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.

“Mommy told me to put the icing on first,” I overheard Chooch telling Henry.

“Wait, what did I tell you?” I said overtop of Henry groaning, “That’s just great.”

“To put icing on the toaster streudel first,” Chooch answered.

“Oh shit, is THAT what you were asking me yesterday while I was exercising?

” (Seriously, he waits until I’m in the middle of Bodies in Motion* to expect me to start parenting him.)

“Wonderful,” Henry sighed. “Did you do it?” he asked Chooch.

“No! I didn’t think I should, so I put the icing on after,” Chooch said, sounding appalled that Henry even had to ask.

“Thank god,” Henry said. “That would have been a nice toaster fire.

Chooch, if you ever have questions about cooking, please call me. Don’t ask your mother.”

*I enjoy working out to exercise programs where people are wearing LA Gears.

Last Thursday, I was on the stupid trolley en route to work, when suddenly I thought to myself, “Easter Glenn Hunt!” Because I don’t have enough shit on my plate right now, let’s add another dollop!

I ran the idea past some of my work friends, who agreed that this needs to happen. So I started making Glenns that night. Obviously, we’re trying to include as many Easter and Bible-themed Glenns as possible, but there are some random ones in there, too.

It’s uncanny how much Glenn really does look like Sue Sylvester from Glee. My work buddy Nate was walking past my office last Friday, singing the McDonald’s Fish McBites song, and interrupted himself to say, “OMG! Fish McBite Glenn!” Nate, your wish has been granted.

Henry was supposed to get me plastic Easter eggs but decided it wasn’t his “priority,” so I only have the 4 eggs that Debbie brought in from her attic. I decided Glenn, who was previously unaware of this activity, should get the first egg. So I placed a pink one on his desk and even put the BEST Glenn inside — the Jesus’s Tomb Peekaboo Glenn. It was taking him too long to notice it was there so I walked over and instead of talking like a normal person, I did that mentally-stunted throaty giggle that I do when I’m up to no good. (Which is often.)

Sean, who sits in front of Glenn, knew what was going on, so he started laughing too. Glenn initially asked me what I wanted, but when I responded with more weird laughter, he brushed it off because he’s used to this.

Finally, I blurted out, “DOESN’T ANYTHING LOOK WEIRD OVER HERE?” waving my hands around his desk area.

“No,” he said dryly. “Not until you walked over.”

I had to actually point at the egg and he still wasn’t going to do anything!

“Oh, do you want me to open it, I guess?” he asked. When he moved aside all of the Mini Eggs (which I stole from behind Debbie’s desk because Henry didn’t buy me any candy, either) and found his Jesus Glenn, he said something to the effect of, “Oh, good. This again.”

This might be my Mona Lisa of all Glenns. Glenn is the head processor in our department, so it seemed like a no-brainer to put doubles of all of the other processors on the ark with him: Sean, Amber¹, Lee, Gayle, Todd and Amber².

This is what I did during my break on Monday. One of the analysts came in to ask me a question and said, “OMG, you’re coloring” and then laughed.

“Not just coloring,” I said with contempt. “Making Glenns.” And then she got all excited because people like collecting Glenns, OK?

I hid my four pitiful eggs Monday night before I left. I was off yesterday because I needed the entire day to panic and puke before going to see Jonny Craig last night, and I didn’t hear anything about people finding eggs, so this might be a flop.

[If you weren’t around for the Halloween Glenn Defacement Project, please click here!]

The last couple of apples Henry has bought have been downright horrific. I’m talking so bad that I have THROWN AWAY more than half of each 7pm work apple. They taste hard and like the ground, similar to raw potatoes. Total fucking fruit foul. WHAT IS GOING ON!?

So I asked Henry just that: “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

“It’s not apple season,” explained Henry.

I didn’t like that answer, so when I was whining to Debbie and Barb about it at work today, I wailed, “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

“It’s not apple season,” explained Barb.

OH OK, HENRY JR.

Later, I sidled up to Barb’s desk with my “I AM A VERY SWEET GIRL” smile on my face, while palming a Gala apple behind my back.

“Can I feel your apple?” I demanded. And of course Barb let me feel her apple, because I’m Erin Rachelle Kelly.

In response to Barb’s curious expression, I said, “I just know that my apple is going to suck, and if that’s the case, then I would rather you eat it.”

“OK. So, do you want to trade apples?” Barb is so good at reading between the lines.

And that is how I turned my Gala into a Pink Lady. I don’t know yet if it sucks. If it does, I’ll be interofficing Barb some hate mail.
———————–
Speaking of apples, Henry’s mom Judy was singing the praises of grapples a few weeks ago. She told me that they are apple and grape crossbreeds and that they are REALLY JUICY. This sounded good to me, so I asked Henry why he never buys any.

“Because they’re 4 for $4!” he cried. I always forget that we are peasants living in Shantytown, wearing sardine cans as shoes, and that we cannot afford such extravagant and superfluous foodstuffs. I guess I’ll just have to make do with the vittles I scavenge while playing wildberry roulette in the forest.

Finally, Henry bought a sleeve of grapples and by George those motherfuckers are some fine ass produce. They reek of grapes but taste like really moist apples! No wonder all these other apples taste like overripe garbage.

Grapples or gtfo!!!!
———————-
Henry and I had time to kill while Chooch was at a birthday party on Sunday, so I suggested that we walk up to the local Mexican market in Brookline. I went there with Chooch in December, but that was before I cared about fruit, so we only looked at candy and rosaries.

At first, I was so excited. This place had all kinds of non-American fruit!

But then I realized that it was just regular fruit with the names written in Spanish.

There were cactus petal things that Henry refused to buy, and these long ass weapons that were apparently aloe. Henry said no to those too. He did let me get these dwarf mango things, like I’m supposed to get down on my knees now or something.

“Ow! What are these?” I asked Henry about these grapefruit-sized balls of pain.

“I don’t know,” Henry answered.

“Ow!” I yelled again.

“Yeah. Keep touching it,” he muttered.

I made Henry buy tomatillos because I thought they were what fried green tomatoes are made from, but apparently fried green tomatoes are made from green tomatoes. But now we have a shit ton of tomatillos so Henry made salsa which is better than stupid fried green tomatoes anyway and now no one has to get hit by a train.

Henry also added some of my midget mangoes to the salsa. It was OK, but kind of tasted like a garden. I guess because that is what “fresh” is supposed to taste like.

Henry turned around after buying chorizo from the meat counter to find me standing with my arms full of scary religious candles, which is all I really wanted to go there for anyway. Truth comes out.

——————–

In other ethnic market news, Henry went to Pitaland (right next to the Mexican market; I hope they don’t decide to feud anytime soon because I walk past both of them A LOT) to get pita (surprise!) for his mom. He also came out with a bag of fresh dates. I love dates, but these dates were DESIRABLE. Super plump and soft, I couldn’t believe it.

SIDE NOTE: When Henry and I went to Coachella in 2004, visiting a date farm in Indio, CA was the highlight of the trip for me, probably because we fought so furiously—enough to make Sid and Nancy blush from their Afterworld drug den—that I literally blocked out most of that trip from my memory. But that date farm I will never forget. We watched some video about dates having sex, and they have always had a sleazy connotation for me ever since.

And we had date milk shakes.

Motherfucking milkshakes made from dates.

I would do unspeakable things to have one of those gyrating down my gullet right now.

(Apparently, it is a date garden.)

That milkshake alone makes up for the stripper shack in San Bernadino in which Henry put us up, and the 113 degree heat during the weekend-long concert in the desert, not to mention the fact that I was there with Henry.

“What are dates made out of, anyway,” I asked Henry, closing my eyes and obscenely sucking face with a fat ass date.

“Um…..dates?” Henry said, in his typical snide Professor Henry von Fuckstick tone.

I ate one of those sexual dates while I was writing this. I probably looked like a muted porno, just so you know.

Two very awesome things happened to me today.

First, I woke up this morning and saw this blog comment, which was left on a 2011 post about the Westmoreland County Fair:

Yes! You guys have no idea how excited I am about this! A carny hasn’t paid that much attention to me since 2010 (because Henry made me fat).

“I can’t wait for that meeting,” Henry typed on Facebook, which is basically the new Post-It Note communication tactic of the millenium.

Neither can I! I want to have my picture taken with him.

The biggest shock to my friend Bill when he saw this was the fact that carnys know how to use the Internet. I think some of them might have dial-up. I’m not sure.

Anyway, I have received my share of blog backlash in my time (I know you’re totally shocked that my sweet and innocent way with words and opinions could anger ANYONE), but this one actually made me so excited to the point that I was gloating about it.

“Only you would be excited that someone called you a dick fuck,” Debbie said today at work.

“But it’s WHO called me a dick fuck!” I explained, doubled over in laughter all over again.

Peewee (who Henry is convinced is not actually a peewee) must not have continued on to Part Two: Carnies, the Sentinels of Death Traps, because I haven’t heard back from him today.

It might just take him a long time to read though.

(Why do I have a feeling he’s going to be waiting for me in August with a wrench?)

Then, the Motorboating Guy was on the trolley again today, and he was really tired. I know this because, after every yawn, he would let out an orgasmic “aye yi yi” and moan, “Boy, I am really TIRED today!” He eventually fell asleep, but then I worried I would have to make physical contact with him in case he was still sleeping when our stop approached.

Luckily, I didn’t have to save anyone’s day. (Thank god. I’m a pretty under-achieving savior.)

I saw Motorboating Guy last week on the trolley, too, and that was definitely when something switched inside me. Instead of being totally paralyzed with fear around him, I started to feel that thing that normal humans call empathy.

Noticing another passenger on her cell phone, he began making calls on his cell phone, too, and then leaving really vague messages. “Hi.” [Long pause.] “I have no heard back from you in a long time.” [Long pause, looks at phone.] “Um, OK. Hi. That’s all. Bye.” [Leaves phone to ear for another 5 seconds, looks at phone, hangs up.]

I was convinced that he didn’t really call anyone, and it made me wonder if he has any friends. I started to think about inviting him to have Easter dinner with us at the Chinese restaurant, but then worried that he would expect us to pay for him too and my charity only extends so far depending on when you catch me.

One more note: Henry texted me a little while ago and said that Chooch walked over to him crying because some song made him feel sad. “He’s just like you,” Henry added at the end. I was so excited! My heart swelled a whole bunch and a million different songs started running through my head. Maybe it was The Cure or Emarosa, Eisley or PHIL COLLINS.

No. It was some motherfucking Minecraft song.

I get to leave a half hour early tonight because my boss REALLY likes St.

Patrick’s Day and said so.

Most people know Chooch as the trucker-mouthed, acerbic-witted kid obsessed with The Walking Dead, Ju-On, cemeteries and ghosts, but he also has a much softer, cat-loving and stuffed animal-cuddling side.

I like to cultivate his sunnier side every now and then to keep a safe balance. Currently, his favorites are Fox and Rabbit, both puppets. Fox was a Goodwill find and Rabbit was Chooch’s purchase at the Magic Mob economy boost two weeks ago.

My friend Steph has a plush monsta-making company called Frankenstitch. She posted a picture of her new Easter-inspired peepers last week on Facebook and I immediately clicked over to her Etsy shop because I thought it would be the perfect addition to Chooch’s Easter basket this year, plus I had been wanting to buy something from her for a really long time but I am always so annoyingly distracted.

Then I got to her shop and had a complete meltdown because THERE IS JUST SO MUCH MONSTERLY CUTENESS TO BE HAD.

And I have never been the best at making decisions.

But then I saw him. Wolfie Maximus. The only monsta in the whole shop that wasn’t brightly colored, but still—he spoke to me and I could totally see him in Chooch’s arms. Bam, ordered.

He arrived yesterday.

Not the greatest picture because I was on my way out the door for work, but I had to open it and cuddle with him! He is BIG (bigger than I thought he was going to be), sturdy and his wolfish pelt is so soft and fuzzy that I considered stuffing him in my purse and showing him around downtown.

(You know, the whole three alleys I’m familiar with. And the trolley station!)

Marcy dislikes.

When I came home from work last night, I couldn’t help it — I gave him to Chooch right then instead of waiting until Easter.

“OMG YOU’RE THE BEST MOM!” Chooch screamed, nearly tackling me with a hug. This kid is REALLY into stuffed things. And yes, I realize how that sounds.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” Henry sighed in the kitchen, after hearing Chooch erupt in giddy jubilation.

WOLFIE IS TOO CUTE TO KEEP HIDDEN, OK.

I planned on taking a better photo today, but then this morning, Chooch asked to take Wolfie to school. “I have to show my friends! They won’t believe how awesome he is!” And then he gave me ANOTHER HUG, you guys.

If that’s how it’s going to be, maybe I should just sign up for the Monsta of the Month club.

——————–

If you’re looking for a fun and colorful present for a kid (or grown-up! I want all of them!), I can’t recommend Steph’s plushes highly enough. These would also be good gifts for:

• people with a mood disorder which requires them to squeeze colorful, stuffed fabric;
• blind people you hate (they’ll never be able to figure what they’re feeling);
• serial killers who need something to hold after their moms reject them;
• your local anthropomorphism support group in need of a mascot
• Erin Rachelle Kelly

Frankenstitch Production’s creations are top-notch quality — totally worth the price. Chooch is totally getting another one for his birthday in April.

(And my birthday is July 30, you guys.)

My friend Maya (of Jonny Craig-doll fame) makes Grumpy Cats keychain plushies (also full-sized ones!) so I had to buy one for Chooch. I’ll probably get him a full-sized version for his birthday.

He’s the youngest cat lady I’ve ever met.

This is what Marcy and I do during the day: she tries to sleep and I constantly fluff and fuss over her and then she psychically devours my soul. I told Henry that the worst part of my day is always when I have to say goodbye to her and he was like “That’s great, Erin.

” Which is the same reaction he had today when I told him I could never work more than I already do for extra money and that I just want to make enough and not go above and beyond. What? At least I’m honest.

Anyway, I think Marcy and I are a lot alike in that regard.

P.S. I wrote this on the TROLLEY, thanks a lot Henry!!!

My little creeper. Sometimes he makes those faces when I’m least expecting it and I just die. Especially when we’re in public, like the mall, and I look over and realize that my son is now Igor.

I hate using the flash on my phone, because I have to look away and then I’m seeing blinking penii for an unlimited collection of minutes. But anyway, this was my Friday face last week. I was wearing Rabid Weasel from the My Pretty Zombie collection, which I had forgotten about because I have so many jars of Andrea’s amazing eyelid decorators. This is a very underrated shade and it makes me want to start flaunting the sparklies again.

Today, I’m wearing Goth Mary Poppins. No pictures though. Ain’t nobody wanna see that much of my mug. I try to limit myself to posting two-to-five self-portraits a month on the blog.

Maybe I should get Henry to model one MPZ shade a week.

Ever since the Art Festival last June, Chooch has been hounding me to get him pottery classes. I made the mistake of leaving this up to Henry, since everything I found was on a weeknight and I work a sucky evening shift, so it would be up to Henry to take him. Of course, Henry dropped the ball and missed the enrollment for summer classes. So, as a Christmas present, I signed Chooch up for the winter session. God, I really have to do it all!

I worked a half day yesterday so that I could go to the first class and it was totally worth it. Even though it was only an hour. The class size was small and the kids were pretty inoffensive for the most part, which is saying a lot because usually it only takes a kid to glance in my general direction before I’m getting all huffy and designing anti-kid brigade t-shirts.

All the other moms (and one dad in the official uniform of Portland*) stayed too, but no one bugged me. But I think I was too distracted by all OF THE CLAY! THAT SWEET, BEAUTIFUL CLAY!

*(Stylishly ragged Urban Outfitters olive-green cableknit sweater; dirty pegged stonewashed jeans; boots; a modest hipster beard just brillo-y enough to tuck inside a Crayon or two in case he decided to doodle some owls on his Pabst-spotted napkin at the Wavves show; and thick-framed glasses — but I hope you already knew that he was wearing thick-framed glasses.)

Chooch and Portlandia’s spawn were the only boys in the class, so Chooch was being especially lippy because that is what he does around other girls his age. I think he especially liked this one girl with long brown hair in pigtails. She was pretty exotic-looking and I just have a feeling Dad is a doctor or high-powered businessman with stock in some wildly lucrative Japanese pornography market, so I approve.  Her mom sat next to me and knitted the whole time. I was surprisingly OK with that.

The parents at those cooking classes from 2011 were WAY more offensive than this lot, but Henry was still totally out of place and squirmed a lot. Mostly because they appeared to be NPR-listening hybrid-drivers* and Henry is one of those Blue-Collareds. He is bound to be out of place any place we go that isn’t a truck stop or Pep Boys.

*(I am OK with these kinds of people as long as they’re not snobby motherfuckers. It’s the snobby motherfuckers I hate, like the parents from Chooch’s old Catholic school. They thought they were so fucking hot.)

The instructor was this super cute artist girl with baby gauges that I desperately want to be friends with (the girl, not her gauges) because I bet she’d go to a Xiu Xiu show with me. I admired her patience and also her ability to answer the children sarcastically and not sound like a total d-bag doing it.

I forgot her name.

Anyway, the kids got to make a bird in a nest with an egg for their first project and I desperately wanted to not only make my own, but also stick my hands in there and fix everyone else’s because they were all doing it wrong. They will all be fired and ready to take home next week. Chooch said, “Yay! I can’t wait to give it to my teacher.”

WHAT THE FUCK!?  I’m sorry, but that fucking nest is going on Mommy’s desk, son.

I expected Gotye to be playing for the entire hour, but only one Gotye song came on, proving my pottery prejudices mostly wrong.

Willie, totally enrapt with watching the Pope leave Rome in a helicopter. This is fascinating to me because in the 14 years Willie has co-existed with me, I have never known her to show interest in anything other than not peeing in litter boxes.

Peace out, Pope!

“Everyone at work said there’s nowhere to get good fruit downtown,” I told Henry in a sneering voice.

“Everyone? Everyone who?” Henry smirked.

“The whole department*! They all said ‘tell Henry to go fuck himself!’ So go fuck yourself,” I said, patting him on the stomach.

“Do I have to prove all you fuckers wrong?” he said, beginning to get all up in arms.

“Even Barb said so, and she’s well-versed in Things That Are Downtown,” I said, but Henry had already enlisted his phone to solve the problem.

“Rosebud!” Henry shouted, the glow of his cellphone screen spotlighting his tired, yet smug, face.

“It’s on the corner of [streets I don’t know]!” He gloated about this for a few more seconds before mumbling, “Oh. Never mind. It’s closed.”

*(4 people.)

My friend Jessi shared this today on Facebook and at first I was like, “Oh. This video is over 7 minutes long. I don’t have time to watch that.

” But it had already started playing and just like that, I found myself making the time to watch it to the end and I am so glad that I did. This video is amazing. This man is an inspiration.

School was fucked up when I was a kid, but it is so much worse now — I worry all the time, is Chooch going to get shot at? is Chooch going to get bullied? is Chooch going to BULLY? We talk about that subject all of the time, and I always make him stop what he’s doing when anti-bullying commercials come on TV. There are things that were said to me when I was a kid that have become some ugly, fucked up accessory that I feel like I almost flaunt to a fault.

I could weigh 100 pounds and still find fat that I want to cleave off.

But most of it came from home. I will take this fucking inferiority complex to the grave, but I’ll be damned if my son is going to have one and I’ll be doubly-damned if my kid’s going to give some other kid one.

You should definitely make the time to watch this. And pass it on. It’s fucking beautiful.

Yesterday, Henry made me take the trolley to work, resulting in me having to walk fifteen minutes in ten degree weather. You might think, “Oh here it comes. Yet another predictable blog post berating and emasculating Henry while somehow finding a way to mention for the 87th time that he dropped a bowling ball on her foot.” But no! This blog post is actually thanking him for making me take the trolley, because I ended up having a Unicorn Moment^TM.

(Although the severe coldness nearly made my already half-dead bowling ball toes turn into grape-colored freezepops.)

I was standing alone on the trolley platform when I noticed a man dressed entirely in an olive-palette mountain climbing ensemble approach the ramp. He brandished a blind person stick, which pendulated in jerky arcs across the pavement.

“Oh god, please don’t come up here,” I thought in a mild panic. What if he needed help getting on the trolley and I was the only one there? What if he fell over into the tracks and I was too stupid to remember the number for 911? What if I tried to help him off the tracks and then my foot got caught and holy shit I don’t want to die like that! What if his blindness heightened his ability to feel the hellfire of my aura and he started shouting in Latin about me being a demon and the Sam and Dean Winchester pulled up and shanked me over top of some AC/DC joint? What if he was only pretending to be blind so that he could find gullible broads like me to pity-rape* in a storm cellar? LITERALLY ANY OF THESE THINGS COULD HAPPEN.

(*This has only happened to me once, when I took pity on a Canadian with a gigantic head.)

And then he was at the top of the ramp, three feet away from me. I considered standing stock-still, hoping he wouldn’t smell my panicked perspiration or sense the heat waves of fear emanating from my body.

But then I thought, if I were a blind person, I would want to know if someone was around in case I started doing weird calisthenics or an X-rated hand jive routine. So, in a voice that sounded like a 20-year-old orgasm finally expulsed from a nun, the word “hello!!!!” shot from my mouth and kind of just levitated awkwardly in the cold winter air while the blind man rotated slowly to face the direction of my voice.

And then we exchanged weather-pleasantries and laughed about Good Ol’ Pittsburgh for a minute before I went back to nervously counting and re-counting my trolley fare and he went back to being blind.

If I was blind, I would probably just use that blank screen to play imaginary Dr. Mario 24:7.

Before I could spend any more time in blind man fantasy land, another person joined us on the platform.

A goddamn motherfucking Asian midget, are you fucking kidding me. Best day ever!

Unicorn Moment^TM in full effect!

But then the trolley pulled up and  I went back to fixating on the blind man, who had overshot where the trolley would stop.

I wondered if I would have to walk over and be his guide dog (I don’t have many “guiding” qualifications, but I’ve been called a dog by plenty of middle school boys), but the whoosh of the trolley door opening was enough to steer him back toward me and the Asian midget.

“After you, sir,” I said to him. Seriously! I said that! (When I told Barb at work, I think she thought I was lying.) Then I had to watch him struggle with the toll machine, which kept rejecting his dollar bills. I was going to offer assistance but please, I’m a card-carrying Trolley Dunce. There was one time when it wouldn’t take my dollar and the driver completely lost his shit and screamed, “THIS FUCKING THING! JUST GO SIT DOWN! I MIGHT AS WELL JUST LET EVERYONE RIDE FOR FREE TODAY, FOR FUCKS’ SAKE!

” and then gave the toll machine a swift blow with the heel of his hand. I almost cried.

Meanwhile, it wasn’t the toll machine’s fault. The dollar I was trying to use had been laundered numerous times and by this point in its sad life resembled a thin, transparent sheet of cotton.

(I don’t know that it’s really called a Toll Machine.)

Anyway, the other reason I didn’t try to help was because what if this guy was one of those Handicapable Crusaders who hiss in the general direction of kind and helping hands? I didn’t want to get hissed at. Just being on the trolley in and of itself was like being hissed at by the Universe. How much more could I bear.

Meanwhile, Asian Midget had made himself at home in the front seat and was savagely gnashing his way through some sort of giant, hot stinky meat sandwich the size of his own wobbly head. So where do I choose to sit? Right behind him. He kept getting up to talk to the trolley driver (seriously, one of THOSE busy bodies) which afforded me ample opportunity to realize that he looked like a stunted version of the Hoobastank motherfucker dressed in a long (but probably normal for the rest of us) trenchcoat and chinos and he walked with an obnoxious self-confidant swagger.  He pulled off his knit cap to shake and fluff a thick bouffant of 1990’s skater hair—which I was honestly not expecting to be under there— and then re-scarfed himself, almost whipping me in the face with one end of it.

God only knows what they possibly had to talk about.

And then some guy came on and asked the driver something about trolley stops, so Asian Midget interjected and started schooling him in the art of Which Stop To Get Off. He even hit the “Stop Requested” strip for him!

I guess he was just trying to prove that he could reach it.

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I had to ride it again today. This time I was the only person with a disability (I have a disabled personality) who was waiting, but I’m pretty sure two of the broads with me were off-duty strippers.

And not the fancy kinds, either.

Some older man in a Steelers coat started asking me questions about the trolley, like: “Does the Red Line come out here from the North Shore?”

I don’t know, does it? Why does everyone come to me with their public transportation questions when I look like a frightened Farmer’s Daughter taking a trip to the City to get her ailing grandma some Medicine? In my head,  everyone on the trolley is flicking a switchblade beneath their seat.

Sometimes I think people must look at me and mistakenly think they saw me on TV, winning it all on the Port Authority question on Final Jeopardy.

God, go ask the Asian Midget.

Yesterday I went to castle blood for their valentine show and there were a lot of pop-up monsters and jannas fortune didn,t love her and daddy peed his pants!Daddy got yelled at for not turning off his phone and mommy was not awesome the whole time.

I was awesome the whole time and i got to rip a hart out of a monster and it said i never loved you any way!

Katelyn (my frenemy) gave me cookies and love potion.

Today Mommy had to get her dumb fruit and Daddy acted like a idiot who is at work and he knows everything about the weird asian market and it smells like fish in there

They still wont let me get a durian!!!!!

I got a splinter and blah blah Daddy hurt it really bad. i wish i never had a splinter…it felt really bad…daddy had to use a pin and tweezers…he was torchering me.

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Erin’s 2 cents:

My favorite part was at the very beginning of this incident, where Chooch learned that he had a splinter in his foot. He very casually said, “Huh. My foot kind of hurts. Did I step on something?” As soon as I said the “s” word, he fucking FLIPPED HIS SHIT. He’s never had a splinter before so I’m not sure how he knew that this was going to turn from mildly irritating to OMG I’M BEING KILLED. Maybe it was a lunch table topic one day at school.

He just stood there yelling in front of me, so I said, “Um….go upstairs and tell daddy.”

Which loosely translates into “Tell your dad to deal with this shit.”

Moments later I heard this ungodly, high-pitched shriek so I ran upstairs to spectate. I mean, Chooch + Splinter + a tweezer-wielding Henry = Must See TV.

What I found was a red-faced child flailing on my bed. Henry, ignoring the melodrama, held him in one place with one hand clamped around his ankle, the other hand scraping away at the dead skin around the splinter. He looked so patient, his mouth pursed in quiet concentration. I don’t know Henry does it!

Meanwhile, Chooch’s head was tossed back, one hand draped across his forehead, and he was screaming, “I HATE YOU DADDY! I WISH THIS NEVER HAPPENED! DADDY YOU’RE HURTING ME!!!” It was the performance of a lifetime.

I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that we live in a duplex and our neighbors were very much home. I had to counter with my own yells: “IT’S JUST A SPLINTER! DADDY IS JUST TRYING TO HELP! PLEASE NEIGHBORS DON’T CALL THE POLICE!”

Moments later, the splinter had been extracted and Chooch’s tear ducts miraculously plugged themselves. After all that. Life went on.

An hour later, we were watching a man writhing in pain post-zombie attack on The Walking Dead. “He looks just like me after I got a splinter,” Chooch observed sadly, without an ounce of sarcasm.

The next morning, we were walking to school. I still had a limp from the Big Bowling Ball Boo-Boo, which Chooch noted and scoffed, “My limp is worse than your limp.”

“It totally is not!” I cried.

“Yeah, it is. My foot injury is way worse than yours,” he argued.

“You had a splinter. I had a BOWLING BALL DROPPED ON MY FOOT!!”

“Yeah,” he replied smugly. “And the splinter was worse.”

Yeah well….I wrote more sentences than him!

THIS IS REALLY HOW IT HAPPENED.

I have vowed to mention Henry’s brutal bowling blunder at least once a day on the Internet for an entire week. I have one day left. Maybe I’ll recreate the crime using Homies.

Happy Valentines’s Day, Henry, you brute.