Henry and Chooch are inside the grocery store while I’m waiting in the car, reading a book and listening to Moros Eros. I happened to glance over at the car parked to our left and noticed that an elderly man is sitting alone in the passenger seat.

At first I thought nothing of it and went back to my book. But then a nagging thought set up shop in my head: what if he dies? This old man alone in the parked car, what if he has a heart attack and dies and then I look over again and there he is, all dead and slumped over on top himself, foamy saliva – death juice – seeping past his lips. And then suddenly the parking lot is deserted and its just me and this dead old guy and it’s up to me to make the call and do I even really know where I am right now? Do I tell them I’m parked in front of the cart return in Parking Lot, Space #10? Do I get a medal then?

Hopefully Old Guy keeps breathing until I’m gone because wow, what a way to fuck up someone’s Sunday.

(Oh good – he left first.)

Seamus was born on a cold Scotland night in 1756. On the way back to their cave from the birthing hut, Seamus’s father lost control of their wagon (he was an incorrigible alcoholic) and the three of them found themselves plummeting hundreds of feet down the side of a scraggly cliff.

At the bottom of the cliff, a gay pride festival was underway. The Teabagpipers had just finished their set and piled their bagpipes in a heap before setting off to reward themselves with some appletinis, when Seamus and his family came careening through the sky. Both of Seamus’s parents had the gnarly misfortune of being impaled by the non-bag parts of the bagpipes, while Seamus had the good luck of splashing into a vat of pickle cider.

Seamus was taken into the care of a trio of drag queen nuns and believes that he’s a human. He has survived many centuries and now makes a living working behind the toy counter at an adult bookstore. No one questions his green complexion, lack of limbs, or the sebaceous trail he leaves in his wake.

Original painting on a thick 8×8 canvas, unstapled sides, ready to hang. This guy would be the perfect addition* to a child’s wall. (Just, you know, don’t tell the kid that Seamus works in an adult bookstore.)

*Lol I had ‘addiction’ there first.

My photo shoot ad was posted yesterday on Craigslist and I’ve since received two interested replies. This is what I wanted, it’s true, but now I’m freaking out because I’m going to have to talk to strangers. So I begged Christina to come in from Cincinnati (if she survives the current snow storm) for that weekend and we’re going to pretend like I’m a mute and she’s my psychic translator. Plus, she’ll flirt with everyone and make them feel real uncomfortable, which should make for some very artistically awkward poses.

I tried to confide in Henry about my feelings of inadequacy and nervousness.

"I’m really worried about this now! What if people think I’m an idiot?" I fretted.

"You are an idiot," he assured.

Bob likes to peruse Yahoo! Answers here at work. He just sent me this one and we’re suffocating under a cloak of WTF.

By the time you read this I`ll be in Trouble Please Help?

Is he afraid she’s coating the couch with venereal disease? And then the rest is just….huh? Please help him I’m worried!

Edit to make public my new favorite:

I’m not really sure my doctor is really a doctor?

I want to talk about something that changed my life, something that made me appreciate terra firma. I want to talk about a mean little thrill ride called the Swingshot.

Clickie for video of its gnashing jaws of death in action

When the Swingshot was the new ride for summer ’06 at Kennywood, no one would ride it with me. I stood near a bench one evening, watching with sad clown eyes (and flicking my switchblade) as groups of riders screamed their lucky little heads off. How blessed they were to have friends who were daring enough to ride with them. I hoped they’d end the evening by walking into the web of a serial killer.

Later that fall, I made plans to go back to Kennywood for their annual Halloween makeover. In making these plans with my friend Kara through email, she expressed great interest in wanting to ride the Swingshot. She would sling enthusiastic confirmations at me, like “I would cut off my left leg with an apple peeler for the chance to ride the Swingshot with you, Erin!” and “Sitting upon the Swingshot is what God molded me to do. The Bible told me so. I am so glad that you have extended to me such an amazing opportunity!” I ran around the house in delight; my dream was going to come true.

First, we rode other ridiculously gut-churning rides, risking whiplash and lost keys but loving every second of it. I think I even scared a little boy sitting across from me on the Aero 360, which made for a knee-slapping good time.

I noticed during the course of the night that Kara seemed to be stalling.

“Let’s go through one of the haunted houses,” she would suspiciously suggest every time we neared the quadrant of the Swingshot.

“Oh, look, it doesn’t appear to be running!” she deduced at one point when we weren’t even close enough for her to make such an assumption. Not one to be deterred, I suggested that we walk closer to its proximity so I could see for myself.

IT WAS RUNNING. I pulled Kara into line with me and she tried to act hard core, like riding the Swingshot was nothing more than a trip down a playground slide for her. But as time went on, I noticed that Kara’s exterior was starting to come undone; she was wringing her hands and fidgeting with the drawstrings of her hoodie. I caught her watching the ride with saucer-wide eyes, but she quickly explained that she was just trying to figure out how it worked.

Well, I didn’t buy it.

The line was long, but we were distracted for a few minutes by a group of boys on the other side of the railing who decided it would be fun to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that their friend in the striped shirt liked me. I’m sure he really did, too, because I hear that girls with chin curtains and a veritable intertube of post-pregnancy fat around their waists is the new Hot of October ’06. I’m a real dish these days. Kara took it upon herself to inquire their ages, and they very proudly announced that they were NINETEEN. There was a man behind us with his Banana Republic billboard of a girlfriend, who jumped into the action by asking us how old we were. Then he noticed Kara was wearing a Pitt sweatshirt and started firing off a barrage of questions about her major and where she works and if she knows all these random people and then he asked, “Where do you guys live?” all the while his stiff-lipped girlfriend stood rigidly by his side, with her hands folded primly. I took this as my cue to turn around and not answer because he was quickly turning into a creepshow. Kara kept answering his questions and I silently wished she would stop before she found him crawling into her bedroom window later that night.

Kara finally turned her back on him and he went back to not talking to his cardboard girlfriend. We watched the ride swing back and forth some more, and my hands started to feel a little clammy. Kara pointed to one girl who had her arms splayed out to the sides and was screaming in a volume of anguish generally reserved for child birth. And then Kara laughed at her. And then I laughed at her, too. No ride is that scary.

But soon it was our turn. We chose two seats together and after I lowered the bar across my lap, I instinctively reached up for the safety thing that goes over your shoulders, but there wasn’t one. I thought maybe my seat was defective until I looked around and saw that no one had one. Then I put my hands out to grip something around me for comfort, but there was nothing to hold onto. Nothing but the small plastic mound that rose up between our legs like a tiny phallic mountain.

And then the ride started. It made a whooshing sound as it propelled us into the air. Imagine if you will the sound of the apocalypse being announced. Lots of bolts clanking, gears grinding, the shrill siren of a billion pounds of air blowing the flesh from your bones? That’s the Swingshot’s soundtrack, my friends.

Kara said she expected a dragon to come out of the darkness and engulf us.

Once we started descending, I knew this ride wasn’t made of little girl giggles and cotton tail surprises; more like crack pipes, shivs, and jizz of a trillion serial rapists. The arm of the Swingshot brought us crashing back to the ground only to whisk us back up in the opposite direction, this time leaving us suspended in the air, facing straight down into the cemented land below. Immediately, my arms flew up to grasp the imaginary shoulder harness and my legs scrambled for a way to brace the rest of me. There was nothing for them do but stick out in paralyzed shock.

I think this is totally how I would feel if ever in that pivotal position where I fall face-first while being chased through the woods of Camp Crystal Lake by Jason Voorhees, flipping myself over just in time for him to gouge my chest with his whirring chainsaw.

Before I knew it, I was crying. Real, live, wimp-flavored tears. I had no fire left inside of me to stop it from happening; my entire being had reduced to a large package of sniveling lily-livered pansiness. I have never, ever cried on a ride at an amusement park. OK, fine, I’m a liar. There was a fun house that my aunt and I were trapped inside of in Paris one year, but that was only because the ride operator knew we were tourists and I can still hear her cackling as she made the hamster wheel speed up every time we tried to cross through it. We ended up jumping a gate to escape, and I brought home bruise- and scrape-covered flesh as a souvenir. That was not a good time.

While hostage on the Swingshot, I shrieked every combination of obscenities that my scrambling mind could think of. All inhibitions were gone and I could have shit my pants and not gave a damn what the guy next to me thought. I just wanted off that motherfucker of a ride.

I could detect a slight acrid odor wafting around my face and I realized that it was the scent of fear oozing from my pores. Or maybe my deodorant just isn’t tuff enuff to do its job when facing death.

They say that when you’re near-death, your life flashes before your eyes. I saw Christmases back when they were good and I got lots of presents because my family’s hatred for me was still recessive. I saw myself on a stage in Switzerland, blowing into a Ricola horn. I saw my five-year-old brother slamming a car door upon my ten-year-old head. I saw myself meeting the Cure and stuttering in front of Robert Smith. I saw myself in the hospital after having a baby and being entertained by a singing telegram sent by Janna. Oh wait, that didn’t happen because Janna is a shitty friend who doesn’t care enough to send a fucking singing telegram. Janna, you asshole. I saw myself punching Jimmy McConaghy in the stomach on the playground in fifth grade, and if I knew then what I know now I would have iced the cake by calling him a douchebag. I saw myself five minutes ago, standing in line and lamenting the fact that “this ride doesn’t look like it lasts very long” and if I had control over my motor skills while being suspended face down, 65 feet in the air, I would have punched myself in the stomach.

I think I now know what it might feel like to be in a plane crash. That was seriously the most unnecessary level of fear I’ve ever willingly subjected myself to. I hope that by the time my kid is old enough to realize that Oh my god Mom, you have to ride this with me!, it will have already been packed up and shipped off to Holland.

Creepy Inquisitor and his Cardboard Girlfriend ended up sitting next to us on the ride and Kara said they didn’t scream or anything which leads me to believe that they’re robots.

Fifteen minutes later, our legs still possessed a slight quake as we passed by the Swingshot on our way to safer steel contraptions meant to make riders wet their pants. I slowed my pace, called it an asshole and flipped it off. Then we realized that it had been temporarily shut down. That did wonders for my newfound appreciation of life.

Last night I found out that Giada from the Food Network knows about polenta and evidently likes it enough to have recipes about it. That was enough to win me over. I know lots of people hate her because she’s a Bobblehead, but ever since I watched her Chef Biography, I evicted a few people* from my heart to make room for her.

I thought Henry was feeding me some kind of orphanage staple at first, and I’m too proud to be eating like the poor. Then I read that in Northen Italy, it’s more popular than pasta! I like Italy, the northen parts too, so polenta MUST be alright. As long as hobos aren’t eating it, too.

Feeling inspired, I called up my pal Google and after getting the obligatory "Remember when we were in ‘Nam" chit chat out of the way, he helped me find this recipe and I think I might burst if Henry doesn’t make it.

That Blueberry Banana Polenta Thing
 
2 very ripe bananas
1 cup corn flour  (maybe *fine* ground corn meal, at your own risk)
1/2 cup whole wheat flour (might add wheat germ to increase fiber)
2 T. honey 
1 T. Succanat (or 3 T. Succanat and no honey for vegans)
1/2 cup water (or use *nonfat* milk, juice, or soy moo)
1 1/2 tsp. Ener-g egg replacer (or 1 egg white)
1/4 tsp. guar gum (optional)
1/2 tsp. baking soda (or slightly less)
2 T. nonfat yogurt (this is needed to make the baking soda work)
1/2 tsp. cinnamon (or as much as you can handle, ie. more…)
1/2 tsp. cardamom (ditto)
1 1/2 cups blueberries (fresh)

Preparation: Mash bananas with a potato masher, add all remaining ingredients,
except for blueberries.  Stir well.  Lightly oil a small pan, or 8 muffin tin,
by dipping a paper napkin in a drop of oil and spreading this all over the
baking surface (or spray with Pam).  Pour batter into pan (8" x 5") or muffin
tin.  Sprinkle top with blueberries, the more the better.  Blueberries won’t
sink to the bottom, so you have to press them down if you want to get even more
of them in.  Bake at about 400F for about 25-35 minutes, my guess.  Serve warm.
This will taste quite rich, the warm melted blueberries get runny and yummy!
 _____________________________________________________

Ok, so mostly for me this is  like reading a recipe in ancient Ukranian script, but I see operative words like "blueberry" "honey" and "banana" and that’s all I need to crown a winner. And also some shit called Suckonnat which is now masturbating my curiosity, thanks.

I couldn’t find a photo of this magnificant heap of fruity cornmeal, but I bet it still turns out looking like it just shot down the Devil’s steaming asshole after a late night smorgasbord of chipotle Aborigine bowels and refried lepers, much like this delicious polenta plate with runny fungus slopped over top pictured below. Probably it will be blue diarrhea at least.

*Henry and my mom.

I learn a lot from Eleanore’s personal calls. Tonight I learned that ADHD is a disease. And that she knows crime inside-out because she watches "First 48." So, if crime had an asshole, she would know if it’d been bleached or not. Because that’s how well she knows it.

Then she was talking about her friend Sherman. "Do you remember my friend Sherman? Real ugly, dark-skinned?"

I hope my friends describe me as ugly, too. Probably not dark-skinned though.

The other night, she got all riled up because Bob used ‘ghetto’ as an adjective. "What does ghetto mean to you, Bob? I’d really like to know." She just kept asking him over and over and I was becoming fearful. In my head, I was shouting, "No, Bob! Don’t answer her!" He didn’t and life went on, thankfully.

Earlier tonight she was telling us, "There’s only three things I got to do: be black, pay taxes, and die." It was pretty fucking awesome.

My friend Sarah makes that crochet shit. Today, I got my own crochet shit from her.

Originally, I was going to give it to Chooch. But when I had the real thing in my hands, there was no way I was giving it up. He could have cried all the tears he had inside him. Which he surprisingly didn’t, but I still felt a tiny pang of guilt so I let him keep the second bacon (what? it could be soy)  that came with the egg.

I feel so much better now at work. Who knew that it’d only take a yarn fish skeleton for me to achieve complete feng shui over at the work station.

If anyone’s in the market for cute baby hats and crocheted animals, go check out Sarah over on Etsy!

This inspires me to start my own squad¹. A squad that pillages neighborhoods, tagging our squad name on smooth potato-looking stones. It’ll be the Oh Honestly Squad. There might even be pins someday. No one will fuck with us. Bars worldwide will be naming drinks after us.

If you want in, sign up below. Then start tagging rocks with vulgarities and nuclear threats² and then send me the pictures³. It’ll be the best fun you’ve never had.

[1]: This was after I realized that stone didn’t actually say "squid." Previously, I was all about getting a pet squid but now I see the ridiculousness of that and have moved on to the squad thing. Maybe our tag should have "squid" in it?

[2]: Make sure it can’t be traced back to me. I’m not going to jail for you.

[3]: I’m not funnin’. I really want enough pictures to warrant its own set on flickr.

[x]: This post translates into "I have nothing better to look forward to, save me."

Before I left for work, Henry emerged from the kitchen with a plate of food.

"Oooh, pineapple!" I exclaimed, pawing for one. It was warm. Mmm, baked pineapple! A surprise midday dessert, how thoughtful of him.

I popped it in my mouth and confusion was immediate. "Is this meat??" I screamed, slack-jawed.

"It’s polenta, you retard. And it’s for Chooch, not you," Henry said as he shouldered past me.

"But is it meat?" I cried again.

This led to a boring explanation of what polenta is, most of which I zoned out of.  "And you better like it," he said at the end of his lecture, "because it’s what you’re having for dinner."

I’m eating it right now, and I think I’m falling in obsession with it. I was leery at first, don’t be mistaken! Two rubbery blocks of cornmeal doused with a red sauce, shredded cheese and mushrooms? Ew. I’m scared when Henry melts cheese atop of his meals, because I assume he’s trying to hide something from me, mask some flavor he thinks I’d be adverse to. The dressed-up planks of mush were buffeted by a southwestern corn mix (straight from the freezer, huh Henry?) with ONIONS. Henry, you asshole.

Collin seemed just as intrigued by it as I was and kept asking me all these questions like I’m a portable Food Network search engine. The best I could do was tell him it had the consistency and texture of a congealed and gelatinous corn pudding.

It has good form, nice spring. I want to be sculpting with it now.

I feel like I want to fry it up with strawberries. (I almost said broiled but then I realized I don’t know what that is.) What’s the best way to eat this junk, anyway? 

The first time I was there was the summer of 2000.

“There’s this Quaker cemetery out in Perryopolis. Supposed to be haunted or some shit. We should go.” It was one of those glimmering moments of spontaneity that, on a boring summer’s night, sounded a lot more interesting that the usual routine of getting drunk on my porch. I was a little wary that the person hatching this plan was my friend Justin, who had a bad track record of insisting he knew the exact coordinates of various haunted hot spots, and then like a bad repeating record, we’d inevitably wind up lost  with the gas tank on E and a few empty bags of Corn Nuts.

Our friend Keri wanted to accompany us, so I felt a little better because she was always the responsible one. If you were going to get lost, break down, get a condom lodged inside of you, Keri was the girl you’d want with you. She also didn’t scare easily, so I quietly planned to wedge myself between the two of them once (if) we arrived.

Perryopolis is around 30 miles south of Pittsburgh, but the trip didn’t take long in my Eagle Talon, considering my propensity for driving it like a dragster. As we approached the town of Perryopolis, I silently hoped that we would be unable to find the cemetery in the dark, of that it didn’t exist, or that the Earth opened up to engulf it every night after midnight. Maybe there would be a fence too dangerous to scale, Hounds of Hell snarling and tied to posts at the entrance, an after hours admission fee implemented by Satan.

The area was rural. We coasted past a few farms and even fewer houses. The uneven asphalt was littered with loose pebbles and sticks, which  clinked and snapped under the tires. The streetlights did little to alleviate my uneasiness. Unfortunately, Justin must have polished his navigational bearings, because after having me make a few turns, he told me to pull over.

“This is it,” he said, leaning in between the front seats and looking out my window. We kind of just sat there, real still, not speaking, until Keri finally went for the door handle. We all filed out and crossed the dark, quiet street. It was too dark to see the cemetery from where we stood, and after hesitating to see who would step up to lead us, we finally took the plunge in tandem and began climbing the slight hill before us.

Halfway up, we could make out a wrought iron fence, the kind you would expect to wreathe an old, small town cemetery. My eyes searched for the tombstones, the meat of the graveyard. That’s when I saw it, my first glimpse of the old stone house in the middle of the small plot of land. Suddenly, it wasn’t what lay beneath the ground that frightened me.

“I don’t like the looks of that place,” I whispered hoarsely to Keri and Justin.

“What the fuck is it, a church?” Justin asked no one in particular, squinting his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“I’m not climbing no fucking fence,” Keri spat, arms crossed. She was always the kill joy of the group. Me, I’d go along with just about anything, no matter how terrified I was, mainly because my adrenaline would overtake my common sense every single time. But Keri, she’d get so far and then stop. Or conveniently conjure up a head ache. That girl has headaches more often than Seattle has rain.

Just then, the dull roar of an engine resounded from further down the road. We all turned to look. Headlights eventually appeared over the crest in the curving road, and the car began to decelerate. We continued to watch as it approached the base of the hill and slowed to a complete stop several yards away from my car, parked along the shoulder.

“Is it a cop?” Keri whispered.

The driver flashed the head lights. We were stapled to the soft ground under our feet. The driver blew the horn. We jumped. The driver laid on the horn, sending an atmosphere-rippling siren through the once-quiet night. All three of us screamed and turned to run back to my car. We shoved each other ruthlessly, none of us daring to be in the back.

My car was parked directly across the base of the hill. The rogue car still idled in the same position a few yards away on the opposite side of the road, continuing to blare the chilling horn. We made it to my car, slamming into the side of it. I fumbled for my keys. I dropped them on the road as I tried frantically to sort through the menagerie of plush over-sized key chains. Keri and Justin were swearing and screaming at me. I was crying.

The bully car continued to intimidate us with the horn-blaring while I unlocked my door and reached across the inside to unlock the passenger door. Keri and Justin both tried to get in my uterus-sized two-door Talon at once, prolonging their success. Once they were in, I gunned it, not even bothering to steal a look at the driver of the opposing car as we squealed past it.

We drove in silence until the poorly-lit country roads spilled us out onto the highway where we took refuge among the traffic.

Only then did anyone dare speak.

“I don’t know what you guys were so scared for. It was probably just some teenager having some fun, trying to scare us,” Justin said, leaning back with his fingers laced behind his head.

*****

The weather was unseasonably spring-like on Sunday, so Henry, Chooch and I piled into the car and drove south to take some pictures and enjoy the rare opportunity to drive with the windows down. Our plan was to go out to Uniontown, a small town at the base of the mountains, and get some nice country photographs.

We took Rt. 51, which leads straight from Pittsburgh to Uniontown. It also passes through Perryopolis on the way.

“Hey, there’s this old Quaker Cemetery out here. We should try to find it,” I casually suggested, recognizing that the right hand turn into farm country was coming up. What better way to spend a beautiful Sunday with the kid and manservant? Field trip  the haunted cemetery! C’mon boy, let’s get our desecratin’ on, I should have hollered to Chooch.

Henry found it without mishap (evidently the road it’s on is called Quaker Cemetery Road, so Henry figured it was a safe bet we were on the right road). When I reached the crest of the small hill, I spotted the stone house with it’s corrugated tin roof, ominously gaping front door and windows that stared out like empty eye sockets.

I wasn’t scared this time, finding bravery in the sunlight, and I marched right through the archway and started taking pictures. Probably, if I was someone other than myself, the first thing I’d do, I’d go straight inside that stone shack and start poking around. But I was cautious. I let Henry go inside first while I admired the various hues of beer bottle shards as they sparkled in the sun. The shards wrapped around the front of the house, like a moat in front of an alcoholic’s castle. I was sad that no one ever invites me to party in creepy cemetery houses.

Henry went inside first, getting some digital shots of the interior. I asked him if he felt scared when he was in there and he gave me that “don’t be an asshole” sneer. Still, I lingered near the door while Henry and Chooch retreated somewhere in the back, behind the house. I thought I heard shuffling coming from inside the house, but I shook the idea out of my mind and went in.

The inside was sheltered by a roof made up of thin wooden slats. It looked unstable, like I could be buried under it at any given moment. The walls were mostly blue and covered in graffiti. I tried to read it all, as much as I could before my bravery reserve was drained, but there was nothing very interesting. No Hail Satans or Human Sacrifice FTW!s to be found; just an abundance of generic “_____ was here”s and ambiguous initials.

Each end of the room had a fireplace. Henry said later that he had wanted to get all up in it and see what was going on in the chimney’s guts, but he never said why he didn’t follow through. Because he was scared, that’s why. I can only imagine how much clenching he had to do to keep from shitting his pants when he was in there alone.

Still afraid of the being impaled by a collapsing slat of wood, I started to walk out. Henry completely doesn’t believe me, and probably no one else will either, but as I started to step through the doorway, I heard a chorus of whispering coming from \the left corner of the room. I SWEAR TO GOD. I swore to God when I was telling Henry about it too and he was like, “You can’t swear to something you don’t believe in” so I changed my pledge of honesty to Satan instead and Henry started in on that bullshit about how you can’t believe in one and not the other and I was like, “Shut up, stop acting like you’re religious” and he said if there was no God and just Satan, then the world would be way worse than it is now and I said, “No, Satan’s just lazy is all” and that’s about as deep as the two of us get into theological debates. Our next one is scheduled for 2030. As if Henry will still be living then.

After the whole whispering episode, I was pretty much in a huge hurry to leave. If you buy into legends and ghost stories, it’s said that the meeting house was where witches were taken to be killed. I really hope the whispering I heard belonged to Glinda.

Later that day, I was reading a website about the cemetery and it says, “There are also stories of certain graves being cursed, meaning that if you stand at them, or read the writing on the head stone, you could have bad luck or die.”

Awesome. Nice knowing you, Chooch.

There are few things my child could do to make me want to disown him. I was willing to turn the other cheek when he flung a forkful of noodles ala ketchup at me in protest. That’s one of my favorite meals, my signature dish. Nothing beats a bowlful of al dente egg noodles drenched in a sauce of congealed and lukewarm ketchup.

It took some time, I won’t lie, but I healed. I moved on. I continue to enjoy ketchup’d noodles alone.

I didn’t think he would find a way to hurt  me more than he did that day. Until this morning. I slaved over slathering the perfect marriage of peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff onto two slices of bread. I painstakingly cut the sandwich into tiny, bite-sized cubes, perfect for popping while enjoying an A.M. viewing of "Blue’s Clues."

I set the plate down in front of him. He grunted. I pushed it closer and he gave it some consideration. Then he grunted again and pushed the plate back at me. I tried to sneak a tiny morsel past his lips, in between chews of Goldfish. He crinkled his nose and his lips transformed into an iron barrier against unwanted edibles.

My asshole son doesn’t like Fluffernutters. I’ve been stabbed in the heart. Stabbed with a forkful of Fluffernutter hateration. How could he betray me like this? I’m running out of meal options for him, things that I’m capable of preparing and/or assembling, and if he keeps turning his nose up at my creations he’s going to be subsisting on crackers and Pringles every day until Henry comes home.

Maybe I can eventually get over this latest rejection. But if he doesn’t learn how to dance like the Jabbawockeez, I’m returning him to the hospital. Maybe I can exchange him for Lasik or get a voucher for an organ transplant. Or maybe they can just give me an organ if I’m in no immediate need of transplantation, to fashionably display outside of my body. "What? Is it my kidney brooch you’re admiring?"

Zoe and Zed should be playing Hopscotch, but Zed had a rowdy round of Show -n- Tell in mind instead. Original painting done in acrylics on an 8×10 canvas.
 

Hello. I’m twenty-eight years old. I have never built a snowman.

We got a good bit of snow on Friday, so I got all ambitious and decided that it was time to change my status as snow architect from "never" to "active."

I concentrated hard on my efforts for an entire, let’s say, three minutes, before walking away and playing with the shovel. Henry spied my attempt and asked what it was. "Uh, that’s not how you make a snowman," he patronized as he continued to sneer at the uneven mound of snow that I formed by scooping and patting, not rolling which is apparently the universal method of birthing snowmen.

"Oh, then show me how," I said, knowing that it was a surefire way to con Henry into doing all the work while I pranced around in a crocheted frog hat and rain boots. (By the way, rain boots make terrible snow boots.)

By the time he was done playing snowman God, I was tired of being outside. It was still snowing hard and Chooch kept trying to sneak past us into the street, no matter how many times I yelled, "Danger danger!" I decided I would implement by carefully planned-out snowman face and accouterments the next day, which turned out to be beneficial because by the next day, it looked like this:

I was pleased with it’s current Leaning Tower state — it would make a more realistic dying snowman. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to slap a piece of salami on its face for a protruding tongue, some asshole kids stole his head and torso.I found the head a few yards up the steet, but the torso is probably in a garage somewhere, being harvested for kidneys.

Snowmen suck. So do kids.

I guess technically I still haven’t built a snowman. It’s the cherry that can’t be popped.

People keep confusing me with an eastern European doorstep, perhaps a stoop in a Hungarian alley. Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the rolled floor mat in bold colors which hugs me so carelessly that screams gypsy. But now homeless winos keep pissing on me because they think that’s what I’m here for. Like I’m some kind of elongated urinal cake in designer hues. I can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t a homeless wino pissed on me. I mean, I don’t mind being pissed on. Admittedly, I’d rather be shat on by raccoons, but if you’re not a wino and you have your own address, please, by all means, take a piss.