma,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “It’ll upset her.”

So what does he do? He goes downstairs and as soon as Judy wakes up on the couch, he let her tell us about what a terrible night she had before blurting out, “Well, Willie’s dead.”

And Judy burst into tears. I didn’t expect that. I was sitting at the dining room table, hugging Marcy, crying into her fur as she struggled to escape my grasp.

“I pray for you everyday, Erin,” Judy sobbed. “Because I just don’t know what’s going to happen to you when THAT one goes.” She wagged a finger at Marcy. Hearing her say that made me hug Marcy so hard her eyes started to bulge.

When I was upstairs getting ready for work, I overheard Judy on the phone, telling Henry’s sister Kelly that Willie had died. She started to get herself all worked up again, when Chooch sagely piped up from his station at the computer, “Just remember the fun times, Grandma.”

Later, the still-sore subject of Speck came up and Chooch began sobbing. And then Judy glanced over at the cat carrier and said, “The last time I saw Willie alive, she was in that cage” and then began crying again. And then I started to cry. It just felt like the house was brimming with Grim Reapers and I was suffocating. Meanwhile, Marcy just sat there glaring at us, probably thinking we were fucking nuts.

I just couldn’t wait to get out of that house today. The emotions are percolating and I feel like my top is going to blow. I cried this morning, but I feel like The Big Cry is about to happen and I’m chewing on the inside of my cheeks because I don’t want to lose it at work. I just can’t deal with mortality. WHO CAN? I loved my damn cats more than any human (but comparable to Chooch, I guess, ha-ha) and every time one of them dies, another piece of my heart petrifies.

And now I understand why my dad never got another pet ever again after Blitz. I hope that one day, unlike my dad, I will be able to open my heart up to a new pet. But right now, I look at Marcy and I am crippled by panic. I know she can’t live forever and that I should continue to just enjoy the rest of the time I have with her without darkening it with morbid thoughts. But you know, The Panic. It’s there.

RIP, Willie. You were kind of an asshole, but we still loved you anyway. Marcy probably did, too.

If you need me, I’ll just be under a blanket, dwelling on the fact THAT EVERYONE DIES.

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!