I’ve been friends with Janna since sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. She’s always been one of my few “IRL” friends who supported my blogging efforts (habits?), but fear could have something to do with that. Next to Henry, she probably knows me better than anyone else, so I’m honored that she chose some of her favorites to share. Especially considering I drag her through the mud nearly as much as I do Henry.

So without further ado, here she is. Thank you, Janna!

***

Picking my favorites from this blog was not an easy choice because there is SO much good stuff here that Erin has written over the years. Eventually I was able to narrow my list of favorites down to five. I’ve got to say it was fun to read far back to the beginning of this blog to remind myself of some of the early stories and rediscover those baby Chooch pictures.

1. Franklin’s Bar

I wanted to have one of the short stories in my list because these were so well written and enjoyable to read. Out of Erin’s short stories, (which she needs to write more of), I picked Franklin’s Bar. I think a lot of my explanations for my favorites are going to hard for me to verbalize other than “I just thought it was great”. This story is great. As with many, if not all of the stories Erin’s written, the last few lines are the best. They’re something twisted and funny and dark and make me finish the story laughing. Well, the whole story is that stuff. This is my favorite line(s) from Franklin. “Back then, if you would have told me that Franklin’s was where I’d meet the man I was going to rape, I’d have laughed at you. Then kicked your ass.”

2. A Really Lame Carnival

I was there, believe me, it was lame. BUT the way Erin wrote about it made the thing way way WAY more interesting than I ever observed it to be. So why I like this post and added it to my favorites is basically the amount of sarcasm used to describe things that make me weeze with laughter to this day.

3. A Cure Pilgrimage:Part 1

(Though the whole entirety of this trip is amazing.) Again, I’m going to have to go with “This thing is just great” because of my lack of ability to really explain why I love this. I guess I really enjoy the details and comedy in Erin’s story telling. This trip is a great example of that. Two things mainly stick out for me- trying to get Henry to give directions over the phone “Henry: What are you near? Me: A black lady in really high boots.” and the description of that motel make this post completely awesome.

4. Haunted House History

I can tell from the writing (and personal knowledge) how much these memories are important to Erin. I love it not only because it’s nostalgia for me, but I can see how much this stuff means to her.

5. Undead Abduction

I picked one of the photo posts to be part of this list because, just like the short stories, the pictures are an important part of this blog. I chose the post with the pictures of Andrea and Chooch in the cemetery. Not only are they ridiculously fantastic, I LOVE these because of the story that they show.

On October 24, 2007, I left LiveJournal (where I was affectionately and rather grotesquely known as “vagynafondue”) and started Oh Honestly, Erin. It was scary, leaving a comfortable home for my writing after 6 years, but I felt it was time to move on, to claw my way out of the pigeon-hole, and to hopefully reach people outside of the members-only club that is LiveJournal.

It took me awhile to find my voice again, and WordPress caused a thousand knockdown-dragouts between Henry and me, but now I can’t imagine writing anywhere else. I don’t even know for sure if many people still read this thing, I know I lost a lot of my old LJ friends when I jumped ship, but it’s OK. Because it’s a part of me like a bad coke habit and I only see future possibilities, Henry exposés, and late night benders on the horizon.

With that, I’ve asked some of my friends to pick a few of their favorite OHE posts from years past, which I will be highlighting all week. Because maybe if people see that my friends actually read this shit, it will seem more legit. Otherwise, if left up to me, it will be a post full of county fair bullshit and Jonny Craig videos.

(Henry even said he would pretend like he knows how to read by choosing some of his own favorites. I’m not holding my breath on that one; blue never did look good on me.)

And if any of you have any personal favorites, please leave a comment and let me know. It would be like a virtual birthday cupcake for me.

And make sure to stop back at the end of the week, because there will be a “thanks for reading this shit” giveaway*. I felt bad that I dropped the ball on that last giveaway over the summer since, you know, my grandma died. But you forgive me, right?!

(*I promise to try and make it worthwhile.)

My friend Casey (formerly of the band Joke Flower) is here to kick things off. Thanks, Casey!

An Open (Love) Letter To Oh Honestly, Erin

Hello, Oh. How are you today?

On this occasion (your 4th birthday!), I wanted to let you know what you mean to me and how important you are in my life.

I know we haven’t been acquainted for a vast amount of time, but every moment I’ve spent with you has been precious to me.

I’ve been asked what my favorite parts of you are. How am I to answer this? I may as well be asked my favorite song, book or film.

It’s an impossible question to answer, for they are far too numerous!

Of course, I have been with many blogs in the past (haven’t we all?), but never have I laughed so much, or felt so at home, as when I’m in the warm embrace of your (often sarcastic) words and (frequently macabre) images. From the artistic beauty of blossoming zombie friendships in the cemetery, to the perfectly placed, exquisitely timed “motherfucker”s; from hilarious tales of law firm shenanigans, to images of Henry The Elder surrounded by gigantic, bright yellow cocks…each new missive becomes my favorite!

But I can’t even say that zombies, giant yellow peenz and “motherfucker”s define my love for you in themselves. You have also taught me so much. Through your words and pictures, I have discovered that Jonny Craig, although unquestionably talented, is a supreme douchebag; I have been introduced to the infinite joys of the wondrous Wacky Worm; I am now convinced of the timeless genius of Robert Smith and his merry band of minstrels, THE CURE. (TOLHURST!)

Oh, when I immerse myself in you, it’s like venturing into a small, warm room (perhaps like a closet) that’s full to the ceiling of treasures, just waiting to be discovered.

So, I just wanted to wish you the best of all possible birthdays, and I look forward to spending many more days with you, enjoying your endless charms.

In short, I love you lots like tater tots!

Yours truly,
Casey

The last time we took Chooch to Castle Blood’s daylight matinee, he was three-years-old; The Lost Boys was still his favorite movie; he was super-enchanted by one Jason Voorhees; and we still spontaneously flinched every time he opened his mouth in public, praying the word “Asshole” (or worse) wouldn’t come rolling out. He spent the whole goddamn tour of the castle bitching about Dracula’s absence.

The denizens had been waiting for Chooch and his silver-tongue to return and we finally had a chance to take him last Sunday. This was my friend Laura’s first October in Pittsburgh so I insisted that she come along because everyone needs to experience the Castle, even if it’s in daylight. Chooch never STFU once during the 40-minute car ride, and guess who was in the back with him? HIS WEARY MOTHER. We eventually joined “Are we there yet?” forces and Henry wanted to blow his brains out. He’s the only one who hates me sitting in the backseat more than me.

When we arrived, some of the denizens were milling about and suddenly it was all, “Chooch! Is that you? Chooch is here!” and he took a giant step behind my back because I guess he thought I was joking when I told him that they were all waiting for him. Normally he handles attention with way more panache than me (I go through life hiding behind Henry’s back like a kicked puppy), but I think the costumes were throwing him off. One minute we were just walking down a sidewalk in a quiet town and then bam—there’s a bunch of dead people in gowns with the facade of a castle behind them.

We got in line after formally introducing Chooch to everyone, and he was sort of starting to get that smart-ass Chooch attitude back while being asked questions by the denizen guarding the entrance, like he was so put out and exhausted having to talk to someone and he kept turning away from her but then I realized he was blushing through his zombie flesh-wounds, most likely because he was trying not to look at her boobs.

Uncle Vlad soon appeared on the front steps and we were sent in with the family of four behind us, the parents of whom I had originally used my Ph.d. in Debasement to prejudge because the dad had a mullet and the mom appeared to be blitzed off Benadryl, but they ended up being pretty inoffensive, plus they had two little girls whose presence alone was enough to hold Chooch’s tongue through the entire tour.

That and the bountiful corsets of the female denizens. I finally found my son’s Kryptonite and it’s the same as every other boy in the world.

He walked through the entire Castle looking nervous and blubber-ready anytime he was spoken to, but this didn’t stop him from nearly knocking a bitch down anytime a candy bowl was presented.

Meanwhile, the mulletted dad would laugh and look to me for some sort of approval every time one of his little girls would say something that was mildly funny but not enough to have Bill Cosby come calling. The mom was always trailing behind with her eyes mostly-closed, laughing to herself and trying TO BOND WITH ME. Clearly my “Don’t even!” exterior is softening because strangers are trying to penetrate my anti-social bubble more and more. Sometimes EVERYDAY.

I need to start practicing that snarl some more.

Oh goodie, the Gypsy Room! There are these beautiful strands of beads that fill the doorway into the Gypsy Room and on that day, I learned that not only are they beautiful, but sharp as fuck thanks to HENRY whipping one at me. One of the half moons or stars, I don’t know which but it was something with SPIKES AND THORNS ON IT, punched me in the lip in such a way that tears spontaneously sprung to my eyes it felt like my top lip had been triple-shot with Botox.

Of course, I couldn’t bitch about it to Henry right away because I didn’t want to interrupt the Gypsy and get a talking-to from our (extremely intimidating) guide, so I sulked in the back and periodically checked with my tongue for blood. But you better believe as soon as we walked out of that room, I gripped Henry’s arm and yelled at him the best I could without raising my voice above a strained hiss. If it had been bleeding, I would have sued his broke ass for a hard copy of his entire SERVICE history because I know he did it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the mom of the two girls in our group kept slurring for me to go on ahead of her, probably because she needed privacy to huff beneath a gargoryl.

In the pirate room, Henry was volunteered by our guide to get up in there and show his bravery, which made me snort to myself because unless bravery involves reading Food Magazine and having a foot run over by a pallet jack with no retaliation, Henry had no business being up there.

But on the bright side, it helped him realize he has a pirate fetish.

After the tour, we hung around outside and talked to our new friends while I tried to appear as socially together as possible but inside my head I was screaming, “MY HANDS! WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY HANDS!?” I ended up just keeping them inside my hoodie pockets.

Someone mentioned that Chooch was way quieter than they imagined; Henry and I, nearly in tandem, said, “It’s because there are girls around.” Even Laura seemed surprised at how docile he had become.

This was all the knowledge of my son that Professor Scrye and Lady Die’s little girl needed to know before chasing him around and antagonizing him with little else but her femininity. At one point, I think he was trying to dive into a garbage can.

The good thing about Chooch’s voice being smothered by estrogen was that he actually paid attention in there and took something away other than candy for the first time. Granted, he was still too young the other times we took him to really grasp the concept. I think 5 is the perfect age for a trip to Castle Blood. 5 and surrounded by little girls.

“I thought those little girls on the tour with us had makeup on, but then I realized they were just dirty,” Henry laughed like we’re so much better than them, I guess forgetting that people probably say that about our kid, too. Yesterday I unknowingly sent him to school with half of his head still caked in fake blood and he usually has last night’s meal hugging the corners of his mouth. My eyes don’t start properly seeing until at least noon, OK?

Chooch ate his whole bag of candy on the way home without me knowing (and by that I mean I wasn’t paying attention) and then caused a scene inside the gas station, making everyone in there believe that he earned his facial bruises and contusions.

Today is Barb’s birthday! Happy birthday, Barb!

Something you should know about Barb is that she sometimes cannot tell the difference between giraffes and zebras and that she thinks Bill Paxton is the worst actor of all time. She lost a hockey bet last year at work and her punishment was using a picture of Bill as her desktop wallpaper.

Because I can’t ever not be a dick to the people I like best, I made her a birthday card.

I’m sure she will cherish it forever. I mean, she better.

I’m not one of those people who has a dream and then needs to bore everyone with it immediately, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about (and feeling) the one I had two nights ago.

Chooch and I were at a party for someone who was late to arrive and there was no one else there we knew, just a bunch of family members looking at us all weird. The party was in a one-room house standing on cinder blocks and all I knew was that we needed to leave.

And so we did, despite being grabbed at by white trash alcoholics trying to forcibly tug us back into the house. I kept trying to run faster but I was having a hard time because I didn’t have any feet on account of Henry cutting them off the day before.

I wasn’t mad at him for doing it though. I understand that in order for him to fix my pants, he needed to cut off my feet, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to see them back on. So Chooch and I began our search for Henry, who worked in some seedy clinic for poor people.

On the way, I ran into some people I knew who casually asked, “Why are you running around with no feet again?” and then it occurred to me that this wasn’t the first time Henry had found a need to remove parts of me and as my REM-camera panned out I began to notice the accumulation of shoddy stitch-work across my body from all the times Henry had reassembled me.

My ankles have felt tender and ticklish ever since I woke up that morning.

Then there was this whole interlude where I inadvertently left Chooch* neglected and alone in the car when we arrived at the clinic  & only realized what I had done when I turned around and noticed a couple peering at him through the window and looking alarmed. I ran back to the car and gave them my best “I meant to do that” Pee Wee impression.

[*Like anyone could just “forget” that Chooch was in the backseat. That’s kid never shuts the fuck up.]

What the fuck does all this mean, other than that I should dump Henry and someone should call CYS on me.

ETA: I SOLVED IT! Yesterday, Barb gave me an apple. I put it in my purse. Today, I really want to eat that apple, but I have a biting-into-whole-apple paranoia. And of course I don’t know how to cut an apple. Why would I?

I wanted Henry to come home from work to cut it for me, but he was all, “Blah blah, I have a job and that is more important than your nutrition” so, outraged, I decided to do it myself.

But on my way to the kitchen, I had a flashing premonition of me slicing off my hand and then Henry having to come home and sew it back on.

So my dream was clearly a reminder to not try and cut foodstuffs with knives on my own. (And also that I’m a bad mom.)

I am extremely manic today.

Killer Ken Lobe’s shopping list. Glenn, the co-worker that Ken is based on, apparently likes cashews.

That’s the only specific food I could get anyone here to tell me that he likes. Metamucil because he’s old, olive-colored shirts because I just made fun of him recently for wearing an olive-colored shirt, lipstick because I picture him slathering it on after he makes a kill.

Bloody latex glove strewn across my desk light.

Hot Naybor Chris let me borrow an old table lamp, in which I promptly stuck a red light bulb. I still need to find an old lampshade for it that I can slash and splatter with blood.

Splattered blood is kind of the theme around here.

On the outside of the glass in front of my desk.

My blog bro Brandy has been posting some awesome DIY Halloween ideas and when she shared one about creepy things in jars, I knew my desk would be amiss without some of that action. Thank you, Brandy!

Once the festivities here at work are done, I’m not going to want to take everything down. I’ll probably just set up a permanent area for it at my house. Maybe in Chooch’s room. I’m sure that will help with the issues he’s having at school.

I set up my Killer’s office yesterday at work to a mixed bag. Some people loved it, some people were seriously repulsed (but commended me on it), some people didn’t get it, and one person mumbled, “I hate Halloween.”

But the greatest reward was that one of the analysts who never really talks much, to me or anyone, lingered by my desk to take it all in and actually showed emotion. I think it was the longest interaction we ever had.

The first thing you see when you walk down the hall is the pig mask propped on top of my closet thing. My boss stopped by last night to say goodnight and laughed heartily at it. “That’s perfect!” she shouted. Wait until you see the rest, I thought as I smiled nervously. I guess I’ll find out what she thinks today.

Aside from the pig mask, it’s fairly subtle.

Yes, I have my desk covered with blood-splattered plastic, but nothing’s really in-your-face. You have to stop and really look. My favorite is the page from a used car catalog that has an Econoline van for sale, which I circled with blood.

I found a handful of old photos of my mom and aunt* from the 70s and several old Polaroids of some of my friends* from when we were teenagers, so I’m using those as my victim collection.

I thought having actual photos would be scarier than just writing a list of names under a “Victim” heading. There’s a map of a random residential area which I hung up and as it gets closer to the end of the month, more and more victim photos will be taped up next to it with red lines drawn to the street where they were taken.

(* Susie and Christy, if you’re reading this—you’re two of the victims!)

Thank god I made Henry keep his old Weiss Meats coveralls (the ones that made him resemble Michael Myers and in turn made me like him; I’m sure he rues those coveralls now), because they add a nice touch, peeking out from my desk closet with a bone protruding from the pocket.

One of my co-workers came trolling past last night, stopped in her tracks when she saw the pig mask, and shot me a super condescending, “O-kaaaaaayyyyyy?” Then she hovered around my desk, inspecting all the details with this fucking “not impressed” smirk on her face and it put me in such a foul mood. I can’t wait to see the folk art she’s going to shit all over her desk. If she doesn’t have at least one pumpkin wearing a Leprechaun hat, I’ll write something nice about Katy Perry.

Today I need to find an old curtain or something that I can cut and hang up as a backdrop because it’s way too white in there. I need something that will give it a seedier ambiance.

Once I have it all complete, I’ll take real photos.

Also, how wonderful that this coincides perfectly with employee evaluations.

I’m skipping to the end even though other shit happened which I’ll get to later; chronology is so overrated anyway.

Andrea was still packing when I arrived at her luxurious Comfort Inn suite that late Monday morning.

“Do you need help?” I asked with a patented non-committal laziness to my voice. She said no and I cheered. I’m pretty sure she learned a long time ago that Erin Rachelle Kelly is the last person you’d want to ask for help.

After she checked out, she was quick to remind me of the real reason she flew to Pittsburgh in the first place: to dine at Chik Fil-A. Did you know that all they have at Chik Fil-A is chicken? Bizarre. Luckily, I was able to get waffle fries and some weird carrot raisin cole slaw shit which I thought I would hate but you’d be hardpressed not to find this shit at the reception to the wedding I’ll never have.

On the way back home, Henry sent me a pathetic text saying that he was locked out of the house. We pulled up and found him sitting on the front steps, staring intently at his phone and pulling off hearty bites of a soft pretzel. Even after I unlocked the door, he continued to sit there.

“He has Words with Friends on his phone,” Andrea reminded. “He doesn’t even need to go in the house.” We immediately left again for one last Starbucks run while she was here. As I was getting in the car, Andrea prompted me to be a good girlfriend and ask Henry if he wanted anything, which I did in a monotone sigh.

The look Henry flashed me in lieu of an answer made Andrea crack up, only because she’s not around to see him to do it EVERY HALF HOUR, this annoyed, “Don’t be stupid” smirk.

“He hates coffee,” I explained. “He thinks even the chocolate chip cookies have coffee in them.” The only thing Henry hates more than Starbucks is when we go to one that has a drive-thru and he has to stutter and stammer out my latte order to overly-perky voices chirping out through the speak

On the way back from Starbucks, I turned up the radio. “You might like this song,” I said.

“Let me guess—Jonny Craig?”

I was insulted! Besides, I think Emarosa (Jonny’s ex-band) only came on in the car a few dozen times the whole weekend she was here. That’s what I like to call “consideration.”

We had a little bit of time after that to hang out at my house. Even though I hate having my picture taken, there was no way I was letting her get on a plane without some kind of photographical evidence that we hung out in real life. First she took one on her phone but I my face had the girth of three footballs.

“We can’t use that one; I look like an Eskimo.”

This prompted Mama Evils to lecture me about racism. Really though, I can’t be expected to know this unless I see a PSA on MTV about Eskimos. Until then, they’re fair game.

I look like Popeye in this one, but it’s whatever.

Then the moment came where we had to take her to the airport. Chooch refused to get out of the car, and I could see him in the backseat all hunkered down and crying.

“Stupid geogaphy,” I said when she hugged me. WHY DID SHE HAVE TO COME HERE?! I mean, goodbyes are hard enough, but when you’re saying it to someone who lives clear across the country and you don’t know when you’ll be able to see them again, it’s like being finger-fucked in the heart by Freddy Kreuger.

The whole way to work, I whined about how sad I was. When I got to work, Wendy came around the corner and, knowing that we had just dropped Andrea off at the airport, she looked all Eeyore-ish too. The only upside was that I got to blather on to everyone about how fantastic the weekend was.

***

That night, I was sitting with Chooch on the couch. Suddenly, he looked at me and wailed, “I can’t even remember how Andrea laughs!”

It was the saddest fucking thing.

I’d like to think that Andrea took home a wealth of knowledge from Pittsburgh; such as: its residents are condimentally adventurous, Steelers jerseys are pretty much a second skin, and riding in the car with Chooch and me in the backseat serves as really effective birth control. But on the bright side, she still texts me as much as she did before so I guess that means I didn’t completely annoy her!

After our fortuitous trip to the no-named junk store in Tarentum, we drove back to Pittsburgh to meet Wendy for lunch at Ritter’s. She ended up getting caught in traffic and after refilling our drinks for the third time, the waitress  asked, “Do you want me to bring out some crackers?” I think she mostly meant to keep Chooch satiated, but both of us desperately whined, “Yes!” like we were being groomed for Sally Struthers’ next commercial shoot. Chooch ended up turning the crackers into confetti and our waitress—who was young, yet maternal—helped pick it out of my hair. I really liked that lady.

I liked anyone who takes care of me.

(I really need to be taken care of, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.)

Everyone had changed their minds a dozen times by the time Wendy arrived, but I was pretty secure with my omelette selection.

Until Wendy pointed out the special (which I never look at because that seems like such an Older Person thing to do) which was an omelette stuffed with kale and black eyed peas.

For some reason, I was intrigued by this.

“Do I like black eyed peas?” I asked Henry, who said “I don’t know!” in that stupid squeaky voice he uses when he’s angry that I’m speaking to him.

I shouldn’t have ordered this for two reasons:

• I had to ask if I like a legume that one of my most hated pop groups is named after
• It didn’t have cheese in it

Never mind the fact that I apparently hate kale and never knew it.

My omelette was a plated shit stain. But for some reason I still ate most of it and bitched with every bite.

Andrea thought it was SO FUNNY that I hated my omelette (apparently I hate kale*, too) that she nearly tripped over herself trying to take a picture of my plate of slop. My homefries and wheat toast were good at least.

(*In high school, I dated a guy whose last name was Kail and my mom absolutely hated him, even threatened to send me to an all girls school. One time, we were at the grocery store and I saw a bundle? batch? collection? of kale and tried to make her buy it. She almost started crying. So I don’t think I’ve ever actually had kale because my mom had a pretty hefty boycott on it.)

This was totally Wendy’s fault that I hated my breakfast. (I have to blame someone and I don’t think I’ve ever blamed her for anything yet, so congratulations—it’s your turn, Wendy!) She was trying to have an adult conversation with Andrea but kept getting distracted by the exaggterated “4-year-old eating brussels sprouts for the first time” faces I was pulling from across the table. Henry just ignored it. He’s really good at ignoring it.

Meanwhile, Henry ordered BEEF TIPS. Seriously! He’s not even trying anymore to avoid succumbing to Old Manhood. I noticed that some sort of beets were available as a side and while the waitress was waiting for him to decide, I was loudly pleading with him to order the beets. He was so agitated but the waitress was laughing, which made me love her even more.

God, I want to try to find her on Facebook now. I think we’d be great friends. She looks like someone who would help me cross the street.

I really need someone to help me cross the street.

My fantastic morning purchase served as an intentional centerpiece.  Henry groaned, but Andrea encouraged it. This is why we’re friends. That and the fact that she’s like a crackerjack when it comes to getting Chooch and me to stop fighting. Maybe if Henry wasn’t so adverse to buying us shit, his stress levels would plummet.

Afterward, Wendy, Andrea and Henry all fought over the check while Chooch and I kicked back and dreww pictures on his Drawing Thing. We didn’t have any money anyway.

Then it was time to go down the street to my beloved Vanilla Pastry Studio so Andrea could finally taste the cupcakes that inspired the sex metaphor-laden review that wound up on my blog a few years ago. They are still my favorite cupcakes, although Kaitlin’s come close to dominating.

We stayed there to eat our cupcakes, and Chooch embarrassed me in front of the one and only Sugar Fairy (the owner and my cupcake idol), but then he really started being an asshole so Henry had to whisk him away. God only knows where they went; I’d suggest an alley where Henry beat him in private, but everyone knows that Chooch is the one beating us, so no one would believe me anyway.

It was early evening by then, and Andrea wanted to take a little nap (read: needed a break from Chooch and me squabbling like siblings) so we parted ways with Wendy and dropped Andrea off at her hotel after specifically telling her that roller skating started at 8 and I wanted to pick her up by 7:30. She “conveniently” slept “longer” than she “intended” so we were a little late getting there and I was like, “This is the kind of thing that gets Janna Mexican neck-tied by me, just so you know!”

But then she fell within 60 seconds of stepping onto the rink so that made up for her “accidental” tardiness. Apparently, some teenage girl laughed at her when she had her spill and I wish I would have known that because I’m always looking for a reason to mouth-off to teenagers. Especially at the roller rink.

But Andrea at least got to meet Roller DJ, and I think that was really all she wanted to do anyway. She rested safely on the bench for the rest of the time and even made a friend who just happened to be one of the ladies proficient at that crazy roller line dancing bullshit that I so badly want to learn. Andrea kept trying to get me to go out there and ask for help, and she was about one can of Aquanet away from acting just like a pageant mom. I think she was embarrassed that I wasn’t the best one out there.

Andrea’s favorite part was when a Lil Wayne song came on. She had just seen the video for it the night before at my house and quickly bought his entire discography on iTunes.

We ended up leaving an hour early. It was too “middle school dance” for me, and in between pre-teen slaloming, I found myself making quite a few enemies. (Most notably this 8 foot tall Waldo-looking motherfucker who snubbed me during Men Only skate when I tried to slap his hand. Andrea suggested that he was just a germ-phobe and I was like, “WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DEFEND HIM!? WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON!?”) Anyway, we wound up at an Eat n Park, which was on Andrea’s list of places to dine in Pittsburgh. We were sitting near a booth of about 10 girls who MAYBE were high school freshmen. They were playing some truth or dare-type card game and we now know more about their sexual history than their combined gynecologists ever will. Andrea was shriveling up and next to tears; if she opens up a shelter for sexually-deviant teens, you’ll know why. And then she can have a booth at Warped Tour and I’ll be her “helper” who “passes out literature” in front of all the stages and in the back of all the tour buses.

Of course we got stuck behind the whole gaggle of them when we were got up to pay. One of the girls dropped the entire stack of cards and another walked by and purposely kicked at them, sending them sliding all over the floor. It reminded me so much of the type of friendship Janna and I have, that my heart got all warm.

Andrea was beyond obsessed with them at this point and even talked to Colby the cashier about them.

“Do you know them?” she asked. And then we had to listen to him bore us with details of which ones he knows and how he knows them.

It was about 11:30 when we got back to Andrea’s hotel room. I’m surprised she let me come back at all; I figured she had a long night of praying the rosary for the Eat n Park girls.

We drank champagne and I “accidentally” smoked some of her cigarettes. (I can’t be around Camels. They were my absolute jam back in the day.) We talked about absolutely everything from depressing shit to my friend who wanted to “bang” me at the cannon memorial down the street from my house and when his wife got pregnant, he texted me: “We’re having a baby. :(” so now Andrea adds a “baby” behind every frowny face she texts me as an homage to our night of champagne-fueled conversation.

The next thing I knew, I was rolling in my house after 4:00 AM to find Henry methodically in his underwear, mopping up cat pee. He didn’t seemed too alarmed that I was just coming home.

“It’s like being married again,” he mumbled.

I can’t even remember when exactly I met Andrea now that I think about it. When you text with someone everyday, it just seems weird to think about there being a time when you didn’t. But I know it was 2008 and we met on the Etsy’s Dark Side member forum. She found my blog and started commenting, and if you don’t know by now that the fastest way to my heart is by acknowledging my blog (and presenting me with a fine array of cupcakes), then we probably just weren’t meant to be friends.

It also didn’t hurt that her Etsy oeurve was full of bloodied Barbie dioramas, hair fascinators with toy revolvers in the middle and jewelry featuring hacked-off limbs. And with Chooch being such a pint-sized aficionado of the undead, he quickly became a fan of hers too. (It probably helped that she started spoiling him right off the bat. When she found out he was going through a Ben Franklin phase when he was 3, she made him a zombie Ben plush. Who does that!? Creative geniuses, that’s who.)

Then it just got to the point where we texted every day and it eventually occurred to me that after Henry, she was often the first person I was going to when anything would happen to me, good or bad.

The one glaring problem is that she’s in California and I’m in Pennsylvania. “Stupid geography” had become kind of our catch phrase since we were always having to miss everything each other did.

But then one night in August, I was sitting at work when she texted: “So I’m thinking about coming out there for a visit;” I almost died. And then a bunch of my co-workers almost died too because her My Pretty Zombie eye shadow has become quite the sensation at The Law Firm. When Andrea settled on a date, Wendy even canceled a tentative trip to visit a friend to ensure she’d be in town to meet the brains behind the cosmetic crack. Andrea is kind of a big deal ’round these parts.

Somehow I managed to pick her up last Friday morning from the airport without folly. We went straight to the hotel so she could check in (she schmoozed Stanley at the front desk and wound up with Comfort Inn’s version of a honeymoon suite) and give me all of my presents.

Because she is, after all, the goth Mary Poppins.

She got stuff for Chooch too, but also Henry, so now he thinks he’s like part of the club or something.

***

After introducing her to my cats, it was time to take her downtown to The Law Firm. We walked the several blocks to the trolley stop, where I proceeded to spaz out about the fare. (I never know if I have the right amount!) Within 5 seconds, Andrea confirmed that we were OK. Then she took the cash from me because I had clammy Waiting For the Trolley palms and she was afraid I was going to fuck up the crispness and make the bills unable to be accepted by the fare machine.

(I think she said something about me being adorable at that moment, but that sentiment only lasts so long. None of my other friends think I’m adorable, ever. And that’s just a shame.)

That happened to me once in May, you know. I couldn’t get my $1 bill sucked into the machine and the trolley driver freaked out and screamed, “OF COURSE IT’S ACTING UP AGAIN! THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT MACHINE! JUST GO SIT DOWN! I GUESS EVERYONE JUST RIDES FOR FREE TODAY!”

Meanwhile, everyone who got on after me had no problem with it. I sat all hunkered down and sheepish in my seat the whole way to work, where I then proceeded to make everyone feel sorry for me.

“Aw, you got yelled at? What an asshole! You poor thing,” everyone said. (Shit, this memory might be from the delusional side of my brain, but now I can’t remember.) Anyway, when I went home that night, I gave Henry the dollar back and he was all, “Um, what did you do, put this through the washer? No wonder it wouldn’t go in the machine.”

I’m pretty sure it was my sweaty, nervous mitts that got it in that state, though.

Andrea was nice (see also: smart) enough to insert the fare for both of us, alleviating so much of my anxiety.

SO MUCH of it.

And thank god the lady sitting in front of us let us know we were at the last stop, because I completely stopped paying attention since I had a shiny new toy-person in the seat next to me. Every other minute, I was back to being stunned that we were actually hanging out in real life.

The next huge obstacle in our journey was that we had to cross the street, which is always scary. (When Henry drives me to work, I never have to cross the street. It’s super safe.) I managed to get her to the 10th floor of The Law Firm unscathed, but then she got mobbed a few minutes later by eyeshadow addicts; a plummet down the elevator shaft might have seemed preferable by then.

Seriously, Andrea is a rock star at The Law Firm.

“Did you make that bracelet?” Barb asked me after I introduced her to Andrea.

“Uh, yeah,” I answered in this snotty, indignant tone that I know Henry for one really relishes. “I’ve worn it here before, but I guess that was back when I wasn’t cool enough for you to notice me.”

This inspired Barb to go on a tirade about how awesome I am. She is like putty in my hands. PUTTY.

And then Wendy rounded the corner and I was really impressed at the restraint she showed; she had really dialed it back a ton.

(Andrea still seemed alarmed that this was Wendy toned down. She’s just a very excitable person!)

After spending about 25 minutes watching Andrea be overwhelmed by attention, we went to Olive or Twist for some midday drinks. (Amazing that I even got us there considering I just blindly follow everyone else when we go out for late shift happy hour; I’m a navigational dunce when it comes to downtown.) I absolutely had eaten nothing all day but some licorice that Andrea shook into my cupped hands while waiting for the trolley but I ordered a lavender lemonade martini at the bartender’s suggestion. Who am I to turn down lavender? Plus, the bartender was practically fellating the drink menu while describing the drink to me. Andrea had the audacity to inquire about their champagne selection, which did not exist, so the bartender got a little snippy with her, illustrating her feelings by pouring way more martini in my glass than Andrea’s.

I openly gloated about this and the fact that my drink was way prettier than Andrea’s ugly pear concoction. She seemed to take it in stride, hopefully because she knows I’m mercilessly cruel to the ones I like the most.

Afterward, we sat around outside on eyeball chairs and heckled a tour group on Segways. There was one lady who was frantically calling out, “Can’t stop! Can’t stop!” I was disappointed when someone who apparently had flipped their operating manual saved her with their wisdom; I kind of (read: really) wanted to see her crash into the side of a building. They seemed to be taking some sort of stretching break, which made me wonder if it’s really that strenuous to maneuver on a Segway. Is limbering up really necessary? I don’t want to fully hate on these people unless I know for sure, so maybe I should put one of those stupid helmets on and become a Segway nerd for an hour.

I mean, I could stand to learn some shit about the city in which I’ve lived for 32 years yet know nothing about.

Henry and Chooch picked us up down there because I’m too stupid to figure out how transfer tickets work. Andrea was going to teach me, and also find out from Wendy how I can get a monthly pass, but then quickly realized that if I know too much, Henry might make me use that knowledge and officially resign as my work jitney.

***

We had dinner that night at Blue Flame, which was one of the few places that Andrea was adamant about going to since I have written about how special it is to me. This pleased me greatly. When I was friends with Jessy, Blue Flame was a really good halfway point for us to meet, but she’d always be like, “Babe, please. I really hate that restaurant.” Because it wasn’t a chain, you see. And every time she would say that, it was like she was ripping straight from my teeth a grilled cheese wrapped in my Pappap’s photo and curb stomping it.

“This is great,” Andrea said when we sat down in a corner booth. And then after dissecting and reassembling the breakfast menu like she was about to be quizzed on a Japanese game show, she wound up ordering some stuffed chicken thing and potato pancakes, which she then sent a picture of to her husband to taunt him. He was apparently very jealous.

Chooch was still riding high on his excitement that Andrea was here and was showing off and acting out accordingly. (Occasionally he’ll say things like, “Am I ever going to see Andrea?” and “I wish Andrea could come to my birthday party” and then he makes me show him a map so he can remember just how far away we are from her. It’s really sad.) Blue Flame never gets a dinner crowd, but there were still several people in our section who would periodically turn and gape at the hellion in the corner and his parents who had long ago relinquished any parental control. Henry finally reached his limit and drug Chooch out to the parking lot to cool off. The last thing Chooch said before disappearing out the door was, “I want my foooooood——-” Just the way it came out, all cartoonish and desperate, like he was falling off a cliff when he said it, made us lose it. Andrea had been up for like, 24 hours by this point, so she REALLY lost it. And I was just so happy to finally be hanging out with someone who laughed until they cried, that it made the whole situation even funnier to me.

They eventually came back in and Chooch kept instigating. He reminds me so much of someone sometimes, the way he knows just how to get under Henry’s skin like his antics are a scalpel, but I just can’t place it. He was making Andrea laugh so hard that she thought she was going to have to go outside. Again, I felt relieved to finally be hanging out with another laughing idiot, but then she kept blaming it on delirium. I think she’s lying though; she’s just as chuckle-abusing as I am.

Either that or those were real, fat “WTF am I doing here in Pittsburgh with these assholes?” tears.

The waitress never brought us a box, so I wrapped Chooch’s leftover grilled cheese and my potato pancakes all haphazardly in several napkins, bunched it up in a ball, and then went up to pay the bill with my hobo luggage. On the way up there, we past a table of old ladies who were ordering. The one lady asked for a side of beets and when the waitress said they were out, she loudly whined, “Aw, no beets?!” What a small victory for the self-esteem of beets.

We both started laughing all over again and Andrea totally ditched me so I had to stand there, paying the bill and laughing alone.

On the way home, Chooch’s dream of browsing the Halloween store with Andrea finally came true and Henry told me I’m fat. I’m sure other things happened during the hour we spent in that store, but that’s all that stands out to me right now. Later that night, Henry sat alone with his nose pressed against his phone, playing Words With Friends while Andrea mindlessly stared at music videos on MTV Hits and I taught her about all the things she’s (not) missing with pop music. Then I made her watch FRANCIS! eat a cricket and she was like, “OMG is this seriously all he does, just sits there?” but I took that as jealousy from not having her own Pacman frog. She probably already bought her own since she’s been back in California. Why else would she have been asking me all these questions, such as, “Where are they from?” which might actually have been the only question she asked. And then she got to experience in person and for the 7895th time that day my patented “I dunno” mumble, which I sometimes pair with a half-shrug.

“Maybe like South America?” I guessed.

Henry smirked. “Probably some breeder’s basement.”

And then Marcy’s daughter Willie peed on Andrea’s purse (which was thankfully vinyl).

Welcome to Pittsburgh!

My friend Andrea (of My Pretty Zombie fame!) has been in Pittsburgh since Friday morning & the amount of fodder I have to blog about is staggering. (Who knew beets alone could be so funny?)

Oh my god, she brought us so many toys and presents, totally spoiling us and even made sure I didn’t die when I took her downtown on the trolley to meet my Law Firm friends. She’s like a goth Mary Poppins.

Today we’re going to the Evans City Cemetery (the official Night of the Living Dead graveyard) to take some zombie pics. An aficionado of the undead can’t come to the Zombie Capital of the World and NOT stomp around that boneyard. I would definitely seal my fate as the worst tour guide (and friend) in the universe if I didn’t take her there.

So that’s what we’re doing today, after which she begrudgingly promised to go to a haunted house tonight because she knows I’ll cry otherwise.

This has been the funnest weekend ever! Chooch and I are going to cry when she leaves tomorrow. (Maybe Henry might too—she HAS taken a lot of heat off him this weekend.)

“Henry!” I said all breathlessly into the phone, which is his cue to brace himself. “I just saw the line up for the Rock Yourself To Sleep tour and guess who’s co-headlining?”

In a bored monotone, Henry muttered, “I don’t know.”

“No, guess!”

“Chiodos,” Henry guessed with a heavy sigh.

“Wha—? No!” I couldn’t believe he didn’t get it right off the bat.

“D.R.U.G.S.,” was Henry’s noncommittal second guess.

Meanwhile, I have my kid sitting next to me yelling, “THE CURE! Jonny Craig!”

“God, it’s Dance Gavin Dance!” I yelled into the phone. “I can’t believe that wasn’t your first guess.”

“I didn’t want to guess it,” Henry said in a tired voice. “Because I didn’t want it to be true.”

I HOPE IT COMES TO/NEAR PITTSBURGH!

***

In other pre-teen glee, we went to my friend John’s son’s 4th birthday party yesterday. I didn’t know anyone there at the park, and Chooch pushed the birthday boy down a hill within the first 15 minutes of us arriving*, so I was grateful when John’s cousin Chrissy sat across from me and introduced herself. Her daughter Alex joined us and my first thought was, “I wonder where she got that cool bow in her hair?”

(*This is why we don’t get invited places.)

“Look, Erin’s nails are painted almost the same as yours,” Chrissy said to Alex. (We both had symbols painted on just one hand, opting to keep the other hand plain.) A few minutes later, she also pointed out that Alex and I are both vegetarians (though I do fancy some fish nowadays, to be fair).

When Henry and I were alone a few minutes later, I said to him, “Isn’t it funny that the one person here I have the most in common with is a fourteen-year-old girl? I wonder if she wants to run away from home all the time, too.”

“Sad,” Henry mumbled.

But considering that Henry always compares me to twelve-year-olds, this is an improvement, no? In fact, on the way to the party, he was ridiculing me in the car.

“You have the hands of a 12-year-old,” he scoffed when I fanned out my left hand in front of his face. The fact that every ring I wore that day was made of neon plastic and cost a quarter only gave him more reason to jeer. “‘Look what I did, Daddy!'” he mocked, rolling his eyes at the ampersand I painstakingly painted on my thumb the night before.

“I should have painted ‘Jonny Craig’ on my nails,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry mumbled, looking out the window, clearly wishing he commanded my attention as much as this ginger douchebag does.

Back at the party, Chrissy was pointing at my shoes and asking, “Are those TOMS? Alex wants a pair of those.” A little bit later, Alex walked by and said, “I like your shoes!” causing Henry to shake his head and flash me one of his signature Disappointed Smirks.

When we were leaving, Chrissy said jokingly, “You and my daughter will have to hang out sometime!”

(Only if she likes Dance Gavin Dance!)

Henry looked all chagrined by this, and Chrissy added, “What, you don’t want her to be an old lady, do you Henry?” YEAH HENRY! I AM WHO I AM, OK ? Stop trying to make me boring.

Remember a few weeks ago when I had that exceptionally whiny post about how Henry never does anything for my birthday, and you guys were all like, “What a motherfucker he is!” and I was all like, “Fuck yeah, you dig the hole, I’ll kill him!”? And then I told you how this year, I put Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” on repeat, got all Take Action and decided to be a Strong, American Woman by having a birthday party for myself, and Henry can just eat a dick while that’s happening?

Well…

The day after my party, Barb said, “Well, I guess I can tell you this now…” at which point she said that at Chooch’s birthday party (in May), Henry approached her about wanting to throw me a surprise party.

Which I ruined by being so bull-headed about “taking matters into my own hands.” And I don’t regret doing that, because look at all the times I sat around waiting for something that was never going to happen.

But what I do regret is being such an asshole to him, to his face and on this blog.

He read that post, which was so awful and bitchy, and he never said anything.

If it were me, I would have been like, “I was GOING to have a party for you, you asshole” and then set fire to his face, but Henry is not like me. Henry is nice and calm. So he read all my mean words and went about his day without even mentioning it.

(Barb said he’s also probably used to it.)

So here is where I put on my best “oopsies” smile and apologize in a Degrassi accent.

(You still failed on the present front, though. Better luck next year.)

My grandma died last night. Out of respect for the few family members I actually care about, this is all I will say about the matter, but rest assured I am a very angry, confused girl right now. I processed the news by jump roping vigorously off and on from 11pm to 1:30am and spitting a very vitriolic rant in Henry’s face, who was nice enough to stay up way past his bedtime for me, even after a weekend full of bratty outbursts and break-ups.

I felt I should at least say something on here about it, since many of you have been so nice and caring regarding my Grandma and the whole saga that has unraveled over the last few years.

This has ripped the scab right off my precariously-compounded Pappap wound. There are not enough pictures of Jonny Craig in the world to get me through this one.

It only took 13 years, but I think Marcy is starting to like me. Lately, when I’m laying in bed pouting (because douchebag Henry and his twatty attitude leave me perpetually suspended in 16-year-old limbo), Marcy pushes my bedroom door open and first, all I see is her big plumey tail, raised and curled up at the end. (This, along with her ferocious bite, is why I call her Shark Attack.) Then Marcy jumps on the bed, wherein she allows me to pet her approximately four strokes before either sinking her claws into me or clamping her jaw around my hand.

But it would feel weird if it didn’t end that way.

She’s my best friend. Even though she’s in love with Henry. She can have him.