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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry’s standard mastication pose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I spent the next 2 hours trembling at my desk.

Tuesday was normal!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I haven’t been in the mood to do much with my blog this week. Work has been busy, so I haven’t had much downtime to write while I’m there, and I’ve spent most of my mornings loudly listening to music and generally upsetting the cats’ nap schedule.

However, I did meet two old high school friends for breakfast on Thursday. I’ve seen Stacey since school, but this was the first time I’ve hung out with Mindy since senior year and that was a bit surreal (in a good way). They each brought their small baby-aged daughters, who behaved remarkably well. (I’m used to my kid, who was not always the best baby to take to restaurants; in fact, I never took him unless Henry was with me too. #spoiled) It’s not really a secret that I am horrible around kids, especially babies, so when Stacey said to her daughter, “Stay here with Miss Erin while I go get us food at the buffet,” my heart sort of seized up on me. And then when Mindy left her baby with me too, I squealed, “BOTH of them?!”

SPOILER ALERT: We all survived! None of us cried, even! Though we did all sit there, staring at each other in horror. But Mindy and Stacey eventually came back (I will be honest and say that I considered the fact that this could have been some sick, elaborate Runaway Mom plan) and all was right with the world again.

Until they fixated all of their attention on trivial matters, like feeding their babies, while I was left to sit alone with my coffee. Finally, I whined, “Guys, talk to me too!” And they laughed, but I was totally serious.

Stacey said she was going to go home and sit in fear, waiting for some mean and scathing blog post about our meet-up, but I promised her it wouldn’t be bad. Then after I thought about it for a second, I added, “You know, I think that’s why some people just won’t ever hang out with me, because they don’t want to be on my blog.”

But not because I’m annoying, obnoxious, socially awkward, pathetic and extremely attention-starved.

When we were paying, Stacey suggested that I buy something to take home for Henry. (Because she, along with 90% of my Facebook friends, feels sorry for him.) So I did, because I thought it would be fun to watch his face become awash with suspicion.

“What do you think he’ll say?” Mindy asked.

“Either, ‘What did you do to it’ or ‘What garbage can did you pull this out of?'” I said. But instead, you know what he said? “Ew, a bear claw? Seriously? Are you trying to make me fat?”

JESUS, I JUST CAN’T WIN.

In other news, I got to have breakfast with Barb and Wendy today! It was so good seeing Barb. (And Wendy too, but god, I see her every day!) I don’t know when Barb is going to be back to work, but it sucks there without her. Someone asked me for a post-it the other day, and of course I have like zero office supplies in my desk because why would a secretary-type person like myself actually have office supplies in her desk?

“Sorry, I’m no Barb Riley,” I answered, and Lee thought this was the best answer ever and wants me to tape that underneath my name on my desk now.

It’s true though!

Barb said she’s proud of how far I’ve come in her absence. I mean, sure, I still have to ask for the occasional assistance in opening my Crystal Light packets, and I just learned that the extra faucet in the office kitchen is for filtered water! (Whoever would have thought!?) But I haven’t completely withered away and I’m (kind of) dealing with things like an adult, but only because I’ve had no choice. Who else there will coddle me!? No one, that’s who.

Chooch has another ear infection so we didn’t go skating today. My only plans are to go to Hot Topic to but the new Hands Like Houses CD, sit and watch Henry make some of my non compos cards to sell at the National Haunt Convention in Philly this May, look at pictures of my Ginger King Jonny Craig and continue to block out the bagpipes that are playing at a funeral across the street.

Also, the Warped Tour line-up so far is so fucking sick, I could die. I might try to go twice this summer. (I already requested off work for the Pittsburgh date—IN DECEMBER.) But seriously, Pierce the Veil, The Used, Taking Back Sunday, Sleeping With Sirens, AND Of Mice and Men? Goddamn, this is a 16-year-old’s wet dream. I keep trying to get Henry to say he’s stoked, but he doesn’t reply to any of my texts anymore. Too many Jonny Craig shout-outs, I guess.

Sorry this has been all over the place, but well, so is my brain.

[I have not decided on the theme for this year’s Easter pictures yet, but here are last year’s again.]

We stopped at Goodwill beforehand to snag a plain white buttondown and some dress slacks (which turned out to be a womens pair) for Blake. I found some paisley piece of shit thing that we attempted to use as an ascot.

Too bad none of us knew how to tie an ascot.

Immediately after walking into Goodwill, Henry was accosted by some older man (older even than Henry, if you can fathom). Apparently, they knew each other. Their discourse was not interesting enough to massage my eavesdropping gene, so I very huffily scoured the racks on my own.

“Who is that man Daddy’s talking to?” I asked Chooch, who was bouncing back and forth between me and the conversating rejects.

“I don’t know, Outrageous, I think.”

Turns out it was Regis, whoever the fuck that is.

I decided we should take some “safe” pictures at the cemetery before introducing the blood and bones into the mix, just so I’d have something to show one of the boss-types at work, who has no idea what actually goes on around here.

We then went to my grandma’s for the action shots, because, well, it’s gloomy as shit back there now. I had major anxiety being there, though, since my Aunt Sharon is crazy-weird about people stopping by. We parked the car in the upper driveway and prayed for the best, trying to stay as far away from the actual house as possible.

“Try not to get any on my undershirt,” Blake said as we stood near a large tree stump, opening packets of Ketchup procured from McDonald’s. “It’s a vintage Penguins shirt.”

I expressed my approval at his hockey-geared fashion sense.

“It’s from 1991,” he stressed.

BITCH THAT’S NOT VINTAGE. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I felt so old. Perhaps when I was called MA’AM at a Chiodos show. That’ll do it.

“It’s vintage to him,” Henry argued. “It’s from the year before he was born.”

DOUBLY OLD FEELING.

Just another normal day at Grandma’s house.

Blake in any type of animal mask scares the shit out of me. I need to buy more animal masks.

Chooch was getting sincerely irritated by this point.

He’s good for the first few minutes, but then the novelty of being bossed around and forcibly positioned in ridiculous and absurd stances kind of starts to piss him off a bit. These are probably the moments he wishes he had a normal mom who just take him to the fucking mall and pay for a regular Easter portrait with a blood-free Easter bunny like all the kids in his class get to do.

I was on the phone today, and mistakenly let it slip to Chooch that it was Sharon on the other end. Raising his voice approximately eighty-seven octaves and acquiring an obnoxious lilt, he yelled, “TELL HER WHAT WE DID YESTERDAY AT HER HOUSE! TELL HER!” and I’m trying, one-handed, to use on him the things I learned last night at Zombie Defense Class, but his little-big mouth just kept flapping.

Fucking turncoat. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

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!