I wish I had listened to everyone when they said things like, "You’re not going to like it. You’re going to be bored" and "You’re going to be angry that you wasted your money. You won’t get anywhere near John Black" because those wise ones weren’t too far off the mark.

Henry had the good sense to park in a garage a few blocks away, where we’d only be robbed of $5 instead of the $10 that the Convention Center overlords would collect at the end of the weekend and probably use to buy a few thousand Ukrainian sex slaves, and I’m not sure I’d feel too comfortable having my cash play a part in that.

When we got inside and went upstairs to pay, I was relieved that it wasn’t as crowded as Henry warned. He always tries to play off my inherent hate for packs of humans when he’s trying to get out of stuff. Like concerts. We got in line, with only one family in front of us, to pay. I mocked dramatic sadness when I saw a sign that said Henry Winkler wasn’t going to appear due to illness, but the older man behind me was acting from the heart. "He’s not here? Then let’s go." I don’t think they ended up leaving, but the corners of his mustached lips were hanging flaccidly after that discovery.

A deep booming voice looped over the sound system, getting everyone pumped up for the Happy Days reunion (if Erin Moran and Cindy Williams constitutes a reunion), Mater from "Cars" (we made Chooch pump his fist, but he didn’t give a shit really) and Drake Hogestyn from Days of Our Lives. I was shocked to discover that I had been mispronouncing his last name for the past twenty years. Henry called me a re-re (his new name for me, thanks, I’m honored) but seriously, I’ve never heard his name spoken before; it’s not like Soap Opera Digest reads itself aloud to me.

$26 dollars later (RIPOFF) we were armed with our tickets and stumbled around blindly looking for the entrance. An older red haired lady stood next to the entrance and when she took our tickets, I pointed to the turnstile next to the large open entrance and asked, "Do we have to go through there?" She scoffed and said no, but I kind of wanted to. Turnstiles make me feel important, like my admission counts. Because it counts my admission.

Even when we crossed the testosterone-coated threshold, I still didn’t think it was all that crowded. I was somewhat amazed to see that there were regular-looking people there, but comforted when my expectations were met when I spied a steady flow of Nascar-jacketed indigents. Some of them wore bandannas on their heads and I think it tugged at Henry’s lower-class heartstrings. He used to wear bandannas, you know. There were also many men who appeared to have come there straight from huntin’.

Within the first minute, we found a small stage with a large banner that read Meet Drake Hogestyn, John Black from "Days of Our Lives" and the tugging of Henry’s arm began. There was a line of about fifty people waiting for his emergence. He was 45 minutes late. Henry took charge and said we should get the whole Mater thing out of the way.

After pushing past a bunch of orange-faced broads with hair so over-bleached it crackled and squeezing past acne-faced teenage boys looking at a table full of shiny car thingies (I think people in the know call them "car parts"), Mater loomed off to our left. Chooch was like, "Yay Cars!" but his face fell when he realized it was just Mater and not Lightning McQueen. Kind of like meeting the Cure but only Lol shows up and not Robert Smith. I wonder if Lol is excited that his name means ‘laugh out loud.’ I mean, the kid was still marginally happy and tried to crawl under the ropes while snot-faced creek-swimmers were getting photographed. We went to stand in line and soon found out that they wanted five fucking dollars for some gayblade to take a picture using a tiny point-and-shoot on a wobbly tripod. Henry, wanting to retain some semblance of the bread winner even though he makes me pay for everything because he blows his money on computer shit and truck porn, actually took it upon himself to go to an ATM and take cash out of his own account. What a fucking man.

While we were in line, a woman over at a near-by podium announced that a boy named Evan had lost his family. I looked at him, and I looked at Chooch who was desperate to break free of Henry’s clutch and visions of the next ten years polluted my once-happy thoughts. My child tried to get kidnapped about eighty times.

We ended up losing the crappy picture in the crappy cardboard frame that they gave us but it didn’t matter because we were allowed to take our pictures too, after we fed them their damn five bucks.

I love that there’s a gigantic can of Skoal hovering above Mater. Very subtle. Hey kids, love Mater? Now you can have teeth like his, too! Come get a free sample.

Around this time I took a good look around and realized that I was horribly overdressed and wasn’t showing any cleavage like all the other hotties and mulled over the idea of plopping out a boob. I hope someday my skin gets that beautiful sun-weathered crisp that they all proudly bare. I saw a lot of B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirts. It brought back memories of middle school.

I stalked this man while he cruised the entire circumference of this bad boy. (The truck, not the actual boy.) Henry caught on quickly to what I was up  to and said, "You’d make the worst spy. You look right at the person and laugh" and then he hurried up and walked away so he wouldn’t be seen carousing with me. After I took this picture, he looked at me, ducked, and said, "Oh ha-ha, I’m sorry!" I told him it was OK, and then under my breath I mumbled, "This is right where I want you, anyway. Snap."

In between all the car showcases were long tables over-stocked with various car products. My first thought was, "But it’s all car stuff." We walked past one table and I excitedly yelled, "Oh I need one of these!!" to Henry, which made the vendor look up. "You don’t even know what that does," Henry snapped. I laughed and said, "I know." Those were the days.

We made it back to the John Black stage right as he made his grand appearance. The crowd was going nuts. Kind of. Not really, but there was some applauding and few of the hardcore female fans swooned loudly. The line was much longer by this point, so instead of going to the end of it, I accepted that Chooch wouldn’t last that long standing in a line so we stood on right up front near the stage, but out of line. It was a decent trade off, because he took some time before signing autographs to field some questions. I wasn’t expecting him to be so personable and funny! Every once in awhile, I’d glance back at Henry, who was cheekily smiling like a gaybo. He tried to act like he couldn’t be bothered after that, but I know deep down he couldn’t wait to call his mommy.

It was cool seeing Drake "John Black" Hogestyn, but seriously, I’ll never go to another car show. It was dumb. Where was the nudity? Maybe at the Gun Show.

There’s something you need to know about me: I’m still the fifteen-year-old girl who turns to music when a boy breaks her heart. I’m still the sixteen-year-old girl who locks herself in her room and blares the stereo after fighting with her parents. I’m still the nineteen-year-old who sobs into cherry wine while listening to The Cure. I’m still the seventeen-year-old girl who thinks every emo song was written for her.

I’m the twenty-eight-year-old girl who gets in a fight with Henry and runs off to the cemetery to scream along to the lyrics that your little brothers and sisters are cutting themselves to.

Not too long ago, someone asked, "Aren’t you a little old to be getting excited about this kind of music?" If I ever stop getting excited about it, stop feeling it in my heart, then I’ll know I’m dead. Exactly what kind of music is someone elderly like me supposed to be listening to, anyway? Should I be donning loafers and sitting back with some John Mayer?

Last summer, when Henry and I were going through a rough patch, Chiodos was there to keep me alive. Their music inspired me to paint again and their lyrics inspired me to keep writing when I really wanted to give up. When I missed their set at Warped Tour, I didn’t care that I was essentially the mama amid a churning sea of other surly fans who missed them due to an unusually early start time.

Yesterday was going to be my first time meeting them. For me, it was worth the three hour drive to Columbus. I wanted to thank them for doing what they do, for making music that means so much to me. But by the time we arrived at Magnolia Thunderpussy for the in-store signing, my heart felt weak and my legs were spaghetti. (Marinara sauce, please.) Very few people were there; I anticipated a line full of unwashed hair and star tattoos serpentining out and around the store, but there were only a handful of messy haired kids loitering quietly among the racks of CDs.

I sat outside for awhile. I was thirty minutes early and Chooch was unable to be contained within the tiny record store. Henry let him play in snow while I tried to make idle chatty with two young people who sat on a retaining wall.  I admitted to being freaked out, hoping to bond with the girl of the pair. She laughed, but it wasn’t the encouraging kind. I think she was suspicious that some old broad was trying to make convo. Later, she asked me if I had come by myself, and I took that as her way of including me. She kind of looked like Rachel Bilson. Then I started thinking about The O.C. and realized, "Holy shit, I really am young……Oh well."

Inside the store, I was mindlessly flipping through used CDs when I looked up and saw three of the band members slipping behind the counter. There was no grand announcement or applause — they managed to slink by unnoticed by most of the kids. A short trucker-capped employee with a voice too husky for a girl came out and determined where the start of the line would be. I had the good fortune of being close by, so only fifteen or so people managed to be ahead of me. Henry and Chooch were still at the front of the store; the growing covey of fans made a barricade that he wasn’t trying to attempt to break through.

I turned around and wheezed, "I think I’m going to die!" to the girl behind me. She laughed. I liked her. She had nice glasses and she let me cut in front of her when I got caught up in the mad scurry to get in line. But I wasn’t kidding — my palms were getting sweaty and I was seeing double.

A trio of tiny girls wearing varying shades of grey and black and olive green huddled in front of me, giggling about what they were going to say to the band. One of the girls never removed her oversized black sunglasses from her pale face. Another had braces. The third looked around and disgustedly observed that there were so many scene kids there. "Oh wait, I am one," she added with a laugh. I wanted to punch her. I wanted to punch her and say that I liked Chiodos more. Then I wanted to steal her purse. Not because I liked it all that much, but because maybe it seemed like the right way to end things.

It was my turn way too quickly. I was barely prepared and my hands shook a little (a lot) as I unrolled my poster and slapped it down on the counter. The first person in line was Derrick, the drummer. He gave me a friendly smile and I felt slightly brave enough to speak. I started to tell him that I had come from Pittsburgh, but the girl in front of me had made it to the end of the line and wanted a picture of all of them. He held up his finger to me and moved in close to the rest of the band. But by the time he turned his attention back to me, I had lost my nerve and started to slide my poster down to the guitarist, Jason. I could have told him that I used a magazine clipping of his eyeball for one of the paintings I made last summer. I could have told him that there used to be a bar outside of Pittsburgh called Chiodos and my mom beat the shit out of the Chiodos daughter because of a guy. I could have told him these things but I didn’t because it probably would have come out sounding like something articulated by Corky.

Henry was standing off to my right, behind a wall of posters. I silently hoped that he wouldn’t embarrass me, because if those guys thought I was old….

Henry chose that moment to release Chooch who in turn came running toward me. Derrick shouted, "Aw, look how cute he is!" When Chooch reached me, I used him to my advantage and picked him up so they knew he was with me; it suddenly didn’t matter that I was "too old" to be there or that I couldn’t find meaningful words to say to them.

The band collectively said things like, "He’s adorable!" and "I like your shirt, little man!" Derrick looked at me and said, "You know, we need a mascot…" Everyone laughed and then he gave Chooch a high five. Even the scene kids in line broke down their steeled pretensions long enough to say "Aw."

Henry doesn’t like Chiodos at all. I mean, he wasn’t glaring at them and flashing Crip signs from behind the protective cover of a rack of Ramones t-shirts — he just doesn’t like their music. I thought that maybe after meeting them he would change his mind. Maybe their boyish charm and ruffled hair would inspire him to give their music another change.

"Do you like them now?" I asked, once we left the record store. (I’m kind of like the Verizon Wireless Guy — I re-ask him with every disc rotation.)

"No! They didn’t do anything but stand there." His standards are too high.

Thank you Chooch, for revitalizing some of my maternal courage and giving me another reason to add to the "no" column of "Was Having a Kid a Mistake?"

Then we went back to the hotel where Henry started snoring and I made him sleep in the car.

Sorry for getting all serious. I promise to resume my regular asshole-y writing style in time for the next entry.

Game Night should officially be renamed Catchphrase Night, since that’s the only game we ever end up playing. Hopefully someday we’ll play Last Word, which was my big fantastic Christmas present to myself. And no one ever wants to play it. But the box is green! And "Last Word" is embellished in beautiful glitter!

This was the first time that Christina, her sister Cynthia, and Cynthia’s boyfriend Joey were able to make the trek from Cincinnati to partake in game night. My brother Corey brought his friend KC who was super sweet and now I want them to get married. Plus, KC was on my Catchphrase team and we had a good rapport. Corey texted me earlier, begging me not to embarrass him (which translates into: "Hey, I like this girl and would appreciate if she didn’t think I’m a prat") but I think I might have reneged when I passed around a picture of the haircut he gave himself the night before he started pre-school. And maybe I might have accidentally mentioned that he reenacted the Britney Spears’ "Stronger" video a few years ago.

The theme of this game night was ‘cereal,’ as suggested by Collin. I feel a little embarrassed that I used his suggestion, but it was appealing to me. Janna brought some kind of delicious chocolate powdery Chex concoction that Christina and Cynthia kept calling Puppy Chow and Corey was calling Poppycock, but I think he really just wanted a reason to say Poppycock. Chooch was up on his tiptoes taking generous fistfuls of that all night. Brenna and Liz brought their own variation of Chex Mix, which was some kind of Chai orgasm with dried bananas; it was so good but I barely got to enjoy any of it.

Henry acted like a baby because he had to use pumpernickel rolls for his spinach dip because the rounds were sold out everywhere. I thought maybe there was some sort of spinach dip festival going on until Joey reminded me that the Superbowl was the next day.

My contribution to the cereal vittles was a delightful peanut butter cookie with just the perfect smattering of Cap’n Crunch crumbles intermixed. Granted, my hands never actually touched any slimy gritty batter — my Henry implemented my brilliant idea into a realistic recipe.

I was really anticipating Collin’s arrival because he and Christina had been sharing some hostility with each other via comments on my blog. I had hopes for an old school street fight complete with some curb stomping and protruding bones, but they ended up liking each other.

Bob from work came with his friend Dan, who joined me in "getting drunk and ruining everyone’s night." Christina favored Dan because she sells windows and he used to install them.

It wouldn’t be game night without Kara and her donations of tubbed frostings. This time she brought vanilla cheesecake filling and a box of Cookie Crisp for a delicious win. She was in high competitive spirits though, and acted like the Catchphrase gestapo. I was afraid she was going to flash her fiancé Chris the secret signal to send him off breaking kneecaps, but it turned out he was too caught up in a heated debate with my work friend Lindsay over gelatin.

My favorite moment was when Catchphrase was in Janna’s hands:

"Oh, OK — what does Erin get every time we go out to eat?" (Unfortunately, there was only one person on her team who would know — Christina.)

"Grilled cheese!"

"No, the other thing."

"French fries!"

"No, the other thing."

"…………………………"

"The thing on the bun."

"Oh….VEGGIE BURGER!"

I thought Cynthia called Janna "Vagisil" at one point (I think she was really saying that Janna was full of fail though), so ‘vagisil’ became Cynthia’s fall back answer every time the buzzer would run out on the opposing team. It was a welcome change from the usual ‘blow job.’ I have a skewered recollection of shouting "formica!!" over and over until Joey refused to take any more guesses from me and turned to our other team members, of which one was Collin. I don’t know how I let that happen, but I’ll chalk it up to the Woodchuck and poorly structured seating arrangement.

Sometime after I busted Christina cheating, she went outside and sprayed my street with vomit. To the unsuspecting eyes of my neighbors, it probably looked like I was hosting a wild kegger at my house. She came back inside and I told Henry to take her up to our room. "And do what with her?" he asked with mock alarm. Evidently, two or three people laughed at this, so he was riding on a comedic high for the rest of the evening. And at one point, he told me I flirt like a three-year-old and shoved me away.

Cynthia had some verbal vomiting that I spent the next two days cleaning up, but I think all is well now. It’s just that not everyone enjoys being called a dumbass over a game. I know I don’t.

My chest feels like it’s been shot three times while wearing a bullet proof vest, so you’ll understand if I cop out and say that it was a rad night and can’t wait for the next one.

Since Henry was a dear and preparing all the food for game night, I agreed to make the journey to the grocery market to get the stuff he needed. All by myself. Alone. Me, in a grocery store. Solo.

To make my trip easier, Henry was nice (smart) enough to make me a list. (He spelled ‘vegetable’ wrong.) But at the last minute, I panicked and begged Christina to come with me.

And thank god. She showed me how to choose good peppers. "Ew, no, that one’s bad." I’d pick another. "Um, no, that one’s bad too." I’d pick another. "OK look — when there’s mushy spots, that means they’re bad."

Christina picked the peppers.

Giant Eagle was out of pumpernickel rounds (I kept calling them boats?). I panicked, but Christina assured me that we would get the damn pumpernickel somewhere else.

I made friends with an old lady. Her cart was jutting out in the middle of a very critical thoroughfare, blocking my advances. We made eye contact and she threw her head back in joyful old woman laughter, pulling her cart back for me. I saw her a few minutes later as I was bounding out of an aisle acting like my cart was a plow, and nearly collided with her. I pulled back and let her pass. Her face moved into an exaggerated expression of relief and we laughed. I kept talking about her after that and Christina had no idea what was going on. I think she thought I had an imaginary friend. I wish.

 There was an older couple in the beverage aisle and I hated them immensely but I’m still not sure why. Christina said they weren’t that bad. Oh, they were in my way, that’s why. But then I forgot about them when we approached the snack aisle and I realized with great excitement that Kenny Rogers’ "You Decorated My Life" was plunking away quietly on the sound system overhead. I lifted my arms in graceful ballerina motions and, in my signature "I’m Excited" fast talk, rambled, "I used to make up ballet routines to this song and dance on my mom’s front porch when I was little!" Christina, distracted by a Wise potato chip sale, mumbled that she knew, I had already told her, and that I made her listen to that song once in the car because it was on one of my Greatest Lite FM Hits mixed CDs. She threw two bags of chips in the cart and we moved on. 

At the check out, I started to feel nervous. I’m a notorious tight wad, and the thought of spending money on all that food frightened me. But then I realized that my purse was at the bottom of the cart, giving the illusion of a full load. "Oh thank god, it only just looked like a lot of food," I sigh, hand on chest. My purse is super gigantic. I could be Mary Poppins. If I liked kids.

We loaded all the bags in the car. Well, Christina loaded all the bags in the car while I played on my Blackberry. At the end of the parking lot is a beer distributor that my dad’s family once owned, so because I’m always using my brains, I suggested that we just walk down there and take care of the alcohol acquisition while we were out.

"My dad used to bring me here when I was little," I told Christina as we crossed the parking lot. "I’d have a fucking field day climbing atop all of the stacked beer cases and crawling through the tunnels that the tight aisles made. I’d have so much fun there." When we walked in, I wondered if my dad’s brothers would be working. I thought my dad had mentioned recently that they still work on weekends, just for the fun of it. But I only saw some middle aged man that I didn’t recognize.

We grabbed a case of Woodchuck. Well, I pointed to a case of Woodchuck and then Christina hoisted it up. As we neared the register, the customer in front of us turned to leave, revealing another man behind the counter. It was my dad’s dad.

My dad, though he adopted me when I was nine, is essentially my step-dad, and if you want to get nit-picky, he’s not even that anymore because my mom divorced him back in 2001. But we get along, not so much that I could legitimately say we’re close, but he’s a nice guy and I enjoy seeing him.

His dad, however, is another story. I haven’t seen my Grandpa Kelly in about ten years or so. He has an extreme case of OCD — he’s been hospitalized for it and he pretty much thinks he has AIDs anytime he uses a public restroom. The last time I went over his house, my dad met me outside and gave me a refresher course. "Don’t talk about your cats! Oh my god, he’ll have a fit. And don’t let him know you smoke! Just…don’t talk. Don’t talk, OK? And don’t pick up things from the floor." It was Father’s Day, I believe, and he didn’t even come out of his room anyway.

Christina dropped the Woodchuck on the counter. And I’m standing there, just standing there awkwardly with my arm extended limply, credit card and ID cinched between my thumb and forefinger, and he’s staring at me. I wasn’t sure if he recognized me, was trying to place my face, or was just zoned out because let’s face it the dude’s about eighty-five years old now.

I cleared my throat. "I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m…" Crap, what’s my dad’s name? "D-Denny’s ….. stepdaughter. Erin? I haven’t seen you in many many years."

He continued to stare at me, his eyes were pearly and milky behind large glasses. Something registered and he gave his head a sharp shake. "Erin! Oh, Erin, why, how are you? What are you doing buying beer, young lady? You’re supposed to be this big!" He held his hand out by his thigh, indicating the height of a child. He flicked his eyes toward Christina and I introduced her. He took her hand and held it in a lingering clasp. I was shocked that he was touching a stranger’s hand. Especially Christina’s, that dirty Mexican.

"So, where are all the contestants?" he asked, looking behind us. We shrugged and look at him confusedly. "All the contestants….in the beauty pageant."

This was a line right up Christina’s alley and she played him like putty from that moment on. It’s kind of sickening how she has the ability to flirt with old people. She’s like the physical embodiment of "wink wink, nudge nudge" and her cheesiness makes me uneasy sometimes. While they bantered, I grabbed a handful of jerky for Bob. I wasn’t sure what kind he was always dyking out over at work, but I knew it wasn’t Slim Jims, because the kind that MSA offers in the vending machine "blows Slim-Jims away."

"Erin was just telling me how she used to come here and climb on the beer cases," Christina schmoozed. Grandpa Kelly waved his arm out toward the store and told us to have at it.

"Eh, I think I’d do quite a bit of damage now," I grimaced, while Christina was yammering on something about "wait until we drink some of this stuff, then we’ll come back and play" and I realized at that point that she should really start wearing leisure suits while trying to pick up helpless women at the gym. I wanted to leave. It was hot in the store and kind of uncomfortable being leered at by this old man that I haven’t seen in ages. He scrutinized my drivers license for too long and he rang us up at a snail’s pace. I’m quite sure his tenure at the beer distributor should have ended ten years ago.

He kept making comments about how I grew up to be such a beautiful woman, and the way the words were passing through his old man lips made my vagina beg for a staple gun. Sleazy. Which is probably why Christina forged such a quick rapport with him.

The middle aged man came back into the store and Grandpa Kelly had him carry out the case to my car. I tried to talk him out of it, insisting that we had parked too far away, but he made it clear that it was his job. So this younger man heaved the case up and Christina fake-flirted with him too, the whole way back to the car. She’s such a sexual predator.

"You having a Super Bowl party?" he asked, with just a touch of Pittsburghese.

"No, we’re having Game Night," I said, opening the car door for him. Christina and I laughed about that later. "He probably thought to himself, ‘Isn’t that what game night is?’" I mocked on the ride home.

The next day, I called my mom and told her of my run-in.

"He still owns that place," she corrected me. "It’s just not called Kelly’s Distributor. It never was, I don’t know why they had all those shirts with that on it."

And that asshole didn’t hook me up! He could have at least thrown in the jerky for free. Bob didn’t even eat any of it.

What has:

• pole-dancing,
• spiked egg nog,
• exotic cheeses,
• Santa with a hard-on,
• shiny door prizes like panini presses and a magic wand for can-opening ease,
• a chocolate fountain centered around an array of fresh fruit and lady fingers in scandelous poses?

Not our department holiday party.

No, we got cold cuts drowning in a mucous-like moat, cheese slices that needed the aid of Freddy Krueger’s nails to be surgically removed from each other, a bowl of frozen fruit slices, and a giant sheet cake that had nauseating pink flowers piped precariously around the perimeter. (I deduced at once that it was going to be an offensive supermarket bakery cake, so I walked past it with my nose in the air.) We got scratch off tickets and Tina’s hair collar and a platter of bland cookies that were at least moist and not stale like I had initially suspected.

The cheese lasagna was a real treat, though.

1. A dayshifter who sits next to me. I rue the days she works late because she laughs like an engorged elephant cock is lodged in her throat and she’s trying to summon her inner Vesuvius to phlegm it back up. She handles a runny nose like your typical Teamster: loud, wet and crackly, like a bowl of exploding Rice Krispies is draining down her throat. She’s nice though.

2. Hey Tina, ever since you switched to the day shift, something really confusing and alarming has arrested me: I think I like you. Not in a ‘Hey, let’s go French in a bathroom stall’ kind of way, but in a ‘You’re over here talking to me yet I have no urge to inflict any bodily damage.’ But no, I’m not sad that I wasn’t sitting at your table. And while I imagine playing games with a bullyishly dominate personality such as your own is a dream come true for some (like perhaps a tribe of indigents who have never played games before) I’m not jealous that your table was playing  Taboo, as rousing and scintillating as it sounded.

3. Big Bob. He stole Collin’s Hot Pockets and made him cry.

4. Non-Big Bob’s plate of meat goods were a little too close to me. I felt violated and kept imagining someone gagging me with that slab of ham.

I was happy to be seated at a table of socially capable people — Lindsay, Bill, Brandie, and (Non-Big) Bob. However, we were joined by Stanley. I am fortunate to not have to deal with him because he works during the day and sits over by Bill and Lindsay. He has no filter, kind of like a child, and random strings of rudeness spray from his mouth in fairly consistent intervals. When we were walking up to the Mezzanine, one of the more heavy and elderly employees was up ahead, taking each step with deliberate slowness. Stanley yelled up, “Hey, Donna, we need to get you an escalator.” Someone behind him called him on his rudeness, only making him justify himself. “What? It’s true! Donna needs an escalator!” If I had to deal with that brand of idiocy for eight hours a day, one of us would have lost our job by now.

Stanley spent a good fifteen minutes diligently rubbing off five scratch off tickets, and even after inspecting them closely above his head, he still found reasonable cause to have Lindsay double-check. I took a picture of his crotch from under the table. Sadly, no boners arose from the rub-off frenzy.

And Bob, poor Bob; he stared off into the distance most of the time, mourning his other half’s absence. (Collin called off.) He seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if he was thinking about all the nights he and Collin spent playing their little celebrity chain game to pass the time while braiding daisy chain crowns for each other’s heads.

One of the games everyone (and by everyone I mean the Daytime Clique) was playing consisted of taping the name of a celebrity to each player’s back, and then everyone had to take turns asking a question to find out who they were. I told Bob it would be a good game for him and Collin to play and he lit up. “You’re right! I didn’t even make that connection!” Then he smiled to himself for awhile, probably rewinding the Collin-montage in his head.

Bill spoke of foreign-sounding things for awhile before I realized he was speaking in baking-tongue, while Lindsay smiled at me like an adoring fan and laughed at all of my antics, like when I took a picture of this guy who I have never seen before in my life, but supposedly he’s part of our department and works upstairs (if you want to take Bill’s word for it) and then ten minutes later I blurted out, “Oh shit, I think I made myself have a crush on that guy!” Lindsay giggled. In my head, I dubbed her my new work BFF. I’m not sure who the old one was. Bill perhaps, even though working opposing shifts has really driven a wrench in our rapport.

He doesn’t even bring me brownies anymore. I bet he brings some for Tina, in tiny baskets lined with rich Italian linen. Well, they can have each other.

Kim approached our table and asked why we weren’t playing games. Maybe it was just me, but I thought it was pretty obvious that our table was way too cool for parlor games, at least the ones that didn’t involve heavy betting and liquor. “We’re playing our own game,” I said. “It’s where everyone tells me how cool I am.” I smirked appropriately and Kim acted like she was about to be sick.

Since I pitched in a devastating twenty dollars to this elitist shindig, I gave myself a goal of “eat more than you paid for,” but the party started at 11AM and I just really wasn’t hungry. So in the end, I probably only ate $5 worth, which jacks me right off. (However, later on that evening, I had a piece of leftover lasagna for dinner. This is how it was made possible:  “Tina, you know how you’re always looking for a reason to leave your desk?” Tina looks at me, slightly frightened, before cautiously saying, “……yes?” I jump in for the kill. “Will you get me lasagna?” What? I didn’t want to lift that big pan-y thing out of the fridge! So Tina did. And it was decent.)

Then it was time to go back to work. Most people offered to help clean up, but I just got up and left.

Or: Where We Learn that Ryan went to France and REALLY LIKES John Waters

Oh Game Night, how I’ve missed you. It had been nearly a year since the last one and that was just no good. Henry spent all day on Saturday cleaning and preparing delicious party dips and Janna came early to slop together some cheesy fondue. Ryan said it was too salty and that when he was in France and had fondue, they didn’t use vegetables as dunking apparatus, but rather bread (which Janna brought but had not yet found time to cut, furthering her voyage toward a psyche break). He also questioned my mothering skills and nearly assaulted me because I had a Blondie song on my play list when evidently Blondie, like John Waters, is So Obscure that he just couldn’t fathom why someone so dull and ordinary like me would know who that is. Let alone enjoy it. And he said I was really terrible at Scattergories.

He’s lucky I was showing a little restraint in front of Collin–an Erin newbie–else we’d have been dining on Ryan roast for the next few nights.

At least he didn’t fuck up the Catchphrase groove this time around.

Janna’s fondue was made with gruyere, which Janna practiced pronouncing in the car on the way to my house, and swiss cheese and liberal amounts of wine and something else in a bottle.

I’ll eat anything made from cheese and Janna was kind of like a hero to me for making it.

This particular Game Night was notable because every single person who RSVPd in the affirmative actually showed up, and those who put a “plus one” brought their plus ones. This is deemed a miracle in the party planning world. Someone slaughter me a pig, we’s gonna celebrate.

Game Night was slated to begin at 7, because I’m an idiot and didn’t consider the fact that Chooch would still be up, therefore rendering any game-playing impossible. So I pretended like I intended it that way and made a big production of telling everyone it was the Pre-Game Social. I’m apparently fixated on socials lately. Janna watched her fondue pot like a scorned woman trying to catch her husband fucking the nanny. “No one’s eating my fondue,” she’d whimper occasionally. I assured her it only seemed that way because she made enough for a fucking wedding reception. Stupid bitch.

Bill and Collin from work both came, and Bill brought his wife Natasha. I haven’t hung out with anyone I work with prior to this, so I was worried that they would think I was weird, but Henry pointed out that they probably already knew as much. I mean, they read this after all. Just so everyone knows, I obliterated Collin at both Catchphrase and Scattergories because he’s a sissy little bitch full of talk. I didn’t get to talk to Natasha much, which saddened me because Bill has told me a lot about her and I can tell she’s really cool. Hopefully, she wasn’t too put-off by my obnoxiousness and will come around again.

I got drunk.

My LJ pal Rhonda came with her roller derby friend Mel and it took me about forty-five minutes to be able to speak to her without stifling giggles because I was faux-stalking her and writing about it in my LJ and here and she read it. Let this be a cautionary tale for all of you aspiring stalkers out there: Sometimes stalking bites back. I still think she’s totally awesome and she brought this haunted house board game that I desperately wanted to play but we had too many people and those other losers didn’t seem very enthusiastic about it so she stuffed it back under her seat.

I inwardly pouted about that for awhile. I hope she did too. And I hope she liked me.

I finally got to meet Kara’s boyfriend Chris who is completely fantastic and a real delight to play Catchphrase with. Kara brought a tub of pre-made cheesecake filling with a box of Teddy Grams for dipping, and everyone marveled over that for awhile. Janna was jealous that the store-bought cheesecake fluff was trumping her expensively homemade fondue. She forgot about it later when, for no reason, I punched her arm hard enough to make Ike Turner blush.

Brenna brought her friend Liz, whom I had heard (and read) a lot about. (I wish she would have brought her sex tape!) She was really cool and welcome into my house anyday, even if she is the cousin of some girl I used to play tennis with in high school who went on to cause me some dramafied problems.

Janna and I were on opposing teams, for which I was glad. I wrote that down in my diary so I’ll remember to give thanks for that next Thanksgiving. During one of her turns, she only had a chance to blurt out, “She’s a singer. Screechy in the 90s!” before the buzzer ran off and my team had a chance to steal. I screamed, “Mariah Carey!” and because my body is molded from Awesome Molecules, we won the point. Oh, and the game. Like, three times in a row. It was nearly as historical as last year, when all Henry said was, “Singer” and I hysterically yelled, “Carly Simon!”

And it was Carly Simon. Awesome who? What?

Ryan got “Pink Flamingos” as his Catchphrase word (oh, yay) and was so shocked when some actually guessed it. Um, my GRANDMA knows that movie. He ran around being obnoxious about that for awhile, so I went outside and had a cigarette.

I was so happy, reveling in all the winning, when I overheard Kara say she’s moving to DC next month. I was so horrified that I had to make her repeat it. “No, you dumb bitch!” I cried. I felt so betrayed. Everyone else was congratulating her and didn’t seem to really care, because it’s only Kara after all, and maybe it was all the Woodchuck raping my emotions, but I really felt like I could have died right then. She swore that she’ll be back often to visit, but that’s what they all say.

We’ll always have Phipps, Kara. And the Eat n Park waitress who looked like Gerard Way.

You’re still a dumb bitch, though.

Bill made a delicious cake which was borne from a barrel of bourbon. And it was slathered liberally with a creamy frosting also drenched in bourbon. I fed some to my child, because I’m an irresponsible asshole of a mother. I hope Bill doesn’t know that I only invited him for his baked goods.

My little bro Corey arrived late and had to eat his slice of cake with a spatula because there were no forks left and I wasn’t in dish-washing mode.

The bulk of the crowd left around 11, leaving Henry, Janna, Ryan, Corey, Collin and I with the prime opportunity to play Scattergories. It should be made known publicly somewhere that I’m a Scattergories Supremacist. You know how when someone gets a DUI, a public blurb goes in the paper? Something like that so that everyone in my community (and soon the world) will know how impossible I am to defeat. Sure, people try to thumbs-down some of my answers, like Hyacinth Hallway as a road, but that’s because they’re sheltered and don’t know that I walked, nay — frolicked, down that very same road in Holland. After picking a bushel of tulips near a windmill. And smoking a fattie.

I won that game too, thanks to knowing that torpedo-touching is a hobby.

Then I had to go to work yesterday and I was kind of afraid that Bill and Collin would be all, “Ew, get away from us with your game cooties, you fucking freak” especially after I kicked Collin and hurled a box at him, but thankfully he doesn’t remember that part. (At least I didn’t hide his Hot Pockets.) They seemed to still like me. Or tolerate me, at least.

This week, I’ve been working four 10-hour shifts because the system will be down on Friday, which means no work. The only way we were allowed to come in early today was by agreeing to make an appearance at the social. It wouldn’t have been so bad if everyone from evening shift was there, but only Bob and I were retarded enough to come in early and eat shitty hors d’oeurves. The night crew is treated like pariahs when immersed with the dayshifters, especially when our pack is broken up.

Bob wasn’t there when I arrived, and I desperately wanted to get it over with so I got Bill, who’s on the dayshift now, to go up with me. Tina promised she would too but then copped out at the last minute–asshole. Bill had already been up there once and therefore knew of the horrors in store for me. He tried to warn me that it was really crowded up there in the cafeteria, but the prospect of being buffeted in a field of holiday cookies helped me soldier on. Unfortunately, my hunt for cookies was kiboshed by a battlefield of gabby dayshift employees stuffed into a small and overheated cafeteria. I think I whimpered, “I’m going to cry,” three times to Bill. I’m not a social person. Perhaps in a group of three, I am. But I hate walking into a crowd, especially one that’s all loud and a’titter and blocking all of the spreads.

My throat felt constricted and I lost the ability to speak more than the same word over and over. My vision blurred and I momentarily lost sight of my mission.

My shepherd Bill directed me to a table with vegetables and several variations of bruschetta, but then I remembered that I just wanted cookies. “Cookies?” I asked. So he showed me a table that had a punch bowl and one lone picked-over platter occupied by several cookies. I thought he was kidding when he said it was all that was left, but his eyes did not lie.

Apparently, my intense distaste for public interaction rendered my hearing powerless, leaving Bill to have one-sided conversations.

I grabbed two sad oatmeal cranberry cookies (wtf? but they were good), one for me and one for my boss Kim who had to miss the social because of school, and Bill and I retreated back downstairs where they keep us processors locked away.

Fifteen minutes later, Bob came over and asked, “Hey, you ready to go up there now?” and I was like, “Jesus Christ dude, I waited for you but you were late.” Erin don’t wait for no homies. But then I felt bad because he’s still kind of new and he swore he was stuck in traffic. So I groaned and then went back up with him. I waited for him to ladle some festive punch into a styrofoam cup and then hoped we could leave.

“This punch is good,” he said. I agreed and added that it was fizzy, as well.

“Maybe we should stay, just for a little while,” Bob said. So we stood awkwardly off to the side, in semi-silence, not knowing anyone else up there. I saw an IT guy that replaced my mouse, and I’m oddly attracted to him even though he has a slight scent of hoppy aftershave.

“So, fishing, huh?” Bob’s going fishing this week. “Is it the kind where you cut the hole in ice?” I asked, trying to be social. So he talked about fishing for awhile and then we got bottles of complimentary foot lotion (wtf?) and left.

Socials can suck a dick.