My brother Corey and I have had plans for several weeks now to  take a tour of Nemacolin Castle on Sunday. I was really excited because it seems like the kind of place perfect for giggling in corners while old people on the tour finger doilies and say things like, “Oh my!” when given historical facts. Also, we were going to have lunch at a place where we could also buy a firearm and have our computer fixed.

However, when I went to Nemacolin’s website yesterday to verify that I knew where the hell we were going, I was met with large red letters that stated:

Nemacolin Castle is Currently Closed While It Retools For Christmas Candle Light Tours!

Whomp whomp.

I texted Corey, who was equally as devastated, but we refused to give up. We tossed around ideas of touring a mine and some park in West Virginia that has rusted farm equipment strewn about. “What about a winery?” Corey suggested and I was definitely on board with that. There is one that’s actually in the same area as Nemacolin, but Corey called and they aren’t doing tours because some asshole had to go and leave town.

Then I found one closer to Pittsburgh and nothing about it really seemed all that revolutionary or postcard-worthy, until I found it. The Picture.

And then this happened:

So then it was determined for sure that the Narcisi Winery was going to have to show these two motherfuckers around its facility. Because now we were OBSESSED. It HAD to be this winery! No other!

I called this morning, because I learned on the website that 48 hours advance notice was needed for a tour. When I was greeted by an elderly woman, I knew, JUST KNEW, it had to be Broad.

“Tour?” she repeated me in a very WTF tone. “Oh, I don’t know anything about that.”

I insisted that I saw it on the website, and at that point I could hear her shuffling papers around.

“Oh, I don’t know what the hell happened,” she disgruntedly sighed, and then began asking me normal reservation-ish questions, such as “how many people?” and “will you be having lunch also?” so I began to feel hopeful. “OK, Roberto will call you back and either confirm or, I don’t know, tell you otherwise, I guess,” she said, and suddenly my Boob of Hope started to sag a little. In the meantime, Corey and I were having a texting flurry.

“This sounds very promising that Broad will be there,” he said, “and possibly a guy named Roberto.” So then we suddenly also became obessed with Roberto.

Dorothy called me back herself and I knew it was going to be Bad News Bears when her tone had suddenly changed from Harried Wine Pourer to Sympathetic Grandma. Turns out no one was going to be there on Sunday to give a tour, but there was one tomorrow at the same time. I told her I’d have to call back after discussing with Corey.

And when I did, a very bored-sounding guy answered and was like, “That’s great. You’ll have to talk to Roberto.” AND THEN I GOT TO TALK TO ROBERTO!

Mean Amber2 told me that she’s been to this winery numerous times and, in her typical “You’re a dummy!” tone, she said, “I DON’T THINK THAT THEY GIVE TOURS THERE, ERIN.” She loves making me sad. But too bad Sandy and I had just had a conversation about this and SANDY said that her mom recently went there on a bus with old people and that she had a wonderful time and the winery provided lots of fun activities for them.

So now obviously Corey and I are hoping that we get to play wine BINGO.

“I hope there actually is a tour,” Corey texted me after I told him about Mean Amber2’s tour-ignorance.

“There better be,” I replied. “Roberto made me pre-pay.”

Anyway, Mean Amber2 knew exactly who I was talking about when I asked her “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE OLD LADY.” Mean Amber2 insists that we should see Broad as soon as we walk in, because she’s the wine pourer.

“She’s always there,” Mean Amber2 said. “If you don’t see her—”

“—she’s DEAD!” I interjected.

“Um, yeah. Or, she’s just NOT THERE,” Mean Amber2 said meanly.

She didn’t know Roberto, though.

Later, she even emailed me a picture of her from the website and asked “Is this the woman?” No, that’s the BROAD, Amber. God.

So. yeah. The whole point of this is that my brother and I will be going to a winery next Sunday, but unlike normal people who visit wineries for the wine-tasting and wine-learning, we are going for a broad, Roberto and a fucking Tuscan sundae.

And potentially BINGO.

Last night after work, Henry, Chooch and I met our favorite Castle Blood friends (Ricky, Dawn, Chris, Kari and Katelyn) at Cambod-Ican Kitchen on the Southside for some late night dinner. The last time I saw them, we were going through Castle Blood so we couldn’t very well stop the tour and talk about the weather with them. Dinner was definitely in order!

I was so fucking hungry by the final hour I was here at work that I was full-on chewing on my hair. (My friend Kara lectures me about this all of the time, but I can’t help it!) I don’t generally go out after work since my shift is so ridiculously inconvenient (I need to work on changing that, and if the Fates are reading this, I DO NOT MEAN THAT I WOULD LIKE TO BE FIRED), but if we waited until the weekend, I would not have gotten to see my friend Dawn before she returns to Canada. And that’s just bullshit. Thankfully, almost immediately after we sat down, Cambod-Ican Dan slide two plates of Moon Sauce-bathed wontons down on the table and I was like “FUCK YES!” and then “HOW DO I EAT THESE?!” because I’m really weird about picking up food with my hands. (Don’t worry, I figured it out.) They were so delicious that even CHOOCH ate them and he is so goddamn picky when it comes to eating things that haven’t been shat from a vending machine or boxed by General Mills.

We had to beg Chooch on the way there not to be an asshole.

He reaches that point at night where he basically goes insane and you never which way it’s going to go: careening down It’sNotFunnyAnymore Avenue or wanting to drown myself in the Here’sDamien Canal. Luckily, he wasn’t being too bad, but he did get pretty hyper by the end of the night because his GIRLFRIEND Katelyn was there. He even breakdanced at one point, which is proper restaurant etiquette in Pittsburgh, not bad parenting.

Chooch and Katelyn mostly competed with each other over who knows more math and on one hand I was like, “Wow, this is awesome to hear kids giving a shit about math!” but on the other hand, I was like, “But I don’t give a shit about math, so STFU.”

Also, I was a little bit on edge because my Simpsons: Tapped Out app WOULD NOT FUCKING WORK for me almost all day! I was waiting for goddamn Spinster City Apartments to finish building, too. It was a big day for my fucking Springfield, so thank you EA Games for fucking my life with a pine cone.

Henry made everyone laugh and it was so annoying.

Chooch was trying to hide behind a chair (thank god we were the only diners there) from Katelyn and everyone was like, “She is totally going to see you, asshole” and then Henry was like, “He gets his poor hiding skills from his mother.” I got super defensive about this because I AM GOOD AT HIDING, so I reminded Henry of the time Chooch and I hid from him in a wheat field and he had no idea where we were.

“Yeah, and I didn’t care, either.”

Chris actually choked on his water and Henry was SO SMUG. He’s going to be riding THIS horse for weeks. Maybe even longer.

But then all of the grown-ups had to figure out the bill so it got really serious.

Chris said his favorite part was when Chooch stunned Dan by not only ordering tofu, but actually knowing what tofu is and liking it. THAT’S MY BOY. We also bullied him into eating a dragon pepper. That didn’t go over as well.

Here is Henry’s review:

Normally, I don’t like beef at Asian restaurants, but this beef was good.

PLEASE start a food blog.

In other news, I can’t wait for Dawn to move here. She likes crafting so I’ll be able to say, “Here Dawn, turn this Band-Aid into a pillow” and then she also loves to bake so I can also say, “And when you’re done with my Band-Aid Pillow, bake me some snickerdoodles in Jonny Craig’s likeness.” And she will do those things.

Just like that!!

It was after 11 when we left. We’re all such great parents, keeping our young children out that late on the Southside of all places. The Catholic school moms reading this will probably have a lot to say!

Anyway, what a great night. It’s always so good seeing my haunter friends because who else really gives a shit about how I rate all of the haunted houses I went to this year?

SHAMELESS PROMOTION: I’m really looking forward to the Castle Blood Christmas show on December 14th and 15th. If you live in the Pittsburgh area, you should totally go. You could even go with ME, OMG!!!

(They didn’t even pay for my dinner, and I STILL pimped them out! I guess I’m still riding on my Food Bank high.)

Hey, guess what I did yesterday? A GOOD DEED, that’s what. The Law Firm has teamed up with the United Way and offered employees an opportunity to volunteer at several places around the city. I picked the Food Bank, not really for any great reason other than it was one of the few that offered an afternoon shift.

Here’s a fun little side note: The day that I went up to the Scary 28th Floor to sign-up for volunteering, I was strong-armed into also filling out a raffle ticket after I purposely tried to leave without entering. But then how weird would I look if I openly communicated the fact that I didn’t give a shit about the stupid raffle? I already look weird enough without doing anything, so I sighed and filled out a stupid red raffle ticket.

And of course, I was one of the winners. I was notified by email to please go up to the 11th floor to claim my $10 gift card for the in-house cafe on the 19th floor. I’ve worked here over 3.5 years now and still have not ever gone to the stupid On 19 cafe thingie, so I didn’t want the gift card. Besides, since my shift is so stupid, they’re already closed by the time I’m ready for a feeding.

So I ignored the email.

And then I ignored the next email.

And I swear to god I had intentions of replying to the third email, which by then had nothing in the actual body and just a terse “Please get your gift card” in the subject line, but I forgot. I was just going to say that I wouldn’t be able to use it and that they could just give it to someone else, but you know how it is when you’re about to do something and then you get a push notification letting you know that Apu is done feeding the octuplets and then you get sucked into your Springfield for the next 20 minutes. (Thanks again, Brandy, for getting me hooked on Simpsons: Tapped Out!)

Last Wednesday, I came to work and there was an envelope on my keyboard with the stupid gift card inside. I laughed and ran out to tell my work friends Lauren and Chris about how my passive aggressive method of living had FINALLY worked in my favor! Man, I really felt like I beat the system, you know? Until I opened up my Outlook and saw that I had received a group email from the same lady letting us know that we had to go up to her desk the next day to claim a t-shirt for our volunteering day.

MOTHER.

FUCKER.

After all that, I STILL had to go to the stupid 11th floor. Lauren was kind enough to go with me, since she needed to get her t-shirt too (we were scheduled to volunteer at the Food Bank on the same day). Little did I know that the Gift Card Lady was going to be crossing names off a list, so when I grabbed a t-shirt and tried to leave, she was all, “Wait! And you are…?”

I mumbled my name and she kind of paused, eyes flickering in recognition, and then proceeded to scratch my name off the list.

“Do you think she knows I’m the same person who rejected the gift card?” I asked Lauren.

“Well, she doesn’t forget anything,” she replied honestly. And I mean, that was just one day ago at that point.

I just don’t know, you guys. Sometimes I feel like I’m really making headway into this whole “Adulthood” thing, but then there I go taking eighteen giant steps back. Oh well.

****

Volunteering Day came and I had to come to work a little early, but I didn’t mind too much. I was really happy that Lauren was going and she promised she would be my buddy for the day, even though Amber2 wanted her to ignore me and potentially get me lost and/or killed because Amber2 is mean!

I think there were nine of us from my department, plus a bunch of other people that I don’t know. Maybe 30 of us in all? Enough that we all fit into one of those stupid little shuttle buses with absolutely zero seats to spare. Lauren and I got stuck sitting in the dork-reserved front seat, which was totally lame until we realized there were a box of flares at our feet.

“Not now, Erin,” Lauren said. “On the way back, I promise.”

The Food Bank is in Duquesne, and because of fucked up Pittsburgh traffic, it took us 45 minutes to get there and the driver, who was kind of a dick, totally passed up the entrance and seemed annoyed when literally the whole bus was like, “YOU WENT THE WRONG WAY AND NOW YOU MUST TURN AROUND.”

Once we met the volunteering coordinator and got a brief run-down of the facility, we were split into three groups to begin our two hours of labor. My group consisted of Lauren (thank god), Jeannie, Other Erin, A-ron and Rachel, and then three other girls from different floors.

We were handed over to Steve, the foreman (I guess that’s what he is?) who would be supervising us for the afternoon.  Basically, we had to sort through boxes of food and re-box them based on if they were cans, glass or plastic. Each box had to be around 40 pounds, and we had to obviously check expiration dates and the conditions of the product. (I say obviously but we all know I definitely would not have been checking that shit if I hadn’t been told.) Like, if the tops of cans were “compromised” to the point where a can opener wouldn’t be able to go around it, we had to chuck it. I mean, if I was basing this on my own can-opening skills, I’d have had to pitch every single can I pulled from the box.

And we had to also check for dents. Some dents were OK, but some were not. Steve’s explanations were pretrty vague. I wanted to see a Powerpoint, to be honest, but instead we just constantly asked him, “STEVE!! STEVE!! WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE!?” the whole time, so maybe next time, Steve will consider drawing up some slides of various dentings.

He probably went home feeling like I do after a day of Chooch chanting, “MOMMY. MOMMY. MOMMY.”

“I can’t tell if this is seriously that hard or if we’re just really overthinking things,” I said out loud.

But by the second hour, we were basically canned good-sorting pros. And I was really thankful that I chose to do something so Erin-friendly. Some of the people in my department volunteered at a place where they had to make SANDWICHES. You guys, I can barely make my own sandwich. I really don’t think I would have been able to do that.

I’m also glad that the Food Bank didn’t require us to ladle anything because I don’t know how to use a ladle. If we go to a salad bar and I want soup, Henry has to ladle it for me because my wrist is really weak or I just don’t want to do it, I can’t remember now.

I had to toss a huge container of Nutella because the seal was slightly broken. If I had brought my purse, that bitch would have gone home with me, for real. Spoonfuls of maybe-contaminated Nutella for everyone!

One of my favorite pasttimes is forcing myself to have crushes on people, and Steve was definitely my target yesterday. It made those 2 hours zip on by. It’s basically just a lateral move though, considering he works in a warehouse and drives a pallet jack. Just like Henry.

(Speaking of pallet jacks, when we first walked into the warehouse, some guy zoomed by on a pallet jack and I cried out, “Haha, that’s the thing that ran over Henry’s foot!” but no one in my group knew how hilarious that story was to me when it happened a few years ago, so it was kind of awkward when absolutely no one responded. I suck at knowing my audience.)

Everyone was running around taking pictures of each other for our department’s website, but all I gave a shit about was getting Steve’s picture. I wasn’t leaving without it. I made Lauren get in the picture with him so maybe he would think I was less weird. I don’t know why I cared about looking weird to him though after he shared with us a story about how he drank bad Pepsi when he was a kid and got explosive diarrhea.

He was so entertaining! And he told us that we were way better than the other group who had volunteered from The Law Firm and I really like winning, so that made me feel fantastic. He said they couldn’t figure out how to stack the empty boxes. What assholes.

The three ladies who aren’t from my department are clearly my new best friends after two hours of squinting at cans of tuna together—that’s how friendship works, right?

On the shuttle ride back to work, we found out that our co-worker Rachel insisted that all of her boxes weigh in at EXACTLY 40 pounds, which actually isn’t that surprising if you know her, but damn was I glad that she wasn’t at my end of the table, where the motto was, “Eh, that’s close enough.”

Meanwhile, the three ladies who sorted canned shit with me, Jeannie and Lauren went back to their own People on the shuttle, like we hadn’t just shared a special afternoon together even though I had to remind the one lady of my name at least 5 times,  and now I just feel dirty.

****

“How was it?” Mean Amber2 asked when we returned to the office.

“It was fun!” I said. “And I even got a new boyfriend.”

“Oh, I didn’t catch that one!” giggled a Different Barb Than The One I Always Blog About.

“Either did he,” I said, and then she laughed. Because you know, that’s what people here do when they talk to me, OK?

Colorful clutter. Cluttered color?

I promised Henry that I wouldn’t have us on the go at all on Sunday in an effort to get the house clean. But that didn’t mean that CHOOCH and I couldn’t be on the go. As much as we hate doing things without Henry, sometimes leaving Henry alone in the house is the only way he can get anything done. And I wanted the house cleaned, you guys.

Plus, did I mention that Henry bought me flowers for no reason!? I should be scared, I know. But at the same time, he knows I haven’t been feeling like myself lately and I know that’s why he came home with flower-things, and not actually because he’s pounding some trannie housewife behind a Wal-Mart. I’m not a big flower person, but once in awhile it’s kind of nice. <3

Late morning, Chooch tagged along with me to the cemetery. I try to go most weekends because it’s the only place where I really enjoy jogging. OK, maybe “enjoy” is too strong of a word. “Tolerate.” It’s the only place where I can “tolerate” jogging. Sometimes I use that Couch to 5K app, and of course my trainer is the zombie. Chooch happened to see this the night before and became obsessed with going with me the next day.

He was sorely disappointed when we got there and a zombie wasn’t actually chasing us. I kept telling him not to get too excited! It’s not that great. So of course, he was all, “OMGGGG HOW MUCH LONGER!?” and this was just after the brisk walk warm-up. He kind of half-jogged (sort of) for a little while and then got pee on himself when he went behind a tree (wouldn’t be the same if Chooch didn’t piss somewhere in the cemetery) so of course he was all, “OMG I GOT PEE ON MY PANTS SO NOW CAN WE GO!?”

Fuck no, lazy-ass! Finally I told him to just go stand by the car and wait until I was done because I knew the next whine out of his mouth was going to be the dreaded “carry me!!”

Then we came home and Henry made us lunch because we’re not THAT independent. But then afterward we went to Target by ourselves! It was pretty amazing. We never go to Target without Henry. I bought new boots to treat myself for blossoming into such a fine young adult, but I only tried on the right boot and of course when I came home, I found out that the left one was all fucked up and didn’t fit right. So now Henry, who was so happy he didn’t have to go to Target with us, has to return them. Haha.

We let Henry take a break for a few minutes. And then he did some touch-ups on the Liberace desk which hopefully will be finished someday so we can stow away some of the clutter.

After dinner, we walked to Eat n Park for dessert. Henry drowned us out by methodically coloring the kids menu. There was a really annoying and loud old lady behind him and Chooch who literally yelled about how she hates yellow and orange-colored Jello. And then about how she doesn’t care if the boys drink at her house BECAUSE AT LEAST SHE CAN CONTROL THEM. She sent her granddaughter (I presume) to fetch her non-retchedly colored Jello from the salad bar and as she walked away, she commented on the girl’s maturing ass. “It must be because her jeans are so tight. Look how cute her butt cheeks are, sticking out like that!” she cooed to her two even older dinner companions. Oh my god, it was incredibly uncomfortable.

Eddie likes to hurt people.

Then we came home and watched The Walking Dead while Henry worked on more paper mache. (I helped during commercials, so cut the poor Henry crap!)

It was such a nice weekend. Fuck, do I love the weekends.

(P.S. The house does not look clean at all.)

Henry was trying to take a nap on the couch when Chooch found a flashlight. You should know that Henry is a member of that secret society of men who are really overprotective and weird about their flashlights, so the fact that he even left it out in plain sight for Chooch to find is a huge deal. So Henry is sleeping, and Chooch turns off all of the lights and starts shining the flashlight in Henry’s slumber-sagged face, which was funny enough but then I pointed out that the bristles of Henry’s beard were putting on a riveting shadow play upon the wall and then Chooch and I totally fucking lost it.

I mean, I was screaming, that’s how hard I was laughing. So Henry of course woke up, mumbled about us being fucking idiots and god knows what else, and then suggested we leave.

“Go walk and get shoes or ice cream or something,” he muttered. Luckily, he let us put on our shoes first. But you guys, Chooch and me on the loose in Brookline—AT NIGHT?

Wandering shadows!!

Because a girl on a diet will choose ice cream over shoes in a heartbeat, we decided to walk to Scoops on Brookline Boulevard. (I wanted to have a red velvet milkshake for dinner, and since I “ran” almost three miles this morning in the cemetery, I think that’s acceptable). On the way, we passed the American Legion while Bingo was going on, and since Henry wasn’t there to stop us, we screamed BINGO!!!!!! and then ran. Henry NEVER lets us do that. A minute later, Chooch wasn’t paying attention and walked into a street sign.

He’s OK, though. It was right outside of the fire station, so one of them probably could have helped if we needed it. And if not, the Las Palmas Mexicans were right across the street serving up tacos so probably they could have helped, too. Basically, one of any adults in the area that’s not Erin R. Kelly would have been dependable, I’m sure.

We got our ice cream without incident. Chooch ordered mint chocolate chip and told the ice cream ladler that one scoop was fine, but to me he muttered that he actually wanted two scoops but DADDY never lets him.

“That’s because he’s unreasonable. Get two scoops,” I said with a shrug. So he did and we walked away enjoying our ice cream and newfound independence.

But then we stopped at CVS on the way back because Henry told us to get newspaper for the paper mache project we’re doing this weekend. That seemed like not too hard of a task until I couldn’t find the newspaper! We walked up and down every aisle! And no newspaper!

Chooch was all, “No seriously, I know where it is” and that fucker took me to the TOY AISLE. They didn’t even have TOY newspapers!

So I had to call dumb Henry and he was all, “I don’t know! It should be by the door!”

IT WASN’T.

“Then check on the counter!” he yelled.

IT WASN’T THERE EITHER. Except that it actually was so then I hung up on him and bought the stupid paper. I was all stressed out over this but then I realized that “Just the Two Of Us” (the real Grover Washington, Jr. one, not the shitty Will Smith rip-off) was playing overhead and wow, how relevant to the situation. WE CAN MAKE IT IF WE TRY, CHOOCH. JUST THE TWO OF US, BUILDING THEM CASTLES IN BROOKLINE.

I walked and Chooch parkoured the whole way home and Henry was all, “WHERE IS THE ICE CREAM” when we walked in the house, like we were supposed to save that asshole any after he made us leave? Fuck that.

One of the Caribou Coffee joints was recently turned into a Peet’s Coffee. This wasn’t anything that neither concerned nor enticed me, but I had the misfortune of finding out one day when I went to get coffee at Caribou and instead arrived at a gutted storefront.

“It’s going to be a Peet’s Coffee,” the cashier at the nearby TCBY told me when I went inside and started asking her semi-hostile questions about where in the fuck Caribou went. “It’s supposed to be really good.”

I didn’t give a fuck. I needed an iced latte super fucking bad that day and had to stay in the area so I wound up drinking WENDY’S COFFEE OH THE HORROR.

(“Wendy’s” as in the fast food chain, not my friend Wendy, although I’ve never had that Wendy’s coffee so maybe it sucks, too.)

Then a month passed and I forgot about it because there are tons of other coffee options near my house so what do I care about this Peet’s/Caribou drama. Until one day KAITLIN texted me and was all, “FYI there’s a new coffee place called Peet’s and they have MAPLE LATTES.”

You guys. Maple lattes. Motherfucking maple lattes you guys! The first time I had maple coffee was last June when we were visiting our friend Alyson in New Hampshire and it was fucking splendid. Just so goddamn wonderful! (If you hate coffee or maple or both then skip the rest of this post I guess? I know Henry probably will.) And then in Salem, MA I had an iced maple latte and strongly considered becoming a Masshole just so I could drink that shit everyday because it was like autumn’s elixir, I can’t even describe it. It’s like when you imprint with a werewolf and your mom wants to know what that’s like, and how do you explain it? It’s fucking fantastic, like some real life Adam & Eve bullshit. Totally a personal thing so people should just mind their own goddamn business.

What happens between a girl and her iced maple latte is not my story to tell.

The grand opening for Peet’s was last Monday, but they were actually already open. So I decided mid-morning last Sunday that I needed to go and get myself mapled before I exploded.

First I checked Peet’s website just to make sure this elusive beast really was available. It was, and it said “NEW!!” beneath it, so I took that as a Good Sign. And then the store itself was dripping in Maple Latte advertisements. But when I ordered it, I was told that they were DONE FOR THE SEASON. Is this a joke? Does the Alamo paper their walls with pictures of a basement? NO. (They don’t, right? I’ve never actually been to the Alamo.) Anyway, instead of blowing my top, I went with my second choice: pumpkin spice. BUT I WAS TOLD THEY WERE ALL OUT OF PUMPKIN SPICE.

Sorry guys, I lied to you. I didn’t actually go to Peet’s at all. I sent Henry on my behalf.  I just wanted to see what it would feel like to write about actually doing something for myself.

I’ll tell you what I DID do though, I bitched about it on the Peet’s Facebook page and some Peet’s rep named DON apologized to me. He feels confident that I will enjoy their new holiday flavors, but that’s assuming I (Henry) will ever go back!

And then on Halloween morning, my brother Corey and I went to Waffles, INCaffeinated for some spooky breakfast haps. It was the first time eating there for both of us and we were really excited to go apeshit on some morning desserts. I spent all this time stressing over the menu until Corey pointed out the smaller menu of waffle add-ons, so then my head seriously was about to pop-off because I don’t handle multiple options very well.
It also had the Waffle of the Month at the bottom.

October’s waffle was the Waffle-copia. It was a sweet potato waffle (SWEET POTATO WAFFLE) with a fresh apple and fig compote (FIGS!!!!!! FUCKING FIGS!!!!!!!) and then I briefly also saw something about pumpkin, too but I didn’t need to read anymore. This was what I was going to smash  my face into that morning, pie eating contest-style. Ask my brother how stoked I was. Seriously, ask him!!

Does this look like the Waffle-copia? No? BECAUSE IT’S NOT. It’s the Mega Berry, which is what I had to disgustedly order after ELI THE WORST WAITER began to write down my order, only to pause and laugh, “Oh wait, we’re all out of the monthly special.”

I waited for him to walk away before assassinating his character in ways that could probably land me with a lawsuit, but I WAS MAD. Corey was like, “Who gives a fuck, they had my Funky Monkey, and that’s all I care about.” But I couldn’t stop mouthing off about Eli every time he walked away from our table after refilling our coffee. We’d both say thanks but then I would tack on a “FOR NOTHING!!!” after he retreated. I have impeccable aim when it comes to shooting the messenger.

Yeah, my Mega Berry waffle was good, blah blah blah. And, as Corey kept marveling over, the prices were pretty good too. BUT THE FIGS! THE FIIIIIGS!!!!!

ELI THE LIFE RUINER kept coming over to ask us how our waffles were and I just kept mumbling, “It’s good” but then when he’d retreat, I’d growl “No thanks to you.”

Before we left, some Waffle Man approached our table to ask us about our experience. He had a slight accent, so I think he might have been the proprietor (I like to read about restaurants before I go, and I remembered that the Man Responsible for the Waffles had some weird name, so that must have been him because I’m a really good profiler). Corey and I both said it was great (and it really was, EXCEPT FOR ELI THE WORST WAITER EVER). I’m not a big complainer–no really, I’m not!–so I started to think of ways I could word my Waffle-Copia complaint without sounding like some entitled Yelp reviewer.

“So….was today the last day for the waffle of the month?” I carefully prefaced my cloaked complaint.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was actually just drawing up some ideas for next month’s special,” he said, flashing his Waffle Blueprint Notebook at me. And then: “Oh my god, your face, it looks so sad!” he exclaimed with genuine concern.

Apparently, my face had fallen into an automatic Dog-Eyed Pout without me even realizing, THAT IS HOW SAD I WAS. “It’s OK,” I lied. “I just REALLY WANTED THE WAFFLE-COPIA.”

And so the Waffle Foreigner explained to me that due to certain logistics (like having to order 50-pound bags of figs), they try to run out the waffle of the month during the last week so that they’re not stuck with a bunch of product that can’t be used for the next month. And I pretended to be understanding of that, and assured him that the Mega Berry was a fine replacement (I mean, it was good, but it was no Waffle-Copia).

He mentioned my sad face again and even said it was the saddest face ever, but look — I can’t get my facial muscles to lie for me, OK? ELI RUINED MY LIFE!!!!! So, to make him feel better, I blurted out, “And the prices here are really good!” like I’m suddenly a senior citizen out for breakfast with the Pittsburgh chapter of the Regis Philbin Fan Club.

“We try to stay competitive,” Waffle Man responded to my awkward sentence.

On that note, Corey and I decided it was time to leave. ELI THE WORST WAITER IN THE WORLD was standing near the door.

“Have a great day, guys!” he cheerfully called out.

“You too!” Corey and I replied, but then as the door shut behind me, I added, “ASSHOLE.”

So, I guess the point to this story is that I don’t get over disappointment very easily. And if you’re a waiter, I WILL PROJECT MY DISAPPOINTMENT ONTO YOU. Fuck you, Eli.

[ED.NOTE: Waffles INC really was great and though it pains me to admit it, Eli was a good waiter. But if they don’t bring the Waffle-Copia back next October, they can all rot. APPLES! FIGS! SWEET POTATO! PUMPKIN! You might as well just call it the Erin’s Orgasm. I’m not so sure Peet’s will get a second chance, though. That asshole Don could have at least offered me a coupon!]

Oh Henry, you shouldn’t have.

I swear, the older I get, the faster these months fly by. It is infuriating! We didn’t even go to a goddamn pumpkin patch this year (and here is where I remind myself that I actually hate pumpkin patches, but whatever)! But I did go to a fucking bushel of haunted houses, so it all evens out I guess.

(Bushel can definitely be a measurement for haunted houses.)

Anyway, here’s a bushel of photos from my phone that I would like to post here for posterity, plus some meaningless words. And I can do that if I want! Bushel bushel bushel!!

Chooch’s eyeball shadow.

• I usually talk to Henry on my cell phone while I’m walking to the trolley every day. We barely see each other during the week because of our opposing work schedules, so I basically call him 87 times a day until I get to work. He’s lucky that I abhor personal calls at work or else he’d never get a reprieve. Anyway, that’s not the point. So I was walking past the bank while I was yammering away about probably really important things (i.e. more shit I want Henry to do for me). There was an older woman in a motorized wheelchair, zooming toward me as I passed the bank, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that she stopped in front of the bank door. I turned around to see what she was doing and she was just sort of chilling in her wheelchair, facing the bank. I went back and asked her if she needed help with the door, and she said, “Oh yes, please! I didn’t want to ask you because you seemed like you were in a hurry.” The bank door opens into a foyer with another door at the end, so I had to walk inside with her in order to open the next door. I could hear Henry asking me what the fuck I was doing, because he knows how much I HATE TALKING TO STRANGERS so he probably thought I had run into an ex-boyfriend and advanced straight to the nearest alley to start an affair. As I opened the final door, the lady thanked me sweetly and mentioned again that she was sorry I had to stop for her when I was in such a hurry, and I assured her that I actually wasn’t in a hurry, and was about to joke that I just naturally walk like I’m an undercover CIA agent who’s headhunting a Nepalian jewel thief in Belfast, but then I didn’t want to talk about ambulation to someone who can’t walk because god, what an asshole I’d be. Anyway, the point to my story is that it really made me sad to think that this lady was too afraid to ask me, the only other pedestrian around at that time, for help because she didn’t want to bother me. I know I’m always “Blah blah, I hate people, go get fucked” but honestly, I could never be in “too much of a hurry” to help someone open a door, or cross the street, or chase down the hooker who stole their car keys. And fuck anyone who is. I may be a lot of lowly things, but “rude” is not one of them. Wheelchair or not, I always hold the damn door for someone. (Just not Henry or Janna. I like to force it shut on them. It’s a hobby.) Anyway, my own boyfriend of 12 years, having witnessed this via cell phone, was so astounded by me doing a good deed that his first instinct was to laugh at me.

• One day last week, Chooch stopped in front of this house and asked me to take his picture. “I wish this was one of the school picture backgrounds,” he said all wistfully. “Because this house is SO BEAUTIFUL.” I mean, it really is beautiful when your basis for comparison is the shanty we currently live in. But then I realized that this is the house that has the cinder block wall that Chooch loves to “parkour” on. So that explains that.

• Haunted House Journal excerpt from 10 years ago. I’m such a loser but I am secretly so proud of these journals. I’m also completely spazzing out because I am so behind with my haunted house chronicling. Let’s be honest here: if you’re a blogger, you know how much easier it is to type that shit out. Writing by pen is almost so archaic to me now that my hand cramps within two minutes and my hand writing looks like it matches my mental age. Totally awful, but I refuse to be defeated. Keeping a log of my October jam is way too important to let a little pen-in-hand lethargy win the war.

I know it looks like he’s smiling but he was actually VERY MAD AT THE WORLD.

• I’m having a really hard time focusing on things lately. I can barely even sit through a TV show. (Trust me, that’s not necessarily a bad thing; I’d love to go back to the days when I literally NEVER WATCHED TV. I was so much better off. Now Henry is reading this and getting a hard-on at the prospect of canceling cable, haha.) This probably also explains why I can’t keep up with haunted house journaling. I probably have ADHD or something but I refuse to be medicated so what does it even matter.

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  Also, yesterday and today I think I had some sort of mild panic attack before work. It started to happen again earlier this afternoon when everyone was gathered around the cake corridor. We were celebrating our boss’s recent nuptials and I had to peace out right after the toast and retreat to my office-thing, where I rested my head on my keyboard until everyone started to make their way back to my quadrant. Either my anxiety is coming back full force or I’m way more averse to marriage/other people’s happiness than ever, thanks Henry. I’m telling you this because you’re my doctor, right?

• I love it when this guy rides the trolley because although he has Beats by Dre headphones, he inexplicably uses a real life CASSETTE WALKMAN, you guys!
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  I can’t even explain the sweet, sexual nostalgia that’s dumped upon my head like a bucket of gland juice perspired during the filming of a Jodeci music video. And when he would eject the tape, flip it over, and then smash down the “Play” button with the fingertip force? SWOON, MOTHERFUCKER, SWOON. It made me want to eBay a yellow Aiwa Walkman, just like the kind I had in high school.

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  Bitch, you best believe I still have the mixtapes for it. I’m not sure what the man was listening to at the time I stole his soul with my iPhone lens, but I can promise you that he was rocking the FUCK out to Queen a few weeks ago. It was goddamn adorable.

• Speaking of cassettes, my buddy Alex asked me to make a Halloween mixtape for his Mixtape Monday blog thingie that he does. He posted it yesterday and I’m really excited about it because bone-chilling music rules. You should go check it out, OK?!!? I will now end this jumbled post with a video for one of my mixtape songs because I know you are going to be all like, “I will click that link, just not right now” and then tomorrow you’ll kind of think about it while shaving your mom’s back but then you’ll be “in too much of a hurry” just like one of those jerks who can’t even stop and open a fucking door for a crippled person!! And then by the next day, YOU’LL HAVE COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN THAT YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULD CHECK IT OUT and why do I suddenly feel like this post is exorsizing all of my bottled-up feelings!?

Isn’t this how you dress for a 5K?

I joined The Law Firm’s team again this year for the annual Heart Walk 5K, which raises awareness and money for the American Heart Association. I don’t know anyone personally who has been affected by heart disease, but it scares me and I enjoy walking so I have signed up for the last two years. It’s not like I ever have anything better to do that early on a Saturday morning so why not?

I did not bring Henry, though. We’re lucky he even rolled to a stop long enough to allow us to safely exit the car before he sped off to a land where he didn’t have to be someone’s BITCH for a whole two and a half hours. This left Chooch and I standing alone on a street corner, no weapons, no (moral) compass, NO MONEY. It was really scary, but Chooch was like, “We can do this” so we held hands and walked to Heinz Field where we immediately became lost and couldn’t find anyone from our team and strangers kept talking to us.

This year, Sandy signed up and brought Elena, which was good because Chooch was JUST complaining the other day about how he isn’t hugged enough by little girls, so problem solved. And thank god he spotted them so then our group of Lost People expanded to four. We kind of just stood around, looking confused, until Monica and Chris rolled up, casually biting into apples like it’s the sole purpose we were given teeth. God, how arrogant. Maybe I’m just bitter because I can’t nosh on apples like your everyday Farmer Jenkins. My apples need to be sliced by an apple-corer and sometimes need to be even more cut after that. So I disgustedly watched them snack on their produce like regular pioneers (god, why don’t you just wear a bonnet, too!!!) while cursing my mom for not teaching me how to eat a fucking apple. I AM TOO OLD TO LEARN NOW.

But anyway—SAFETY IN NUMBERS! I already felt better, and even embarked on a mission to pee all by myself! And I didn’t get lost! I asked Chooch if he wanted to go with me or stay with everyone else, and he chose to stay with everyone else because he’s not new to this game–he knew he’d be safer with them than me.

He likes to pretend like she drives him nuts, but we all know Chooch is a big softie underneath that Bring Me the Horizon t-shirt.

While waiting to have our Law Firm Group Picture taken, the most awkward interaction Chooch and I have ever had with a mascot (or furry, for that matter) happened when Steely McBeam (“Fuck the Steelers!” is what I wanted to shout to get him to piss off) completely infiltrated our personal space and REPEATEDLY TOUCHED US. He kept trying to grab Chooch’s lollipop out of his mouth and then he was unwrapping and rewrapping my scarf and even fluffed my hair at one point. I was stunned, paralyzed, speechless. I mean, if you’re going to violate me, at least give me a plate of apple slices afterward.

He finally walked away with his head down and Monica commented on the awkwardness of the scene so I’m glad it wasn’t just me being a social reject again.

The best part about this photo is that Chooch didn’t even ask to have his picture taken, but some lady was all, “HEY KID, GET IN THIS PICTURE WITH ME & STEELY MCBEAM. IT’LL BE AWESOME, A YINZER MEMORY TO LAST A LIFETIME.” Even CHOOCH is like, “This mascot is fucking stupid.”

Then another of our co-workers, Elaina, arrived with her mom and dog, and Chooch lost interest in everyone and everything else after that because OMG DOG! MOMMY WON’T LET ME HAVE A DOG.

Right before the walk started, Sandy gave Chooch a banana who then remembered he only likes bananas on Tuesdays with a full moon, so he gave it to me and I happily ate a piece of fruit that can’t defeat me.

And then we walked the 5K which took FOREVER because it’s basically just a stroll and I’m not really good at walking that slow, plus I had to keep stopping to fetch my child who would wander off to throw sticks and empty cans of Skoal into the river. And then he picked up a piece of Caution tape and gave it to Elena, who immediately attempted to tie it around her waist like a gritty haute couture sash. She’s very fashion-forward. Probably somewhere around the one mile mark, Chooch started complaining about phantom stomach pains and began finding all the different ways we could cheat and not have to walk as far. Nice try, too bad you’re saddled with a mom who loves to walk (yet has an ironic collection of wheelchairs).

Chooch is going through this adorable phase where he wants everyone to know that his father is an alcoholic because sometimes he might drink THREE BEERS on a Saturday night AT HOME. So naturally, whenever I would be asked whey Henry wasn’t at the Heart Walk, Chooch would butt in and casually say, “He’s drunk.” Of course, this is hilarious to me and not-at-all-hilarious to Henry who is so afraid that someone is going to think it’s true and then he’s going to get taken away to the slammer in the back of a 1920’s police car. Mostly I think “alarmed” reactions were only garnered was because Henry had the balls to leave Chooch and me alone on the North Shore.

(That night, we were at Ghost Lake in Conneaut and Chooch was reading the rules that were posted outside one of the attractions. “No pushing. No smoking. No ALCOHOL, DADDY!” It was fantastic.)

“Mommy, look!” Chooch yelled, flipping me the bird with his gloved hand. I started to Be A Parent, but he quickly cut me off and said, “No, it’s OK! My finger’s not actually in there!” He held up his hand again with all of his fingers folded down and the black-knit middle finger-pocket was indeed empty, albeit standing erect. So then I had to explain in hushed tones that this still was inappropriate because we were in public and it would only be OK if it were directed toward his alcoholic father.

Monica and Chris told Chooch that he should come visit them and see their cat, but I’m not stupid. I know they just want to rub their 2013 County Fair’s Most Elegant Apple Eaters blue ribbons in my face. Jerks.

And then the walk was over and everyone left except for me and Chooch, who had to stay for unlimited minutes and wait for Henry’s Gitney Service to come back for us. Chooch busied himself by playing on every single bouncy-attraction and asking strangers where they got their balloons. Then he went up to some nutrition tent and spun a wheel which landed on “Breads and Grains” so he had to tell the lady something in that food group in order to win a prize.

“Um……” Chooch started, seconds ticking away loudly into the ether. A small group was forming. Answer the fucking question. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, PEOPLE WILL THINK I ONLY FEED YOU TOOTSIE ROLLS , CAT FUR AND CHEETOS CRUMBS! JUST SAY A BAGEL, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! “Um, bread?” Chooch shrugged. The lady begrudgingly handed him a UPMC pencil and a large stick of sidewalk chalk even though she was clearly disappointed in his answer.

Well, technically “bread” is in that food group, so stop frowning at my failure to teach my child about nutrition! And this was still better than last year when he completely shit the bed and said, “I don’t know, what is food?” for his final answer.

Finally, we managed to cross the street without dying and Henry swooped in with his Dad-chariot and we immediately started crying to him about how hungry we were.

So, hooray for raising money and awareness for heart disease! However, the real success story here is that we walked a 5K without Henry holding our hands and no one stepped in hobo shit or fell into the river!

Scaremare

It was at an old bank full of Gangsters.  We had to crawl twice. One time we had to crawl    like for 2 minutes. I saw a real snake and Mother didn’t see it. At the end the tour guide said ”this is the time you go in one by one” Daddy had to go first he said “F*** IT I’ll go in alone :(“. at the beginning this Old man in the 1920’s like daddy’s age screaming about the Children behind bars. And we had to sing HAHA EAGOR YOU CANT GET US NANANANA then he broke through the bars like THIS: IIII:)IIII.    This lady in front of us THAT DADDY LIKED THAT TOLD US TO hide her from the ring around the rosey  grandma that told me I stole her cat so she told me to check mommy’s weird purse so I pushed it. I loved the haunted house

THE END

Sewickley Methodist Haunted Church:

Janna wouldn’t go with us. because she got a new kitten named Ted Nugent it was to dumb to leave it alone. At the beginning there was this fake spider from the HALLOWEEN STORE.  This guy in a red mask said what’s your name I said Riley mommy said Erin and Henry said Henry The guy in the red mask said Erin more like Smelvin  witch doesn’t even make sense BUT IT WAS FUNNNNNNNNNNYYYYYY  BECAUSE I WOULDN’T STOP CALLING HER THAT!!! I got to spin the wheel and it landed on door one of death I’d rather go in door two of terror. The guy that was dressed like a girl was from a TV show called Wheel of Fortune named Vanna White. I never even watched Wheel of Fortune. The janitor which wasn’t really the janitor hung himself on a rope and had really big teeth. I loved the haunted church this year!! last year um I forgot what happened last year. i’ll just say it was good. maybe next time Janna wont be an idiot and will leave her kitten TED NUGENT that’ll teach you a lesson JANNA! LEAVE YOUR CAT IT CANT OPEN WINDOWS OR GRAB THE NOB OF THE DOOR!!!

Cheeseman Fright Farm:

In line I had to go to the bathroom. I went in the boys bathroom but there was this like 10 year old and he was POOPING in the stall and the urinal was too high so I couldn’t use it so I had to use the girls bathroom no one was in there. it was awkward.

Michael Myers was chasing everybody in line. the people in front of us were like ‘oh well crap Michael Myers is in line’

the hayride part well I kept saying hi to all the monsters they said hi back. The chainsaw guys kept putting their chainsaws in the hay right by laura she was so scared ha-ha. Anyway look at her face in the picture. Jason was in a tractor and it came out of nowhere from the hay shooting fire out from the pipes. It made me feel hot. well it did! The fire went right in my face. The haunted house part we got out of the hay tractor I guess that is what you would call it, and we were going in through a hay tunnel I realized I was in front and I was like “no no no” so I turned around and squeezed past laura to be in the middle.  Mommy was scared because I popped out of nowhere and she screamed AAAHHHH.

There was this guy holding a fake snake  but there was a real snake behind him in a tank. He was like “like my cat? wanna pet it?” I was like “oh it’s a cute cat I wanna pet it!” He was like “OK go head!” This girl from a graveyard screamed in my face, popped out of nowhere like a butterfly and I was like “well I can scream louder!” and I screamed, so.

I liked it. I had fun. And that’s when I liked chainsaw guys. Please don’t make me write about the picture with Michael Myers.

Primanti’s. Dozen. Pamela’s. The Dor-Stop. OK WE GET IT, FOOD NETWORK! You have a hard-on for popular Pittsburgh establishments.  The placesI love in Pittsburgh never make any “best of” lists, and they’re not even all crack dens, I swear. Maybe it’s because I tend to shy away from trendy hipster-meccas and any place that Guy Fieri might have grazed his L.A. Looks gel-coated hands. But you know what, Pittsburgh? I have been squatting in your legendary steel-producing town for 33 years and it’s about time some of my favorite local joints get a little lovin’.

OK, let’s start with something that’s not even in Pittsburgh, because that makes sense.

Best Place to Get Indian Food On Those Days You Feel Like Driving For 90 Minutes

You know how sometimes you say out loud to your cat, “I really want some curry but I want to drive a substantial distance for it rather than have it now, right now”?

Then Govinda’s Restaurant in New Vrindaban, West Virginia is your jam!

And now I’m going to tell you why:

IT IS THE CAFETERIA INSIDE A HARE KRISHNA COMPOUND, YOU GUYS! About a 90-minute drive from Pittsburgh, New Vrindaban is situated smack dab in the dueling banjo hills of West Virginia. Tobe Hooper definitely joy-rides around those serpentine country lanes for horror script inspirations.

Before you eat the food that is served to you by a Hare Krishna man with a head tattoo, make sure you take a monk-guided tour of the nearby Palace of Gold, built by the Hare Krishnas some decades ago for their leader-person and currently in a state of disrepair which adds to the whole “This might be my final destination, did I kiss my cat goodbye?” vibe. Honestly, I thought I was going to be taken the day I was there.

I guess that the Palace of Gold is renown for their rose gardens, too. So maybe take a stroll through that as well.

The cafeteria is down the street (you can walk there, unless you can’t walk) in the actual Krishna compound, which makes it even scarier. They serve Indian food, which is comparable to ordinary Indian food. So I guess if you’re looking for HOLY SHIT I JUST CAME Indian food, maybe you should ask Urban Spoon for some advice. But if you’re looking for an EXPERIENCE, go to Govinda’s where you will be stared at by all of the robe-wearing Hare Krishnas and gigantic dancing acolyte statues.

Also, I don’t know if this will help sway you, but people were MURDERED there. (Not in the cafeteria, I don’t think.)

Don’t forget to buy some weird fabric things and a How To Be a Swami For Dummies book in the trailer-cum-gift shop.

Best Place to Eat If You Like Eating Where Someone Was Murdered But Have Already Been to Govinda’s

While I can’t find any Internet evidence to back this up, I was always under the impression that the location of the Johnny Gammage murder-slash-one of the most controversial cases of American police brutality was in the parking lot of Frank & Shirley’s diner on Rt. 51 in Overbrook.

Even if that’s not the case, you should still go there if you like really good French fries and are either a child smoker (as in a child who smokes, not a person who smokes children) or someone with a propensity for yanking on knobs, because Frank & Shirley’s has really good French fries and a cigarette machine.

You can tell them I sent you because they don’t know who I am.

Best Place to Look at Large Boxes That Play Music

Friends, next time you’re entertaining an illegal alien who doesn’t care about buying Steelers memorabilia or going to a Steelers game or petting your collection of Palomalu locks, take them to the Bayernhof Music Museum in Sharpsburg. It is some dead guy’s mansion glutted with a collection of obnoxious music-makers and curated by a man who wears suspenders (although one time I went and he verbally and physically communicated his irritation with himself for forgetting his suspenders by groaning and tugging on his waistband during every pause of Big Band classics). The décor is 1970s Bavarian kitsch, which may or may not make a huge comeback if I ever buy a house. White carpet, sunken living rooms, HIDDEN PASSAGES. You guys, come on — who doesn’t want to take a tour of some dead rich playboy’s house (where you just KNOW a ton of amateur porn was filmed back in the day) and ogle the sights (and smells) of 1970s opulence? (I mean, other than my friend Andrea from California, who still has waking nightmares of the 2.5 hours she spent there when she visited me last year. I guess she’s a German music box racist. I left a framed picture of her in the canning room during my last visit. Yes, there’s a canning room. Yes, I love tacky things enough to take two tours of the place in one year.)

Hey, speaking of the tour, it’s $10 for 2+ hours of enough Hummel figurines to last you a lifetime, but you’ll have to call ahead for reservations.

Just don’t get too butt hurt when Tony the curator ridicules you for mistaking some honking-loud music maker in the basement (yes Pee Wee, there is a basement!) for a calliope when everyone knows it’s really a band organ. GOD! Also, please don’t tell him I sent you. I may or may not be banned from that place.

Best Place to Buy Weird Fruit?

No, this is a question. I’m asking you. I’ve been on this exotic fruit kick (NOT MANGOES OR PAPAYAS) but apparently this shit is hard to acquire here in Pittsburgh. I usually go to various Asian markets around town and sometimes they reward me with persimmons and dragonfruit, but I WANT MORE. My boyfriend keeps snapping about how THIS ISN’T GOOD FRUIT SEASON, OK but I usually stop listening as soon as I realize someone is saying something that I don’t like.

I was on a real roll there for a hot minute, even had a personal fruit purveyor in California (the German music box racist), but like all good things and “Call Me Maybe,” it petered out and now I am back to eating regular American people fruit, like stupid apples and Cuties.

So please, if you know a guy who knows a guy who was in ‘Nam with a guy who grows potentially fatal and weapon-like fruit in a spare room of a tenement in Garfield, please hook me up. I’ll turn a blind eye to the pot plants he’s got in there, I promise.

Best Cake To Put In Your Mouth*

*(But not in your asshole. There’s a cake for that but it’s on another list.)

I spent the first three decades of my life in the same culinary circle jerk as most of the South Hills because let’s be real, no one bakes a motherfuckin’ birthday cake with better panache than Bethel Bakery, the premier go-to cakery of my family. Every last one of those assholes got their birthday cakes from Bethel Bakery.

Except for me. Because Bethel Bakery went on vacation every year during the week of my birthday. EVERY YEAR!! So I always got some shitty grocery store cake. Or worse — Kribel’s. But I didn’t hold it against them. I continued the tradition of patronizing this long-standing family establishment into my adulthood, getting birthday cakes for all of my friends and cats. (To be fair, most of my friends are cats.)

Having an anniversary with your mistress? Here’s a Bethel Bakery cake for you to eat together in a seedy motel room!

Celebrating five years meat-free? Bethel Bakery’s got a three-dimensional hamburger cake to tempt your least-favorite vegan!

STD screening come back dirty? Woo! Sheet cake with frosting in the hue of Snooki’s infected kooka!

Bethel Bakery was even kind enough to make me a cemetery cake for my baby shower. (My lame boyfriend Henry refused to tell them we wanted a baby doll in the coffin when he placed the order, so I had to plunk a plastic baby on the cake myself.)

“OK great, Erin. We get it. Bethel Bakery is your favorite and you want to stick your imaginary dick in it,” says the one person who might have had the stamina, patience and poor-taste to read this far.

WRONG. That was then. Zia Custom Desserts is now.

I will never forget the moment when it all changed for me. Spring of 2010. I had just started working at The Law Firm and everyone was yapping about these macarons that our co-worker Kaitlin had made.

Macarons.

From scratch!

For no reason other than she wanted to!

I could say that Kaitlin had me at “macaron,” but then I tasted one of her cakes and suddenly Bethel Bakery was no better than a box of Duncan Hines baked in a hobo boot. Kaitlin has a way of dumping a bunch of fine ass ingredients into a bowl and knowing how to mix it with the necessary panache to prevent it from baking up into a crusty blob of shit-dough like what always happens when I put shit into the oven.

(Maybe I should stop putting shit into the oven.)

My theory is that Kaitlin uses a combination of French swears and vintage Nintendo cheat-codes when she’s plunging the paddle into the bowl. Casse-toi! Up down up down left right left right b a!

Kaitlin’s sugarplum repertoire is vast – she can do anything from the aforementioned macarons to cake pops, themed cookies to tiny desserts in cups. She even sets up entire dessert tables for functions, so if you’re having a shower or celebrating your mother’s prison release, she’s got you covered. Sometimes I consider telling her I’m throwing a random party for my friends just so I can eat everything myself.

Because my cats don’t like cakes.

Kaitlin even made me an almond-raspberry Robert Smith birthday cake two years ago, so suck on that one, Bethel Bakery.

You can find Kaitlin’s sugar-spun mastery on Facebook: Zia Custom Desserts. Like her page and tell her “Some annoying broad who loves Jonny Craig and swear words sent me here.” And then ask her if she can make lavender macarons. She’ll know.

It was snowing this morning when I walked Chooch to school. He was all, “Yay snow!” and immediately stuck out his tongue to catch snowflakes while I was more like, “WTF it’s only October!

” while wishing I knew German so I could really vocalize my anger.

I’m doing a Heart Walk 5k thingie in the morning and I would really like to not have to don thermal underwear and an Anorak, so please come back, autumn.

Chooch and I hid from Henry on Friday because that is what bored children do. Here is a video, but be warned: I’m too lazy to edit so there is a good 1:30 of absolutely nothing happening. YOU’RE WELCOME!

Chooch and I had a full-blown singalong to this song yesterday and it was so good to just not care about anything for a few minutes. Also, Chooch is already way better at singing than me. I am miserably tone-deaf.

Chooch and me during a Saturday session of the STFU Henry club.

In other news, I go back to work tomorrow. :( But I’m happy that I got to squeeze in a sibling hang-out, lunch with my oldest friend Christy (she loves when I describe her that way), hockey games from start to finish, and a ton of haunted houses during my time off.

Chooch and his oldest god mother, Christy. They shared chocolate “mouse” together at Armstrong’s.

And today, Henry is finally back in DIY-action! He’s working on this desk-thingie for the living room. Right now it’s painted gold (duh) and he’s chevron’ing the doors. Earlier, he was researching online for chevron patterns and I said, “Wow, that looks like a hassle.”

“What do you care? You’re not the one who has to do it,” Henry cried like a bitch.

He is REALLY miserable when it comes to home improvement. Especially when glitter is involved.

Chevron’ing, motherfuckers.

We had to go to dreaded Home Depot this afternoon to get more paint, ugh ugh ugh, and some man smiled at me. This prompted Chooch to exclaim that I’d have a better chance at marrying that guy than Henry, and he’s probably not wrong. Chooch’s favorite punch lines are those that involve my perpetual ring-less ring finger, so if I ever did get married, he would probably never tell another joke again. A few weeks ago, he even said to me, “You should just check in with your ex-boyfriends, because I have a feeling Daddy is never going to marry you.” And it’s awesome when he says this shit all somberly and then EXPLODES in laughter. The neener-neener type, which is THE WORST KIND OF LAUGHTER.

Unless it’s me who’s actually laughing. Then it’s the BEST KIND OF LAUGHTER.

Chooch’s self-portrait that he made in art. It was hanging up during last week’s Open House and we almost couldn’t find it because it was the only one that didn’t look like a person.

I’ll return tomorrow with a bunch of words about my favorite haunted houses, since we’re about halfway through the season here. But I’ll warn you, I’m pretty passionate and opinionated on this topic! (I know, what else is new.)

Earlier this evening, we went to Chooch’s school for a parent/teacher conference. All kinds of action was blowing up in there today, like a book fair and a bake sale. (OK, so two kinds of action.) Those PTO* people are really fucking smart though, because at the same table as the brownies and cupcakes and banana bread and cookies OMG fuck off Weight Watchers, they have sign-up sheets for various volunteering “opportunities” at the school. Look, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know they want me to get all sugar-stupid so they can sucker a signature out of me, but I showed them—we got our baked goods in a to-go bag.

*(When did it change from PTA?!)

But I started thinking about how inactive I am in the whole grade school experience. Like, maybe I should offer to make some signs or something? I’m pretty good with poster board and glitter so the next time they want to visually announce the fact that the principal was accused of assaulting a minor at a gym, I could be their girl. But anytime I start having stupid thoughts like that, I just remember back to when Chooch was going to That Terrible School of Yesteryear and how stressed out and crazy his Kindergarten Halloween party made me. And how quickly I’m reminded that I CANNOT WORK WITH OTHER MOTHERS. Especially ones that plan the entire thing behind my back and leave me with all of the loose ends to tie using my special “rabbit ears” method.

Deep down, I really like maybe I would have a better experience with volunteering at his current school, because everyone I’ve encountered has been so nice, but that other school really ruined me.

Just to really drive it home, I pulled up this old blog post about the time Henry and I waited until 10:30PM to bake stupid cupcakes for the stupid Halloween party that year, and I feel very confident in my decision to withhold my name from every and all sign-up sheets from now until Chooch is wearing a cap and gown.

“Hey Chooch, remember these cupcakes?” I asked, holding up my phone for him to see.

“Um…nope,” he said with a shrug.

ALL THAT FUCKING HARD WORK AND MY GODDAMN KID DOESN’T EVEN REMEMBER THE CUPCAKES THAT I WAS SO SURE HAD TO HAPPEN IN ORDER FOR MY FUCKING CLASSROOM SNACK CONTRIBUTION TO BE LEGENDARY. I’m so glad I wasted some of my best death threats on Henry that night FOR NOTHING.

Anyway, here is the legend of the cupcakes that broke Henry and me up 87 times one fateful night in 2010. I love/hate October so much.
****

I had given Henry explicit instructions on what to get for the cupcakes while I was at work Thursday night. The plan was that he was going to bake them and then I would attempt to not look like an honorary member of The Dream Team while recreating what I saw in the last issue of Better Homes & Gardens (which somehow is delivered with my name on it, but Henry is always quick to whisk it from the mail slot before I throw it away).

When I came home from work, it was after 9pm and I quickly saw that Henry had not yet made the cupcakes.

“I’ll get to it,” he kept muttering.

I distracted myself by stuffing the treat bags with lame little Halloween party favors and candy. Then I panicked because I wasn’t sure if the game we had in mind was good enough, so I printed out Halloween mazes and stuffed those in the treat bags too. Goddamn children.

This took about fifteen minutes, start to finish. One could imagine how exhausted I was, having single-handedly carried this entire party on my back while Henry pranced around in his underwear.

Somewhere around 10:30pm, I found out that Henry had purchased red decorating gel instead of black. RED! I cornered him in the kitchen as he mixed the cupcake batter and laid into him for being so worthless, so stupid, so irresponsible, so UNRELIABLE.

We broke up for the second time that night, but he still put his big boy pants on and went back to the store in search of black decorating gel.

By the time he came back, I noticed that he also forgot the pretzel sticks/Frankenstein neck bolts.

“I just came back! I am not going to the store again!” Henry shouted.

I raised a knife.

We broke up again.

I know, I know: Erin, why didn’t you just go to the store yourself? And let that motherfucker win?! Never. Let me remind you that the fact I haven’t eaten meat since 1996 was born from my impenetrable stubbornness. My head, it is that of a bull. (And not just because I’m that ugly.)

“Just forget it!” I screamed. “Fuck the cupcakes! I just won’t take them!”

“Fine,” Henry mumbled, pushing past me and going to sit down on the couch.

“NO I’M JUST KIDDING WE NEED THE CUPCAKES OMG GET BACK IN THERE!” I yelled, heart rate up, left arm tingling. Ew I fucking hate parties. As Henry walked by to go back in the kitchen, I muttered, “But the cupcakes are going to look pathetic since you forgot the pretzels, good job.” I saw him tense up for a second, like he maybe was contemplating pushing me into the hot stove, but then he adjusted his Susie Homemaker ruffled apron and went back to ladling batter into the cupcake tray thing.

“Did you start cooking the spaghetti yet?” I asked. We needed a lot of spaghetti noodles for the stupid game that the other moms so thoughtfully left for me to come up with.

“Can I get through the cupcakes first?” he snipped, and we broke up again.

Around 11:30, the cupcakes were cooled off and it was time to start icing them. Henry mixed up a bowl of purple frosting while I struggled with the orange. I didn’t mix it well enough, so all the cupcakes I frosted had dark orange striations throughout them, and that’s on top of the sides I smashed in from gripping too hard.

“Look,” Henry instructed. “Turn the cupcake with your other hand so the frosting goes on easier.” But as usual, I ignored his tip and continued glooping on mounds of frosting before moving on to the frustrating task of smoothing that shit out.

I started to cry. Then I screamed, slammed down the cupcake I was working on, and marched out of the kitchen.

But not before breaking up again, followed by a death threat.

“You’re a fucking retard,” I heard Henry say as he examined the three cupcakes I managed to frost before having a full-blown temper seizure. I really believe that it takes a special kind of person to be able to work with sprinkles and frosting without winding up with brain matter Pollacked across the kitchen wall.

I started to watch the Jersey Shore reunion show, mouth still molded into a scowl, until I realized that I couldn’t let Henry take all the credit for the cupcakes. And he would, too. I knew it. So I went back in the kitchen and pushed Henry out of the way. He had a plateful of large marshmallows which he had previously rolled through green glittery sprinkles. I picked one up and decided to start working on the Frankenstein heads, that maybe if I concentrated real hard on that, I could block out the fact that Henry was two feet away from me, making me hate life.

By then, it was midnight.

I did that high-pitched shriek that happens when something isn’t going my way.

“What?” Henry yelled.

“THIS BLACK GEL IS TOO THICK! THIS FRANKENSTEIN IS RUINED!” I hurled it into the garbage.

“Great,” Henry said sardonically. “Now we’re going to be short one marshmallow.” Turns out there was just enough green sprinkles for fourteen marshmallows, the exact number of kids in Chooch’s class. “If you weren’t being such a BITCH, I probably could have fixed that one,” Henry sneered and I wanted to skin him alive.

“Oh you think you’re so fucking perfect!” I spat. And we broke up so badly that I created a profile on Match.com.

Whoever lives in this house after us is going to be haunted by all the ire left clinging to the walls from our mutual belligerence. And that’s assuming we both make it out alive. Otherwise, someone might want to consider taking a wrecking ball to 3021 My Street.

Being short a marshmallow, I made the executive decision to only use half and do spiderwebs on the other cupcakes. Oh great idea, Erin Rachelle. Next time, maybe try to remember that you have an unsteady hand and SUCK at decorating.

How do you bitches make this look so easy?

I was standing over the oven, dragging a toothpick over these bastards, and GRUNTING. It was excruciating! You need precision for this shit. And precision and me? We’re not friends. We’re not even frenemies. In fact, if precision turned into a zombie, I’d push everyone out of the way so I could be the one to shoot it in the motherfucking head. Precision makes me cry, you guys. And I think I have arthritis now. I fucking hate you, too, spider webs.

I hate anything to do with baking! I hate frosting! I hate food coloring! I hate the kitchen! I hate Henry!

I do like licking the batter off that mixing contraption though.

The worst part is that I kept catching Henry trying not to laugh when my sanity was very clearly slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, so are the days of our lives.

Of course, they looked nothing like Frankenstein and I had a failure-induced panic attack. Then I realized that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have a variety.

“What if the kids start fighting because they all want one with a marshmallow head?” I freaked out.

“It’ll be a good lesson for them. You don’t always get what you want in life,” Henry said matter-of-factly. That’s great, but I didn’t want to be there when parts of Mr. Potato Head began flying as the kids fought each other with tinker toys and glue sticks and teachers staggered away with pencils jutting out from their femoral artery. You might be wondering what sort of impression I have in my mind of preschool classes. Obviously a very Mad Max, post-apocalyptic one.

It was nearly 1:00am by the time we finished decorating the fuckcakes. Henry and I slept in separate rooms.

FUCKERS!!!!

[Ed.Note: Henry can attest this is not an accurate account. It has been toned down. A lot.]