I think I delegated too many pies to Henry, but he seems to be managing. So far, he has the two main pies baked and cooling. I tried to help him by assembling the chalkboard tags for the pies, but even that was too extreme for me. I hate crafting so bad, I can barely even muster the words to explain it. Even gluing is too much for me.

At one point, I walked in the kitchen to get something and Henry straight growled at me. Pie Baking Henry is scary. And also negligent. Chooch and I have literally been left to our own devices all day. We realized eventually that Henry hadn’t fed us yet!!!! So I had to order pizza all on my own, but thank god for online ordering. However, it’s still delivered by a human being, so I screamed like I always do when anyone knocks on the door and ran upstairs. Chooch, who has been dancing to Never Shout Never all day in his tightie whities, followed suit, so Henry had to drop the oven mitts and open the door. He was so angry about it too and pretty much dropped the pizza down on the dining room table and stalked back into the kitchen. It was like watching a horror movie that wasn’t supposed to be funny but totally made us laugh anyway.

So Chooch and I were quietly eating our pizza when I caught him smearing pizza grease all over his nude torso. “Ew! Why are you doing that?” I cried.

“Because Daddy didn’t give me a napkin,” Chooch replied with a shrug.

We are so doomed.

And then a few minutes later, Chooch said, “Remember when Daddy called us retards?”

Yes, son. Mommy remembers and wishes Daddy hadn’t used that word!

Meanwhile, Henry made a cupcake pie, which is either going to be fucking disgusting or a tongue orgasm. Basically, he poured some kind of custard concoction over this and then baked it. I mean, it smells wonderful! So we’ll see if anyone tries to discreetly upchuck their inaugural bite into a napkin.

Now Henry is popping popcorn for the pie-flavored popcorn that we’re making. HAHAHA don’t you love my insistence on plural pronouns. It was my idea at least.

Chooch and I are going to a haunted hayride tonight with Janna and Laura so Henry will be able to continue his baking marathon in peace. Maybe he can crank some Nugent on Spotify and bake in his underroos. If it gets the job done, what do I care?

Hope you’re having an exceptional Saturday, pie-eaters! And if you’re a Pittsburgh person, hope to see you at the pie party tomorrow! FOURTH ANNUAL, HOLLA.

This was originally posted in LiveJournal, March 4th, 2006 back when cell phones were less smart and more quaint. I was obsessed with pink Razrs thanks to being brainwashed by Us Weekly. I wanted to be like Paris Hilton, OK?! Don’t hate.

*****

Most of Wednesday afternoon was spent with me perched on the chair, leaning over the back and peering through the curtains of the front window, waiting for the UPS man to deliver my pink Razr. When it finally arrived, I barely held the door open long enough to thank the delivery man before slamming it shut in his face and tearing open the box with one of Henry’s off-limits box cutters. My hands shook with the anticipation of a teenage girl giving her first hand job as I plugged the charger into the wall and watched as the screen of my sparkling Razr lit up with a “Charging” notification. And then I sat there on the couch, phone cradled in my lap, glancing at the screen every three seconds with more fervor than I expended on that damn pregnancy test last August.

When it was finally charged, I turned it on and began adding pertinent info, like five of my 37 AIM screen names. I then sent out emails to my friends, announcing the arrival of my phone, spawning an onslaught of questions about battery life and other technical logistics, but the only answer I had to offer was that my ring tone was “All Cats Are Grey” by the Cure. Then I sat there with my phone in my hands and waited for it to ring. And it never did.

Henry and I went out to dinner when he came home from work, and I promptly turned off the phone. But once we were leaving, I hurriedly dug for it in my purse and flipped it open. I want to know if anyone called, I filled in Henry. “Did anyone call?” he asked. “No,” I said dejectedly. As we left Denny’s, I walked with my phone held out at arm’s length.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked.

“I want people to see that I have a pink Razr,” I said. Duh.

That night, Henry decided that he wanted to go out and get himself a cell phone, too. We went to Radio Shack where the cheap bastard scooped up an LG phone for $19.99. I kept holding my Razr up to his phone and snorting. This made him mad, and probably made his dick shrink a little out of inadequacy. Then we sat in the parking lot and acted like two people who had never seen cell phones before, pressing buttons and taking pictures of each other. I kept sending him pictures and connecting to the internet, causing Henry to freak out. “We got cell phones to save money, asshole! Your first bill is going to be $300 and I’m not helping you pay for it!”

Now he has me such a nervous wreck that when anyone calls me I freak out because I’m afraid to use any of my minutes. But I’ll throw down cash on ring and answer tones. Those things are important.

I programmed in Henry’s new number, with a voice command of “Ass boobie,” but every time I’d try and use it, I’d laugh too hard and it would say that the voice command couldn’t be found. With practice, I was able to use my serious voice and I can now bark out “Ass boobie” with the stone-faced austerity of a newscaster broadcasting live from the scene of a drive-by shooting.

Yesterday, when I was walking home from getting my hair done, I remembered that hey! I have a cell phone now and I think I’ll call my loving boyfriend. So we chatted for a lively two minutes until it came time for to cross the street and I remembered that I still can’t do much of anything while talking on a cell phone and yelled, “I HAVE TO GO OH MY GOD!” and then waved the phone wildly at my side while running across the busy street.

It was also unfortunate to have to say “Ass boobie” in public, because it was the only way I knew how to make the phone call him. I had to duck into the stoop of a store front, face the brick wall and pull my jacket up over the side of my face to give myself privacy. I was put in an awkward position again yesterday while on the phone with a Cingular representative. I was trying to get help with an answer tone that I downloaded but wasn’t working. I was using my regular phone for the call and the man I was speaking with told me to go ahead and call someone with the cell, just to establish a connection. I don’t know anyone’s phone number off by heart because I’m so used to having it programmed into whatever phone I’m using. The only programmed number in my cell phone was Henry’s. The only way I knew how to call him was to say “Ass boobie.” I didn’t want to say “ass boobie” with this dude on the other phone, so I began struggling, leaving streaks of perspiration all over the phone. I lied and said, “Haha, I can’t seem to get any of my friends to answer!” and the man was all, “Oh they don’t have to answer. As long as someone’s voice mail picks up, we’re fine.”

I felt so pressured and began to tell myself Think, Erin, think!. All I needed was one fucking phone number to call and naturally I couldn’t think of any. This went on for what felt like the entirety of a pap smear followed by the insertion of a catheter by the hands of an ill-tempered nurse with an alcohol problem complete with a grand finale of a “7th Heaven” marathon; I would mumble things like “Sorry I don’t have my address book programmed yet” (and even if I had, I wouldn’t have known how to call anyone from it!) among other flimsy excuses when the Cingular guy knew full well that the girl who was talking to was a friendless loser and probably wondered why she had even bothered getting a cell phone in the first place.

Finally, the Cingular man (probably overcome with pity) interrupted my witch hunt for a number to call and said, “OK here, call this number. It’s a restaurant down the street from me and it’ll be a free call for you. Just hang up once someone answers.” Then while he and I were both waiting for tech support to do their thing, I attempted to make jokes but he wasn’t laughing. There was no saving this conversation, so I kept quiet for the rest of the call.

I’ve since learned myself other ways to place calls with my phone. I guess it’s like how they say if you push a kid in water, he’ll learn to swim.

Today in the car, I was trying to figure out how to access my voice mail and Henry was like, “Um, it’s the same as any cell phone,” and he reached over to show me. Then he paused thoughtfully and asked, rather accusingly, “Don’t you know how to do anything with your phone?” Sure I do, I assured him, as I sent him a text message. I could see the dollar signs spinning in his eyes.

I give it two more days before the novelty wears off.

Marcy not caring about my Razr

You know how when you have a lot on your mind, and then you try to write/type and it just comes out a total mess? That’s what it’s been like for me all week (some may argue that it’s been years longer than just a week though), so I really have no business even writing in this thing today, but at the same time, I need to hear that methodical tap-tapping on the keyboard.

So you know what that means? Bulletpoints, bitches. Because I don’t have the mental stamina to finish the Palace of Gold story or start anything else that requires cohesive thought, really.

• Henry went against everything he believes in by publicly admitting that he loves me last week on Facebook. It was sweet at first because I had had a series of really bad days at work and he was trying to cheer me up, but then all these people were like, “Did you hack into Henry’s account?” and it made me realize that our relationship must honestly appear loveless to outsiders. Oh well, haha.
• Speaking of Henry, pie party enthusiasm finally kicked in for him Monday night and he actually started searching for a second pie to bake. (I already picked the first one for him.) I’m not going to say what either pie is because I’m a firm believer in the science of jinxing, and I really don’t want these pies to fail! In addition to that, he finished assembling the pie pedestals and he made little chalkboard tags so all of the pies will be identifiable. (I should mention that while I think Pinterest is dumb, Henry LOVES Pinterest. Literally every time I look at his phone, if he’s not playing Candy Crush, he’s scrolling through Pinterest.)
• Tonight is the Penguins’ home opener! Barb asked me if I wanted to go with her tonight, but of course I have the most inconvenient shift in the history of the Law Firm, and I didn’t want to call off or request a half day with no notice. Look at me, actually giving a shit about a job that doesn’t give a shit about me. (Do you know how many times I’ve called off work in the 3.5 years I’ve worked here? Twice.)
• Speaking of work, some secretary basically told me last week that I don’t know how to do my job, which, you know, is basically something that I think to myself 99% of my time here, but thanks for driving that insecurity home, Honest Secretary.
• Maybe I will live-blog a few hockey games this season, if Sandy nags me enough. ;)
• I am so thankful that I have a job, I really am, but there are some days when I’m sitting here telling the same secretary for the 87th time how to fix the same user error that she’s had 87 times, and I just want to cry because what am I doing? I feel like my brain is going to atrophy. Why can’t my days be filled with music (listening to and talking about and laying in the middle of Warped Tour everyday all summer forever) and designing weird shit on Photoshop and having people HEAR my ideas. Maybe even some writing if I have to. And then I remind myself that it’s OK, I will just keep on keeping on so that I can go to concerts and Warped Tour and amusement parks and feel alive, and all of these days of feeling listless and dull will just make my heart feel that much brighter when these things happens. It’s OK. Just smile through it. Fucking smile, motherfuckers. Even when it feels impossible.
• At least I have Simpsons: Tapped Out. Thanks, Brandy! I made Janna and Corey download it too because I needed more donuts. Janna’s Springfield looks super dumb though.
• I would like to thank Chooch for making me a fan of Never Shout Never. I’ve listened to them every morning this week on my own accord! Even the older songs that I used to think were dumb just sound better to me. Maybe because I’m not as jaded? (You’d never know that though based on the negative tone of this post, OMG I just went back and skimmed it and I sound like a brat.) I sing all of the songs really loud while skipping in circles around Marcy. Which she loves, you know. At least it’s uplifting, you guys:

• Gayle randomly gave me a Smokey the Bear pin which I will now proceed to wear every day, watch me. It’s going to be my new signature…thing. “Yeah, you know…Erin Rachelle Kelly. The girl with the Jay Leno chin and the Smokey the Bear pin.”
• Earlier today, I made coffee at work and then afterward the “Add water” alert came on the Keurig and you know what? I DID NOT ADD WATER. I was like “Fuck you, I’m always adding water! I want to be the lazy motherfucker for once!” And then I took my Goonies mug and LEFT THE KITCHEN. Take that, whoever made coffee after me. Which was probably me, now that I think about it. Fuck.
• Hey, the Pittsburgh Pirates are doing things. And the STEELERS aren’t, which fills me with glee because I hate them so much. Although Henry always reminds me how wonderful football season is because it means most of the city is either at the game, at home watching the game, at a bar watching the game, so we are able to go out in public without suffering the crowds. And I do appreciate that.
• Remember last year when Gayle brought me that chocolate meteor with an apple center? Actually, it would be kind of weird if you remembered something like that. But anyway, she brought in two different kinds the other day and told me to choose one. TWO DIFFERENT KINDS! And I chose neither. Can you believe it? Weight Watchers is teaching me self-control, I guess.
• Here, let me just take care of Throwback Thursday while I’m at it. I found an old wallet/pocketbook thingie from high school and I mean, who doesn’t carry around photos of their 4-year-old self? I also had a photo of an inmate pen pal, a folded-up magazine page featuring an interview with Layzie Bone from Bone Thugs n Harmony, and a shit ton of pager numbers written on receipts and tattoo parlor business cards.

• I’ve been trying to go back and edit some old posts, because when I say I don’t proofread before publishing these things, I mean it. Call it laziness, call it your basic blasé mindset, but most of the time when I write on here, I’m just trying to get DONE. The only time I pause to proofread is when I’m writing something for someone else. Funny, right? That I would care less about the stuff on my own site. I wish I still had some of that zeal like I used to, where I was almost militant about triple-reading every single paragraph. But now, I do it when I get around to it (which is oftentimes not at all), or if Henry actually reads something for once and catches a typo. Anyway, my point is that some (OK, most) of these blog posts I’ve been editing are so embarrassing. You’d never know I went to college for this bullshit.
• Tomorrow is going to be a scary day for two people that I love very dearly and that pisses me off. Bad things/good people. You know the story. I predict that I’m going to be doing the hare krishna chant a lot tomorrow morning. Get stoked, Marcy.
• It’s supposed to be 81 degrees with RAIN ALL DAY on Sunday. If this happens, it will go down in history as the first pie party with poor weather. I keep checking the forcast every hour and I’m so stressed about it, you would think it was my wedding day. I mean, I might as well treat it as such SINCE I AM PROBABLY NEVER GOING TO HAVE A REAL WEDDING DAY.
• I fucking promise you that I’m not even in a bad mood today. My fingers are possessed. These are not my words.
• But….since I’m being such a brat, I might as well end with a bratty visual that I texted Henry earlier today with a super sweet “hate you” attached:

• My distractions aren’t working. Tell me things.

Ever since I went to the Palace of Gold, a Hare Krishna compound in the hills of West Virginia, I’ve been promising my brother Corey that I would take him there. And then Janna wanted to go too, and I had all of these wonderfully dark visions of her getting “taken” by the Hare Krishnas and spending the next eternity singing and selling books at some tiny county airport in Idaho. Spoiler alert: That didn’t happen. :(

But goddamn if we didn’t have the best day ever anyway!

NO SHOES IN THE PALACE.

Janna was asking me about the peacock stained glass before the tour started, and I was like, “Oh, you will learn about the significance of the peacock during the tour.”

The tour was much shorter this time around, mostly because we had the most apathetic, exhausted tour guide in the joint, and all she said about the peacocks was that there four stained glass windows in their likeness. Thanks, we can count.  Corey and I could have been more blatant with our clandestine photo-taking and she probably wouldn’t have cared.

I’m not going to reiterate facts, but if you’re interested, perhaps my post from last year’s tour will enlighten you. Although it is likely mostly just full of smack-talk for the other people in the tour group. You know how I do.

Luckily, there were three middle-aged Indian men on the tour with us, and the one would occasional offer me extra information about the things that the guide was glossing over. They were really kind and I was relieved because when we first walked in, I thought for sure they were going to write us off as ignorant crackers. I mean, not that we aren’t. But it was nice of them to give us a chance.

I mostly tried to not make eye contact with Corey because I knew he’d make me lose it and then we would end up doing our weird gang-laughter in the middle of the echo-y marbled halls of the palace.

I noticed the grounds seemed to be in the same state of disarray as they were last year, so I guess they don’t get as many post-tour donations as they’d like to. I feel like organizing a 5K for them. What? Everyone else has a 5K! Why not the Palace of Gold?!

Let’s run for Krishna, you guys! Or from. Maybe that will be more fun. Running from Krishna and chubby little Butter Thieves in the backwoods of West Virginia. I’m going to organize this. I’ll let you know when you can sign up.

The rose garden is so fucking creepy to me. I’m sure it’s something that is universally considered to be beautiful (it’s won awards, after all!), but it just seems like a really bad scene to me.

I took this picture just for Chooch, who hates butterflies. Always thinking of my son. What a great mom I am.

I got stuck on rose thorns right after this and Janna had to rescue me. Also, if I look drunk, it’s because I was DRUNK ON LIFE. (Seriously, I really look that dopey most of the time, though.)

We laughed like total hyenas for like 10 straight minutes because of this picture.

Corey took this when I wasn’t paying attention and I’m not sure what was going on, other than I was fixing my shoe and probably being eaten by rose bushes, but I love it. Also, I was wearing two different sets of stripes and polka-dot pants because I can. It enhances the fun.

Krishna kat.

OMG here’s Swami Jannamanama emerging from the Hare Krishna bathroom stall! She didn’t appreciate that I immediately posted this on Instagram but I was like, “What? It’s not like you’re nude.”

Up next: Awkward cafeteria dining, peer pressure rose water, and those giant statue things again. Meanwhile, I’m going to try and get Corey to guest post about his experience!

Henry: “Where are the car keys?”

Me, in my patented teenaged ‘duh’ tone: “Um, in the new car key dish! God.”

Henry: “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had a ‘new car key dish’.”

Bitch, better get learnt then.

Before the show on Saturday, we ate at Jioio’s in Latrobe. According to Henry, he and I were going to eat there one time during the Dark Years, which was a time pre-Chooch where Henry and I fought 24:7 and I have it mostly blacked out. (I should specify that when I say “Henry and I fought,” I obviously mean “I fought.” I don’t know what I was so belligerent about back then! I guess it was just a matter of me being waaay less self-regulated, mentally and emotionally. I hadn’t yet learned about “control,” I guess. Anyway, if you go by Henry’s story, we apparently walked into Jioio’s for dinner and I threw a fit so we left.

So this was my first time eating there! And aside from my baked cod being way overcooked, everything else was great. The pizza almost reminded me of real pizza I’ve had in Italy, and I wished that I had ordered my own instead of sneaking small bites of Chooch’s. Our waitress was wonderful, but the best part was hands down the CUTE BUSBOYS WHOA LORDY.

Chooch said he hated his pizza because it tasted like there was honey in it, yet he ate half of it with barely a breath in between. Kids are so fucking weird. I don’t remember picky when I was a kid. Which is probably why I was so fat.

Speaking of being a fat kid, somehow the topic of Slim Fast came up the other night when Henry and I were getting ready for bed, and I mentioned that I got bags of their popcorn in my Easter basket when I was eleven.

“That’s fucked up,” Henry said, honestly disgusted.

“What? I was happy about it!” I laughed. And people wonder why my defense mechanism is self-deprecation.

I wonder what the last 25 years of my life would have been like if I hadn’t spent every single day obsessing over my weight.

Hey, speaking of being fat! We went out for our weekend ice cream Sunday night and it was wildly disappointing. First of all, I wanted to go back to Tasty Creme because the last time we were there, Henry waited until after I got my ice cream cone to point out that they had a toasted coconut topping, which sounded fucking precious. I HAD TO HAVE THIS SUNDAY NIGHT. It was all I could think about.

Except that dumb Henry read the sign wrong and it was actually a toasted coconut dip. Like the chocolate dips they do, but coconut. I was immediately dismayed but ordered it anyway because I felt pressured. Then I was like, “UGH I SHOULD HAVE GOT STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE” because I wanted to get that the night before at Jioio’s but our waitress brought our check over without asking if we wanted dessert, which I ALWAYS interpret as “YOU DON’T NEED DESSERT, CHUNKS.” So Henry ordered that instead of what he actually wanted, and then we swapped, because that coconut dip was actually disgusting.

I’m not just saying that because I’m still pouting about it either. It was gross. It even LOOKED gross. So Henry had to eat that and he was so annoyed about it and I was like, “What’s your problem and why aren’t you used to this by now? Be a fucking man and take one for the team.”

Sometimes I just don’t know about him.

And he had to eat most of my strawberry shortcake too, because I started to get sick about the fifth bite. And there was a super annoying family sitting at the other picnic table and something about them was just screaming, “WE ARE ON THE LAM!!!” to me.

The end.

Well, you guys. Saturday night had the potential to go down as the biggest fail since I tried to make cookies out of bread. We arrived at the Saint Vincent campus in Latrobe around 6:00. Henry made us wait in the car while he asked two college girls where the Carey Center was because we didn’t want Chooch to hear. “Look, Daddy’s talking to GIRLS!” Chooch squealed, and we laughed about that during the entire walk to the Carey Center, which I guess is their basketball court thingie. Chooch kept asking, “Is this a college? What are we doing here?” so for awhile I was like, “We’re enrolling you early, Doogie Howser.” There was a small gathering of kids outside of the building, waiting for doors to open, so I figured that was as good a time as any to reveal his surprise.

So I gave him his ticket and he just stared at it.

“Is this my surprise?” he asked, not even TRYING to mask his disappointment. (He was being a total jerkface to me a few weeks ago so I snapped and told him that I had a surprise for him but I was going to give it to an orphan instead. So he knew something was cooking.) I said yes, and he was like, “I want a new surprise.”

“You don’t want to see Never Shout Never?!” I asked, trying not to scream because I have a “cool mom” façade to uphold and there were too many kids around.

“Yeah, but I want something from Amazon,” Chooch sighed. WHAT THE FUCK. Henry was in the will call line (he waited until three days ago to buy his ticket) so I texted him and it went something like I DON’T WANT TO BE A MOM ANYMORE THIS SUCKS LET’S JUST GO HOME WHAT A FUCKING SPOILED BRAT HE IS.

Henry turned around in his line and just laughed at me. “It’ll be fine,” he texted back.

And you know what? It really was fine. It was better than fine. It was a fucking fantastic night and Chooch and I really bonded! We had a ton of inside jokes that would make us double over in laughter (Man Boobs and bubblegum) and Henry would laugh too but then he would say, “Haha, what?” and we would just say, “You wouldn’t understand.” And then he would frown and bristle his mustache and we would laugh harder.

The venue was perfect for a seven-year-old. It was literally a college gym, so there were bleachers adjacent to the stage, and the view was unobstructed. Before the show started, Chooch acted like he owned the place, catching the eye of various blond college girls and then shrugging it off like it was no big thing. And then someone near the front of the stage started batting around a red balloon, and everyone acted like they had never batted around a balloon before, while the rest of us acted like we had never watched anyone bat around a balloon before, and somehow it became wildly entertaining. Especially when someone accidentally made the balloon waft out of reach on the stage, and there was a frantic outcry. They kept trying to get various roadies to grab it for them, but their cries were unheard. Finally, someone on stage noticed and returned the balloon to the crowd amid ear drum-perforating cheers.

Chooch then decided he wanted is own balloon to bat around on the bleachers and wanted Henry to take him to find one. Grumpy Henry grumped, “No! There aren’t any balloons out there! THOSE KIDS BROUGHT THAT ONE!” Because he didn’t want to irritate his hemorrhoids by standing up and walking, I guess. But then two, um, “white balloons” appeared in the mix and Chooch lost his mind. “SERIOUSLY?! WHERE ARE THEY GETTING THESE BALLOONS!?” he cried. But luckily, the lights went out soon after and the show commenced before anyone needed to make up an explanation for the “pocket balloons.”

Maps & Atlases opened, and all three of us really liked them. Unfortunately, the slovenly middle-aged couple behind us who kept kicking us in the back did not like them and were very vocal about it. After the Podunk wife complained for the fifth time about how “boring” the band was, her hick husband drawled, “Well shit, they ain’t Iron Maiden” which made her cachinnate a mouthful of phlegm and poor English onto the back of my head. Turns out they were there were Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, who I can’t remember being so terrible, but they were pretty terrible and provided the only lowlight of the night.

During Maps & Atlases set, Henry nudged me and pointed to the side of the stage, where Christofer Drew was watching the band. I in turn nudged Chooch and that kid fucking FLIPPED HIS SHIT. He sat there and straight stared at him until Christofer eventually walked back behind the stage.

“I want one of their albums,” Chooch shouted to me, gesturing over his shoulder to Maps & Atlases. What a wonderful thing to hear from a kid!

Red Jumpsuit Apparatus came on next. I know of them, I remember when they had that One Real Big Hit a handful of years ago, but I have never really paid attention to them. And that Saturday night, I was assured that I hadn’t been missing much. I’m sure to a lot of people, this is a great band. And that’s fine. They seemed like they knew what they were doing up there, but it wasn’t my thang, you guys. It was boring and loud for the sake of being loud. It was cheesy guitar solos. It was Southern rock with boring vocals. It was a guitarist that looked like Taylor Lautner (Henry’s observation, and I laughed that he knew Taylor Lautner’s name) even though Chooch kept arguing that he looked like Justin Bieber.

Chooch was anti-Red Jumpsuit from the get go.

“Ain’t no one got time for that!” he screamed into my ear. And, “Oh, the horror! Kill me now!”

But the jerk-slobs behind us were stoked, that’s for sure!

After playing entirely too long, Red Jumpsuit finally left the stage and we all exhaled in relief. They totally threw off the vibe of the night, and Chooch was acting downright offended by them. He kept forgetting “Apparatus” and started calling them Red Jumpsuit Pfffffft, spraying me with spit every time.

But then Never Shout Never came on and my lord, I knew Chooch had a big-ass mouth, but I never thought a scream so 1989 NKOTB GIRLY could come barreling out of it like it did at the moment. That kid was going NUTS. He inadvertently punched me in the face a few times while overzealously waving his arms in the air.

The second song they played was “Trouble,” which is Chooch’s all-time favorite. He sang along to every word and his eyes were GLISTENING WITH TEARS. I thought maybe I was seeing things, but Henry and I discussed this on the ride home while Chooch was sleeping in the backseat, and Henry confirmed that he witnessed Chooch crying several times throughout the night. HE IS MY SON FOR REAL, YOU GUYS! I officially don’t care how much everyone thinks he looks like just Henry and 0% like me! He has all of my emotions!

God help us all.

I feel like a real douchebag. I used to make fun of Never Shout Never when Christofer Drew hit the scene six years ago (when he was only 16!). I thought he was so stupid-looking, like this weird emo-hippie hybrid who could pass as the second-coming of Jimmy from H.R. Pufnstuf.

And I never really gave his music a chance because it was too “happy-sounding” and we all know how doom n’ gloom I am. I skipped over him every time he was at Warped Tour, I was disgusted when I saw his parts in the Warped Tour documentary that came out last year because he was so negative about the scene. But somehow, one of his songs (“What Is Love?”) made it onto a mixed CD I made for one of our road trips last spring. I don’t know if I had the track on the computer from a compilation or what, but I put it on this CD (yes, I still make mixed CDs in this day and age OMG) and while it didn’t nauseate me, someone in the backseat REALLY latched on to it. I didn’t think it was really going to amount to much, but when I found out that NSN was playing Warped Tour this time around, Chooch said, “Thank god.”

But then he didn’t even really care! We stood near that stage for maybe a song or two, and then Chooch was ready to move on. But a few weeks later, he and I walked down to the Exchange because I wanted to buy the new Hands Like Houses and sometimes they get new releases there. They didn’t, and the girl who was working kept trying to look in the electronica section when I told her it was post-hardcore; way to know your stuff, dumbass. But they had a Never Shout Never EP there, and Chooch said he wanted it. It was $5 so I was like, “Whatever,” figuring that he would listen to it once and it would get thrown to the wayside in favor of Minecraft videos on his phone. But he played the FUCK out of that EP, and then I bought him the “What Is Love?” album and he played the FUCK out of that, memorized all the words almost immediately, proceeded to watch 259451259745 NSN videos on YouTube, and then found Christopher Drew on Instagram.

I can’t stress enough how important I believe music is. Yeah, I get: everyone thinks forcing young children to play some form of organized team sport is like THE FOUNDATION for a healthy childhood, but to me, music is just as important. Chooch is a really emotional kid, some of those emotions seem really advanced to me—this isn’t me bragging. This is me being legitimately concerned that my kid is suddenly not going to have an outlet for those emotions because some days he reminds me of Erin Rachelle Kelly at Fifteen. But seeing how connected he’s become to music is somewhat of a relief to me. I mean, this isn’t like a kid hearing an LMFAO song on the radio and singing along. This is a kid devouring everything he can find about an artist, poring over lyrics, asking me what certain parts of the songs mean. Music heals, you guys.

I thought Chooch’s NSN-mania was cute, and I was thankful that it wasn’t something really terrible like Fresh Beat Band or Katy Perry, but I still didn’t really get the appeal. After Saturday night, I think I can officially say that my mind has been effectively changed. That kid is a fucking PERFORMER. His banter with his bassist and drummer, and the crowd, was entertaining and not at all annoying. You know how sometimes it’s like, “OK STFU AND SING, YOU MOTHERFUCKER? I DIDN’T PAY TO HEAR YOU TALK?!” It wasn’t like that. The between-song hijinks were just as entertaining as the actual music and I even caught Henry smiling. HENRY—SMILING! I wish it wasn’t so dark in there so I could have photographed that, as well as captured video of Chooch going nuts.

They played for about 90 minutes, so we didn’t get out of there until around 11:30. Chooch started losing steam around 10:30; I put my arm around him (look at me, being a mom!!), but every time he’d start to fall asleep on my shoulder, they would play a song that he loved, so he snap his head up and start singing and clapping. Before one song, Christofer started to talk about how he used to smoke a lot of cigarettes. Chooch cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled to me, “‘Coffee and Cigarettes’! I know that’s what he’s going to sing next!” (Except that Chooch calls them “cigarats.”) And then when the band played the first few notes, Chooch smirked and yelled, “See? ‘Coffee and Cigarats’. I knew it!” And when he played “Can’t Stand It,” kids started breaking away from the crowd to dance with each other. And I gotta say, it was a refreshing change from the circle pits and walls of death that are prevalent at the shows I normally attend.

And now I kind of think that Christofer Drew is adorable. I guess I always assumed he was trying too hard, what with the warpaint he used to wear on his face and the wolf hat-wearing and the acting like he just stepped out of Henry’s wardrobe circa 1972. But this is who he is, for real. A walking, talking, no-shoe-wearing Woodstock representative in this scary 21st Century Land who just wants everyone to love each other. I get it now, Christofer Drew. I get it. I’m a fan. And I’m happy that I get to share this with Chooch now before he becomes a surly teenager who doesn’t want his lame mom to like the same music as him.

When we got back to the car, I turned to Chooch and asked, “So, now do you think this was a good surprise?

And in this earnest, sincere voice, he shook his head and quietly answered yes. He then proceeded to excitedly talk a mile a minute about the show before passing out for the hour drive home to Pittsburgh. Totally worth it. But I’m still not posting the video of when I gave Chooch his ticket because it pisses me off so bad! Even though Henry tried to explain to me that a concert ticket doesn’t mean the same thing to a 7-year-old as it would to a teenager, and I guess I understand that. Thankfully, the actual concert was another story!

I have a feeling someone is going to be asking for a ukulele for Christmas.

This was very necessary, though neither Marcy nor Henry seemed to think so.

This weekend has been pretty stellar! Last night was almost a fail but it ended up being one of the best memories I’ve made with my kid to date. More on that soon. And also Palace of Gold shenanigans (see, if I allude to these things, then I have to write about them; helps keep me honest). Right now, I have to “help” Henry make pie pedestals and spray paint pumpkins for the pie party which is NEXT WEEKEND, fuck. I feel so panicked.

Only in Pittsburgh could you go to the local news website and see: BREAKING NEWS: Giant rubber duck coming up the river. Seriously, you guys—how am I supposed to work knowing that this is going on outside?! Pretty much the whole department has been watching the live feed of the duck’s voyage down whichever river it has been voyaging down. (We have THREE RIVERS in Pittsburgh; you can’t expect me to remember them all. THREE RIVERS! That takes up a lot of brain space.)

So this duck is like an art thing. Art installation? Please consult the nearest hipster. They will probably have more detailed 411.

(Jesus Christ. Here, I Wiki’d it for you: Rubber Ducky informative words.)

And Pittsburgh is the first US city that gets to host it! I don’t know when Pittsburgh suddenly started to get “cool”, but it’s happening you guys, so start studying up on your Pittsburghese. Don’t be a jagoff. (Ugh, even using Yinzer words ironically makes me feel totally stupid.)

I want to be out there right now! Even though I hate bridges! And rivers! And crowds! But I like giant things!

(Oh, hahaha–I just realized that the description on the picture above names the rivers. I don’t know which is which, though. I never listen to that part of the Gateway Clipper tours. Or really any of the parts.)

My work friend Chris and I walked over to that one bridge (there are like, 870 bridges in Pittsburgh, so pick one) where set-up for tonight’s Rubber Duck Bridge Party was underway. I think we’re going to try and stop over after stupid late shift. There’s the promise of food trucks and I will probably want to buy some super lame duck momento which will add to the eccentric cluttershack that is also known as “my house”.

Oh, Pittsburgh.

The duck is going to be docked here for a few weeks so I’m sure if you check back at a later date, you can expect to WOWd and amazed at a collection of ducky iPhone pictures.

This has been a really long week. A really long and not so good week. But Henry bought me TOMS with skulls on them today and now there’s a monster rubber duck chilling in the river by my office, so I’m pretty OK with life right now.

Hope you have a ridiculous weekend!

My awesome friend Elaine turned Marcy into such a cool work of art, and even included the perfect line from “Sex & Candy”. (She’s named after Marcy Playground in case you didn’t know.) I showed Marcy and she just stared at it, like, “Ok?” But I think she secretly loves it.

I can’t wait to frame this sucker!

Right before I fulfilled my parental duty of retrieving my child from school on Friday, Henry came home and began to gather up all of the dirty clothes to take to the Laundromat, which annoyed me because it meant he was going to be gone for like, two hours! On my day off! We barely get to see each other during the week, so I was not cool with this.

So after I brought Chooch home, the poor kid had just gotten comfortable in front of the computer, when I screamed, “OMG WE SHOULD GO STALK DADDY AT THE LAUNDROMAT!” Chooch thought this was a horrible idea because it involved us walking more than 20 feet. So I called him lazy, bribed him with ice cream and money, and he eventually caved.

This Laundromat is a mile or so away, I figured. And I know that there are safer ways to get there on foot, but I chose the way that made the most sense in my directionally-challenged head, because it only required us to make two turns. What it also required was us walking down a very busy road with little-to-no sidewalk. I never understood this since there are TWO HIGH SCHOOLS on this road! Isn’t that a thing that kids do—walk home from school? You’d think a road might be more accommodating. There are also several bends in the road so cars oftentimes came flying at us seemingly out of nowhere. I kept making Chooch walk further and further off of the side of the road until he started screaming at me for making him get burrs all over his shoes and socks and then OMG ONE GOT STUCK TO HIS HAND! It’s times like these, when nature-things are involved, that I am reminded how similar we are to one another.

And then, god forbid, a BUTTERFLY popped out of NOWHERE and that little sissy lala screamed like it was actually Jason Voorhees with wings, because he hates butterflies, you guys. Like, a lot.

I was going to DRAW a map until I remembered that maps already exist on the Internet.

I mean, that seems like a simple walk, right? MapQuest told me that it’s 1.58 miles and was supposed to take us 38 minutes but I think it might have taken us longer because Chooch tends to forget where he is and he will start walking in this slow, dreamlike cadence and ask me rambling questions about what my favorite insect is and then he will say his is the Kimodo Dragon and we will have a huge argument about how that is not an insect.

Meanwhile, I was so afraid we were going to get hit by a car and Henry would spend the rest of his life thinking we were walking to the Laundromat because we wanted to spend time with him since we love him and miss him so much—-wait, he totally wouldn’t think that. He would know for sure that we had our typical asshole-motives for walking down McNeilly Avenue during prime afternoon traffic.

(FYI: Spellcheck keeps automatically capitalizing Laundromat. Thank you for teaching me that it’s a proper noun, Spellcheck. OR IS IT?!)

Then I had to stop and buy Chooch his stupid “frozen treat”, as he kept calling it. But the shitty gas station had a minimum to use a credit card, so I ended up having to use his promised $5 to buy his stupid “frozen treat”, but he had totally forgotten about that part of the deal by then anyway.

And then it was finally time!

Turned out that Henry was all the way in the back watching Family Feud, so this allowed Chooch and I to slip in through the front door and trench-crawl around aisles of washing machines, popping up every now and then to snap some pictures. (Chooch’s turned out AWESOME. Sike.) Our stalking unfortunately was cut short because CHOOCH hasn’t quite learned to stifle his giggles on the war field, so Henry eventually caught on. (Eventually = 30 seconds.)

Subject turns upon hearing mysterious yet familiar choked chortles.

And then we were totally busted, thanks Chooch. I knew I should have left him at home! (I mean, it’s OK to leave a 7-year-old home alone if there are cats in the house too, right? And pretzels?) So then Chooch wasted more money in the vending machine and watched too-young cartoons on the complimentary telly while I ran around taking pictures like I’ve never been in a Laundromat before (this is almost true since Henry does all of the laundry, all of the time).

Once Henry found out that we walked down McNeilly, he got all Fatherly and started lecturing me about how dangerous and stupid that was. YEAH I KNOW, OK. THAT IS WHY THE WORD “HINDSIGHT” WAS INVENTED.

“I didn’t think you two would actually walk all of the way here to help me,” Henry mumbled dejectedly.

Then I got bored and decided it was time to walk back home (a safer way this time!). I thought for sure Chooch would hang back and come home with Henry in the car, but he was all, “No, I love you more than daddy. He can rot. Let’s go!”

Ha-ha, look at the Dance Gavin Dance pin on his collar. I made him wear that to school.

After Henry came home with a thousand loads of laundered clothes, we went to dinner at Hanni’s Place, which is my new go-to for cheap American fare. They serve an outstanding veggie burger dumped with some mean coleslaw on a fresh Cellone’s (local bakery, OK?) buns, the waitress was pleasant without being overbearing or too interrupt-y, and who I can only assume was Hanni himself even came out from the kitchen to thank us for coming in. That’s a place I want to support. A thankful place with good coleslaw, I guess.

Henry couldn’t find a single thing to complain about it, and he he is one of those super crotchety complainer types that can take a five star meal and whittle its merits down to your basic Happy Meal.

Chooch thought he was so cool for ordering beer cheese fries and then proceeded to call forth eight different personalities to entertain us. It was exhausting. But not so exhausting that I couldn’t later walk down the street to CVS to rent absolutely nothing from Red Box! By the time I went to bed that night, I had accumulated a little over nine miles on my pedometer, and that doesn’t count the first walk to and from school that morning because I hadn’t yet put on my pedometer.

What a productive day off! I’ve already decided on my next day off, I’m going to sit on my front steps and wait for Purple Pants to walk by, and then I’m going to follow her around all day because I need to know where she goes.

Henry bought these big ass motherwhompin’ Fuji apples and at first I was like, “Fuck yeah, big ass apple!” But then once I brought it to work, I soon realized that there was no way this morbidly obese fruit was fitting in no goddamn apple corer.

Bitch, please.

It’s like the size of a baby’s head. And probably just as juicy. Mmm, soft spots.

Here it is next to a Homie for perspective.

So earlier today, I approached Gayle. And in my sweetest voice and best innocent visage, I cued up the violin music and dove into my sob story.

“Yes, I’ll cut your apple for you,” Gayle interrupted after about 5 seconds. I guess it was pretty obvious where my tale of woe was going.

I met her later on in the kitchen and watched her use A BIG KNIFE to lobotomize my mutant fruit. Our boss walked by on her way out of the office and kind of looked at us funny.

“My apple was too big for the corer, so Gayle is cutting it for me,” I explained with a shrug.

“And do we really want Erin handling a knife?

” Gayle added. This seemed to satiate the boss’s curiosity.

Thank you for your heroics, Gayle!!

The slices couldn’t even fit all the way into my huuuuuge mouth! THAT IS HOW BIG THIS DAMN APPLE WAS.

It was such a delicious apple! Although, every time I jammed a piece into my mouth, I tried to remain blissfully ignorant to what sort of science made my apple so gigantor in the first place. LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA.

You know how sometimes I might become, oh I don’t know, obsessed with things? Usually never anything that is commonly obsessed over, like One Direction or twerking, but little things like strange fruit and wheelchairs? Well, it happened again you guys. Yesterday I was able to finally admit out loud that I am obsessed with my trolley driver. Maybe even in fake-love with him

He’s wearing a bandanna today! I texted Henry when I sat down on the trolley.

What does it look like? Henry replied, because he likes to encourage these things. And is also apparently trying to dump me.

I was totally excited about this bandanna thing for most of my trip to work, because I had never seen him wearing a bandanna before! I wonder if he was trying to impress me!? So I sat there and chuckled quietly along to all of his happy honkings, until we reached the First Avenue platform.

I hate this platform because this is where his other broad is often standing and he gets all happy to see her. Thankfully, she never actually gets on the trolley. But I can’t figure out why. All of the trolleys go to the same destination at that point, so it’s not like the one after ours is going to take her someplace different. What if she is just pretending to be waiting just so she can see Trolley Driver? MY Trolley Driver!

Usually Trolley Driver will open the door and they will shout cutesy phrases to each other and she will laugh and gloat, like, “Look at me, the one he loves the most!” and I sit there in my dirty trolley seat, stewing in hobo filth and jealousy.

My fake crush has made me fake jealous. What the fuck, you guys.

Yesterday, my bandanna-orgasm was cut short by the presence of Other Woman, now forever known as Bitch Face. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was there at all, standing in all of her public transportation skankiness (those cardigans aren’t fooling anyone, you trolley tramp), Trolley Driver actually removed his person from the trolley in order to cajole with her on the platform. This was 100% not OK. I’m also pretty sure his BOSS would have the same opinion of the matter. I could report him! But I am too in love with him to do that. Although, at one time I was also “too in love” with Henry, and just look at all the shit I’ve done to THAT chump, wouldya.

Still, I took a picture so that when I stomped into work and put Trolley Driver on blast, at least I would have visual proof to illustrate this disgusting tryst to all of my non-caring co-workers.

UGH IT’S SO SICKENING! I CAN’T STAND IT.

I’m off tomorrow and am strongly considering standing around on the platform, but not getting on, just to see if the Rail System Romeo makes any untoward advances on me like he does her. I mean, he did stop me on the sidewalk that one time when he was off-duty, but I need to know who he likes more. I ran this idea past some of my work friends, and most of them shook their heads and murmured, “No. Not a good idea.” Except for Nate. He was on board with this.

But then last night, Henry proposed that I board the trolley that arrives right before the one I normally take, and then I should GET OFF at the First Avenue platform and STAND RIGHT NEXT TO BITCH FACE. Make your choice, Port Authority Player!

This seemed like a great way to spend my day off, but then today, there was some broad driving my usual trolley so now I’m wondering if he really did get in trouble for leaving his post?!

But then some guy boarded the trolley with his stroller-bound toddler, pulled out a composition note and proceeded to frantically scribble. So I fixated on him mostly, until I saw Bitch Face look up from her phone as our trolley screeched to a halt at her platform, and then I smiled smugly when I saw the look of disappointment on her stupid bitch face when she realized it wasn’t Trolley Tease. BECAUSE YOU PROBABLY GOT HIM FIRED, BITCH FACE.

Meanwhile, Kevin Spacey’s character from “Seven” was totally ignoring his kid, whom he had deposited behind his seat and into the accordianed area that connects the two trolleys, and just furiously thought-jotting away.

There was this weird moment right after I took his picture when I wondered if he was writing about the stupid white sweater-wearing bitch taking pictures of him on the trolley. God, I hope so.

I guess at this point, I should probably just make an entire blog category for the trolley.

I got this comment last week on my Big Butler Fair blog post and I thought for sure it was spam. I read it and laughed. “Oh OK, Pumpkin Funnel Cake. Thanks,” I thought, and then moved on with my life.

But then over the weekend, I noticed that the stats for that particular post had spiked, which I thought was odd since it’s nearly two months old. But then I saw that the referring link was Facebook and that Pumpkin Funnel Cake was a real page. Of course I had to go investigate, and this is what I found:

Hahahaha! “interesting review but thanks.”

“Oh god, what did you write about them?” Henry asked wearily.

“I can’t remember, but I’m sure it was something classy,” I shrugged.

Henry went and re-read it and just kept sighing. “I’m so glad there’s pictures of me and Chooch in this post. Hopefully they recognize us next year,” he murmured, and I think maybe he was being sarcastic.

I’ve been blogging since 2001 but it still never fails to amuse me when my blog is actually found by someone. You know, like Andy from “Child’s Play” (true story : we’re Facebook friends now because he read my blog post about how I wanted to bang him), the proprietor of my favorite bakery, the parents from Chooch’s old Catholic school (oh, we laugh about it now). I guess when your stats hover between 100 and 150 per day, it’s kind of surprising still to be “found.” There’s a slight adrenaline rush to it, which is also sometimes accompanied by a stomachache, depending on the nature of the blog post. But I write what I write, no take-backs. And sometimes I have to deal with (and expect) backlash. Henry is usually very “I told you so” when this happens.

So I started thinking about this (I’ve been very thoughtful lately, you guys! Too bad I still haven’t relaced my Big Green Glasses, because my thoughts would probably be even better if they happened while I was wearing glasses) and about how I haven’t really progressed much at all in terms of visibilty and readership and do I even have any sort of goal with this damn thing? I guess I don’t. I mean, I’m not the type of blog that companies want to ply with free swag in exchange for reviews. I don’t have advertisements on here. I don’t “schedule” my posts. I don’t really have a “following” or belong to any type of blogging community. I’ve tried that and it didn’t suit me. A lot of Christian housewives who would skip over my blog or just pretend to read it when we would have Friday comment parties. And you know, who really wants comments that just say, “Nice post. Stopping by from <insert stupid community name>”? It just seemed so phony to me and I was tired of reading blog posts about those stupid muffin tins that SAHMs were using to “creatively” feed their children broccoli and apple slices.

I don’t go to local blog conventions or podcast thingies or tweet-ups or anything that requires me to socialize with other people who have blogs, because that’s just not my scene. I don’t even like the word “blog”! Every time I say it out loud, I just hear “blahhhhhhhhugh.” Blah ugh, indeed.

I don’t really have a theme. I’m not a food blog. I’m not a mommy blog. I’m not a DIY blog or even really a lifestyle blog. I’m a….what am I? A variety blog? The Hee Haw of blogs? This will never be the kind of blog that suddenly “gets discovered” and none of my posts are the sort that would ever go viral. Because it’s not mass appeal, I guess. If you like amusement parks, crude sex analogies and pictures of ice cream cones, then I guess this is your jam right here!

I have had the same blog design for years and years. The header shows up as an “x” whenever I view anything that’s not on the home page. But I’ve never cared enough to fix it. The sidebar is an unorganized shitshow. I don’t even offer people the ability to “pin” my stuff!

But then…I don’t really care about Pinterest.

I try not to push this thing down peoples’ throats. When I update, it automatically posts to Facebook and Twitter (except for when that function is broken.) I used to send out email notifications, but then that broke. So then Henry fixed it, but it wasn’t fully fixed, and people bitched. I think some people read this from a LiveJournal feed, but I have no way of knowing for sure because I don’t care, I guess?

Sometimes I try to re-post old shit, because I read once that you should sometimes re-post old shit. Try to generate interest, I guess. Like, “Look! My blog used to be GOOD, you guys! I used to kind of write for real!” But is it really writing? Isn’t blogging just the bastard offspring of writing?

Quitting is always in the back of my mind, but at the end of the day, temper tantrums aside, I genuinely do enjoy blogging. I like having a compilation of Chooch’s childhood and concert reviews and pictures of Henry’s frowns. And it always amazes me that while this is still just a small potatoes-blog, that anyone who doesn’t know me in real life has cared enough to stick along for the ride. I’ve made some really awesome friends over the years by publicizing my dumb life, and I would never want to give that back! But honestly, most of my in-real-life friends don’t even regularly read this, so believe me—I don’t expect many others to, but the ones that do, I really appreciate.

I’m trying to get motivated to change some shit up, I guess. At least maybe add an “about” page, which I always thought I had but this morning I was looking for it and realized that I guess Henry took it away, so fuck you, Henry.

I did add this “popular post” widget thing all on my own, though! (And probably busted five other things in the process.) It’s on the righthand side over there —–>

Does TLC do blog-makeovers? Because I mean, I’ve been making-over so many other facets of my life this year, why not throw my blog in the mix? So, maybe I’ll change some things. Maybe not. But one thing’s for sure:  your ex-wife still won’t read this trash. :)

Blake came over to visit us Saturday night! Yay! We don’t get to see him nearly as much as we’d like to, because, you know, he’s 20 and has a life. He hadn’t even fully crossed our threshold yet before Chooch was erupting in a near-epileptic fit of “Blake! Blake! Blake! Hey, Blake!”s. And then we had to sit there and pretend to be students in Chooch’s Internet Meme class. He refused to believe that old people like us know memes, so he gave Blake a notebook and demanded him to draw the memes that he knew.

Well, Blake. YOU chose to spend your Saturday night this way!

****

I want to say Sunday was leisurely but it really wasn’t because somehow, even though I did not lift one literal finger during the entire coffee table DIY extravanza, I managed to get sick from inhaling spray paint fumes.

Chooch actually came outside for awhile and we stalked a chirping squirrel. It was really exciting! This squirrel was so pissed off at something on the other side of the fence, maybe a cat? I don’t know, but it was hilarious to watch. Then we went back in the house and had a legitimate fight with each other over who was going to tell Marcy. Chooch won. :(

Marcy did NOT give a shit.

Speaking of Marcy, here’s a picture of her wearing my bowtie last Friday night:

Every antonym for “thrilled”!

As the day went on, my spray paint ailment kept getting worse. At first it was just a slight headache, but then we left to go to the asian market for fruit (more on that in another post) and I started to feel nauseous. But we were going to get ice cream after fruit-shopping and you better believe I’m going to have to be sicker than that to pass up ice cream. But it was kind of putting me in a bad mood, so I acted all diva-ish at the first place we stopped.

“NOTHING IS JUMPING OUT AT ME, OK?!” I snarled. And Henry just sighed and he’s lucky he didn’t say what he I know he was thinking (“Their menu is the same as all the others.”). So we ended up going to Oh Yeah! which is where I originally wanted to go but I was trying to be accomodating by choosing a different place closer to the asian market.

You guys, Oh Yeah! is the shit. It’s kind of like a Cold Stone Creamery in that you can choose a base ice cream and then pick whatever mix-in you want. But Oh Yeah! is a vegan-friendly indie establishment with soy-based flavors in addition to regular Dave and Andy’s offerings, and their mix-in menu is bananas. They pander to my lavender-loving taste buds and they also have amazing waffles, if you’re into that kind of thing. I have always sensed that Henry does not like Oh Yeah! because it’s too cool for him.

As usual, we told Henry what we desired in a cone (way more complex than ordering twist cones, so sorry, Henry) and then ditched him. The same guy is always working there, I’m not sure if he’s the owner or not, but he and Henry seem to have a mutual affinity for one another and I’m going to go off on a limb here and guess that it has everything to do with their fantastic facial coifs. I need to get a picture of that guy next time. I think he’s the same guy who coerced me into buying a bottle of Kambucha back in 2009, which took me almost a week to drink. I’m almost positive he rides a sick bike, too. I want to be friends with him but he is really intimidating.

As usual part 2, I’ve had entirely too much coffee today and now I’m trying to blog which always spells disaster in alphabet soup letters.

Henry, forever ordering ice cream alone.

Chooch killed time by plunking keys on the piano by the door. At first I was like, “Oh god, we’re going to get kicked out” because I expected him to start hammering out the Schizophrenic’s Waltz with his mallet-hands, but instead, he gently tapped a few keys and then whispered to me, “Isn’t it the saddest song ever?”

And then, “You should buy a piano for the house, so then when you ask me to entertain you, I can.”

He has all of the plans.

More importantly, I got sweet cream with lavender, pretzels and coffee grinds and it was fantasmic. Fantastic and orgasmic. Get it? Fantastic + orgas….

….eh, forget it.

I was orginally going to order one of the house combinations called Honeyhead, which had baklava and orange peel in it, but Henry was all, “NO THAT IS WHAT I AM GOING TO GET. GO BACK TO YOUR LAVENDER.” So I thought, “Wow, this will work out great. I’ll just share with Henry and then still get to eat all of my own because Henry hates lavender and coffee!” But that dumbass used chocolate ice cream as his base and it was all effed up. Way to go, Henry.

I was SO MAD about this too. He was all, “But why? This is MY ice cream!”

Whatever. What’s his is mine. Duh.

As soon as we came home, I thought I was going to barf, but I held it in because what a waste of perfectly good ice cream that would be! But serioulsy, those fumes had really gone to my head at that point and I had to actually TAKE A NAP which I only ever do when I’m really sick. So you know I was really sick.

Meanwhile, Henry went to the store to get the stuff I needed to practice baking pie pops later that evening. Yes, he left Chooch and I home alone. But we managed to just hang out in my room without fighting or igniting. We tried to teach ourselves to snap our fingers at one point, but that was unsuccessful.

Then I spent Sunday evening bouncing back and forth between the Penguins pre-season game and practicing pie pops, until I flat out quit the pie pop part and focused solely on lounging on the couch with my Penguins.

Anyway: A pox on baking. (More on that in the asian market post.)

At some point, I made Henry eat a rainbow-y treat, but we both agreed it was pretty terrible.

All in all, it was a pretty relaxing weekend, which is nice because the next several weekends are going to be really busy. Really fun, but busy. Gotta get it all in before the neverendingly oppressive winter months fall upon us.