Henry couldn’t take me to work yesterday. You know me, of course I got myself all worked up into a sweaty frenzy by the time I made it to the trolley stop, but at least I got to ride the T with these two sweethearts, who would NEVER hit an uncircumcised penis, FOR YOUR INFORMATION.

And by hit, I believe they mean “swaddle with their vaginas.”

The fact that I couldn’t actually see the pink-haired broad’s nips leads me to believe that she didn’t have any, but then someone at work pointed out that her jugs were so big, they could have been ROLLED UNDER. Oh the sting of bile against my esophagus.

She sat down and immediately started taking blatant tit-pics, which she was texting to some perv who obviously has a host of sick sexual kinks. He apparently was texting cock-shots back, which spawned the aforementioned circumcision convo with her friend who has burn marks all over her arms and is pregnant, of course.

Also, Pinkie talks about: chicken and biscuits; being A BIG GIRL (she declared this 9 times with a puffed-out chest; yes, put your imagination on a hamster wheel for that one); the Eat n Park breakfast buffet with such relish &  drool that you’d think it was the east coast sister restaurant of Dan Tana’s; Pinkie is also very forthcoming (& loud) about her private piercings (“Well, when I got my PUSSY PIERCED…”), causing every male head on the T to snap to attention. (But not in a “That’s hot” way.)

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know I can be crass and vulgar at times, but these bitches and their raunchfest were making me feel like a motherfucking nun. I can’t even imagine being that filterless in such an enclosed public space. I don’t even like talking on my phone in public!

And at least I wear clothes that fit me.

The highlight for me, even moreso than when she flashed her whale tail at the last stop, was when Pinkie stood up and started singing SWV’s whiny mid-90’s R&B hit “I Get Weak,” grinding against invisible club goers, who hopefully had enough decency to puke their invisible vomit in her breast basin.

God, I felt like a WASP compared to them. Nothing beats being in a 10-foot vicinity of ghetto white trash to put things into perspective for me. BY GOLLY MY LIFE AIN’T SO BAD YA’LL.

I have been watching Desperate Housewives since the beginning—I know you’re shocked that I watch something that’s not on MTV, or that I watch something age-appropriate at all.

One of the characters was killed off last week and the funeral/flashback episode was last night. This particular character has always kind of reminded me of Henry because he’s always fixing shit for everyone on the street, not to mention he’s the voice of reason for his flighty wife. He’s basically just the kind of guy everyone should have in their life. So watching these flashbacks and the eulogy, it made me super-depressed to the point where my stomach was upset from all the sobbing, because all I could think about was Henry dying.

And how fucked I’m gonna be.

“Do you have life insurance?” I asked him last night. He said yes (NEWS TO ME), and then I panicked and decided that we need to make our Wills immediately. (We were supposed to do this when I was pregnant, but then I became too caught up in belt-sanding my palate with assorted gummy candy, crying in defeat over stretch marks and the unnerving sensation of being wish-boned, and daydreaming of all the creative ways to castrate Henry for causing me such duress.)

“How will Chooch and I survive?!” I wailed. “We’re going to be eating gas station jerky and wearing soiled burlap sacks as clothes.” And then after a beat, I blurted out, “Your mom will have to come live with us.” Best solution ever.

“It’s nice to know you have me dying before my mother,” Henry mumbled, not thrilled at all that instead of me “repaying” him for that day’s amazing flea market purchase, we were sitting on the couch, me drenched in tears and burrowing into his side, talking about death.

“You should get a work-from-home job,” I said desperately. “I don’t want you going out there anymore!” I waved my arms toward the front door.

I was still rambling on about this as we got ready for bed.

“I mean, I feel like you would protect me from the elements—”

“The elements?” Henry laughed.

“—from life, and you know, myself. But I don’t feel like you’d fight for me.

” (Clearly I was still comparing him to dead Mike Delfino.)

“Really?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Yeah, because you’re not a fighter.”

“Well, no, I’m not going to go out and look for fights—-”

I started cracking up.

“What?” he asked with trepidation.

“Nothing, I’m just picturing you in a red leather jacket, on a dock at night, looking for fights.”

[Laughing Interlude.]

“What if you came home and someone was raping me?” I suggested, always up for a good scenario or two. “Would you fight them?”

Henry sounded slightly offended when he answered, “Um, yeah, I think if I found someone raping you, I’d fight them.”

“WHAT IF THEY STABBED YOU?!”

“I don’t know! Do you want me to shoot them? I’ll shoot them. But then I’d have to go in the basement, get the shotgun, go to the store and get shells, come home, put the gun together—-”

“Wait, you have a gun?!”

MORE NEWS TO ME.

Henry’s going to have to start teaching me things about life, like how to do laundry (I forget, OK?!) and cook things that aren’t from the freezer section, maybe I could stand to learn how to iron clothes….Oh my god, I don’t want Henry to die. I’m going to curl up with Marcy and cry about it some more.

Thanks a lot, Desperate Housewives.

Who else is gonna make sure I don’t drink bleach?! No one, that’s who. :(

Way too nice outside to sit around blogging today, so I’m closing out the weekend with some posts from my makeup-lovin’ friends! I’ll be back tomorrow to show you the coolest thing ever I got at the flea market today, OMG you’ll just die. (Except that you won’t, unless you REALLY like religious shit.)

****

Claire is starting a new project at Claire’s Beauty and wants your help!

RSVP to Bekka’s Birthday Party Giveaway at glostix! Open internationally!

Just in time for St. Patrick’s Day, Stephanie’s been playing with green and orange yarn at From Star Stuff.

Karoliina’s having a giveaway to celebrate a hundred followers! Go toBones and Lilies and leave a comment for a chance to win!

I’m kind of a dick and barely ever mention Marcy’s daughter (and Don’s sister) Willie. She’s always been kind of the wild card out of the bunch: skittish, spent most of her life hiding from people, a loose cannon as far as temperament goes. Henry hates her because she attacked him out of the blue years ago and he apparently holds grudges.

A few weeks ago, I noticed she hadn’t come out after Chooch went to school (they all come out after Chooch goes to school). I saw her once, just a brief flash of her, that day and then before I went to bed that night I found her laying on the bathroom floor, panting.

The next day, she let Chooch pet her which was the biggest sign ever that something was wrong, bigger even than the fact she wasn’t eating.

Henry and I took her to the vet, who gave us the defeatist version and basically had us thinking the next step was euthanasia.

“We’ll load her up on fluids, give her some vitamin and antibiotic shots, along with some more antibiotics for you to give her at home, and if there is no improvement, well…..”

So of course I’m standing in the exam room, sobbing, and telling her, “I just lost a cat in December!!!” like that is going to matter or change anything.

I wasn’t very optimistic after that, and even two days later when Willie seemed to be more mobile and shedding her death bed demeanor, I was afraid to get my hopes up; the vet said all the fluid they gave her would perk her up for a day or two, so it didn’t necessarily mean she was better. But Henry and I diligently administered the medicine to her everyday (a daunting task, she is way meaner than Marcy and almost feral-like in her temperament) and now, two weeks later, she appears to be normal again! Her appetite is back and Marcy isn’t hissing at her anymore.

They’ve even resumed taking naps together.

I feel that Willie and I bonded a little during this time (even though she bit me THROUGH MY THUMB the first day I tried to give her medicine), therefore I owe her some facetime on here. Sorry for neglecting you, Willie!

I just love her so much.

But she only loves Henry so much. :(

The Mattress Factory is a contemporary art museum in Pittsburgh that I try to visit at least once a year because it’s cheap (used to be free with my Pitt ID), fun, bizarre, and at times — perplexing. My brother Corey has never been there so I was stoked to accompany him for his first visit. I taunted Henry before we left, trying to m ake him jealous, but the expression he gave me shouted, “Yeah, just what I want to; go watch you and your brother be obnoxious art dicks.”

There is usually at least one installation that makes me angry because I don’t get it and I REALLY WANT TO GET IT because that will aid my cause for pretentiousness.

This time it was some exhibit with two videos of shutters being opened and closed, and large plastic bags randomly inflating.

There was a couple in the room with us and the boy was all, “Oh, I totally get this” and as he was explaining it to his girlfriend, I was like, “Awesome, I will just learn from him and pretend that I got it all along” except that everything he said was steeped in concepts that my brain refuses to let in because it is too full of ginger douchebag obsession, Jersey Shore anecdotes and lame office prank ideas.

I quickly realized that me and that guy could never, ever hang out. I could probably fake intellect and a love for Sufjan Stevens for about 9 minutes before he saw right through me to my screamo collection and trashy MTV reality show-filled DVR.

Breathing Bags*

*not the actual name of the exhibit. I am too tired to Google.

I really enjoyed the room full of plaster hands holding bread. This one I really did understand! It’s called “My Offering.” Here’s an excerpt from the artist’s statement, because suddenly I feel inspired to be a factual blogger:

I have not escaped the memories of the victims’ hands asking food and help in the aftermath of the Nagis cyclone that hit Burma’s delta in 2008. When my wife and I were doing relief work with other friends, I saw the many hands of people who were hungry for food, for safety, for kindness and for others. We continue to see countless hands like these all over the world today.

A bland room with a very clinical white-tiled floor held several clumps of found objects called “Roadkill.” I did not really understand this one too, but I almost accidentally stepped on a collection of tiny candle stubs because I wasn’t paying attention. This was one of the many installations that made me feel secure in my decision to say “NO! N-O spells NO!” when my 5-year-old Godzilla-footed son asked if he could come, too. Another experiment in child endangerment was the large wormhole that cut through the 4th floor and extended into a chute that went outside. Perfect size for a kid’s slide. SEE YA ON THE OTHER SIDE, SON!

I have no idea, but I will look at it and nod. 

I posted this on Facebook, and someone asked, “Your living room?” I wish!

This is my favorite installation, hands down. It’s called “It’s All About ME, Not You.” The artist, Greer Lankton, died in 1996 after the exhibit’s opening, and her family recently gave it to the Mattress Factory to be permanently displayed.

Imagine John Waters puked inside my head and then a transvestite artist drank from it. It is equal parts white trash, retro fabulous, creepy-queer and Valley of the Dolls. I want to live inside of it.

I wish I had known Greer Lankton because this small relic of her heart, brains and guts really moves me in a way that art rarely does.

 Honestly, I wish this was the last thing I saw every night before closing my eyes and the first thing every morning when I awoke. I am so smitten.

I LOVE THIS ROOM! IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY!!!

Corey was like, “Haha, there are so many of us!”

“It’s Henry’s worst nightmare!” I exclaimed, and then Corey and I erupted in our signature brand of gang-laughter.

When we emerged from the mirrored dot room and put our shoes back on, I sneered, “Nice penny loafers,” to Corey.

“Actually, they’re boat shoes,” Corey replied, matching my sneer and raising it one notch of indignation.

There is one permanent exhibit called Pleiades, which basically requires one to sit in absolute darkness. I have never had the patience to see what the outcome might be, but here is what the Mattress Factory says about it:

Pleiades, 1983
Permanent Installation
Drywall, paint, incandescent light
500 Sampsonia Way, 2nd floor

You approach the gallery through an inclined corridor so dark that you are virtually without sight. At the top of the ramp, you sit in a chair and face blackness. After your eyes adjust, an amorphous sphere of grey-white, or perhaps red, begins to appear, more a presence than an object. As you look harder, the form becomes smaller. You turn away for a moment and back again. It grows and glimmers. But the source of light itself is constant and still.

Art Critic and his girlfriend were already in this particular exhibition, probably practicing their dissertation on art and blindness, so Corey and I were told by a gallery employee standing next to a vintage British Airways bag that we would have to wait for them to finish being art douches.

Since we didn’t have any art to frown upon, fawn over, or openly mock, I decided to tell Corey about the night before, when I discovered that the only reason Chooch won’t eggs is because he can’t cut them. Henry’s reaction to this was, “I am NOT cutting eggs for him because then he is going to be 25 and still needing his food cut by someone, JUST LIKE YOU AND YOUR BROTHER!”

Corey laughed but then defensively said, “Hey, I was like, 14 when Henry had to cut my pork chops!” as if it’s perfectly masculine and acceptable for a 14-year-old male to need his protein cut for him. But then after a thoughtful pause, he admitted, “Although…I had to get  my girlfriend’s dad to cut my food recently.” The absurdity of how absolutely related we are made me crack up, and then he laughed loudly too, which echoed and ricocheted up the dark corridor and into the Pleiades room, totally disrupting the thoughtful banter between the art smarties that I am clearly making fun of only because I’m jelis that they have such a greater appreciation while I am left to stumble in their intellectual wake with undulating question marks floating above my head.

Finally, it was our turn, but we barely had a chance to feel around for our seats before two other people came tromping blindly up the corridor, thanks to British Airways not doing her job. So then we had the awkward task of trying to skirt past them in the dark without groping them. I felt the one guy’s breath on my neck, it was so intimate. I hope he was hot. His breath sure was.

Yay for overpriced shoddily crafted art in a cigarette machine! Corey actually wanted a body part key chain but then was all, “Well, I’m not paying $5 if I don’t know what kind of limb I’m getting.” Andrea can probably make him a better one, anyway.

At first I said, “Who would want a fruit cozie?” but then I realized I totally would, just to be a dick.

Another room that confused us, and was also extremely dangerous for equilibrium-challenged people like ourselves. It was essentially a small-scale construction site with lots of dangling steel beams and random ditches in the ground. Another terrific room for Chooch to roam free.

I love that Pee Wee was in the basement.

The Corey Installation

We decided that we should go more often. Maybe one day we can be real life art smarties!

Hello. I hope you’re having a non-murderous Sunday morning.

My contribution to the Internet today is a collection of links from my friends who like makeup way more than I do, but accept me anyway. I’d be using Sharpies on my face if not for them, so I guess you can basically say that they saved my life.

I left my own link in there in case you missed the orange post.

Anyway, if you’re like me and generally spend your Sundays locked in your bedroom pouting, now you have something to read in between scribbling death notes with your boyfriend’s blood!

Lizzy shares a few items that stole her heart in February at The Nature of Beauty

Luna wants to know what your favorite eye shadow primer is at TOXiD-LOTUS.NET

Jen put together a colorful collection of Meow Cosmetics swatches at The Everyday Opinionista

Karoliina wants to show off a lilac look done with Darling Girl Cosmetics at
Bones and Lilies

Orange things piss off Erin at Oh Honestly, Erin

Sharon swatched sparkly goodness from her Fyrinnae stash at Hello There, Blondie!

Stephanie kicks off the second round of Nerd Wars with tiny knitted hexagons of doom.

Claire uses some Brazen colors at Claire’s Beauty.

I know, I know – what’s up with all the old shit these days, right? Just feeling a tinge of nostalgia. I keep coming here to blog for real and then I get all distracted with old photos and Jonny Craig news. (The cats are being treated to his solo ep on repeat and LOUD today; aren’t you envious of them and their pulled-back ears?)

Anyway, this photo was taken in McKees Rocks, near Henry’s work. I remember when I originally posted the whole set in 2008, I got in all kinds of shit from townies who found my post and didn’t take too kindly to the fact that I was basically like, “LOOK I WAS IN THE GHETTO YOU GUYS!” because you know how fantastic I am at making snap judgments and being a wizard with stereotyping. I believe I was told by one McKees Rocks resident to “go back to Happy Valley and stay the FUCK out of our town!” and I was like, “OK THANKS I WILL GO BACK TO MY DUPLEX THAT ONCE HAD A CASUALLY-STREWN ROGUE NEEDLE BY THE DRIVEWAY!

”

(OMG maybe it was Jonny Craig’s!!!)

Then there was the time I posted about some guy who was arrested for shooting people at a bar right by where I took these photos and I called the guy a motherfucker, which really angered his ex-gf who found my blog and chewed me out about how “HE IS NOT A MOTHERFUCKER HE JUST GOT MIXED UP IN SOME SHIT OK REALLY!!!!” and back then I laughed really hard but now that I think about it, I’m fairly certain that’s how I come off when I defend Jonny Craig.

Man, I have had 2008 (and 2005) on the brain lately.

I think I need a vacation from my head.

For my regulars, I was just wondering what means you use to read my blog. Do you use a rss feed, subscribe through Networked Blogs, click through from Twitter, subscribe to the LiveJournal feed, read it covertly from your phone while you’re hiding from your wife in the bathroom, etc, etc.? Maybe you only read it after I hound you, bribe you, make sad puppy faces, or whine, “WHY DON’T YOU READ MY BLOG??” And that is fine, too.

I was just curious, because Google Friend Connect is about to be taken away from non-Blogger sites, which means if you follow me through that, I guess I will no longer count as a blogger in the eyes of Google as of March 1.

So here are some ways to keep up with me, if you want:

1. BlogLovin’

2. LiveJournal feed

3. Networked Blogs

4. RSS feed

5. Twitter (Be warned – this is mostly me talking to myself, being emo, and shouting things like YAY PENS! I LOVE HOCKEY!)

(I don’t do the email subscriptions anymore because HENRY kept breaking it.)

I’m on Google+ too but I never use it and am not smart enough to figure out how to use it for my blog.

I’m really bad at this side of blogging, so if there are any other ways to subscribe to this shit, I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy getting myself stoned at Chooch’s school and listening to Dance Gavin Dance.

Anyway, just let me know how you keep up with this thing. Or don’t let me know. Either way!

Since Kaitlin left the Law Firm last summer, I barely get to see her, so I was really excited when she planned a small get together at her house last night for me, Wendy and Mary. We were all bummed out that Barb isn’t well enough yet because anytime we talked about getting together, Barb was always supposed to be there, too. We miss you, Barb.

Henry was all, “Thank god, a Saturday night to myself!” but what he was really thinking was, “Goddammit, I’m going to be eating a can of tuna for dinner and god only knows what items from Valhalla’s menu Kaitlin is going to be feeding Erin’s fat face.”

Oh, just a gooey baked brie with delicious cookies, grilled cheese and the best tomato soup I’ve ever had in my life, some kind of warm parmesan dip stuff, mini crab cakes, and FRENCH SILK PIE WITH A PRETZEL CRUMB CRUST THAT LITERALLY MADE IT TASTE LIKE A CHOCOLATE COVERED PRETZEL PIE. What’s up, Henry?

I hope Kaitlin makes that a regular offering when she opens her bakery. (WHEN, not IF.)

Grilled Cheese army.

I think this was when Wendy was putting Chooch’s birthday party info into her phone so she doesn’t forget like she forgets everything else I invite her to!

OMG this pie, you guys. THIS PIE. I took a huge slice home and fed some to Chooch this morning, who literally closed his eyes and made the most mature “OMG THIS IS BANGIN'” face I have ever seen him make.

It was so awesome to get to spend time with Kaitlin, but then we were all sad again as soon as we walked down her front steps. Stuffed and sad. :(

Jenny Sodapop was up until 5am organizing her china pig collection when she began to wonder: I would like to know if Henry has any thoughts on comedian Sinbad.

Is he still around, didn’t really care for him when he was.

Jessi assumes that Henry is hip to young people games and wants him to answer: “Kill, Marry or Screw” for Betty White, Wilford Brimley, and Clay Aiken.

Kill Clay of course, Screw Wilford and Marry Betty.

Jessa needs to know for her upcoming young adult novel: If Henry had wings, what would they look like?

Elegant of course, Angel-like.

And what did he want to be when he was little?

I don’t remember. Maybe that’s the problem with me today, no direction.

What was his favorite subject in school?

Shop class of course.

If he could live anywhere in the world, where would he choose?

Somewhere warm that was only accessible by bus, Erin would never come visit me.

Chuck, imagining this is a sleepover, asks: What’s the whole story of when you were first De Flowered?

Very uneventful.

[I imagine sex with a Petroleum jelly-filled crackhead’s palm often is. You know he totally cried about it afterward.]

And finally there’s Kara, who was the only one brave enough to name-drop Jonny Craig in her question: Henry is on Chopped and his basket ingredients are asparagus, cheddar cheese, gummy worms, and Jonny Craig’s pubes. What does he make?

What ever it makes, when you’re done eating you’ll be addicted to heroin and a douche bag for life.

Wait! One last thing from me, your favorite girlfriend. I request an essay on your adventures at the Ted Nugent show. I want to know it all! What did you wear? Your bitchin’ Adidas shirt? WHO DID YOU GO WITH AND DID YOU BANG THEM AFTERWARD? Tell us all of it.

You have made way too much about this concert, absolutely nothing exciting happened. I believe it was before my drug experimenting days so I’m sure nothing happened.

[Ed.Note: Henry and I totally broke up over this.]

More later!

Here are some of my favorite photos, which you might be expecting if you read the title of this post. I’m not motivated to do much else today.

Not even roller skating!

I haven’t had time (or available suckers models) to take pictures lately. Hoping to change that tomorrow. I think I’m trying to do too much when I only have two arms.

I’m really whiny today. MY BACK HURTS AND I HAVE A HEADACHE!

THE PENGUINS ARE LOSING TO THE STUPID SABRES! I DISLIKE SUNDAYS! WAH.

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.