When Jeannie got out of the car that Sunday afternoon two weeks ago, she asked me how I was doing. I told her the truth instead of abiding by my Pappap’s rule of “it’s easier to just say ‘fine!'” and admitted to her that I was hungover, and possibly slightly concerned I might puke on her shoes.

I had already canceled plans once with her when I was sick a few weeks ago, and no way was I doing that twice! I canceled twice on Sandy for after-work drinks and now she thinks I hate her/am allergic to her/am a horrible liar.

I’m going to have a reputation soon.

Jeannie and I went to one of my favorite places, the Mattress Factory, where we pretended to understand the things we were seeing. Jeannie taught me that sometimes it helps to read the informative plaques next to each art installation.

Afterward, we walked through a house for sale down the street which had obnoxiously shallow closets. I originally wanted Jeannie to buy the house, because it was old and weird, but then I worried about where she would hide if a killer was after her, a la Michael Myers.

She said she liked how that was the first place my mind went, but that’s just my “normal.” After awhile, she probably wouldn’t like it so much. I know Henry sure doesn’t.

We ended the day with coffee at Crazy Mocha, where I had to pee so bad even though there were at least 87 bathrooms I could have patronized at the Mattress Factory, and then I used the last of the toilet paper, wherein I had an existential crisis over whether to tell an employee.

I ended up not telling an employee about the toilet paper. But at least I didn’t puke on Jeannie’s shoes.

The rest of my day was pretty horrible, so I was thankful for this one bright spot.

It wasn’t until we were on the way to the roller rink that I noticed the four long whiskers protruding from Henry’s chin like the acicular spines of a cactus. I felt it was my duty as his girlfriend to not only point this out to him, but to belittle and ridicule him as well. (I was already a bit bristled that he shaved in the first place. I hate the fresh-faced molester look he achieves from shaving his untamed brush.)

“If I ever did something like that to you,” Henry fired back. He didn’t need to finish that statement. We both know what I’d do.

I think on a normal night, he’d have shrugged it off. But on this night, some of my friends from work were coming out to Soul Skate, so he made a panic-stop at a 7-11 and bought a pair of clippers.

***

I was nervous when we arrived at the rink, because there weren’t many people there. Not that there ever really is, but I was worried that my friends would get there and feel that I had over-hyped Adult Skate with the Steel City Rollers. (Which I do over-hype it, but that’s just my nature to develop unhealthy obsessions and then blow it out of proportion like a bad boob job.) I was also still under the umbrella of that plague that pretty much rendered me useless for two weeks in March. By the night of Soul Skate, though, the pressure had moved out of my sinuses and into my tooth. It was fantastic and didn’t make me feel dizzy or on the precipice of tears at all. [See: sarcasm.]

Not being 100% really showed in my skating abilities. My legs were wobbly and a few times felt as though they might give out.

“Now my friends are going to think I was lying about how dream-like I am on wheels!” I whined to Henry, even though I was lying to them about how dream-like I am on wheels.

Kristen got here first and brought two of her friends with her. She introduced me to them by saying, “This is Erin, she’s the one who organized this whole thing!” as we stood right next to some of the Steel City Rollers. I very quickly clarified that I was the one who sent out the Facebook invite in order to recruit new soul skaters. That’s all I need is for the Rollers to think some prissy honky cracker is trying to usurp their territory! I panicked about it for a few minutes, and Henry was like, “I don’t think they would care.” But I know if someone tried to take credit for something I organized, I would rip off their head with my bare heads and then take it outside and curb-stomp it. This is also what I would do to anyone Henry might be stupid enough to cheat on me with.

By the time Sandy arrived, I had skated a few laps already and my sickness had left my face feeling like a glazed ham. I tried to play it off like it was the sweat from An Athlete and attempted to talk to her off-rink for a few minutes, but Roller DJ kept playing all my jams so I’d have no choice but to skate off into the horizon.

“You invite your friends here and then don’t even talk to them?!” Henry chastised as we pretended to be a skating couple in love.

“They didn’t come here to talk to me!” I yelled over the bumpin’ soul. “They came here to see this,” I said, pointing to my quads and almost falling. “And also to see Roller DJ.” It’s always good to end a statement with honesty. This is what I’m teaching in my first off-college course which is being held in my attic next month. The class is called How to Write on the Internet While Avoiding Death Threats.

Pretending to be in Love. Henry ruined this picture. But then he bought me an official Steel City Rollers’ Spring Bling t-shirt so I forgave him for that and his horrible shave-job.

I noticed that Kristen, Sandy, and Kristen’s friends had vanished, but I found them hanging out in the snack room.

“Oh, you’re going to talk to us now!” Sandy sneered, at which point I had to explain the hold that the roller rink has over my motor skills. I can’t just break away to go chat it up whenever I want! I have to wait until the song is over, at which point I will then wait to see what Roller DJ has queued up and only then can it be determined if I can leave that beautiful wood floor. (I also darted off the rink a few times in order to suck Orajel straight from the tube.)

Henry and his molester-mask sat by themselves. He’s intimidated of Sandy, I think, because she harangues him from afar. He attempted to “get revenge” by pointing and laughing at her as she stumble-skated around the rink, when meanwhile she wasn’t even doing a bad job. Whatever makes you feel better, Henry. Why don’t you go treat yourself to a white unmarked van.

Wendy was the last to arrive. “Was I supposed to pay?” she asked. She apparently just walked right in and got away with it because she’s Wendy and can pull shit like that off. If I had tried a stunt like that, I’d probably still be detained with a potato sack over my swollen face in some abandoned factory on Neville Island.

All three of them were skating n00bs, so I probably did look like a dream-on-wheels to them. I had planned on making fun of their Frankenstein skating-strides, but I want them to come back so maybe I shouldn’t do that. They seemed to get joy from watching the Rollers, though, so some of my event organizing insecurities subsided.

Sandy, Wendy, me and post-spill Kristen

Roller DJ sought me out and came over for a chat. Kristen thought it would be adorable to take my picture with him, which he happily (and me? grudgingly) obliged. It took Kristen an entire late shift to get her phone ready for picture time, which gave me infinite minutes to stand around awkwardly while Sandy laughed at me from behind Roller DJ’s back.

Damn, I love me some Roller DJ, even though he never played my Bone Thugs n Harmony joint that one night. I’m going to ask one of the Rollers to request a song for me next time (OMG this Saturday!). I want Casserine’s magnum opus “Why Not Take All of Me.” In fact, I’m going to illegally download that shit right now. I need to feel all 1996 again.

Because I haven’t been feeling enough like a sixteen-year-old this week.

There was only one person I hated that night. Some older broad wearing a mauve sweater straight from grandma’s closet, feet stuffed in her own pair of white leather skates. She had the nerve to scream OUTSIDE! to me at one point when I was nowhere even close to being in her way as she skated grumpily in between me and the wall. I got all fired up about this, because when the Rollers do this, they cheer happily to alert you of their approaching presence. I wanted to scream it back to her later in the night, but of course I was going to add “YOU DUMB BITCH!” to it. Henry quickly snuffed out this plan.

I saw her skating with some super old bitch later in the night, presumably her mom. They had their arms around each other like they were skating through Central Park in 1926.

“Do you think that’s her mom?” Kristen asked.

“Has to be,” I spat. “Because no way does she have any friends.” SHE IS ON MY LIST.

Sandy and Kristen left around 9:30. Wendy, Henry and I spent the last half hour in the snack room, drinking Orange Crush and essentially talking shit on Sandy and Kristen. We even made hand puppets in their likeness to make the back-stabbing into a real show.

I felt so fraudulent sitting out the last 30 minutes, but the muscles in my legs were the consistency of after-birth at that point, considering it was the most exertion they’d experienced in the two weeks I had been ill. By the time the night was over, I felt even worse, but Soul Skate was worth it.

Hopefully my work friends understand that the only reason I don’t twirl and do splits is because I like to keep it real. Also, because I only know how to skate really fast, like I’m being chased by naked androgynous beings bearing flaming strap-ons.

GO DANGEROUS DARYLL, GO!

Since the middle of March, I had been going through life incorrectly informed on the date of Easter. This is, of course, Henry’s fault, who told me, “Oh, it’s April 4th” when I asked him.

You’ll note that April 4th is not even a Sunday. That slight in information apparently didn’t raise any suspicions in me. Not even when I sent out Facebook invitations for an Easter egg dyeing party and scheduled it for Saturday, April 2nd, i.e. “the day before Easter.”

Meanwhile, I was looking at the calendar for Chooch’s school and noted that Sarris Easter candy pick-up is April 7th. I freaked out. How was I going to tell the people who ordered candy from Chooch that it wasn’t going to be here in time for Easter basket grass-strangulation? This was appalling to me and made me hate Chooch’s school even more.

And when one of my old friends from school suggested getting our kids together “two Sundays from now,” I was like, “I guess this dum-dum doesn’t know that’s Easter.”

It was sometime last week when I found out Easter is actually the 24th. And none of my friends even questioned why I wanted to dye eggs so early. They’re so sweet. (And also probably know not to question my motives.)

I appreciated that Kara put so much effort into it. She was the only one who used the piece of shit egg-stamping kit I threw in the cart when Henry said, “Don’t get that, it looks stupid.” Well guess what, Henry, for the third time in 10 years you were right. It’s still all your fault, though. And then he had to prepare all the dye, of course, and was beyond irritated that Chooch and I had previously opened some of the kits and mixed things all up. For the third time in my life, I thought Henry was going to walk out on us, send his mom over later to pick up his belongings.

No one could remember who did the pretty blue and pink spotted egg so I quickly took credit. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I only dyed two eggs before growing bored: the first one I lost, and the second one of course had a weener drawn on it, which didn’t turn out well but Gina promised she knew what it was.

Henry’s son Robbie stopped by with his girlfriend Karen. They wouldn’t dye any eggs, preferring instead to spectate. Then they put their pretenses aside and retreated to the other room to watch the hockey game and talk to Henry. (Who chooses talking to Henry over dyeing eggs? Over anything?)

The good thing about my friends is that when Henry leaves the room, I don’t have to seamlessly sink into parenting mode, because my friends are there to do that for me. I do not have the time to make sure my kid isn’t swigging from dye cups. I’m not even sure Janna dyed any of her own eggs because she was too busy helping Chooch with glitter and sequins and making sure he didn’t die of negligence.

And I appreciated that when Chooch mistakenly plopped an egg in Gina’s cup of wine, on which I painstakingly went through the motions of Sharpie’ing her name and the words NOT EGG DYE which might not be very beneficial to four-year-old non-readers, she was like, “No, it’s cool” and just drank around it.

She must have really enjoyed this new way to quaff wine because she spent the rest of the evening watching Chooch play some stupid Pokemon game on Wii, so that means they’re BFFs now. In Chooch’s book, anyway.

This might have been one of my most poorly-planned parties ever. I’ll start planning next year’s tomorrow.

I woke up feeling like complete shit the next morning. I mean, a hangover is the natural end result of a night of Easter egg-dyeing, right?

We entertained Kim, Chris and their friend George on Saturday. And when I say “we” I of course actually mean “Chooch” who gets so excited about having company that he doesn’t even fight us when we tell him to put on pants. The illustrious Jimmy Wenger even graced us with his presence. When I introduced him to Chooch as “Jimmy,” Chooch nodded knowingly and said, “Oh, Jimmy Wenger.” At least I know Chooch is listening when I blabber endlessly about my ghost hunting adventures.

Don really took to Jimmy, who brought with him two bottles of Asti which I pretended to open on my own, but really it was all Chris. Jimmy also brought his ghost-capturing camera and spent a large portion of the night photographing all the spirits in my house. Don’t worry, he said they were all very mild and docile.

I was hoping someone other than George’s reflection would show up in the mirror, which made Henry shake his head and scoff like he does when watching “Jersey Shore.” (Which he does, by the way. He watches “Jersey Shore.”)

Kim’s friend George had just bought Last Night on Earth earlier that day and brought it with him. I was afraid to make any commitment when he asked if we wanted to play because board games of that elaborate nature intimidate my patience and attention-span. And also my intellect, in that it makes me woefully aware of how little I have. But once Chooch went to bed, after delighting the masses with his sassy remarks and toothless-lisp (like when Kim had the audacity to ask him what his painting was of and he said, “Oh for god’s sake, it’s monster brains!” and then made me take it off the wall and write it with a Sharpie so that no one will ever insult his artistic impressionism ever again), I decided to put my preconceived notions regarding gaming behind me and then laughed as Henry pretended to be literate by burying his furry face in the 8,000 page instruction manual. Jimmy quickly deduced that this wasn’t going to be some short pleasant stroll through Candyland, so he said good night before we (i.

e. the boys) started laying out the pieces.

Everyone but Kim and me took a stab at the rule book. My motto is basically, “You tell me when to roll the die, and I will roll the die. Then when I draw a card, I will pretend to read it and then give it to the person closest to me who is not named Henry and have them read it and tell me what to do.” This worked quite well for this particular game and I even started catching on during the LAST ROUND, when I went to play one of my cards, paused and said, “Wait – that would be stupid at this point, right?” George politely concurred but Chris was like, “Yeah, you dumbo!” and then made all kinds of hateful noises while Kim gave me sympathetic looks and mouthed, “I know exactly how you feel.” Assuming I knew how to read lips.

But I’m getting ahead of myself!

Henry was Father Joseph; I controlled ALL OF the zombies. Obviously my goal was to kill all of the humans, but all I could focus on was killing Henry’s fucking chaste character. I was irritated with him because he knew we were having company that night, but waited until they GOT HERE to go to the store and get snacks. I guess some of that can be attributed to the fact that we are notoriously blown off by people. I can’t tell you how many countless times we (haha “we”) have cleaned the house, bought beer and wine, made preparations to order pizza, only to sit by the window and wait for no one to show up. Granted, it was always the same two people who pulled this stunt on us, one as recently as three weeks ago, both habitual liars, but it is really sad how we now just expect everyone to do it. Meanwhile, Kim and Chris aren’t social assholes and showed up like they said they would, prompting me to have the urge to act super-giddy and over-the-top excited, like I’ve never had people over before in my life. Luckily, my naive amazement was eclipsed by a hyperactive child, so they probably didn’t notice how excited I was to bring out the plate of cheese.

Did I mention I controlled ALL OF the zombies?

I was well-hated Saturday night. I think Chris hated me the most. I’ve never been called a bitch in one sitting so many times in my life! (To my face, anyway. Except that one time I beat all those Koreans at gymnastics.) I would have held it against him if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with the memory of how wonderfully rich his homemade Dutch apple pie tasted.

Anyone who brings pie to my house is a winner.

“Fucking zombies.”

Henry was irritated that I chose to play the game on the floor in lieu of sitting at a table like normal adults worried about the curvature of their spine. He complained about it a lot the next day, too, but I’m pretty sure he was just projecting his anger at getting KILLED BY ZOMBIES the night before.

Yeah, that’s right. Father Joseph BIT IT at the hand of my zombies. Ooh, how I relished snuffing out that motherfucker. Henry acted like he was happy about. “Oh good, now I can stand by myself in the dining room and not be a part of this epic game and feel completely left out but not show it.”

Did I mention the awesome soundtrack that came with the game? It brought me back to my goth days, for sure.

Anytime the “humans” didn’t like the way the game was going (usually every time I drew a card that allowed me to be awesome in my undead actions), they would all blame George, since he wrote the rule book. In the end, my zombies were defeated, but in my heart, I was still a winner. Because I killed Henry, which was exactly what I set out to do.

Jimmy Wenger just sent me this picture he took:

This is how we always pose: Me smiling like a ditzy farm girl while using Henry as my dumb-faced man-shield. Imagine him in a tux and me in a white dress with blood splattered all over it and we’ll be able to save ourselves the future financial blow of hiring a wedding photographer. (As if.)

God, Henry is so dumb. How do we even HAVE friends?

“I forgot to tell you, I got stuck talking to that travel office lady last night,” I complained to Henry yesterday. “We were in the bathroom together before I left work, and she started talking to me about my hair while we were washing our hands.” Here is where I would make a disgusted sound for effect. “It was so awkward.”

Henry didn’t say anything, just kept driving.

“Then we had to walk down the hall together! I mean, there was no way around it. We were both headed the same direction.” I shuddered a little in the passenger seat, reliving the horrors of it all, how she penetrates my soul with her intense eye contact that makes me instinctively take two steps back. “And of course, we left at the same time so I had to ride the elevator with her.”

I had a quick flashback of frantically thumping the “close door” button to no avail; she was too quick in her approach and managed to slip in between the doors before they closed completely.

“And then, the whole way to the lobby, all TEN FLOORS down to the lobby, she asked me questions!” I added incredulously.

“Like what?” Henry asked.

“Like, ‘What’s your name? What do you do here? Why do you work part time? Are you in school?'” I rolled my eyes and made more disgruntled throat scrapings. “It was so awkward,” I reiterated.

“That just sounds like a normal conversation to me,” Henry said impatiently. That’s because he lives in a world where conversation is invited, and not the impenetrable bubble of ignorance in which I’ve set up my cozy little hobo camp. My friend Alisha once pointed out that she had never known someone with as much ability to turn every situation into something as painfully awkward as I manage to do every single day of my life. I take a certain pride in that.

“I have to remember I’m talking to a twelve-year-old,” he said mostly to himself; and then, shooting up his voice with an extra dose of condescension, he patronized, “That’s how you MAKE FRIENDS.”

I laughed haughtily. “What makes you think I want to be friends with her?

She’s lame. And old.”

“You’re so judgmental! What if she thinks you’re lame? What if she likes the same music as you?

” And then, as if to really drive home his point, “What if she’s going to see Dance Gavin Dance, too?”

This time absolute hilarity drove away the anger from my laughter and I was practically in tears at the absurdity of his statement. “Trust me, she does not like the same music as me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she wears this ugly leopard print hat from the Grandma Cleavage Store!”

Henry shook his head in defeat and dropped me off at work. Minutes later, the elevator door opened on my floor; as I went to step off, Travel Office Lady was waiting to step on. “Welcome to work!” she exclaimed in that friendly manner that I haven’t quite yet mastered.

For a split second, I felt guilty.

But then my eyes flicked up to her stupid fucking leopard hat and I carried my sanctimonious attitude to my desk like the bloated extra appendage it’s known to be.

The first time I met Evonne was February of 2005. She was Alisha’s roommate at the time, and Alisha and I had just become friends through LiveJournal. My first time visiting, Evonne pulled out her Psychic Circle and it was there, at their dining room table, that I learned Henry was my soul mate but I should break up with him. Being a classy broad with a fully developed maturity level, I took this information home and smashed it in Henry’s face. Even though Evonne reminded me over and over that this was really just a game and should be taken with a grain of salt.

Obviously, we didn’t break up. And things between us got a lot better than they were during that time. Such as, I’m not in a constant effort to make him bleed anymore. And that in turn has made him nicer to me. Who ever would have guessed.

Evonne, Alisha and I tried to play with the Psychic Circle once last year, but it didn’t work because I was being too spiritually uptight, psychically frigid, I don’t know. So when my friend Wendy and I went to Evonne’s this past Saturday night, I made sure to leave all of my expectations and preconceived notions at the door. I mainly focused on all the cheese that we would be eating, and that really helped quell my nerves.

After having social hour with Evonne’s menagerie (she has the sweetest cats and dogs), we said a prayer around the board before jumping right in. I was happy that it was moving for us this time, after last year when my mental baggage created an energy roadblock and the disc basically just sat on the board, dragging its feet like a stubborn child. We quickly learned that there were a ton of spirits there for Wendy, and there was a really emotionally intense moment involving her, which I’m not going to write about it because it’s too personal. But I will say that crying is contagious and I realized then that in the short time I’ve known her, I’ve cried more in front of her than most other people I know, which made Henry shake his head when I told him that later.

When my spirit guide took the reigns, we learned that his name starts with K and he’s someone related to me, but I have no idea who it could be.

“When we did this in 2005, the same thing happened. I still have the notes you gave me that day,” I said to Evonne, who had an accident a few years back and doesn’t really remember meeting me in 2005. We learned that K has been with me for 31 years. The disc slid over to the corner of the board closest to my right and stopped on the word “Look.” The three of us looked all around, and then the disc slid closer to the corner so we focused on that area.

“It’s sitting on the corner for ‘air,'” Wendy pointed out. “So maybe we should look up.”

And when I did, I noticed an old door bell box on the wall with a K on it.

Wow, my spirit guide is a dick.

K also told me to protect myself from Henry and you know me – I got all wide-eyed and started OMG’ing, but Evonne calmly reiterated that this is just a game and shouldn’t be taken literally. Henry’s lucky, otherwise he’d have been slapped with a PFA post haste.

So when he accidentally drops a piano on my head late on a Wednesday afternoon, I’ll be able to laugh and say, “Oh K, you old devil!” before perishing from a brain bleed.

[I will admit that the next night, when we were at the Chiodos show (which I have yet to write about because I’m still too sad) I was afraid to stand too close to Henry. During one of the opening bands, in fact, I left him standing in the back all by himself while I went closer to the stage. YOU NEVER KNOW.]

After awhile, the spirits were like, “Jesus Christ, go eat your fucking fromage already,” and I said a silent prayer because do you know how rough it was for me to sit there with a pile of fine cheeses to my left? I kept tossing it sidelong glances.

One of my contributions was Havarti and I made sure to point out at least six times that it was from God’s Country, wherever the fuck that is. Evonne gave me a knife (mistake #1) and expected me to help her arrange a platter. I silently struggled and when she didn’t notice, I made a few quiet grunts of frustration before she grabbed the hunk from me and did it herself. I was OK with slicing the Amish Butter Cheese, though! Henry would have been proud.

We stuffed ourselves with cheese while bullshitting and I realized that I was feeling absolutely drained, yet very peaceful. We closed down the board a little after midnight and made promises to do it again very soon. You better believe I’ll be back. I need to find out more dirt on Henry.

Most of my Saturday was filled ghosts. Talk of ghosts. Pictures of ghosts. EVPs of ghosts.

My friend Wendy from work had expressed interest in meeting my friend Evonne, who has had a boatload of paranormal experiences. It runs in her family. So the three of us met Saturday afternoon and had one of the most intense, goosebump-springing conversations I’ve ever had in the back of a Starbucks. At one point, I found myself crying a little. It was overall a really positive meet-up and I left there feeling very calm. Plus, I hadn’t seen Evonne since last July, when she stopped by during Blogathon to ply me with a green tea frappucino and zombie hand sanitizer. (Which never fails to cause a commotion when I use it at work because of the lingering bouquet of marshmallow it sends wafting through the air. That stuff is the shit.) We’re planning on meeting up again soon to work with the Psychic Circle (think Ouija Board but way more positive) in Evonne’s haunted house.

Later that night, I had an after-investigation meet up with the ghost hunting group to go over evidence that was culled a few weeks prior from Broughton Elementary. I was really excited to see everyone again and have more awesomeness to rub in Henry’s face. When I was leaving the house that night, he said something to the effect of, “Have fun with your new lame friends.” BECAUSE HE IS JEALOUS.

Everyone from the investigation, minus Tiny, was at Panera in Monroeville, prepared with laptops to display their blown-up photos of orbs and spectral images and digital recorders containing their EVP treasures. George’s girlfriend Kim (the one who refused to go back to the school after feeling the murder in the parking lot) was also there, along with another member of the group–Dwayne–who missed the investigation because he was drunk at the Steelers game and met some chick to go home with. (Seriously, that’s what he told George.) In order to differentiate this new Kim from my friend Kim, I will refer to the new one as George’s Kim, even though that’s practically setting the women’s movement back fifty years. Oh wellz0rz.

It became apparent to me within the first few minutes that George’s Kim is the brawn behind G&K Paranormal. She’s outspoken, organized and no-nonsense. I was sort of scared of her.

While we waited for Kim, Chris and Jimmy Wenger (who were wining and dining at Olive Garden without me because I had my ringer off all day like a dummy), George passed around his camera so we could all see the image he captured from the bottom of the steps by the gym. At the top, there was  clearly a face peering in through the window of the doors to the second floor hallway. It was eerie enough to make me scrunch my shoulders.

“What does that look like to everyone?” George asked.

“Honestly, it looks like an alien. Like ET,” I laughed, and Joel said that he agreed.

But George’s Kim, along with some others, pointed out that it looked like a miner, and when I looked at it again I could totally see it and got even more freaked out. What I thought was an unusually large ET-cranium actually appeared to be the outline of a hardhat. And miners were killed there, you know!

Once everyone arrived, the first order of business seemed to be staging a coup on the group’s founding organizer, Lynn, who was not at the meeting or the investigation. Chris said that whenever she did attend a meeting, she never spoke and was severely lacking in leadership skills. I have not met Lynn yet, but was still fascinated and highly entertained by the dissent happening right in front of me. I sipped my coffee and sat back.

“I’d like to get her to a meeting so we can be direct with her, rather than make it seem like we’re talking behind her back,” George’s Kim suggested. I liked this suggestion, because that meant CONFRONTATION.

“Well, we don’t want to come at her with torches lit,” Chris said, causing me to flash him a look and say, “Yeah we do. I want that very much.”

“You would,” he sighed.

I want to witness a hostile takeover! I want it to come to blows, like a real barroom brawl. I saw that Lynn RSVPd for the next meeting and I am so amped.

“I think the core of our group is really beginning to gel,” Chris added to the discussion, and I found myself wanting to hug everyone. I have friends now, you guys!

Rather than merge our group with G&K Paranormal, it was decided that we will remain our own entity, with George and Kim’s continued guidance. Then a long and boring treasury discussion went on, and I sat there thinking, “Holy fuck. Things are getting legit. I AM A PART OF A REAL LIFE CLUB, YOU GUYS.” Yes, even in my head, I talk to you guys.

“Erin can be our reporter,” Jimmy Wenger tossed in, causing everyone to look at me. Yeah, and what a reporter I’d be!

“No, he’s just kidding,” I said, waving it off and feeling  my face getting red. Then I turned around and called him a dork for doing that. But then he said he liked my cicada ring, Chiodos tattoo and yellow-striped flats, so he’s back to being awesome in my book.

George uses his fingers as an abacus while Jimmy Wenger, who has a Buzz Lightyear zipper pull on his backpack, looks on.

Finally, Brittany pulled out her recorder and we all listened to the EVP she picked up when she was in one of the classrooms with Nick and Lynette. In the recording, we could hear Nick talking, but behind his voice was definitely the cadence of a child, either singing or chanting. It was fucking chilling, even for a Panera Bread meeting room, with hot coffee in my belly. She played it back, over and over, and none of us could come up with any logical explanation. The rest of the groups were nowhere near that room when they were in it, and obviously none of us sound like a child. (Right now, Henry is sitting somewhere with that smug look on his face, saying, “ORLY? You don’t sound like a child??”)

Christine had picked up quite a few EVPs herself, and most if not all seemed to originate either from the upstairs classrooms or the hallway. In one recording, you can hear someone whisper “I’m sorry.” She confirmed that it was when she, Tiny and myself were exiting one of the rooms. She played it back several times, and Chris even pulled out his headphones so we could have a better listen, and I was relieved to discover that it was not actually me saying it like I had anticipated. But then my relief turned to fear as I realized that some dead person was whispering their apologies to us while we were walking in the dark. WHAT WERE THEY SORRY FOR? Oh my god, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Did they do something to me? Is that why I’ve been spouting off recalcitrant obscenities and bleeding from my eyes ever since that night?

Another EVP presented us with someone whispering “This way,” also from the hallway. It  might have been the creepiest one of them all, with the way the whisper dragged itself out.

There was one from the room where something was finishing Tiny’s succession of knocks on the desk. I excitedly told her that I had captured the same audio when I was recording from my point and shoot camera and as usual, she seemed unimpressed with me. I will win this broad over yet.

Looking at ghostly images. That’s Dwayne in the background. He kind of has an accent.

George’s Kim checking out Christine’s EVPs using Chris’s bigshot headphones.

I’ve been checking around online and there are some other paranormal investigation teams who have EVPs from that school and they are chockful of the sounds of children. It makes me feel like the giggle I heard in that first floor classroom was real.I also found this one recording of an investigator commenting on how some of the rooms have been vandalized and desecrated by kids breaking and entering (hi, Blake). You can hear this faint and gruff voice of a man saying, “Little bastards” right as the investigator mentions it. (Some of the EVPs on that site were really questionable, but that one was almost crystal clear.) A janitor died in that school. JUST SAYIN’.

Anyway, I feel like I’m learning a lot from these people. Plus, Joel is really big into photography so I’m hoping to learn some shit from him about that, too, instead of just bumbling through life completely ignorant to f-stop and aperature.

Before the meeting officially ended, George asked, “Well, would anyone like to have t-shirts made?”

His words had barely made contact with the atmosphere before I found myself lurching forward and shouting, “YES!” Everyone looked at me, and George said, “Ok…” with a laugh.

Fuck yeah, I want a motherfucking t-shirt. I want everyone to know about the awesome club I’m in. It better have my fucking name on it, too.

Then I went home and started word-vomiting on Henry because I was just so overwhelmed by the evidence. He listened, but his lips were twisted in that haughty tight-lined smile of his.

“I feel like it was the missing piece in my life,” I said about ghost-hunting, and my unsupportive, myopic boyfriend tried to stifle a laugh.

***

Last night, I watched “Death of a Ghost Hunter” and I pretty much can say with full certainty that I am scared forever. There was this weird religious helmet in it that I am now obsessed with.

The Gamers

• Blake
• Barb
• Wendy
• Sandy
• Kara and Harland
• Lisa and Matt
• Lauren and Randy
• Gina
• Kim and Chris

Hey, I guess I should write about Game Night while it’s still the same year in which it occurred! Two very important things that I learned this time around are: never throw a party a week before Christmas, and get Chooch a fucking babysitter.

Also, invest in torture devices and cages so that people will be too afraid to say, “No, let’s just play Catchphrase from now until the end of time!” when I suggest a new game. Catchphrase is a great game and it forces people to interact, this is true, but I feel like it must emit some electronic cocaine waves that confuse people into thinking they can’t live without it and that it’ll help them get skinny.

Blake wouldn’t tell me what the letters on his hat meant because I’m too OLD. I was really upset about this. I know what it means now, though. Oh, but I can’t tell you. You’re too old.

Some of my work friends came and I was very happy about this! Although, after the incident with Barb and the Travel Lady, I made it known that I was gunning for her that night. She hadn’t been there ten minutes before I snidely asked, “Hey Barb, what will you do if we’re playing Catchphrase and you get zebra or giraffe? Your head will probably explode!” Because Barb confuses the two, you see! My plan is to compile as much information as possible about her (like the fact that she doesn’t “do” gum) and turn it into some sort of weapon. I’ve already led her into thinking that I write a secret blog solely about her.

Everything was fine in the beginning while Matt played Memory with Chooch, who was annoyed that Harland is still a baby and kept asking Kara, “When is he going to be a KID?”

Kara is usually a Catchphrase Nazi. I’ve seen veins throb on her that I’m not even sure are where they’re supposed to be, that’s how angry she gets. So angry that her anger MOVES VEINS. So everyone should be happy that Harland was there to distract her. She went from being, “OVER MY DEAD BODY YOU’LL GET A POINT, THE ANSWER WAS MAC AND CHEESE AND YOU SAID MAC N CHEESE, MOTHERFUCKER!” to “Oh who cares, just give Team 1 the point. Lady Gaga is close enough to Tammy Faye Bakker.”

In reality, it was less game night, more Foods Made with Cream Cheese Night. Holy shit, there was some good snacks on that table. Kim brought over some chicken salad sandwich croissant thingie that everyone seemed to inhale and Lauren made a popper dip that was so amazing, I was considering eschewing the dipping chips and just dunking a twisty straw right up in there. Wendy and Henry both made cheese balls, Barb brought salsa and cream cheese dip and Henry made some rich and creamy crab dip that grew me a new set of back-boobs, thanks Henry. Lisa had the ingenious notion of pouring a mixture of raspberry preserves and pepper jelly right over a solid block of cream cheese. I was scared of it at first, but damn that was like breaking open a pinata on my tongue. So surprising!

Henry didn’t play a single game because he was too busy strutting around, hoping someone would notice his new look Thrice fan/New England fisherman look.

And then Chooch hijacked Catchphrase. I like how Gina is seriously considering what the answer could be. It had to be either:

• Stupid Daddy
• some Star Wars character
• one of the kids in his class

Because the dynamics of Chooch and me are very akin to those of brother and sister, I was not very pleased about this turn of events and kept pleading with him to go away. Then I would cry, “Henry, he’s ruining game night!” and everyone would said, “No! He’s fine! This is fun! He’s so cute! CHOOCH FOR PRESIDENT! CHOOCH RULES, ERIN DROOLS.”

Lauren and Kim are too cool to play games! But that’s OK, because they brought food. (And it turns out they used to work together!) Plus, Lauren gave me a cigarette, which I smoked with her on my front porch with no jacket on, shivering and hunched over under the weight of guilt, not wanting Henry or Chooch to know that I was out there smoking. Unfortunately, Chooch’s internal buzzer goes off .00005 seconds after the slight detection that I may have left the room, and soon it was all, “MOMMY MOMMY WHAT ARE YOU DOING? MOMMY MOMMY!” and I came back in just in time to see that he had just finished pulling on his socks and shoes to come outside and inspect. Nosy fucker.

Kim, Chris, Lauren, Randy (I was only able to get a picture of his KNEE and I am very sad about this) and Wendy stuck around and we talked about ghosts and ate more cream cheese.

Finally, Chooch was in bed, and it was just me, Henry, Kim and Chris, sitting around and talking.

“Now, was that the same Barb from your blog?” Kim asked, pointing to where Barb had  been sitting on the couch earlier in the night.

After I nodded, she exclaimed with slight incredulity,  “And she still came to game night? I thought you hated her!” It made me wonder if Barb herself found herself unsure of where she stands with me, but I was there when she read that post on my blog, and she was laughing. But just in case, let me go on record saying that Barb is pretty much the best part about my job. She’s the best!

Somehow the subject of Sandy Duncan came up (but really, who doesn’t enjoy a good Hogan’s Family episode every now and then?) and Chris mentioned that there used to be a band called Sandy Duncan’s Glass Eye, which I thought was the coolest thing ever.

“You know she didn’t really have a glass eye, right?” Chris asked.

“SHUT UP!” I yelled, fumbling to bring up wikipedia on my phone and by golly he was right. All these years I thought she had a glass eye. Talk about shattering  my reality.

I was really happy with the crowd that night. There was no drama, no one angrily calling each other fucking retards, no Gay Ryans…I think it may have been the first gathering of socially-capable people I’ve had in my house in years. Well, with the exception of myself of course.

For a self-proclaimed harbinger of social anxiety and awkwardness, I’ve really been enjoying reuniting with old high school friends lately. A few weeks ago, I met my friend Kim at Mad Mex, after having not seen her since 7th grade (she tried to argue that it was 6th but she forgot that she came back to visit in 7th grade after moving to Indiana & we ran into each other at a football game – notably the only football game I have ever attended. Hail hockey!). It was awesome seeing her, and I am still kicking myself for forgetting my camera as it was way too dark in there for an impromptu iPhone photoshoot.

I will always associate Kim with telling me my first dirty joke in elementary school, and I am completely let down that she doesn’t remember listening to the Lolliwinks record in Mrs. Metzger’s music class.

Then last Sunday, after a month of rescheduling, I wrangled my old high school friend Stacey into going out to dinner. I figured, I’m on a roll with these reunions, catching up with Stacey via Facebook has been awesome (I even snagged hockey tickets off her last year & got to see a Sidney Crosby hat trick, holla!), and I’m finding that surrounding myself with people lately has been very prudent for my sanity not taking too many sudden dips.

I arrived at La Hacienda a little early, and hid inside the cold vestibule. Seeing Stacey approaching from the parking lot, I ran outside to meet her and admitted that I was afraid to go inside by myself. I was like this in high school too, so I figured she might be charmed to know that I hadn’t much changed.

She laughed and asked why, but she would soon find out when we both attempted to tell the Spanish-speaking host how many people were in our party and his inability to understand us was projected as utter disgust for stupid white women and I was scared.

It was my fault really. I confused him when I explained that there were two of us right now, but soon we would be three. He probably thought I was trying to fuck with him, like, “Yeah right, honky. What, I need to splash water on you and then your ignorant Americana flesh will sizzle and bear more stupid white women?” He had to call for back-up and some broad finally sat us in a booth, laughed when Stacey tried to order alcohol, and then promptly forgot about us for 35 minutes. That’s OK – we were too busy getting drunk off gossip.

Then Lisa arrived and got to wow Stacey with her complete lack of rememberance for 90% of what went on within our class all throughout high school.

Conversation went like this:

Us: “You know who she is!”

Lisa: “Did she have red hair?”

Us:  “No, blond.”

Lisa: “Oh, was she the one who had the brother who ate gerbils and then got killed by that bearded transient?”

Us: “WHAT HIGH SCHOOL DID YOU GO TO.”

My favorite part was when Stacey asked Lisa why she moved back to Pittsburgh from Colorado and before Lisa could even hug her lips around the first syllable of an answer, I blurted out, “Because she missed me!” and then rested my head on Lisa’s shoulder in the same breath. It was fun watching Lisa try to deny this.

“Remember that video we made in English—-” Stacey started.

“LONGFELLOW!” I finished for her. That video clearly made a lasting impression on me. I told her the other day that I still have a copy on video so she better stay super sweet to me because there’s this thing now called the Internet and I bet our Longfellow video would feel right at home in a cute little sublet on YouTube Boulevard.

Stacey made a comment about how annoying it is when you just get married and people immediately ask, “So when are you going to have a baby?” For some reason, I emphatically said, “Oh my god, I know!” Like I am married and as though anyone in their right mind ever tried to hint around that I should have a baby. Ever.

Then we all had dessert. Stacey had a sopapilla, which that Mexican host probably rubbed on his genitals first. Lisa and I both had flan, which looked nothing like the over-pixelated photo on the dessert menu and had frozen blackberries in lieu of the FRESH assortment of fruits we were promised. However, it was definitely stewing erotically in its own sweet sauce, just as the description warned. I feel bad that Lisa had to get saddled with the “sweet sauce” as well when she had no parts of offending Jorge up there at the host podium.

Overall, it was great food, great company, great gossip, capped off with some sleazily delicious dessert. I hope that Stacey will hang out again!

The last words I said to Chooch and Henry before leaving last Sunday afternoon was, “I won’t be gone long. We’re just having lunch.” Sure, I hadn’t seen Lindsay and Lauren since senior year of high school so I was sure we’d have a lot to talk about, but never expected that our lunch would creep into dinner and my tab would be over $70 – 95% of which was for the FOUR BOTTLES OF WINE that Lindsay and I chugged between the two of us alone.

I typically avoid people from high school, but Lauren was my first friend in elementary school. We built giant rabbit nests together during recess one day by gathering armfuls of cut grass. You didn’t know rabbits need nests? Then I guess Lauren and I were just ecological geniuses.

I have tons of pictures of her throughout elementary school, from birthday parties, school Halloween parties, bullshit Girl Scouts outings. I was tempted to scan them and post them here, but then Henry reminded me shit like that is why I have no friends.

And Lindsay! She moved to my street in eighth grade from the CITY. I felt like since maybe sometimes my mom gave her rides to school, that maybe some of her urban flava would rub off on me, so my Cross Colours wardrobe would maybe look less ridiculous on my lily white suburban body, but Lindsay would consistently remind me that I was a dork, so I guess osmosis is a fucking joke!

Lindsay and Lauren have been best friends since high school, so I was a little intimidated walking into The Library that day. Plus, they were cooler than me in high school.

But then Lindsay yelled, “YOU LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME!” and I thought, “OK, if she’s going to keep saying shit like that, this will be fine.” And within minutes I had my first of 7854952 glasses of riesling, which quickly had me opening up about my stint as a faux-lesbian and the great lengths I went to stalk Scott Dambaugh in 8th grade (and possibly a great many grades beyond).

Lindsay dropped a bombshell on me by mentioning that one of our friends lost her virginity to him back in high school.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I slurred-yelled all dramatically, lurching forward.

“You didn’t know?!” Lindsay laughed.

Obviously not!

I told them about how a certain motherfucker who to this day I still want to fight in an alleyway even if she outweighs me by 300 pounds and is oft mistaken for a man tried to spread rumors in high school about me being a whore.

“I don’t remember you being a whore!” Lauren said, laughing. “I remember you bringing your tree frog to school in your purse!”

And are tree frog smugglers whore? I didn’t think so!

Every time the bartender came over to replenish our wine glasses and bring Lauren a new beer, he would ask, “Ready to order any food yet?” By the third hour, we finally acquiesced and split two orders of appetizers three-ways. Obviously, it wasn’t nearly enough to balance out the gallons of alcohol Lindsay and I were pumping into our system, and by the fourth hour, she was drunk-dialing Henry after I readily shared his phone number, despite Lauren shaking her head and urging me not to give it to her.

Lauren probably felt like a goddamn babysitter. Next time, it’s her turn to get trashed! We owe her.

At one point, I looked out the window and was shocked to see that it was dark. This was about the time the wine and severe lack of carbs started to get to both Lindsay and me. I had an incident after peeing where I felt hot-flashy and was sure I was going to puke, but I somehow breathed my way through it. Also, realizing that Lindsay was worse off than myself helped sober me up a little bit. Especially after she went outside and, how can I phrase this delicately, decorated the sidewalk of East Carson Street like it was a Christmas tree and her stomach contents was all the pretty, if not ecru, tinsel. People walking by didn’t pay much attention though, because sidewalk pukers are standard fixtures on the Southside, even on Sunday afternoons. Maybe.

Lauren and I signaled for the bartender and had him bring her a glass of water and a warm, soft pretzel which she refused to eat so Lauren and I picked at it and it came with this really great cheese sauce but I didn’t say that in front of Lindsay.

A sobering moment for me was when we got the check, which was $166 – nearly $140 of that was made up of wine. As Lauren sent the bartender away to split the wine between Lindsay and me, and the food in thirds, I laughed nervously and said, “Good thing I work in a law firm!” and then immediately texted Henry and said, “OMG I AM SO SORRY.”

But it was worth it. They both had so much juicy gossip to divulge, it was everything I had hoped it would be, plus a few extra chapters for my upcoming blackmail novel. I can’t wait to do it again! Only next time, I hope the night doesn’t end with my bedroom spinning while Henry is stuffing my lifeless body into pajamas.

It didn’t seem like the Pie Party was going to be very successful. We didn’t get to the pavilion with enough time to decorate properly, not to mention Henry rented the largest pavilion and then only bought THREE tablecloths. He also forgot to bring the votive holders for all the pumpkin candles we bought, so he had to run to a nearby craft store to rectify that.

He left me with Chooch, who was being antagonized to death by Blake and his hyper-annoying friend Artie, who was actually pretty entertaining but I would never let him know that. Besides, he made fun of the Cure, so we have big beef now.

Chooch literally did nothing but cry hysterically the entire 30 minutes Henry was gone. The tablecloths I did have kept getting blown off by strong autumnal gusts.  My head was starting to hurt from all the screaming and crying between Chooch and the two teenage boys who should have been smoking a joint in the woods, not torturing a FOUR YEAR OLD. It was 80 degrees and I was sweating. I kept praying for Jessy to get there because she has a very calming effect on me, but she ended up getting held up with work stuff and was two hours late.  I kind of just stood around in the middle of the pavilion, which had a very distinct non-party feel, and panicked.

Then I had one of my signature “WHY DID I THINK THIS WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA?!” break-downs and considered suffocating myself in Henry’s avocado pie.

And of course, the first guests arrived just in time to see that there was no party. (Surprise! YOU’RE the pie! Boys, go get Mama her hatchet.)

And of course, it would happen to be my friend Shannon whom I hadn’t seen since senior year of high school.

I rushed out to the parking lot to meet her and her friend Bill and before I even said hello, I blurted out, “We are woefully unprepared!” They admitted that they weren’t even sure they had the right place since absolutely nothing was going on inside the pavilion aside from one sad girl, standing around confused and dejected. What a great impression I gave them of my party planning prowess.

Henry finally came back with ice and tablecloths but STILL forgot the votive holders. I was all riled up about that for a few seconds until I saw that he bought a few bottles of wine while I was stranded in Hell’s Playground. I was OK after that. And then more people started arriving in clumps and I was sort of shocked. Because generally, in my party planning experiences, people SAY that they’re going to come and then they don’t come. But that’s good, because it only makes it extra-special when guests DO come.

And everyone brought a pie.

In addition to Shannon, two other people I haven’t seen since high school came: John and his wife Jennifer (who also loves the Cure) came with two pies and their three adorable kids, and Ron came with his friend Chrissy¹. The last time I saw Ron, I was 18 and trudging through my one and only shift at a local restaurant, where he was dining with his brother.  He probably doesn’t even remember that, but I do because my memory is ridiculous. (Just not when I need it to be, like Saturday night when my friend Jen/Bonecrusher² and I were at Haunted Hills Estate and I made our team lose a challenge because I was SO SURE my memory was right when we had to put pictures in the correct order.)

Pie Party people, in a pie procession

When my friend Lisa arrived with her husband Matt, I rushed their car and squealed, “I had a party and people came!” With Lisa there, it was like a mini-high school reunion. I was happy that my lame idea for a party had turned into a very Rockwell-esque scene of people coming together.

So there was the Thomas Jefferson High School table, and then there was The Law Firm table. Usually, I can never get people from any of my jobs to come to my parties. Probably because their pimps won’t give them time off. But apparently my current co-workers are awesome and didn’t think I was lame for inviting them to a pie party. They didn’t even act suspicious like some of my friends did! Kaitlin couldn’t make it and we were all very sad, not because we like her, but because she was going to attempt to make a pie constructed of an array of her famous French macarons in pie flavors. No, seriously – orgasmic baked goods or not, we all love Kaitlin and it sucked that she couldn’t be there to sit at the cool work table with Barb, Wendy and her husband Shawn, Sandy, and Jeannie. And best of all, me. That’s OK, because someone suggested having a cupcake party next, and you better believe I will sit down with Kaitlin and her calendar before setting a date for that one.

Jeannie’s name tag was a direct reflection of her sparkling attitude!

My Grandma Lois and Aunt Charmaine came with a pie, as well as Moon Dough, which was the sleeper hit of the day. I’m pretty sure every pie party attendee inadvertently took some of it home with them.

Gina³ and Amber (whose name I temporarily forgot because I had been DRINKING and she wouldn’t let me live it down for the rest of the day, and probably not ever, assuming she would even hang out with me again after I committed such a faux pas!) hung out at the kids table with Chooch, churning out Moon Doughed puppies and milk bones. Gina adoringly called it the Moon Dough puppy mill and now I know what to get her for Christmas.

Amber said her favorite part of the pie party was during the first hour, when Chooch (still being bullied by TEENAGERS) sat under a picnic table and cried, “I HATE THIS PARTY!” But then he caught wind of the fact that John’s little girl was there dressed like a princess and you could almost see his mind thinking, “Who’s this hottie?” and he was pretty much at her side the rest of the afternoon.

I might have also plied Gina with pie in an effort to convince her to go to a haunted house with me. I think I have her worn down. I can be quite needling.

“Who wants pie when there’s Moon Dough to ingest?” Harland thinks, willing Kara to bring him closer.

Somehow, with the multitudes of pies that filled nearly the whole length of two pushed-together picnic tables, there was not one duplicate. I’m going to try and remember every type of pie that was there that day. Because I know the five people reading this absolutely lurched forward in anticipation.

Coconut cream – Henry’s mom, and Kelly and her brood

Pumpkin – Shannon and Bill (This was the first pie to be devoured.)

Pumpkin mousse – Gina and Amber (Somehow there was a tiny bit leftover and Blake was prepared to shank a bitch for it.)

Blackberry – Wendy and Shawn

Apple – John and Jennifer (OMG it was the best apple pie I’ve ever had & I’m still talking about it with Henry, because that’s what fat girls do – talk about pie. 24:7. Sometimes I even draw pie doodles on my desk at work.)

Hershey chocolate pie – Chooch’s girlfriend, Abby (Huge hit with the kids!)

Cream and Sugar – Henry

Avocado with citrus whipped cream – Henry (It turned into pudding; good job, Martin Stewart.)

Strawberry Rhubarb – Lisa and Matt (she made it herself and it was amazing!)

Banana Cream – Jessy, and I will not give Tommy credit (This is one of my all-time faves so she scored points.)

Lemon – Charmaine and Grandma Lois (I didn’t get to have any, but everyone kept raving about it.  I lose.)

Pecan – Barb

Some delicious fruit mixture – Jeannie (She said it was just blueberry, but I’m pretty sure she’s wrong. She’s wrong about a LOT of things. I know this because she likes the FLYERS.)

Red raspberry – Kara

Pomegranate mousse (pictured above) – Ron (It was amazing and exciting! Clearly, I like weird pie flavors.)

Pie tastes best when wearing a cape. Everyone knows that.

Lisa brought her dog, Tucker. We ate him, too.

Matt serves himself pie while talking on the phone. He must be a professional of some sort.

The real winner here was Blake, who walked away with a stack of pie plates stacked so high, it looked like he walked out of a cartoon.

“My mom doesn’t feed me,” was his defense.

And of course, in spite of Henry rushing out to purchase extra tablecloths, everyone chose to sit at the bare picnic tables.

It was a great day, filled with delicious pies, great weather and awesome people. Since it wasn’t a failure, let’s do it again! Say, next weekend?

¹Henry’s mom knew her. Henry’s mom knows EVERYONE. It’s kind of disgusting. I can only hope to grow up and be half as popular as her.

² I prefer calling Jen by her roller derby name because it’s more fun. Also because it’s the first name I knew her by. Also, I didn’t know how to spell her name until I saw her write it out on our challenge card. I win at friendships.

³Gina is the result of my lame blog helping me make new friends. She lives in the same little town as me, and this was the third time we hung out. But it was the FIRST time we hung out in a non-creepy environment so I think we’re making headway on our blossoming friendship. Though, Henry was there, in the pavilion. So never mind. Still a creepy environment.

I’ve suddenly found myself with a social life and I’m not sure how or why it happened. I’m sure I will go back to being lonely and agenda-less soon, don’t you fear.

Saturday night, Henry and I had a double date with my old co-worker Bill and his wife Natasha. Bill and I did data processing together at what I like to call the Eleanore and Tina Company, since they were my two co-workers who irritated me the most and gave me the most blog fodder from 2006-2008. I haven’t seen Bill since I left that place in August of 2008, and I had only met Natasha once before, when they both came to one of my infamous game nights. So it was cool to see them both and catch up. We met at the Green Mango for some Thai dinner and then went back to their apartment for Bill’s famous bourbon cake and some Penguins pre-season action.

I forgot how fantastic of a baker Bill is. That’s a lie. My taste buds never forget, like baked goods are tasty acts of terrorism.

It was awesome getting the scoop on my old co-workers (Tina moved to Wyoming!) and rehashing old memories like Murder Girl and the Coat Hook Conundrum. And it even made me miss Tina a little, oozing facial wounds and all. Here is a random Tina Memory from June 2007:

For the past few weeks, I’ve been power-walking around the parking lot with Tina. My elation is really beyond words, but I will say that it’s probably on the same level as diving into a pleasure pie, nude, and engaging in some aquatic ring toss with the cast of “Golden Girls.” And you better believe they’re nude, too.

Yes, it really is too delightful to be true.

During our laps, Tina is wont to release buoyant balloons inflated with complaints, gripes, whines and flat-falling jokes. The openings I have to speak are sparse, and Tina always cuts me off by mumbling a monotone “Yeah” before launching her next fleet of balloons.

Three of the four laps usually revolve around talk of her acid reflux and how she’s going to need to poop at some point before leaving. There was a reprieve of that topic last night in favor of menstrual pondering, so that was nice. I don’t want to be stingy with the details, so I’ll let you feast on the visual of Tina realizing her period started when she wiped (front-to-back, I hope) herself and saw a few blood spots on the wad of urine-saturated toilet paper. I was glad she told me this because I always wondered what that meant.

Two things to note from yesterday’s aerobic rendezvous with Tina:

1. It was the first time I saw her bare arms and could not stop myself from marveling over the variously hued splotches and dryness;
2. She was in the SERVICE, just like Henry! This explains why every time she talks about her “vehicle,” her tone makes me envision tanks and Hummers. Except that she was in the AIR FORCE, just like Henry!

I bet he’ll definitely want to go swimming at her house now. Maybe she was in Panama, too! I’ll have to show her Henry’s photo album from that golden time in his life.

While this little vignette played out in my head, Tina mistook my silence as a plea to learn every detail of her past failed relationships.

“My second husband would wake me up at five in the morning, wanting to have sex.” And then she said sex a dozen more times, each time making my labia curl and retract further inside of me. Two more times and I considered mummifying my entire vagina and never thinking of it again. She spat it out each time with a coating of vulgarity that made me want to be held by my mommy. I never thought there could be onomatopoeia for molestation. Even now, an hour later, I can’t quite shake the cloud of dirtiness cocooning me. I better turn into a butterfly, or I’ll be pissed.

Oh, how good those times were.

Anyway, Bill was one of the few people there who I could actually talk to without getting that “WTF is wrong with you?” look that I know all too well. In fact, he was the first person there who was privy to my shit-slinging blog. And his wife Natasha is super interesting and fun to talk to. She knows a ton about hockey and isn’t your typical “OMG Letang Sex Hair!” pretend-hockey fan that some girls tend to be. And have I mentioned her extensive collection of serial killer books?

I hope we hang out more often. I think they would also get along very well with my favorite Michigan couple, Bill and Jessi, so now I want to hook something up for the next time those two are in town visiting. They can all pretend they’re coming to my house for a comic book convention.

Afterward, we went to Henry’s sister Kelly’s house to give her a reprieve from Chooch Watch and wound up hanging out there for an hour or so, getting all the good family gossip. I even made Henry’s mom laugh! I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before. She usually doesn’t get that I’m joking. Henry said it’s probably because she doesn’t appreciate that her son is the butt of all my jokes.

The next morning, I met Jessy at Hot Metal Diner for breakfast. It’s one of those local places that somehow got super popular but you can never really figure out why. I got mini chocolate chip pancakes and wasn’t too impressed with them (less than half of them had chocolate chips in them and I paid a fucking dollar more for that shit!), nor was I impressed with the fact that it took an hour for them to be served. And I will never understand why some people enjoy being treated like shit by waitresses, but that’s just me.  Our waitress tried to get smart with Jessy, who in return used a tone that implied, “Look twat, I come here a lot, so watch your tone.” Jessy is awesome.

Anyway, it wasn’t the breakfast that mattered – it was getting to spend time with Jessy. I could have been digging into a lukewarm hill of curds and whey and it wouldn’t have mattered because the company was quality. I couldn’t let a weekend go by without seeing her! She’s like a fun therapy session for me – my chest always feels so much lighter after leaving her, and my cheeks are always sore from smiling and laughing. It’s a No Drama Zone with her.

We talked a lot about the beach vacation we’re taking next summer and I just know this is going to be the longest winter of my life.

I got home in just enough time to collect Chooch and set off for Kara’s son Harland’s 1st birthday party. I didn’t really know anyone there, and we all know how my social anxiety tends to leave me standing in a corner with my jaw wired shut, but having a disgustingly outgoing four-year-old is kind of cool because I just let him do all the socializing for me. And socialize he did, Jesus Christ.

Harland looked adorable as usual. I can’t believe it’s been a year! When we arrived, he sort of looked at Chooch all quizzically. I don’t think he recognized him without all the blood gushing from his mouth. My favorite part of the party was when Harland discovered Chooch had a bowl of chips on his lap and proceeded to toddle over to the couch, lean ever-so-causally against Chooch’s knee, and help himself to some Doritos. Chooch started to emit this throaty laugh that he gets when he’s nervous and kept leaning slowly away from Harland until he was almost laying down on the couch. Babies scare him, and watching this play out really amused me. There were two other babies on the rug (one was probably under a year, and the other one was able to walk) and Chooch acted like he was wading through a vat of alligators every time he got off the couch.

Chooch brought some balloons back from one of his many voyages to the kitchen (God only knows what he was doing in there since I was too lazy/socially crippled to follow) and began a balloon battle with an older kid and some of the adults in the room. A guy named Brad (I believe Kara said he was her cousin’s husband) commented that the good thing with balloons is that they can’t break anything.

“But if anyone could manage that, it would be my kid,” I mumbled, watching a lamp teeter as Chooch fell against a side table and making sure he didn’t get all Godzilla on the colony of babies crawling around on the floor.

There were enormous sugar cookies there with lemon icing. Chooch got one to go and let me have a bite in the car. I was kicking myself the whole way home for not getting my own. Goddamn was that a good cookie.

The weekend was capped off with a lovely family dinner which has already been written about and a surreal visit to Trundle Manor, which will be written about something proper-like in the next day or so. It was too good to be rushed!

I slept really good that night.

Who wants to draw a really awesomely exaggerated grilled cheese for me to get tattooed on my arm?

As Corey and I were leaving the funeral home last month after paying respects to our Grandpa Kelly, the idea of having a family dinner with our dad and Grandma Kelly was tossed around. She has never met Chooch and expressed an interest in doing so. It seemed like it would be a nice idea, since she had just lost her husband of 60+ years. Sometimes kids can do wonders for the grieving process.

And I’ll be honest, seeing her that day made me realize that I had missed her, and that I was kind of an asshole for not trying harder to stay in contact with someone who lives in the same neighborhood as me.

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me.

I made sure Corey kept reminding our dad to set something up, and finally the date of September 26th was set. I was under the impression it would be me and Chooch, Corey, our dad and our Grandma Kelly. But yesterday afternoon, Corey sent a text informing me that our Uncle Bruce and his awkward wife had been added to the guest list, along with our other brother Ryan. I was “eh” about Bruce and Judy, but happy that Ryan would be able to attend. I barely get to see him and we used to be pretty close when we were younger.

Chooch and I arrived at the Galleria promptly at 5:15 and I immediately cursed myself for being punctual to something my dad, who suffers from chronic tardiness, was attending. We sat on a bench waiting for my dad to arrive.

A minivan parked nearby and I casually watched the backdoor open and a young guy emerge. Then a tall, model-skinny girl. Then it dawned on me that this was my dad’s younger brother Kevin’s family.

“Motherfucker,” I mumbled as I watched my Uncle Kevin, Aunt Joyce, cousins Brian (14 maybe?) and Kristen (21), and Kristen’s boyfriend Joey approach.

“Katie’s on her way!” Kevin announced to me after I introduced Chooch to everyone, who was so overwhelmed he was practically trying to re-enter my uterus.

I barely know my cousins, but Kevin and Joyce were around a lot when I was younger, so I’m not too uncomfortable around them. Still, it would have been nice to know the whole brood was coming. Apparently this was such a Big Deal that Katie came home from college to attend.

My Grandma Kelly, Bruce and Judy were already inside Mitchell’s Fish Market, so I reluctantly followed Kevin and his herd into the restaurant.. We had a private room with one long table in the middle, and I was faced with the torturous task of finding the least awkward chair to claim. I settled for one next to my Aunt Joyce, who has always struck me as the most laid back of the Kellys. Thankfully Corey arrived soon after with my dad and Ryan, who sat across from me. I was happy to have familiar faces to look at.

Under the table, I read a text from Corey that asked, “What the fuck, is this like a family reunion??”

Poor Chooch was practically eaten alive by Grandma Kelly and Bruce’s wife Judy. He was gifted with a large Tonka truck and some Halloween witch thing that is super obnoxious and kitschy, which has always been Grandma Kelly’s m.o. When I was a kid, there was a store near her house called Labamba’s Variety or something, but we all called it the junk store. She would take Ryan and I there and we would go crazy, loading up our baskets with pure, unadulterated crap. I had quite the snow globe collection thanks to the junk store.

Now it’s some shitty car detailing shop.

Chooch got his own private booth to play in, and I was sort of surprised when Kristen joined him. Her boyfriend Joey also really took to Chooch, and I was glad that people were paying attention to him so I could enjoy a meal in peace.

Grandma Kelly brought some old pictures with her to pass around, including what appeared to be a page out of a scrapbook full of old photos of Ryan and me.

“Sorry Corey, you’re not in any of these,” I said snidely as I passed it over to him. This prompted him to vocalize his ages-old concern that he was adopted.

Apparently, there was a little article about my Grandpa Kelly in one of the papers after he died; Kevin had the foresight to make copies for everyone.

I wasn’t very close to the guy, but the fact that someone took the time to write this for the paper makes me realize he must have been pretty cool.

Meanwhile, Chooch had quickly found himself on a first name basis with our waitress, barking demands for chocolate milk and haughtily asking, “Do they at least have chicken?” Everyone at the table kept laughing at his charm, but I was praying that he wouldn’t start swearing. Especially after my dad was encouraging him to say, “Where the hell is my chocolate milk?”

He did talk candidly about zombies and Michael Myers, though. That was awesome.

I can’t remember what Corey was saying here,  but it wasn’t anything that called for as much intensity as he’s providing here.  I feel like we were just talking about some kind of cheese?

Always good to see Ryan. Corey calls him “The Other.” Ryan was my horror movie buddy growing up. I can’t watch “Killer Klowns From Outer Space” without thinking of him.

Yeah, it was a little awkward at first, and I was overwhelmed that every single person in the family showed up, but overall it was a really nice evening and it kind of felt good to feel like I was a part of a family, since my mom’s side clearly could give or take me. And they all freaking loved Chooch, so that negated some of my black sheepness.

Sucks that it took someone dying to get us all together.

If this looks more like something you’d want to motorboat and less like something that’s sucker-punching your gag reflex, then read on.

I love pie. For years, I’ve wanted to have a pie party but usually complacency sets in and I put it on the backburner.

But then Henry made an avocado pie for my mom’s Labor Day cookout and it was smooth as silk, tangy, rich and to be honest, I just closed my eyes and smiled while thinking about it. He even made a citrus-tinged whipped cream which he plans to slather on the next avocado pie he makes. Which hopefully will be on October 10,2010 for my first annual to nothing PIE PARTY.

It’s going to be held at a pavilion in South Park, and the invitation is open to any local person reading this who has a propensity for pies (or anyone who likes pies enough to travel to Pittsburgh!). I’m trying to convince Henry that we really need to pay extra to be able to have alcohol at the park because I can’t imagine spending an autumn day outside, eating pie, with NO MULLED WINE to wash it down.

Actually, I’ve never had mulled wine, but Alisha always talks about it like it’s her own invention,and has subconsciously convinced me that I must have a big steaming vat of this. I think she should make it in a cauldron. Alisha – we will discuss this soon. Look out for my telegram. Bring your decoder ring.

If we’re not friends on Facebook, here is the official event notice:

A Pretentiously Perplexing Pie Party

Sunday, October 10, 2010

2:00PM – 6:00PM

A Pavilion in South Park, TBD

Please pop a squat with me beneath a pavilion on a (hopefully) pleasant autumn day, plunging plastic ware into a plethora of piquant pies.

Please present one (1) pie for passage; a paltry price to pay for a party pinioned by prestigious proclivity.

Pursuing pies of all persuasions! Palatable produce, pungent pasty, puzzling pot pies.

Leave all picky palates at the plantation and come get your piper pied!
———————
In other words: let’s eat the crap out of some pies.

I’m having my mom make her amazing butterscotch pie, you guys. It could anally rape you and you wouldn’t even notice it, it is THAT good. And I might be cajoled into baking the only pie I’ve ever baked in my life (not including the raw pumpkin pie that left my ex-boyfriend with a persnickety duodenum): a succulent pear pie.

If you would like to attend, please let me know! Even if we’ve never met before, what better way to say hello and swap saliva than with chunks of cherry pie falling from our mouths like the remnants of that Civil War reenactor we cannibalized last Arbor Day?

In front of the Maul of Fame

I met Erica on LiveJournal sometime in 2004 or 2005. She’s one of the few who kept reading my crap even after I jumped ship and started this here blog, so when she wrote on my Facebook wall a few weeks saying she was going to be visiting from NYC, I was like, “Hells yeah I want to meet!”

Henry can never keep people straight. This is mostly because he’s old, but also because he doesn’t always listen to me when I tell him really important things about my day. It took me saying, “She’s the girl who told me about IP Relay Calling.”

“Oh. Then I hate her,” Henry mumbled.  Without her, there probably would be no Manuel!

Thank god for my life coach, Professional Driver Henry, because he was quick to make sure I realized I wouldn’t really have the time to take her to the places I wanted to, like Oh Yeah! for waffles and ice cream, or to Vanilla Pastry Studio for the best cupcakes in the city. Or, you know, to see Pittsburgh-y things.

My concept of directions are so skewed that I really hadn’t considered how much time would be spent in the car if I attempted to extract her from Monroeville, which is where she was staying. I’m lucky I even made it there on time, considering I was originally going to give myself only 15 minutes until Mapquest told me it would take at least 30.

Anyway, Erica expressed an interest in getting lunch at Eat n Park, so that quelled my tour guide anxiety, because I really had no idea where to go in Monroeville, aside from the mall, that would provide good tourist-y entertainment.

I am infamous for getting all socially awkward when meeting someone new for the first time. I’ve been told in the past that these situations can sometimes even be painful for my friends to witness. But Erica was very chill, and we had nice, casual conversation in between bites of grilled cheese. I was still a little nervous, but I didn’t choke on any chunks of low self-esteem or uncomfortable silence.

Afterward, I took her to meet her family at the mall, famous for being the site of Dawn of the Dead. Of course I had to take her to the zombie museum which is in the back of a collectible toy store.

Those were my big Pittsburgh representatives: a smiley cookie from Eat n Park, and a 2-minute jaunt through a tiny room stuffed with zombie memorabilia.

Don’t ever say I didn’t show you a good time, Erica!

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for me to hang out any later since Henry made me get a job. (Kidding – I’m glad I’m working. Just don’t go spreading that around).

I’m so happy that Erica wanted to meet me, after all these years of reading my latest endeavors in being an Asshole and watching videos of me stalking my prey. She really is just as awesome in person as I imagined. She’s fabulous you guys, and one of the best singers ever. You should all go and love her now!

I want her to be on “Glee.”