Oh man, I was so excited for Bayside!

They had already started by the time I dragged Henry over to the Tilly’s Stage (Taking Back Sunday’s set overlapped with their’s) so a decent-sized crowd had already formed. We had just staked out our spots over to the left of the stage when I noticed it.

On the ground in front of me was some kid’s school portrait, just laying there on the dirty ground, God only knows how many nasty scene feet had trampled it. I became determined to snatch it up for my collection.

(Honestly, I’m like the world’s worst magpie ever.)

The guy next to me elbowed his buddy and pointed down to the ground. POINTED DOWN TO MY PICTURE. But before he had a chance to say, “Look at that picture, let’s take it for our own,” he was interrupted and shifted just so that his back was now toward my targeted bounty.

I turned around and made eye contact with Henry, who knew exactly what was going on without needing an explanation. I started to open my mouth and he just shook his head and mouthed the word “Don’t.”

Bayside is now just background noise for a much greater scene. I sized up the woman standing next to the picture (her fat foot at one point had been flattening it against the asphalt): she didn’t seem very threatening, smelled slightly of patchouli; I determined with ease that I could take her down if she noticed my picture and decided to take it for herself.

I kept inching myself forward, forcing her to shuffle in slight incements to the right, until I was exactly next to her, flush against her side like we were old school friends whose Ma had dropped us off at Warped Tour; I’ve seen her Pa in his underwear; and she’d let me borrow a tampon if I suddenly needed one, but not without first giving my bleeding vag an introduction to all the boys in the crowd.

In other words, we were standing intimately close.

• Which wouldn’t necessarily be weird at a show except that we were on the outskirts of the crowd and no one else around us were smearing their flesh against one another.
• Even weirder is that she didn’t move.

   

I stamped my foot upon the picture, pinning it down with a fervor. I turned to give Henry the thumbs up and he just closed his eyes and shook his head again.

But instead of just bending down and picking it up like a normal person who collects sentimental trash off the ground at concert venues, I opted to keep my foot pressed against it, which seemed like a great idea until my foot started to cramp and the only solution aside from picking it up or walking away from it with some tiny vittle of diginity was to cross my legs so that my left foot could get a chance.

This not only made me look like I had to pee, but it was also hard to retain my balance. So I went back to standing normally (i.e. with the mannerisms of a strung-out bitch looking around for cops and rapists while trying not to urinate).

I stood this way until the very last note of the very last song, until almost everyone around me had vacated the premises, and then I lunged down and with one swift swipe….I missed and had to grab it again.

Having it finally in my possession, I fanned it in Henry’s face and made exaggerated o’s of jubilance with my mouth. “What are you going to do with that?” Henry asked wearily, as he was past due for his scheduled Old Man at Warped Tour Sit Down.

“Probably take it work?” I answered with a question. I couldn’t just leave him and his jacked up lip out there to disintegrate and parish to a place where no one looks at him anymore!

Johann is currently hanging up at my desk by a magnet. I keep putting off buying a frame, because I’m a shitty adoptive portrait mom.

Thank god you didn’t come here to read a review on Bayside’s set.

[I wrote this 5 years ago. Read or don’t read. Exercise your right! Wooo!]

“Please don’t butter my bread.”

Jimmy was going to play baseball that day. He liked playing baseball because his parents weren’t there with him on the field, arguing about taxes and Mother’s affair with the milkmaid and his sister Janie who got knocked up by the Hispanic pool boy at the Y. When the girls were watching from the fence, he would make sure to run real fast, heels clipping the backs of his thighs as he manuevered between the bases. If the girls weren’t there, and it was just Orvil and Petey, the two retarded kids who wore back braces and were not allowed on the field, he would jog lazily around the outfield, pretending like the low-hanging sun was blinding him if he tried to catch fly balls.

Sometimes he would write cuss words like fuck and cooze in the dust, coating the toe of his shoe with a camel-colored powder. If Alastair came too close, Jimmy could erase the evidence with one swift movement.

Alastair was a snitch. He told school bully Sam that Jake stole a piece of bubblegum from Sam’s cubby during recess, and Sam punished Jake with a black eye and made him choke on his own tongue as a final piece of retribution.

Jake had a problem with swallowing his tongue.

“Please don’t butter my bread!”

Jimmy hoped it didn’t rain today, like the weatherman said it would. He wanted to go down to the creek after everyone tired of baseball (usually after two innings) and fish for guppies. That’s what he would tell Mother, anyhow, but once he got down to the woods, he would climb into a tree and pull out Father’s dirty magazines from his satchel.

That’s how he got the best vocabulary in his class.

“Mother, please don’t butter my bread!” Jimmy begged one last time, watching her collect the freshly browned slices of bread from the toaster.

Jimmy liked playing baseball, and he liked sneakily etching swear words on the field and he liked the excitement of watching Jake swallow his tongue. He liked clandestinely pouring over his Father’s dirty magazines and learning words like “pulsating” and “cocktease” and “titty fucking.” Jimmy wanted to continue doing all of these things, but he wouldn’t be able to if his bread was buttered.

“Jimmy, what’s gotten in to you?” Mother yelled, as he wrestled the tub of butter from her hands.

“I watched Father sprinkle rat poison in the butter last night,” Jimmy said, grabbing his dry toast and running off for the baseball field.

Mother silently dropped the tub into the garbage can.

I. Watching grown men have their innards minced on spinny rides

Oh, Pete and Corey look ecstatic in these photos, sure; but the truth is that they were both trying not to give innocent bystanders a puke-wash. The fact that they kept everything down is a miracle, considering Pete is no stranger to losing his lunch on a carnival ride, according to Seri. Maybe he’ll let me interview him about that experience someday.

I was just happy that I didn’t have to ride the Sizzler again, after Chooch dragged me on once immediately upon arrival and then I needed to visit a witch doctor to get my brain to stop rattling to the beat of Call Me Maybe. But cold sweats sure feel great on a ninety degree day, even if they do bring on waking nightmares of child birth, except instead of a child, you’re birthing a nine pound fecal log of fear, anxiety and complete disregard for your own life.

II. Birthing a nine pound fecal log of fear, anxiety and complete disregard for your own life.

A/k/a riding the Zipper! My favorite ride of all time! The above picture is Corey after riding the Zipper! He hates it! AHHHHHH THE ZIPPER&*(&(*^&(*^%%$$##@#$!!

If only Henry could get me that excited.

Anyway, Corey reluctantly agreed to ride the Zipper even though he’s approximately 5 inches too tall and his feet bend backward every time the carny slams the cage shut on us. And then the ride starts and we’re in a state of perpetual tailspin and suddenly I’m strangulated by SHEER TERROR and I can no longer laugh at Corey’s anguish because OMG I’M IN ANGUISH!

BUT IT FEELS SO GOOD!

Have you ever ridden the Zipper? If so, you know that it’s a deceiving little sonofabitch, like a miniature ferris wheel flattened into the shape of an oval, and instead of offering a picturesque view of the lands below, you get a frontseat upside down glimpse of DANGER DANGER while being blinded by flashes of impending death, which may or may not include montages of Carrot Top going down on your granny while you’re scrambling around collecting your blown-off appendages like a warzone Easter egg hunt.

Meanwhile, Corey was muttering things like “Oh fuck” and “Why???” in a disgusted monotone that sounded uncannily like our father, who is perpetually displeased about most everything in life except The Bourne series and Caramel Caribou ice cream.

Some of the Zipper’s greatest hits include:

1. Bolts Popping in D Minor
2. I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight (When Our Zipper Cage Crashed To The Ground)
3. Somebody That I Used To Know (Puked On The Zipper)
4. What Makes You Beautiful (Is The Plastic Surgery You Had To Get After Your Face Was Cheese-Grated In That Zipper Disaster)
5. Part of Me (Got Amputated When the Carny Slammed The Zipper Cage Shut)
6. (The Zipper Launched Me Into the Atmosphere & Now I’m Up Here With the) Starships

III. Having other children there to entertain my child.

Having other children there to entertain my child. Highly recommended.

IV. CLOWNS!

A clown named Popcorn! Who couldn’t love a clown named POPCORN?! Other than people who have seen Killer Klowns From Outer Space and/or lost a loved one to a popcorn accident.

There was another clown there who was totally enamored by Seri. All the poor pasty-faced man wanted to do was twist her a heart from a balloon and she was being so standoffish! Damn, if he had shown me even an ounce of that attention, I’d have taken him back behind the 4H tent and twisted his balloon. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

V. Not Being Hogtied & Devoured By Children!

Seri was brave/dumb and left me (and Corey!) responsible for her children, who had only just met us, and you might know that I was born without the ability to properly interact with/control children. (Maybe there’s also a rap sheet out there somewhere that could tell you that.) Anyway, they were mostly OK! Until they tried to converse with me and I met all their social exercises with twitches, shrugs and “Huh?”s. Then they got bored with me and wandered off. Don’t worry, I knew where they were. (Mostly.)

I think they were with my kid? I wasn’t sure where he was though.

VI. Oh Shit, MAGIC SHOW!

Seri, Pete and Henry rescued Corey and me from the children just in time for us to enjoy a real life magic show with real life magic and illusionary mysticism! Thank god it started right after I finished eating, else I can’t promise I would have paid it much attention.

I kept turning around to mouth exaggerated “Ooooh”s at Corey and Henry. Henry was totally unimpressed by the whole thing, especially after he did a quick scour on Facebook and discovered that this guy was not friends with our magician friends, therefore exposing him as a FRAUD.

After the show, Josh Knotts the Illusionist announced that if anyone wanted his autograph, they could have just that for $2. OH DID I! Except that I didn’t have $2, and Henry — who hadn’t heard the announcement — was sceptical from the get-go and said, “I only have $1 and I’m not breaking a $20.” Then he did that moustache bristle and old man squint. So I asked Pete and he gave me a dollar, because I’m still a novelty item.

Anyway, I put on my best fake fan impression and then Josh complimented me on my Anthem Made shirt (it’s the Kellin Quinn collection, ya’ll!) which made me smug because Henry was annoyed when I bought it (It says “We Are The Scene” and Henry thinks it’s dumb). Then Josh made me have my picture taken with him and his assistant, which I immediately made Seri delete from her phone.

VII: JANICE!

At first glance, Janice was just your average fanny pack-wearing county fair attendee who randomly volunteered to help out during one of the magic acts. But it quickly came to our attention that she is a HOG for attention, oh my god. She did everything in her power to steal the show, including but not limited to flossing Josh Knott’s ass with a straight jacket strap.

She sure made all the hicks in the audience howl!

Corey and I became obsessed with her.

“I have a feeling Janice knows her way around a stage,” Corey observed.

God love her.

VIII. The Magic Maze Controversy

The boys basically spent all night running through the maze (and repeatedly slamming their heads against the plexi glass), but this turned out to be fortuitous because it enabled Corey and me to witness something amazing when we rejoined our pack after riding the Freak Out (during which some beefy carny said, “You might want to remove those” while practically dunking his head inside my cleavage; he was only talking about the sunglasses hooked onto my shirt collar though). I missed the initial conflict, which happened when some girl ran into the maze, causing the old man carny to legit hollar at her. Corey said he really screamed at her good and couldn’t believe that I didn’t hear. By the time he alerted me to the drama, I was able to watch as the girl came back out of the maze, exchange words with the carny, and run over to her mom in tears. Apparently, she had found someone’s discarded ride-all-day wristband and attempted to dupe the carny by holding it on to her wrist.

YOU CAN’T TRICK A CARNY. They’re the original tricksters. That’s how women wind up impregnated with gingers. Everyone knows that. So anyway, Old Carny was livid about this and sent that bitch packing.

“That was so mean,” Corey said sadly, wearing his pity for poor people like a Boy Scout badge.

“I know, and so late in the evening? He should have just let her go through,” I added. But then I got a good look at her, crying into her mom’s bosom, and I said, “But, isn’t she a little old to be crying about that?”

Corey studied the scene for a few seconds, and said, “No, you’re totally right,” and then started cracking up. So then I started cracking up too, and Henry was all, “What is so funny? I am old and lack mirth, please explain in laymen’s terms what has made you laugh.”

A few minutes later, Seri, Pete and the boys were on the bumper cars, so Corey, Henry and I were standing around in everyone’s way as usual. Actually, I think Henry was cranking up our debt by playing more games. The poor girl and her mom walked by us and I blurted out, “Oh my god, she’s STILL crying!” and we just died. Seriously, go home and have Pa make you a maze in one of his almanac and cat litter hoarding rooms.

IX: Corey Is Still Color Blind!

Sometime earlier in the evening, Corey pointed to the Skydiver and said, “Oh boy, there’s that orange and green ride again.”

I was able to contain my erupting laughter for a few seconds before blurting out, “OMG THAT RIDE HAS NEITHER COLOR!” and then frantically texting his girlfriend the good word.

God, I love when his color blindness comes into play.

Quite possibly the only lowlight was when Corey and I were standing in line for the Freak Out and he realized that horrible fun. song was playing on two different rides, on each side of us, and both songs were at different parts. I was so angry at him for pointing that out because then I couldn’t stop noticing it and it was sonic warfare on my poor ears. The brightside was that we had a brief bonding moment over a mutual dislike of one of the most obnoxiously commercial songs of 2012.

(Music snob footnote: The Format was so much better than Fun. and I have been preaching that since 2009.)

OK, that’s not true. There was another lowlight.

I’m giving myself fifteen minutes to write this bitch. Aaaand, go.

The last time we went to Laurel Caverns, Chooch was 4 and peed in his pants. Somewhere in there, we also thought Henry had perished, got a flat tire, and I hated Gene and Boots candy store. It was a pretty action-packed day.

Considering I promised Henry he could have a relaxing weekend doing whatever he wanted since he went to Warped Tour with me two days prior, I kind of hoped that we could just go to the caverns and act like a normal loving family.

But Chooch and I were really hyper and literally kept fake-beating each other up. He was trying to climb up my torso at one point, in the bowels of the caverns  and I kept flicking him in the head when he wasn’t looking, or shaking him by the shoulders. Henry didn’t seem charmed by any this.

The tour hadn’t even started yet and look at that grimace. You’d think he would be excited since he knows so much shit about rocks and stone, but I guess it  must suck for a hotdogging SERVICE man to have to listen to a FEMALE tour guide talk about everything he already knows.

Chooch didn’t swear once and that’s all I can ask for, really. Stifling himself for 55 minutes beneath the earth made him shoot off obscenities like a cannon on the car ride home, though. Good job for teaching him that shit, Henry.

 This isn’t just because of the flash. He almost always looks at me like this. I wasn’t allowed to walk behind him during the tour because I was being too “immature.” WHATEVER THAT MEANS.

Our tour guide HATED THE WHOLE GROUP and we actually really weren’t that bad of a group, just overpopulated. She was so joyless and bland, and kept making idle threats when people wouldn’t stop chatting with each other.

“I am NOT going to lose my voice today,” she said 11 different times. (I counted.)

I still thanked her when the tour was over though, because I’m a suck up.

This picture might not look like much, but it’s really special to me because I MADE THAT LIGHT COME ON. There is an entire passage filled with sound-activated lights, I guess to break up the monotony of being constantly told to shut up by the tour guide, and allowing us to actually exercise our vocal rights. Everyone was yelling and clapping, some people were woofing and making me roll me eyes, but Chooch of all people was doing nothing.

NOTHING.

He picked THAT MOMENT to be silent.

“Chooch, yell ‘Jonny Craig,'” I coaxed.

“NO,” Henry refuted.

So I did it, nice and loud, shouted, “JONNY CRAIG!” with all this passion and jubilation. I thought Henry was going to push me over a ravine.

There was no one hot in our tour group. This made me feel bored at times. I wanted Chooch to ask if we were going to get to see the basement, but he didn’t get it and kept shouting to me, “WHAT!? WHAT ABOUT THE BASEMENT?! WHERE IS THE BASEMENT!?” and I was just like, “God, nevermind, you suck.”

The first thing Henry did when we got home yesterday was Google what the guide was telling us about the bats just to prove that she was wrong about what’s forcing them into extinction.  Maybe he’ll want me to write a letter to Laurel Caverns on his behalf.

Thanks to my thoughtful (and thrifty!) friend Wendy, I have another old wheelchair for the collection that wasn’t a collection until a week ago! The seat is an ungodly 1950’s pea green and I couldn’t be happier! I’m halfway to a full dining room set. My first dinner party at my imaginary house is going to really be something. Maybe you’ll be invited! Bring a side dish and your neck brace!

Wendy and I took Andrea to Mad Mex for dinner on Friday evening, while Henry embarked on the covert cake-acquisition. (I literally texted Kaitlin last winter when Andrea first started tossing around ideas of coming back for a visit around her birthday and placed a tentative red velvet cake order; Kaitlin’s cakes are in high demand so I wasn’t about to sit on it.) I even made sure Andrea left some of her shopping bags in my car so she’d have to come back to my house afterward to fetch them; I was so afraid she was going to ask to go to back to her hotel right after dinner since we had such a long, napless day.

And then the first restaurant we were going to eat at turned out to be a taco stand, and the smells coming from it were fantastic, but it was 95 degrees out and none of us wanted to sit outside in that, eating tacos like real Mexicans. So we wound up at Mad Mex, which had a 30-45 minute wait until Wendy (who knew I was panicking and stressing behind Andrea’s back about the time) schmoozed us into a booth and we somehow managed to get out of there and back to my house by 8:30.

What’s the fastest way to ruin a surprise party? Invite Chooch.

As soon as we pulled up, Chooch came bursting through the front door and yelled, “SERI’S HERE AND SHE HAS A BIG PRESENT FOR ANDREA BUT YOU GUYS CAN’T COME IN BECAUSE WE’RE NOT READY YET!”

I tried to play dumb, like I didn’t understand what Chooch was mouthing off about, but it was clear that the jig was up. I went inside and sulked about it, while Andrea stayed outside talking with Wendy. Seri and Henry were in the house, being all calm and normal, while I was pacing back and forth, poking my head out the window to see what they were doing. Chooch kept running back outside, probably to tell Andrea what all of her presents were.

Who needs surprises.

I just wanted her to come inside and see the pinata that I zombified for her and almost broke my fingers trying to stuff. I did this on Monday night, before she arrived, and every day after that Chooch kept suspiciously saying to her, “DON’T LOOK INSIDE THE BASEMENT DOOR! THERE’S SOMETHING THERE THAT YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE!” Goddamn kids!!

I even bought a clown ring toss. Who wouldn’t want clown ring toss at their birthday party?

Finally, she and Wendy came in the house and I have the whole “Surprise!” part recorded, but the video is marred by my sad-sounding voice and heavy sighs. THANKS AGAIN, CHOOCH.

I bought a used Lil Wayne because it was intended to go inside the pinata but I couldn’t get it to fit. I’m not actually that cheap that I buy my friends used CDs. However, I’m glad the Exchange had the Lil Wayne album that kicks off with the seminal hit “Gonorrhea.”

With the exception of my used Lil Wayne CD and Lil Wayne embellished champagne chalice (which is how I like to make “wine glass” sound like a gift you might want), Andrea got good gifts from Wendy (a jeweled perfume bottle), Chuck and Amanda who shipped an art print to my house for her, and Seri who went back to Zenith on Friday and snatched up the courtroom sketch after seeing the picture I posted on my blog of Andrea holding it. I was determined to make her birthday a memorable one, and luckily all of these wonderful people were making my job incredibly easy.

Andrea tweeted a few weeks ago about how she hates being called “Amanda,” so of course I ran with that. When I do jerky things, that’s how my friends know I like them!

Printed out a bunch of inside-jokey pictures to accessorize the cake, such as: a music box, a picture of Creepy Dance Recital Man-Girl, Billy Ocean (the last time she was here, he was playing in my car nearly every time she got in because he was on my Roller Rink Birthday Party Mix, Holla!), Lil Wayne wearing a Free Jonny Craig shirt, and a rarely-seen portrait of her wearing her favorite Etsy sweater.

Pinata guts. Henry was positively tickled to discover that I had finger-fucked the piñata full of confetti for him to sweep up later.

Chooch wore the pinata blindfold first, but he was so sweaty that everyone else politely declined their turn.

Later on, Seri’s husband Pete came over with their boys and Henry got to be all Big Tough Fire Starter by setting off fireworks in our front yard, and it was just really nice to hang out in the grass, drinking, and being entertained by the possibility of a Golden Flower fountain exploding in Henry’s face. One of my perpetually drunk neighbors stopped by with his dog Buttkiss (I’m not sure if that’s really his name, but probably) and I was so happy that everyone out there got to eye-feast on a slice of Brookline.

Meanwhile, Maxton was in the house, watching TV while lounging on the wheelchair. Best investment ever. I want to buy at least 3 more to use as dining room chairs.

I think the biggest surprise of the night was the fact that Seri’s hair stays perfectly straight and shiny despite the 95 degree temperatures and swamp-like humidity. So jealous!

Anyway, it was eventually time for Andrea to go back to her hotel and pack for her early-morning flight. Everyone doled out sweaty, drunken hugs and just like that, another visit with Andrea was over. It was a long week and I was pretty jealous that she got to leave the heatwave (and Chooch) behind. Hopefully we didn’t annoy her too much.

I’m so glad that Pittsburgh decided to have a heat wave in tandem with Andrea’s visit from California. We don’t have a/c in our house, so the poor girl suffered all week. At least her hotel room was air-conditioned.

The cemetery wasn’t air-conditioned either, so she had to endure 90 degree heat & humidity for an hour in a wig and wedding dress while I took pictures on the Fourth of July. (More pictures to come once I can sit at the computer and edit them without sweat dripping into my eyes.)

We spent a lot of this week at the hotel pool, which gave Chooch and me short reprieves from the heat. We are like sweaty twins. Everyone else around us complains of the heat yet appears relatively dry; Chooch and I meanwhile have damp hair and faces mimicking glazed hams.

Some lady at the hotel pool let Chooch use one of her innertubes which I’m pretty sure he punctured.

Saw this at the cemetery. The universe is always throwing out Jonny Craig signs for me!

Bought fireworks.

That night, we went to Seri and Pete’s house to watch the Mt. Lebanon fireworks, which were completely underwhelming, but Seri’s Martha Stewart-rivaling hospitality more than made up for that. Their house is so inviting and she provided a handsome spread of finger food to be stuffed into my mouth. LOOK AT THOSE MARSHMALLOW KEBOBS! Even Andrea was delighted and she hates everything.

Andrea being delighted.

I didn’t want to take a cherry out of the narrow receptacle in which Seri had lined them up because it looked so perfect and decorative, but Andrea was all, “Just take one, stupid. That’s what they’re there for.” And then immediately after I plucked one for my plate, Andrea said, “You ruined it.”

Oh my god, and the sangria. So much delicious sangria! Seri was completely spazzed out all night, worrying that we weren’t having fun, but damn – I didn’t want to be anywhere else but on that couch hugging a red ball pillow that I had formed at unhealthy attachment to, eating food, telling stories, and having their two kids entertain Chooch.

It was a good night with new friends and old friends and even Henry smiled a lot. HENRY SMILED A LOT. And I learned that the key to placating Andrea is boxed wine and Latin music. Thank you, Seri and Pete!

(Also, the truth came out about Henry pushing a girl in a wheelchair at a Ted Nugent show. Will provide a separate post for that.)

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.