After Henry killed all chances of Saturday Night Intimacy when he murdered my foot with a bowling ball, we left Chooch with his Aunt Kelly and went to visit Henry’s mom Judy, who has been in the hospital since Thursday morning, recovering from a liver surgery. (She is OK, but has to stay in the hospital for a week, which sucks!)

As soon as we got to her room, she started questioning me about my foot (Henry had told her over the phone). You should know that Judy LOVES HER SON. I mean, you want to talk about Golden Boys? In her eyes, he can do no wrong. However, even Judy knew that Henry done FUCKED UP this time. I sat there with my arms crossed, shooting smug looks at Henry while his mom, the actual patient, fussed over my foot.

She wanted me to go to the ER in the worst way, and now I kind of wish that I had, if only to watch Henry’s face blanche as I told all of the nurses and doctors about the abuse that had befallen me that day.

Son of the Year Henry ate Judy’s hospital dinner. Mmm, beef tips over noodles.

Before we left, I pulled Henry into the hospital chapel. I poked my head around the corner first to make sure there weren’t any sobbing family members or bereavement clubs going on, and then I began exploring while Henry stood off to the back, making disapproving sighs.

I signed the chapel prayer book (even though I kept calling it the guest book) and Henry was bracing himself. Jesus Christ, I didn’t write anything bad! Do you think THAT poorly of me, Henry?

Moments later, I swiped some chapel souvenirs. I have big plans for that cross. It involves pink spraypaint, a tiny plastic babydoll and the essence of Satan.

In the parking garage, Henry opened the car door for me. OH, HOW GALLANT.

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We were on our way to the petting zoo when my life changed forever.

“You girls want a free keychain?” An old man in suspenders and a trucker cap was hunched over arthritically beneath a tent, dangling a beaded keychain. He could have been dribbling an atomic bomb and I would have approached him; the declaration of something being “free” gets me every time. Plus, he was only wearing suspenders and a trucker cap, remember. I love eldernudes.

The keychain wasn’t yet in my hand when Alisha became painfully aware of what was really happening.

“Oh OK, yeah. No thanks,” she said haughtily, veering abruptly away from the tent.

He was church people. Inside the small tent, other church people had stuffed innocent fair-goers into folding chairs and were working Jesus-spells upon their wallets. I turned around and found that Alisha had already been swallowed to safety by the 4H tent.

“Would you like to learn the meaning behind the keychain?” the old man asked in a voice quaking with age.

No, I didn’t really want to. But I still found myself saying, “Yes, please.” Old people. The men ones especially. They goddamn get me every time! Plus, he was from the Living Word Evangelical Free Church, and I didn’t think I’d ever had my Evangelical cherry popped. Hey Mormons, you don’t own me, OK?

So I stood there under this low tent, sweat rolling down my back, feigning interest in these plastic beads that are supposed to represent various parts of Jesus’s anatomy or something, I don’t know. He went slowly through each colored bead, taking the time to explain things like “purity” because it doesn’t take much more than a cursory glance to see that I’m missing that in my life.

I had a feeling the black bead was going to represent “sin,” so when he gripped it between his thumb and forefinger I interrupted him with an obnoxious “Ooooh, ooooh!” hand raise, and he reluctantly let me guess. And I was right! Obviously that’s something I know a lot about.

“Do you have religion in your life?” he asked, eying me up behind his dirty bi-focals.

I can’t remember the exact lie I blurted out, but I know it was strung together with anxious stutters and guilty eye-flickering, like it was God himself in front of me and not some half-crippled liver-spotted church recruiter.

“Well, do you believe you’re going to Heaven?” he asked.

“Um, I hope so?”

“You better KNOW so!” and his laugh was served on a bed of gooey death-phlegm.

He gave me some literature and showed me a picture of a waterfall. “Would you jump off that for $1000?” he asked.

“I mean, I’m a sucker, but no. No, I don’t think I would,” I said, hoping it was the right answer and that I wasn’t going to have to listen to him read aloud from the Bible while shoving snakes in my face.

“I wouldn’t either!” And he laughed that sick, hospice laugh again and clapped me on the arm with his bony hand. It stung a bit. “Well, I’mma let you catch up with your friend. It was very nice talking with you and I hope you enjoy your day at the fair!”

And he sent me off with my keychain which was probably made by the collective fingers of a scared and abused Bible camp, and my God brochure, which I used to jot down all the mean things Alisha said to me throughout the day. For instance: when I wanted to get my caricature done and she said they probably couldn’t make my head any bigger than it already is. I acted mad, but it’s actually kind of true.

I found Alisha inside the 4H tent, pretending to have a heart by cooing at goats.

“I’m religious now,” I panted with excitement.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

***

A few hours later, I was waiting outside the restrooms for Alisha, who was inside a stall adjusting her prosthetic leg. There was a tractor-pull going on in the field behind the restrooms, and I was trying to peer around a pole to see it better.

“Why do you always look so creepy?

” Alisha said, exiting the bathroom behind me. “It looks like you’re trying to pole dance.”

“I was just trying to see what’s going on behind the fence!” I explained defensively.

“Well, why don’t we actually over there and watch so you can stop looking like a creep,” Alisha suggested. She’s always trying to make sure I don’t get mistaken for a prostitute, that’s why I like her.

The stands were full so we found a patch of grass surrounded on three sides by a collection of exposed ass cracks.

“I’ve never seen a tractor pull before,” I said, full of the excited naivete of someone who had just left the porn shop for the farm.

“Trust me, it’s not that exciting,” Alisha warned.

“I’ll be the judge of that!” I yelled.

It was not that exciting.

Sitting there with a cigarette in her hand, Alisha got real serious. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asked. I love secrets, but no one ever really tells me any, something about me telling the Internet or something?

“I don’t like blond people,” she said quietly. I waited for her to follow up by saying she’s left a towheaded body count from Arkansas to Pittsburgh. “I just don’t trust them.” There was a young blond guy standing off to her left, and she pointed at him. “Mostly guys though.”

Alisha delved deeper, telling me personal experiences which have shaped her distaste of blond men.

I considered this. On cue, a blond douchebag in an Abercrombie shirt, wrists adorned with hemp, walked past in sandals. In my mind, I ran through a list all the blond guys I know. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Most blond guys are cocky.”

I thought about it some more. “To be honest though, I’m thinking of past cast members from The Real World.” Like that Ryan dickhead who’s on the current New Orleans season, what a prick, am I right?

Alisha sighed. “I love how I share something personal with you and you ruin it with your stupid Real World references.”

She was just bitter that I got an awesome keychain and she didn’t.

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Laying in bed just now, I thought to myself, “I think in my last post, I used ‘prologue’ instead of ‘epilogue’.”

And then of course I couldn’t rest until I made sure. And I was right. But who even cares? That totally could have waited until the morning, but no—I had to check RIGHT NOW, and for what? For another reason to delay bedtime.

I just can’t get my mind to shut off and stop thinking about the same things, over and over. And then when I do finally fall asleep, my dreams have been so vivid and upsetting that I wake up completely restless and exhausted.

And then I spend the rest of the day feeling disoriented and emotionally frustrated.

Something is off; I can’t figure it out and it is driving me fucking nuts.

I do not like this winter very much at all.

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Went to Goodwill in search of a cake pedestal for tomorrow’s photo shoot & weren’t in there for more than 30 seconds (maybe even less) before Cat Lady Chooch spotted a book about cats. He almost knocked some broad over when he lunged to grab it. I have no idea how he even saw it on the bookshelf amongst 61719304 other books.

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My job is wonderful and gives us the day off for Martin Luther King Day, so since Chooch didn’t have school and Henry came home from work early, we went to the Carnegie Museum.  Henry spent most of time acting like he personally dug up the dinosaur bones.

OMG my favorite part! FRUIT! #4 is a sapodilla, which my friend Kevin recently flaunted at me on Facebook because he lives in Miami and can easily acquire these elusive temptresses that supposedly taste of brown sugar and root beer and why can’t they be in my mouth right now!?

#8 is a cherimoya (though the museum has it listed as its alias, the custard apple), which is currently my favorite fruit and deserves its own blog post, but I have not had the mental braun to do anything about that lately. This happens every January.

Looks like I’ll be making Henry a pot of mushroom soup for Valentine’s Day.

There was some lady there who kept trying to insist that Chooch stick around for all the family photos she was taking of her totally out-of-control children. You know it’s bad when even Chooch is like, “Um, this is awkward.”

It was practically blizzarding by the time we left.

The rest of the weekend was spent amassing tea cups from Goodwill, working on the totally classy 1970s Porn Stars card series, barking orders at Henry, and eating sushi and watching “Sinister” with Laura. And then promptly having nightmares. (Because of the movie, not Laura.)

I’ve been neglecting this blog, I know. I’ve just been so preoccupied with designing new greeting cards and getting things together for a photo shoot idea that Chooch and I have for this weekend, and I think I might start painting monsters again for a creepy craft show I’m going to be vending at in March. Keeping busy: the best way to beat the Winter Sads.

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This is my most-viewed photo of all time on Flickr, for some reason. Henry, reenacting Andrew Borden after getting 40 whacks from his daughter Lizzie.

Interesting.

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Stumbled across this photo I took with my Holga at the 2008 Warped Tour. This was the first time I got to see Pierce the Veil live and I of course sobbed through the whole thing.

Plus, my friend Maya is making a Vic Fuentes companion to my Jonny Craig doll, complete with a tiny embroidered Jaws t-shirt, just like the one he was wearing at that year’s Warped Tour. I went back and re-read that post this morning and felt so happy. God, that was such a good day, and an overall fantastic year. I feel compelled to re-share that Warped Tour post, so now you have to read it! Even if it’s just for the picture of Henry eating nachos. (This might have been Henry’s least favorite Warped Tour of all time. I imagine it was a huge shock to his system.)

*************

This year, Henry had the pleasure of taking his two favorite kids to Warped Tour: his son Blake, and, well…me. I kept ducking while we were stuck in concert traffic because I didn’t want the surrounding carfuls of scene kids to laugh and say, “Oh god, that girl is going with her dad, how lame.” When we entered the parking lot, we drove past the drop-off area and Henry said, “God, those parents are so lucky that they don’t have to go in.” Then he tried to murder me with a look of disgust and resentment.

It was nearly noon by the time we managed to park the car. Blake didn’t have a ticket yet so he and I stood around idly outside the entrance to Post Gazette Pavilion while Henry went and bought his ticket. We were approached by the singer and guitarist of Uh-Oh Explosion, who were toting around a box of their CDs. Making small talk, the singer asked if Blake and I were “together.” Instinctively, we both took a step apart and emphatically answered “NO.” Trying to figure it out, he squinted his eyes and guessed, “Brother and sister?” We shook our heads. I saw Henry lingering a few yards away, knowing better than to walk over and lame-up the convo. I pointed to Henry and said, “OK, see that guy? That’s his dad, and my boyfriend.”

This kid (he was only 17) thought this was so fucking fantastico for some reason. “That’s so awesome! Like, talk about closeness. And you guys all came to Warped together!” He paused for a second, before sending my stomach to the meat grinder. “So do you guys have threesomes too?”

RECORD SCRATCH.

I was ready to whistle for the cement mixer to come and seal up my sex organs for real. So disturbing and awkward. I still bought their CD though, because what I heard sounded good and proceeds went to the animals. And what’s a little quasi-incest discourse in the name of stray cats, am I right.

Once we got inside, I was like a kid on Christmas. My eyes had a veritable scene kid feast as we weaved our way to the main stage, where Sky Eats Airplane was playing. Blake and I have the same taste in music — the more scream-y the better. Henry, however, shits himself when he hears hateful bellows, so he took this as an opportunity to go and find a set schedule and then conveniently lose us. Sky Eats Airplane was a good way to start the day.

In between bands, I got to ogle more scene kids. I was wondering why I was so fascinated with them when it dawned on me: If that scene was around when I was a teen, I’d totally have been the first on board. I used to make fun of them,  but now I want to like, write a book about them or something. I’ll start with Blake.

Averting the Hare Krishnas, we went to the Highway 1 Stage to catch From First To Last. Henry was all, “I’m perfectly fine standing all the way back here” and sent Blake and I into the crowd to get pummeled without adult supervision. Anyway, FFTL’s singer Sonny left two years ago and it was a little strange watching them perform without him. Their new material is a little too easy-to-digest and mainstream for my liking, but they ended the set with “Ride the Wings of Pestilence” which always makes me want to sacrifice a shack of Mexican prostitutes. And drink some of Henry’s blood.

Not interested in any bands playing right after FFTL, we walked around and looked at t-shirts and other merch for awhile. Henry, who had bragged on  the way there that he NEVER gets sunburned, started complaining about his nose getting burnt. He kept trying to sneak away and pose under trees in his signature old man-stance. Blake and I would pause and hunker down over the schedule, trying to determine which bands were must-sees and which ones we could skip without losing sleep that night. I kept trying to include Henry, but he would grumble, “I don’t know, does that band actually SING? Then NO, I don’t want to see them.” Perhaps Henry should have just went to that twanged-out Jamboree with Tina instead. Fuck.

 

1. The Bronx: I almost got trampled trying to push my way to the stage to see them, only to leave after ten minutes to run to another stage far away to see Alesana. They were really good and made me want to continually punch Henry in the balls. I always forget how much aggression I have until I go to shows like this. I just found out that they’re going on a tour of LA Mexican restaurants as a mariachi band and oh, who I wouldn’t kill to see that.
2. Alesana: They were playing on the main stage, and Henry was like, “Thank god, now I can sit my weary bones down!” So Blake and I begrudgingly sat down too. I realize that I enjoy bands less when I’m sitting, because I become too distracted with people-watching. Because of this, I don’t remember if I liked Alesana live or not. All I remember is that Blake picked up an Underoath CD release poster from the ground and gave it to me, making me  think he wanted me to keep it, so I ended up lugging it around all day in my backpack only to wind up throwing it away the next day.
3. Human Abstract: Another main stage band, but at least this time Henry allowed himself to be dragged down to the floor by the stage. I had never heard their music before, only seen the ads in Alternative Press for their new CD, so I really wasn’t sure if I was going to like them. Even aside from the immediate crush I developed on the keyboard player, I ended up liking them a lot. They were nice and heavy, but had an interesting melodic side as well. Blake thought they were just alright and stayed sitting down next to his old man for their entire set. This was also around the time that I considered slamming my camera to the pavement because it was taking such shitty pictures, but after Henry inspected it for three seconds, he deduced it was because I had a giant finger print on the lens. I didn’t hate my camera after that.

After the Human Abstract, it was nearly time for Pierce the Veil. They were the main reason I was there and all day it felt like butterflies were fornicating in my belly. It was either Pierce the Veil anticipation or the residual side effects of being asked if my vagina is friendly with both generations of Robbins. Henry once again stood in the sidelines, but I weaved my way as close to the stage as I could get. Which was fairly close since they were still sound-checking.

To show his unwavering adoration, Vic vowed to wear his Jaws shirt every day for the duration of Shark Week. He kept going on and on about sharks and I know this is going to make me look bad but I’m going to be honest: all I could think about was Tina’s vagina, gnashing against flailing legs. Thank God they started playing right after that because fuck — my mind disgusts me sometimes. And holy shit, their set was fucking fantastic. It was so good, that I didn’t even mind the heat or having two bitches dropped on me (thank God for Blake, else they’d have hit the pavement). They basically just play a blend of alternative rock, with some screamo-lite thrown in for scene cred, but what makes them stand apart for me is their lyrics. They’re smart, morbid, sad, and just overall clever. At the end of one of their songs, they segued right into a thirty second cover of “Bleeding Love” which was a million times better than the original we’re guaranteed to hear every time we walk into a grocery store. They also threw in a cover “Beat It” which was energenic and really fun to watch, and they ended the set with “Party Like a Rock Star” gone metal.

I did NOT want that set to end. Even Blake admitted that he was surprised how good they were live, and Henry was like, “Yes, fine, I liked what I heard all the back there in Parent Alley.” It was one of those moments where you want to call everyone you know and give them a hyper review in a shrill voice, but you know no one will give a shit. So then you’re just depressed.

We had a lot of time to kill after Pierce the Veil, so I bought a five dollar soft pretzel while wishing for once I ate meat so I could get a corn dog for $3.50 — the cheapest foodstuff there. Henry got nachos which looked like slop. Henry’s demeanor seemed to uncurdle a bit while he was coating his ‘stache with cheese sauce. He even smiled a few times and I think he laughed once.

While we were chilling out at the picnic table, Blake proposed that he move in with us. Maybe it was just the contact high of being with someone who actually gave a shit about music, but I declared that this was the best idea I had ever heard in all of my life, even better than my idea to direct porn, so now he might be moving in with us. It would make my scene kid research easier, for sure.

Blake was so sad that we missed Katy Perry while we were foraging for discounted sustenance. He even pulled his hat down low to hide the tears. But maybe it was because he saw kids he knew and was embarrassed of Henry.

• Evergreen Terrace: I liked them alright but there was nothing mind-blowing that made me want to scour Ebay for rare memorabilia. However, during one of their songs, they chanted “I want you dead” and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I thought that would be such a romantic sentiment to have engraved on wedding bands.
• Classic Crime: Another band that sounds good in stereo, but didn’t hold my attention live. Instead, I stared at this really surly girl who was like an overweight scene Sami Brady from Days of Our LIves. She was climbing over rows of seats and even though she was struggling to swing her trunk-legs over, she didn’t let it deter her from scaling the next row, until eventually she lost her momentum and wound up clotheslining her crotch. It brought me joy, lots of joy.
• 3OH!3: I wouldn’t have sought this band out normally, but we wanted to see the band that was coming on right after them, so we hung out for their set. I thought I was going to hate them at first, because that wave of white boy rap-rock-electronica kind of annoys me. But they ended up being so fucking fun and there was a really hot blond chick dancing on the side of the stage, so they kept my attention for sure. During their last song, it basically turned into a chaotic dance party on stage, and even Blake’s girlfriend Katy Perry was up there dancing with her man Travis from Gym Class Heroes (who I walked past earlier and wanted to say, “Your gf is a gaybo” but I wasn’t feeling assholey enough. Plus, I like Travis.). Anyway, I’m going to have 3Oh!3 play at my Sweet Thirtieth Birthday Orgy Masquerade. It’s gonna be tight.
• Bring Me the Horizon: Blake ran into some of his friends right as they came on, so we were officially ditched. Henry and I hung around for a few songs, but Henry looked like he wanted to call out for his mommy, so I spared him. I really liked BMTH though — they made me want to fillet a cop.
• The Devil Wears Prada: Sans Blake, things were pretty lame. I wanted to get closer to the stage but Henry was all OH HELL NAH so I was like, “Fuck this then” and went to buy a shirt instead. Henry, you pussy.

The day was coming to an end by this point, and Blake had re-joined us in time for Dr. Manhattan. I was torn, because they were playing at the same time as Norma Jean, side-by-side. And I love Norma Jean. Norma Jean blocked out Eleanore’s nerve-prickling coupon-cutting many a night for me. But I chose Dr. Manhattan, along with fifteen other people. It was sad! But you know a band is good when there are OTHER bands in the crowd watching them. And they were good — they were quirky and fun and energenic and they made me laugh out loud a few times. Unfortunately, Norma Jean was one stage over, luring people into their crowd. They had gigantic black beach balls and I won’t lie — I’m a sucker for a beach ball. At one point, I yelled to Henry, “Hey, do you want to go over and watch Norma Jean for the rest of their set?” but right then, two people left Dr. Manhattan’s crowd and the singer — in the middle of a song — stopped and yelled, “Hey! Where are you guys going??” It was so sad/cute/scary that I looked at Henry and said, “Never mind!”

At the end of their show, some of the bands in the crowd started chanting, “One more song!” but they weren’t allowed because of time constraints. So the singer started chanting back, “One more crowd!”, the retardedness of which made me laugh. I was also dehydrated, though. Overall, I was glad I stayed loyal to Dr. Manhattan, because their set was rewarding.

And that was it. We walked back to the car and already I started to feel the body-dragging effects of post-show depression. Then I thought about how all day long I had been talking about all the bands I wanted to see, but by the end of the night, all I wanted to see was Chooch.

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The blogosphere makes me feel obligated to play this game every year.

So…here it is.

2012 was OK! No, it was better than OK, but it was also the year that my cat Don had to get put to sleep and some lunatic called CPS on us. But it was actually a pretty good year with a lot of positive changes at home and at work, and it was also the year I reunited with my best friend (my most-viewed post of the year, even) and learned that just because a girl spells out her swear words does not mean she’s an angel. Faaar from it!

I’d say that I learned I need to be less trusting, but let’s face it: I am who I am.

Sometimes I let in the wrong people, but those are my lessons to learn. And I’m more than OK with that because I will never let another person knock me down.

So anyway, here are my 12 best moments of 2012 off the top of my head.

1. The Law Firm Walking Challenge: Or, When Erin R Kelly Turned Into a Monster

Part 1 // Part 2

2. I Baked a Cake!

3. I Survived a Trolley Ride

4. I Rollerskated with Deaf People!

5. I Stole an Orange Ball

Part 1 / Part 2

6. Henry Wore Makeup (Wasn’t the first time, and won’t be the last)

7. I Was Almost Raped By An Elderly Man (No, Not Henry)

8. Henry, Kitten Crusader

9. Henry Went to Warped Tour

10. Andrea Got Dressed Up

11. Ross’s Blackberry

Part 1 / Part 2

12. Chooch’s Secret Friend

Honorable Mention: Eating With the Hare Krishnas

Happy New Year, Internet! Please keep reading this in 2013, thanks and good night!

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The new Hipstamatic tin type pack totally accentuates Chooch’s natural creepiness. I endorse it.

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The Law Firm Christmas party was yesterday, from 4:30 to 6:30. I opted out this year for a multitude of reasons, the two biggest being that I still feel like shit and I swear I’ve gained 15 pounds in the last month so I wanted to stay far, far away from temptation. Maybe if it was just a departmental Christmas party, I’d have gone, but it was for the entire Firm’s staff and I really didn’t think I could handle being around so many people when I’m having a hard enough time breathing when I’m alone in my office.

Carey tried to drag me up there, but I purposely wore my most casual clothes to work that day, after being reminded by the head of the department to remember to dress nicely, just  so I wouldn’t be tempted. (You guys, I was wearing Converse flats, even. No one was going to make me back down!)

From what I remember about the one I went to two years ago (I was off the week of last year’s party), it was the stuffiest work Christmas party I have ever attended, when you consider that the first four years of my work life, I worked for super mean Jewish brothers who refused to give us a party, and the second-longest job I had was working in a dirty, gray basement of a building doing data processing from 4pm-midnight. (I didn’t work long enough anywhere else to go to any work functions, haha.)

But at the Law Firm, their party is up on the 28th floor in the reception area, which is akin to somewhere the Dietz’s from Beetlejuice would have a cocktail party. It is pretty fancy, when you consider that this is just the staff Christmas party — the attorneys get their own rager. It’s dimly lit up in there, the booze is free-flowing, hors d’oeuvres abound, and everyone separates into their little cliques. I didn’t have as many work friends then, and only one of them was at the party; I just remember standing there awkwardly, feeling completely out of place and uncomfortable, and making up an excuse to go back to work.

I have no doubt that this year’s would have been better. But I was just exhausted and the opposite of merry. Besides, I can still barely taste anything! So talk about empty calories. Anyway, it got me thinking about the office Christmas party at the place I worked at with Tina and Eleanore (shit, I miss typing those names), so I found the post I wrote about it from 2007.

It is almost insane how different my job-life is now. Better in almost every way, but sometimes I miss the simplicity (and ignorance) of the Tina and Eleanore Company.  I think mostly I just miss wearing jeans and not actually doing work.

MSA CHRISTMAS PARTY, 2007

What has:

• pole-dancing,
• spiked egg nog,
• exotic cheeses,
• Santa with a hard-on,
• shiny door prizes like panini presses and a magic wand for can-opening ease,
• a chocolate fountain centered around an array of fresh fruit and lady fingers in scandelous poses?

Not our department holiday party.

No, we got cold cuts drowning in a mucous-like moat, cheese slices that needed the aid of Freddy Krueger’s nails to be surgically removed from each other, a bowl of frozen fruit slices, and a giant sheet cake that had nauseating pink flowers piped precariously around the perimeter. (I deduced at once that it was going to be an offensive supermarket bakery cake, so I walked past it with my nose in the air.) We got scratch off tickets and Tina’s hair collar and a platter of bland cookies that were at least moist and not stale like I had initially suspected.

The cheese lasagna was a real treat, though.

1. A dayshifter who sits next to me. I rue the days she works late because she laughs like an engorged elephant cock is lodged in her throat and she’s trying to summon her inner Vesuvius to phlegm it back up. She handles a runny nose like your typical Teamster: loud, wet and crackly, like a bowl of exploding Rice Krispies is draining down her throat. She’s nice though.

2. Hey Tina, ever since you switched to the day shift, something really confusing and alarming has arrested me: I think I like you. Not in a ‘Hey, let’s go French in a bathroom stall’ kind of way, but in a ‘You’re over here talking to me yet I have no urge to inflict any bodily damage.’ But no, I’m not sad that I wasn’t sitting at your table. And while I imagine playing games with a bullyishly dominate personality such as your own is a dream come true for some (like perhaps a tribe of indigents who have never played games before) I’m not jealous that your table was playing  Taboo, as rousing and scintillating as it sounded.

3. Big Bob. He stole Collin’s Hot Pockets and made him cry.

4. Non-Big Bob’s plate of meat goods were a little too close to me. I felt violated and kept imagining someone gagging me with that slab of ham.

I was happy to be seated at a table of socially capable people — Lindsay, Bill, Brandie, and (Non-Big) Bob. However, we were joined by Stanley. I am fortunate to not have to deal with him because he works during the day and sits over by Bill and Lindsay. He has no filter, kind of like a child, and random strings of rudeness spray from his mouth in fairly consistent intervals. When we were walking up to the Mezzanine, one of the more heavy and elderly employees was up ahead, taking each step with deliberate slowness. Stanley yelled up, “Hey, Donna, we need to get you an escalator.” Someone behind him called him on his rudeness, only making him justify himself. “What? It’s true! Donna needs an escalator!” If I had to deal with that brand of idiocy for eight hours a day, one of us would have lost our job by now.

Stanley spent a good fifteen minutes diligently rubbing off five scratch off tickets, and even after inspecting them closely above his head, he still found reasonable cause to have Lindsay double-check. I took a picture of his crotch from under the table. Sadly, no boners arose from the rub-off frenzy.

And Bob, poor Bob; he stared off into the distance most of the time, mourning his other half’s absence. (Collin called off.) He seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if he was thinking about all the nights he and Collin spent playing their little celebrity chain game to pass the time while braiding daisy chain crowns for each other’s heads.

One of the games everyone (and by everyone I mean the Daytime Clique) was playing consisted of taping the name of a celebrity to each player’s back, and then everyone had to take turns asking a question to find out who they were. I told Bob it would be a good game for him and Collin to play and he lit up. “You’re right! I didn’t even make that connection!” Then he smiled to himself for awhile, probably rewinding the Collin-montage in his head.

Bill spoke of foreign-sounding things for awhile before I realized he was speaking in baking-tongue, while Lindsay smiled at me like an adoring fan and laughed at all of my antics, like when I took a picture of this guy who I have never seen before in my life, but supposedly he’s part of our department and works upstairs (if you want to take Bill’s word for it) and then ten minutes later I blurted out, “Oh shit, I think I made myself have a crush on that guy!” Lindsay giggled. In my head, I dubbed her my new work BFF. I’m not sure who the old one was. Bill perhaps, even though working opposing shifts has really driven a wrench in our rapport.

He doesn’t even bring me brownies anymore. I bet he brings some for Tina, in tiny baskets lined with rich Italian linen. Well, they can have each other.

Kim approached our table and asked why we weren’t playing games. Maybe it was just me, but I thought it was pretty obvious that our table was way too cool for parlor games, at least the ones that didn’t involve heavy betting and liquor. “We’re playing our own game,” I said. “It’s where everyone tells me how cool I am.” I smirked appropriately and Kim acted like she was about to be sick.

Since I pitched in a devastating twenty dollars to this elitist shindig, I gave myself a goal of “eat more than you paid for,” but the party started at 11AM and I just really wasn’t hungry. So in the end, I probably only ate $5 worth, which jacks me right off. (However, later on that evening, I had a piece of leftover lasagna for dinner. This is how it was made possible:  ”Tina, you know how you’re always looking for a reason to leave your desk?” Tina looks at me, slightly frightened, before cautiously saying, “……yes?” I jump in for the kill. “Will you get me lasagna?” What? I didn’t want to lift that big pan-y thing out of the fridge! So Tina did. And it was decent.)

Then it was time to go back to work. Most people offered to help clean up, but I just got up and left.

 

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Can anyone confirm or deny that this place exists? We’re going to Cincinnati the weekend after Christmas and I would love to get pelted by rock salt.

Certainly a person who goes by “Mack Daddy Soprano” is trustworthy.

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If there’s one thing I can’t do while I’m sick, it’s rest.

So, what better time to make a stupid picture frame with the bag of plastic babies I bought last September? I really didn’t have any premeditated design in my head, other than I knew I wanted the baby to be gold.

Gold baby! Sparkles! Woo!

We bought the most majestic wooden coffee table at Goodwill yesterday for .

One of the perks to this is that Chooch will finally stop telling everyone that comes into our house the story of how Mommy broke the glass coffee table.

Another perk is that it has drawers to hide our drugs* store the remotes and circulars**.

*(I shouldn’t joke about this. Especially not after our next door neighbors—as in, the people on the other side of our duplex—were just arrested last week by no less than 10 undercover cops. Our other neighbor swears it was the US Marshalls. Of course I was at work so I can’t confirm.)

**(Yeah, like I’d actually ever stop throwing the circulars out as soon as we get them just to piss off Henry.)

Anyway, I have big plans for Henry to paint that bitch up.

In other half-assed DIY-news, I put Chooch to work on our Xmas cards, so if you want one, holla! (And when you’re done holla’ing, email me your address: butgavincantdance@gmail.com)

K, bye.

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I have a sinus infection from hell. I don’t get sick often, but when I do? Hooooo boy. I went to work yesterday and totally should have just stayed home. I don’t think people there are used to seeing me sick, so I was kind of like a zoo exhibit. I even kept my door closed to keep people away from my quickly unraveling nasal monstrosity.

Though, I did really appreciate all the offers to get me hot chocolate, meds, a shotgun for my misery.

At a certain point last night, I surrendered and laid down on the floor of my office with a blanket over my head.

It wasn’t pretty.

Today, I had to reverse-RSVP to two holiday parties that I was really looking forward to attending because I still feel shitty and no one should have to be subjected to my alter who, Ms. Ra’bull.

Except for Henry and Chooch.

But by 5:00pm, I sincerely needed to get out of the house. Plus, I was really, really hungry. And for something other than horseradish. (Home remedy fail.) First we dropped Chooch off at his grandma’s and did some light Christmas shopping where I used my inherent feminine chicanery to dupe Henry into buying me two new winter coats.

(Admittedly, I watched a LOT of MTV’s True Life when I was home sick on Thursday, and “I’m a Sugar Baby” was one of the episodes.)

Then we picked up Chooch and grabbed some dinner at Frank & Shirley’s because I really needed some of their greasy sex fries.

Henry saw a Marc Jacobs scarf at Target and was appalled at the price. We came from two different backgrounds, so things of a designer nature confuse him.

90 minutes later and he was still frowning about it. “I don’t care WHOSE name is on it! How hard is it to cut a piece of black fabric??”

This is what happens when Target tries to go upscale – Henry’s blue collar explodes.

OMG those fries. Too bad 90% of my taste buds are still infirm.

When I was in high school, Frank & Shirley’s was one of three greasy spoons I’d hit up for cigarettes. This isn’t actually anything to brag about, but I was known for having no less than 6 different kinds of cigarettes on my person at all times, thanks to my penchant for feeding couch-change into those cancer dispensers.

Every time I see one (pretty rare these days), it’s like one hearty yank on my nostalgia dick.

How are you spending your weekend? Hopefully “breathing thru the nose” is on the list!

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[I stayed home sick from work for only the second time since I started working there in 2010. That’s how you know I am pretty fucking sick. So here, instead of the Dance Gavin Dance show review I had planned to write today, have an old story I wrote instead.]

Born in 1870, Grandpa Josiah lived his life defined by the gentle way he brushed hair.

It began with his own dog, Polly. When his mother wasn’t looking (which meant she was passed out in her clawfoot gin bath), Josiah would swipe her silver hair brush and go to town. Other dogs, noticing Polly’s shiny coat, which was no small feat considering they lived in an area carpeted with perpetual moist and soggy sod, found themselves lining up on Josiah’s porch, panting for a good pamper.

Soon, little girls-in-waiting serpentined down the dirt drive, awaiting their turn for their locks to be loved. Josiah was glad to accommodate human follicles too, provided he could have a moment to clean the brush of fleas and dander. He’d even brush the pilous heads of newborn babies with a hand so gentle and methodical it quickly lulled them to sleep.

It was no surprise when Josiah dropped out of school to open his own barber shop. He had a morning tradition of slurping down his hot Ovaltine and running his hand over his array of brushes and combs, which he accumulated through years of attending horse shows.

But eventually, brushing hair wasn’t enough for Josiah. He began to ache to see the pate that lie beneath the mounds of curls, the straight shocks, the combed-over cilium. It started with an accidental jerk of his hand while he trimmed Farmer Johan’s frizzed fringe, enough to drag the razor flush against the scalp and leave an oval of exposed pink flesh. He leaned down close and admired the minute follicles.

The follicles, where it all began.

After that, he yearned to see more, where the hair growth began, where the base of each strand incubated in the bloody, gooey underside of the scalp.

He throbbed for this harder than he had for Betsy Blowhard when she reached a C-cup in the seventh grade.

Josiah was smart about it after he tried to scalp Mrs. Meatcurtain in broad daylight and she screamed to high heaven, he began stealing patients from a nearby hospital who were in the throes of tuberculosis. In the back of his barber shop, he’d sever their scalps clean off their skull, finger the follicles, and then shoot a gratifying load in the basin he used for shampooing.

When he died, he left his entire fortune to the makers of Rogaine.

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Dear Friend(s?),

It might come as a shock to you, but I really, really, really like amusement parks. Specifically, I like the creepy, old dark rides. The fun houses. The tunnels of love. The park attractions that smell like your Great Aunt Esther’s cedar closet in 1964.

Our Castle Blood friends, Chris and Kari, are members of the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiasts club and convinced me to sign up for the family membership.

Twist my arm, seriously.

(DAFE.org is actually what made me want to go to Waldameer Park so badly over the summer, so it was a no-brainer to finally become a member.)

Anyhow, what perfect timing – Kennywood Park is open for a few weekends this year with a Christmas theme, and not only did DAFE members get free admission the night after Thanksgiving, we also got to enter the park before the general public and take a lights on tour of Ghostwood Estate, which is all dudded up for the holidays.

We met up with Chris and Kari, and their daughter Katelyn whom Chooch pretends to dislike, but we all know better.

I love Katelyn. Not only does she keep my kid on his toes (not an easy feat), but she’s got some scene kid swag! And how can I not love a kid who totally appreciates my style? During the course of the night, she told me that she likes my:

• boots
• rings
• iPhone case
• scarf

If she had said Jonny Craig, I probably would have asked Chris and Kari if they can adopt me.

Ghostwood Estate, all dolled up with yuletide bling.

Chris giving the kids the parental “don’t touch a goddamn thing in there!” speech.

Chooch’s response to authority.

Ghostwood Estate is relatively new to Kennywood. Another darkride, the Goldrusher, was removed to make room for this update on the darkride genre. All the cars are equipped with laser guns, giving it an interactive twist. Hitting the targets makes all kinds of shit explode within the scene, so that’s a fun bonus.

Oh, and it also records everyone’s points, so this isn’t something that Henry and I are wildly competitive with. Not at all.

I realized, during the walkthru, that I didn’t recognize a single thing. And then it occurred to me that it’s because anytime I’ve been inside there, I’ve been so preoccupied with shooting the targets, that I never really gave myself a chance to just enjoy the decrepit scenery.

 

I really suck at shooting the targets, anyway. We got to ride through after the walking tour, at which point Henry and Kari made Chooch and I look like fucking pacifists. Jesus, our scores were so abysmal.

At least mine wasn’t as bad as Chooch’s.

The tour alone was worth the cost of our DAFE membership, but there was still so much more to do!

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