I just bought Henry a Valentine’s Day present, the first one since 2002.

He is going to be 1 happee man on 2-14.

Blisters dot my feet like translucent buttons. The flesh on my shin has been ribboned. A laundry list of aches and pains add the sky and the grass to my injury painting. I hate hiking.

I hate camp.

Should have stayed in for ceramics, the nurse chides as she bandages my leg.

I skip volleyball and laze around by the lake, wondering what I’m missing back home. And do I even really miss home? And does anyone even really miss me? I worry that my best friends will now be each others best friend and my bedroom will be rearranged by my mom and she’ll smoke out my diary and read about my illicit fantasies involving my math teacher and molten candle wax and in my absence my tennis coach will discover a spark in someone else and they will end up turning pro while I amount to nothing more than someone who wipes the sweat from her brow in between sets.

But I know that I will be doing this same thing, only in reverse, when I get home: Crying over camp counselors I thought I would hate, the phone numbers of new friends I didn’t take, crafts I deigned too gay to make.

But I hate camp.

In the mess hall, I sit with the same group of kids every day and complain even when nothing is really wrong, because I’ve made myself addicted to the snarl of my voice.

Over soggy tuna sandwiches, we (I) plan pranks that never pan out and groan just thinking about the camp perv groping us at the upcoming dance, but we all secretly hope we’re one of the groped because it will serve as an affirmation to our desirability. We engage in requisite gripes about our bodies — I’m fat I’m ugly I have a harelip I have braces— and take solace in the fact that there is always someone in the room with bigger thighs, a wider nose, a face more repugnant and teeth like a hillbilly. I love camp.

I wince at the sporadic crunch of celery between my teeth, the small slivers had hid inside the congealed wad of mayo and tuna between the dry bread, ruining my lunch. There are no food fights, but in a move drenched with cliche, a younger camper disposes of his retainer in the garbage.

I leave a pile of celery on my plate.

I hate communal showers.

I have several bunkmates at camp, at least nine, but I like Abby best. She doesn’t snore or misplace the cap to my toothpaste and she’s generous with the candy sent by her grandma in boxes scented by potpourri. She is short with frizzy black hair that is infrequently visited by a brush and she teaches me Yiddish words like kibitz and shmeckle and mensch. Abby’s dad left her mom for his nurse but Abby (and her mom) are positive that he’ll come back someday but I know he won’t. She keeps his picture next to her bed and tells me a different story about him each night. I don’t talk much about my own family, but I like hearing about hers.

The boys don’t like Abby because her eyebrows are overgrown like a neglected garden and her lips thirst for a balmy massage and, worst of all, she’s flat-chested.

The girls don’t like her because she is smarter than them, she listens to Barry Manilow mixed tapes made with love by her mom, and she wears second-hand jeans even though her family has the money to dress her in designer.

I wouldn’t be friends with her if this was junior high. But it’s camp, and here I’m a different person.

She makes me look pretty.

Crickets chirp. Leaves rustle. Frogs ribbit. A nearby owl makes his presence known. Everything is louder at night.

Abby and I stay up late, mostly at her command. I don’t mind; I don’t want to be alone. Possessed with an undeniable gift of gab, she sits Indian-style in her bunk, folding paper cranes and talking about topics currently arresting her heart, like space travel, hockey, Joey McIntyre. I feign interest, fingers lightly tracing serpentine patterns around the faint bruises on my knees — medals merited from boat house blow jobs. I let an occasional Mmm-hmm escape from parted lips, to assure her I’m listening. When it’s my turn to birth a crane from jagged notebook paper, I turn out a sloppy mutant ventilated by rips my clumsy fingers made — proof to Abby that I hadn’t been paying attention at all. I love camp.

I try to tell myself that each activity I perform, every goal I accomplish is another stitch in the tapestry of my budding character. But I’m too busy chasing the shmeckle.

I’ve never been to camp.

Today I was inspired to:

1. Resurrect "Peace out, Girl Scout!" as an exiting salutation.

2. Possibly submit some of my super gay short stories to an online publication.

3. Write raps again.

4. Incite flame wars on a regular basis because the last one spiked the shit out of my stats. (It wasn’t even a particularly fiery one, either.)

5. Make my own sandwich to take to work.

6. Talk to strangers more often. Preferrably ones that loiter under bridges and in front of abortion clinics.

What are your inspirations for today?

Last night, I accused Kim of having a crush on this dude Jonathon who sits clear on the other side of the building but when he comes over to visit, she adopts a voice that we don’t hear when she’s speaking to us, her lowly employees.

Collin disagrees about Kim having a special "Hey baby" voice and claims that she’s used the same dulcet tones on him before, but Collin is also widely known for flattering himself.

After spreading this new sordid rumor via email, Kim came over to check on us and when she casually mentioned Jonathon in conversation, I promptly burst into childish giggles. She of course became struck by paranoia and kept asking, "No seriously, are you laughing at me?"

Finally I blurted out, "I think you have a crush on Jonathon!"

Her face quickly flushed and she spat out limp denials. "He’s only like, twenty-five!"

But the color of her cheeks gave away her true feelings. Then she made a slanderous remark about how I get a crush on every guy who walks through the door.  I vehemently denied this and turned to Eleanore to back me up. "No you don’t babe," Eleanore mumbled with little interest. "Just every other."

****

Henry and I are going to the roller derby bout on Saturday and we’re tentatively calling it a date. Hopefully I’ll get a crush on him by then. Perhaps if he walks through the door here something will develop, according to Kim.

Well, I made it an hour and eighteen minutes here at work before calling Collin a name, and I don’t even have the satisfaction of saying it was for using something awesome, like "dickgagger" or "albinoblower." No, I called him the very vanilla G-rated insult of "jerk." What is this, 1946? Jeepers, I’m progressive. I think that this shouldn’t count.

Today begins “National No Name Calling Week.” To prepare, I’ve been doing some Olympic stretching and shadow boxing in front of the bathroom mirror.

Any bets on how long I’ll last?

I haven’t been feeling very nice lately.

Also, last night left me with some new insight: I don’t have friends, I have a cult following. It was probably one of the most flattering (and insane) things anyone has ever said to me, though I’m sure that wasn’t the intention.

 I LOL’d for a long time. I like being amused.

Still reading old vacation journals, I laughed out loud at a paragraph I wrote about my aunt Sharon watching music videos on some European channel called “Viva!” I wrote that she liked men who wore copious layers of makeup and that seeing the video for X-French Tee Shirts had her all excited. I’m sure what really happened was that she was like, “This is fucking terrible” and I began chanting, “Sharon’s in love.”

But the reason why I laughed is because back then, I had no idea who Shudder To Think was, and while at the height of my urban music phase, I can only imagine the pain that must have coursed through my body while enduring such a “weird” song.

After reading that, I was inspired to look for the video, to see if it triggered any memories of lounging on a hotel bed in 1995. It didn’t really, but I laughed again when I discovered that I already have that song on my Zen, so naturally I listened to it the other day and have become batshit-obsessed with it; it makes me feel like Annica the Swede is giving my temporal lobe a deep tissue massage which puts me in a really weird state, like I’m not really in 2008 yet I’m not fully back in 1996, but kind of floundering in some fucked up limbo full of tear-inducing sentimentality for a song of which I have no recollection, yet it still triggers unspeakable amounts of emotion which I can’t put my finger on, but is probably best chalked up to my bi-polarism.

When I first heard of the band a good four years after that trip (because they did the soundtrack to First Love, Last Rites), there still was no epiphanic sparking of any particular, isolated memory bringing me to my knees in a nostalgia overdose; however I did think they were a really great band after that because my tastes had matured and developed a little. (Though I’ll always have a soft spot for some Bone.)

But every time I watch this video, I giggle uncomfortably, imagining what I must have thought back then. The mix tape I had on that vacation was full of 2Pac, Bone, Jodeci,  Junior Mafia and Mary J. Blige, for Christ’s sake! And of course it had to feature at least one black sheep of a song that created a jarring juxtaposition to the mix, and I believe on that particular tape it was “Cry Little Sister” from the Lost Boys soundtrack.

Does anyone else have a story about revisiting a band later on? And does anyone remember this video? YouTube doesn’t have the embedding option for this, and AOL Video is full of retardation, so trying to bring this video to you has been delightful, especially with my boyfriend pushing me out of the way so he can “fix it” because did you know he’s the one who created html? Incidentally, he didn’t do jack to help me, thanks.

At the last Game Night, a sample-sized stick of deodorant hung out the whole night, trapped in the middle of a ring of party food. Check the platter of those sickening mini sausages; they look like dehydrated weeners from a trio of nursing home-bound octogenarians.

The one on the far left looks like Henry’s.

Even though I’m a vegetarian, I try to cater to my meat-devouring friends as well. (Except when I had the infamous vegetarian dinner party in ’96 and the surprisingly well-received vegetarian finger food soiree of ’03, during which the carnivores had to suffer through courses of leaves and twigs — you know, your standard meatless fare.

) At one of my 80’s parties, I offered a tub of lobster dip and this girl Jessie set up camp on a stool next to the table and got real friendly with that dip and then washed it down with too much beer and egg nog and that dip ended up breaking her heart by the end of the night.

I didn’t even notice that little Dove was snuggled up next to the cheesecake-in-a-tub until after most of the guests left and I suctioned my ass near the food table, picking up scraps. With my tongue. Then I laughed because no one had pointed it out, or if they did, it was said laughingly behind my back. And in parseltongue. I’m somewhat shocked that no one took the liberty of slicking some of that down on the sweaty sausage.

Yummo.

The next game night is in two weeks and the theme is Main Ingredient: Cereal.

Maybe a tube of Preparation H will make an appearance at that one. Appetizing.

Bob has been initiated into the bizarre world of interacting with Tina. Before she left yesterday, she stopped by and was holding two DVDs. They had a brief discourse about it, wherein Bob said, "I’ve never seen either of these." (I was only partially paying attention, but I believe they were Million Dollar Baby and one of them there low-brow comical pitchurs with lots of those hi-larious fart jokes.) And then Tina said, "They are really good. Here, you can look at them." (Tina never uses contractions.) Bob looked at them with mild interest and gave them back. I waited for her to say he could borrow them, but then I remembered that Tina has nothing to gain from being generous to males. Bob said she stopped by on her way out today. I didn’t want to try and recreate a scene I wasn’t a part of, because I’m all about accuracy (Collin laughed when I said that), so here it is in Bob’s own words:

T: Hey, ya watch the movie yet?

B: Uhhh, what movie?

T: Million Dollar Baby.

B: Oh, haha, give me a week or two and I’ll see it.

T: Oh, that’s fine. Take your time.

B: What do you mean?

T: I gave it to you yesterday. You were looking at it. I know because I only brought one DVD home with me.

B: Haha, you’re kidding. Right?

T: No I’m not.

I wasn’t there, but I like to imagine that Tina’s face was flushed with growing fury and that she had her arms akimbo with her pelvis jutted slightly; she hawked into a spittoon with her cracked lips all a-pucker. Initially, I also imagined that an ominous breeze blew back her mullet, but then I remembered that she sheared that motherfucker off a few weeks ago so now instead of looking like a sock-stuffed crotch ready to mingle with the Rosie O’Donnell impersonators at the weekend clam bake, she looks like a fifty-five year old man.

Bob confirmed that her face was, in fact, quite red, and that he was waiting for her to laugh and say she was joking, but she honestly believes that she lent him a DVD. I was there yesterday though, and I can vouch that she walked away with both movies. Bob even said he had no real interest in borrowing either of them.

He seems a little spooked by his run-in with her, but Tina likes me because I have boobs so I’ll snuff out any flames that might ignite on Monday. Although, she was in the military. Imagine how many kinds of knots she knows how to tie.

1. We ordered hoagies at work and I forgot to put in my implicit request for any and all onions to be removed from mine so now I’m sitting here pulling them out of my mouth and I keep imagining that they’re earthworms. One will slip past me occasionally and the crunch it makes between my molars makes me want to bleed out. How is something capable of being crunchy and slimy all at once? Aren’t those two things diametrically opposed? I’m in Hell is what’s going on here. Fucking onions, they can ruin any meal. I’m doubly swoll about this because the last time we ordered from this place was the night Chooch had his accident and I had to leave work and head straight to Children’s Hospital. I forgot the second half of it was in my purse, and by the end of the night it was all balled up and squished, but I still ate it the next day for lunch. At least it didn’t HAVE ONIONS ON IT. Seriously, whoever decided that onions were OK to eat? Fuck an onion. Additionally, my sandwich was wrapped in a sheet of industrial paper large enough to cover a picnic table, making my re-wrapping attempt awkward and frustrating at best.

2. Wednesday was the first work fight I had since Tina moved to day shift. Collin told me to "die, I don’t care;" and I can’t lie to the Internets: it stung. (By the way, this was completely unprovoked.) I proceeded to not talk to him for the rest of the shift, until toward the end when he and Bob were talking about Rocky Horror Picture Show. You probably couldn’t tell, but I’m one of those people that has to chime in on topics close to the heart. Plus, I like to remind people that I know a lot about a lot (OK, everything). Collin said something crusted with PMS, I believe it was: "Oh, you’re talking now?" I mean, I tried real hard to achieve his suggestion that I "die," but was unsuccessful. Then we had to have a powwow about how to keep interoffice relationships harmonious. I hope he took something away from that (and not just the joy of finding out he made me cry) because I’m serious about asking for a seat change! He was nice yesterday and he’s kind of being OK so far tonight, although I think he implied earlier that I’m dumb. I don’t know what’s up with this week, but there appears to be an epidemic of men developing bleeding vaginas, because Henry was being douche-tastic, too. I felt like dropping some Pamprin in their drinks. Jesus Christ.

3. An order for five animal masks has been placed. Photo shoot on the horizon, reserve your spot soon, holla at yo’ mamas.

4. "X French Tee Shirts" won’t stop looping through my head, and every time Craig Wedren sings the word ‘down,’ I feel suicidal. I should have ordered me a shotgun, too.

Jeremiah spent all of his time collecting Pogs and maintaining twelve Tamagachis in simultaneous harmony.

He kept a meticulous collection of petrified twigs and delicately pinned expired flies to a corkboard with precision. He kept his face greasy to feed his acne.

Muffy was the 2004 Playmate of the Year, and kept herself in the headlines by knitting afghans for Serbian orphans.

She often made guest appearances on Paula’s Party on the Food Network, thanks to her apple dicing dexterity. Muffy was stunning even with a bare face and wrapped snugly in an apron.

No one saw it coming.

Jeremiah was in the audience during one of the tapings; he had an obsession with Paula because she reminded him of the grandma he always wanted because his own grandma was a stolen arms dealer (limbs, not guns) who had deep trenches along her face from the time the Irish mafia tortured her to reveal the location of thousands of kilos of embezzled Tastycakes, a much-sought after treat in Dublin that had been proven to make people stronger for potato-heaving. She never cracked and to this day, she’s held in captivity beneath the womens’ room in a potato famine museum.

 Paula invited Jeremiah up in front of the cameras to sample some of Muffy’s apple muffins. His shyness prevented him from looking directly at Muffy, but his mumbled praise and crimson flushed face was enough to win Muffy’s heart. Finally, someone liked her for her baked goods and not her private goods.

They embarked on a whirlwind romance and took to devouring each others mouths every chance, the universal sign for “Back off, fools, this woman is taken,” in an effort to deter lewd men from lifting her skirt.

This is the first time Jeremiah will have a real live woman as a Valentine, replacing the bag of his dead aunt Murtle’s bones that he traditionally brings out to share a box of chocolates and a glass of grape juice every February 14th.

Acrylic on a thick 5.5″x5.5″ canvas, unstapled sides, ready to hang.

Lately I’ve been reading some of my old vacation journals. The one I was reading yesterday featured a trip I took when I was seventeen and in it I made an offhand remark of the perfume I was wearing at the time.

When I think of my teenaged scent, Versace Red Jeans immediately comes to mind. (OK, OK—and also coffee at Home Cookin’, monotonous laps around the mall, and playground blowjobs.)  I wore the shit out of that perfume. I remember the one time I went to Kauffman’s for a new bottle and I was elated, absolutely ebullient, when I learned that I was also getting a silver keychain as a free gift. Its length was about the size of my neck, so naturally I wore it as a choker.

But that’s not the perfume I was wearing on this trip, evidently. Instead, it was Champagne by Yves Saint Laurent. When I read that, I shouted, “I completely forgot I used to wear that!” like I had just remembered something life-altering about my past, and having the knowledge of it in the here and now would be the key element to my survival and by bedaubing my pressure points with it, I’ll finally be able to snap my fingers, understand football, and enjoy American Idol with the other 95% of the population who seem to depend on it to live.

I don’t remember what it smelled like, only that one of those pushy perfume spritzers pelted me with a damp cloud of it at one of the department stores the summer between junior and senior year and my nose found it pleasing enough to make me whip out mommy’s credit card with urgency.

So naturally, I ordered a bottle of it today. I’m not sure why, though. Maybe in hopes that it will trigger something and make me forget about everything that’s currently got me down? Because it might me remind me of Stefan, the Australian I had a crush on during that trip? (He was my first older man crush!) Who knows, but I hope I still like it, at least.

What scent did you wear in high school? No really, I need to know.

“My Chiodos hoodie is on backorder!” I whined after checking the order status.

“What’s that?” Bob asked, just to be an asshole.

“‘Chiodos’….that sounds like the name of a cereal,” Collin added, taking a break from writing in his diary about his fantasy picnic with Tatu and Peter Cetera.

“Honey frosted Chiodos,” Bob laughed.

I told him to shut up, but frankly, if that cereal was on the shelves, I’d buy it.

OK, Pappap, you sit there real nice and quiet, alright? Do not peek out from the blind fold! And then you’re going to hold this stupid Cabbage Patch doll real tight like you like her, ‘k? Pretend like you like the dolly. Don’t let her watch me, Pappap! Seriously, she’ll get upset if she sees what I’m doing.

Pappap? Are you listening to me? OK, good. Hey, remember that one time when we were in Florida and that mean girl tried to drown me in the hotel kiddie pool and Pappap you were like ‘Hey, get your hands off my granddaughter or I’ll sue your whole entire bastard family!’? Remember that, Pappap? That was awesome, Pappap. Pappap, remember when I wanted that swing set and I showed you it in the catalogue and then I drewed a big red circle around it so you would not ever forget it, Pappap?

And I tolded you to take it to work so you could call the number and have it bought for me? Pappap, did you do that? OK. ‘Cuz that’s what you said last week and Aunt Sharon said you were lying to me just like Mommy lies when she says she loves me and I was not really a mistake like Grandma says after she drinks that stuff that looks like water but stinks real strong like stuff you clean with?

Don’t peek! Pappap, I seen you! I seen your eye ball and you was peeking! I’m not done yet, Pappap! You’re dropping the dolly.

Are you sleeping? Pappap, is you awake still? Pay attention to me! Are you listening? Remember how you said I’m a princess? Then can I has my own country? With lots of unicorns and lollipops. And all kind of mustards? And no boys! Boys make me mad and then I kick them and push them down hills and then I get yelled at.

Ooh, Smurfs are on!

OK Pappap, I’m almost done. These scissors are not sharp like the ones my daddy uses to cut down the weeds. How come, Pappap? Pappap, wake up! OK, I’m done. I’m going to hand you all these parts I cut off the Cabbage Patch and you have to tell me what they are without seeing.

Grandma, I is not weird. Pappap, tell her.

Collin is listening to Tatu.

Edit 11:02pm: Now he just spilled his tea.

That’s what happens to boys who listen to Tatu every night.