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

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.

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.

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.

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!

[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.

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!

In an effort to rejuvenate a love for handwritten letters, the Snail Mail My Email project was launched. It’s run solely by volunteers who handwrite and mail letters that are submitted by people through the website. There’s also the option to request a custom doodle.

Because I don’t have enough shit to do, I signed up to be a volunteer. I wasn’t holding my breath, because the FAQs made it sound like they had enough people, but then over the weekend, I received an email telling me I was chosen, followed immediately by 20 emails with the letters that I need to write and mail.

By MONDAY.

Of course, I made this my priority.

The first one I did had a doodle request of an epic battle between a unicorn and a cat in a cave in a deep pocket of a purse. So I made a purse out of a manila folder. It opens up to reveal the epic battle (I modeled the cat after Marcy, who cam sit through an epic battle looking bored as hell, yet still win) and the message they wanted is written on the back of a gum wrapper.

Because all purses have a gum wrapper in it.

WTF happened in Napa?!

(A-ron liked this one so much, he asked me to make a copy before I mail it.  Who wouldn’t love a letter with the word “twats” in it!?)

3 down. 17 more to go!

Late this morning, I was walking to meet my friend Evonne for coffee at the Sugar Cafe. I called Henry because it had been an entire fifteen minutes since I bothered him at work; while I was on the phone with him, an old man on a bench asked me for the time.

This meant I had to take the phone away from ear and re-light the screen.

Not very problematic, exhausting or too terribly inconvenient, but it was enough to spark a new goal for myself.

“I really need to get a watch,” I whined to Henry, immediately after giving the old man the time. (If I were old, time would be the last thing I wanted to know.) “I haven’t had one in years!”

Side bar: The last watch I had was a Fossil, a Valentine’s Day gift from Henry. Sweet, right? I thought so too until a few months later when I learned he purchased it with my own Journeys gift card.

After listening to me rant about how it was high time I reward myself with a fancy watch, Henry said, “Fancy? Like what, an upscale kids watch?”

God, that man knows me so well.

****

It’s been almost a year since I last saw Evonne, but time doesn’t ever put a damper on things for us. We got our breakfast and immediately started talking about alien sightings, Quaker cemeteries and being stalked. She’s like my goddamn life coach.

 She even brought me last year’s Christmas present!

And it was a watch.

A motherfucking WATCH.

Evonne is magic.

Quick pictorial recap:

Of all the color choices, Chooch picked “Jonny Craig ginger.” That’s my boy! Of course it’s on crooked. That’s my boy.

Some of my work friends. Work has been going better. I haven’t cried there in awhile! (Knock on wood.)

Speaking of work, I was entered in some raffle, unbeknownst to me, for participating in the Firm’s walking challenge and the Heart Walk 5k. I was really excited, even though the $100 gift card was for a grocery store that would basically go straight to Henry’s wallet. Right when I was googling to see if I could use it to buy a gift card for another store so that I could buy clothes instead of cereal, the dude who won the grand prize emailed the lady who organized the event to see if he could swap his PREMIUM CARNEGIE MUSEUM MEMBERSHIP with one of the winners of the gift card.

I’ve never replied to an email so fast.

So now I have that instead. A $250 value! Henry, Chooch and I are always going places so this made more sense to me. We will use the shit out of that membership.

I feel like it was a nice little fist pump from the Big Guy for not killing myself last week.

They’ve done a lot of construction at the Palace of Gold since I was last there.

****
At some point, I have to finish the Moundsville posts. And I scheduled a tour of the Bayernhof Music Museum for this Sunday with my brother Corey and friend Kristy!

Pretty stoked to be returning to that house of horrors.

When all else fails, look at pictures of Jonny Craig.

Oh wait, that only works for me.

Chooch’s artwork for my new office-thing. “Hulk & Zombies vs The Law Firm.”

He does commissions.

This weekend kicked my ass, in the best way possible. I’m not sure if it was a seriously stellar weekend, or if it just feels that way after having such a phenomenally shitty work week. Kind of like fucking a 5 after dating a 2.

You know?

I don’t think I’m capable of making much sense. Maybe after I feel my fat stomach with Mexican food at Verde in an hour, then we can talk.

I look like this now.

Two of my favorite things combined into one: Fisher Price Little People and wheelchairs! I was watching this eBay item like a hawk last weekend (it had 12 bids by the end!

) before royally fucking the high bidder at the last minute.

I now how to bide my time, suckers.

Look what my homeboy Henry brought home for me the other day! My very own prayer bench! Now I finally have a place to set the housekeys and junk mail. So pleased with this.

Marcy is not pleased with this. She smells too much God on it, I think.

Please excuse me while I micro-blog here super quick.

Flea Market Finds!

Against Henry’s wishes, I bought these lamps for the future clown room. Chooch marched right up to the lady selling them and asked how much she wanted. Chooch is the best mouthpiece! Apparently, he was grocery-shopping with his grandma Judy and Henry a few weeks ago, and as Judy tells the story, Chooch walked with authority over to some broad and asked, “Excuse me, do you shop here often?” After she said yes, Chooch asked, “Then do you know where to find the Tofurkey??”

There’s a little vegan girl in his class, but I’m sure that had NOTHING to do with his hunt for faux-deli slices.

We let Chooch buy this pillow at the flea market because hello, he’s the Cat King. The lady selling them had stepped away from her booth, but we waited dilligently for her to return because I was NOT letting my feline-obsessed child go home without a cat cushion for his cranium.

Allen’s Haunted Hayride

There was some knock down-drag out at the grocery store between Henry and Chooch Saturday morning, leaving Henry to call me and shout, “THIS KID IS NOT GOING ANYWHERE TONIGHT!”

We were supposed to take him on his first haunted hayride, so I was completely bummed out about this.

“Why do I have to be punished for something Chooch did?” I cried. But Henry held firm.

“He’s NOT going,” he reiterated.

In then end, Chooch and I left Henry at home baking pies and went to the hayride anyway. My brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle joined us, and Corey had this big Halloween gift bag for Chooch.

“It’s from our mom,” he muttered, while Chooch ravaged the contents.

This made my heart hurt so bad. I’ve mentioned it on here before, but October is the one month I miss my estranged mom. I miss going to haunted houses with her (and having her pay), hosting bonfires at her house (and having her provide all the food and liquor), watching horror movies at her house, and ALL OF THE DECORATIONS. God, she used to do it up proper-style.

But…this is not the mom she is anymore. And pining for something that is long since gone is futile and a huge waste of time. Meanwhile, Chooch didn’t even question it, he just dug right on into the bag. And there was lots of really good shit in there, too.

I wonder if she even knows what he looks like now.

Replacement Big Green Glasses!

My friends Tammy and Rick, ever so thoughtful, gifted me with new glasses at the Pie Party on Sunday, knowing how forlorn I was when my other pair broke. I love them! I can pretty much see better out of those than my contacts.

Motherfucker in a White Van

This morning on my walk home from taking Chooch to school, I had the right of way to cross the street. Some dickhead in a white work van had just rolled up to the stop sign moments prior to me stepping off the curb, and gestured impatiently for me to cross. Here are some things I found wrong with this picture:

• I had the right of way.
• There was nowhere for him to go anyway, considering the street he was trying to turn on to was at a traffic standstill.
• I had the right of way.
• I had the right of way. (I looked it up, even! “When traffic-control signals are not in place or are not in operation, the driver of a vehicle shall yield the right-of-way to a pedestrian crossing the roadway within any marked crosswalk or within any unmarked crosswalk at an intersection.”)
• I don’t permit motherfuckers to gesture impatiently at me.
• I HAD THE RIGHT OF WAY. PEDESTRIANS RULE.

This jackass picked the wrong motherfucking day to get all impatient on me. As previously noted on this blog, I was having a Bad Morning. In fact, Henry was presently getting an ear-beating from me when this all took place, and he’s one lucky motherfucker because I instantly redirected all of my hatred upon this new unmarked van-driving douchebag.

(At the time of the street-crossing, I had been shouting at Henry about how I was going to take a hatchet to our piece of shit couch, chop it into 18 pieces, throw it to the curb and then buy BEAN BAG CHAIRS TO SIT ON, MOTHERFUCKER. God, I hate that couch!!!)

First, I looked this dumbshit in the eyeballs and yelled, “YEAH, I KNOW I CAN CROSS, YOU ASSHOLE!” I continued to glare at him the entire way across the street, and then for two more blocks, I screamed into the phone about this pathetic Yinzer fuckstick who was probably all bent out of shape because his precious STILLERS blow this year. Taking it out on some precious street-crosser is not going to change that fact, you cocksucker!

I was just getting done screaming, “I hope I see him again tomorrow and every day after! I’M GOING TO RUIN HIM!” when I happened to look to my left and noticed some broad sitting on her front porch, quietly drinking her coffee, and staring at me expectantly.

And I still kept bitching even after I grew tired of bitching to Henry and hung up on him.

Man, that dumbfuck walked right the fuck onto my war path…the van driver and Henry.

Near-Fatal Work Injury!

Yesterday, I inflicted upon myself the motherlode of all paper cuts.

Barb was supposed to be looking for a Bandaid in her drawer when suddenly I heard her exclaim, “Ooh! A Heath bar!”

That’s OK, Barb. I’m just BLEEDING OUT, THAT’S ALL.

Today, once all the BLOOD AND SWELLING went away, I was able to see that there were actually EIGHT (8) cuts, not 4.5 like I originally counted at the time of slicing.

This is what my hand looked like by the time I found a Bandaid.

Current Favorite Glenns!

Did a bunch more today, including a Glenn or Glenda one as suggested by my friend Chris, which so far has only been appreciated by ONE PERSON (Amber² who is obviously super smart and has excellent taste in cinema).

Perhaps tomorrow I will drink some energy drinks and write about the pie party. I at least have all of the photos ready! Ah, memories of when I was a real, dedicated blogger.

A few years ago, when I actually tried to be a part of the Blogosphere, I participated in a Blog Bash that some blogger broad was hosting. Basically, everyone posted shit about themselves, answered questions, and then went around reading everyone else’s shit.

I thought it would be fun to re-post mine and maybe, if anyone out there gives a shit, they can make their own post on their blog. JUST A THOUGHT.

*********

• My birthday is July 30, 1979. That means I’m a Leo, which means I roar a lot. Which means I have an awesome singing voice.
• My boyfriend Henry and I have been together since 2001. We did a REALLY SICK THING which produced a boy named Riley, but everyone calls him Chooch. You can too. He’s 4 now. 4 is the age where kids get the  manual on how to be dicks, in case you didn’t know. And if you have a 4-year-old and are disagreeing with this, then I hate you. Can we trade?
  • ACTUALLY, at the time of this posting, he’s six and has since earned a black belt in dickness.
• I live in Pittsburgh! I hate it here!
• I hate water towers, power plants/abandoned factories, the ocean, outer space, glaciers, Alaska, Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry, the Steelers, liars.
• I like hockey!
• My past time is stalking people and playing with animal masks. (Yes, in tandem.)
• I like the Cure and most any music that features incessant screaming.
• Annoying people with reckless abandon is sort of my thang.
• I can turn any situation into a study of awkwardness.
• I am a girl!

5.) Let’s hear the story behind your blog title!

My grandma and I have a very illustrious history, full of afternoons  light-hearted flour fights during impromptu snickerdoodle bake-offs and reading Dickens together beneath a parasol.

That’s a lie. I don’t know why I typed that just now.

The truth is that I was always the black sheep, that a lot of my actions or ideas shamed my grandma. Even as a small child, when I would fuck up, she would sigh exasperatedly (sometimes even disgustedly while running a red pen across my name on her Will) and say, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

And not a day goes by where I don’t have some extent of an “Oh honestly” moment.

Now you know.