It’s been a long time since I gave an update on Tina, the fiesty scabby-skinned know-it-all broad who used to work with me on the evening shift but has been busy plaguing the day crew with her inherent bossiness and nails-on-chalkboard voice for the past eight months.

We had one of our monthly meetings today, which is usually the only time I get a good, strong dose of Tina’s aggressive brand of self-righteousness these days. In between thinking about how far behind I am on "Days of Our LIves" and desperately blocking out Tina’s whiny questions and rebuttals, my eyes couldn’t help but glue themselves mercilessly to the strange open wound on her right temple. It was relatively fresh in appearance, the color of raw meat with the sheen of a glazed donut.

At first I thought it was that flesh-eating disease, but now I think it’s probably just where her husband hit her with a candle stick.

Like anyone else, Christina enjoys lingering underneath a welding mask before going to see a show.

(View set here.)

Christina is making me a grilled cheese made of bleu cheese and orange blossom honey because I found a recipe and told her I wanted it.

The Xiu Xiu show was like a religious experience, if the religion was Paganism goes to the Circus. I loved it.

I’m leaving today to see that fucker Christina in Cinicinnati.

And also, these fuckers will be seen tonight:

I’ve loved them long time! I asked Christina if she was excited, and she said, "If excited means scared, then yes." One of my friends just saw them in NYC and said their set was reall dark so I’m looking forward to adding some misery and depression back into my world. I’ve kind of missed it.

Henry will be home alone (well, with Chooch) this weekend. I bet he:

1. watches a lot of porn

2. sleeps while on Chooch watch

3. orders a hoagie and lots of wings

4. farts a lot

5. calls the party line

Probably he’ll forgo the porn for playing with Photoshop though. I’ll be prank-calling him a lot tonight to keep him on point.

Earlier I was wishing that there was a grilled cheese store across from my house instead of the stupid church that currently pollutes the lot, and it made me think about all the wonderfully caloric combinations there must be of such two simple ingredients: cheese and bread.

I have two favorite versions of the old school classic.

1. The Adult Grilled Cheese: No, it’s not filled with Astroglide and money shots, but I call it the adult grilled cheese because it’s a sophisticated take on the traditional kind, maybe not one for crude pallets.

Pumpernickle bread, havarti, and an artichoke heart.

It’s like, really good and shit.

2. The Jellied Cheese: People think I’m disgusting, but I’m telling you, this is REALLY FUCKING GOOD.

American cheese (or cheddar, swiss, cheese curd, whatever), bread and JELLY. I like raspberry jelly with American cheese, to be honest. It’s delicious.

What’s your special version? I need to broaden my horizons.

(In other kitchen news, I think today was the first time I made oatmeal the way it was intended.)

When I walked into the dentist’s office on Wednesday, the dental hygienist held the door for me and asked me how I was.

“Scared,” I told her, without hesitation.

Another hygienist — Suzanne, my favorite — called out, “That’s gotta be Erin!”

Yeah, ha-ha, guys.

I sat in the leather chair and gripped the sides while the hygienist assisting my dentist walked me through the “so quick and easy!!!!” process of crown work. She even had a model which scared me further.

“And Dr. Ammons is just going to drill down your tooth until it’s a little cone, like a cylinder, and we’ll mold a temporary crown and stick it right on!” I learned her name was Carol and she had fifty billion grandkids. When she stretched and manipulated a band of molten plastic to be used to grab a mold of my tooth, I pretended instead it was dough and we were in her kitchen getting ready to make cookies. Sticky plastic cookies shaped like molars. Mmm.

They don’t fuck around there at my dentist’s office, there’s no kicking back and leisurely listening to soft rock, waiting for the dentist to realize that they have a patient. No, Dr. Ammons swept in quietly while Carol was making me promises that I was unsure she could keep, and popped a squat on her little dental stool. She came at me with one of those super-fun and gigantic syringes that deranged doctors kill people with all the time. The Novacaine didn’t bother me as much as the idea of having my molar shaven down into a peg.

While Dr. Ammon’s continued to grind away at my tooth like a jackhammer on asphalt, Carol spoke of her plans to take one of her grandsons for a walk that evening. “I know it sounds weird, but we like to go to the cemetery to walk.”

“MMMMMJKUIUikiioiiii!!!!!” Dr. Ammons stopped drilling and Carol looked like someone who had just heard a retarded person speak for the first time.

“Me too!” I repeated, once my oral cavity was clear of gloved hands and dental weaponry.

If Helen Mirren was presenting the Academy Award for Erin’s Crown, it might sound something like this: Unnerving. Blood-curdling. Tense. Shocking. Chilling. Dusty. Drilly. Smoking. Yucky. Sucks. Balls. Very. Hard. Fuck. This.

I made the mistake, during a short rest, to tongue the tooth being worked on. Yeah, my whore of a tongue migrated right on over and oh my God where the fuck was my tooth. A tiny little stump hung there, suspended from my gums like a miniature enamel stalactite. FUCK.

“Can you open your mouth a little wider, Erin?” A question I’m just not asked often enough, I’ll tell ya.

“Yeah, if you can just go ahead and grab that hacksaw from my back pocket? I’ve been meaning to get my mouth surgically altered into the Joker’s smile anyway.”

Once all the drilling was complete, Carol took over and began the arduous task of making the temporary crown that I would have to live with, like it or not, for the next two weeks. It’s made from acrylic so essentially I have a stripper’s fingernail for a tooth now.

Then, and this is my favorite part, Carol told me that if my crown should happen to pop off during the weekend when the office is closed, I can just march my ass right down to Walgreen’s and pick up some Fixadent or something else from the vast array of DIY dental products.

Let me tell you something, if this fucker falls off this weekend, I’ll go into shock. Seriously, I’m not trying to deal with this temporary cement bullshit. I’ll be with Christina, so if it happens, she can put it back in for me. Hopefully while I’m still passed out. And hopefully before I wind up swallowing it.

Before I left, Carol warned me not to eat anything hard, crunchy, or sticky. “Oh, that’s OK. I won’t be eating anything. Ever. Unless I can start absorbing food through my skin.”

Of course, I only lasted a few hours before my stomach was trying to eat itself so Henry made me a nice batch of mushy Ramen noodles to take to work for dinner. So basically, I’ve been eating nursing home-approved meals since Wednesday and I freak anytime food floats over to the left side, the forbidden side, of my mouth.

The pain has finally waned a little by today, but I am still so very aware of the presence of an alien object all up in my grill. And I have a cold on top of it all, so when I say that every time I round a corner, I kind of wish the Grim Reaper would be waiting to lop my head off with his sickle, I really fucking mean it.

I realized yesterday that I haven’t used my Twitter since July, and now it seems like everyone and their hairdresser are all about "tweeting," so I decided to resurrect mine. Probably a bad idea because I tend to abuse shit like this, especially since I can update it from my phone.

"12:56pm: I am sitting at a red light!!!!!!!!"

Dumb shit like that.

If any of you have Twitter, you should add me, you know — since I did such a great job promoting myself:

Vagynafondue

Big Bob (not to be confused with the Bob I usually mention): You know what I could go for? Some Bel Biv Devoe.  *sings “Cool It Now”*

Me: That wasn’t BBD

Last week, he was wearing a Vlad the Impaler t-shirt and my innocent compliment was returned with a fifty thousand word verbal history on the life of Vlad the Impaler and did you know he USED TO IMPALE PEOPLE ON STAKES AND LEAVE THEM WRITHING THERE ALONG THE ROAD AS A WARNING TO  OTHERS????

Oh look, he’s wearing that shirt today, too. At least now I know if he ever comes in here wearing a Bel Biv Devoe shirt to keep my fucking mouth shut.

Internet,

What’s your preferred method of stripping the shell from a hard boiled egg? Because I just lost thirty minutes of my very important life, hunched over the garbage can with two dyed Easter eggs squealing under my grip.

By the time I finished, half of each egg came off with the shell, I have cuts under my nails, and my kitchen looks like a crime scene.

Also, there were tiny specks of shell hiding in my egg salad.

RUINED.

[I accidentally posted this the other day, and then again, and then this morning too, before checking to see if the video worked, so I apologize to my subscribers who got email notification for an entry that didn’t exist. I hope you called me names. I’m clearly choking on technical difficulties over here. BLOGGING IS CONFUSING, YA’LL. Even when you’ve been doing it since 2001.

]

There’s this girl who ambles around Brookline, typically decked out in track pants and a pullover. She’s never spotted without her headphones on and, if she’s been fed recently, you might be lucky enough to witness her busting out in spontaneous cheerleading moves.

A few years ago, I used my stealth and uncanny talent of hiding behind fences to document her in action.

I don’t see her as often anymore.

Perhaps her joints are not as well-greased as they once were, but last Friday, in a moment of sheer kismet, she walked right past my car as I sat in the parking lot of CVS. She’s upgraded to real, honest-to-goodness pompoms. I couldn’t be happier.

One of the reasons keeping me here in this dumpy town is the hope that she’ll continue to give me glimpses into her world of recreational (but serious!) cheerleading.

I kind of wish I had interviewed her for my Creative Non-Fiction profile assignment, instead of the Mormon missionary.

Oh well.

Last Friday, the day after my act of charity, something made me check the voice mail on my cell phone. I almost never it, a really bad habit. One of the messages was from the receptionist at my eye doctor’s office, letting me know that my contacts had arrived. I checked the call log and the number wasn’t listed as an incoming call. If I hadn’t checked my messages, I wouldn’t have known they called.

It’s fate, I thought excitedly.

The office was only supposed to be open for about another hour, so I stuffed shoes onto my feet and ran the few blocks to the doctor’s office. I know my doctor told me to not wear my contacts until he sees me again this Friday, but there was no way I was going to squint my way through the Armor For Sleep show that night. Besides, how could I make fun of people if I couldn’t see them?

I left the office with two boxes of contacts resting peacefully inside my purse, and then walked another block to pick up some diapers at CVS. A young guy held both doors open for me with an exaggerated flourish and it made me smile. When I thanked him, he answered back with a "You’re welcome" that was so friendly and genuinely enthusiastic, the kind that you almost never hear anymore, except maybe if you’re watching an old movie.

Inside, I squinted and fumbled over bags of diapers until I found the right size, (I had to call Henry first to ask him what size to get. I’m such a great mother, I don’t even know the size of my kid’s ass.)

Leaving the store, I passed an older man — a charming Richard Dawson-type — as he was walking back to a pick up. While he hoisted himself into the passenger seat, he jovially called out, "Good afternoon, lady!" I replied with a very plain hello. As I walked away, I heard him murmur something that sounded like, "Green girl." Why yes, I am wearing a green jacket, how observant.

I crossed the street and the pick up idled next to me at a stop sign. The aforementioned man rolled down the window and shouted, "Hey!" to get my attention.

Oh great, I thought, I’m about to get heckled. That hasn’t happened in awhile. The last time it happened I was walking down the side walk with Henry and some kid in a passing car hollered, "Your shoe’s untied!" It wasn’t, but it got me to pause and look, which I guess was the effect he was going for. Still, what a lame heckle.

"Does your husband tell you how pretty you are?" he asked, his query coated with just the appropriate film of sleaze. It occurred to me then that he wasn’t actually calling me a green girl earlier, but "pretty" girl. This is good because I was afraid that "green" was code for: FAT ASSED STUPID BITCH. Maybe I need to book an appointment for a hearing test once I get my eyes figured out.

I laughed. I laughed so hard I was almost doubled over. First, I laughed at the thought of Henry ever securing the title of my husband, then I laughed at the thought of him complimenting me without expecting my vagina to immediately fall in his lap.

"No!" I answered childishly, arms akimbo for added effect.

"Well, he should!" he said seriously shouting over traffic. "You’re a very pretty girl—" behind him, the driver reiterated the sentiment, "—and he’s a very lucky man!"

Maybe he’s not allowed to wear his contacts, either.

I thanked him, laughed a little, and continued on my way home.

Back at the house, Henry sat on the couch and sneered as I told him the story, obviously jealous that random men don’t stop to tell him he’s a pretty girl, too. I keep telling him all he needs is the right lip gloss.

"This is all because of Mel," I realized out loud. "This is what they mean by paying it forward!"

"Yeah, doing good deeds usually comes back to the person, not that you would know anything about that."

I vowed to started good-deeding it up, maybe donate two of my ribs to an animal shelter or something. I had big plans to let hobos live in my basement, to let stray hookers gyrate against my downspout (not a euphemism for Henry’s weener!). But then I lost interest and resumed being an asshole.

I was enjoying a bowl of Rice Krispies this morning when it occured to me that Chooch had yet to be exposed to the whole "snap crackle pop" phenomenon. Thinking we could have one of those really sentimental monochromatic commercial moments where the only thing in color is the bowl of cereal and the kid looks at the mom like she’s a beautiful fairy princess sent to earth by the cereal gods, I tried to call him over.

"Chooch, come listen to the cereal! It talks!"

He glared at me and with those angry eyes he was calling me a fucking idiot, I just knew it. Then he went back to torturing the cat.

In other words, it wouldn’t have made a very good commercial. I don’t know, maybe on some channels.

When I left my job Thursday night (technically Friday morning), my gas light flickered on. I don’t pass any gas stations on the usual route I take home, so I made a right, hoping it was the correct one since I couldn’t see what I was doing. (I totally should not have been driving without some kind of seeing aid.)

I misgauged my location and while the road I chose led me to the road I wanted, it spilled me out right in front of a section that was blocked off for construction. Unable to make the left, I was forced to turn right, which brought me closer to the seedier parts of town. I’m only on this particular road in the daylight, so I was struggling to see where I was going, and wasn’t even sure if any gas stations were nearby. Through my squinting, I made out the red and yellow blur of a Shell sign, so I pulled in with relief.

Digging through my wallet, I discovered that Henry never returned my credit card (he used it to go grocery shopping, since I always have more money than him because I’m the best) so I had to use the one for our joint account. While I was fumbling to key in the PIN at the pump, an older black man shuffled through the deserted (and very, very dark) lot toward me.

"’Scuse me, miss? I ain’t mean you no harm, but I was wondering….if you could let me pump your gas for you, maybe give me a few dollars in return? I’m homeless, see — just temporarily! I don’t like to be begging so I try to do things to earn the money, see? I haven’t eaten in about two days."

He kept talking, and I was only partially listening because I was too busy scanning his person for the outline of a gun. He had his hands where I could see them, and we locked eyes for a few seconds. Something told me not to be scared.

"I can’t see," I said stupidly, as the credit card terminal on the gas pump was beeping to alert the entire area that I was too retarded to enter my PIN properly.

"You ain’t pushing the button hard enough," the man said, pressing down hard on the "enter" button with the pad of one bony finger, turning his flesh white around the nail. It accepted my PIN this time and he looked at me, waiting for my answer.

I sighed and handed him the nozzle. "I don’t have cash on me," I started, but I felt the tiniest pang of guilt watching him stand there, feeding my car full of fuel, "so let me go inside and find the ATM," I mumbled. I really kind of just wanted to go home. Now I was stuck getting gas for the car and helping a person in need: two of my least favorite things.

The gas station doors were locked because it’s situated so close to the heart of the ghetto. I walked up to the window, where a large and very angry-looking black man was seated behind a sign that instructed: Cash Transactions Only. Below it was a bank teller-type drawer. It reminded me of the  time Janna had to make an after-hours bread transaction through the steel drawer of another poorly-located gas station because I was majorly drunk and needed spongey carbs to soak up the stomach acid.

I pressed my face close to the speaker embedded in the bullet-proof window and begged to be allowed inside to use the ATM. The clerk gave me an annoyed glance and then shook his head disinterestedly. "If I buy something, can I have cash back?" I asked, thinking that I could use this as a really legitimate excuse to buy a pack of Camels. Possibly two. I was aware of the slight whine in my voice.

In a perfect world, he’d have jumped up, clapped heartily, and squealed, "Why sure, little white girl in the faux-fur collar! Come right on in! You own the world!" Instead, he didn’t even bother to look at me this time, giving me a second head shake, slow and deliberate.

I sighed haughtily and stomped back to the car.

"I stopped when it got to $10, just like you said, ma’am!" The homeless man was standing with his hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. He looked like he wanted praise.

"Look, I’m sorry but the store is locked for the night so I can’t get any cash." We stood facing each other awkwardly, and I watched as his face fell. I deliberated for a second before sighing and asking, "What’s your name?"

He stood up straight and introduced himself as Mel. He whipped out his thin wallet and flipped it open, exposing his ID to corroborate his story.

"Mel, get in the car. I’ll drive you to Ritter’s, there’s an ATM there." Ritter’s is a diner a few blocks away, in a safer, more populated, area of town. They have good fried green tomatoes. I mean, as good as you’re going to get this far north.

Mel took my hand, asked my name, and thanked me. A brief flash of being filleted with Mel’s blood-crusted switchblade whirred past my eyes, but I shook it off.

I know, REALLY BAD IDEA. What person in their right mind lets a pseudo-homeless man in the hood, late at night, get in their car? Not that I’m in my right mind, but even I should have known better, and I guess I did, but there was something telling me it was okay. A vibe or something, I don’t fucking know. My paranoia works in mysterious circles: It’s broad daylight in a park full of laughing children, shiny balloons and Jesus feeding ducks and I’m cowering behind a bench, anticipating a drive-by. Midnight in the ‘hood with a strange homeless man in my car and I’m fine, thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches with pickles on the side, just fine.

Mel acted as my eyes on the short trip down to Ritters. "Oh Miss Erin, watch that car parked on the side of the road," he’d warn. "No, it’s this next block up here, Miss Erin," he’d correct. Mel was probably more intimidated of me and my (lack of) eye sight than I was of having a strange man in my passenger seat. Interspersed between Mel’s driving instructions, I learned that he has a bullet lodged in his head and one in his back, and that he lost his mother and two sisters a year ago. He has three kids: the oldest is twenty-three and the youngest is seven.

Inside Ritter’s, I used Henry’s credit card once again to withdraw money. I stood there at the front of the restaurant, holding the bill in my hand, contemplating asking the cashier to break it into smaller bills for me. "No, it’s Easter," I said to myself. I took the money outside and stuffed it in Mel’s hand.

"Oh Miss Erin," he whispered and shook his head. He started to say it was too much but I pushed his hand back into his side.

"It’s OK. You need to eat. It’s only money." I was shocking myself. I started to wonder where this uncharacteristic charity act was coming from.

We stood around under the front light of Ritter’s for a few more minutes, talking about our kids and life and suddenly I wasn’t in such of a big hurry to get home.

Because I knew I’d have a lot of ‘splaining to do.

Mel asked me  to keep him in mind if I needed yard work done or my basement cleaned (I later announced excitedly to Janna that I was going to buy him) and then he let me take his picture in the dim light. After I allowed to give me a bear hug, I continued on my way home.

It was a drive full of nervousness and trepidation.

All the lights were on when I got home and Henry was dressed for work (he usually leaves a little after I get home, around 1AM or so). I always come straight home from work, so I’m sure he thought I was sucking dudes off in an alleyway.

It probably didn’t help that I was vomiting nervous giggles all up in his grill as soon as I walked through the door.

"What did you do?" he asked, the underneath of his eyes creased with concern.

I rummaged through my purse, keeping my face hidden behind a wall of hair. "Henry, don’t be mad," I urged through taut laughter. "I’m just going to write you out a check—-"

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" he asked again, sounding quite alarmed.

I couldn’t stop laughing. I tried to stall as long as I could, but he eventually made me cry uncle, just with his eyes alone.

So I told him the story. He sighed a lot throughout my tale. Sometimes he closed his eyes to keep the fear from showing. Occasionally he shook his head in horror.  "And so what it all means is, I’m a good samaritan," I finished.

"No, you’re a fucking idiot. Why would you let some homeless guy in the car? AT NIGHT? AND IN THAT AREA?" He grabbed the check off me and shoved it in his pocket.

"So…you’re not mad that I gave him money?" I asked slowly, confused yet relieved.

"No. Just don’t let strangers get in the car. You know better."

Do I? It was a real good father-daughter talk. If only we had been sitting atop a Laura Ashley comforter and I was hugging a teddy bear, it could have been a great public service announcement.

"But you have to admit I was doing really good. I haven’t done something this stupid in a very long time," I said.

He was still mumbling about me being an idiot as he walked out the door for work. It could have been worse. I mean, I could have brought Mel home with me.

[Ed.Note: I know I’m a stupid asshole and highly reckless. You don’t need to tell me. I will try not to do it again.]

Chooch is really into stickers lately. He willingly let me slather him up with two sheets of Paas stickers from the egg dying kit, almost as though he was saying, "Thank you, ma’am, may I have anotha?"

That night though, he woke up crying. Henry went in to check on him and found Chooch sitting up and pointing to a rogue sticker that must have been underneath his head on the crib mattress. It bothered him enough to wake him up. Fucking princess and the pea.

Yesterday, as soon as he woke up, he discovered a sheet of Cars stickers, so we had to repeat the process of me sticking his entire torso and head with Lightning McQueen, Sally, and Mater. He put one on my cheek, and since I’m a good sport, I left it there. A few minutes later though, he marched over and ripped it off my face. I had big plans of leaving it on my face all day, even flashing it at work. Maybe it would catch on, and Bob would come in the next day with a Superman sticker on his nose.

My feelings were a little hurt when Chooch robbed me of my fashion statement, especially when he paused to glare at me disgustedly before continuing his rampage on the house.

I won’t lie, I’m a little intimidated of my kid.

Collin is still sitting next to me, even though he has a new Big Boy job here, because his computer isn’t ready for him. (I think that’s what he said? I wasn’t listening.)

And boy am I glad, otherwise I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of viewing the spectacular display of gayness as he freaks out excitedly while listening to the Penguins game on his iPod.