Oh, how I love her!!

In other news, I created a Reddit account just so I could reply to this clown who is evidently extremely adverse to iPhonography.

Jesus, what a nozzle.

This has been a pretty cataclysmic week for Oh Honestly, Erin. The terms “scandal,” “infamous” and “OHNOSHEDIDNT” come to mind. So bad that at one point I considered going back to LiveJournal and locking everything down but then I realized that’s a pretty stupid, not to mention hypocritical, move for someone who claims to stand behind everything they write. So I guess the Internet is stuck with me for a little while longer.

And no, I’m not ready to elaborate. It’s been a long week full of shame, panic and confrontations, all of which I faced with my head up when all I really wanted to do was bury mu head in the sand (preferably of the quick variety). Looking forward to moving on, and soon.

Someday we will be able to laugh heartily at this. Maybe. But probably not.

I don’t know what came over me, but two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk at work when the most ridiculously out-of-character idea cloud settled upon my head, and it told me to bake Henry a cake for Valentine’s Day.

There are several things wrong with this:

1. I have never baked without supervision.
2. I have never baked a cake, nor have I ever wanted to. (I do like decorating cakes that other people have made though, usually in a mean-spirited fashion.)
3. I do not like baking. Or cooking. Or being in the kitchen at all.
4. Since when do I ever willingly want to do nice things for Henry?

Natalie happened to stop by to talk to me right after my plan was devised and I eagerly filled her in. She gave me a horrified look and then walked away.

See? Everyone knows this is not an Erin thing to do! And more importantly, HENRY knows this goes against everything I’m all about which means he would never expect it.

Ever. Never ever.

I posted about it on Facebook (I blocked him from that particular status update) and the reactions were mixed, everything from shock and trepidation from the people who know that the only recipe I’m capable of following is one for disaster, suspicion from some who are not used to seeing my sweet side, and then there were all the “You Should”s with their unsolicited suggestions of what I should make instead.

But my mind was made up: red velvet cake, cream cheese frosting. No cake pops or cupcakes or chocolate-covered strawberries. No bakery-bought cake. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it big and do it my way.

A week before Valentine’s Day, I did some subtle recon.

“Why don’t you ever bake cakes?” I asked Henry out of the blue one night, because that’s how I do subtle. “Is it because it’s too HARD?” If it’s too difficult for Henry, then it’s impossible for me.

“Because we don’t have any cake pans,” he mumbled, not seeming to think it was a weird question at all.

The next day at work, I was freaking out about cake pans, which is how I learned that there are many options in acquiring one. For instance, Target sells cake pans! I never would have known. I learn so much about life at work.

But then Natalie said I could borrow hers! So then I had two 8in cake pans in my purse when I left work on Friday and Henry looked at me weirdly when he heard them clanging together.

And then he looked at me even more weirdly, now with a dash of fear, when I told him that I needed something for his Valentine’s gift but Natalie let me borrow hers, like it was her diaphragm and this was 1996.

“I don’t want to know,” he said.

After I took Chooch to school Monday morning, I looked at the frosting and cake mix recipe 45752 times to see what I would need, then I collected all the courage I could muster and set off to the grocery store. A solo trip to the grocery store. Whoever would’ve thought? When I t old Chooch what I was doing that day, he stopped everything and said, “Are you sure you shouldn’t just buy the cake?”

Nice to know my son has so much faith in me.

I was so nervous and apprehensive that I acted like I was on Supermarket Sweep, grabbed what I needed (I even got coffee creamer because I knew I was almost out; I’m suddenly responsible!), checked my heart rate and got the FUCK out. I really hate grocery stores. Unless it’s one of the fancy ones. Then I like to tag along with Henry and increase our bill by $150. Henry really enjoys that too.

The actual cake-baking wasn’t too bad, you guys! I even found the hand-mixer thingie and the whisk-y thingies which were in the second drawer I looked in! Clearly all of these things meant that baking was in my destiny. And you know, in between heaping mouthfuls of cake batter, I smiled to myself and thought about how surprised Henry was going to be that I was doing something selfless for him, because when do I ever do anything for him, aside from making pretty faces for him, filling his days with my warm and sunny disposition, and BEARING HIS CHILD?

Yep, everything was fine until the cake was done and I tried to remove it by flipping the pan upside down and shaking. A huge chunk flopped out, but another huge chunk remained adhered to the bottom of the pan. (Yes, I greased the pan! Why does everyone keep asking me that!?) Thank god for Facebook; I posted this picture with a caption begging for help, and my guardian angels asured me that this wasn’t fatal and that there were ways to piece it back together. And then Kaitlin texted me and said that happens to her all the time and I was like, “YES, I’M ON THE SAME PAGE AS KAITLIN!” Whatever that means!

Parts of the cake appeared burnt while other portions were definitely undercooked. I shrugged it off because let’s be real – this cake was mostly just a symbol at this point. If pieces of it turned out edible, well then that’s a bonus.

Once I dumped out the second cake, I stowed them away in the attic (yes, they were covered! I’m not that stupid!) and spent the rest of my day watching MTV like a person like me should be doing.

The next morning, Chooch was brushing his teeth and admitted to me that he peeked at the cake.

“It looks weird,” he said, his voice full of toothpaste and concern.

“BECAUSE IT’S NOT DONE YET! God!” I was feeling pretty defensive at that point.

After I took Chooch to school, it was time to make the frosting. I waited a whole day to do this because all of my Google research told me that it is best to frost a cake the next day. Plus, I didn’t feel like being in the kitchen any longer on Monday. But I realized I didn’t have enough butter and had to go BACK TO THE STORE which caused me great anxiety. Henry called while I was doing this and all I would tell him was that I was working on the second thing I needed to do but a wrench was thrown into the plan and I had to go back to the store.

Goddamn does it take butter a lot of time to thaw! Jessy texted me some ways to speed up the process but they all involved copious opportunies for me to fuck up. So I just sat on it for awhile instead.

The cats went apeshit when I was using the mixer. They have never, in 14 years, seen me do that before. I started to pretend like I was going to go after Marcy with it but then batter started flying around like arterial spray so I shoved it back in the bowl. God, baking is messy. I still don’t know where the frosting landed. And you know what, that shouldn’t be my concern. I already did enough, Henry can clean up. Right?

Aside from when I dropped the bowl and caught it by slamming it against the cabinets with my crotch (I did all the preparations on the 2 inch slat of counterspace in front of the sink, even though we have an entire table I could have used), frosting proved to be pretty easy to make! I did have to ask Google if confectioners powder is the same as powered sugar, though. (It is, in case you didn’t know.)

OK, I lied. I wanted to see how it felt to be cheery and positive for once. No, it wasn’t easy! It wasn’t easy at all! It took forever to mix, and my arms were hurting so bad, and it was jerking me around and not in a pleasurable way either. And then when it was time to slather it on the cake, my spatula thing kept pulling up parts of the cake and then it was mixing in with the frosting and I was getting so angry that I found myself crying for the eight time since the nigthmare started the day before, and if that shit didn’t taste so fucking good, it was about to get set on fire and chucked at the nearest Katy Perry fan.

And then I was like, “Fuck it. Once he sees I baked him a cake, of course he’s not going to deduct points for it being a hot mess.” Because the whole point is that, hello, this bitch baked him a cake for the first (and last) time ever!

When I first had the idea, I thought it would be cute to decorate it with all the things we share a mutual love for, but then I realized that’s only one thing (aside from our kid, obviously).

So it’s only slightly a wreck! I was pretty proud of myself, to be honest. But the sense of accomplishment was not enough to make me forget the electricutionary feeling of frazzled nerves, so no, I will not be making this a hobby.

Henry was nervous. “This is only the second time in 11 years you’ve done something for me on Valentine’s Day,” he said. It’s true. The last time I gave him an empty ring box which was supposed to hold a key to my house, but I left it in the paper bag from the hardware store.

He said, “I’m going to guess whatever you were doing was something you don’t normally do….which could be just about anything.”

Oh my god, he’s almost smiling! But then he looked at it again and said, “What are all the lumps in the frosting?”

“It’s cake!” I wailed. Ugh!

The more he looked at the cake, the less his lips held the smile-curve. It looked like apprehension was setting in, like he was going to make me taste it first. But he apparently ate a piece while I was at work and lived to tell about it. (I have no evidence that he didn’t force our son to eat it on his behalf, though.)

I only half-considered adding the zest of Hemlock to the frosting, I swear.

That night, after Chooch went to bed, Henry slipped into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. I kept waiting for him to come out with a ring* or at least some vintage porn hidden in a souffle, but apparently my big Vday gift was dinner.

(*You know I would have been displeased if he had proposed on a day as obvious as February 14th. I’M NEVER HAPPY!)

“You ALWAYS cook dinner,” I whined. “I baked you a CAKE!”

He spent the rest of the night kissing my ass and then I let him scratch my back, so all was not lost.

(Wait, this sounds like a regular night at our house.)

I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life smearing this in his face.

While Barb is off work and recovering, I’ve been coming in earlier to help out.

Sure, I’ve been whining about it, but that’s because whining is all I know how to do. But the reality is that I’m happy to help out and even happier to have a nicer paycheck.

In fact, when I was in the boss’s office yesterday for my review, I mentioned that I would be interested in coming on full-time if she would ever see that as a possibilty. (Chooch’s tuition is really vampirizing my bank account; hopefully we can get out of the city sometime soon so he doesn’t have to keep going to Jesus Academy.) My boss seemed thrilled at the prospect and said she would see about making that become a reality, but I know that sometimes things around here are slow to be processed. I’ll be patient. (For awhile!)

However, she approached me later and asked if I’d like to do a trial run by coming in even earlier two days a week and I said yes without hesitating even though this is really putting a damper on my lady of leisure lifestyle.

Today, I got here at 1:30, which really threw everyone for a loop.

One of the analysts (Kristen, I think; things seem to have happened so long ago now that I’m here full days!) said, “Oh damn, I thought this meant it was 4:00!

” And then we laughed because I always joke that that’s the only reason people are so happy to see me around here, because I signify that the workday is almost over for the people on day shift.

“Now no one here is going to like me anymore!” I joked.

Glenn walked into the conversation right around that point and in his typical Work-Henry droll, he said, “They would have had to have liked you in the first place though.”

OH GOOD ONE, GLENN! Looks like someone’s still smartin’ from the Wacky Worm.

In other work news, I passed out Valentines Monday night after everyone had left, which apparently made some people very happy. I like making people happy, which is probably surprising to some people who think I’m Satanic.

All the nice emails and “thank you”s from people passing by my desk made me realize once again how lucky I am to have a job that I don’t dread going to, like I dread going to the eye doctor or taking Chooch to school. It would be so much better if Barb were here, though.

I haven’t had time to write about skating last Sunday, but then I realized that the only thing that actually happened was that I got stuck skate-talking to Roller Creep during four corners. It didn’t even matter that Chooch was with me; he just kept bragging and bragging about the fact that the rink gives him his own weekly show now (another reason to switch to Saturday sessions). He basically gets one song to do his static routine, while all the little girls who have never seen him before kneel on the carpeted benches and squeal in amazement.

Other than that, Henry’s bromance/rink owner was home sick that afternoon, so he moved on his son instead. The poor kid was behind the skate rental counter trying to tighten up bearings and here’s what appears to be a bear* on skates asking him all kinds of predatory questions.

(*And I don’t mean the animal.)

The one who dubbed Henry “Smiley.”

There was a lot of snow on the ground, with the threat for more, yesterday when we arrived at the rink. But there was still a line.

And people say roller skating is obsolete.

“What? These were cool in 1983!”

My work friend Joy came out with her fiancé John and three other friends, which pleased me. I love that damn rink so much and any time I can persuade people to stop by, I feel like I’ve won a small war on modern activities, like basket-weaving and Botox appointments.

Even Joy said, “This was great! It’s good, clean fun!” AND IT IS, even though some asshole finds ways to desecrate the wholesome family sentiments behind it by calling all the kids she hates dickheads and motherfuckers on her blog afterward, mocks her friends for falling, and has not-so-secret scandalous thoughts about the new rink ref.

I think Joy wanted me to point out that John bit it three times while she remained upright for the whole session. SHE DIDN’T DO THE YMCA THOUGH.

Speaking of, I always get performance anxiety during the YMCA. What if my C is backward?!

There is an adult skate coming up in two weeks and I’m determined to bring new recruits to that, too.

Chooch spent the rest of the day singing the Village People quietly to himself.

Better than Katy Perry.

Just last week, Chooch whined to me, “I liked it better when people came with us to skate. You never ask anyone to come with us anymore!” But I do ask! All the time! As it turns out, most grown ups just don’t give a shit about roller skating. However, Laura was off last Sunday and promised that she would go, even though she fell when she attemped to skate at my birthday party last summer.

LAURA IS A TRUE FRIEND.

We arrived at the rink a little bit before 1:30 and it’s a good thing we disobeyed Henry by jumping out of the car and standing in line, because that line exploded really fast. It was so crowded last Sunday! Almost like roller skating was popular again.

In addition to multiple birthday parties, I think it was Urban Recreation Day because the hooligans were there by the busload. And of course, none of them could skate so the rink was a minefield of inner city limbs. It calmed down a bit after awhile though; I’m not sure if the kids gave up and left or if their lo-jacks were sounding off.

Laura fell before she even made it onto the rink and I am so disappointed that I missed it. Henry got to see it though and I hope that he laughed at her, but knowing Henry, he probably dove into Real American Hero mode and offered to help her up.

Henry and I are so different.

Chooch and I do this awesome thing where we ditch Henry at the skate counter and then he has to carry an entire bushel of quads back to us. (And I always sit as far away as possible, allowing for the utmost chances of jutted feet for him to trip over as he weaves and winds his way down to me. It’s my duty, and I do it well.)

My friend Shawn recently moved back to the area last year and I managed to con him and his two little girls, Cosi and Anais, to come out for some afternoon skate action. In addition to spending quality time with his kid, the fact that he knew he would be subject to relentless guilt-tripping and puppy dog-eyeing from me might have factored in as well. Cosi thought I worked there because I’m so fantastic.

Chooch’s reaction when he saw the GIRLS.

I had to bribe him with ice cream to get him to pose for this picture.

There was a new rink ref there that day. His name is Joe and I believe he’s one of the Jammers, a group of local skaters who skate better than you. Oh shit, my crush inflated like J-Woww’s jugs as soon as I saw his smooth moves. Plus, there was nothing annoying, creepy or offensive about him! I know this because Roller Creep was there again so I got a pretty telling side-by-side comparison.

I call this portion of the story: Erin’s Big Fall

It was rough waters out there that day. Roller DJ and I have differing opinions on this subject, but I think that sharing a rink with children is pretty much the worst thing ever to have to do with skates on. This might have a lot to do with the fact that I generally do not approve of the presence of children anywhere, though. Roller DJ thinks it’s So Important for everyone to skate together with no segregation because it’s the amazing people like me who inspire children to want to get better (or learn at all). Brother, I don’t ever see a fucking child looking up to an adult in awe; I see asshole children creating moving slaloms for me, impetuously changing direction and purposely throwing themselves down on the floor to be “funny.”

But I braved that sea of pinwheeling kinder-limbs with my normal bravado, and even when Chooch and I were couple-skating* and Chooch fell, causing me and another couple to collide into the wall, my feet didn’t leave the ground.

*(He couple skate-blocked Henry and would only let me skate with him;even when it was Lady’s Choice, he picked for me! Oh well, at least I finally got to couple skate to “Broken Wings”! With my 5-year-old! How romantic!)

It wasn’t until later in the session that it happened. We were packed in like sardines on that fucking rink and I found myself trapped in the most congested area of all. I’m moderately good at the whole bob and weave aspect of roller skating, but sometimes I choke. At this particular moment, I needed the fucking Heimlich. A small child in front of me started to go down. I saw it as if it were playing out in slow-motion but there was nothing I could do; I was blocked on both sides and my reflexes atrophied. Before I knew it, I was skating right into a tangled child. And of course this would happen on the one day my friends actually came out to watch me be a dream on wheels.

This was it, the moment I had been dreading since I started roller skating again as an adult: I was going to break my hip, splinter my pride, split my pants: one if not ALL of these things were going to happen in 3…2…

I landed on one knee and one hand and in one quick motion, I sprung myself back up. JUST LIKE THEY DO IN HOCKEY YOU GUYS. Oh, the grace that was displayed! It would have made an angel flush with envy.

I even asked the kid if it was alright.

Then I skated it off like it never happened, all the while scanning the rink for Henry.

“DID YOU SEE ME FALL?” I cried out after finally spotting him later.

“What? No. It must have happened when I was in the bathroom.”

“Did you see me fall?” I asked Laura, who shook her head side-to-side. Shawn missed it too.

“NO ONE SAW MY AMAZINGLY GRACEFUL RECOVERY?

” I wailed. It would fucking figure!

Amazing recovery aside, it still sucks to wipe out as an adult. My No Fall Streak is done-zo. I wish now that I could remember what song was playing, but I totally can’t. I’m sure one day when I’m listening to the radio and find myself awash with sudden shame, I will know that that was the song soundtracking my Big Fall.

Hokey Pokey Party Foul

Roller DJ plays the Hokey Pokey every week; you can laugh all you want, but that shit is fucking fun. I was excited that Shawn and Laura were there that day, so we could all laugh and put our backsides in together like it’s 1974 and Henry’s outlook on life is current. However, Laura shook her head in fright and the rest of them were nowhere in sight, so I skated out alone and joined the oblong people-circle.

Surely Henry and Chooch will join me, I thought.

The circle stretched into an even more oblong-shape as more people came out to turn themselves around.

But still no Henry and Chooch.

Roller DJ started the song.

Still no motherfucking Henry and Chooch.

There is something exceptionally pathetic and slightly embarrassing about being a grown-up and doing the Hokey Pokey alone. Sure, there was a rinkful of families out there with me, but I had no child of my own to exchange sidelong glances and giggles with. I mean, I tried it once, looked to my left and made eye contact with a little girl who did not return my smile, unless turning her eyes into saucers of STRANGER DANGER  is how she expresses happy camaraderie with her Hokey Pokey neighbor; I turned to my right only to see some mom videotaping her son who was right next to me, so let’s hear it for Erin doing the Hokey Pokey on some asshole’s family video tape.

Even still, I put my whole self in with some motherfucking gusto.

Henry’s New Name

Henry is off the rink more than he’s on it. He’s always wandering off, holding the owner, Jim, chat-hostage or talking to Paul, the rink ref. I can’t imagine what he talks to them about, installing Faygo machines? The Andy Griffith Show? Kristy McNichol coming out as a lesbian? Who the fuck knows! But it’s kind of creepy and who knew a roller rink would turn Henry into a social butterfly.

(You know who he never talks to though? Roller DJ. Probably because I already claimed him.)

“Jim’s wife just asked me if I ever smile,” Henry laughed, catching up to me on the rink. (Which is where you will almost always find me, considering that is what I pay to do.)

“Who the fuck is Jim?” I asked, annoyed that I had to slow my stride to have my brain freeze-dried by Henry.

“Uh, the owner,” he reminded me with indignance.

“Ok…?” I said, waiting to be disappointed by yet another No-Climax episode with Henry.

“Anyway, she said Robin told her she could make me smile,” he laughed, clearly flattered that someone would make a flirtatious remark about his non-descript self. I felt my face flare up with The Flames of Jealousy.

“Who’s Ro—” I started, but Henry, knowing that I never pay attention to this shit, was ready for it.

“One of the rink refs,” he sighed. Once I placed her, all my jealousy went back to funneling intself toward Jennifer Aniston’s hair and whichever skank Jonny Craig is presently using as a penis-cosy.

“Jim’s wife said she’s going to call me Smiley now,” Henry went on, smiling and shaking his head. God, go tell your mommy about it.

I will say though, that it is pretty cool to go there every week and have all these guys saying hello and looking all happy to see us. It’s starting to feel like a second home, like we might actually BELONG somewhere!

Post-skating sundae.

[Ed.Note: I apologize if my posts have been even more grammar-erratic than usual lately. We haven’t had Internet at the house for a week now, thanks to Verizon fucking with the telephone pole.

Comcast was supposed to come today but they did NOT and you better believe I want my bill adjusted. Anyway, I have been posting from my phone and sometimes from work, although I have actually had real work to do! I’ve been trying to finish this particular post since last Wednesday. Life is hard, you guys.]

When I got to work on Monday, Sue called me into her office and told me that Barb was in the hospital. My stomach dropped, my heart sank, and my eyes spontaneously welled. Sue told me not to panic and that it was a good thing she was being treated.

But that didn’t really do much to quell my crackling nerves. In the last almost-2 years, Barb has firmly planted herself on my short list of favorite people. She has been more of a mom to me than my own biological mom EVER has and I appreciate her so much, it’s immeasurable. I tell her everything and she is one of the few people who can make me feel like everything is going to be OK. Now she’s in the hospital and I feel so helpless because I just want to be able to reciprocate that for her, but I’m such an emotional spaz that I’m sure I would only wind up stressing her out in the end. (Seriously, I’m terrible at these things!)

We’ve been texting all week, but I haven’t heard from her since she had surgery last night. (Sue assures me it was a routine procedure, and Barb’s dad told her she made it through just fine, so there’s that at least!)

I was talking to Henry about it last night and I started to get all choked up. “See, I do care about people sometimes!” I pointed out.

“Yeah, surprisingly,” he said, and he really did look surprised, too.

With Barb gone all week (and at least another month as well), the office feels so dead. She has such a huge, fun presence that the atmosphere has honestly changed in her absence. And in the short time she’s been in my life, she already knows me so well, because Barb’s the type of person who takes the time to get to know someone.

Just the other week, Carey offered Barb a box of baked goods, to which Barb responded with, “For future reference, always offer stuff to Erin first.” SEE? BECAUSE SHE KNOWS ME.

She’s the type of person to go back to a flea market and buy a creepy-ass doll for someone for Christmas, after learning about how much that person desperately wanted the doll but their BOYFRIEND said NO.

She’s the type of person you want around if if your water breaks in a public restroom.

She’s the type of person who brings a kid a present to their mom’s birthday party, just so they won’t feel left out when their mom is opening her presents.

She’s the type of person who will embrace a person’s inner-weirdness and pore over a book of death scenes with them, because she is a weirdo too.

She is the person that everyone whines and cries to at work, because they know that not only will she listen, but she will care. (Or at least pretend to.)

She’s just Barb, and she’s pretty much the most awesome person I know.

But it’s Barb’s turn to come first. Let’s all give her a shout out today. She’s the most generous and caring person I know, and now it’s time for her to get all that back. Maybe you don’t know Barb in real life, but you have probably read about her on here, and if she happens to read this after she gets out of the hospital, I’m sure it will lift her spirits, so leave her a get well comment. She deserves it!

Get well soon, Barb. We all miss the hell out of you!!

*According to the government and utility companies, anyway.

This was Henry’s dinner spread last night.

“Don’t take a picture of my food!” he pleaded in embarrassment.

My dinner was tuna on crackers (auto correct changed that to Tina, which would have made for a much more interesting blog post) and corn. Here in our Brookline shanty, we eat only marginally better than college students.

Sometimes, Henry will throw all kinds of stuff in a pot, call it soup, and expect me to eat it every day for a week. It’s a wonder how I’m still this fat when I’m essentially eating standard soup kitchen fare.

Holy shit, the Love Unlimited Orchestra’s “Love’s Theme” just came on. BRB have to disco.

For this round, I have pasted the questions and left it up to Henry to plunk out his answers on his own time. Mixing it up a little, you know? (Read: Too tired to transcribe.)

***

Barb asked: If you could be an inanimate object, what would it be and why?

I would be a knife and plunge myself into the eye of the author of this blog for making me answer questions.

Vanessa asked one of my favorite questions: What is one ( as i’m sure there are several) of your favorite Erin & Henry moments? Why?

There are so many moments good and bad(mostly her fault). There are a few that stand out, like our first long trip together was when I discovered Erin was not like other people her age, she was a little less mature. On the way back home from Wisconsin it seems the 11year old in her came out and she rode and pouted in the back seat for a good while, all because she didn’t get her way( that hasn’t change to this day). Now why does that stand out as a moment, it has helped me adjust the way I deal with the lovely Erin. And She wonders why sometimes I act like her dad.

[Ed.note: OMG way to gloss over the pertinents.]

And also: How do you feel about Whole Foods or similar grocery stores?

Actually I have no feelings at all about them, if I’m going near one of them and the parking lot is not jam packed with cars then maybe I’ll pull in.

[Ed.note: That’s the same way he feels about my kooka.]

Brandy asked a question that I know Henry is going to give a one-word answer to, so I am here to remind him of a certain story he once told me about his time in Panama. ANSWER THE QUESTION HONESTLY, HENRY: My question for henry is, did he ever kill anyone in the service?

No, I have never killed anyone, again Erin does not listen when told a story. She’s usually tunes me out once I start talking.

[ed note. THE PET DUCK. YOU KILLED SOMEONE’S PET DUCK ON A RIVER AND YOU TOLD ME SO!!!!]

Shallie, who fooled me by NOT asking a bandanna-centric question, asks: Which drink in the Land of Faygo do you deliver the most? Do you have any crazy customers or funny stories about them?

The most popular flavor would be orange, and as for stories I don’t drive anymore so all my stories are old but I have been witness to a drive by shooting within a 100 yards and in a store when the owner and his employee beat the hell out of someone for stealing a bandana. Then having to wait till they mopped up the blood.

Jessica took the question out of everyone’s mouths in what I can only assume was a stern yet angry voice: When the hell are you going to propose?

I’ve known for a long time how and when and one day so will everyone else.

(I was hoping to have a reason to recycle this photo!)

It was so much fun when we did this last year that I decided it was due time to do it again. Ask him anything! What it was like to have a porn wound. How badly he wants to kill himself every year at Warped Tour. Things about being IN THE SERVICE (his favorite topic!).

You ask all the questions and then I will interrogate him and post his answers on Friday. And believe me, I will do whatever it takes to get The Answers.

Here’s what he had to say last time.

[Ed.Note: I know the last few posts have been recycled cop-outs, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m either dying slowly from religiously watching the cast of Jersey Shore poison themselves with alcohol, UV rays & sexual stupidity, or I’m pregnant, as all nauseated females always are.]

My friend Rick and I were talking the other night about things we don’t want to write, but how it’s often a good exercise to force ourselves to it. It got me thinking over the weekend about what the one thing was that I totally did not want to write; I very quickly decided on the essay I wrote for a Creative Non-Fiction class at Pitt.

The assignment was basically to interview a stranger and then shadow them for a small amount of their day. I really, really, really did not want to do this, to the point where I was practically vomiting up fear and insecurity.

I ended up choosing to write about a Mormon missionary; at the time, we had them by the bushels over in Brookline, so I called the church and got it all set up.

It wound up being one of the coolest things I ever got to do, let alone write about, and there are days when I think about lassoing another stranger and pumping them for their story, just for the hell of it.

Anyhow, here it is. It was originally written October of 2007.

****

                “It smells so good! Doesn’t it smell so good? I can’t wait for tonight. I’m so hungry!”  She closes her eyes and takes another long drag of the aroma wafting toward her from the adjacent kitchen, where caterers are bustling around in preparation for the Women’s Conference being held in the gymnasium later that evening. The lobby of the Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints church where we sit is small, but cozy.  Sister McRae casually leans forward across from me on a mauve-cushioned chair. “People just don’t understand what we’re here for; they don’t understand what we’re coming to share because they think we’re selling something, but anything we do is completely for free – books about Jesus Christ and free videos about families – and people just don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense to them that we would come out here and be so happy and have something to share; they say they have enough and don’t want anymore. I don’t even have enough!” Sister McRae gestures a lot with her hands when she speaks, throwing them up in the air and curving her fingers into air quotes; the sunlight streaming in from the front doors makes the two chunky silver rings on her fingers sparkle and the highlights in her long brown hair glow.   

                  Her companion Sister Mordue and I share the cushy tapestry couch. I try not to be too distracted by the larger-than-life portrait of Jesus emerging from his tomb, which adorns the wall to the right of Sister McRae while she tells me that Sister Mordue was just assigned four days prior as her new companion. I’m slightly surprised, what with the way she playfully slaps Sister Mordue’s thigh every time she ends a sentence with, “am I right?” I assumed they had known each other for awhile. Sister Mordue is the perfect portrait of what a stereotypical missionary should look like: frumpy, quiet, and squeezed into a celery-colored button-down blouse.

                 But Sister McRae only looks like this from the waist down. She has little need for makeup, close-set eyes (but not freakishly so) and a narrow chin with a slight cleft; she’s the kind of girl you expect to hate in high school – upbeat, popular, and pretty without trying — but then she shocks you by offering you the seat next to her in the cafeteria. Her long brown hair has a bit of wave to it and is equipped with just the right amount of scrunch. A small front section is clipped back, creating a cute bouffant. Her speech is peppered with “like” and “you know.” She’s wearing a wide-striped navy blue and green fitted polo shirt with sleeves that stop just below her elbows. But below the waist, her attire becomes more pious. Her legs are swathed in what appears to be an entire bolster of wool, stopping just short enough to skim her ankles, and her black thick-heeled clodhoppers look more suited for a femme Frankenstein. Other girls her age might still be home, sleeping off Friday night benders and recharging for another night of whirlwind barhopping and random hook-ups, but Sister McRae doesn’t let bars and current fashion tempt her. When she turned twenty-one last November, it was a no-brainer for her to trade in her life in Highland, Utah in favor of becoming a Mormon missionary.

              “My dad wasn’t a Mormon and you know, in Utah there’s a ton of members, but my mom didn’t want to nag him and tell him to go to church. She was like, ‘Let’s just be a good example.’ So after being a good example, well, my parents were married for twenty-five years and then he knew that it was true and he decided to join the church.

Twenty-five years later! Watching that happen, it was so amazing to see and I wanted to go out and share that with other people, and be able to show that families can be together forever.”

              I want to not like her. She’s one of these people who cement themselves to my front porch, waving Christ pamphlets at me through the screen door. They catch me when I’m in the middle of changing my baby’s diaper and they catch my boyfriend lounging in his boxers. You say “I love Satan” and they say “I love you.” You call them names and they still come back. But Sister McRae  has a slight naiveté about her that makes her charming. She likes Magic Eight Balls and Hershey Kisses and she takes pride in the fact that she’s never wrecked her car; in between repeated outbursts of how delicious the food cooking in the kitchen smells, she complains of Pittsburgh’s signature humid summers and she grew up watching the same television shows as I did: “Family Matters,” “Full House,” and “Step-By-Step.” I start to think that she’s an awful lot like the girls I used to be friends with — in middle school.

               She carries a tan messenger bag with her, bounteous with copies of the Book of Mormons and pamphlets on Tithing and Chastity. Her voice – peppy, confident and sweet – becomes just the slightest bit robotic and artificial when she talks of the Church. At first I think this might be an opportunity to expose her as a fair-weathered Mormon, to corrupt her with my atheist influences, but then I realize that she still believes in what she’s preaching; she’s just so used to saying it over and over that it’s essentially been turned into that loathed spiel that gets front doors slammed in faces.

                 Mormons pay for their missions on their own, and Sister McRae is no exception. Back in Utah, she went to cosmetology school and got a good job as a hair stylist in order to save up the money to come to Pittsburgh for an eighteen-month long mission. (I’m always glad to see a hair stylist with nice hair. It reassures me.) Once here, Sister McRae relinquished all contact with her family back home, save for a phone call on Christmas and Mother’s Day.

                  After piling a mound of pamphlets and a Jesus DVD on my lap, Sister McRae asks, “You are coming back for dinner, I hope?” After sitting with the food’s personal street team for thirty minutes, how could I say no? She has me convinced that it really does smell like the spread of Utopian delicacies.

                  When I return to the church two hours later for the Women’s Conference, Sister McRae is sitting at a yellow clothed table in the back of the gym, and she’s still referencing how delicious the yet-to-be-served food smells. Branches, dried flowers and a ceramic bird candle holder serve as the centerpiece of each table, with cherry cordial Hershey Kisses strewn about. Since many of the women don’t know each other, everyone is assigned to “birthday tables.” This separates Sister Mordue from us, but she’s close enough for Sister McRae to tap on the back repeatedly – her signal that she wants all of the candy Sister Mordue can wrangle from her own table. “I just love candy. I could eat it for breakfast,” she chirps as she concentrates on disrobing a Kiss. “I’m healthy like that.”

                    There are only fourteen female missionaries in the Pittsburgh area, and most of the women here tonight are just regular parishioners so the room isn’t suffocating under yards of wool like I had expected. Non-missionaries are dressed casually in pants and blouses, and I’m shocked to see one woman wearing a denim skirt which put a lot of exposed leg on display. However, one woman in a black jumper stands up at about 6’5” and looks out of place without a plow to follow and another is the spitting image of Chloe Sevigny from “Big Love,” so much so that I give her a good triple-take. She has long blonde hair, the sides of which are pulled back tautly and secured with a metal clip; an ankle-length denim skirt keeps her legs hidden from Satan’s eyes, and the rest of her body is kept chaste and pure by a white, high-collared blouse with short and puffy sleeves. I’m satisfied that at least two women confirm my preconceived notions of what I’d find at this Mormon dinner fest. (I consistently confuse Mormons with Amish, and expected to walk into an oil lamp-lighted corn husking circle.)

                     Before dinner, one of the church women queues up a video for everyone to watch. It’s a Pixar short, something to do with birds, but the TV is small and positioned at an angle that make my eyes throw up their hands in defeat. The rest of the room is enrapt, though; they laugh and sigh in unison and at all the right moments. Sister McRae, however, is not one to forgo conversation for television, so she continues to hold court at our table, speaking in hushed tones.  Mostly, she reminds us all of how hungry she is, and snatches more Kisses from the center of the table. She pops one in her mouth and her lips curve into a devilish smile. Glancing down at her stockpile of sweets, she reconsiders and slams down two next to me.

                       The video lasts only a few minutes, after which we’re given the green light to rush the buffet. Sister McRae gives her hands a childlike clap when the woman in charge suggests that the tables in the back go first.

As we rise together, I’m enveloped in the familiar notes of Sister McRae’s perfume. I don’t know what she wears, but I distinctly remember it from the time I first met her last spring, when the sight of my child in the doorway lured her from the sidewalk to my porch – she said seeing his face was a sign that she had to come talk to me. The aroma reminds me of youth and Sunday school and scented plastic baby dolls. My inquiry is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. I prefer to retain my blissful ignorance by thinking that it’s the scent of some divine marriage between the skin of baby angels and a bouquet plucked from the Garden of Eden, not something that the likes of Lindsay Lohan can walk into a store and purchase.

                       Even though she’s carried on for hours about the severity of her hunger, Sister McRae pauses and lets the occupants of Sister Mordue’s table and our own go ahead of her. I watch from further up in the buffet line as she socializes and doles out hugs to the women she knows. And if she sees someone she doesn’t know? She stops to meet them. I feel like she’s the Prom Queen of the congregation; or at the very least, student body president.

                        I’ve already begun eating by the time she weaves and winds her way back to the table. “Did everyone get something to drink?” she calls out to the two back tables, waving a bottle of water in the air. Not everyone did, so she sets down her food and returns to the buffet table. When she returns for the second time, she makes it as far as sitting down and forking in a few small bites of her salad before finding herself on a new quest after a harried middle-aged woman at our table makes the mistake of trying to share her own plate with her two-year-old son and muses aloud that she should have gotten him his own. Without needing to be asked, Sister McRae and her long wool skirt swish their way back up the buffet table. She comes back with a plate and a married missionary in her sixties. “Look who I just met!” she exclaims, before introducing Sister Mortenson to our table. She’s not from the area and doesn’t know anyone; I’m not surprised that Sister McRae took her under her wing.

                      Throughout the meal, Sister McRae pauses with her fork mid-air to act as the self-appointed go-fer girl and facilitate conversation (I have a sneaking suspicion that the soundtrack of our table would have been the song of needling crickets if it wasn’t for Sister McRae and her melodious voice). When she asks everyone around us if they’re enjoying their meals, it’s as though she cooked it herself from her very own recipe – she really needs the answer to be positive. She’s able to polish off most of her chicken, but the salad in the small Styrofoam bowl has gone limp under the weight of the dressing, and her potatoes have drowned in a sebaceous pool of congealed butter. But there’s still dessert for her to anticipate.

                        I keep waiting for the women I’m sitting amongst to converge upon my blackened soul with their Books of Mormon and Joseph Smith sound bites, but they mainly talk about normal things, like computers and Halloween costumes. I tell everyone of the pageantry-level abuse I endured  as a child from my mom, who insisted on crafting elaborate costumes for me from cardboard boxes, such as a Monopoly game board and a Hamburger Helper box. Sister McRae erupts in giggles and leans forward against the table. “That’s hilarious!” She says this genuinely, and often, to everyone, even when the punch line is only marginally funny; but they believe her, I believe her. She tells us she was always girly things, like princesses. I’m glad, because I can’t imagine her as a hooker or vampire.  

                          She doesn’t know what a blog is, so I, along with several other diners at our table, explain the concept. She shakes her head and her eyes are wide. “I just can’t imagine doing something like that, for any one in the world to see!” But she is current with burning CDs, enough to teach her mother how to do it, also. “Now my mom burns me copies of CDs, which is just so nice. I really appreciate it.” She goes on to explain that as a missionary, secular music is out of the question. “I can only listen to church music,” she says as her nose crinkles.

                       Sister McRae has a plan for life after her missionary work: get a job at a salon and go back to college for Spanish and maybe to brush up on her sign language skills. She’s never seen the show “Big Love,” and doesn’t even flinch while reapplying her lip gloss when I ask her about it. I imagine she has to deflect that question a lot while soliciting. “That’s a different branch of Mormonism,” she calmly explains. “We don’t believe in polygamy. It’s illegal.” I think to myself that I wish it wasn’t.

                        In the center of the room, she spots her friend Sister Tsunoda and rushes to greet her, nearly tackling her with a hug. They talk animatedly to each other and I feel like I’m watching two Sorority sisters, not Mormon sisters. A few minutes later, Sister McRae smuggles Sister Tsunoda back to our table and another of their friends, Sister Davis, gravitates over too.

                      The room gets quiet as the Mormon with the dangerously short skirt announces that they’re going to be scrap-booking before it’s time to watch the national broadcast of the Prophet. Sisters McRae and Davis pantomime exaggerated and over-the-top motions to each other from across the table while the woman is speaking. They roll their eyes and throw back their heads in a silent show of theatrical laughter.  It was an entertaining display, but if this was a high school cafeteria, I’d worry that they were talking about me. And they were, but only because Sister Davis was trying to ask her who the hell the sinner was.

                       “I’m really goofy, I know,” Sister McRae says to me through laughter when we are able to talk again. She has just finished showing Sister Davis the sign for ‘bored,’ which involves her grinding a finger into the side of her nose. Sister Davis opens her mouth and simulates an expression of incredulity, reminding me of a mother interacting with a baby. “That is not the sign for ‘bored’!” she screams. “You’re so making that up!” But Sister McRae insists that it really is the sign, and Sister Davis cracks up and says, “I can’t believe that’s real! It’s so you!”

                      “You sure picked the liveliest one of us to write a paper on,” Sister Davis later laughs. “Did she even tell you her name?” I toss Sister McRae a sidelong glance and admit that I wasn’t sure I was allowed to know. All of the missionaries refer to each other as ‘sister’ without falter, as though it’s a credo bestowed unto them by Jesus himself.

                      “Well, we’re really not supposed to use our real names,” Sister McRae stalls. But as I gather my purse to leave (the broadcast is about to begin, and that’s my cue to bolt), she stops me and says, “It’s Hayley.” Maybe she felt she owed it to me for warning her of the unhinged man who lives down the street from me (“Don’t knock on 3017’s door. I’m pretty sure the man inside is featured in several Psychology text books.”), but in my own little way, I feel accepted.

Yo! This almost never happens, but the lovely Manda tagged me today in a Friday Link Love thingie. I almost feel like a part of the blogging community!

So now I will reciprocate by showing off 5 blogs, aside from Manda, that I read and love, in no particular order.

Makeup Zombie : not only does she post swatches of the hottest indie makeup companies (as does Manda!), she also inspires me with all her Looks of the Day posts (again, so does Manda!) (And they both have hot hair.)

Mrs.Evils : Dude, it’s Andrea and she’s awesome. She loves Lil Wayne, music boxes, and things that are whimsical. She is an avid zombie fan, a Goth Mary Poppins, and she makes her own eye shadow! Go tell her to post more!

Brandy Flash Master Zen : Seriously one of the only gems I found from The Blog Frog (eg., lamest blog community ever). Brandy’s blog is like a buffet of bloggable topics, from DIY projects, thrift store finds, and funny posts about her trials and tribulations in Salt Lake City with her cute and funny husband, Tyrone, and dog-son, Frederick. I love her!

Danielle (of Yeah, I Said It) : I can’t remember how I found Danielle but I’m glad I did. Her posts are funny without trying. She is a wonderful writer and knows how to weave a story without losing her audience. I can’t recommend her enough!

Anika Toro : I am forever getting inspiration from Anika’s blog. She posts some of the most breathtaking photos and you’d be hardpressed to guess that she takes them with her iPhone. I alway learn new tricks from her blog, and I even one of her prints, which is beautiful. She’s a sweetheart!

Go give them some lovin’!

In other news, I think I’m losing my eyesight. I have all this pressure and it just feels weird and I’m having a hard time focusing, especially at work, which is why I haven’t been doing much on here this week. (No excuse for all the other times I do fuck all on the blog.)

I have an eye appointment on Monday so hopefully I can go back to doing nothing on my blog, but with improved eye sight.

Other than that, it’s been all “Friends” reruns. That’s how Henry & I spend quality time together now, because he apparently has just discovered that it’s funny.

Took a short walk around the neighborhood today and I feel so much better about my life. Oh, Brookline. Please don’t ever change.

And before you ask, “WTF is a paczki?” I am no authority. I’ve had them once and it’s some weird, seasonal fried dough bullshit that Polish people eat. And there are a lot of Polish people in Pittsburgh. In fact, I think I even might be Polish after 32 years of drinking the water.

I have a real love/hate relationship with my city. Love the hockey team, hate the football team.

Love the blossoming art scene, hate the pathetic music scene. Love the architecture, the history, the quirky independent restaurants and shops, but sometimes I REALLY hate the people and their fucking Yinzer-speak. (Yinzers are Pittsburgh natives who speak Pittsburgh English.

)  I must have grown up just far enough south in the suburbs to escape it (though I know some people who grew up in neighboring boroughs that are practically drowning on the dialect), and for that I am thankful. I do say gumband instead of rubber band; and growing up, I would totally choose “pop” in lieu of “soda,” but now I reject them both and just say “beverage.”

Yesterday at work, some of my co-workers were having a conversation which quickly nose-dived into fake Yinzer-speak. “I officially hate this conversation!” I declared, walking away. Don’t get me wrong, I was laughing about it, not being some overly-sensitive bitch. It’s not like my co-workers are now afraid to talk around me, like I keep shivs with the word “Yinzer” on them taped beneath my desk for that one day where I hear one “jagoff” too many.

And it’s not that I hate the people who live here. I just hate the impression of ignorance that this dialect gives off. It literally sounds like everyone is drunk ALL OF THE TIME. And I know they can’t help it! Their parents spoke that way, and their grandparents spoke that way, etc etc. One of my co-workers has a daughter around Chooch’s age, and she told me yesterday that she is actively working to prevent the dialect from cropping up in her.

Even when people are just mimicking it, while it is pretty funny, it still goes right through me like the cries of a colicky baby.

I was making a video of things around town for my friend who lived in Ireland. One night, I was forcing my favorite gas station work, Mitul, to contribute something to the video. Just then, a drunk man in his late 30s/early 40s came staggering into the Pleasant Hills Sunoco to purchase cigarettes and I knew, I just KNEW, he would agree to be filmed. I was right, and what came next was the most ridiculous, stereotypical “commercial” for Pittsburgh.

First of all, he sported a Pittsburgh mullet and was wearing some random landscaping company t-shirt. LIterally all he said was, “If you like to drink beer and have a good time, come to Pittsburgh!” in the most grotesque, throat-scraping Pittsburghese of all time. I stopped recording and thanked him for being the perfect representation of our city.

I never did send her that video.

When my friend Matt stopped over in Pittsburgh a few years ago during a road trip out west, he teased me mercilessly for days about how backwards Pittsburgh is. That was his perception, in two short days: that people wear Steelers-logo’d Jamz and Crocs to the grocery store, eat nothing but Primantis, and women still wear banana clips in their feathered, frosted manes. And I imagine that this is the general conception for people who don’t spend enough in this city to realize that there is more to it than just Yinzers. In fact, that stereotype probably doesn’t even make up that much of the population, but it’s unfortunately what stands out. Never mind the fact that we have fantastic universities (hello, Annie on 90210 is going to CARNEGIE MELLON so you know it’s elite), museums, cathedrals, HEINZ KETCHUP WAS BORN HERE YOU GUYS. And let’s not forget the goddamn Bayernhof Music Museum!

I guess all I’m saying is that, like most other cities I’m sure, Pittsburgh has some shit working against it, but it really is a pretty charming place. If you can get past the fact that people want to call you “yinz” and verbally assault you for not liking the Steelers.

[Disclaimer: I did not wake up this morning with any intention to denigrate my city, nor do I hate anyone based on how they talk—except for the ones who tell me I don’t belong in this city because I hate the Steelers—but these are just some of the things I was thinking about when I was walking around Brookline this morning. And now you are subjected to it. Thanks! I feel so much better now.]

Today has been full of languishing on the couch catching up with Jersey Shore eps (you know, to keep current with my pop culture references) & watching Henry fulfill non compos cards serial killer Valentine orders while making him listen to music he hates.

We’re taking Chooch to get skating lessons in about an hour, but other than that, I’ve got nothing for you but these three pictures:

Chooch is REALLY into LMFAO

My friend Terry felt there needed to be a side-by-side comparison of my Henry-inspired nail art.

Chooch pulled a sneak attack on me yesterday before I left for work, which I did not appreciate but am thankful I don’t look like my usual Sloth twin.

Well….on second thought.

Hope everyone’s having a delightful weekend!

A couple years ago, I was in the skincare aisle at CVS with one of my friends.

“We’re going to start needing stuff like this soon,” she said, rolling a small jar of Estée Lauder anti-aging cream in her palm like a Ben Wa ball.

No, I argued. Our grandmas use that shit. We’re much too young! Not even thirty!

Well, now I’m 32, and while my mentality and maturity might still be hanging out with the sixteen-year-olds, my skin is starting to catch up to my factual age. While it’s not exactly a catch-all for wrinkles and liver spots, it’s certainly lost some of that sweet tautness it once knew a decade ago; also factor in the maniac 5-year-old boy I’m raising + all those years on the stripper pole*, and you just know the worry lines are right around the corner.

*(This is A Joke.)

So when my friend Lindsay started selling become beauty products and offered to send me a weekender sample kit, I said why the hell not. Plus, I’ve known Lindsay since high school and she’s never struck me as the type to one day turn into some chirpy Mary Kay hyper-fanatic, cruising around town in her pink Cadillac. So for her to actually be selling these products and raving about them on the daily, well, it piqued my interest because she’s not a bullshitter.

Besides, Lindsay doesn’t look a day over 25 and who the hell wouldn’t want that for themselves?

The kit had a wide range of product samples, from cleanser to toner to eye cream. The first thing I noticed when I tried the cleanser on my face was the smell. It was this delightful, light floral fragrance that was completely free of any of those harsh alcohol or medicinal odors that are commonly added to skincare products. (Remember Seabreeze? That shit doubled as smelling salts.)

As I worked my way through the line of samples that morning, I could actually start to feel my skin rebounding and tightening, and if it was a scene in a cartoon it would have come complete with a boinging sound. My pores looked smaller, too, which sucks for the elves who use them as cereal bowls while I sleep at night.

This stuff is made in Australia and has all kinds of juicy extracts of Jojoba, Australian Daisy, green tea, rosemary and pineapple, which outweigh all the crazy sesquipedalian-esque chemicals which you should never try to sound out in front of a Bulgarian lest you know the safe word.

My main skin issue is that it’s oily; on a normal day, I have the identical sebaceous sheen on my face as someone who had spent all day digging ditches with prosthetic legs in Kuala Lumpur. I spend half my day maniacally blotting and powdering, and I still look like a glazed ham by the end of the night.

The day I used the become samples, my skin stayed supple (yes, I went there) and not once did anyone come at my face with fresh hunks of Italian bread.

Later, Lindsay sent me this little sample jar of Reveal Enzyme Peel. In the morning, I smeared a small amount onto my dry, unwashed face and just started rubbing and rubbing it in until it starts gently sloughing up dead skin, which I could actually feel happening and it’s so cool. I’ve been using it every other day since last Friday and I still have some left, that’s how little is needed. I just used it a little while ago and I literally keep pausing to touch my face. IT IS SO SOFT, YOU GUYS. Piss off, dead skin; go get sprinkled on a cupcake by a cannibal.

My favorite product is the Age Resistant Color Therapy Mask. It comes in two pieces: one for the forehead and one for the lower portion of your face. How convenient! A facial mask that doesn’t get all over your fingers, hair and tentacles! The backing film peels off easily, leaving a thick, viscous orange layer which gently adheres to your face and then, well, that’s it. No need to make sure you evenly applied some gross, sticky gel or stinky clay. Set your timers, ladies; your work is done.

I kept the mask on for 20 minutes and loved every minute of it. Unlike other facial masks, which harden and make it physically impossible to activate any of your facial muscles, this mask flexed along with my face, allowing me to talk, smile and even get in a quick didgeridoo practice. I sat on the couch, delighting in the sweet ambrosia bouquet stuck like gentle leeches upon my face flesh, while relishing the fact that I looked like John Black when his face was wrapped in bandages on Days of Our Lives. (Sadly, today is not the first time I attempted to Google an image of this, and failed.)

(I love a good DAYS reference.)

Just watching some Friends reruns and trying to remember my identity; ‘sup with you?

This mask is, in a word, awesome. I didn’t have to worry about accidentally swiping my hand across my face, leaving it feeling like I just dunked it in a honey pot. And when the 20 minutes was up, I easily and effectively peeled off the two pieces in one fell swoop, pitched it in the garbage, and was left with a face that had the texture of porcelain. No tedious peeling of a now-dry gel mask from my cheeks or trying to scrub hardened clay from my eyebrows and beneath my nostrils. The Color Therapy mask left nothing behind, not even the smallest jelly shrapnel. Literally — all that sweet-smelling glutinous orange putty was gone; my skin drank that stuff faster than Snooki drinks coconut rum.

And it didn’t leave me with that “Just Windex’d” rubber-rubbing sensation when I touched my face like some products do. It was just completely soft and my complexion was positively dewy. I hate using all these beauty product clichés, but my skin honestly felt replenished and hydrated, and there’s just no jerky way to say that.

This stuff isn’t cheap, but if you’re serious about changing your skin, it’s worth it. I mean, I’m a tightwad, and I have totally put my stamp of approval on become. Want to see for yourself? Let Lindsay help you!

(And no, Lindsay didn’t dangle locks of Jonny Craig’s hair in front of my face or otherwise bribe me in any way to write this review other than sending me the aforementioned samples, though I suppose she could have at least thrown in a cupcake. Now I want a cupcake! Without the dead skin sprinkles, please.)

I was sitting here watching “Friends” (I have a rough life) when I heard the UPS man drop a package between the front doors, at which point I then heard a tinny Spanish children’s song cue up. I thought it was the UPS man’s cell phone and started to laugh, but when I opened the door to get the package, I realized it was coming from inside the box.

Whatever it was, I loved it already.

And then, from within the box, I pulled out the most amazing APPLE DOLL.

Jesus, I love it so much. Thank you, Andrea and Amanda! Marcy loves it too!

(Someday I’ll remember to hold my phone horizontally.)