Henry, Chooch and I are currently on the trolley en route to the Art Festival. Chooch made two friends: a 3-year-old boy named Jordan, and a half-retarded guy going to the JOE WALSH show.

Oh do I have a fantastic video of this guy talking about science.

Will post when I get home!

Today, I’m reposting these photos because Andrea is coming back to visit next month and I’m excited to do another zombie-esque photo shoot.

And probably by then, I can just give her some bath salts so no makeup will be needed.

Chooch could have stood to be more cooperative (children! ugh), but it was overall a really fun day. Wendy even came out to spectate and then wound up a victim.

Meanwhile, Henry leaned against the car for most of the time, playing Words With Friends and being annoyed.

It was awesome!

Corey and I were duped into thinking that the Mattress Factory had switched exhibitions, so we lassoed up his girlfriend Danielle and my friend Laura and revisited the industrial abode of contemporary art yesterday. Turns out, it was the last day for the current exhibits, so we got to ogle a roomful of handheld bread rolls again. But Corey and I didn’t really care, we were just happy to get out of the sweltering July sneak peek-heat.

EXCEPT THAT THE MATTRESS FACTORY IS NOT AIR-CONDITIONED. FOILED!!

I was pretty upset that the balloon room I saw on the website was not there. I really wanted to release a balloon, and then write my own dreams and wishes on one to replace it.

I’m pretty sure everyone was getting completely annoyed with me whining about it.

Thank god Jonny Craig was there to console me. When he wasn’t getting nipple-nuzzled.

At this moment, Corey was in the middle of saying something and then just stopped. I guess the view of Northside rooftops stunned the words back into his mouth.

It was so face-meltingly hot in that joint that it was almost hard to enjoy everything. And then I accidentally accosted someone in a dark hallway, poking them so hard that my finger bent all the way back. I screamed as a reflex (probably in their face, I couldn’t see) and then we all got a good laugh. Well, me and my group did anyway. I think the person I finger-jabbed was this older man whom I kept mistaking for Philip Seymour Hoffman every time I would see him in my periphery. I do not think he nor his non-smiling wife were amused by any of us at any point during our cultural sojourn, and Corey and I weren’t even really being assholes on this day. It was just too hot!

Got this ring from the gift shop! I had openly coveted it when Corey and I were there over the winter, but I think I had like, $20 in my bank account that I needed to stretch out for the next week. So I did not indulge.  This time, however, I could’t resist, though I did text Henry and ask him as a courtesy. His reply was “How much is it?” and then after making me wait forev-hev-er (at least it was air-conditioned in the gift shop), he finally texted back a simple “whatever” that I just knew was oozing defeat and possibly even a little hatred.

Since it was “art,” it wasn’t as cheap as most of my jewelry is (flea market swag!).

The Mattress Factory has an additional building down the street, called the Annex. It was closed when Corey and I were last there, but this time it was open. That is how I learned that there would be balloons after all! Yes, I realize that I essentially paid $12 for the opportunity to choose a balloon. I’m alright with that.

Along the length of outside wall of the Annex, there are red downspouts. Some of them had mirrors placed inside so you could look in and essentially see nothing, but that was still wildly exciting for me. My favorite was the one that had an illustration of an ear at the opening, and if you put your head against it, you could hear music playing from inside the building.

It’s the little things.

This scene of a woman getting out of the shower was projected on a wall.  There was also, on the ceiling above a staircase,  a projection of a woman walking up stairs, and a bathroom that had a projection of a design on the shower curtain with a recording of some lady singing behind it. IDEAS FOR MY FUTURE HOUSE.

BALLOONS! FINALLY! BALLOONS AND DREAMS EVERYWHERE!!! $12 BALLOONS!

I’m afraid to know what Corey wrote on his.

This is the one he took to release, specifically because someone wrote “I wish I banged her” on it. I took one that said, “I wish for the liberation of the moose.” Because that is a solid wish that deserves to come true.

The handrail had water runnng down it. I touched it, expecting it to be crisp and cold, refreshing; but instead it was WARM BORDERING ON BOILING. I screamed, “OMG IT’S HOT!!” at an alarming decibel.

There was a midget-considerate door which was just enough ajar to let us peek inside at a projection of (presumably) the same woman from the other procted scenes, this time getting her spin on.

All that fuss over the balloons, and I didn’t even release mine myself. I took it home and let my neglected son do it, since I’m such a shitty mother.

The last two weeks have filled me with some of the most unimaginable grief, and having Don’s burial postponed until today did nothing to help me prepare. Every day, I get ready for work and completely lose it, and then I have to give myself the “Pull it together, Erin!” speech. Our house feels so empty and every moment I’m alone in there, my mind just reels and it’s like I’m suspended in this suffocating, quicksanded Hell, getting bitch-slapped in the face by bittersweet memories; plus I’ve been listening to a lot of Morcheeba lately, because that is apparently what I liked in 2002. Like swishing hot tea over a tooth ache, only in my heart. But it’s OK. I know that one day I will be able to look at pictures of Don and smile, just like I can now do with my Pappap, without becoming racked with misery.

I asked Henry to write some words in Don’s memory, because I’m not ready to close the door on my own. Still hurts too much.

I always love when Erin makes write a few words or answer a few questions about something we did or she made me do. Words just do not flow from my head like they do from hers. It takes planning and a lot of extra thought to get this little tribute in to motion, for Erin I would do almost anything though and if writing is what she wants then writing she shall have. When I first came along Don was already part of the family, but even though I was the stranger and not the biggest cat person at all, He was one of the first to warm up to me as he did everyone that entered his house, except for his nemesis ( as pictured in some rare pictures of both of them together) Chooch. He was always the first to come out and sit with you once Chooch went to sleep, he would sit next to as long as you didn’t try and hold him. Don has me made me some what of a cat person as long as they turn out like him. He will be missed!

The waitress at Sylvester and Tweety’s gave Chooch this drawing thing to entertain him (news flash: nothing placates my child).

“Here, let me write something,” I said, swiping it from him.

“Oh, please don’t write Jonny Craig,” Chooch sighed with exasperation right as my hand was perched to draw a heart with Jonny’s name inside.

“Dammit!” I cried out dejectedly, and then, “How did you know?!”

“Oh, come on,” Henry mumbled, insinuating that the whole Internet would have guessed what I was going to write.

I guess I need to work on my predictability.

HE’S HERE! HE’S HERE!! MAYA MADE ALL OF MY DREAMS COME TRUE! OMG OMG OMG! I can’t wait to ask Jonny Craig to sign his shirt and then say something predictably douchey to make me cry!

Oh Jonny, the places we will go.

Chooch was apparently SO PISSED (and confused) that there wasn’t a “Y.”

I was on a Draw Something hiatus for a bit but now I’m completely immersed in it, ignoring people at work, waking up in the middle of the night to play it again.

My friend Shallie drew this for me and I was so tickled that she I corporated Jonny Craig!

That scored her unlimited points with me.

I love Draw Something. Let’s play: ohhonestlyerin

I spent my entire Saturday moping around, looking at old pictures, and generally stewing in my own brand of self-inflicted malaise. But, I needed that: one full day of letting it all sink in and crying about it to the point of choking. Everyone needs a good cry, and my good cries kept getting getting truncated last week by work and things like, oh I don’t know, having to be a “mom.” So Saturday was devoted to remembering my cat Don, crying over his death, and also mourning other things that happened to come up in the wake of Don’s death, like the summer of 2002, which was apparently a better summer than I gave it credit for originally. (I was openly in love with Henry, according to my old LiveJournal entries!) I guess there were also a little bit of growing pains thrown in there too.

Moving on can feel like torture sometimes.

Meanwhile, Henry cleaned the house and brought me fro-yo with all my favorite weird Asian toppings. And cheesecake bits. He always insists on thinking I like cheesecake bits on my froyo. (For the record, I don’t, but I’ll eat it anyway.)

When I woke up on Mother’s Day, I thought to myself, “No. I’ll be damned if I’m sitting in this house for two days straight and pouting.” So I started looking for things to do, and somehow I ended up on the Delgrosso’s Amusement Park website where I saw that not only were they open for the season, but MOMS RIDE FREE ON MOTHER’S DAY. I couldn’t really think of anywhere else I’d rather be that day than on the Wacky Worm, miles away from heartache and Real Life. Goddammit, if happiness wasn’t going to come to me, then I’d just have to go to it. And it just so happened it was only 2 hours away.

Henry was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I ran in and collided into him, waving my phone in his face.

He smirked at me and said no. “Delgrosso’s is two hours from here! And the weather is shitty. I’m not driving all that way to get rained on.”

So I checked the weather in Altoona and it said it was going to be 70 degrees and mostly sunny with scattered showers. I waved this in his face, too.

He started to say no again, so I forced my eyes to rain salty droplets of despair and disappointment.

“After everything I’ve been through! I just want to be HAPPPPPPY!” I can only imagine how ugly and snot-bubbly that scene was.

Then I sent Chooch in to remind him that it was Mother’s Day and now mommy is crying and wants to kill herself, good job. This all started around 9:30AM. By 10:30, everyone was showered, dressed and in the Delgrosso-bound car.

Henry even let me listen to Emarosa and talk about Jonny Craig for the entire car ride. Like that’s anything new. (And like he even had a choice, Mother’s day or not.)

Right outside of Tipton, the small rural-esque town of Delgrosso’s, I checked the weather again. It had changed from sunny to 60 degrees with clouds of doom and gloom. I quickly hid my phone from Henry so he wouldn’t see and change his mind.

No, the clouds didn’t part and shit on us rays of golden sunlight, but the rain pretty much stayed away for our visit. And it was the best Mother’s Day of all time.

Henry wouldn’t ride the Wacky Worm at first, pretending that he had to pee and urging me and Chooch to go on without him while he killed time in the restroom. (Read: Cried about his SERVICE days of yore.) You might remember that he has a pretty staunch No Fun policy, especially when it comes to amusement parks and making girlfriends smile, but I think the last few weeks have made him feel bad for me, so he actually rode it one whole time without me having to cause a scene!

“This ain’t gon’ muss up my luscious McNichol locks, is it?”

I kept turning around in my seat to better cajole Henry into putting his arms up and holler like a madperson (you know, like me), but all he would do was smirk and give me that, “Don’t be a fool” look that I know so well. But that smirk kept twisting upward into a smile and I KNEW he was enjoying his spin inside that caterpillar’s caboose.

The best part was that Chooch insisted on sitting on by himself, and I didn’t want to sit with Henry, so we all sat separately. Henry was so angry about this; I guess he had banked on Chooch sitting with him to make him look less of a child roller coaster predator.

“For some reason, they put on the brakes right before it goes down the hill,” I pointed out to Henry. “They don’t do that at the Butler County Fair.”

“Yeah, because they don’t care about SAFETY about the fair,” Henry explained in his Dad Voice.

Or! The Mexican carnies just want us to have more fun.

One go-around was enough for the old man and his brittle bones, so he stood by the fence with all the other proud parents for all of our other wormy journeys.

And we finally got the front seat! Oh my god, Chooch and I were so obnoxious about it too. I kept shouting, “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS OUR FIRST TIME IN THE FRONT SEAT AFTER TWO YEARS OF RIDING THE WACKY WORM!” and then Chooch would be all, “It’s not really that big of a deal.” But I was practically crying with joy as I peered at the sky through the caterpillar’s antennae when it began its ascent up the first hill. There is a metaphor in here somewhere.

Something about a metamorphosis.

It’s the little things.

View from the top.

So much more to come.

…from Chooch and me on the Wacky Worm! This was the best Mother’s Day I’ve ever had (which isn’t hard to accomplish considering all of my other ones are filed under Epic Fail: Holiday Edition)!

Me and my other kid, Marcy. This was not taken on the Wacky Worm.

Continuing the effort to stay posi and think happy thoughts, I am reposting this tale about last year’s visit to Kennywood. Because summer is upon us and that is reason enough to smile. I’m about to bust out  my Brady Bunch soundtrack in a hot minute and no I don’t care how many scene points I just relinquished by telling the Internet that I own such auditory garbaggio.

****

We go to Kennywood every year on Father’s Day, not because we love Henry, but because it’s been statistically proven to be one of the least crowded days of the season. Chooch and I were so excited that we spent the two days preceding watching Kennywood videos on YouTube. I had Chooch convinced to try some of the bigger rides this time, but unfortunately he was still about a half inch too short, which was devastating (more for me than him, I think). I’m trying to groom him into my future riding partner since apparently everyone else is too old and susceptible to whiplash to ride anything that spins faster than the carousel. Again, devastating (more for me than them).

Janna met us there, and I think she purposely was a little late because she knew the first ride we’d go on was Garfield’s Nightmare, which used to be cool when Garfield had nothing to do with it. Now it’s just this commercial monstrosity that makes me cry tears of nostalgia. Too bad Janna ended up taking Chooch on it twice in a row at the end of the night when Henry and I were in line for the Skyrocket.

Building up a resistance to whiplash.

I think love for Potato Patch fries is inherent for any child born in Pittsburgh. It’s not something you even have to tell your kid about, they just automatically know that they crave it and eat most of it while your head is stupidly turned. That and a piece of pizza is all I ever eat at Kennywood.

Oh, and ice cream! These are the best ice cream cones at Kennywood. I always get crushed peanuts on mine, so Chooch has really failed me in that department. The cone comes with a cherry speared through the top by a toothpick and Chooch used to give me his when he was a baby but I guess he’s too big to share now. I didn’t get a cone this year. I feel like every time we go to get one, Henry starts a fight with me so then it ends up with me crossing my arms like a ten-year-old DJ Tanner and saying, “Just forget it. I don’t want one now.” Usually I cave, but this year I was so over it. Plus, Henry told me I was fat, so who wants to ice cream after that, you know? (He will argue that I’m mincing his words as usual, which is why I’m about to invest in a TAPE RECORDER to keep in the pocket of my trench coat at all times.)

While we were eating, Chooch realized that he had a blister on his foot and started whining at appropriate Chooch-levels, which in turn made Henry bitch about how “If your mom was a real woman, she’d have a Band-Aid in her purse” because I never have anything in my purse other than crumbs, pennies, iCarly pocketbook filled with concert tickets, assorted lip gloss, an issue of Alternative Press and a fake finger.  I never have hand sanitizer, tissues, medicine, first aid amenities. That shit’s for grown-ups. In fact, earlier that day, I had to text Janna and ask her to bring me some “just in case” tampons, because I forgot to stick some in my purse.

“You should ALWAYS have them in your purse!” Henry yelled, when I tried to make him buy me some at a 7-11 down the street from Kennywood. Anyway, Janna isn’t a bitch like Henry, so she brought me two and then we had a clandestine tampon hand-off, which wasn’t obvious at all as we stood in the middle of a walkway with people bumping into us.

However, on this particular day, I DID have a Band-Aid. And boy did that ever put a clamp on Henry’s flapping maw when I extracted it from my purse. Except it was an ethnically correct Ebon-Aid that Jason gave me when we were visiting the Alternative Press office last month, and of course we were sitting next to a black family so Henry actually moved Chooch to the other side of the table, I guess so they wouldn’t see that Chooch’s wound was about to have soul. Because I’m sure they would have cared.

The Saddest Father

Chooch and Janna were still eating their ice cream cones by the time we walked over to the train. I wanted to go inside the little station and get in line post haste, but they were eating so slow. The train is literally the lamest ride in all of Kennywood, but for some reason I was jumping around in anticipation like it was really the line to stone Fred Phelps with Gaga CDs. I finally threw my arms up in disgust and went inside by myself. Henry coaxed Chooch to eat faster and they joined me on a bench in the waiting area soon after. But Janna, we all just just abandoned her outside of the train station. I could see her, roaming around, dutifully eating her ice cream, and for some reason, this made me break out into this really obnoxious giddy bray that I do when I’ve lost all grip on reality and just can’t contain it any longer. Henry hates this. He’s 100% immune to laughter, it’s not contagious for him at all.

And then Janna, who still had some of her cone left, walked right past the ride attendant and joined us on the bench. This made me laugh even harder, Janna smuggling in an ice cream, and I was trying to smother my laughter into Henry’s arm. He kept shrugging me off him and the other people waiting for the train started to wonder if maybe I had a medical condition because I was crying at this point. Janna sat there, enjoying the rest of her ice cream, waiting for the train.

When the train came back to the station, I shouted, “GET THE BACK ROW!” while racing over to claim it. Everyone else who was waiting got up and calmly began to board, because it’s just some stupid scenic train. No one ever rushes for shit like that. Not even church ladies.  There was enough room for all four of us, but Henry opted to sit alone. I can’t imagine why.

I think I just like the train because it goes past the river and allows me the opportunity to make gagging noises and remind everyone how much I really hate the river.

Hold on, I just peed a little.  This was before Janna hit her head. I have no idea what was happening but it brings me great joy.

Then Janna hit her head getting off the train and I sincerely almost pissed myself from laughing so hard, at which point Henry legitimately scolded me like a real life father and reminded me that it’s not nice to laugh at my friends but I really feel like he wanted to laugh at this one too. “That’s enough, child,” I believe is what he said. God, go parent some other girlfriend. I’m laughing right now, actually, remembering the look on Janna’s face, like she hadn’t noticed that she might need to stoop down a little before attempting to exit the train. In fact, the next day, I remembered this at work and started laughing uncontrollably alone at my desk, so then I decided to tell Barb, but I couldn’t stop crying and I’m sure she was like, “I don’t understand why this is funny” along with anyone who is reading this, but it’s like, my cardinal rule to laugh at my friends’ misfortunes. Which might be a reason why I don’t have many friends.

Nah.

Contraband ice cream and head-bumping never seemed so funny.

Creeper gon’ creep. We broke up at least a dozen times during the day so he was pretty free to ogle all the pre-teens sausaged in ill-fitting swimsuits. Go get ’em, tiger.

Henry didn’t smile once all day. Even when I showed him the awesome (and I do mean awesome) Skyrocket photo, his lips sort of twisted around his teeth like copulating worms under a nest of bristling moustache whiskers, but then ended up in a snarly frown.

Things Henry hated that day:

• Being at Kennywood
• Being at Kennywood with me
• My childlike wonder
• The sound of my contagious laughter
• Riding the Log Jammer
• Riding the Log Jammer with Janna
• Getting wet on the Log Jammer
• Getting wet on the Log Jammer with Janna
• Barely missing the senior discount
• Spending money
• Spending money on games
• Losing money on games
• Being a disappointment to his son as he lost money on games
• People in wheelchairs
• Carrying my purse
• Being Henry
• Being alive
• Not being able to listen to Dance Gavin Dance
• My face
• His hair
• Not finding anyone with worse tattoos than his
• Checking me for menstrual stains
• Having all his Potato Patch fries disappear
• Having to sit next to me on two whole rides
• God
• The word “Daddy”
• The word “Henry”

Moments before I took this picture, Janna was staring off into the horizon, smiling a smile similar to the ones I’ve seen on the faces of Mormon missionaries when they’re talking about God and pretending they don’t notice their bodies are enveloped in heavy wool during summer. She gets like that sometimes, all sorts of winsome and benevolent, like a walking flesh vessel of Little House on the Prairie episodes. She’s pure, I’m prurient. For example, earlier that day, when I spotted an albino, I laughed lasciviously to myself and then tweeted about it, whereas Janna’s heart probably exploded with candied compassion as she considered sharing her sunblock with him.

When Janna got on the Paratroopers, she accidentally sat down on the safety latch and cried about it for the whole ride, which made me cry tears of amusement. Janna is so entertaining to me! I’m actually surprised she went on the Paratroopers at all, since it’s kind of hardcore for someone like her. I was able to con her onto ONE thrill ride all day, my beloved Aero 360, but first I had to sit there and watch her (slowly) eat a strawberry parfait. I kind of wish she had puked it up on the ride.

I rode my other favorite thrill rides alone, while Janna sat on a bench like my mother, waving to me while I was in line. I didn’t mind it too much until I was in line for the Volcano (f/k/a the Enterprise) and the ride attendant asked, “Single rider?” like it was so obvious.

“Was that you who was with me when we had to walk down from the top of the hill?” Janna asked as we stood in line for Phantom’s Revenge. Janna had to walk down the rickety, vertigo-inducing steps of a steel coaster and never TOLD ME? I swear that broad has a goddamn secret life. Furthermore, how can she not remember who she shared such a harrowing experience with?

“Um, if that was me, I wouldn’t be standing in this line right now,” I pointed out incredulously. I hold grudges, and I’m pretty sure if a coaster ever broke the fuck down while I was on it, our relationship would be forever done-zo. This created a discussion of what would happen if it broke down in a spot where there weren’t steps.*

“I don’t know,” Janna pondered. “I guess they would call the fire trucks.”

God, she’s so stupid.

“Or a helicopter,” I suggested. “With Punjab hanging down from a rope.” And then I couldn’t stop laughing about that, because Annie always makes me laugh. That ginger trollop.

*(Henry the Rational Bubble-Burster was quick to point out later that it wouldn’t just stop anywhere else other than the first hill. Which has steps.)

Wishing for a new daddy. That’s what Craigslist is for, son.

My new boyfriend! Ruffle-collared is a huge upgrade from blue-collared, and people can still tell me that my boyfriend needs a haircut, except he probably won’t sass me when I stick up for him. Win/win.

Chooch won a stuffed monkey within 20 minutes of being at the park. Of course it became everyone else’s responsibility. He left it on the Whip and didn’t even realize it until a half hour later. Good thing it was one of those few times I rose to the occasion of motherhood and remembered to grab it as we got off the ride. This fucking thing was a germ dumpster by the end of the night. Chooch rubbed him against every garbage can we came across, kicked him on the ground, dropped cheesy fries on him, dropped him on the carousel and made Janna dislodge herself from her horse in order to fetch it (which made me double over with laughter even though it totally wasn’t that funny, according to Henry, who didn’t laugh at ANYTHING ALL DAY).

Anyway, I dubbed the monkey Bane. I should probably throw him in the washing machine. Oh, who am I kidding? Henry will do that shit.

$2 down the drain.

You know it’s been a long-ass day full of ethnically-correct bandaged blisters, hurt feelings and salty regret when the kid willingly leaves on his own.

While Chooch was in school on Monday, I took advantage of Henry’s day off (rarely happens) by making him go to the mall with me. We went to Century III, which is the mall I practically lived at growing up (read: where I stalked Scott Dambaugh). It’s been quite a few years since I actually walked around in there and while I knew (based on the crumbling parking lot alone; it reminds me of when everything falls apart in The Neverending Story) that it had become totally run down over the past decade, nothing could have actually prepared me for the commercial ghost town it actually is. As if I wasn’t depressed enough, now I had to walk around past imaginary tumbleweeds, exclaiming, “Well, I guess I’m not going to get coffee at Gloria Jeans!” “OMG, et tu Orange Julius!?” Basically, the only stores left are PacSun facsimiles, stores that outfit teenage girls in the greatest hits of suburban skanks, and Champs*. The lone remaining book store is now a used book store.

(*I used to hang out at Champs ALL THE TIME in 10th grade because I had the hugest crush on Will, one of the hottest mall employees of all time. One time, I was all sad because my boyfriend had broken up with me and Will said, “Here, call someone who cares” but instead of the dick-move of placing a quarter in my palm, he slipped me a piece of paper WITH HIS PHONE NUMBER ON IT. God, he was so hot. I mean, nice.)

The pet store isn’t even there anymore! Now there’s local high school art on display in that area. I don’t want to look at shitty art, I want to pet a motherfucking kitten, OKAY Century III Mall!?

There’s a good Mexican restaurant in there though. Luckily, it can be accessed from the outside so you don’t have to actually inside the wasteland.

That was one of the worst nostalgia-drunken stumbles down memory lane of all time.

At least we got to walk through Macy’s men’s department, where I picked out ironic outfits for Henry’s imaginary makeover. And I got to use the Hot Topic gift card that Barb gave me at Chooch’s party, so that was a nice little pick me up.

Moustache Therapy!

We ate lunch at Lotus Garden, where I openly (and awkwardly) wept about Don’s death, learned I hate chop suey, and marveled at the exorbitantly-priced 1960’s cocktail list. I expect those prices at late shift happy hours downtown, not at a Chinese restaurant in the South Hills.

Even though I didn’t like my food (and really, I had no appetite anyway so what did it matter), the ambiance made up for it.

My bean cake soup was so good, but I couldn’t even finish that. Chooch, the pickiest eater of all time, actually stole it off me when I reheated it for dinner; he ate every last piece of tofu, snap peas, mushrooms and water chestnuts. EVEN THE SCALLIONS, which tells me he wasn’t born with my prominent aversion to crunchy vegetables in soft food/soup.

Zombie Barf Night Cap

The best thing about Henry and Chooch is that, unlike the people who always say they are there for you until you actually need them and then they conveniently ignore your texts and blow off plans, these two are always there for me. Couldn’t do this without them and my real friends.

While it would be a lot easier to stay laying in the fetal position on the couch, weeping about how unfair life is, I’m just too old to succumb to that emo shit anymore. Who WANTS to feel this way, really? The only thing I can do, while still giving myself time to grieve the loss of my pudgy buddy Don, is to get out and remember the things that I still have that make me happy. Usually, Henry groans every year around this time when I ask him to do this, but last night he said, “Fine” in a good-natured tone when I asked, “Can we drive past Kennywood?” I don’t know why I get such a thrill doing these annual pre-season Kennywood drive-bys; you can barely even see anything from the road, but still – even the slimmest glimpse is enough to put that summertime jolt in my heart.

So, I still have that.

And I also have awesome friends like Kara who get me out of the house on my first morning alone since it happened* and treat me to a breakfast of my favorite cupcakes in all of Pittsburgh. I swear to god, I don’t know where I would be right now without Henry, Chooch and all of my friends.

So, I still got that, too.

(*I came home from taking Chooch to school and literally had this stomach-dropping moment of “Now what?” Typically, no matter where I am in the house in the mornings, Don would be there, sitting on the keyboard and making it impossible to write on my blog, keeping my lap warm while I catch up on CW shows and then acting pissed when I get off the couch. Who’s going to do that now? Certainly not Marcy’s crabby ass.)

How can anyone be sad in a bakery with a paper lantern ceiling? Unless you know someone who had Death by Paper Lantern written on their autopsy report.

And how can you be sad while watching a kid like Hammy Pants inhaling all that sugar? Unless you had a kid who ran away from home and joined a Sugar Cult.

Fuck yeah, grapefruit cupcake!

I listened to “Sussudio” on the way home and that made me feel happy too.

So, I still got Phil Collins.

Before any of this recent tragedy struck, I had commissioned my lovely Etsy’s Darkside Teammate Maya to fashion me a Jonny Craig doll. She has been sending me progress shots since last Friday, and I’m not kidding when I say it was one of the few times I smiled through my tears.

Today, she sent me pictures of the completed Jonny doll and my heart literally burst. Thank you, Maya, for contributing to the Life Goes On psychic fund.

Sometimes we all just need a little reminder that it’s OK to move on. No matter how wrong it feels. But if it’s OK, I’m going to cry about it just a little more. Because even with all the reminders of good things in my life, I still got a little bit of sadness left in me.

After we surrendered Don to Fallen Timber (his burial is this Thursday), I went straight to my room and basically bathed in a body wash of my own tears for the next two hours. But even I can only take so much sulking and despair, so I demanded that Henry take us to the park. I needed to get out of the house and keep busy.

Of course I still cried at the park too, which perfectly accentuated a ridiculous argument Henry and Chooch were having about his scooter and Henry being the worst dad ever. Hopefully someone recorded that for child services. That and when Choochie Knoxville LET GO of the swing, flew through the air backward, and landed in a perfectly painful bellyflop, at which point he protected his pain into anger, slapped my arm and said, “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!

” (Literally, right now he just reminded me of the centimeter-size scrape on his elbow and said “Wah.”)

Hating us. And that was BEFORE his swing stunt.

I don’t know anything about the reproductive process of bees, but these two were either fornicating or fighting, and they even took it airborne after awhile. It was a nice distraction.

Henry bought us ice cream afterward but was all grumpy about it.

Seriously, he makes the innocent act of ice cream cone indulgence look like gay porn EVERY TIME.

Look at his total “caught in the act” expression!

Watching Chooch wear his ice cream makes me ill. I hate food messes.

After Chooch went to bed, Henry and I sat outside with Marcy. He had some beer, I had some wine, and we talked about Don. I think Henry is sadder than he is letting on.

[See Also: Don-Don, Puppy, Pup-n-Stuf, Jesus, Elephant (while making a trunk with your arm), Golilla (yes, with an l), Puppy Time, Donegal, and Pierre.]

It was approximately 9:00 AM on a fall morning in 2004 and I was about to embark on my descent down the steps. Don was nestled in the shadows of the top step, unbeknownst to me, when my bare foot began to sink into his furry pudge, and we both freaked the fuck out. He jumped up into the air at the same time I propelled myself skyward in attempt to leap over him. This resulted in Don running away unscathed and cowering under my bed, while I plummeted head first down the steps.

One broken toe, a carpet-burned foot, a purple lower right leg, a bent back finger nail, one bruised wrist, and tons of shame having had this happen in front of Henry. But it was worth it to keep Don unharmed.

***

Marcy gave birth to her first litter March of 2000. One of those kittens was this gray blob with a sweet chubby face and an ashy Afro. I knew without a doubt in my mind that I was keeping him and named him Don, after his Afro doppelgänger Don King.

Don was one of those cats that even cat-haters couldn’t resist. (You know who else couldn’t resist him? Speck. They dated off and on for years.) Like a puppy who purrs, he’d plop right down in your lap, or against your side, and knock down your feline-abhorring walls. He was charming, the comedic relief of our cat clan, and such a huge part of our family. But if ever came to my house, even once, you probably know all of this already, and more than likely left with an extra layering of clothing made solely from half of his soft coat.

An outgoing people person, he was always in the thick of things. (Unless Chooch was around. In all of Chooch’s years – at least the mobile ones – Don never did come around to him. Kind of like how horses steer clear of evil.) He was loud and vocal, we would often meow back and forth at each other. And if I didn’t get out of bed and feed him RIGHTAWAY every morning, he would head butt me and cry like an extra in a Sally Struthers commercial.

He had all of these great traits, but what he apparently also had was a large mass taking up most of his side, forcing him to breathe with just one lung. The vet said that it more than likely was this way for some time, but he had become used to breathing off one lung and that’s why nothing seemed off to us. Seeing him laying in that oxygen chamber, the way he looked at me with sad, exhausted eyes, and the fact that he let Chooch pet him through the porthole, all these things painted a pretty gloomy and grim picture of his future.

Today, Don took his last breath while I held him on my lap. The vet gave me some time alone with him and I can imagine it looked like a scene from some awful Lifetime movie, me rocking back and forth, crying and saying, “Why?!” over and over. It was fucking devastating.

But now Don and Speck are together, and I can’t help but wish I was with them, too. It’s just too much to bear right now.

I will do a proper photo tribute in a few days; I owe him that much. I moved most of my pictures off my phone, and I just don’t have the will to get out of bed right now.

I would fall down the steps a million more times to bring him back to me.