I just found out the company where I used to work for four hellacious years has a website. Isn’t the picture of the owners, standing proudly beside a haunting portrait of their dead parents, so inviting? I know it sure makes me want to go in and buy a pound of bacon.

I see words like "dedicated," honesty" and "integrity" tossed around in their manifesto and now I’m laughing. They forgot to mention that they employ rapists and rub out the dates on expired cases of poultry so they can still sell it.

Unfortunately, my amusement is negated by Eleanore and her constant rotation of Mary J. Blige CDs. She’s been on this kick for at least a month now and she listens to it so loudly so we can hear, with absolute clarity, every lyric sung. Like right now, Mary J. is telling me I’m her everything. I used to like Mary J. but now I kind of wish she’d go to hell and take Eleanore with her.

Sunday night, I had this strong desire to read a book. This presented an unfortunate situation, because I didn’t have any unread books here to choose from. The used stores were closed by then, and I didn’t feel like going to some gigantic book Babylon like Borders or Barnes and Noble because I wanted to get in and out and the choices there are entirely too overwhelming.

So I sucked it up and went to Wal-Mart. I know, I know. I hate Wal-Mart. It’s dirty there and bleak and makes me feel like I’m stuck in a state-run institution and I want out out out. But I figured the limited selection would enable me to grab something quickly and bolt.Convenience – that’s how they get you.

Since Henry was with me, we had to stagger down the completely boring computer aisle and then we had to look at lamps and then Chooch saw a large display for Cars magnets so I had to toss Lightning McQueen, Mater and Sally into the cart. You can imagine how disgusted I was since we were supposed to be there for me, to have my needs met. I could have gone off to peruse the books while Henry browsed what’s probably considered fine merchandise by people of his own social tier, but anytime I stray from him, he inaccurately gauges the amount of time I need before meeting up with me, and so I finish up in my aisle while he’s still off looking at butt paste and American flags. Then I go off in a panic-stricken search for him and my palms sweat and I whimper and I wind up tangled in racks of scarves and headbands and Looney Toons-emblazoned oversized sweatshirts and it’s just never a good scene.

Henry was having a troublesome time pushing the cart. "It must be one of the exercise carts," he grunted as he gave it another sharp shove.

"They have those?" I exclaimed.

"Um, no. It was a joke. Re-re." Here I thought Wal-Mart might be getting fun.

Henry stalled the cart in front of a row of magazines and I wandered off to the whole four columns of books. I peeked around the corner, expecting the row of books to continue on the other side, but instead came nose-to-nose with a blinding green St. Patrick’s Day headdress.

I skipped over the romance section and kids section and self-help section and Oprah section and was essentially down to one rack boasting a meager selection of current fiction. Now, aside from Harry Potter, I really haven’t had the chance to read in a very long while. I think the last new book I read was The DaVinci Code, and that was when it very first came out, before all the hype. So that was a long time ago.I used to read all the time when I worked at the meat place, but they were mainly James Patterson and Patricia Cornwell-type thrillers, nothing that really stuck with me so I don’t count those.

I tentatively tucked two books under my arm and held another in my hand, debating which to get. Some of the books I had actually heard of but wasn’t sure if I’d like them based on the cover art, because I’m shallow and I judge books by covers, evidently.

Just as I was about to put two books back and grab The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, a middle-aged woman with black hair and thick-framed glasses shoved her way next to me. Her body touched mine at one point, that’s how close she was standing. I withdrew, but then she spoke.

"This is a great book," she said as her arm jutted out and her finger jabbed the cover of Best Friends. The suddenness of her movement set me off balance and I took a step to the side. "I read it, then read it again immediately. It was great, couldn’t put it down." She slapped it into my hand, which was limply sticking out in front of me.

"Oh," I said with buzzing nerves. "Thanks." I’m always confused when strangers spontaneously speak to me.I learned all about people like her when I was in pre-school. She’s the kind of person who sticks razors in apples and drives rusted vans with tinted windows and has a doll collection that inhabits an entire bedroom in her old dilapidated farmhouse  and their eyes follow you around the room during the day and at night they come alive and fuck you with their porcelain hands. 

"This is great, too," she said. Her voice was full of self-assurance and confidence, as though she was recommending books to her sister or baby’s mama. She continued poking at books on the shelf, telling me what she thought of them, like we were having our own private book club meeting, while I casually skimmed the back of the first book she dumped into my arms. I’m thinking that if I wanted these kinds of suggestions, I’d just ask Eleanore for some good reads. Or Tina, though she strikes me as the type that enjoys Tim O’Brien war novels.

"Let me see what you got there," and I fearfully held out one of my original picks. "Oh, I haven’t read any of his books, but I hear he’s wonderful," she said of Nicholas Sparks. Then she titled her head back and pulled down A Thousand Splendid Suns.

"Have you read this?" I shook my head to the side. "All of my friends loved it. Me? Couldn’t get into it." She slammed it down and bent at the waist to look at the next row. I took that as my cue to leave. And I did, hurriedly, just turned and ran before she could talk again. And I was sure she wasn’t through talking to me. What was the protocol? Should I have said goodbye? Thanks? I didn’t really fucking care; I just wanted to go home before she made our bodies touch again.

At the self-checkout, I decided that the book she handed me looked really gay, so a Wal-Mart employee had to come over and help me since I already rang it up. Then I got home and realized that Nicholas Sparks is that asshole who writes all those sappy love stories like The Notebook. The one I bought is Dear John and I’m nearly done with it and it hasn’t done a damn thing for me. It reminds me of the stupid books my aunt Sharon used to read on the plane every time we’d vacation  together. She’d sit there and cry dramatically and clutch my arm and read passages out loud and I’d tell her to shut up and take a nap.

So please tell me what books you like. I really don’t know much about what’s "good" and "essential" these days — I’ve always been more into music. I’ve been having a hard time going to sleep when I come home from work and I’d rather fill that time with books and not TV. (I’m sure the fact that I chug coffee up until 11:30pm has nothing to do with my inability to sleep.) Tell me what to read; I trust you guys. No romance or science fiction, though. I really like horror and memoirs, and anything that’s unforgettable. Whatever that means.

I guess it started around 6 o’clock. Everything was quiet and serene up until then. But ever since 6 o’clock it’s been all beeeeep. beeeeeep. beeeeeep.

At first I thought it was the microwave in the breakroom, maybe someone had abandoned their Hot Pocket or Lean Cuisine and the microwave was crying for them to come and rescue the freshly nuked meal. Kind of like a “Seriously, your fucking food has done been baked for ten minutes now so come remove it, asshole” reminder beep.

We get a five second reprieve in between beeps. Sometimes, during the fleeting silences, I delude myself into thinking, hoping that this is it, that was the last beep. “Listen you guys! The beeping’s done!” I fantasize saying to my co-workers, and we’d all jump up from our seats and embrace in a frantic circle of relief.

No. No, there it is, nevermind. The next beep is always there, creeping up around the corner, nipping at the heels of the previous beep.

Sometimes, I forget about the beep. I force myself to sink down within my thoughts and I eventually tune it out. But then there’s always another noise to bring me out of it — Eleanore slamming a desk drawer or Eleanore yelling into the phone or Eleanore turning up her rap music — and the very next beep makes my shoulder twitch all the way up to my ear. And then for a split second, I have a shoulder earring, and that’s pretty weird.

We sat here silently and motionless, continuing to work, but with muscles still from the tension the incessant beeping had caused, until Eleanore finally decided to seek out its origin.

A digital voice recorder was sitting atop a shelf around the corner from our area, and an alarming red exclamation mark flashed in sync with the high-pitched beeping. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t belong to our specific department and all of the daylight people were gone for the day.

Help was futile.

Three hours later, I knew we had hit dire straits when I was clear on the other side of the building and could still hear it chiming within my skull, because by that point the noise had been seared into my ear canal. It’s like psychological war fare.

I stormed back to my desk and sat down. I sat for fifteen seconds before rising. It was time to take a stance. I marched over to the machine and inspected it. Bob joined me and together we followed the power cord to the socket, but it was taped to it. I picked the heavy equipment up and prayed for a power switch, but there was none. Finally, I yanked a plug from the back. The only thing missing from the scene was an angry mob chanting “Attica!” while taking power cords hostage.

The red light stopped flashing but remained a very serious shade of red, and the beeping morphed into one consistent tone of emergency, like it was shrieking, “You are SO fired.”

I nearly gulped, but then it shut off, stopped beeping altogether. We were enveloped in silence.

Kim called out from her cube, “Who did it??” and Bob proudly announced that I had saved the day. I was pleased, and had a fleeting realization that if Collin hadn’t gone home sick, he’d probably have tried to take credit for it.

We returned to our seats and went back to work, basking in the silence. “I can’t believe it took three hours for us to finally do something about that,” Bob laughed. “I kind of miss it now,” he added.

And then it started again. I was going to unplug it and keep the plug out, but Kim wussed out at the last second and said, “We really shouldn’t mess with it since we don’t know what it is.”

Bob and I distracted each other by exchanging our favorite moments from various seasons of The Real World, but then we were starting to embarrass ourselves with how much we remembered (and cared) so I got up to make some tea while he undoubtedly tried hard to act like that exchange never took place.

I feel like this is some sort of subliminal training session, like I’m going to leave here tonight and begin gutting albino priests without giving it a second thought. Tomorrow morning you’ll find me on rooftops, sniping at homeless people and any other stereotype my company secretly wishes to eradicate.

I really want to fuck up that machine’s day with a rifle. SEE? I’m halfway to an assassin without even trying.

Sometimes Bob will laugh about it. He’ll just let out this crazy ass laugh, it’s not a happy laugh, but  more of an unstable, We’re all mad here chuckle — he’s just laughing because a psychological break is right around the corner and we all fucking know it. And on top of all that, we’ve been instructed to keep track of every single record we look at during the shift, so really when you put things in perspective a constant electronic siren is pretty much the perfect soundtrack to an evening of scratching tick marks in a notebook.

Lalalalala.

Jesus, this kid has an attitude problem.

Look, there’s Henry crossing the street. Shortly after he came home, he fell asleep on the couch and it marked the first time ever in history that he joined me in torturing his napping father.

"Look Chooch, a sleeping bear! Let’s abuse him." I kept pinching Henry’s nose and sticking my finger in his mouth, and without any direction from me at all, Chooch ripped up a Kleenex and stuffed it in Henry’s ear, while Marcy perched on a nearby stool and glared at us. Every so often, Henry would slightly stir and an eye lid would lazily rise.

Eventually, I pinched too hard or laughed too loud, causing Henry to jerk forward and toss around a few empty threats. Chooch appeared a bit startled, but I quickly reminded him that we laugh when Daddy is upset, not cry. Laugh at Daddy’s misfortune, Choochie — it’s the fun way to live life. It says so on page 67 of the How to Handle a Henry1965 handbook.

Chooch threw back his head and concocted a laugh so evil and devious, that I was inspired to cover my heart with my hand.

It was awesome and my eyes welled with tears of pride.

When I notice I have a missed call from you, and I text you to see wtf you wanted, do not reply with "accident" unless you’re in the back of an ambulance. Because my heart is going to start performing palpitation gymnastics when I see that word, and when I find out you meant, "I called you by accident" and not "Hello, I had an automobile accident and am currently entangled in metal carnage" I’m going to want to take you from "accident" to "funeral" with one swift kick.

Got that, Henry?

(I can’t decide if I was more worried about Henry’s well being or the possibility that he totaled my mom’s car, which he was driving.)

We’re on our way to my grandma’s right now. There’s this one stately white house with presidential pillars that I always pause to look at, even when I was a kid. It’s the kind of house that I always wanted to have as an adult.

The kind of house that allows voyeurs to catch an envious glimpse of the majestic Christmas tree sparkling through frosted living room windows. The kind of house that probably doctors and Cuban drug lords and porn starlets call home.

“I wish you were rich,” I bitterly said to Henry.

“I wish you were dead,” he casually responded.

Our relationship keeps getting better.

Rhonda and Paul loved the regal spires of the church, with medieval-like spikes jutting out along the sides. They loved the Gothic arches and the way the stained glass of the large front window so beautifully depicted "The Ascension." They loved the street lights, with the large bulbous covers, that lined the street in front of the church.

But they didn’t like the pubic hairs they found lacing the toilet seats. Rhonda and Paul couldn’t fathom making the sacrament of marriage in a church that boasted dirtier restrooms than those in a,Mexican whore house. A thick red line was drawn through St. Mary’s and they moved to the next church on their list.

Chooch is sick. He’s been dipping in and out of fever-land since yesterday but he won’t rest. Henry tries reasoning with him by saying things like, "All the other babies SLEEP when they’re sick" but Chooch would rather pace the house in a zombie-gait, whining things like "Uh uh uh uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh" and "Wah wah sniff sniff ARGGGGGH" all while his eyes water and his lips curl up into a snarl. Then he does this really thing where he latches on to our legs and slams himself into our shins until we pick him up and ask him what the fuck he wants a dozen times, fighting to be heard over his death song.

"He’s exactly like you when he’s sick," Henry said angrily. "God forbid he should stay in his crib and rest. No, he has to sit down here and annoy the shit out of us." I’ve never been one to hole up in my room when sick. I might miss something! Staying bed is bor-ing. I’d rather take over the couch and watch home improvement shows on TLC. Carpentry makes me feel better.

Henry just walked past me, holding a sniveling Chooch. "Come on, Little Erin," he said exasperatedly.

When I think of Hell, I always imagine a large atrium-type  room  (but with like, less of the pretty botanical touches and more of the speared shit and car exhaust) where everyone goes to do their chores while enjoying a cocktail of some mighty fine ass rape by staggering penises coated with AIDS, followed by an enema of stagnant leech-filled pond water and battery acid. But after all that daily socializing, everyone relocates to their bunkers — their own little personal Hells-with-the-lid-on.

I think that my room would probably have a row of bottled Henry-snores, the caps of which will lift up in random intervals, broadcasting a nasal symphony around the walls. Eleanore will be seated two feet from me, no matter where I am she’ll be two feet from me, ripping up sheets of paper, slamming desk drawers, and sighing heavily.

Then she’ll stuff her mouth with food and start ranting about racism, while hurling a pair of scissors down against the desk top.

The clatter of that will reverberate inside my head, making my teeth chatter.

The Gum Popper will have a permanent perch upon my shoulders, cracking and slurping and snapping her fat Bazooka Joe-wrapped tongue in my ear and down my neck and even when she pauses, it’s still all I can hear, the ghosts of the gum echoing inside my skull and no matter how many times I gouge flaming twigs into my ear drums, the drums Satanically repair themselves and the new carnations come packing amazing clarity.

A parade of strangers will back me up against the wall with their overused sayings, like “Any-who,” “om nom nom,” “Asshat,” and “Exsqueeze me” and every third one will touch my eyeball.

  And one by one all of my favorite bands will announce their tour dates but I’ll have to miss every single show because if I stop data processing for even three seconds, I’ll be eviscerated by a tag team of Fran Drescher and Jessica Simpson, who will laugh and sing in my face while strangling me with my intestines.

Then Henry’s ex-wife will come strutting around in a tie-dyed shirt, wearing her vagina on her face.

I guess it could be worse. No, that sucks.

• Home Cookin’, grilled muffins — open faced
• Shit shots at Cue & Cushion
• Overalls too long, covering the toes of pearlescent Vans
• Evan’s art show and stolen door knobs
• Blond hair with bangs
• The Great Gatsby
• Faux-documentaries and shredded jeans
• Getting stoned, dying Easter eggs
• Wasted bottle of white Zinfindel
• Purple fuzzy sweater

I was really giddy when I came home from work last night. Henry loves that. He really, really loves that. We were in the bathroom brushing our teeth and I was so slap-happy that I was stumbling all over the place, still wearing my little red kitten heeled shoes which clacked all over the blue tile floor. Henry kept shooting me annoyed glares in the mirror, which only caused me to laugh harder. I kept throwing my body into his back, hoping he’d gag on his toothbrush, but then I did it with so much hysterical force that I ricocheted off him and nearly fell backward into the tub. This of course incited a loud guffaw from me and Henry did that thing where he grits his teeth together real hard and threatens to kill me if I wake the baby. Henry is always the only guest not laughing at the mad tea party.

Afterward, we were in the bedroom. I was gettihng undressed for bed and he was getting dressed for work ("Opposing Schedules: How Erin & Henry Make it Work"). I was salivating all over myself because I couldn’t stop laughing. Henry at that point pushed past me and called me something I haven’t been called since seventh grade: a re-re.

I laughed even harder.

"I can’t get that song out of my head!" I yelled as I hung up my shirt, not bothering to fix the sleeves that remained half inside-out. I’m obsessed with "Making the Band 4."

"What song? ‘I’m a Big Asshole, Look at Me’?" Henry grumbled.

Why did that make me laugh so hard? I don’t know, but I fell against him and laughed with my head flung back. Eventually, I got myself all tucked in. Henry turned off the lamp and I screamed frantically. I’m scared of the dark. But he opened the bedroom door real wide on his way out to let the bathroom light flood in, shaking his head as he did so.

Somehow Chooch didn’t wake up. Hopefully, tonight will be just as fun. Right, Henry? Henry?

Christina doesn’t know it yet, but I just bought us two tickets to see the Cure this May in Philly. Muthafucka.

"No Ordinary Love" by Sade was one of many songs that I played continuously in my awesome Aiwa tape deck while balled up on the purple carpeting of my bedroom floor and crying real tears over all the mushroom-topped crushes who didn’t return the crushing. I think it might have been tied with the B-side to Sophie B. Hawkin’s "Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover" as the perfect background music to many brooding sessions, but that’s another story.

Sixteen years later and that song is still so timeless. Even on a good day, if I hear it, it evokes that tugging sensation in my chest and I’m sulking all over again over the Joshes and Scotts of my junior high fantasties. It’s the kind of song that, if you’re alone, it makes you want to die. But when you’re with someone, it’s fucking perfect.

The Deftones covered this song a few years ago. Usually I turn my nose up at covers, but Chino does a cover right. The Deftones are one of the few bands that can cover the Cure with verve and panache, too, but for now, I’ll stick with sharing their cover of Sade.  

I didn’t feel like uploading my mp3 of the song, so here’s some gay You Tube video someone made showcasing a lovely pair of hands. I guess to illustrate that this song makes them want to hold hands? Rape hands? Be a hand model?

What are your songs like this, the ones you put on to torture yourself?

Happy Valentine’s Day, Internet. Now go get laid.

Happy Valentine’s Day! So far, Henry hasn’t made me want to kill myself. I finally got to present him with the Vietnam Veteran belt buckle I bought him from etsy. It’s flooding with gold-plated hokeyness. When it fell out of the bag and into his palms, he kind of stared at it with that amazing brand of disbelief that you hope every gift recipient is addled with, and then he looked at me, his mustache creeping into a confused smile, and he said, "But I wasn’t in Vietnam….?"

"But you were in THE SERVICE! Same thing." I was still standing there, waiting for him to attach it to his belt.

"No, if this said Air Force, that would make sense. Then it would be the Service…" He flipped it over to look at the lavishly coated back.

"Well, just wear it. No one will know you’re not a Vietnam Vet." I was getting annoyed, and I really wanted MY present.

"Yes they will! I’m like, twenty years too young!" And then I couldn’t stop laughing, imagining Henry being "too young" for something.

"Like I said," I repeated, "no one will notice!"

And then he realized he doesn’t have the right kind of belt for a buckle, but I think he was trying to just get out of wearing it. I knew I should have bought the rainbow one that had "JESUS" emblazoned on it.

Then UPS hurled my present against the front door. Henry, further enabling my wanton lust for living in the past, gifted me with a bottle of Versace Red Jeans, one of my favorite scents as a young slut. The gift box was adorned with an elastic red ribbon, which is now being worn as a headband, so I’m pretty content right now.

And we’re going to Columbus next weekend! This sure beats the time he bought me a Fossil watch for Valentine’s Day, using a gift card my mom got me for Christmas.

Chiodos is doing an in-store appearance in Columbus, Ohio on February 24th. Perhaps if Henry goes with me, maybe stops and buys me something delicious from a truck stop vending machine on the way, I’ll let him off the hook for the next couple Valentine Days. I may have mentioned this before I left for work today and he actually seemed to give it some honest consideration.

"Are you going to act like a fucking dork when you see them?" he asked while making my macaroni (the Kraft squigles, which I do not prefer. I like a more mature shell. Or at least Scooby Doo shapes). I stood there and smiled. "That’s a yes," he grumbled.

I’m trying to make it sound really appealing for him, hinting at the possibility of turning it into a regular weekend throwdown brimming with cheap motels, hookers, gun fights at the poker game, and discarded cans of energy drinks under our feet on the car floor. Chooch will be there too. Somewhere. In the trunk maybe. Knocking back a St. Ides.

Well Henry, Y or N?

(If he says no, I’m using that as my incentive to take a lover. Where I’ll take the lover, I’m not sure. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Perhaps to see Chiodos?)