Sunday afternoon, we ate lunch at Tee-Jaye’s Country Restaurant on High Street in Columbus, Ohio. I was glad that the windows were flanked by blue gingham curtains and mellow country music blended in with angry voices of waitresses. The sign at the door said Howdy, Please wait to be seated: a true country restaurant. I mean, as true as it could get in Ohio anyway.

Over my grilled cheese, I was lost in twangy reverie: I don’t mind country music when I’m eating at greasy spoon-type joints or country-style restaurants that swear their food is true home cookin’. In fact, I expect it. That dumb Keith Urban song (“Take your cat but leave my sweater” or whatever) came on and I had a slight moment.

It passed efficiently though.

After scoring two free oatmeal cookies on the way out, there were three women behind us: a young Indian girl in a sari, an elderly black woman with white bushy hair and a cane, and some other broad that I didn’t pay any particular attention to. Basically, it was the set up to a really bad joke. We had to pass through two sets of doors to reach the lot. I held the first door open for them, waiting impatiently for all three to enter the tiny vestibule in front of the restaurant so that I could release the door and leave. But the way they entered, they all crowded in, pushing me back and pinning me against the wall. I nearly freaked out but held it together long enough to shimmy through their unmoving road block and pull open the final door to freedom.

Unfortunately, I got roped into holding that one open for them  too, else it would have slammed into the Indian girl’s face. The elderly black woman, upon crossing the threshold, smiled at me brightly and in a contagiously friendly voice she exclaimed, “Well thank you again! Aren’t you just so nice!” I blushed and innocently returned her smile. Once their group had safely emerged into the parking lot, I caught up with Henry and Chooch.

“Did you hear that?” I bragged. “She said I was nice!” I think I added a string of other adjectives too, like “brave” and “sweet” and “warrior-like.”

“She’s delusional,” Henry mumbled, strapping Chooch into the car seat.

That night at the hotel, I called Christina and was dramatically recounting the scene for her. “The old lady was so cool, but that Indian freaked me out. Her eyes were like, dead. And chilling. She just kept staring straight ahead. And she walked really slow too. She wasn’t even going to bother to hold the door for herself. She was fucking weird.”

Henry, unable to listen to any more, interrupted. “She was retarded, you idiot.”

Chooch. Sweet, little, fucking weird Chooch. This morning, he and I were sitting together on the couch. Everything was fine, tranquil. I was reading a book and paying marginal attention in case Chooch decided to crack his cranium or turn his nose into a blood hydrant.

In the middle of watching "Blue’s Clues," some kind of emotional duress struck him and he turned to look at me with his face all seized up in his signature scowl. His eyes flickered down to my leg and he grabbed onto my jeans with shockingly strong curled fingers. Unable to find the words he was looking for, he relied on primordial grunting to convey his frustration.

The tugging got more violent and urgent by the second as he grew agitated by my inability to translate his grunts.

"Am I wearing the wrong jeans?" I asked irritably. "Do you prefer Apple Bottoms?"

Looking thoroughly disgusted (I know I’m going to be his first victim when he turns serial), he slid off the couch and walked to the other side. I was sitting pretty flush with the arm of it, but he forced himself in, creating a tiny human wedge. I moved over to the right so he could sit properly and not on his side like he was, and the grunting stopped. He rearranged his blanket so it was horse-shoeing around his waist, grabbed his bowl of snow (which he eats by using a small toy car to spoon heaping snowballs into his mouth), and laughed at me.

"That was it? You didn’t want me sitting on the left side of the couch?" He laughed even more deviously.

I called Henry and recounted the events to him. "Were you sitting on the left side?" he asked. When I confirmed, he feigned a grave tone and said, "Oh, he doesn’t like that at all. It’s his new thing."

We tried to offer him as part of our down payment on the car today, but it didn’t work.

On the up side, we got a new car today. (No more hitchin’ rides, renting from Enterprise and borrowing cars from family members.

)

On the down side, keeping Chooch out of trouble in a car dealership for two hours is a pretty good recipe for a sanity split, no matter how many balloons, pretzels and cookies he’s plied with.

Some of you asked about them, so here’s one of my favorite songs.

Henry made me the perfect dinner. I’d like to think he’s attempting to make up for not delivering my forgotten sandwich to me last night, but I think it’s likely just a fluke that what he whipped up turned out so wonderful. It’s basically crumbled tofu decorated with roasted red peppers and mushrooms, followed by a finishing flourish of unknown spices and a bath of Heaven’s nectar. Oh, and cheese! How can a meal be called complete without a hearty coating of cheese? It looks like slop, but it tastes amazing. I’m a sucker for tofu. And cheese. And cheesy tofu.

I choked on a mushroom, but went right back to eating without crying about it. That’s how good it is.

Henry’s going to make someone a good wife one day.

EDIT: Never mind. My molars just clamped down on something sandy, possibly metal shavings, like miniscule fragments of glass cracking under the weight of my jaw. I hate incidental crunch in my food. Mood-killer.

I don’t like playing in snow. I don’t like feeling like I’m going to lose my fingers and toes and I don’t feeling like I just scrubbed my face with a Brillo pad studded with Flava Flav’s missing teeth. But Chooch has reached that age where laying snow is like a sheath of irresistible cotton candy and he must be eating it constantly. At first he was content with me taking his ladybug cup outside and packing it up with freshly fallen clean snow. He’ll sit on the couch, smile, and say, "Snow!" while he shovels quickly thawing morsels into his mouth. Then my cat Nicotina comes over and they fight over it. She really likes to eat snow, too. She licks it off the bottom of Henry’s boots when he comes home from work. I think Henry mistakes it for a show of adoration.

Even though I abhor the cold, I looked at my son today, sighed, and battled with my selfish side to be a good mother. Finally, I surrendered and pulled out Chooch’s snow suit which he’s never before had a chance to use. Twenty-five minutes and a lot of sweat later, I had him all snug and sardined in his blue puffy suit, hands in mittens and scarf wrapped tightly around his tiny neck. (I don’t know how that tiny neck supports that huge head.) I put on my young heart-and-skull rain boots, battled the zipper on my coat, and forgot to grab gloves.

I thought Chooch would freak once he was sausaged inside his suit. I always did when I was a kid. I hated a fucking snow suit. The padding always made me feel incapacitated and I somehow always managed to get snow up and inside the legs. Not my son though — he loved it. He didn’t even fight to remove his mittens. I placed him in the snow and he proceeded to march around everyone’s front yard like a snow king.

Me, I was freezing. I bitterly trudged around behind him, putting him back on his feet when he’d fall on his ass. He stomped around, laughing so loud he was screaming.

Then Henry came home from work and ruined the easy flow. As soon as Chooch saw him pull in across the street, he screamed, "Daddy! Juice!!!" and tried to run out in traffic. (Henry has been driving home the Everfresh Juice van and Chooch likes to get up close and admire the fruit on the side of it.) We stayed outside for a few more minutes but Chooch’s face was all wind-burnt and frosted. Henry had to drag him into the house because he wanted to stay outside forever and ever and ever and that’s fine, but until we build him his igloo, he’s stuck living inside our dumb old house.

I think my flowers might be dead.

Cry, sucker. Cry!

Earlier in the night, Bob asked me what a scene kid was so I told him. Then he started looking at pictures of scene boys and was thoroughly disgusted. He’d be quiet for a few minutes, but then suddenly he’d think of another reason to hate them.

"They look so stupid. Why would anyone try so hard to look like that?" I briefly mentioned scene queens, and how there’s a pack of them that are kind of like the Paris Hiltons of sceneland. I found a website dedicated to them, featuring profiles and a gallery, and he was quiet for a little bit so I knew he was taking it all in.

Every once in awhile he’d say one of their names out loud and then look over at me. I felt like he was waiting for me to say, "Yeah, I know her. We carpooled to a Fall Out Boy show back in oh-four."

Two hours later,  I get an email saying, "I think I like scene chicks. It’s the dudes that look beat as hell."

I told him to go to a Cobra Starship show and he’s bound to meet a clique of them. "The thing with scene girls is that they probably only like scene boys, though, huh?" he asked. He looked genuinely sad, too.

I’m going to buy him a white belt and some skinny girl jeans. Maybe a nice fitted hoodie with neon skulls on it. Fix him up proper-like so he can grab himself up a scene girl. (Though I think he’ll be sorely disappointed when he realizes there’s a difference between ‘scene girl’ and ‘scene queen.’ Oh well, we’ll laugh later.)

I did a really Big Girl thing today — I made my own dinner to take to work. It was a delightful entree consisting of two slices of fifty billion grain bread (jetted here directly from France; the cellophane bag promises that it’s straight from a hearty hearth and I believe it), one hearty slab of savory mozzarella, and a couple shreds (the slice kept ripping when I tried to peel it out of the deli bag) of the most ambrosial American cheese your tongue ever did molest. Picture all of this off-set by the tangiest helping of dijon-flavored soy-mayo ever to sink into those tiny pockets in bread.

It was then plated with lots of love and care in fine tupperware with a bright yellow banana to add some flair to the presentation.

When I finished, I took off my toppling chef’s hat and stood back to admire my work. I bet Bobby Flay does that too.

But halfway here I realized I left it on the dining room table. I keep texting and email Henry, begging him to bring it out to me, but he won’t reply. I was nice at first, but then I started in all caps (I WANT MY SANDWICH!) and now I’m threatening to hold the damn Girl Scout cookies I bought from one of the dayshit employees (FOR HENRY) hostage.

Collin, more Pro-Henry than ever, doesn’t seem to think Henry should risk his life driving my lost sandwich to me. Why, because it’s snowing a little?  "It’s just a sandwich," he chided. But it’s MY sandwich. I nearly gave myself callouses in its preparation. I might die if I don’t get to savor the amazing craftmanship that went into building that true artisan sandwich. I’m so upset that I’m chewing on my hair.

Why do I feel like Chooch is probably eating it right now?

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.

We just left for Columbus.(We were supposed to leave yesterday but I insisted on wasting money at that gay car show.) Technically we left at 10:30 but Henry was nervous that he didn’t lock the door, so we turned around. Then we were fifteen minutes into the trip when he stopped to get gas and I discovered I left my credit card at home.

So we turned around.

Henry locked the deadbolt and I was having a hard time unlocking it, because I’m worthless, so he huffed out of the car and stomped down the sidewalk to do it for me. I was laughing giddily which only angered him more.

But now we’re back on the road. He won’t talk to me. This is going to be the longest three hours. I’m glad I brought a book.

I’m sitting in the lounge of a car dealership right now. It smells like stale popcorn and microwaved burritos and there are men wearing camouflaged caps and women with brassy highlights. Fox News is on but its hard to hear it over top of the constant vending machine action.

Henry and Chooch are out in the showroom waiting for the finance guy to be available so we can bend over and get fucked. I was bitching about how being here is Hell and Henry agreed. But he said it was because I’m here with him.

"I wish I didn’t have to bring you," he mumbled.

"Too bad I’m the one with the money," I reminded him. He loves when I rub that in. Makes him feel like a real man.

Ew, Henry just came in to get stale popcorn and then some guy came over to tell him that the finance guy will be with us soon and if we want to just have a seat in the lounge that would be fine. I thought that’s what we were already doing, idiot. I hate it here.

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.

I’ve hit a dilemma for this weekend. We’re supposed to go to Columbus to see a Chiodos in-store appearance. I love Chiodos (apparently because they’re hot and not because they’re good) and they’re probably my favorite band at the mo’. They write the kind of songs that I would write.

If I could write songs.

Which I can’t, in case you were wondering.

But then today on the way to work, I heard a radio ad for World of Wheels which is apparently taking the Convention Center by storm this weekend. I started to tune it out, because car shows are stupid. But then I heard the excited announcer proudly shout that Mater from "Cars" is going to be there. Immediately I start picturing my kid, happier than an orphan being spoon-fed porridge by Santa’s arthritic hand, hugging a real life version of his beloved tow truck.

But Chiodos is more important than making the kid smile, I reminded myself.

I started to tune it out once more, but the announcer came back at me with a secret weapon — Drake Hogestyn, better known as John Black from "Days of Our Lives." HENRY’S FAVORITE SOAP PERSONALITY.

I dialed Henry with the urgency of an ER after a meth lab explosion.

"We have a problem!" I yelled, out of breath from all the excitement.

He loves it when I make calls like that while I’m driving. Loves it.

I quickly told him about the car show, about how Mater is going to be there. "And there’s someone else," I teased. "Someone that you REALLY LIKE."

"Who?" There was trepidation in his voice.

"John Black!"

"Goodbye."

But I think there’s a chance we can do both. I really might die if I don’t get a picture of Henry and John Black. I really might die.

The masks have finally arrived. Photo shoot is scheduled for the weekend of March 22nd. Because I’m pretty fucking stupid, I posted to Craigslist about it too, because I thought it would extra fun to corral a bunch of strangers and do some crazy portraits. So far, no one has responded, probably because in this case I’m the one who comes out looking like the crazy ass. But I’m offering refreshments (OK, Faygo)! I also made sure that they know they won’t be getting paid and that vintage clothing is a plus.

I decided to ask one of the people I work with, Lindsay, to be in it. She’s young and has the retro style I’m looking for. Instead of putting on my Functioning Human Pants and asking her like a normal adult, I shuffled over to her desk and said, "Lindsay!" then immediately started giggling. I had to squat to keep from peeing.

She looked caught somewhere between horror and amusement and waited patiently (and with a nervous smile) for me to compose myself.

Being infamous for the "That Came Out All Wrong" elocution, I blurted out, "Do you have any friends?" She kind of awkwardly said, "Um, yeah" and probably followed it with a "….dumb bitch" in her head.

"I mean, do you have any friends that want to be in my photo shoot?" I think she thought I was joking for a second until she remembered who she was talking to. In my signature giddy quick-speak, I filled her in on the details. She said she would ask (that was TWO DAYS ago and she hasn’t given me an answer yet, now that I’m thinking about it) and then when I told her about Craigslist, she laughed and said, "Uh, you’re going to get some fucking weirdos, you know that right?"

I hurriedly explained that that’s what I want, and then immediately felt like an asshole since I had just asked her and her friends to be in it, like they fit the criteria for "fucking weirdos."

Bob, hearing the entire exchange, was laughing when I came back to my seat. He told me that he would feel really weird if he was involved.

"Weird like you’re being violated?" I asked him to clarify.

"No. No!  Not like I’m being violated! Weird as in uncomfortable."

Adding to the growing list of ridiculous criteria, I decided I wanted to find a junk yard for one of the locations, but Henry knows everything about things like this and told me that I was going to run into problems with that since junk yards are privately owned. I never knew that. I thought they were literally yards filled with junk, abandoned there to rust and decay and sink into the earth and provide the backdrop for horrific murders.

Not to discredit Henry (though I do live for discrediting him), but I usually feel better about his answers once I double check the facts with someone else. So I asked Bob the other night at work. He confirmed that junk yards are, in fact, there for people to buy stuff.

We sat in silence for awhile, but eventually I pressed the issue again.

"But like, if it’s essentially a store, couldn’t I still go there with some people? Who’s to say we’re not there to shop for stuff?" Like weapons and rusted receptacles to use as urban flower pots.

Bob shrugged. "Well, I think the animal masks and camera will probably clue the owner in that something weird is going on there." We laughed and he then he asked, "Are you going to be in any of the pictures?"

I faked a haughty sigh and said, "I don’t mix business with pleasure." It was at that moment that I realized one of the security guards had been standing there the entire time, with some greasy-haired wanderer who had broken down and needed jumper cables. He was wearing a suspicious backpack that made me nervous.

They were looking at me with wide eyes, so I can only imagine what they derived from that conversation, since the beginning of it had started much earlier in the night. Maybe they think I’m shooting some kind of simulated bestiality-meets-Crash* porn. And that’s alright by me.

I’m pretty certain this is going to end in disaster.

*Cronenberg, not Haggis.