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.”

Our friend Bill and two of his friends realized their dreams by opening their very own comic and gaming shop in Wayne, Michigan. The grand opening was set for Labor Day weekend.

“You know,” Henry postulated a week prior. “If you wanted to go to the opening, I bet we could swing it.”

Since I was brought on as a permanent employee at The Law Firm, we’ve been decidedly less stressed. In fact, one day I was sitting in the car thinking to myself, “What is that weird feeling I feel? Oh. I do believe that’s called ‘relief’.” Bill and Jessi come to Pittsburgh quite often to visit us, have been to Chooch’s last two birthday parties, and even one of my game nights, so I was like, “Hell yes, let’s do this.” I wanted to be there in person to show our support! And also to drive around the outskirts of Detroit with my Penguins flag waving proudly atop my car.

Saturday morning, I was up at 6:00am and ready to go. Henry and Chooch didn’t wake up until 7:00 and 7:30, respectively, and we didn’t hit the road until 8:30. I was angry about this, and Henry decided this would be a good time to flirt with me, which only succeeded in deepening my scowl.

The ride was pretty uneventful and long as shit. It only should have taken us about 5 hours to get there, but with a four-year-old in the backseat, that’s never going to happen without a hearty dose of Nyquil. Since I forgot the Nyquil, we pretty much stopped at every fucking rest area so Chooch wouldn’t petrify in his car seat.

At the one rest stop, he got a kids meal at Burger Meal. “What?” he exclaimed dramatically, extracting a girl toy from the bag.

“Go give it back to the lady at the counter,” I advised, and then Henry piggy-backed my advice by advising I go with him.

Chooch shrugged his way through the travelers crowding the front of Burger King, slammed the girl purse thing onto the counter and spat, “I’m not a GIRL.”

He got some plush Wrestler thing that makes a noise that I would end up hearing for the rest of the trip.

At another rest stop, we were parked next to Border Control. Henry, being the wise old man that he is, explained that he was probably here checking for drugs.

“And with a dog like that,” he said, gesturing to the German Shepherd accompanying the officer, “you’d be screwed if you even just had a marijuana cigarette.”

“Marijuana cigarette?” I repeated, losing it. And then it turned into a five-minute laugh fiesta, with Henry frowning as he drove down the highway. Sometimes it’s like talking to your Grandpa Elmer. What a lamer, I mean really. Then I couldn’t stop picturing an adolescent Henry, trying to fit in with the “bad” kids at school, pushing up his glasses and asking for a hit of their “marijuana cigarette.” Now I’m laughing all over again.

It was about 2:00pm by the time we finally arrived at Warriors 3. We were warmly received by Bill and Jessi and ushered into the backroom, which quickly became the VIP room upon my arrival. Don’t let them fool you. We were just in time for pizza, which Henry ate hungrily, and I finally got to meet Bill and Jessi’s friend Josh, who I’ve gotten to know from Twitter and Facebook over the last year, so that was extremely cool and conversation with him came easily. It didn’t take him long to start busting my chops, and I like that. It makes me feel loved!

Aimee, the girlfriend of one of the Warriors 3, was also in the VIP room and I could tell Chooch was crushing on her pretty hard. He kept looking at her for approval every time he would say something. And speaking of Chooch, now I know where to take him the next time he needs stimulated. It was like he was in his own Wonderland. There were toys and games every where and grown-ups were actually playing with him.

“Will you play with me?” he’d ask any random guy, who would usually wind up saying, “Sure, dude,” provided they weren’t already involved in a game. Chooch would look at me in amazement, like, “I can’t believe they keep saying YES!”

Chooch also brought some of his own toys with him, and Josh sang the theme from the Hulk cartoon, which made Chooch look at me and laugh. He just had this expression on his face that screamed, “These guys know my toys?!” At one point, he was pawing through a box of HeroClix (I’m so proud of myself for remembering the name of those; I was completely out of my element there, but enjoyed learning about this stuff!), and no matter which one he pulled out, there was always someone near by who could tell him what he was holding. Which was better than when he kept asking me, only to get my patented ‘I dunno’ mumble.

Josh answers a HeroClix inquiry for Chooch while his critically acclaimed Cthulu supervises and Eddie stews in his AT&T hatred.

I’m convinced Chooch thinks Bill is his big brother.

Chooch got to help Joe, the honorary 4th Warrior, advertise outside the shop. He was thrilled to be involved, and I was thrilled that there was enough going on to keep him thoroughly entertained. I figured we’d have to do a lot of coming and going to ensure his attention was well-kept. Aside from getting a little too wild on occasion, I didn’t have to really go out of my way to keep him in line. It was nice being able to hang out without my nerves keeping me clenched.

At one point, Joe decided to demonstrate how fast the Flash could run around the building, which inspired Chooch to yell, “Hey, I can do that too!” and before I had the chance to snag him by the collar, he was off. So then I had to chase after him, while he was chasing after the Flash, and I’m sure to the casual observer it looked like some kind of Retard Race.

He must have fallen at least a dozen times while we were there that day. Sometimes I really do want to staple bubble wrap to him.

“Do I really have to remind you that you were JUST in the hospital?” I found myself yelling once every 30 minutes.

The mom of one of Bill’s friends baked a bunch of cookies and brownies, which were all tied up with ribbons and laying deliciously in baskets. Henry chose an iced sugar cookie and proceeded to obsess over it all weekend. Someone found an extra one and gave it to Henry, which made Josh jealous. He disappeared for awhile, and I’m not convinced he wasn’t trying to train his Cthulu to slaughter Henry and return with the cookie.

That was one damn fine cookie, though.

This was no less than 5 minutes after he was sprawled out on his stomach in the back parking lot, M&Ms scattering everywhere

At least now I know where to get his Christmas presents.

Bill and Jessi’s friend Nick would up playing with Chooch for a good hour. He was such a sweet and patient man! I kept mouthing “thank you!” to him and he’d just smile and wave me off, as though playing with a four-year-old was exactly what he signed up for when he walked into Warriors 3. When people take a liking to my kid, it’s the best feeling in the world. So I really did appreciate it, and I also appreciated the fact that everyone talked to him like he was just one of the guys.

When Chooch is at the playground, he gets so excited and wants to play with everyone, but I feel like more often than not, he’s not included with the other kids; as a mom, that’s one shitty scene to have to stand there and watch. Because of that, I think he really does prefer to hang out with adults, and the fact that he was able to wrangle some of them to play games with him at the shop really made him light up. I’ve never seen Chooch so non-distracted. He sat at that table playing diligently for a good portion of the time we were there (which was from 2 until about 11:30pm, minus two hours in the evening when we cut out to do some touristy shit). Of course, everyone pretty much let Chooch play the way he wanted to, which was smart because I tried to read the directions for some of those games and felt as frustrated as I did trying to translate the Iliad in high school.

Now Chooch wants to own all of these games, and I’m like, “That’s great, but can we just stick to comic books for now?” as I envision elaborate pieces strewn all over the floor of my house. Board games with  many pieces makes me nervous, you guys!

Comic books are not the worst things he could be into, so I approve.

Warriors 3 is a fantastic shop which kept up a steady crowd throughout the day, deservedly so. I’m so proud of Bill and Jessi and their friends for making it happen, and I’m glad I got to be there for the grand opening and to finally meet so many of the people I’ve heard so much about. Fine, I’m also glad I got to meet Josh, and the fact that he MADE FUN OF ME the whole time just made me feel more included. So there!

I almost didn’t open the door yesterday afternoon when the knocking came. But it was a friendly rap, not the battering ram banging that the gas man brings with him.

Thinking it must be Hot Neighbor Chris, I relented and opened the goddamn door.

It was not Hot Neighbor Chris. A young guy dressed all in white who looked to be about eighteen (and wasted) stood on my porch. He had a friendly smile and short, kinky dark blond hair, and in spite everything I try to instill in myself about stranger-hatred, I was immediately infected by his personality. He was a talker. Noticing my fingernails, he said, “Oh lime green is my favorite color! Well, I like my lime green a little brighter than that, but still – good choice.”

Then he launched into his very confused magazine spiel and told me a yarn about how his group had traveled straight to Pittsburgh from Tennessee last night with no stops. “I’m like, exhausted,” he laughed. “I’ve had so many energy drinks, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how many,” came out in a blurt of high blood-pressured mania. I’m still not sure what he was earning points for, a trip or something? But his smile was so elvish and sincere and he already told me his name was Ray, that I didn’t have the heart to cut him off. He started fumbling with all the literature and subscription forms and asked, “Is there somewhere I can sit down to show you this stuff?”

I NEVER let people in my house. Not even my neighbors. Mostly it’s because I’m inhospitable, but also because ever since having a kid, my house’s interior rivals the ambiance of my first apartment which was little more than a party palace. I’m pretty sure Chooch shits clutter. But this kid had me captivated, completely intrigued, that I didn’t want to send him away yet. I’m pretty sure this is how Charles Manson operated. (Don’t worry – I got the Henry Lecture.)

I had to literally clear a spot on my couch for this poor kid to sit. I don’t think he noticed; he was too busy rambling on and on about everything. At one point he said something about not having parents and quickly added, “But don’t feel sorry for me! I’m OK!”

And Chooch, prancing around in his Diego underroos, was so excited to have a visitor. “Oh, you like Ben 10 huh?” Ray said as Chooch thrust one of his action figures at him. Chooch looked at me in amazement, like, “Oh shit, this guy KNOWS.” They become instant besties,  Chooch’s  second in as many days.  (We gave one of my co-workers a ride home Wednesday night. I let her have shotgun, figuring Chooch would accost an unfamiliar backseat companion. He still accosted her. They passed his Ben 10 toys back and forth and he was so excited to tell her all their names. Then he invited her to his carrot party. She told me yesterday that carrots are her favorite food so I guess it was destiny.)

Chooch ran off to find more shit to show him.

I leafed through the magazine selections while Ray was struggled to spell my name on the subscription form. He stopped abruptly in the middle of his high-speed ramblings – wherein I learned he doesn’t like Crown Royal and his iPhone was dead – and asked me, with so much seriousness, “Are you happy?”

I was really caught off guard. I sort of froze with this crumpled-up magazine brochure in my hand and noticed that he was looking at me very intently. He didn’t seem like a church person, although he was wearing a silver cross that he rubbed occasionally, like when he was talking about not having any parents and turning his life around. So instead of being insulted by his question like I would if a Mormon came calling, I was really touched.

People I talk to on a daily basis don’t even ask me that question. Which doesn’t mean that they don’t care, but it’s still not something I’m asked often. Therefore, I assumed I misunderstood him. We had just been talking about Robert Smith from the Cure a second before, so I said, “Is Robert Smith happy now? I guess so, because the last album–” He cut me off and said, “No, are you happy?

”

I really had to wrangle with my tongue to spit out a meaningless “yes.”

Ray stayed and hung out for about thirty minutes. I didn’t end up buying a magazine because they were all three-year subscriptions and I didn’t want to spend that kind of money in the middle of trying to get caught up with everything else. But Ray understood and didn’t pressure me. In the end, he used my name and address as a reference so he’ll still earn points. Then he gave me a small sign to tape on my door that said BUG OFF RAY’S #1 in case anyone else from his group showed up trying to usurp his territory.

Before leaving, he mentioned that his birthday’s in July, that he’ll be 21. “I know, I look super young,” he said.

“Are you a Leo?” I asked.

“How did you KNOW that?!?!” he exclaimed, and looked genuinely impressed to have met a real life psychic.

“Because my birthday’s in July, too,” I said, never mind that it’s basic astrology and it was a 50/50 chance he was either a Leo or Cancer.

Ray thought this was absolutely wild, like we should share each other’s blood there in my living room, next to Chooch’s Bat Cave. “What are you going to be – 25?”

RAY, I LOVE YOU.

When I told him 31, he refused to believe it and I was like, “Can I keep you?”

I gave him a bottle of Faygo root beer to take with him, and he in turn gave Chooch some parting advice. “Buddy, don’t ever get branded!” He showed us the back of his calf, which had giant, raw-looking letters seared into it.

“My boss paid me to do this a few days ago! I jumped three feet! Well not really, I’m just being sarcastic now, but it really did hurt!”

Once he was back outside on my front porch, we still continued to talk. “So, you’re from Tennessee you said?” I asked.

“No!” he yelled in horror. “South Carolina. We were just in Tennessee for a trip,” he explained.

I laughed. “You seemed so offended at the thought of being from Tennessee!”

Ray went on to tell me of his hatred for Tennessee sports teams and from there we talked about hockey, which I always try to work into every conversation I have on a daily basis. (I don’t talk to many people, so my stats aren’t that great.)

Before I shut the door, I said, “Wait! This might be weird, but are you on Facebook? Can we be friends?” He said he was, told me to just search by his name, which he had written on my copy of the receipt. I looked for him later but couldn’t find him, and that made me more sad than I thought it would. He’ll probably never think of me again, but I’ll never forget him.

All night at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about his question to me. I never really give myself the chance to stop and ask myself if I’m happy, does anyone really? But having a total stranger do it really made it swirl around in my brain and I realized that, oh my God, I think I actually am happy. And I can’t remember the last time I could say that honestly, or the last time I was touched like that by a stranger, and I’m not talking about the “your uncle just fingered me under the picnic table” type of touching. Probably Justin the Gay Hitchhiker from 1998.

I’ve felt really calm and good about things since he left yesterday afternoon. You might say it’s coincidental, but I’ll never believe it. Thank you, Ray the Magazine Schiller. I hate Crown Royal, too.

Henry and I never go out. I think the last time was when we went to see Thrice back in November, and it was good until the end when some guy started pushing me and Henry acted like he knew nothing about it.

I had a pack of four tickets to a Wheeling Nailer’s game that I bought a few weeks ago from one of those “just pay half” sites, thinking it would be cool to double-date with my sister, since she lives in Wheeling and we both like hockey. Henry and I dropped Chooch off at his Aunt Kelly’s house (bless her!!!) on Saturday afternoon and for the first time in forever, spent time in the car without a loud-mouthed child screaming MOMMY!!!!! DADDY!!!! every two seconds and calling us bitches.

It was glorious. Except for the part where Henry donned the Professional Driver cap and began weaving and veering through back roads and I was so anxious, staring at the clock, knowing we weren’t going to be in Wheeling by the designated meeting time of 5:00pm.

He drives the SPEED LIMIT for Christ’s sake!

Other than that, I was doubled over with giddiness. It was practically a date! We were acting like a real couple! God, was it ever exciting. So exciting that I put on Of Mice and Men (the band, not the book) real loud and Henry started complaining when I kept tugging his arm up in a roof-raising motion, and then I thought it would be fun to try to kill him and he was shouting, “Hello, not while I’m DRIVING!”

Oh man, just like old times.

We were about ten minutes late, and my sister Amy and her boyfriend Dick were already waiting for us at River City, where we decided to meet for drinks because I hear that’s what grown people do. It was kind of awkward at first, mostly because of Henry’s social displacement, but once the beers (and my lame amaretto sour) arrived, everyone started loosening up and Henry began to be scared of the similarities shared by my sister and me. And I think Dick thought I was retarded, maybe?

My favorite part was when Dick asked Henry what he did for a living. Dick is a doctor so Henry, feeling inadequate,  mumbled something about working for a beverage company and I considered shouting, “HE PLAYS WITH FAYGO ALL DAY” but didn’t want to embarrass him. I mean, any more than he already is just by being my boyfriend.

Henry hated our waitress for not knowing anything about the beer on tap, and he went to the bar to look at the beer selection for himself. Then he told the bartender he hated the waitress. Then we got a new waitress! This one was trying unsuccessfully to cover a black eye with orange foundation. She made me feel uncomfortable, like I had an uncredited role in a Lifetime movie.

By the time we left to walk across the street to the arena, it seemed like everyone liked each other (except for Henry and me, but, well….duh) and I would have been more happy about that if I wasn’t busy panicking about redeeming our tickets. I get nervous about things like this! I’m tightly wound. When I slid the email confirmation printout under the glass at the will call booth, the man began asking me a torrent of questions, like: “Did you call the box office?” and “Did the box office call you?”

I was a nervous wreck. “No!” I answered to both questions. Was he going to tell us to leave? Would we have to work for the tickets? Because I might, MIGHT, give some oral for a ticket but no way am I mopping a floor.

Then he typed some stuff on his computer and handed me 4 tickets.

JUST LIKE THAT.

No one else seemed impressed or surprised. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting to happen, the gestapo to swarm from all sides, handcuff me and put me away for being violating some serious Wheeling ticket embargo by just paying half on some seedy illegitimate website created by scamming Nigerians.

Once we found our seats, Henry and Dick went off to do Men Things, like buy beer and clap each other on the back a lot. Meanwhile, I explained to Amy that the Nailers had to win that night, since they were playing my least favorite in the entire world, Cincinnati.

“That’s where Christina’s from,” I reminded her. “So there’s A LOT on the line for me.” I think she’s beginning to realize that every little thing in my life is OMG so DIRE, because she just let out a little laugh and said, “Oh, yeah that’s right.”

While Henry and Dick were getting beer, the game started. Literally twenty seconds into it, the Nailers scored. I gloated when Henry came back. (With beer in kids cups, no less.)

I hated the people in front of me. They kissed with open mouths. They were there with their kids! They probably all sleep in the same bed, too. Naked. It was awful to spectate.

Henry spent most of the game obsessing over the fact that the family in front of him belonged to Spike the Mascot. I’m surprised he didn’t send out numerous tweets about it. “You know how Spike came over and kissed that baby?” he asked in an excited hush. “That’s because it’s his DAUGHTER.” He looked so pleased with himself. I asked him how he found out and it was because he overheard the conversation the baby’s mom was having with the Jesus impersonator sitting next to us.

You’d have thought he called up Shane Donovan of the ISA (whaddup Days of Our Lives fans) and had a DNA test ran.

Throughout the game, I kept trying to be affectionate with Henry. In normal ways, like flicking his face and pounding his knee with my fist in lieu of clapping along to the “Let’s Go Nailers” chants. He kept pushing me away! Can you believe that.

In the second period, Crapinnati got a lucky goal and Jesus rose in jubilation. Figures Jesus would be rooting for a team that hails from Judas’s town.

And then I noticed there was an entire section full of Ohioans, hollering for their dumb team.

“What are they called, the FLAPPERS??” I asked Henry incredulously.

“No, retard. The Cyclones. How do you get Flappers from Cyclones?” Because people from Ohio don’t know how to cheer properly.

Anyway, the Nailers came back to score three unanswered goals, and Jesus wept. Happy Easter, asshole!

Apparently, the Nailers didn’t have a very good season (they didn’t even clinch a playoff berth) but you’d never be able to tell by the way they played during their last game of the season. Every three minutes, I had a new favorite player.  It was a great game and awesome to hang out with my sister again!

By the time we left though, I was starving, which meant it was time to fight with Henry. “You’re a fucking bitch when you’re hungry,” he yelled, and then we remembered we have a kid and had to go retrieve him.

It had all the makings of a disaster.

My job interview was scheduled for 4PM today, and as the time drew nearer, this horrible sense of foreboding came over me. I forced myself to get dressed, but by the time Henry came home from work, I was a basketcase.

“I have bad feelings about this!” I yelled. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want this job. AT ALL!”

“You haven’t even gone for the interview yet, you can’t know that,” he said calmly, choosing his words carefully because he knows how quickly and unpredictably his words can morph into the stick poking the bear.

The job is for a large law firm downtown Pittsburgh, the name of which I will obviously never, ever in a million years be able to publish. Since Henry had to stop back at his work later anyway, it was more convenient for him to just drop me off down there. But when we were leaving the house, he didn’t hold the door open for me and it caused me to spill several droplets of coffee on my shirt! (Granted, my shirt was black, BUT STILL, HOW DARE HE.) I took the liberty of throwing a fit and refusing to get in the car. Then I pouted a little in my room until I started to feel somewhat of an adult again, marched back downstairs and yelled, “Fine I’ll go but only because I don’t feel like calling and canceling.”

The lady at the staffing agency told me to get there a few minutes early in order to check in with security. But when I approached the snaggle-toothed guard in the lobby, my inquiries were met with an annoyed stare.

“Use the elevators on the left,” he mumbled.

“That’s it? I don’t have to show you my ID or anything?”

“Nope,” he said, not bothering to meet my eyes.

Awesome.

The elevator spat me out on the 10th floor, and please don’t think I’m lying when I say it was like stepping into Heaven. Everything was white.

The floor.

The walls.

The art on the walls.

Everything glowed like sun off a snowbank and screamed, “Don’t we give off a fresh and modern vibe? You’re not good enough to even stand in this foyer, let alone work within our walls. Your insecurity is sullying our pretentious essence, stop that.”

I was intimidated. It felt cold and sterile, and I kept waiting for Otho from Beetlejuice to round the corner with his ascot trailing behind.

Then the fun part happened! I didn’t know how to open the fucking door to the office!

The handle was some stainless steel piece of modern art, fixated low on the floor-to-ceiling glass door. If I leaned all the way to my right, I could see several desks but the people sitting at them were blurred by panes of frosted glass. I didn’t want to knock on the glass door, but there was no other way to get in.

I stood there for several seconds, pressed against the door, hoping to be noticed. Until I saw the button that said “Press to exit.”

It was a very Alice moment. I had a feeling that pressing this button was the wrong avenue to take.  But the woman I was supposed to be meeting wasn’t answering her phone and the foyer was quickly going from modern art museum to feeling like a fucking morgue.

I almost left. Almost got my ass right back on that elevator and went the fuck home.

But something in me made me push that goddamn button. Even though it said “exit” instead of “enter.” Why would it say “exit”? There was a plaque above it that said, “Door can be opened after 15 seconds.”

It left out the part where I’d have to stand and suffer through fifteen seconds of AN ALARM BLARING first. Then I expected the floor beneath me to gape and engulf me.

But then the alarm silenced and the door opened. And as soon as I walked inside, I wanted to die. Every person in the office was half-standing at their desk, looking to see who had walked in uninvited.

Oh my god, I’m going to swallow my tongue, I thought. I’m about to have my first ever epileptic seizure, I can goddamn feel it. This was certainly an epilepsy-contracting situation, if ever there was.

I scrounged up enough of my voice to announce I was there for Sue, and then I was left to stew in my idiocy until Sue and another woman, Barb, came to greet me.

The rest of the interview went swimmingly from there. Sue and Barb made me feel instantly at ease, and I was even able to joke about my bumbling entrance.

“That’s the guard’s fault!” Barb assured me. “He was supposed to let us know you were here so we could come down to get you. You poor thing, being sent up here blindly like that!”

YEAH. Fuck you, Guard.

We talked candidly as well, and I assured them that the part-time hours they were offering wouldn’t deter me.

“I prefer part-time evening work, because I take care of my son during the day, and I’m an artist.”

I realized that was the first time I said that out loud without hooking my fingers around the word “artist.”

Sue  asked me about the kind of stuff I make. I mentioned the cupcake couples, since those seem to be the most popular things I paint.

“Oh, how clever!” Sue enthused. “You know, there’s a girl in the office who bakes cupcakes. She brings them in for us sometimes and they are so good!”

Please hire me. Please fucking hire me.

This was the first time I can remember not being interrogated in an interview, and not being asked those ridiculous critical thinking trick questions. It was almost like they wanted to know me as a PERSON and not just a breathing extension of my resumè. I noticed that I wasn’t wearing my shoulders as earrings, as I normally do in these begging-for-employment situations.

Barb gave me a tour of the office, which I’m certain was designed by Ikea. There is a round table set up JUST FOR CANDY. A fucking CANDY STATION is what it is. And the good kinds too, not dumb, cheap shit.

I noticed that at one point, Barb pointed to a desk and said, “This is where you’ll be sitting.” MAYBE SHE KNOWS.

I’m not going to get my hopes up, but again: Please hire me. Please fucking hire me.

It’s been two years since I last partook in a roller derby bout, so when my e-friend Bonecrusher posted on Facebook about the season opener, I looked in the mirror and thought to myself, “Well, here’s my opportunity to hate on opposing bitches and be a creepy Bonecrusher stalker. I mean, fan. Bonecrusher fan. Why is my reflection looking at me like that?”

I corralled Alisha into being my partner in spectation. The whole way to Romp n Roll in Glenshaw (we didn’t get lost, because Henry didn’t give us directions), I regaled Alisha with my favorite antidotes from the new sports radio station I’ve been listening to obsessively. I was laughing all over again at the memory of it all, and Alisha was like, “Um, maybe you should just try to get a job there.” She looked worried about me.

We were early to the bout so we had to stand in line for a bit.

“I feel cooler just being here,” Alisha said, looking around at all the non-lame people surrounding us. But really, I could take her to a landfill and she’d feel cool, just being there with me, Erin Rachelle.

There was a man in line in front of us with a long brown ponytail and a corduroy blazer the color of camels. He spoke with his female companion about funny-to-them moments they shared in Europe and I would have puked into my cupped hands if I wasn’t so mesmerized by the uncanny resemblance the man bore to someone I knew but I just couldn’t place it. It wasn’t until later, when he walked past us once we were inside, that I realized he looks like the BAD GUY from Kindergarten Cop. I pointed it out to Alisha and she was like, “I’m from Arkansas. What are movies?” So I went through all this hassle of finding a picture of him on IMDB only for Alisha to shake her head and say, “No, not all. He looks nothing like that.” At that moment, we almost fought.

I reiterated that the resemblance was uncanny before dropping the subject. (OK, it was only slight at best, but still.)

Before the first bout started, I had to use the bathroom and of course I picked a stall neighboring someone who was pooping. But it was a nice complement to the signature roller rink stench of fermented b.o. After awhile, it became a part of me.

At the sinks, I found myself washing my hands next to an exact doppelganger of ex-friend Christina. Only this one was black. But she was dressed like her, was wearing the sort of stupid hat that Christina would probably leave the house beneath under the misconception that she looked cool, had the same build, EVERY FUCKING THING POINTED TOWARD AN AFRICAN AMERICAN CHRISTINA HARRISON. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Simultaneously, I wanted to die and punch her in the face. By the time Alisha was done readjusting her prosthetic hand, the doppelganger was gone.

Later, I saw ANOTHER look-alike. This one was taller, white, and a bit thinner, but it was remarkable nonetheless.

“What do you expect?” Alisha snapped. “There are a LOT of lesbians here.” I already knew that because I could tell Alisha was developing a lot of crushes. I wonder what her diary looked like after that night. Don’t worry, I’ll find out for you.

Still, never have I seen so many mirroring Christina’s duck lips and the build of a compacted football player with Elvis hair ALL IN ONE LOCATION. I was scared.

Luckily, the first bout started soon after and distracted me. Pittsburgh’s B-Unit was playing a CANADIAN team! That was more exciting to me than it should have been. The Canadian team was awful and Alisha and I took a particular disliking to their Semi Precious 10kt. Actually, Alisha hated her first and then I piggy-backed the hate because I was really in the mood of channeling some rage and spewing disparaging slurs.

The Canadians lost real bad. At least Canada still has Sidney Crosby.

Before the second bout started, Alisha was like, “Hey, there’s your friend.” I turned around and Bonecrusher was RIGHT BEHIND ME, being all glamtastic and exuding glittery awesomeness. I was so nervous, but I forced myself to call out her name. I  was fully prepared to start jumping up and down and waving Alisha’s hair if I had to, but Bonecrusher noticed me after the second yell.

This is where Alisha causally leaned back against the wall of the rink and watched the awkwardness unravel. She loves witnessing me meeting new people.

After saying hi, I wasn’t sure what direction to take it, so I complimented on her cool face painting. “Does that take long?” I asked stupidly, like I was the world’s first ever reporter. She told me about the process and I just stood there and smiled retardedly, not knowing where to place my hands or where to settle my roving eyeballs. I can’t meet people! It’s disastrous. She probably thinks I have fucking Asberger’s.

I didn’t want to hold her up any longer so I wished her luck, hi-fived her, and said, “I’ll be screaming real loud for you!” Because that didn’t make me sound like a lame sycophant trying to secure a seat at the cool lunch table. As she skated away, I turned back around and pretending like I wasn’t dying internally. I was afraid to even look at Alisha, because I knew she had smirks and biting one-liners ready to explode from every orifice.

“She seemed really cool!” I said and we left it at that. Then I spent the next ten minutes kicking myself for not rehearsing this in the mirror, or making my cat Marcy role-play.

I held true to my word and screamed real loud every time Bonecrusher knocked a Maine bitch on her ass. “I know her! I know her,” I’d say every time. Meanwhile, I was texted Henry in all-caps and he wouldn’t answer me because I was being obnoxious. He was probably just nervous that I was going to wind up with another girlfriend, you know how I do.

During the bout, I suggested to Alisha that we should start our own teams. “But it’ll just be me on one team, and you on the other,” I started, and I had so many more ideas to add but Alisha stopped me abruptly and said, “No, not ever.

There was a sailor there, taking photos of the Maine team. I couldn’t get a good shot of her, but you can imagine just from this angle how awesome she must have been. Her boots rivaled Wonder Woman’s and her sailor hat was…so very kawaii. I can’t even believe I just wrote that. Anyway, I saw Alisha ogling her and I suggested she take her to the bar later to make her girlfriend jealous. Because I know if Henry brought home a vinyl sailor, I’d be forced to piss on him.

Steel Hurtin’ kicked the collective ass of the Maine All-Stars. I don’t know why Maine even bothers having a roller derby team. I love roller derby because I always forget that the opponents are actual human beings and not corrupt fembots waiting to infect the spectators with Satan’s sperm and rust shavings.

After the bout, Alisha and I went to her favorite bar, 5801, to meet up with  her girlfriend Jess and Mark. (You might remember Mark as the lovely fellow who forced me to climb a ladder and break into his apartment.) I don’t go to bars very often because I don’t like sitting. When I drink, I like to be outside, playing extreme frisbee in the church parking lot across the street and diving into bushes. That’s just me. “I’m just going to stay long enough to get one glass of wine,” I warned Alisha.

But then we arrived and Mark made me feel like a visiting diplomat with the reception he gave me. “I didn’t know you were coming, too!” he exclaimed. He even stood up to hug me! Alisha doesn’t ever do that.

“It was a surprise,” I said. I think all surprises should involve me just showing up somewhere.

Jess and Mark donated their seats to us since we had stood for four hours during the roller derby bout. Actually, it was only Alisha who complained while I’m the one with spurs on her lumbar. Someone needs to send her to boot camp. As soon as I sat down, I looked down the bar and noticed several pairs of eyes on me. A straight girl has landed!

Mark leaned down and asked, “Is this your first time at a gay bar?” I told him that there was another one I had gone to several times with my ex-gay-bestie Brian. (Not to mention all the Tegan and Sara shows I had attended back in the day.) “Oh, that doesn’t count!” Mark laughed, and we both agreed about how filthy that place was. 5801, on the other hand, was awesome. It was very lime. I wanted to hug it. There was even a festive collective singalong to “Sweet Caroline” and I felt like I had finally found my way home.

Not to mention Mark and I bonded over synthpop (“Synthpop is my heart,” I said melodramatically) and then Jess, noticing my iCarly pocketbook, admitted she watches that show too and we shared our favorite parts and I felt so accepted! It only took thirty years!

Two glasses of white wine later and I was pretending to dance with this large scary spiky-hair woman next to me while her back was turned, and then almost took out innocent bystanders with an impromptu round of jumping jacks. My behavior seemed to be accepted, plus Alisha wasn’t flashing me mean looks, so I think that I will be spending more time at 5801. If only to see more octogenarians nearly stroke-out while spry dread-locked bois grind on them at the bar.

Nothing could have went wrong on Saturday. It was just one of those days that it is infused with Awesome extract from the moment you wake up until the second your head hits the pillow. There might have been an incident early that morning where I quit my job as a Mother and swore that I was leaving and taking my cats with me. But other than that, and the fact that the Penguins lost their game with .9 seconds left in OT, my face actually hurt from laughing/smiling all day.

The first day of spring is apparently very agreeable with the balance of my chemicals.

P.S. Oh good, look what I found!