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

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

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

Here’s what he had to say last time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go give them some lovin’!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never did send her that video.

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

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

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

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

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

Chooch is REALLY into LMFAO

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

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

Well….on second thought.

Hope everyone’s having a delightful weekend!

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

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

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

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

*(This is A Joke.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I love a good DAYS reference.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever it was, I loved it already.

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

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

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

I guess my new seat isn’t too bad.

[Ed.Note: The Juggalo rant is still going strong. Lee asked me to remind him how it even came up and I said, “Because you asked what Henry does for a living and I said he distributes Faygo. BLAME HENRY.”]

For weeks, I was all backed-up with blog posts and it was all, “I can’t wait until I churn these out & get caught up so I can go back to fucking off on here.”

Except that now it’s all, “I HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE! HOW WILL MY IMAGINARY READERS COPE?”

The problem is that I haven’t been doing much this week, which has been LOVELY. My friend Wendy lent me a book and I have actually had time to READ IT. You guys, I’m READING AGAIN! And it has been heavenly.

So to cap off my week of leisure, I will leave you with pictures of my current nail art, an homage to our own Henry.

When he saw his likeness on my thumbnail, Henry mimicked its exact expression without even trying. It was rich.

Then I came to work to find that Barb had bought Chooch a pair of gloves. Why’s everything gotta be for my kid? I WEAR GLOVES TOO.

*(Because these aren’t getting old at all.)

You know what I think is interesting? Henry rarely declines when I say, “Let’s go to [insert city] to see [insert band].” As long as the driving distance is within reason, he will usually oblige, so you know what I think? I think that Henry ENJOYS it. You know what else he enjoys? Answering my questions. So let’s just get right into it.

Me: What style are you going for when you go to shows – Urban Lumberjack, Megan’s Law leisure or Amber Alert athletic?

Henry, looking up from Bakery Story on his phone and twisting that mustache into a snarl: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: Do you mean you’re denying pulling clothes from the Child Predator rack?

Henry: [*crickets*]

Me: What are your thoughts on Craig Owens?

Henry, mumbling and making put-out faces: Same as they were before.

Me, pressing the issue: Did you approve of his hair this time? You seemed concerned about the darkened hue when he was on Warped Tour.

Henry, annoyed that I’m making him think and string words together: It was a little better, I guess. I don’t know. It looked blond. What the fuck do you want from me?

Me, changing the subject so he wouldn’t completely shut down: Let’s talk about your caesar salad. What kind of man orders a salad?

Henry, smirking indignantly: One that wants a salad to eat.

[When asked if it was better/worse than tossed salad, he said better, which leads me to believe that he didn’t understand the question.]

Me: If you actually had a say in what we listened to in the car on the way to Cleveland, what would it have been?

Henry, cutting me off before I had a chance to add “And don’t say anything but Jonny Craig”: Anything but Jonny Craig.

Me: Why didn’t you propose to me during Craig’s set?

Henry, my questions now wearing his face into the visage of a wild Appalachian man: What?! Because I was in the bathroom at the Mongolian BBQ!

[Henry went next door to the Grog Shop and went through the motions of getting a table at the Mongolian BBQ joint just so he could shit on their toilets. He quite literally missed half of the show and I didn’t even notice. And also, nice try Henry. We all know it’s because you don’t even have a ring!]

Me, brushing off the bitterness: Yeah, speaking of, let’s talk about your gastrointestinal hiccups of the night.

Henry: What about it? And why do we have to talk about my gastro—[gives up because he can’t pronounce it]?

Me, trying to get this over with so I could stare longingly at my Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper: Because some people might daydream about your bowel movements. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Henry: WHAT? People don’t…what the fuck are you talking about? You’re so…[goes back to playing on his phone]

Me: When you were young—-

Henry: No.

Me: —did you ever roadtrip for a show?

Henry, disinterestedly: No.

Me, pressing the issue: Not even for Judas Priest or Tone Loc?

Henry, all emphatically: NO. [And then repeated “Tone Loc” to himself and shook his head.]

Me, determined to dig deep beneath the non-descript t-shirts (worn over top of non-descript Henleys now that it’s winter!) for real answers: In your own words, describe the trip to Cleveland.

Henry, looking around confusedly. (Sorry, your mommy’s not here to hold up cue cards for you.): I don’t know. The trip was OK until we hit the snow that you didn’t tell me about. [Ed.note: maybe if he would use his phone for more than playing games and watching porn, he would have been privy to the weather forecast.] Then it became annoying. That was about it until the show and then the trip home which was not fun because I had to drive with a drunk girl next to me.

[Imagine how riveting it would be if Henry had his own blog.]

Me: That’s it?

Henry: Yeah. What else do you want?!

Me: Sentimental stuff.

Henry, repeating my request in a tired tone: My stomach was upset 90% of the time. Sentimental stuff went out the window.

[Or down the commode, as it were.]

Me, poking the bear one last time before we went to bed: Did you see any shows in the SERVICE? Like Bette Midler or Gloria Estefan.

Henry: What? No! You mean USO concerts? No. I did see Cheap Trick though when I was stationed in Texas.

Me, getting unnecessarily worked up: YOU DID? WHERE WAS IT?

Henry, looking at me suspiciously and clearly debating whether or not to answer: In a bar.

Me: [Dying of laughter, smothering myself with a pillow.]

Henry: [Ignoring me and trying to remember what album Cheap Trick had just released at the time of this show.]

Me: [Crying at this point.]

Henry, snapping out of his Cheap Trick glory: IT’S NOT THAT FUNNY. Really, it’s not that funny.

Me: Was that the show where you pushed over someone in a wheelchair?

Henry: What, no. That was Ted Nugent, and that’s not what happened.

Me: [Losing it all over again.]

This is what Henry looked like during most of our interview.

I’m going to try and really hone my investigative reporter skills by getting him to reveal what REALLY happened at that Ted Nugent show.

In addition to the Henry pins, I’m making these little promo card things for my blog. It’s 2012 and while I don’t do resolutions (that’s the fast-track to failure, if you ask me), I decided that I want to focus more on the blog this year. No, I don’t want to be “famous,” but isn’t getting people to read this shit the whole point of having a blog? That’s what I thought, anyway, so I’m going to try and do a better job of promoting myself and whatever you call this crap I throw down on here.

I figured people might be more compelled to visit my blog if there were actual reader reviews for them to read. So I made some up. (Although, there are some real ones floating amongst the lies!)

I spelled Cheboygan wrong, I KNOW. GOD.

And here is this one that I didn’t get to print yet. The front is one of the Goofus & Gallant: Oh Honestly Erin-style comics that I was doing for awhile over the summer.

I’m going to be making a shitload of these, each one will be different. If you want a handful, holla at me! And, as always, if you read this, say hello every now and then. That kind of stuff makes my day, really.

***

And while I’m at it, let me go ahead and remind everyone reading this that this is my blog and I have the right to state my own opinions on here. So if you’re some scene-famous singer who didn’t happen to like the review I gave your show, please note for the record that this is a personal blog, not Spin; I’m writing from the point-of-view of a disappointed fan, not a music journalist. Maybe you shouldn’t be trolling Twitter, looking for negative things about yourself. And also, trying to mask your whiny disapproval with New Age advice, “less-than-threes” and smiley faces only makes you look like a desperate doucher with self-esteem issues. And to insinuate that I need to find happiness? Because I didn’t enjoy your solo show? Bitch, I’m not the one who tried to OD.

I’m sorry that I originally felt bad for you, and I’m sorry that I have a painting of you in my house; it will be listed on eBay within the next 24 hours. But hey, thanks for giving me a lot to think about and making me realize that I’m only going to be more ballsy from here on out. Playing it safe is for pussies. I’m glad you found my review and that I obviously evoked a strong reaction from you.

Otherwise, what’s the point of continuing this song and dance?

Chiodos FTW.

I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER NOW.

On December 17th, Henry and I were Cleveland-bound again, this time for the Craig Owens solo show at the Grog Shop. You might know that I have had a long-standing love affair with Craig Owens’ music ever since he was in Chiodos, even though I feel that I’m starting to out-grow him a little bit at a time. (I love his new band, but there is this braggadocian cloud he’s been riding lately that I’m just not a fan of. It’s really hard to explain, because he acts all Kumbaya at his solo shows, but when he’s on stage with his band D.R.U.G.S., I kind of want to vomit into a hobo boot.) Regardless, Craig still has a way of warming my soul so I thought it would do wonders considering the depressed state I had been floundering in.

Plus, all that time to irritate Henry while he’s trapped in the car with me and the constant rotation of Jonny Craig projects oozing from the speakers, making me fan my face? You can’t get that kind of joy in regular therapy.

Henry’s favorite part of the trip was all the piles and piles of snow that began to appear as we drew nearer to Cleveland. He knew that it was supposed to snow later that night, but didn’t know that it had already previously snowed the night before. I did know this and made the mistake of casually saying that I had seen snow pictures from some Cleveland people on Twitter and Henry was all, “YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?” like the fallen snow was code for me taking his mom to get a clandestine piercing.

Apparently now on top of sitting around looking pretty, I have to keep tabs on the weather. I’m so overworked in this relationship.

Getting lost, sliding in snow, PISSED.

By the time we made it to Coventry, we were starving and running out of pre-show time. There’s a Winking Lizard near the Grog Shop and we settled on that, because we had eaten there before and I was reaching that point where I was so hungry that I honestly didn’t know what I wanted and we were about to come to blows. Henry ordered a chicken caesar salad and I honestly did a spit-take. I mean, it’s unusual for men to order a salad to begin with, but Henry? HENRY? BLUE-COLLAR HENRY? I have not once in my life seen this man eat a salad unless it was atop a blood-dripping burger.

“What are you suddenly watching your girlish figure?” I asked him.

“No, my stomach is still messed up*,” he mumbled. So what does he do? He orders a salad and a side of wings. He threatened to make me cry if I took a picture of him and his salad.

*(I still think I brought home some kind of Bavarian virus from the music box museum.)

I felt like living large so I ordered some gingerbread cocktail in spite of Henry’s pursed lips and shaking head. It was pretty much the worst thing I have ever imbibed this side of an egg cream, which made Henry go on a tirade about how I just wasted $6 and I was like, “Jesus, I’ll offer to wash the dishes if your piddly Faygo salary can’t afford a $6 cocktail, go cry in your pussy caesar salad.” It’s just a matter of time before one of us tries to stab the other at a restaurant.

We had just enough time to run down to Big Fun after dinner, which is one of my favorite places to shop in Cleveland. I was hoping to grab some last minute Christmas bullshit for Chooch, but the most annoying people in the world were in there (most of them were probably en route to the Craig show, I’m sure) so I got fed up. I was also going to buy a pair of reindeer ears, because Craig had tweeted earlier that he wanted all the boys at the show to wear Santa hats and all the girls to wear reindeer ears, but then you know what? I got this sudden jolt of self-righteousness and said, “Fuck this, I’m too old to be playing sheep.” So I put it back and got some giant rubber mustache for Tommy and Jessy’s dogs. Next time Craig does something I tell him to do in a tweet, we’ll talk.

Besides, I hate being like other people. I enjoy being the plain old lady at the back of the show. Reindeer ears would only distract from that.

We got to the Grog Shop just as the first opening band was starting. I grabbed us a spot at the bar and immediately began chugging Strongbow. It was either get drunk or be emotionally vulnerable and cry through the whole show. It was bad enough there was one acoustic emo band after the next playing all kinds of wrist-cutting melancholy.

I don’t remember much about the opening band. They were local and their name had something do with Wolves. But the second band, Envoi, came out and I was immediately taken by the singer.

“He is so fucking hot and totally my type,” I hissed at Henry. By this point, Henry likely could have achieved a buzz off my breath alone. I like to slam back some Strongbow, ok?

Henry didn’t respond, so I repeated myself.

“He’s not that hot,” he muttered. At first I thought maybe he was just sulking, but he’s typically a pretty decent wingman so I was confused. That didn’t stop me from tweeting things like, “I can’t wait to date rape this singer after the show, just as soon as I chuck my kid’s carseat out of the backseat.” I mean, I had it so bad that I kept latching on to Henry’s bicep and squeezing, while making purring sounds that probably made everyone around me uncomfortable.

After their set, I kept my eyes on him, willing him to come over to the bar. He had huge gauges and was wearing a slouchy beanie and scene glasses – TOTALLY MY TYPE, RIGHT GUYS? Henry was still frowning over my latest conquest.

Finally, he did end up coming over to the bar, and squeezed in right next to where I was sitting. I was so stunned that I swiveled by seat away from him and mouthed to Henry, “WELL IS HE HOT OR WHAT?” Henry was firm in his stance and said, “No, not at all.”

I quickly spun my head around, letting my eyes scan him just long enough to determine that, oh fuck, Henry was right. This guy was so not hot at all. Not even his sex-voice would have been enough to win me over after finally seeing him close up.

“My eyes are really bad,” I said, returning to my can of Strongbow. At least I know I can still trust Henry as my wingman, even when he wears my pink Delia’s scarf.

Then we were totally making fun of this flapper-wannabe with an angel halo head topper and she totally ended up being with Craig’s “band.” I think she just stood there playing the tambourine. I was not impressed. But before I could find that out, we had to get through two more bands, one of which was My Arcadia, a female-fronted band we recently saw at Warped Tour. I liked them better this time, though I did admit to Henry that I wished the singer was just a smidge hotter. She had good stage presence at least.

Sometime before Craig took the stage, our friend Jason arrived and Henry immediately turned into a sycophant. He’s so ridiculous when it comes to bromances. He practically clotheslined himself against the bar, trying to get the bartender to put Jason’s Boylan’s on our tab.

“Can we go now?”

Craig came out and chose to cover Bieber’s “Under the Mistletoe” as his opening song. I thought it was a joke at first; who wouldn’t? He slowed it down and made it all breathy and serious; I kept waiting for him to stop abruptly and say, “Sike, naw!”

But no. He was serious. This was unironic. I seemed to be in the minority, considering that all the kids in the crowd were going ape nuts over this. I kept frowning at Henry and rubbing my chin, like this was going to help me suddenly make sense of things. It just sounded absolutely ridiculous.

At least the next song was “Lindsay Quit Lollygagging”, and I adore that song so much, you guys. It takes me back to a pre-pregnancy time. But for some reason, I kept finding ways to make everything about Speck, so I started crying, and since I was drunk, it was that stupid half-sobbing/half-laughing psychotic meltdown which usually leaves me wanting to punch people and there just happened to be a group of 4 or 5 asshole chicks next to me who I always see at Craig/Chiodos shows and I’m pretty sure they’re from Pittsburgh and I just really hate them. They do all these horrible exaggerated Glee-movements while drunkenly singing along with flipped-back heads, but this is just when they’re not SCREAM-CONVERSING with each other over top all of the songs.

The last time I felt like fighting while drinking Strongbow was at a Chiodos show in Columbus, only this time it was two jocks standing behind me, talking shit on the Penguins (too bad they won the Stanley Cup a month later, motherfuckers).

Anyway, I think I lost some love for Craig that night. He talked too much and there were times when he was borderline cult-leader up there on that stage. And he’s all “OMG I LOVE MY FANS” to such an extreme degree that it’s almost hard to believe his sincerity. I really don’t like feeling this way! But he leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth now. And also, I paid to hear him sing his fucking songs, not all the kids in the audience. I really dislike that he only sings three words and then gives away the mic.

Meanwhile, Henry’s caesar salad began knocking on the exit door, so he took off for the nearest bathroom, after refusing to poop on the prison-like Grog Shop commodes. I didn’t see him for at least four songs. Which ended up being most of the set, since the Grog Shop double-booked and Craig had to be off the stage around 9. Totally fucking weak. I knew this ahead of time, but I guess I assumed all the other bands would have cut their sets short to give Craig more time. And I also feel like Craig wasted so much of his set on stupid songs.

I really wanted to hear “Bibles and Badges” and we all know it’s all about me.

He did a few D.R.U.G.S. songs (none I particularly care for), “Intensity in Ten Cities” (not my favorite but at least it’s Chiodos), a Cinematic Sunrise joint and a song off the mediocre solo EP he put out a few years ago. Pretty disappointing show, but I was still happy to be out of the house, drunk, and having some quality time with Henry. (I know, right?) And it’s always a treat to see Jason.

At one point, he brought his puppy Charlie out so everyone could say hello and all that did was make me sad again. “SHE’S GONNA DIE SOMEDAY!” I was screaming in my head. I miss my fucking cat so bad.

The last song he sang was “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek,” one of my all-time favorite Chiodos songs. He left the stage and had a bunch of guys hold him up which was cool, but that just made it easier for him to give the mic to the crowd. HI CRAIG, CAN YOU SING ONE SONG IN ITS ENTIRETY? At least let me get a quarter of my money’s worth? Cut the summer camp bullshit, please. He kept stopping during every song, putting his hand behind his ear and screaming “WHAT?” while holding the mic out to the crowd. I cringed every time.

I get that he wants it to be all intimate and shit, but then go for more of a Storyteller’s vibe and DON’T STOP SINGING.

Still, when he left the stage, I turned and walked back to Henry and Jason with my lip all protruding like a TV tray. Jason pantomimed straining to lift it up from the floor while Henry gave me that “Please don’t embarrass me by crying” mustache bristle. Afterward, we hung around and talked to Jason for a little bit before heading back to Pittsburgh, where Henry thankfully only needed to stop twice to tend to his explosive diarrhea.

(I also asked Henry some questions about his night at the show, which I will type up here tomorrow! And hey, don’t forget to tell me if you’re Team Poor Henry or Team Blame Henry!)

There was no late shift at work today; freebie for me!

It was nice to actually be home for dinner and I demanded Mexican food.

Mustachioed.

Pouting. When we left the house, he fell down the driveway.

Every day, I cry out DON’T RUN DOWN THE DRIVEWAY! in vail. He totally bit it today, scraped his knee, and is basically acting like he needs an organ transplant now. I have no idea where he gets this melodrama.

My new favorite Henry picture.

And now we’re listening to Dance Gavin Dance all the way home.

The pins have arrived! Chooch and I are squealing like little school bitches! They look so good I can hardly stand it! Thank you, Andrea!

And just to clarify: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Does anyone want one? I was thinking $1.50 for each (to compensate postage & Henry’s grief), + I’ll toss in some extra art cards, etc I have for my Etsy shops. (I feel like such a sellout.) I was going to list them on Etsy but it seems stupid to have to deal with listing fees on such a small product, so perhaps directly through PayPal? My email address on there is erinr.kelly@gmail.com. Just let me know which one you want!

Chooch buttons coming soon!

(Oh, and speaking of Henry: I have a new interview with him coming later today.)

[Ed. Note: Today’s “Best of 2011 Repost” is from the Fayette County Fair, where I spent my 32nd birthday in July. I want to say it was a fabulous day, but the truth is that only parts of it were fabulous; still, it was enough to be one of my favorite days of the year and it makes me smile sinisterly every time I go back and read it. Apologies to the people who are annoyed that I am reposting shit they already read. Let me live a little, will ya.]

Spending a birthday at the county fair seems like a great idea on paper: gut-churning rides, complimentary (if not downright sleazy) carnies, fried desserts (calorie counts are nil on birthdays, everyone knows that), the cacophony of laughing children and tractor pulls (forgetting for a moment that I hate children and anything with even the slightest redneck-tilt).

Yes, a perfect day!

But then you add in Henry, whose face threatens to crack a million different ways if even the slightest hint of a smile creeps upon his lips; Blake, who is apparently an 80-year-old retiree in an 18-year-old’s body, adverse to sunlight and complaining of back pain and lethargy all day; Chooch, who is a little motherfucking birthday killer-in-training who makes the day all about HIM HIM HIM; and Janna, who won’t ride anything aside from a carousel and a 20-second-long Haunted Mansion ride that Henry’s SAT score out-scares.

Not to mention the fact that these assholes weren’t constantly fawning over me and winning me plush Family Guy characters. IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY, NEED I REMIND YOU.

Blake and his new friends, planning their upcoming move to Florida.

Awkward Standing.

At first glance, I was like, “Aw shit, this fair might be pretty good.” I mean, it was run by Powers Great American Midway, after all, and I am obsessed with them. However, it was only about half the size of the Big Butler Fair, and I’ll tell you: That fair can spoil a bitch. Power’s light blue unit brought along some choice rides. (Is it sad that I know which “unit” PGAM deployed to the Fayette County fairgrounds? Maybe I look at their website too much.) And I saw lots of familiar carny faces, one of which was Kirk’s! I didn’t talk to him, though. What’s the point when my lame non-carny boyfriend was glued to my side all day?

But the layout of the fair sucked. And it was super muddy and smelled like sewage, but that was probably because Henry kept standing so close to me. Still: 100% better than the shitty Washington County Fair. (I go to county fairs a lot. It’s kind of become A Thing.)

You know you go to a lot of fairs when you start to recognize carnies, is all I’m sayin’.

Blake: Jeepers, it’s so hot! I think I’m dying! And I left my cane at the home and missed my 3:00pm dinner! I wonder if Dad has any individually-wrapped prunes in his pocket before I pass out.

Thank God Lisa and her husband Matt met us out there a few hours after we arrived. They joined us in standing around awkwardly, which is something that people need to master before even attempting to hang out with me. (I suggest going to a crowded store and standing right in front of a doorway or at the top of an escalator for practice. Do not move when you find that you are blocking foot traffic, and ignore the scowls you inspire. Only then can we hang out.) Lisa was in a really good mood and I like to think it’s because she knows how delicate of a situation my birthday is, like the entire premise of Speed, with less bus more birthday cake, but actually Lisa is always pretty chill and somehow wasn’t completely put off by the foul moods of my companions who need to be reminded that SOME PEOPLE AREN’T LUCKY ENOUGH TO GET TO GO TO THE FAIR.

Fuck!

Within minutes, Chooch claimed Matt and I’m sure everyone at the fair assumed they were father and son after that. I’m sorry, Matt. But Henry and I were relieved to be off the hook for awhile.

***

A week before the fair, I was on the phone with Lisa.

“I hope the fair is a good one,” she said thoughtfully.

“Um, Lisa? Of course it will be. It’s run by Powers Great American Midways,” I informed her haughtily.

“I don’t know what that means.”

THAT’S BECAUSE SOMEONE DOESN’T READ MY BLOG.

***

Lisa and Matt agreed to ride the Orbiter with me immediately after they arrived. I was SO EXCITED. Finally! I get to ride something moderately extreme! But then we got in line and I saw it said “No single riders” and those asshole words are ALWAYS BEING SNEERED AT ME at fairs because I am perpetually single in this world of grinding traps of pleasure (amusement rides, not vagina dentata). I looked at Janna who had accompanied us to the line and she said no before I even asked her. Way to tag along on something you’re not a part of, then Janna! So I had to run over to Henry and Blake, who had combined to form a Dildo-ic Duo while Chooch rode some stupid train operated by Kirk.

I hadn’t even approached them yet and I was already absolutely wailing about how Janna ruined my life and wouldn’t ride with me and Blake, while I was still approaching them mid-run, said no. Henry, however, said: “Fine.”

“What?” I asked in surprise.

“I said fine,” he sighed.

I guess he was trying to make up for the fact that he failed epically in the birthday present department once again. (Seriously, he got me a shirt that I already have, which proves that he doesn’t look at me. Ever.) This was the SECOND ride he rode on! (We rode on the Swings when we first got there. They made him sick.)

Oh, I was so happy! And the best part was that it took so long for the ride to get loaded to capacity, that Henry and I had plenty of time to talk about Jonny Craig!

Henry bitched about the Oribiter for the rest of his time at the fair. “I have cold sweats,” he kept complaining, though I’m not sure to whom because last time I checked, his mommy didn’t come with us and she’s the only person who gives a shit about him. He didn’t ride anything else after that, though I kept trying to con him into being my partner on the Skydiver, since it’s less commitment that being my partner for life. He kept saying, “We’ll see,” which everyone knows means NO.

After Chooch and Matt, Lisa, Janna and I had our turn at sliding down the Fun Slide, which I hadn’t done since I was a kid and good goddamn is that scary. Ascending the steps alone made me clutch my heart. I felt like there was going to be a religious cult waiting at the top to push me back down the steps into God’s eternal arms. It was like walking into the hospital on D-Day and wanting to run back out the doors but having 3 nurses pull you back in because “that baby’s gotta come out one way or another, sweetheart!” Longest climb of my life.

“I’m scared,” I told the Mexican carny who smiled, probably assuming I said, “Let’s go fuck behind that lemon cart you pushed across the border.” What? The Pennsylvania border, you guys.

Lisa thought it was the funnest thing at the fair, Janna had no comment, and I was just glad I didn’t slide through piss, shit, vomit, a chewed-up wad of Skoal or semen. And by “it,” I mean the Fun Slide, not Mexican carny sex. I know you were probably confused.

Things took a turn for the worse when I decided I was ready to eat something and made everyone halt and bow to my whims. I ended up getting a small bowl of haluski, which seemed like an OK choice as far as keeping my stomach lining primed and at the ready for vigorous riding. (And yes, finally I’m talking about sex!) Besides, it was either that or throw away 16 years of vegetarianism for some unidentifiable meat on a stick. There was some lame square dance bullshit happening inside the 4H building, so we all sat around and pretended to care about that while I ate. (Lisa really did care, though. She likes the simpler things in life.) This was about the time Chooch turned into the biggest prick of all the fair, and Blake did nothing but antagonize him which only increased Chooch’s crowd-drawing by 500%.

I attempted to not look like I belonged to the two of them by focusing my attention on the asshole inside the 4H building who was singing the most ridiculous square dance songs for these idiotic plaid-tastic children to clomp around to. I almost wished he had CDs for sale so I could buy one and break it in front of his face. God, get fucked with your pathetic farm melodies, douchebag square dance warbler.

In the middle of the Chooch & Blake: American Assholes show, there was an older lady sitting nearby (the blond Peg Bundy in the background of the above picture) who said about Chooch, “Boy he sure is cute” but what she meant to say was, “Damn, child. Your mama needs to put you in a cage because you are acting like one hell of a mother fucker.” And then to me, she said, “We just ate some fried Oreos for dessert. Boy they sure were good!” and what she meant by that was, “Bitch, why don’t you go to the other side of the fairgrounds, far away from me, and choke your bastard child on some fried Oreos, because he is being one hell of a mother fucker.”

Chooch flipped over a chair in response while I pretended that Janna was his mom.

The square dance brigade had some young child canvassing the area with literature. He approached me with his stack of white and green papers and said, “Would you like one, they’re free?”

“I want a green one,” I said with just the right drop of bitchy entitlement. He looked slightly stunned, like no one had ever bothered to make a color request before. While he shuffled through the stack in search of a green one, I said smugly, “It’s my birthday.”

Lisa and Janna were watching this pan out. Lisa looked mildly amused and Janna looked like she was bracing herself for the ‘splaining she was going to have to do to the kid’s mom by the time I was done antagonizing him. This is just how I talk to children: in a very demeaning, ironic way. They seem to like it.

Meanwhile, the guy who was inside singing the square dance “songs” promised “this next one” would “speed up.”

“You should join our square dance group!” He sounded nervous, slightly intimidated by me. Just how I like boys to be.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, as I folded up the paper. (The age limit is 20, by the way. THAT KID RULES FOR THINKING I’M NOT OLDER THAN 20.)

“This next one” still hadn’t “sped up.”

“Dylan!” a lady called from inside the 4H house. “Come dance to this last song!” Sure, maybe there was some plaid lass inside who missed being partnered-up with Dylan, but I have suspicions that this lady just didn’t want him near me anymore.

“Yeah!” I yelled in my best “I’m riding the Wacky Worm, motherfuckers!” impression and when he looked at me all startled-like, I gave him a thumbs-up and said, “Do it! Wooo!”

Lisa hadn’t heard the lady call for him in the first place, and admitted later that she thought I was just spontaneously excited, though she was confused why I was telling some young boy to “do it.”

Then I called Dylan my “new son” and Chooch got all upset. I win at parenting.

I have no recollection of Henry being anywhere near us that whole time.

Oh apparently he was off supporting his cocaine habit.

I told Dylan I was going to watch him, but that was actually the time we rose up as a group and went to the petting zoo. Fucking with children is the one true talent your God gave me.

Here is all I remember about the petting zoo: I relayed my birthday woes to a camel and then Chooch fell in a pig sty and Henry had to take him and Blake home.

Coincidentally, my night really picked up after that! Janna bought me root beer in a tin mug from an old broad who tried too hard to sway our decisions and Lisa and I rode the Gravitron with the cast of Jersey Shore. It was fabulous!

Lisa encourages me to take pictures of every little thing she does. She’s like Chooch, but grown.

The only downside to the Fair: After Hours (read: After the Douches Left) was that neither Lisa nor Matt would ride the Zipper with me. I was only able to ride it once, earlier in the day before Blake’s desire to drink a glass of Metamucil and take a nap got the best of him. We talked a little bit about music while trapped inside the Zipper’s jaws, but I could tell he wasn’t having too much fun.

Everyone is growing up but me.

Janna, Lisa and I rode this moderate thrill ride called the Tornado, which is pretty tame but Janna was still clutching her rosary and trying not to re-eat her haluski while Lisa manually spun our car around on top of giving Janna dating advice. My favorite part was when the ride ended and Lisa’s safety bar didn’t release. She pulled it toward her, hoping it would spring back, but it only made it tighter. I fetched the carny and then ran away to stand outside of the ride’s gate by Matt, who had been relegated to little more than a Purse Tree at that point.

The carny gave Lisa a hard time for awhile before manually releasing the bar for her. As she and Janna approached Matt and me, Lisa yelled, “And I love how Erin just ran away!”

Behind her, looking a gorgeous shade of gangrene from her jaunt on the Tornado, Janna irritably mumbled, “Yeah. She does that.” Possibly Janna’s way of suggesting that Lisa spends more time with me.

Janna bought* me a birthday ice cream cone from a girl who had been punched in the eye. Lisa opted for more scatastically phallic fare. Then we said goodbye to the fair and immediately upon leaving the parking lot, Janna’s GPS lured us out onto un-lit backwoods lanes and I’m not going to lie: It was scarier than riding the Zipper in a lightning storm with the cage unlatched. This was after Janna got raped by a bug.

(* This mostly happened because when Henry left the fair, so did my money.)

Happy fucking birthday to me, to me, to me.