After a particularly intense car ride involving mochi and lots of traffic, Andrea and I ditched Chooch with Henry and went shopping. First I showed her Wildcard—the place that used to sell my art when I was an “artist.” I was pretty underwhelmed with everything I saw there, except for the Yee Haw screenprints (I bought one off Etsy for Chooch when he was a baby), but I almost bought this plastic Polaroid frame necklace so I could lay a new picture of Jonny Craig against my chest everyday, but it was $20 so I had to check with Henry since it was a day before my payday and we totally live paycheck-to-paycheck. Henry gave me permission but then I got all pouty and indignant over the fact that I had to check with him in the first place, so I decided I would just go back and buy it after I got paid and without needing to check with Papa H.

Plus, I wasn’t sure I really wanted it anyway. Henry can probably just make me one.

I’m even high-strung about small ticket purchases.

Afterward, we were drinking iced coffee on a bench when I realized I could take her to my favorite place in Pittsburgh—Zenith. It’s an antique store/vegetarian restaurant combo, and I’ve never been there to just browse the merch, but no way was I going to make a connoisseur of exotic meats dine on tofu and tempeh.

Andrea found all these cool courtroom drawings, and I really wanted her to have this one depicting the murder weapons, but it was kind of overpriced for something drawn with chalk on cardboard. If the lady-owner had been there yesterday, I probably could have haggled with her for it since she was so enchanted with me the last time I was there. But instead, some dude was in charge that day, maybe it was her son. I didn’t get bartering vibes from him, though.

I wanted Andrea to get this dress, but she claims it wasn’t her size. Really, I think she knows she’s not hardcore enough to wear a dress with bloodstains on it.

I’m going back for this bathing suit, maybe even the whole ensemble. I don’t care how bad Andrea hates it! When I look like Blanche Devereaux lounging on the lanai, we’ll see who’s laughing then!

I can’t wait until I get a house to fill with doll and mannequin heads.

It will be such an inviting abode!

“Did you see the wheelchair hanging up there?” Andrea asked, pointing above her head. I had been too busy prowling for clown things to look up, so I had not, in fact, seen the most majestic vintage wheelchair dangling precariously from the ceiling.

I literally gasped. It was all I could do. Then I believe I yelled, “OH SHIT I WANT THAT!!” How could someone like me not have something like that to sit upon while sipping coffee and smiling at the melodious birds out the front window? I was so afraid to inquire upon the price, but Andrea prodded me. When the guy squinted at it and said, “Hmmm…$40,” I almost died. That was something I could afford, and not only that but it’s practically an investment. Oh, the photoshoot ideas I have coagulating around my brain right now.

I could use the shit out of something like this.

So I called Henry and prefaced it with, “OK, don’t say no, and also–I didn’t buy that necklace.” I thought maybe that would soften him up a little bit, to know that I showed restraint when it came to accessories. And then I told him about the wheelchair in my signature quick-speak, and while he didn’t actually say no, he did say to wait until next week.

“THEY’RE CLOSED FOR VACATION NEXT WEEK!” I wailed.

“Well, then the week after that,” he was quick to retort.

“SOMEONE IS GOING TO BUY IT IF I DON’T!” I cried, and I’m pretty sure Henry and Andrea both muttered “No one is going to to buy that” in tandem.

I finally got him to agree to let me buy it right there on the spot, with an arrangement for him to pick it up the next day with his van But then I couldn’t find the guy to tell him the great news, so I frantically paced around the racks of muumuus and caftans, sweating and looking like a general fool, while Andrea calmly browsed for a present for her boyfriend. How does she stay so calm?! I was sweating so bad from all the anxiety this wheelchair was bringing to my life, that I had to periodically take time out to stand in front of the floor fan.

Finally, I poked my head into the kitchen and asked the girl doing food prep if she knew his whereabouts, and she pleasantly abandoned her vegetable-cutting in favor of fetching him for me. (I think his name was Richie? Unless his name was Wheelchair, I didn’t really care.)

And that is how I became the proud owner of a wheelchair that’s probably infested with the spirits of expired psychiatric patients. Henry should consider himself lucky: a haunted wheelchair or neckwear that will force him to look at Jonny Craig’s face everyday? I think he’ll agree that he got the better deal.

Now I just have to add  sipping coffee while smiling at the melodious birds out the front window into my daily routine.

I’m probably going to be phoning it in this week since my friend Andrea is visiting from California and I need to devote as much time as possible to making her question why she’s friends with me. Since I have not had time to collect my thoughts about this past Big Butler Fair (whiplash might have something to do with that, here is a vintage Big Butler post in case you have never put your lives in the hands of a carny and would like to know what it feels like to ride carnival rides.

The morning of the fair, I panicked a little about what to eat for breakfast. I knew that I wanted to ride everything, all of the day, all of the time, possibly two rides at once if Alisha was bringing her cauldron and spell book. But I didn’t want to wind up puking like Blake did that one time. In the end, I eschewed the hemlock-laced trucker’s breakfast Henry was plating inside a tire, and wound up forcing down a small bowl of cereal instead.

“Let’s pace ourselves,” I said as we entered the gates to the fair that day. Ride all day passes were $20 (ours were $15 because Alisha bought them online before July 1, she’s such a savvy coupon clipper) and I wanted to be sure we woke up the next morning with safety-bar grooves indented into our flesh and a gaping anal wound, a good sign of us getting our money’s worth. But that wouldn’t happen if one or both of us wound up disgorging our breakfast and life matter after three rides.

We had our favorites, that’s for sure.

• Mind Blaster: This was more Alisha’s jam, but I think what she really liked were the exaggerated faces of horror I flashed toward her during the ride. I have two things fighting for ‘least favorite’ position: a) it’s too short of a ride, and b) all three times we rode it, I wound up sitting next to an empty seat and getting pelted by the unbuckled seat belt. So instead of bracing myself against the collarbone-cracking oscillations, I was too busy shielding my kneecaps from whipping belts.

• Freak Out: Oh, this ride is a hobofucker! For our inaugural trip, Alisha and I were the only ones riding it. It wasn’t so bad at first! Kind of like riding on a giant backyard swing set. But then I realized it was only swinging back and forth lethargically at first because it was gaining MOMENTUM and suddenly we were shot up into the sky. I guess I didn’t pay much attention when we were spectating from the ground earlier, because I failed to notice the point where it pendulates you up so high that your back is parallel to the Heavens and your face is staring point blank at all these things that seemed so harmless when you were on the ground but now they are nothing more than death instruments and now suddenly you’re wishing there were more concession stands over by the Freak Out to better your odds of landing on a trampoline of Kool-smoking muffin tops.  You better believe I was screaming like I had Bieber Fever while playing keep away from Ben Roethlisberger’s  protruding dick in the bathroom of some shitty Georgia night club. In fact, my screams  were of such Tobe Hooper audition tape  quality that the ride began to slow down. “I think I made it stop!” I laughed to Alisha, who had kept an empty seat between us in case one of us began to bleed out. “What?” she yelled over pulsating club beats of Usher. “I think I made them stopppppppp—-” and then that motherfucker sped up again in a DIFFERENT DIRECTION and let me tell you, the first round was basically when your brave boyfriend is feeling out your asshole with the tip of his cock. There’s pain, but then you’re like, “Well, this isn’t too bad I guess” and then he plunges right the fuck in with the whole goddamn shaft, giving an entirely new meaning to the experience. There was one point, as I was flung backward, where I saw my bowels exit my body and suspend in a frozen Karate move in front of me. I had a cold sweat when the ride was over. BUT IT WAS FUCKING GREAT, YOU GUYS! Just like anal.

The Zipper  is too awesome for bullet points.

Alisha had never been on the Zipper before and I was so excited to corrupt her. I got Henry to go on it once. He wasn’t really paying much attention I guess when we stood in line because he believed me when I swore, “Oh, this doesn’t go upside down.”

Alisha and I hate our lives so much that we rode it three times that day. The first time, I spent the entire ride fucking with the camera, trying to figure out how to get it to record. This meant that I wasn’t holding on. There are two ways I know this:

1. Alisha kept screaming I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE NOT HOLDING ON.
2. I slammed my head off the metal grating of the cage enough times to do some damage, which I think is why I tried to eat my porridge out of the commode the next morning.

And then something absolutely horrific happened. We’re suspended something like A LOT of feet in the air, smashed into a cage that’s spinning faster than Sybil on sugar cubes, when something FELL.

All I knew was that it was orange and it was a vital piece to the safety latch of the cage, thusly, we were frozen Looney Toon-style, mid-air, waiting for Satan to snap his fingers.

I’m screaming, “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE, THIS IS IT! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HOW I’M GOING OUT, I HAVEN’T EVEN EATEN SUSHI OFF A NAKED BITCH YET” and then as I paused to swallow a gulp of Butler County air, I caught the tail end of Alisha yelling, “—my fucking phone! That was  my brand new fucking phone!”

Oh how I embraced life at that very moment. I laughed like Alisha’s phone was a fucking double rainbow and then sobbed a little and then laughed harder.

IT WAS JUST HER STUPID PHONE! Not the world’s orangest bolt. Unfortunately, Alisha didn’t share my same relief because she had just literally got that phone the day before. I was able to clamp it down under my foot to ensure it didn’t get ejected from a carnival ride that makes the Iron Maiden look like a foot massager. So then my trip on the Zipper became REALLY fun and purposeful. My foot actually cramped from the urgency of which I was pinning down her phone.

Alisha said the second time we rode that other asshole ride, Freak Out, the guy next to her was texting the entire time. I don’t think I would have been able to save his phone too.

I like this photo because you can see Alisha holding on for dear life in the reflection of my sunglasses; meanwhile I’m like, “Just another afternoon on the yacht with Brody Jenner and Kristen Cavalleri, ya’ll.” I hate this photo because it was taken with the SHITTY CAMERA, you guys. I promise, I have a nose.  That Leno chin is real, though.

The second time we rode it, I recorded the entire trip. It’s over three minutes of me swearing, screaming, and saying “Oh my God” in a way that was meant to be filled with crisis but came off sounding like I’m orgasming. This particular go-around felt much more violent than the first one! There was one point where our cage somersaulted a good 10-12 times with no relenting.

“That’s what sex must sound like on a crashing plane,” I muttered to Alisha as we stumbled out of the cage and crossed ourselves post-haste.

Alisha, on the swings with her precious phone that I basically died for.

We rode one last time before we left, because KIRK was at the helms and I kept promising we’d be back to bunch up our lives in his hands like cum-covered panties.

Oh my god, this was me after riding the Zipper at the same fair in 1998! And I keep coming back for more torture. There’s a term for that. I think it’s called “Katy Perry fan.”

I was so excited and totally doing the pee dance in anticipation of Andrea’s arrival, that I left my house too early to get her. Rather than circle around the airport like an idiot (because that’s so much different than walking in circles around my house, amirite Law Firm Walking Challenge?), I pulled into the Sunoco that’s conveniently located within the airport grounds, and is therefore peppered with SUNOCO PARKING ONLY NO WAITING FOR AIRPORT PASSENGERS signs.

Because I’m always on OMG AM I GOING TO GET IN TROUBLE alert, I figured I better go inside and buy the right to park here. So I got this curious drink called NeuroTrim which tastes distinctly Asian and verboten. It’s the only way I can describe it and with any luck, it’s chockful of fen-phen and I’ll drop 20 before going into cardiac arrest.

It comes in a pretty cool bottle and it apparently wants to be drank three times a day, before major meals. Look Henry, I found a new fad!

Quick update to let you know that I’m still walking. My 20,000+ steps a day streak was frighteningly close to be being broken at the fair last night (that’s its own story); Henry and I have almost broken up 87 times (last night was #86); I walked into Wendy’s door trying to leave her office and blamed it on standing still for too long; and I really need to get my hair done but that’s TWO HOURS of being stuck in a chair, not walking.

I’ve been dragging Chooch to the high school track with me everyday. This might be surprising to some, but he’s kind of not really into it. I was letting him bring a ball with him at first, but he kept accidentally-on-purpose kicking it onto the track. A red ball on a red track — now those are two things that go hand in hand. Finally I wised up and made him keep the ball in the car on Friday. Within 8 minutes, he FOUND a ball over by the equipment shed, which he began bouncing in the same lane as a woman running toward him.

Sometimes I get lucky and there are roaming cats on the other side of the fence to distract him.

The last time we were there, he snatched a Santa Claus out of the air so I told him to make a wish.

“I wish we could get the hell out of here,” he mumbling, releasing the Santa Claus back into the air.

July 11, Chooch. July 11.

Honestly, I had no intentions of buying anything at the flea market this morning; it was just an excuse to collect some leisure-steps on my pedometer. But then I saw this little Nativity set, and then the guy selling it saw me seeing it and shouted “$2!” How could I say no when I have literally always wanted a Lilliputian nativity set for my desk?

(Might not be entirely based on truth.)

I wish I was fast enough to snap a picture of Henry frowning as he begrudgingly slapped a five in my palm.

The broad in the yellow shirt almost speared my eyeball on the sharp pitchfork she was carrying, dispelling my theory that no one actually goes to the flea market to purchase rusty farm equipment.

Immediately after I took this, my son Mouth yelled, “MOMMY DID YOU JUST TAKE A PICTURE OF THAT MAN’S BUTTCRACK?!” which of course prompted the plunging crack offender to whirl around and glare at us. My solution was to look all around and hum while rapidly (and stiffly) waking to the next table.

He kept yelling, “Hey!” but my completely innocent whistling rendered it impossible for me to hear him, you see.

Look, it’s the guy (and his wobbling eye mole) who educated me about Saint Rita and sold me the majestic Last Rites box! Walking past him, something clicked and I realized that he’s also the same guy from whom I (and by that I mean Henry) bought an old portrait of a child, which I immediately named Uncle Otis and wrote a nonsensical biography.

I can’t wait until I’m this old and stylin’. Mixed animal prints: 100% acceptable past the age of 80.

(The heads of fashion bloggers are now capped by mushroom clouds at the very thought of this ever being OK. But high-waisted shorts and rompers? Wear with dignity!)

Chooch is REALLY into flea market shopping and takes it very seriously. This is him impatiently waving wrestler figurines in the air, trying to get the vendor’s attention. The problem is that later when we’re at Target, he doesn’t understand why all the toys aren’t $1, arguments ensue, we come to blows, you know how it is.

Since I wasn’t looking for anything, I of course found the most amazing clown artifact for the collection I’m going to put in the house in my head. It’s a 1982 Shriner’s relic and if you pull up on the yellow knob and push it back down, the clown spins in a top-like fashion.

I was enamored instantly, but Henry was not particularly in love with the price. But by the time we were ready to leave, Henry sighed and handed me cash, at which point I walked in my usual walking challenge pace (“I hope no one bought it already!” I cried to Henry, who mumbled, “No one bought it, believe me.”), slaloming around asshole kids riding bikes down the pathways (seriously? You can’t just walk, you little menaces?), caterwauling toddlers in strollers, and sun-ravaged biker broads boasting faded rose tattoos on their wrecked bosoms, until I made it back to the men with the prized tin clown.

It was a no nonsense, “here’s the cash, gimme the fucking clown” transaction. I even made real life, unscripted small talk with a tall man passing by, who told me he used to be a clown for parties; we agreed that clowns are so misunderstood when all they want to do is bring joy (and possibly stuff a body or 24 under their floorboards).

Good day at the flea market!

Remember last year when I was making People of Brookline postcards? I don’t think I ever posted this one, but this lady* is a walking addict. For as long as I’ve been living here (13 years, OMG), I have seen her walking through every season, every element, usually always in the same clothes. (Ignore the text on the postcard — the purple pants are BACK, bitches.) This grizzled broad walks EVERYWHERE.

We’ve even seen her walking up the steepest hills in neighboring towns.

(*Actually, the jury is out on the gender.

)

One time, Henry saw her COME OUT OF A HOUSE. She might actually live somewhere other than the streets! I can’t even…

I’m hoping to see her walk past my house at some point this weekend, because I’m going to hitch a ride on her walking-wake. If I can keep up with her, that’s a surefire way to crush this walking challenge. She could walk me to victory. (And probably also an IV hook-up in the ER.

)

I have a sinking suspicion Purple Pants might be my future.

The “I’m Trying To Enjoy This Pizza, It Might Be My Only Father’s Day Treat, Get the Phone Out of My Grill” frown.

I first learned about furries in July of 2004. I had just been forced to go to the Regatta with my friend Stacey, and as if that wasn’t enough, she then forced me to pose for a picture with the Froggy radio station mascot, which somehow in mind was the perfect segueway into thinking about filming mascot porn. I mentioned that on my LiveJournal entry about the Regatta, and someone was quick to tell me that there was actually already such a thing, and it was called “being furry.”

You can imagine how excited I am that my quaint city hosts the largest convention for furries each year, the Anthrocon. It is definitely one of the perks of working downtown, that’s for sure. I was practically salivating to take my half-hour break on Thursday: hunting furries and racking up steps on the pedometer? That’s the dream. Some of my co-workers were lamenting the fact that they had not seen any of these pseudo-mythological creatures when they were out, and I said, “Well, that’s because you have to go to them.” So that is what I did. I power-walked straight into the heart of Furryville: the Westin Convention Center. Halfway there, I began passing seemingly normal people, until they’d turn around and wave a bushy tail at me. The closer I got, the more full-costumed furries I saw. Waiting to cross the street to the Westin, I noticed that the man next to me was wearing an Anthrocon badge, so I started chatting him up to learn the proper etiquette of approaching furries. I had only ever admired from afar in the past, usually from the car window, but I wanted to get all up in it this year, now that I had easy access thanks to my job.

My new friend told me that they preferred to be asked for a picture first, but that most would be happy to oblige. He told me to remember that the masks gave them tunnel-vision, so if it seemed like they were ignoring me, they probably just couldn’t see me. He was very helpful, and as we parted ways, he said in competing gay and nerd dialects, “If you see a walrus later, that will be me!”

I talked to these guys briefly. How could I resist a skunk in scene-kid shades? Anyway, I asked the one in the middle how they got into the furry phenomenon; he just shrugged and gave me a muffled, “The Internet?” Whiskey over there refused to break character. He just kept cocking his head and resting it on his hands. So fucking adorable, I couldn’t stand it.

I got free shrugs AND a high-five from this guy!

Then I saw a furry in a wheelchair but he was moving too fast for me to catch him. When I got back to work, Barb said, “I love how you don’t know where anything is downtown, but you can find the furries.” Well, yeah! Us weirdos will always find each other.

I haven’t dragged Glenn‘s name through the mud in awhile, so I did this later that night. I was really feeling festively furry, obviously.

Yesterday, I went back out with Amber², who had been trying fruitlessly to spot a furry the day before. There is just nothing like walking down the street and getting a high-five from a bear in a fedora. This time, we went inside the Westin and hung out in the lobby for awhile, where we were met with a panoply of anthropomorphic aficionados. It was absolutely thrilling.

We were in the revolving door with this furry businessman poser, who was shouting so ridiculously loud into his cell phone, that I asked Amber² if she thought he was for real. She said yes, that he was just a douchey loud mouth, but I kind of think he was talking on a Fisher Price cell phone and it was all a part of his furred character.

My goal was to get one of them to pose with my Jonny Craig doll. I even carried him in a little purse so Amber² wouldn’t be embarrassed (because you know, a girl carrying a doll is SO WEIRD when there are people in full mascot-attire skipping around the streets of Pittsburgh). The last time I took Jonny out for a downtown stroll, I straight cradled him in my arms. Ask Carey, she wasn’t embarrassed at all.

Anyway, I picked this particular furry because hello, perfect coloring! He’s practically the furry Jonny Craig. So I prefaced my request with, “This might sound kind of weird…” Yes, because that is the only weird part of this whole picture. Having a furry hold my Jonny doll was absolutely exhilarating, I can’t even describe the joy I felt.

My favorites are the ones who dress their furry personae. A bathrobe and eye mask? Fuck yes.

I don’t know who the human is in this picture.

“Will you hold my doll for a picture?” I asked, before noticing the dino’s digit-deficient paws. “Can you hold it?” I added. He gave an unsure nod and then fumbled for Jonny. Oh, furries. We had to go upstairs from the lobby to get his dude’s picture, that is how dedicated Amber² and I are at furry-stalking.

Pittsburgh, for as much trash-talking I do, is actually overwhelmingly accommodating to the furries, which is why they keep coming back here. Most of the restaurants near the Westin had up signs boasting their furry-friendliness, and there is even a place that serves them food in dog bowls. How fucking adorable is that? (Seriously, click that link and read the story; it’s heartwarming.)

When I got back to the office, I was talking to my co-worker Colleen and she was telling me about this walrus she saw two years ago that was dressed to the nines in a tuxedo with tails, a tophat and a monocle, and was literally holding court in the middle of the Westin. I told her about the guy I talked to yesterday and she exclaimed, “What if it was the same guy!?” and a passing-by co-worker added, “Wow Erin, you might have met a celebrity furry!” and maybe that sounds stupid to you, but I was totally excited at the prospect.

Meanwhile, Chooch was all bent out of shape that I got to see furries and he didn’t, so he and Henry ended up taking the trolley downtown while I was at work last night. Anything for the bitchbaby! But seriously, Chooch is just completely enchanted by these guys, as any child would be I imagine. Henry told me that they saw a (not skinny) furry who was completely nude except for her bikini bottoms and body paint and that Chooch couldn’t stop laughing about it the whole time. It was nearly two hours later by the time I met up with them and the first thing Chooch said was, “Did you read Daddy’s text about the nude lady?” and then died laughing all over again.

Oh, the things the city will show a kid.

We walked back down to the Westin and hung out with some more furries before heading home.

This guy was in full character, scratching behind his ears and whimpering to Chooch, who just stood there with a smile mixed with amusement and confusion.

My flash didn’t go off for this picture, but it was some dragon/bat type thing that let Chooch hold his dead plush fish.

I know there are people who do this for the kink of it, and some of the people behind the fur perhaps have some sort of neurological malfunction, but I have to imagine that a lot of people do this because maybe they’re introverts, overlooked at their jobs, and this is their chance to have some attention and just let go of their insecurities. And how can you hate on that? I think it’s OK to not understand how a person falls into this incredibly fascinating (and yes, weird) lifestyle, but making fun of it is kind of “so 2006” isn’t it?

Maybe some of their fur rubbed off on me, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to try and get into their convention next year. Possibly in costume. Look, strapping on a tail and giving blow jobs isn’t exactly beneath me, but I really just want to know what goes on inside that convention! I want to be furry for a day, OK? Purely for research. Don’t judge me.

I recently just found my old supervisor Kim on Facebook, which brought back all kinds of memories (all of them are good—Kim was one of my favorite people at that job). This is one of my favorites, which I am reposting because this walking challenge is really consuming my life and I have not yet mastered the fine art of blogging while walking (shocking I know). Copy and paste all the way!

Anyway this is from 2008. All you need to know is that Tina and Eleanore were super fucking annoying.

***********

Tina and Eleanore have a perpetual email chain going during the late shift. They will laugh out loud, completely over-the-top Jello-bellied guffaws, as they read each other’s latest (lame, I’m betting) quip. So last night, Kim intercepted me as I left the restroom and, in hushed tones, proposed that we give them a taste of their own medicine.

“Make them think we’re talking about them,” she said, deviously.

“But we really do that,” I reminded.

She ignored me and continued whispering. “When you go back to your desk, laugh, and then I’ll laugh.”

Not one to decline a foray into junior high shenanigans, I accepted the mission. “Just let me steal some tea bags first, and then I’ll do it,” I promised.

In my travels to the other side of the building to forage for tea, I began to overthink my assignment.

I wanted my tittering to sound as realistic as possible but pressure was preventing me from remembering how I regularly laughed. I at least knew it wasn’t a sleazy snortle a la Tina.

I felt like I should have given myself a practice test, laughed out loud a few times while walking back from my tea journey. But it’s already bad enough that I have a rap for stalking the cleaning crew with my camera phone; I didn’t want to add schizo chuckler to my reputation.

By the time I returned to my area, my palms were coated with a clammy glaze. Nervous and guilty, I stomped past a book-reading Eleanore and, in the skittish falsetto of someone who just partied with an eight ball, I shouted, “IS THAT BOOK GOOD?” A normal, non-suspicious person might have first asked her what the fuck book she was even reading, but I was too busy being squashed under an anvil of pressure. Eleanore seemed startled at my near-accusatory inquiry, and replied with a confused, “Uh, yeah, babe. I’m only on page 100 though.” I shouted “THAT’S GOOD” and sat down clumsily at my desk.

And then I did it.

Try to remember back to 1988 when you snuffed that fisherman down on the docks, behind the tower of cargo, and you heard him suck in his last pitiful breath: all raspy and wet-sounding from choking on the blood corked in his throat, and you’ll have a good idea of what my forced laugh sounded like.

Strangulated and weak. Pathetic. Painful. A soul drifting off into the ether.

Kim didn’t even hear it from her cube. If Eleanore heard, and I don’t think she did, she probably just thought I had indigestion.

I emailed Kim and apologized for single-handedly fucking her plan in the ass.

“Idiot.” That was her reply. Succinct, honest, deserved.

And now I present to you a visual tour of my last three days. It is not very spectacular.

My friend Kate suggested that I start a blog of nothing but Henry frowning. I think that is a fantastic idea. But for now, here is the “Erin Just Turned Up Dance Gavin Dance” frown. Coincidentally, right after this happened, I tweeted, “Seriously. How great would I be as an ice cream truck driver” to which Andrea replied, “Blasting Dance Gavin Dance, I would imagine.” Yes! Jonny Pops for everyone!

Totally still fawning over this. My friend Terri was all, “I got two copies sent to my house, aren’t you jealous?” Well, yeah! I still need to get an auxiliary issue to frame.

Speaking of Jonny, I took this photo the very first time I ever got to see him, back in 2008 when Emarosa opened for Pierce the Veil. I cried a lot that night.

Contrary to popular belief, the Cure is actually still my favorite band. Never forget that.

(I can never tell if I post too many pictures of myself. I never know what you guys want, OK!?)

One big eyeball.

Minus that glaring “your,” this is my new favorite text. One day I will regale you all with the story of why Henry is “A Woodhick” in my phone.

Perhaps now Carey will think better of disagreeing with me. Probably not.

In other news, today was the start of the Law Firm walking challenge and I already have words to say about it, but maybe that will be for tomorrow. Right now, I just want to walk five feet, check my pedometer, walk 14 feet, check my pedometer, walk 3 feet, grab a peppermint patty….

Henry stopped the car in the middle of the road to show me a kitten sitting in the grass. “There it is!! There’s that kitten I was telling you about! LOOK AT THE COLORING!!” he exclaimed, blowing my hair back with his sheer exuberance.

Apparently, he saw this kitten Friday when he was on his way to pick me up from work, and then on the way back he circled the block looking for it again, when all I wanted to do was go home and eat dinner, having only eaten oatmeal and an apple that day. The kitten had clearly found better things to do than to sit in the exact same spot for 45 minutes, waiting for the crazy kitten prowler to return.

You can imagine Henry was foaming at the ‘stache to see this kitten again. And then when a car had the NERVE to come up behind us, he got all up in arms and shouted, “There are NEVER any cars on this road!” before calling the driver an asshole AND a douchebag and driving away.

“You should have seen that kitten’s eyes,” he murmured a few seconds later. “They’re like, clear—OH OF COURSE THAT FUCKER ISN’T EVEN BEHIND US ANYMORE!!” he yelled, tilting the rear view mirror.

I have no idea who he is anymore.

I had to make a list of all the different things I do at my job, and I can’t believe I left off “Food styling.”

7 o’clock apple, served with cinnamon and severed hand./em>