Chooch and I had been diligently, and sort of clandestinely, working on a Father’s Day book for Henry. Truth be told, we don’t ever really get him anything on Father’s Day, and the whole Annual Father’s Day Kennywood Trip is mostly for me and Chooch. (Maybe more than mostly.) So I decided that it was time to do something to really show Henry who’s boss.

(Hahahaha, as if.)

Chooch and I took turns illustrating things about Henry that we love, and maybe sometimes also things that we like to make fun of him for. Like his constant desire to point out nature things when we go for walks. Or his ability to identify aircraft, sometimes by sound alone. (Just kidding, he’s not that cool.)

Of course, working with a seven-year-old meant that Henry pretty much knew we were “doing something” right from the get-go. Like when Chooch decided to draw his first picture while Henry was in the other room, and “covered up” by yelling, “I’M JUST DRAWING….UM, A RANDOM PICTURE OF A ZOMBIE. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH FATHER’S DAY.”

It arrived last Friday and I diligently wrapped it in wrinkled, used tissue paper, duct tape, and a ribbon made from the circulars because Henry is OBSESSED with reading the circulars. I hate the circulars because they’re nothing more than superfluous clutter, so I tend to pitch them the moment the mailman delivers them, which sends Henry into a blind rage because he enjoys reading about produce sales at the dining room table while he eats his meat-gruel and bread for dinner.

I wanted him to have mixed emotions: happiness about receiving a gift, and anger that his circulars were reduced to little more than gift-fodder.

The idea was to give it to him the morning of Father’s Day, to maybe soften him up for the rest of the day so that he would feel obliged to spend thousands of dollars on us at Kennywood (maybe I might want to buy a piece of a carousel or a bag of synthetic drugs from some teenaged employee in the arcade, you never know), but we caved the following morning and gave it to him a week early. Besides, it was two days after his birthday, so it was kind of like a duel present.

He didn’t actually cry, but he did have to remove his glasses in order to read it because he’s old.

The Frown Page is the favorite here at work.

Seriously though, Trashcan cookies from Sheetz are the bomb. I don’t know why he doesn’t take it into the bathroom to eat it in privacy.

Chooch wanted to draw Henry nude in every illustration. This was the only one where it made sense though. I mean, I don’t think Henry has ever stood on top of a hill, playing Candy Crush in the nude, while Chooch rides his scooter. I hope not, anyway.

There was even a page of Henry Haikus that some of my friends submitted, which really made it even better. I liked that so many people were involved, and I think he was pretty honored. I wanted to do something more for him other than just throw some pictures in a book and call it a day, I guess because he deserves the extra effort — ugh I can’t believe I’m letting my fingers type those words.

Of course, every time I don’t get my way now, I throw The Book back in his face. It’s almost as good as using the Bible against a Christian.

If you have any interest in seeing the rest of the book, here is a slideshow. I know, right — a SLIDESHOW. This blog just keeps getting richer and richer.

Click here to view this photo book larger

Spent all day downtown at the Arts Festival and now I’m watching horror movies. Good Saturday. Here’s some random photos because no one’s got time to write & read blogs on Saturday, my people.

So this is my new purse.

Chooch’s school had “Fun Day” yesterday and this is what his 8th grade girlfriend wrote on his shirt. Apparently she also had “Kellin Q” written on her face and her friend (Chooch’s other older gf) had “Vic F” on hers so clearly I should be hanging out with them too.

Like most cats, Marcy likes a good pat-down with a doll arm.

Getting ready for the arts festival.

A little confused.

• Janna’s friend Jeremy had a dream of opening a hot dog cart and fuck if he didn’t reach for the meat-stars and make it happen.  Sometimes Janna helps out, so we made a special trip to mock her in her stupid red apron support a dream realized. Chooch got to help make lemonade, which I don’t forsee becoming a career.

• At stupid Pat Catan’s (Henry’s favorite craft store), some worker broad was all, “Do you want to make a CRAFTTTT?” and she said it in your typical cat hair-knitting mole voice. Chooch of course was like, “YES OMG YES MOMMY BANS CRAFTS AT OUR HOUSE OH PLEASE GOD LET ME MAKE A FUCKING CRAFT” and then she looked at me and I just sighed deeply and pulled out a chair. We made bubble wands. Who the fuck cares about bubble wands?! And it was all just a ploy to just and strong-arm me into buying a vat of bubbles. Anyway, this project sucked. I made the Pat Catan lady do most of it for me, expecially the parts that required using pliers to wrap the wire, which was probably about 50% of the project. I didn’t even attempt to try, I just handed it to her and said, “Here can you do this thanks.” Then I picked out beads and actually put them on without help, if you can believe it. And then as soon as I was finished, and she curled the bottom for me, I immediately had bead remorse.  I wish had put more thought into my bead combo! Chooch’s is all summery and festive — he went with a simple, yet effective, red white and blue pattern. Meanwhile, Henry was hulking around nearby aisles, rolling his eyes at us while checking out macrame kits and jewelry supplies.

• On Sunday, we went to Unity Cemetery in Latrobe to search for Mister Roger’s grave, per my friend Octavia’s request. Of course, we went there blindly, and spent most of the time roaming around aimlessly looking for a grave that may or may not exist. I assumed that it would be easy to find, probably covered with cardigans and puppets and Crayola factory tours (what? people leaves bottles of Heinz Ketchup on Andy Warhol’s grave), but alas — it did not stick out like a sore PBS thumb. Henry finally found some information online that mentioned a private family mausoleum, and we did not see any of those with the name Rogers on the front, so either by “private,” they mean “deep within the forest and also invisible” or the family name is different. Or we just weren’t paying attention, which is entirely possible.  Of course, I had a prime opportunity to scare the shit out of Chooch, which I definitely did not pass up, causing him to totally act like a bitch and then Henry had the audacity to be all, “OMG NO ICE CREAM FOR YOU FUCKERS!” and I was like, “Wha—?? Why!? I didn’t do anything!” and Chooch was all, “I DIDN’T WANT ICE CREAM ANYWAY, I HATE YOU BOTH SO BAD!”

• 15 minutes later, we had ice cream.

• Marcy still insists on sprawling out on top of all of Chooch’s school stuff, so that’s a good sign I think. I’ve always been one to smother my cats, particularly Marcy, but lately I’ve been totally asyphyxiating her with concerned pandering. Yesterday, I followed her around the house on my hands and knees, saying things like, “ARE YOU OK? HOW DO YOU FEEL? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU WANT TO COME LAY DOWN ON THE COUCH?! DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?!” and then I tried to take her temperature by laying my hand on her head and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

• Since I’m a Regular Trolley Passenger now (thanks for nothing, Henry), I have become quite chummy with the trolley driver, who looks like HOLY FUCK Bob Ross is alive and living in the mountains! He says things to me like, “Here we are again, huh? Vicious cycle!” (Monday Greeting^©) and “Happy Almost-Hump Day, huh?!” (Tuesday Greeting^©, although sometimes he jumps the gun and lets this one fly on Mondays) and I’ll let you wonder wildly about the rest. I’m not the only one to whom he’s so salacious with his salutations: this man loves, and I mean loves to a point of compulsion, to beep his trolley horn at all his PAT Transit buddies. He beeps at buses, he beeps at other trolleys, he beeps at fare booth broads trying to enjoy their cigarettes, he beeps at construction people digging up roads. I mean, the entire trip to work is everyday is soundtracked by BEEEEEEEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEP!! BEEP BE-BE-BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP! It was kind of cute at first, until the time we were going through a tunnel and two buses and one trolley passed us, throwing him into beeping conniptions. It was like a full minute of the most obnoxious, we-are-inside-a-tunnel-you-motherfucker horn blaring that I have ever had to witness. It was kind of like being stuffed in a metal tube and thrown into a deep vat of hipsters screaming about Arcade Fire becoming popular, where the degree of screaming becomes more urgent and shrill the further down you tumble until you finally land in a junkyard of unlimited Fran Dreschers laughing to Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I could still hear it, faintly, an hour later when I was at work.  Totally ruined my afternoon. The one day, he saw one of his buddies in a parking lot, operating some sort of crane, so he was straight beepin’ his proverbial trolley dick, but the guy did not reciprocate the love. I’m 99.9% sure that this was intentional, so Bob Ross: New Career rolled the trolley to a halt and laid on the horn again. This time, the crane-operator doled out the most sarcastic hand-wave I’ve ever seen, and I could almost hear him screaming, “OK! I GET IT! MOTHERFUCKING HELLO! BLOW IT OUTCHER ASS!” Henry said that he was pretty sure that the horns on trolleys and buses were meant to be used as a warning, not a Salute Buzzer. The other day, I couldn’t imagine who Bob Ross of PAT Transit was beeping at, when suddenly I saw a squirrel dash across the tracks. So I guess he does occasionally use the horn as the warning siren it’s intended to be. Good for him. Super nice guy though, for real.
• I really hate it when Henry is talking to Chooch and refers to me as “your mother.” It just makes me feel like some old Donna in a housecoat, I don’t know. So I asked him to please stop calling me that. To Chooch, Henry corrected himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant your 13-year-old friend over there.” See? So much better.
• On Monday, I didn’t notice until after I got to work that my pants had a stain on them. Not just any stain, but a translucent white, milky stain on the upper thigh, right by my crotch. Totally looked like a fucking cum stain and I swear to god it wasn’t because it’s been ages since the last time I wore any work pants to the sex club. I showed Henry when I came home and he was all, “Good one, jackass” but I think he was secretly turned on. WHO’S CUM STAIN IS IT!? he probably thought. Maybe that will be his next blog post.

I wanted to visit Speck and Don’s graves on Sunday, but first we had to stop and buy some flowers. The grocery store we went to is right across the street from a mini golf course, so I told Henry to stop there afterward.

And we all know when I tell Henry to do something, he does it.

The best part was that we didn’t tell Chooch we were going to play mini golf, so he was all surprised and doubly-excited when he realized that we were OMG going to do something fun without him having to beg for a fortnight.

Begrudgingly writing in all of my fantastic scores.

Reflections in Scorekeeping.

It’s a wonder I excel at mini golf considering Chooch and I are usually doing pee-squats the whole time from laughing so hard.

Ugh, grossest photo bomb EVER, Henry!!

Henry tried to teach Chooch how to hit a golfball at the driving range, but Chooch kept shrugging him off and doing it his own way. This made Henry throw his arms up.

“You can’t teach him anything! He knows everything!” Henry cried.

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re birthed by a genius,” I said and then I blew on my fingertips in real life.

(I won at mini golf, FYI.)

The next stop was Fallen Timber Pet Cemetery. Visiting Speck and Don, though it still makes me cry, brings me a little bit of peace each time. The gesture of picking out flowers and placing them across their graves heals my heart a little more with every visit and I’m really so glad that we decided to bury them there. I know that Marcy’s days are waning, and I live every day like it’s going to be her last. (In fact, she is going to the vet today and I have been trying every thing in my power to keep myself distracted so I don’t douse the department with the saddest tears to ever fall.)

Chooch picked out Speck’s flowers. They were glittery! I think she would have loved them.

Ouch. :(

Thank god I have a weirdo kid who makes ridiculous faces to cheer me up and says shit like this:

Chooch randomly started talking about the stuffed penguin he “won” at Kennywood.

“You didn’t win it,” I corrected. “You made Janna buy it for you.”

Chooch shrugged. “Same thing.”

On the way home, Henry decided that he wanted to have taco night, so we invited Janna over because tacos taste better when shared. Isn’t that Mexico’s motto? Too bad Henry didn’t even have beans or rice in his taco cafeteria.

“I mean, there’s Chooch’s leftover fried rice,” Henry joked. Motherfucker, don’t joke with me. I’ll eat that shit on my taco.

Fried Rice Taco, DGAF.

It actually wasn’t all that bad, sour cream and all. But I did get a pretty bad stomachache later. I think Henry may have tried to warn me about that but why listen?

Chooch, mocking Henry eating a taco. This made me lose my mind in laughter, which exacerbated Chooch’s dickishness, culminating in him kicking a ball in the house. It landed right in the middle of Lunch Lady Henry’s Taco Buffet, causing Henry’s head to explode. He sent Chooch to his room which is a farce because hello, it’s Henry sending Chooch to his room — ain’t no one shaking in their boots over Henry. When I was still writhing around on the couch in hysterical laughter after this, Henry got all tough guy and tried to send me to my room, too.

So I laughed harder.

Meanwhile, Janna was sitting there with an exasperated expression on her face. She’s just trying to eat a fucking taco, you know?

Being a dickhead.

Then we watched some hockey and I was thinking to myself, “Fuck, Self. This was a really entertaining weekend” and I started to get all sad until I remembered that there was STILL ONE MORE DAY. Thank you, Henry, for being a SERVICE person.

Life is actually pretty great when you quit driving yourself crazy with the whole “WHAT AM I GONNA DO WITH MY LIFE?!!?” panic sessions and just realize, “Wait, why isn’t ‘living it’ a good enough answer?” I don’t know when exactly that clicked, but once I let go of money and “career” obsessions, I suddenly had a lot more room for having fun and enjoying each day that I have with these two weirdos I live with*. I only wish every weekend had three days!

*(Don’t worry, I still cry and whine a lot; I’m not a complete Pollyanna. Something will probably piss me off real soon and then I’ll go back to channeling Hell’s typewriter with my fingertips.

)

Douchebag in Blue

So it seems again I have been asked to recap an event that Erin deems blog worthy. Me, I feel it’s just another day in the life. Chooch decided he wanted a funnel cake ,while Erin and him rode the scrambler I was instructed to get. It seemed easy enough since there was no line, just run up order it and sit down and wait. Ordered it,sat down waited, noticed the tall gentleman in blue at the order window above. He placed his order after me while I was taken the picture ( as instructed to by Erin) waiting for my funnel cake to fry up. I said gentleman in blue, which now is going to turn into tall douchebag in blue as he turned from the order window and went directly to the pickup window and proceeded to grab my just finished funnelcake. My mother who was sitting behind me ,just got the words ” he’s gonna take your funnel……” out of her mouth when he grabbed it turned and almost ran past me before I had a chance to get a word out of my mouth. He was actually walking very briskly almost like he knew what he had done. No big deal, by this time his had come up and was ready for pickup. All I had to do was wait for Chooch to get done, so I set ti down on the bench next to my mother not thinking that it might fall off , it was quite windy that day. Well of course right before Erin and Chooch returned the wind had proceeded to pick it up and throw it on the ground, and blow the plate clean across the park. Didn’t want it to go to waste, I mean it fell behind the bench and just hit the ground for a sec so no harm in eating it and Chooch would have eaten it. So by the time they got the I had devoured almost all of it except for the powdered sugar that was still on the ground. Well of course I had to explain what happened and after all the

” eww how could you eat that off the ground”

and the tears from Chooch , I went and replaced the first funnelcake. Got this one wrapped to go so there would be no accidents. We were now leaving and as always the wacky worm is always rode on the way out. As always I had to use the bathroom and walked right past the wacky worm. When I returned I noticed Erin frantically waving her arms at me. Like I’m supposed to know what that means, it also comes with the

” you asshole can’t you tell what I want”

looks. I noticed too late the douchbag was on the wacky worm directly in front of her.

[EDIT NOTE: I did not edit this for Henry. It’s time for him to spread his wings and fly. Also, the title of this is mine.

Some other things: now I know the TRUE story. Henry made it sound like he was loafing by the pick up window when Tall Douchebag in the Blue Jacket swooped in and snatched it right from under Henry’s nose. I feel less bad now!

Henry was taking a picture of the funnel cake place because I asked him to since Dutch things appeal to me. My phone was dead or I’d have done it myself.

Also, I was gesticulating wildly on the Wacky Worm because I wanted Henry to take a picture of the Douchebag (again, my phone was dead). But since Henry and I fail at Charades, the ball was dropped. Actually, I think he knew exactly what I wanted and just didn’t care. This sounds more accurate.]

I did this instead of paying attention to Henry last night.

I want to promise that I’m not going to be super annoying with this new app, but……

In other weekend news, I met up with my friend Kristy for lunch yesterday at the Smiling Moose. We sat at the bar with what turned out to be the oldest/lamest bachelor party ever and Kristy helped me choose beers that I wouldn’t entirely hate. And by beers I mean beer. I got some kind of watermelon ale that didn’t taste like watermelon at ALL but was actually not so bad and I drank it all before it got warm. Well, almost.

Kristy is a legit beer drinker. I feel confident that I’ll never graduate past “Sissy Beer Sipper,” but it’s nice to know that if I’m ever feeling like maybe I want to go out and try some kind of fancy wheat beer, Kristy will make sure I don’t wind up with some frosty glass of 12% swill.

I also had a cider and a mixed drink, and then went to Kohl’s where I “lost my balance” and almost put my head through the fitting room mirror. Thanks for being such a great influence, Kristy!

(The most important part of this post is that OMG I was sitting in the same spot that Jonny Craig sat at when he was at the Smiling Moose in March #%[^[**]]!!!!!!)

Today, we went to the flea market, which Chooch is apparently going to post about at some point this week. (I got a new phone, so he’s been using my old one and took a picture of nearly every cat stuffed animal and cat t-shirt he saw at the flea market today.)

Miserable in his Dance Gavin Dance shirt.

Terrorizing the water reservoir at Highland Park, which I am DISGUSTED by but that’s a post for another day, maybe. Ugh, water things.

Struck gold at the Asian market yesterday so expect a fruit review sometime. And I still have to write about DelGrosso’s from last weekend, Chooch’s pottery piece being in an exhibition thing on Friday, and the fucking vegetarian dinner I went to over a month ago which I started as a draft but just don’t give enough shits about it to finish it.

I know it probably doesn’t seem like it on your end because I’m all POST POST POST, but I’ve been having some terrible blog apathy lately.

I think that’s also known as suffering from hockey tunnel vision. Can’t a bitch just watch the Stanley Cup playoffs in peace, though?

SHE IS JUST SO FLUFFY I CAN’T STAND IT! I demonstrated the other day for Henry how long it takes me to leave work each day because I keep coming back into the house to hug Marcy one more time.

Speaking of, here is a video of her playing with a pencil:

This photo still makes me so happy! Sometimes when I’m having a shitty day at work, I hold it close to my face and start laughing.

Aaron was looking at it the other day and just as he started to make fun of it, I said sadly, “That’s my cousin.” He walked away before I had a chance to get into the gory details about how he passed away from complications with his sex-change operation.

I CUT THESE ALL BY MYSELF!! It’s the only fruit I had all week because Henry has really been dropping the fruit ball lately. I tried to buy an apple at a convenience store on my way to the trolley yesterday but the cashier looked at me like I was asking for escargot. Apparently, no, they don’t sell fresh fruit there.

This was Mother’s Day present to myself – new TOMS!

In other news, I’m still laughing at the “Glenn is a lesbian” rumor. It’s either that or continue crying over the Office finale.

When we went to DelGrosso’s mommy really wanted to go on the wacky worm so we did. then we went on the crazy mouse daddy did not want to go on it because he’s such a crybaby because of the big hill. so he didn’t go on anything grandma went on the crazy mouse ;-) twice and the marry-go-round and the yoyo witch is the swings. mommy went on the super SPIRAL and the XTREAM (I put that in capital letters because it’s so XTREAM ) :cry: mommy peed her pants :lol:

ME AND MOMMY WENT ON THE Casino. I got a picture with buddy witch is a bear. Dumb dumb Daddy won me a tiger I named it Tony I won 2 things a fish & a bear. It was mothers day and my mother rules and daddy doesn’t.

I was going to win this game but this stinky lady dumbest lady in the hole wide world cheated for this 4 year old and I was so freaking madddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd the game was called water races.

I like amusement parks because there’s roller coasters and swings and some water rides.

*[This works as alliteration because the k in Knoebel’s is not silent. BAM.]

“STOP IT!”
“PLEASE DON’T GET A TICKET!”
“I DON’T WANT TO DANCE!”
“I FEEL LIKE I’M TEACHING A KID HOW TO DRIVE!”
“TURN IT DOWN!”
“NO I DON’T WANT TO SEE HOW U DRIVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE!”
“SETTLE DOWN!”
-Things Henry said while I drove us home from dropping off the rental car.

It’s not often that I get to drive the Great Professional Driver anywhere, so I really lived it up. Unfortunately, he doesn’t believe that dancing belongs in moving vehicles. Granted, my dancing is more like a walk through a mental institution, but still. I guess I’ll just have my Pierce the Veil dance party at home with Marcy, then.

—————

We listened to EVERY SINGLE PIERCE THE VEIL album on the 4 hour drive to Knoebel’s and Henry actually didn’t complain (that changed once I did a clandestine disc-change and he realized we were then listening to Dance Gavin Dance) until I started comparing him to Vic Fuentes.

“I wish you were more like Vic,” I sighed. “I bet he’s such a great boyfriend.”

“He’d never be around!” Henry pointed out.

“Yeah, but he would be writing pretty songs about me so it wouldn’t matter,” I reasoned.

But then Henry and I looked at each other and laughed because we both know that if I was Vic’s girlfriend, his darkly romantic songs would take a quick turn to “IFUCKINGHATETHATBITCH” death metal territory.

At Knoebel’s, there is a pavilion that has a roof shaped like a giant cake. One side of it says “Congratulations!”

“Ugh, that makes me think of [“Currents Convulsive*”],” I said dramatically to Henry, kicking at the gravel. “I wish I was listening to it RIGHTNOW.” And then I devoted a few moments to acting like a moody teenager and even said, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” to Henry, further perpetuating my stereotype. (“Scene kid” in case you forgot.)

*[In real life, I actually just said “That one PTV song” because Henry is too old to know song titles.]

This song has officially gone from making me cry over 2008 to making me reminding how much fun this past weekend was. Another finger removed from its death grip on the past.

This weekend has been full of hyper-maniacal laughter, Pierce the Veil, terrorizing nature and just flat out fun. I wish that I would have spent less of my 20s rejecting happiness & fighting everyone around me (especially Henry) because I feel like I wasted so much time. Now, weekends mean so much more to me and I wake up Friday mornings with that excited stomach tickle because hello, just one more day of work to get through before I’m let loose to be childish and do whatever the fuck I want; even when we have nothing planned, I go back to work on Monday regretting nothing.

There’s really no point to this post other than to say life is only as shitty as you want it to be, so find something to get stoked on. I wish I could go back 10 years and tell myself that, because I sure as hell wasn’t listening to anyone else. I worked so hard to get to where I am now, and I don’t just mean professionally, that I guess I’m at the point in my life where I just want to enjoy it with the people I choose to be in my life. No more regretting cutting ties with undeserving drama-mongers or wishing my family was “normal.” This is my life and I like it.

Maybe it’s just spring fever making me delirious but I sure feel pretty fucking good.

Saturday evening, I left my house with an iCarly messenger bag—-containing two bottles of wine—-slung across my torso, and proceeded to walk to my friends Gina and Elissa’s house. They live in the same awesome Pittsburgh neighborhood as me, only about a mile away, and walking there was how I justified the fact that I was going to be drinking copious amounts of wine and eating snacks while on Weight Watchers.

I AM ALWAYS THINKING AHEAD.

A few blocks up from my house is this creepy old white house surrounded by a wrought iron fence and a front yard perpetually-laded with trash bags. I still can’t figure out if the middle-aged couple who live in this house are spouses or siblings.  Either way, they have a distinct Grey Gardens-vibe going on. The first time Andrea was here visiting from California, she was on my porch smoking when the sister-lady approached her about a Barbershop Quartet that was playing at some church.

Because Andrea looks like the type who hangs out at churches being sung to by moustachioed assholes in hats.

This is a photo of their house I took in 2008 with one of my plastic cameras.

Here is a picture of sister-lady from over the summer, after she SCREAMED into my open window, “DO YOU HAVE ANY PLASTIC BAGS I CAN BORROW!?!?” which gave me a fucking heart attack because any time someone SCREAMS into my open window like that, it’s either the SWAT team looking for my neighbors or Henry looking for his lost masculinity between my legs.

Anyway, I distinctly remember this moment because Chooch and I were ironically (and LOUDLY) watching “Annie” in order to annoy Henry, and I had to pause that shit to get this weirdo a plastic bag, which I later learnt was for dog shit.

My first encounter with her was the day before Thanksgiving, 2006. Chooch was still a baby and I was carrying around the church parking lot across the street, because it was a nice day. She approached me and started telling me about all of these FREE THANKSGIVING DINNERS at the church (and not even THAT church, but a different one in Brookline) and how they also offered PROGRAMS AND ASSISTANCE for MOMS LIKE ME. I think she thought I was a teen mom or homeless or both.

This is all relevant to my story because I noticed last week that the Sibling Spouses were discarding an old television set. The small square kind from the 80s, I would say. Right away I knew I needed it, for a photo shoot maybe, or to turn into a helmet or a cock-clamp for Henry. But mostly because it’s from inside THAT HOUSE.

 However, the first time I saw it, I was walking Chooch to school and there were unlimited people walking on the sidewalk on my way back and I didn’t want to be seen garbage-picking. I have standards, sort of. (As if I’ve never been seen doing anything worse or weirder than that around town.)

As I was lugging my iCarly messenger bag down the streets of Brookline, like some common traveling wino, I noticed that TV was still there. I called Henry.

“That TV is still there. Pick it up on your way home.”

Simple instructions.

I arrived at Gina and Elissa’s looking like a runaway, where I was served cheese that Gina DID NOT make herself, so that was pretty underwhelming. I guess she doesn’t entertain much. They made sure my wine glass never ran empty and fed me all of the things I do not eat anymore, like carbs and sugar. And then we talked about things that the Internet does not need to know. (Sike. We talked about Brookline and porn.)

It was a really nice night, and much-needed! (Even though the cheese was store-bought.) But that is not to say I didn’t think about that TV several times and wondered occassionally if Henry had fulfilled his duty.

I guess I didn’t realize how much I actually drank until I somehow safely walked down their front steps and embarked on my journey back to Pioneer Avenue, which isn’t necessarily BAD on a Saturday night, but…you know. It was a Saturday night in the city and there were hoodlums out and about. So I called Henry and slurred, “Hi. Talk to me while I walk home in case I get kidnapped and fed crack.”

And then, “Oh hey, did you pick up that TV?”

“No.”

“FUCK YOU!” I spat out on waves of alcoholic hiccups.   And then I HUNG UP.

This is acceptable late night Brookline behavior, so it’s OK.

This was around the time I was realizing that holy shit I might be a little drunk and then I became paranoid and swore that every single person who was walking toward me was going to take advantage of my public intoxication and ravage me atop a bed of urban pine cones and empty Skoal cans.

So I did a lot of zig-zagging, crossing and re-crossing Pioneer Avenue, from one sidewalk back to the other, over and over, every time I saw a shadow looming ahead.

One time it ended up being an older woman letting her dog out to pee but WOMEN CAN RAPE WOMEN TOO.

I can’t believe Gina and Elissa made me WALK to their house, and then back home again, with all of these sexual obstacles out there! Pioneer Avenue is practically a rape land mine!

They could have at least let me ride their cow home, but OH WAIT they don’t make their own cheese!

Anyway, thank god that fucking TV was still lounging in the Sibling-Spouses’ front yard. 

And that is how passers-by got to watch some drunk bitch shamble down Pioneer Avenue on a Saturday night with an iCarly messenger bag twisted around her body and an old school TV in her arms. Because that looked way better than if I had done it sober and in broad daylight.

Fuck you, Henry.

One of the things I love most about spring is that it means the flea markets will be in full effect. Some of them are still open during the winter months, but nothing beats rifling through piles of bootlegged DVDs and bongs next to some old overweight skank in Steelers booty shorts.

I was relatively hung over from a wine party the night before (more on that at a later date), and stupidly left the house without making any coffee under the pretense of stopping at Starbucks first, but then Starbucks was OMGSUPERPACKED (it was Sunday morning, duh) and Henry got all angry about that and then we fought and he turned around THREE TIMES to go back home but then I finally got my fucking skinny cinnamon dulce latte and all was right again. I tried to laugh about it later but Henry gave me the “TOO SOON” snarl and shrugged away from me.

(This literally delayed us 45 minutes. Chooch will probably be referencing it at a therapy session somewhere down the road.

)

These are the sorts of things that bring Henry out to the yard on Sunday mornings: rusty tools…..and…..you know, I actually don’t really know what Henry looks at. Vegetables, sometimes. One time he bought incense off some ex-Dead Head.

Maybe I should start paying more attention to Henry.

I do know that he uses the bathroom there a lot.

OMG he’s totally fucking some old Yinzer skank next to a goddamn shit-clogged commode!!

The Korean “proprietors” of this fine piece of flea market real estate were on  the news last year, having all of their inventory hauled out of their shady house by the police.

But don’t worry, Chooch! They’re back and ready to take your dollars!

Chooch has to touch EVERY LAST STUFFED ANIMAL he passes. And we’re all, “No stuffed animals!!!”

Got stuck behind the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants n’at and wanted to chop them up and stuff them in their stupid wheeled luggage.  I still can’t understand why people don’t clear a path when they see me coming,w hcih makes me seriously consider wearing that skin-mask I scored at Ed Gein’s white elephant last Christmas.

My boo, Wobbling Eye Mole Guy! I think he must know me by now (most likely as “that sucker who will pay way too much for religious shit”) because he said hello to me in an extremely friendly manner and I wasn’t wearing a low-cut shirt, so it wasn’t that.

Unforch, WEMG didn’t have any Christ-like gems tucked away behind vintage Steelers bullshit and stuffed raccoons.

I wonder if he ever had his “operation.”

Anyway, during one of Henry’s “bathroom runs,” Chooch and I stumbled across a pretty cool clown picture and struck up a conversation with the old man selling it. I have a super soft spot for old man flea market sellers. I will almost always give them my money. And this guy was awesome, squeezing my arm and patting Chooch’s head.

Or completely creepy, depending on your sleaze threshhold.

“I gotta get at least $15 for that,” he said and then explained why but I wasn’t listening.

“I’ll be back with my Money Man,” I said with faux importance. He laughed knowingly and molested my arm again.

A few minutes later, Chooch and I ran into a recently-urinated Henry who cut us off by saying, “Yeah, I know. I can already guess what it is you’re talking about. I saw it.” And he really did know! He reluctantly gave me money for another clown picture to add to the clown room in my invisible never-house!

And then he had to carry it around with him for the rest of the morning.

Hoarder Lady! No visit to Trader Jack’s is complete without strolling past Hoarder Lady’s hoard-carnival.  Chooch insists on touching everything and you have no idea what kind of precariously-stacked mound of clutter this is. It’s a life-sized game of Junk Jenga. I have watched Hoarder Lady swoop down on a Happy Meal toy that some asshole shopper left dangling like a participle and stuff it back into the mountain, corking the inevitable avalanche.

This is where Steven Spielberg got the props for the inside of the Goonies pirate ship. True story.

(But don’t quote me. I’m shy.)

“No stuffed animals. No stuffed animals! NO STUFFED ANIMALS! Ugh, fine.” How can I resist a stuffed cat that looks like a Marcy/Don hybrid?

I mean…that face. How can I resist that precious face of my child?

Of course, we had to wait for Henry to return from the bathroom again (“It’s all that iced tea!” he stuttered) and he made the “Oh for fuck’s sake” face before shoving his hand into his money bag. Meanwhile, Chooch struck up a conversation with Hoarder Lady about cats, so now she doesn’t look at him as a human wrecking ball anymore, but someone on her own cat-collecting level.

Henry always acts all bent out of shape when Chooch and I leave the flea market with bounty, but he has nothing. I mean, what did you want, Henry? If you want a rusty hoe so bad, maybe see if your ex-wife will take you back, I don’t really know what else to tell you. But you’re not spending my flea market allowance on yourself.

I mean, at least we let him stop at the pretzel place on the way home. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason he goes to the flea market anyway.

Chooch and I always let him stop at the pretzel place on the way home though. Go on, big guy. Treat yourself.

Dear blog readers, I was asked to post pictures of what I have left after last week’s craft show which I am more than happy to do because my Somnambulant Etsy is suspended (I never paid my bill lol) & Henry never set up that shopping cart thingie for me to sell my stuff outside of Etsy.

So, if you see anything you want, leave a comment with the pendant number and your email address (second thought–just make sure you use a valid email address when you fill out the comment form so only I will see it, because some lady is stalking me & apparently contacting my friends is her new strategy), and I’ll send you a Paypal invoice. Just make sure you give me your mailing address too, which I think you can do through Paypal.

Each pendant is $10 + shipping (like $1.50?).

#19 was tough to photograph without glare, but that is the picture that goes along with the Signed Sally, Sadly story.

I have a bunch of $5 pendants too but I haven’t taken pictures of them yet.

On the way to LAND CASTER we saw wind meals and big blue puffy things and mommy was so scared! She was like

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiittttttttttttttt! A N D CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

. HINT IF you want to scare Erin give her a gift with a big blue puffy thing in it and a wind meal in it.

[Ed.Note: Big blue puffy things = water towers. Thanks, Chooch.]

We arrived in Lancaster, PA around 3:30 and since the crappy Ramada check-in time wasn’t until 4PM, we decided to go get some motherfucking shoo-fly pie.

SHOO-FLY PIE!

Someone asked me at work WTF is a shoo-fly pie anyway, and all I could really say was, “Very gooey pie.” I mean, read the sign. Duh.

My family went to Lancaster when I was a kid, in some elementary school grade, and all I remember was eating at family-style smorgasbords—literally sharing a table and bowls of food with other restaurant patrons, passing the corn and butter for real, Amish people of course, and that sweet fucking shoo-fly pie. Years later, my mom found some mail order (pre-Internet, remember) shoo-fly pie place but it just wasn’t the same. You can’t eat that at home unless there is the stench of fresh cow shit in the country air and Amish fuckers giving you the hairy eyeball.

Everybody knows that. God!

Anyway, there are days when I DAYDREAM about shoo-fly pie. It’s not even that it’s the Best Pie In the World, but it reminds me of childhood.

And my immature obsession with the Amish community.

And Intercourse, PA.

And fucking someone through a hole cut in a sheet.

(What? That’s called Amish-style. Read a fucking sex book every once in awhile and you might learn something.)

We passed the hotel and drove straight to Dutch Haven, a local gift shop shaped like a windmill (not the kind I hate, but a real Holland-kind of windmill!) that sells all kinds of Amish crap and SHOO-FLY PIE. Bitch, best warm a slice up, Mama’s comin’.

OMFG you can’t even see the pie beneath that double-D whipped cream bosom. I would gladly drive 6 hours every Saturday for this to be my Weight Watchers splurge item. (Or have Henry drive me.)

They have other pies there too, but who needs that shit.

Chooch opted for a plate of chocolate chip cookies, because he has poor taste. This picture was taken right as he was coyly asking, “MOMMY WHAT DOES THAT SHIRT SAY!?” because it said something witty about Intercourse, PA and he wanted to hear me say it out loud, presumably so he could then ask loudly, “WHAT DOES INTERCOURSE MEAN?” when he clearly damn well knows, or else he wouldn’t have been asking me in that creepy, fake-innocent tone of his.

Masticating Amishly. (He’s so lucky that I was too distracted by Pierce the Veil to make any Weener Photos this time around.)

God, this place just injects me with joy-sperm! SO MUCH OF THE JOYFUL PENETRATION.

I wanted to eat at Jakey’s Amish Barbeque (even though I don’t do meat; I had my heart set on potato salad, yee haw) but it was CLOSED. Henry didn’t seem to care, but I was all bent out of shape about it.

“Over what? Macaroni and cheese?” he spat over top of my ad nauseum whining.

Potato salad. POTATO SALAD. P-O-T-A-T-O S-A-L-A-D.

I can’t tell you how many times during the six-hour car ride I said, “Gee willikers, I can’t wait to grind into some sexual, creamy potato salad at Jakey’s Amish BBQ.”

NOT MACARONI AND CHEESE.

This is proof that Henry doesn’t listen to me. At all.

We settled for Jennie’s Diner, mostly because it was:

• right down the street
• open
• not an overpriced smorgasbord with a parking lot full of tour buses carrying religious people

Henry immediately liked it because it boasted an Air Force wall clock. That’s the SERVICE that Henry was in back in the 80s, you guys! (1980s, not 1880s.) I didn’t actually check, but I bet Henry left the waitress a big tip.

(She actually was a really good waitress and even told Henry the best way to order his burger to save money. I bet she also likes Pierce the Veil. I’m good at stereotyping.)

Chooch deduced that our waitress’s boyfriend was sitting at the counter and kept speculating loudly about it. He had a neck tattoo so I asked Chooch to kindly STFU before he interpreted Chooch’s concern to mean that Henry had the hots for his woman.

I know, I know — like anyone would be threatened that Henry would steal their woman. But go talk to my ex-boyfriend Jeff. I’m sure he has a lot to opine on that topic.

Pre-Pierce the Veil fuelage.

We had about an hour to kill after we checked into our hotel, which was conveniently situated directly across the street from a very closed-for-the-season Dutch Wonderland, thanks for that, Henry.

Since Henry was unloading in the bathroom, Chooch and I decided to go exploring, which is the best part of staying in a hotel when you’re six and/or Erin. The game room was right down the hall from our room, so we scoped that out but there were lots of d-bag kids in there at the moment (plus, Henry gave us zero dollars for tokens), so we retreated. When we got to our room, I said, “Watch this, Chooch.” Knowing that Henry was definitely still pooping, I rapped on the door and yelled, “Room service.”

Then to Chooch, I screamed, “RUN!!!” So we ran like escaped orphans through the halls of the Lancaster Ramada, hugging corners and panting at the thrill of potentially being chased but really knowing that Henry was probably still sunk into the Room 306 commode and even if he was post-poop, he’s still a 47-year-old man who would rather turn on the Canadian DIY show “She’s Crafty” than search a stinky hotel for his missing child & faux-spouse.

Speaking of Canada, there was a Canadian-themed* hotel down the street and while I wasn’t quite sure what it could possibly have to offer other than poutine and cheap Nickelback CDs on the pillows, I was still pissed that Henry didn’t book us a room there. There were maple leaves all over the signage!

“It didn’t come up in the hotel listing!” Henry cried defensively.

THAT’S WHAT THEY ALL SAY.

(*Maybe Canadians are a hot commodity in Lancaster, who the hell knows.)

While Henry was doing God only knows what in the hotel room (as if God even WANTS to know), Chooch and I had taken our tour of terror up another level — to the fourth floor, bitches.

It looked exactly the same as our third floor layout, but I noticed that one of the room number signs on the wall had rooms that started with a 5.

It became our mission to find the fifth floor and we were so confused because the staircase stopped on the fourth. We found a small ramp and door at the end of the hallway and realized that the fifth floor was really the four and a half floor. Still, it didn’t stop us from blowing through the door and barreling down the hall like heavyweight tumbleweeds.

There were a few rooms in that hallway, a random table and lamp and an elevator. And then we reached a dead end. On our walk back to the 4th floor ramp, a middle-aged, rotund little Asian man in a blazer walked through the door. My paranoia immediately prickled. I didn’t like his shifty gait and I didn’t like the way his one hand kept disappearing beneath the side of his blazer, like he was REACHING FOR SOMETHING.

“Chooch,” I whispered hoarsely. “I don’t trust this guy.”

“Can we get stuff out of the vending machine?” Chooch responded, not yet grasping the severity of the situation.

“DON’T MAKE EYE CONTACT,” I coached him. When we passed him, me all stiff-limbed and Chooch walking like a normal human, I barked out a hollow, “HELLO.”

(I always hope that if I am friendly to someone who is considering assassinating me, it might change their mind.)

He smiled congenially and then stopped in front of the elevator. I kept trying to covertly shove Chooch along—he walks so slow, like he doesn’t know that we’re being HUNTED—and dared to look over my shoulder once. The man was still waiting for the elevator and didn’t seem to be paying attention to us anymore. Probably because he is THAT GOOD of an assassin.

When we reached the door at the end of the 5th floor ramp, I yelled, “RUN!!!!” and we sprinted all the way back to the stairwell and to our room, where we collided with Henry who did NOT look happy.

“Some Asian guy was going to kill us!” Chooch informed him and Henry just sighed deeply and I’m sure the idea of finishing Asian Guy’s job for him crossed Henry’s mind at least twice.

In case I haven’t mentioned lately how much Henry sucks, he got us a room with two double beds. DOUBLE BEDS.

Post-Assassination Attempt.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, en route to the Chameleon Club for the Pierce the Veil show, I said, “Hey Chooch, remember when that Asian guy was trying to kill us?”

And Henry mumbled, “You two are fucking idiots” for the 87th time that day.