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.

“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!!!