After Corey’s commencements on Saturday, Henry and Chooch rejoined us and we all went out to dinner, which was nice because I don’t think Henry has ever gone out to dinner with me and my dad before, plus this was his first time meeting my grandma Kelly.

Even though I asked the waiter to put me, Chooch and Henry on a separate check, my dad picked up the tab.

Danielle was prepared to give him cash for her dinner but he waved her off.

“If I had known you were paying, I would’ve ordered something cheaper!” she said.

“I’d have ordered something more,” I mumbled, like the brat that I am.

Chooch didn’t swear it all! I guess my pep talk of, “PLEASE DON’T SWEAR PLEASE DON’T SWEAR” really got through to him. I can only imagine how fast my grandma Kelly would hold a crucifix to his forehead if he let an obscenity rip.

To his credit though, he’s really good about his word choice in public.

He got to sit by Corey, who is like a bright, shiny toy to him, so that helped keep his most monstrous antics recessed.

Bread was a hot commodity at that joint.

My grandma Kelly is such a sweet old woman. When we were sitting on the bleachers at the Sports Center, she told Danielle and me that women should never poop in public restrooms because it’s shameful and then segued right into asking me if I go to church every week.

I always feel like she can see my black, ashy aura.

At dinner, she slung her purse over the back of her chair and said, “It’s bad luck to put your purse on the floor.

Henry looked over at my purse, discarded in a heap next to my chair under the table, contents beginning to seep out like entrails, and said, “Well, that explains a lot.”

Got to watch my brother Corey graduate from Pitt Johnstown this afternoon; not gonna lie: I got all choked up and cried several times.

“Slow learners,” said my corny dad.

My mom didn’t go, which is no surprise. I think the excuse she gave (2+ mths ago) was that she didn’t have anything to wear. Oh, OK.

Listening to all the outbursts and catcalls from parents in the stands as their kids took the stage to get diploma’d was yet another reminder of how different things have been for Corey and me: our lives have been woefully remiss of familial cheering.

How do you consciously miss the opportunity to encourage and support someone you love? I mean, I know I’m a “questionable parent” who supposedly wears “goth clothing” and takes pictures of her son in cemeteries, but I can’t imagine being such a shitty parent that I purposely miss Chooch’s graduation. Even if all I had was a potato sack to wear.

Corey and his girlfriend Danielle have identical laughs; it’s uncanny.

The one low point was when someone in front of me farted during commencements and there was literally nowhere to run.

I hope Corey knows how proud I am of him!

I haven’t finished editing the photos from Chooch’s birthday party yet (a lot of the shots have Chooch’s school friends in them and I don’t want to get bitched out again for posting them on my heretic blog) so here are the ones from my phone (nice & blurry to cover my ass).

Barb learned her lesson.

****
Living Treasures Birthday Field Trip

Chooch kept calling the camels “cannibals” and I didn’t correct him.

It was a nice day, nothing much to complain about. The grounds were surprisingly dick-free and we even got to see some animal mating going down, including a particularly horny peacock who was totally embarrassing himself; finally, I have a benchmark when imagining Henry trying to get laid during his SERVICE years.

However, we went to Perkins afterward, where Chooch had a total meltdown over the restaurant’s lack of wifi and kept talking in angry tones about death and how no one would care if he died, themes that he’s way too young to be touching upon, and of course the two ladies seated in the booth next to ours had just come from Bible study and were giving each other concerned raised-eyebrows. Totally awesome. Can’t wait to see what he’s like as a teenager.

Bill, Jessi and Tammy drove in from Detroit last Saturday afternoon; it was the first time we’ve seen each other since our Tennessee vacation last summer, so we were all beyond stoked! I thought it would be fun to take them to the Toonseum downtown, and to sweeten Jessi’s pot, we took the trolley. Jessi loves trolleys and I’ve been promising her a ride on ours for years now. (And no, that’s not an euphemism for me and Henry’s Siamese penis.)

Way to bang two town whore with one condom, I guess.

Laura came too because she has never done either of these things yet in her first year living in Pittsburgh. (The trolley and Toonseum, not town whores, although I don’t really know what she does on her own free time.)

The ride there was relatively anticlimactic, but at least it was dry, which is more than I can say for the shitty weather we were having that day. And of course, NONE OF MY UMBRELLAS WORKED, not even the one I got from The Law Firm, which rivals the wingspan of a pterodactyl.(A few weeks ago, I clotheslined myself with it while walking down the street when it wouldn’t fit between a wall and a telephone pole. Thank god there was an endless line of cars stuck at a red light when it happened; how wasteful if it had happened for no one  to see.)

Awhile back, I was trying to coin the phrase “Erin’s Umbrella,” as in:

He couldn’t get his dick up — what an Erin’s Umbrella moment.

Seriously, all of my umbrellas are like limp dicks and I can’t stand it. Why is the average umbrella lifespan approximately 3 months once it’s in my possession?!

On this day, I was using an umbrella missing a handle, making it awkward to hold. Also, the actual umbrella part isn’t mounted onto the stick very securely, so it wobbles around precariously like a bobblehead, and also is prone to being blown inside out every 30 seconds.

I had to keep screaming for Laura to help me, but the way I was acting, you’d have thought it was the train of my wedding dress I needed her to fix.

The Toonseum is a nice little place to check out of you’re looking for something on the cheap side to do downtown, and have at least a mild interest in cartoons, which is where I fall. However, Bill owns a comic and gaming shop, so it was a no-brainer to take them there. Even with my limited knowledge of the genre, it was still really interesting and visually stimulating, plus the amount of time necessary to spend there was perfect for an almost 6-year-old. He didn’t even have a chance to fidget or break anything, but he did sniff out the bathroom immediately, so I can’t make any promises for what he did or didn’t do in that part of the gallery.

As if one window-creeping Henry wasn’t enough.

Afterward, we walked to Market Square for a late lunch at Moe’s. I was tempted to lead the way since Carey just taught me how to walk there a few weeks ago, but since our starting point wasn’t in the back of The Law Firm’s building, I was extremely disoriented. Plus, it was cold and raining, so I felt it would be best to follow the ex-SERVICE member.

<3

This guy was on the trolley with us on the way back and I was not-so-silently hoping he would vomit on his boots. Henry thought he was probably high on heroin and then suggested he was probably friends with Jonny Craig.

Later that night, we all hung out at my house, watching Chooch and Bill play Wii Sports. Chooch kept getting pissed off because Bill wasn’t letting him win, so he would storm off and cry on the steps.

“God, he’s just like his mother,” Henry grumbled.

“No he’s not,” I said thoughtfully. “I would have broken something by now.”

Later, we put on the Music Choice 80s Hits channel and were serenaded by an angry shot of Phil Collins singing “Sussudio.” [THIS IS FORESHADOWING.]

Somehow, the subject of coulrophobia tends to come up frequently at work. Maybe because I have photos of John Wayne Gacy and a paper mache flower-grasping clown on my desk. (Although, I just realized the Gacy photo was never returned to me after I interoffice-mailed it to my co-worker Brad who was dumb enough to tell me he’s scared of clowns.) I practically grew up in my grandparents house, and the stereo room was replete with the merrymakers in all forms: stuffed, Murano glass, paintings, music boxes. So I’m pretty desensitized to the clown chapter in the encyclopedia of horror.

I don’t know how my grandma started collecting clowns, but that room was definitely larger than life. I never understood how people could be so scared and creeped out by something that I grew up surrounded by.

I used to dust those things for my grandma, for Christ’s sake! I listened to Frank Zappa for the first time in that room when I was a little kid (“Valley Girl”). I sat on that couch looking through photo albums taken from the clown room closet.

I have nothing but good memories from that room.

Chooch is clearly unfazed by clowns, too:

And the fact that so many people abhor clowns just makes me like them even more.

My grandma passed away last summer and, if you’ve been reading this blog for awhile, you won’t be surprised to know that my crazy aunt Sharon is doing everything to tie up the estate. I’m sure she’s sold most of the bric-a-brac on eBay by now, but damn – if I could take any of those clowns, especially the paintings, I would be so happy. With both of my grandparents gone now, I really can’t bear to see that collection broken up; I just want to keep it going forever, but I know Sharon and my mom won’t make that easy.

I bought these original clown pictures from my co-worker Cheryl and I’m just so thrilled with them, I could die. Some guy made them for her mom in the 60s; she knew him from the campground they use to go to and he liked to sit around, drawing clowns apparently. And thank god he did!

They were waiting for me at work yesterday and 90% of my co-workers were totally skeeved out by them, so that made me love them even more. I couldn’t stop smiling! I love that one of them has a bird nest on his head!

“They’re so majestic,” I whispered, and everyone around me laughed BUT I WAS BEING SERIOUS. They were way more amazing than I could have imagined. Totally worth it.

Then Glenn meandered over, and in a total Henry-esque moment, he picked one up and to get a better look at the frame.

“These are nice frames,” he said, admiring the it closer now. “The wood is really good,” he added, tapping on it. “I think it could be wormy oak.” I started laughing so hard, totally couldn’t help it. He looked annoyed, made some last minute disparaging remarks, and retreated.

When I put the pictures in the car last night, Henry also went right for the frames. “Those are really nice frames,” he said, and I began having deja vu. “Maybe wormy chestnut….or oak.”

Jesus Christ.

Considering I will probably never see the inside of my grandparent’s house again, I might as well start my own collection. And this is a beautiful start!

There have been some strong reactions to my reconciliation with Christina, even from Chooch. Yesterday afternoon, he declared that he hated both of us and when we asked him why, his eyes welled up and he shouted, “Because you two can never stay friends! I just want you to get along!” He brought it up again later when we went to King’s for dinner (minus an ailing Henry, who we prank-called from Christina’s hotel room; he answered with his professional “Yellll-o” greeting because I guess he thought it was going to be work-related).

For the record, we had a great weekend, but I guess Chooch remembers more from the past than we thought.

We promised that we were trying hard to make it stick this time, and then threw in some ice cream for good measure.

I feel like even just going out for ice cream, 87 inside jokes are born.

“Get something chocolate-y in case I don’t like my strawberry shortcake sundae,” I ordered Christina, and she did as I said. Just like the olden days. I will never take for granted getting ice cream with my best friend ever again.

Even Sick Henry oozed out of bed for the opportunity to deep throat a twist cone.

Today is Chooch’s last day of Easter break so we went outside under the pretenses of doing “normal” child activities.

Writing inoffensive slogans with sidewalk chalk kept Chooch busy for approximately 5 minutes.

And then we played with what I hoped would be Thingie Ball 2012, but it is sadly a cheap imitation of my beloved Thingie Ball set from 2010, which I have been unable to find in Target ever since.

We gave up after I screamed, “THIS SUCKS, I HATE IT & NEVER WANT TO PLAY AGAIN!” Chooch was like, “God, calm down Mommy. We’re outside where people can see AND hear you.”

Finally, Chooch could contain himself no longer and we spent the rest of our time outside playing zombies.

Flexible Zombie.

Then the FedEx guy came to deliver a package for our neighbor, which made Chooch cry REAL TEARS because I NEVER ORDER ANYTHING FOR HIM, WAAAAH.

Guess what, kid—Mommy likes getting mail too, so GET IN LINE.

Chooch went to his cousin’s house today to dye Easter eggs, leaving Henry and I with a wide-open beautiful afternoon. And because it was so beautiful today, we decided to skip rollerskating in favor for a hot dog picnic in the cemetery.

I’ve been a fan of Pittsburgh chef Kevin Sousa ever since I had the great fortune of experiencing his memorable vegetarian feast at the Bigelow Grille. It remains, to this day, my all-time favorite dining experience. I’d even go as far as to say it was transcendent.

And when have you ever known me to say something like that? IT WAS TRANSCENDENT.

This is just a pretentious-worded way to say that we went Chef Sousa’s hot dog joint, Station Street Hot Dogs, to fulfill the food portion of our cemetery picnic.

“This is my favorite part of the day,” the super-friendly girl who took out order said as she popped off the caps of our Mexican Cokes.

That was so weirdly endearing to me and it kind of made me love her. Even if the food sucked, the people working there were so nice it would have negated any sour reviews. And you know how I love to write a sour review.

I remember when hot dogs cost fifty cents and Kristy McNichol wasn’t gay.

After we got our hot dogs and fries, we took it to the nearby Homewood Cemetery & masticated the shit of it while sitting on a rock near a pond.

Henry and I both got a chili dog, but mine was of the veggie persuasion. I almost got the Devil Dog instead, because hello–egg salad and potato chips on a hot dog sounds so disgusting it must be right.

But the chili dog had a bonnet of CHEESE CURD and that was enough to sway me. I’m coming back for you, Devil Dog.

Henry’s standard mastication pose.

I don’t know what came over me, but I started pining for the taste of a real hot dog and kept passive-aggressively begging for a bite of Henry’s while wringing my hands. Mine was so good, but the baseball stadium beef stench was wafting from Henry’s bun RIGHT INTO MY FACE.

“God, just take a bite. I’m not going to call the veggie police,” he mumbled.

AND SO I DID. OH GOD I DID. I took a bite and almost cried, it was so good, this Vesuvial eruption of smutty pleasure and smoked guilt on my palate. My first bite of non-soy meat since 1996. (But god only knows how many times my family minced some meat up into their so-called vegetarian holiday side dishes.)  MY WHOLE WORLD IS FALLING APART RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES.

Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Thanks a lot, Ohio.

After I cried and vowed to repent later to my Saint Rita statue, Henry and I went for a walk around the cemetery; I was wearing Henry’s least favorite sweater boots, which make me shuffle my feet like a teenaged girl, so he kept calling me Captain Floppy Feet, but I secretly changed it to Fräulein Floppy Feet because I’m OCD for alliteration.

[ETA: Henry totally waved at a robin while we were walking around the cemetery, and then tried to deny it.]

Now that I’m full time, I get to take a legit lunch break. I thought that perhaps this would be a good time to venture outside of the building and try to learn something about the city in which I’ve lived my whole entire life. I mean, at the very least it might help to know what street I work on. (And help snuff out future jury duty-spawned directional meltdowns.)

It was kind of a big deal. Several people even said out loud, with mild interest, “Oh wow. Erin is leaving her desk.”

Barb (SHE’S BACK IN CASE YOU DIDN’T CATCH THAT YESTERDAY) suggested, “You could go to [foreign place] to get a map.” But then after we stared at each other stupidly for two seconds, she added, “But I guess you would need a map just to get there in the first place.”

So today, Carey offered to take me under her wing. I guess I’m her new project, and I’m OK with that. I need all the help I can get.

Before I left, Nina wished me luck and then reminded me to take my phone in case I got lost.

“Don’t worry, Carey’s going with me!” I assured her, and she looked sincerely relieved.

In the plaza area outside of our building (which I’ve walked through once before I even worked there but had no idea!), Carey showed me places where I could stand and smoke if I ever decide to give back nicotine that old best friend charm.

Then we saw Pirates fans en masse and a half-demolished building, which was pretty nice. Carey promised me it’s not always that crowded out there, which is good because god only knows what picture Henry would submit to the milk carton people.

Carey deemed Market Square a good starting point, but I think it was just because she wanted to go to the gyro place. Boyz II Men’s seminal hit “I’ll Make Love To You” was pouring sexily from the ceiling speakers when we walked in, which seems like an awkward soundtrack for ordering lamb, but I think I was the only one noticing this.

“We’ll go back a different way,” Carey said, informing me what streets our building sits on. (I already forgot.)

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “There’s that half-demolished building again; I sort of know where we are!”

“Ok,” Carey said slowly. “But don’t use that as a landmark because it’s clearly not always going to be there.”

Oh yeah.

“You can see our building down there.” Knowing that I would need a little more than that, she added, “It’s big. And red.”

On Tuesday, we’re going to walk toward the Convention Center, whatever that means.

I feel like I should have bought some souvenirs while I was out, like an I <3 Pittsburgh pennant. But I wouldn't know where to go to get something like that. Back in the office, Carey's gyro stunk up the place, but all the meat-eaters kept remarking in sleazy porn-voices about how divine it smelled.

Ending the weekend with some blogs for you guys to check out!

Luna wants to share a look from this past week at TOXiD-LOTUS.NET

Sharon shares her Mrs. Bunny brushes with us at Hello There, Blondie!

Stephanie posts her first knitting/makeup hybrid at From Star Stuff..

Eight shows off her Hunger Games-inspired nails and eyeliner!

Public transportation and Oh Honestly, Erin don’t mix.

And here’s a video of a song I’ve been listening to all weekend.

Henry has one long, errant whisker that extends past his upper lip. I tried to saw it off with a knife and he freaked out on me.

Carey and I have bets at work sometimes to help the night go faster. It’s usually over/under type wagers, like what time we think we will get out of there.

Because I’m the best, I always win. (Except for the one time Carey cheated.) So far, my winnings have encompassed: a box of K-Cups, an issue of Southern Living (with a post-it that said “Because when I think of Southern Living, I think of Erin”), a package of Peeps, and a gumball-shitting chicken which is perpetually empty because Lee can’t stop playing with it.

But this creepy stress doll is my favorite prize of them all. One of my co-workers just won a Rabbit wine bottle opener, and SHE was like, “I would rather have YOUR prize, Erin” because it is universally awesome. And it fits right in with all the other weird shit on my desk.

(Carey wants everyone to know that this wasn’t acquired from a very large drawer of sex toys.)

In other news: JUST BOUGHT MY WARPED TOUR TICKET AT EXACTLY 10AM WHEN THE PRE-SALE STARTED! Here’s a bet: that I was the oldest person who was hovering over the computer, waiting to buy a Warped Tour ticket for herself and not her child.

Pierce the Veil is going to be there again! And the Used! And Sleeping with Sirens and Of Mice & Men and Taking Back Sunday and a good 14 other bands that make me remember I have a heart! Oh, I could just die.

Some fucker at Henry’s work had the nerve to take off Monday through today, which meant I had to take the goddamn trolley to work since Henry had to go make stupid Faygo deliveries.

Everyone is always like, “Riding the T is not that big of a deal, Erin. There’s a stop directly across from your work!” And there really is! It’s super convenient, and the closest t-stop to my house is within walking distance. But for someone as tightly-wound as me, the simple act of riding public transportation is enough to ruin my entire day (not to mention my relationship with Henry).

For example, when Andrea was here last September, she had to take my trolley fare from me because I was sitting on a bench counting and re-counting it like a textbook OCD sufferer and my clammy palms were laundering the money in the very true sense of the word.

Monday, my eardrums were treated to the incessant childish whine of a crackhead who slurred loudly into her cell phone all the way to downtown. Fucking crackheads. Then a man with Downs Syndrome danced onto the T and continued his Soul Train while standing next to my seat. I smiled at him, but I think he was seriously trying to poach my seat; after looking around, I was like, “Get real, bro.” There were unlimited empty seats for him to choose! So finally, he danced his way to the back of the trolley. But then when I arrived at work, I was standing outside the building, talking on the phone, when another mentally handicapped man in a hunter green parka came at me out of nowhere, scooped me up in an airtight embrace, and squealed, “Happy Easter!”

I returned the sentiment (after panicking that I missed Easter) and then had to squat down and duck beneath his arm to escape his kidnapper hold on me. It was intense, and my friend on the phone nervously laughed and then asked, “What the fuck is happening over there?!” Probably the worst part was that immediately afterward, I had to ride the elevator up to my department with GLENN, who laughed demonically at my expense and then said, “No seriously, welcome to work, it’s nice to see you. Wow, I almost said that without laughing!”

I spent the next 2 hours trembling at my desk.

Tuesday was normal!

Today seemed like it was going to be normal for the first 2 minutes until I noticed it for the first time. This abrupt, bark-like outburst from the man sitting across from me in the handicap seat. Following the bark would be a hand-flap, and then a violent shake of his head.

Look, we all make noises sometimes and pretend to be motorboating invisible tits, I know this. However, there was something about this man and the way he was staring at me (I COULD FEEL HIM STARING AT ME) that was starting to make me clench up. And the way he kept inserting his hands into his coat pockets made me close my eyes tightly and pray to Saint Rita.

Probably he just had a nervous tic, maybe something akin to Tourette’s, but all I could think was, “THIS GUY DIDN’T TAKE HIS ANTI-PSYCHOTICS AND NOW HE’S GONG TO STAB ME FOR THE SIMPLE FACT THAT I’M WEARING PINK SOCKS, HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I DON’T KNOW.”

By the fourth stop, I was hugging my arms against my body so hard, I had somehow turned into my own personal straight jacket.

Occasionally, he would talk to no one in particular. Of course, no one would answer. I kept looking away from him, out the window, until it occured to me that his lack of responses might eventually set him off. I didn’t want to wind up with a Mexican necktie because I didn’t acknowledge his trite observation that it was raining in the morning and now it was not raining.

So when he shouted, “The weather is CONFUSED!” I made brief eye contact and shouted back, “I KNOW RIGHT HAHAHAHA” and the sound of my forced laughter made me close my eyes and cringe, but he seemed pleased at my consideration. Everyone else, however, was now looking at me like I was just as fucked up.

This kept going on and on with the weird UNGGGHHs and motorboating and nervous hand-stuffing in his pockets, while I continued to look out the window and think about what it’s going to feel like when a butterfly knife finds its way between my ribcage and how unfortunate it was that I was wearing one of my favorite sweaters, goddammit I didn’t want to get blood on my favorite Lauren Conrad sweater.

And then the T started its course across the river, so now I’m hyperventilating about the T falling off the bridge and into the river, where I will undoubtedly become entangled with dead river bodies, and all of this was making my vision have colorful dots in it.

Suddenly, an electronic beep fluttered from his person. “SHIT!” he spat angrily, and I braced myself for the explosion from the bomb that he accidentally detonated in his pocket. But it wound up just being his watch.

So when the T cruised to a halt at the stop before the one I needed, I bounded up from my seat and ran out the accordianed door, straight onto an unfamiliar trolley station. There were multiple signs pointing out the directions one would want to take depending on which street they were hoping to emerge onto, but I DON’T KNOW ANY STREET NAMES DOWN THERE.

I just stood there, like I was part of a scene from some lame indie movie where the main broad is all in slow motion while the rest of the city speeds past her, except for me what lies beyond is not the Jonny Craig I waited my whole life for (or at least a grilled cheese on a gold platter), but a plethora of ways to get myself lost real good in the city.

And that’s when I realized that my skittish body language probably had me looking a lot like that guy on the trolley; or worse—a tourist.

I chose a man with a purposeful stride and followed him up a set of steps and out into the daylight, where I called Henry, who was technically on my Non-Speaking list since it was all his fault in the first place that I had to ride the T and ALMOST GOT STABBED.

In a hyper-panicked, out-of-breath voice, I relayed to him my horror and then panted, “So now I don’t know how to get to work.”

“Ok…well, what do you see?” he asked, and I could tell he was stifling a laugh, that motherfucker.

“Tulips,” I said confidently. I saw lots of tulips behind a chain-link fence.

“What STREET are you on?” he asked, sighing wearily. And then, “Are you walking toward the river?”

“I don’t know where the river is!” I cried. But Henry eventually figured out where I was without the aid of the river.

To make him feel worse about what he did to me, I lied and said, “And just so you know, some car splashed me when I was walking to the T from the house, so now one side of me is entirely drenched.”

“Really? One entire side of you is wet? I’m going to call Wendy and ask her.” I never should have let Henry become friends with my co-workers.

Once I got to my desk, I was whining to Nina about what happened, who did her best Barb impression and coddled me like I need to be coddled. Carey overheard my woeful account and, after offering to draw me a map of important downtown landmarks, said, “You know, if you lived in the South, I bet people would say ‘bless your heart!’ to you a lot.”

I had to cross countless perilous streets to get to work, but at least it kept my Lauren Conrad sweater from getting slashed.

Hello hole, meet Erin’s head. My impulses are going to be the death of me.