Today was a day for thanksgiving indeed: Henry had the doctor call me in an alternate prescription because I apparently am allergic to Cipro. Or my pain threshold just does not have the braun to withstand the brain-swelling sensation that the side-effect head aches were giving me.

(Oh, don’t worry! I’ll be back later with a thorough recap of each and every kidney twinge I endured this past week!

)

Anyway, today was the first day since Sunday that I actually: looked un-sick, dressed in clothes made of fabrics other than cotton, and applied makeup to my face. We went to my Grandma’s and my mom cried over the phone about having a “headache,” her stand-by excuse for every little situation she wishes to escape (I jumped at my chance here to smugly remind my grandmother that I had just been to the hospital but I still made it and she solemnly concurred, probably feeling even more disappointed with her daughter thanks to my interjection), I got to eat my first actual meal of substance in days, and there were onions in my un-meated stuffing. However, I was happy. My belly was happy. My head was happy, thanks to the large pain killer the doctor also prescribed.

Happy Thanksgiving, yee-all.

[Edit: It is sad when I’m so out of it that HENRY catches my typos.]

I’m currently battling the worst kidney infection of my life. This is the first time since Saturday that I’ve even been able to sit at the computer long enough to write this.

BBL!
(Hopefully.)

You know how
People will write about
How they got
their heart
broken by some prat in
         the 8th grade
whose eyes were
too CLOSE together
and maybe he had athlete’s foot a lot
and then

they might
     Say something about how
their dad used to rape
  their mother
every Friday night
and they could hear it
from the other side of the
bed posts      and
that
they secretly kind of
liked hearing it
and

       sometimes

it would RAIN really hard
on days when the sky was
blue and
what, was God playing games?
Like when he took away
the family dog

           Oswald?
and then
just because they
basically have written
a paragraph
detailing the saga
they call L.i.f.e
and s p l i t up the sentences
into artful little stanzas,
they call it a
Poem?

I
don’t
get
it.

The first time I met Henry, he was walking out of the break room at work. It was his second week at Weiss Meats and I thought he looked angry and impenetrable, someone who I wouldn’t be able to joke around with like I enjoyed doing with some of the other delivery drivers. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would hand out free smiles and that got under my skin; I was pretty cheerful back then.

My second impression of him was that, in his navy blue coveralls, he resembled Michael Myers. I was out of the country for his first week at Weiss’s, and it makes me laugh to think that his first impression of me was that I was some crazy, weird girl who was currently in Australia, meeting the Cure. Because that’s what all the guys told him. That the office manager was some weird, jet-setting blond (with big boobs) off meeting some “queer” band. I didn’t like him right away, but I’m sure he was obssessed at first sight. (Right Henry?!) Well, now Michael Myers and Weird Busty Blond have a kid together, which makes me laugh even harder. I can’t wait to see how Chooch is going to meet his Weird Busty Blond. (Or Michaels Myers; I’m an equal opportunist kind of mom.)

Enter Henry, returning home from a day of doing little at his job. Spies something awry near the computer.

Henry: What has happened to the keyboard?
Keyboard is half-dead, whimpering, with its space bar dangling from its socket. Those plastic-proppy things are snapped clean off the back and lay in a dilapidated fashion on the computer desk. A mysterious prong-y apparatus also sits in discarded discord.&

Erin, nervously: I don’t know. It’s been like that all day. Fiddles with cuticles.

Henry, inspecting it closely: Strange, it wasn’t like that last night.

Erin, self-righteously: I DID NOT DO THAT. I SWEAR TO GOD. IT WASN’T ME.

Henry, in a goading tone: Erin.

Erin, screaming hysterically and obviously: IT WASN’T ME I SWEAR TO GOD!

Henry: This is an Erin-move. It has your name written all over it. So, what pissed you off and made you smash it?

Erin: OKFINEITWASMEITWASN’TWORKINGANDIGOTANGRY!

Henry provokes Erin some more, laughing at her state of frantic imbalance. Walks over to shuffle through the mail.

Henry, holding up a flyer from Full Sail, a recording arts school, reads it out loud: “Create a career in music.”

Erin, still ruffled about the appropos inquisition: I don’t want a career in music! I want a career underground, in a casket.

Henry, still perusing the flyer: Let me help you with that.

Today, a motorcycle-straddled cop set up a speed trap in front of my house. I was very bothered by this for two reasons:

1. I hate (most) cops
2. I hate cops on motorcycles

I’ve hated cops most of my adult life, and the motorcycle clause was a fast addendum. Six years ago, I had just pulled up to the curb in front of my house after a long day at work. Unaware of the cop who had been trailing me the whole way down Brookline Boulevard, I casually opened my car door, which in turn slammed into the side of his motorcycle, which he had idled on the sidewalk.

So before chastising me for me speeding, this old white-haired popo screamed at me for “nicking” his crappy cop cycle.

I dished out my usual cop hate-tinged sass (seriously, it’s a wonder I haven’t been night-sticked by now) and then pushed my way past him. ”

And to top it all off, you parked your car facing the wrong way!”

Oh fucking well, dickham.

Henry watched the whole thing from the sidelines, having returned home from work right behind me, and it’s still brought up occasionally.

I wanted to pelt expired foodstuffs at the cop today, but Henry was very serious about protecting the cop-douche, like he’s the one-man secret service of the police department; protection for our supposed protectors.

“And to make it even worse, he has a MUSTACHE,” I said with disgust and a crinkled nose as I sulked near the front door.

“So now you hate people with mustaches too?” Henry asked, annoyed.

“No, just cops with mustaches.” I really have to spell it all out for him.

(Although sometimes I hate mustachioed convenience store clerks.)

“See,” Henry continued from the kitchen, “this is why people think you’re a serial killer. You have a serial killer mindset.

” Why, because my hate is based on very specific criteria? I’m just very organized with my discrimination, is all.

Today I left for work with the sounds of zooming toy cars reverberating through my house and I can’t really explain why, but it made me feel very happy. Maybe it reminded me of growing up with two younger brothers. Ryan and I used to play with his Hotwheels and Micro Machines; I loved playing with cars more than My Little Ponys. (But it my toy car passion was probably tied with my obsession for Sweet Secrets, those things were bomb. Toys AND jewelry in one?!)

We used to build a tiered parking garage out of waffle blocks and lose ourselves in valet heaven for hours. Sometimes Egon and Slimer and Donatello and Splinter would join us.

I guess this is what I’ve been waiting for: My son is finally not a baby anymore and he plays with toys independently and says “whee whee” as he pushes a dump truck into Don’s hind legs and it’s just going to keep getting better (until he starts shop lifting and impregnating girls and joining whatever version of the Trenchcoat Mafia will be infecting society in the next decade).

In a surprising twist of fate, I got a new Secret Santa recipient. My boss — who kicks my chair to get my attention in lieu of, oh I don’t know, saying my name — took Gum Girl off my hands in exchange for Young Lindsay, whose wish list was making my boss all a’fluster.

“I don’t know any of this stuff!” she moaned last night. It turns out Lindsay and I have more in common than I imagined and I’m taking this as my signal to mold and sculpt her into the best Mini Erin she can be.

Shopping for her will be way more fun than picking up a Tyler Perry DVD.

During the fall of 1998, I worked for a company called Electronic Merchant Services. It was one of those terrific careers that afforded people to sit on the phone all the livelong day, trying to con businesses into checking out their credit card machines. I got this job right on the heels of losing my telemarketing gig at Olan Mills once our call center was shut down, and my manager there — Gladys — became my fellow co-worker at EMS. Naturally, we sat together, and in spite of our burgeoning age gap (she could have been my mother), we would giggle our way through the eight hour shift. Until our boss separated us.

I was struggling to bait business owners, so Gladys rose to the occasion and suggested that I call the businesses that interested me. I eschewed the cold-call sheet and flipped open the Yellow Pages to display the tattoo shops. Left and right, I was engaging them into scheduling appointments with our technicians.

One day, I called a place called The Hole 2, located in Butler, PA. After smalltalking with the owner for much longer past the ethical amount of deal-sealing time, I was promising Jay that I’d stop in that week for him to give me a discounted tattoo. How could I say no to that? Plus, he told me to sign him up for a terminal.

I wore a red cropped sweater with an exaggerated cowl neck, and a black camisole underneath. I always remember what I wore.

It took me about an hour to get to Butler, and that was the longest I’d ever driven alone in my Eagle Talon. The mix tape I played had a myriad of staples of 1998: Stabbing Westward, Marilyn Manson, Korn, Placebo, Tool, NIN and Soundgarden, plus a DMX track for good urban-vibing measure. (My tastes were a bit metallic-lite back then.)

When I pulled up to the shop, I was proud that I made it there without traffic infraction or directional discrepancy. The parlour was empty on that weeknight, and Jay began the outline of a large sun with a twisted face, which I very positively decided would go smack in the middle of my lower back.

His piercer, Clown, fleshed out the troika and together we chilled out and we laughed and we talked about how lame it is when girls get dolphin tattoos; and it was almost enough, mostly enough, to distract from the searing pain flooding up to my neck every time that needle shot through the skin above my spine. (They invited me to the Family Values tour, but I was busy.)

Clown, who had recently pierced the back of his neck, clasped my hand in a supportive squeeze every time I winced. It was an evenly distributed sensation of creepy discomfort and oddly mullifying security. “He likes you,” Jay laughed, during one of the few times we were left in the room sans Clown.

I was only strong enough to endure the outline and the tiniest bit of shading before Jay agreed that my skin had had enough ink molestation for one night. Clown, who had curly blond hair and a small stature, accompanied me to my car, talking about how the neighborhood was a bit rough at night. I didn’t feel very safe inside the crook of his scrawny arm, but I at least recognized it as a sweet gesture.

Driving home in the dark, my skin felt swollen under the feet of a thousand fire ants, but my smile was unfaltering. I even stopped and bought a bag of Combos in lieu of an actual meal with starches and protein.

And I rarely ate Combos.

While I waited for my skin to heal enough for a repeat performance, I received an unexpected phone call.

“Let’s hang out,” Clown said on the other end of the line. “I want to see you again.”

I sputtered off limp-wristed excuses.

We live too far
I have cramps
I’m gay

“I’ll come to you. I’ll come to your apartment and make you dinner and we’ll watch Halloween.” Half a point scored for listening to me prattle on about my stupid obsessions while half delirious from being needled.

“What will you cook?”
“Pasta!” he answered, his voice drunk with hope. “Anything you want!” he quickly added.

But I wasn’t into him. I had had a string of torrid summer affairs and I swore that I was going to live a chaste and demure lifestyle. At least for that September. I tried scheduling an appointment with Jay two times after that. The first time, Clown told me in a detached droll that Jay was in Aruba. A month later, Jay was booked and I lost interest.

The Hole 2’s business card remained tucked away in my wallet for years, a souvenir of that quirky autumn night. Just recently, I noticed its absence when I was looking for my insurance card, a sign for me to let go of the past. </p><p>I eventually got the tattoo finished, but that’s another (two) story(ies).

Hello,

My boss just asked me if I’m a serial killer.

I laughed.

She echoed my laugh, nervously.

Day has officially been made.

Good bye.

There was nothing special about the way Janet Boxstein ate a bowl of bran cereal with skim milk every morning, or that every morning she said hello to Mr.

Jenkins in 6G on her way out to get the paper. There was nothing notable about the route she took to work, the same route every day, past Swanson’s Hosiery House and through the dark alley between the Swedish bakery and the dog pound, the same route she had been taking for the past 789 days (except during the pickling plant flood of 2005, when she was forced to hitch a ride with a cow mover).

There was also nothing notable about Janet’s vocation. She worked in the cellar of a corking factory, shredding documents and sweeping mice shit into the dank corners and behind towering stacks of bankers boxes.

She wore non-descript khaki slacks and an aged white blouse. Nothing stood out about the way she wore her black curls and her handwriting was ordinary, like Times New Roman.

No one noticed her as she crouched on the floor every afternoon, nibbling on her standard fare of tuna on rye and cocktail weiners in a cabbaged marinade; and no one noticed her as she blended into the stampede of rush hour every day when the five o’clock alarm sent peals of dismissal through the factory.

There was nothing notable about the way she moved her head to the homogenized brand of Celine Dion-stylized music that filtered through her head phones, and nothing to note about the generic cans of corn and coffee that filled her wobbly-wheeled cart at the small corner mart.

None of the neighbors noticed the thumping when Janet returned to her apartment every night and kicked aside stray limbs protruding from the pile of corpses in her sitting room, or the hollow bang when she pounded on her TV for better reception. None of the neighbors noticed the smell of burnt toast that wafted underneath her door every time she made a midnight snack, or the stench of corroded brain matter that festered in large jugs stopped with cork which she pocketed from work.

But one notable thing about Janet was that she built a ladder to the top of the Eiffel Tower out of spinal columns.

And that she loved to flamenco.

I was just chatting with my little boyfriend Henry, talking about my Christmas cards.

“I need to try and get them featured somewhere.

That seems to be the key,” I said thoughtfully, hoping he’d toss in a brain cell or two to help me think.

“Like where? America’s Most Wanted?”
I need a new business partner, stat.

I have been feeling very nostalgic lately about a few certain “eras” of my life, and it’s kind of driving me crazy. Of course, at the time I didn’t think life was that great, but every so often I catch a whiff of autumn air and I get a flood of feelings and memories and it’s like, “Holy fucking shit, I should have appreciated that time in my life so much more.”

Then I found this picture when I was looking for something else, and of course it made me all introspective and at least fifteen untold stories flashed into my mind.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the time I lived in my first apartment, where this photo was taken in ’98, but at least now I’m not crying about it all the time and wishing I could go back. That’s a sign of maturity, right? (Lol.)

More on this era later!

Manischevitz.

Boggle.

Big beige floor pillows, tear-stained.
Black Bible and the Cure.
Freddy’s pizza.

Red suede Mary Janes.
Pumpkin candles.
Pondering Judd.

Every Saturday night, my Pappap and I would go to church. Sometimes we were joined by other family members, or my friends who were looking to score a good meal afterward. (I maintain that this is the sole reason why my Pappap was so adamant, religious if you will, about attending mass every week.) If my step-dad was in tow, that meant we couldn’t slip out after Communion, but instead were forced to return to our pew, pasty wafer refusing to dissolve before first gagging us and adhering to our uvulas, until the priest formally urged us to go unto the Lord. My aunt Susie would join us if she had a hankering for osso bucco and Naple’s was the restaurant of the night. I never wanted her to go because it always turned into a tense night of us vying for my Pappap’s attention. She’d pinch me under the table when I was young and humiliate me in front of cute bus boys when I was older. My Pappap had forged friendships with the owners of some of the best restaurants in town. Fortunato’s was one of those restaurants. I would always order Veal Denny, which was stuffed with crabmeat and had a delicious fromage sauce ladled upon it. It was served on a silver plate flanked with slices of marachino-marinaded apple rings. I loved those apple rings. It was hard to say what my Pappap would order, but it was always Lambrusco filling his glass. There was a whole group of us there one night, a long time ago. Susie was teaching me how to turn ordinary wine glasses into melodious instruments, hoping it would chagrin my Pappap. But the chagrinning would all go to my step-dad, who became obviously flustered as the owner emerged from the back and approached our table. "Oh Jesus, would you knock that off?" my step-dad begged. "You’ve made the owner come out now!" The owner was a robust man in his fifties with a stern face. We had eaten there often enough for he and my Pappap to form a friendly rapport with each other, and I was afraid I had managed to ruin that with my unruly tableside manner. When he reached our table, he brandished an enormous crystal goblet from behind his back. "Try this," he said with a sly smile. That thing produced the deepest, bellowing hum and I have yet to replicate it to this day. My Pappap leaned back and grinned, taking joy in the fact that someone else was able to please me. The owner died sometime in the nineties and his restaurant has since become some run-of-the-mill Chinese dive, which has a really delicious dessert of fried bananas but Henry and I have never gone back. Sometimes I think about that Veal Denny and I wonder if I’d have succeeded in being a vegetarian for so long if Fortunato’s and my Pappap were still around. My guess is no.

When Henry told me about Chooch’s accident, the last thing that crossed my mind was, “Shit, people are going to think we did this to him.” Until I walked into the emergency room with him, anyway.

It’s amazing how quickly Chooch has bounced back from his accident, but his face sure looks painful. The swelling has gone down some, bringing out a bright purple bruise across the bridge of his nose, and pink rings under his eyes.
Yesterday, he kind of looked like a baby Quasimoto. Or that kid Rocky from “Mask.” (Really, his profile makes him look like a completely different child. It’s depressing.) Even though it was all Henry’s fault, I still felt so overwhelmed by guilt that the only solution, other than a nice cup of Vodka, was a trip to Toys R Us.
People did double takes as we trucked on by, with little Sloth in the cart. I kept thinking I heard judgemental whispers between the ears of tongue-clucking moms. “Look, they beat their child into oblivion and then buy him presents. That’s just sick.”

Tonight, we went to Eat n Park, but I decided to be slick and mold his hair into a mohawk, in an effort to detract from his shiners. It didn’t work, as evidenced by the manager’s very forward outburst as soon as we walked through the doors.

“Wow, you had your first brawl already?!” and then proceeded to tell us about the accident his young son had recently, involving tiled floor and a split chin.
The hostess also commented on it as she seated us and regaled us with various injuries her own daughter has lived through.
I preferred this, though. Being confronted by it outright, rather than have people quietly speculate behind our backs. I made sure to speak loudly though, so that everyone around us knew I didn’t hit my child with a frying pan for talking during “Days of Our Lives.” Who needs a white elephant?

Of course, we were seated right by the door so Chooch deemed himself the honorary greeter, further drawing attention to his marred appearance.
Two of the waitresses teased Chooch about his nose, too, which he seemed to get pleasure from. None of the Steelers-clothed diners seemed ready to run us out of the restaurant with anti-child abuse picket signs.

Thank you, Eat n Park employees. And thank you to your balls, too.
Toward the end of the meal, I realized that I should have written BROWNS on a piece of paper and pinned it to my shirt. You know, to divert eyes from Chooch’s nose.

Ok, also because I’m an asshole.