Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:31 Christina said she’s thankful I bounce my ideas off her & henry before doing anything stupid. Kind of offended, still laffing. #
• 18:57 @buenomexicana because u stink so bad? #
• 19:00 Earlier, Tina did her signature sleazed out snort-laugh. Bob laughed knowingly and I fought the urge to punch myself in the gut. #
• 22:57 @buenomexicana hopefully a bomb in his rectum. #
• 22:57 MURDA MURDA MO MURDA. #
  

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• 14:27 Our local porn shop is closing. What the fuck is becoming of this world?? #
• 19:48 Set off alarm at arts festival. Ran very fast. #
• 09:04 Chooch walks around reciting his own version of the alphabet and I think its rubbing off on me. Luaj. Oajs kasu. Yajsu. #

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Do you think he likes the Misfits, maybe?

I’m coming down to cut you open. It’ll only take half a second.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 12:20 Henry just looked at our Netflix queue and realized I deleted all of his picks and I can’t stop laughing. he’s so angry. #
• 19:07 You just can’t go wrong with barley. OK, I probably could, but Henry is good with it and that’s all that matters. #
• 22:18 Reading the word "heh" is the visual equivalent to the sound of cement being raked. #

• 14:35 I feel like Henry & I are the Sami & Lucas of real life, just w/o the attempted murder, great hair, treason, dual-fathered twins,etc. #
• 17:10 If I had to correctly identify a groundhog in a line up of otters and beavers, I’d be fucked. #

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In the process of getting a cup of tea, I zoned out and ended up pouring coffee over top of the tea bag. It was my last tea bag, and I didn’t feel like making the perilous trek to the other side of the dark building to steal another, so I dumped out the coffee and refilled with water. The damage had already been done, though; the tea bag was bloated with coffee.

Returning my seat, I alerted Eleanore to my screw-up; a little self-deprecation usually goes a long way with her, makes her feel superior. I let her make fun of me while the tea was steeping, happy that my roast had rendered her scissor-hands inactive.

"Mmmm, this is delicious," I said after taking a tentative sip.

Not picking up on my sarcasm, Eleanore said, "Oh thank God, babe! I was worried you’d waste the tea bag."

As she was saying that, I had started to get up from my seat, planning to dump the cup of java tea and rinse my mouth with a good acid wash. But see, she’s been talking to me all night, like the good old days, initiating conversation all on her own. I didn’t want to risk compromising our newfound friendship by correcting her. Eleanore hates to be corrected. Oh, how my ennui loves a good dilemma. To dump or to drink.

One of my polarizing personalities is People Pleaser, which always inspires a chuckle or two since I really don’t like people much at all. So I kept it. I’m drinking a muddied cup of tea. My tongue just touched a swarm of coffee grinds. I’m drinking tea and coffee from the same cup. It’s disgusting. And I think I’m beginning to acquire a taste for it.

Tina and Eleanore have a perpetual email chain going during the shift. They will laugh out loud, completely over-the-top Jello-bellied guffaws, as they read each other’s latest (lame, I’m betting) quip. So last night, Kim intercepted me as I left the restroom and, in hushed tones, proposed that we give them a taste of their own medicine.

“Make them think we’re talking about them,” she said, deviously.

“But we really do that,” I reminded.

She ignored me and continued whispering. “When you go back to your desk, laugh, and then I’ll laugh.”

Not one to decline a foray into junior high shenanigans, I accepted the mission. “Just let me steal some tea bags first, and then I’ll do it,” I promised.

In my travels to the other side of the building to forage for tea, I began to overthink my assignment. I wanted my tittering to sound as realistic as possible but pressure was preventing me from remembering how I regularly laughed. I at least knew it wasn’t a sleazy snortle a la Tina.

I felt like I should have given myself a practice test, laughed out loud a few times while walking back from my tea journey. But it’s already bad enough that I have a rap for stalking the cleaning crew with my camera phone; I didn’t want to add schizo chuckler to my reputation.

By the time I returned to my area, my palms were coated with a clammy glaze. Nervous and guilty, I stomped past a book-reading Eleanore and, in the skittish falsetto of someone who just partied with an eight ball, I shouted, “IS THAT BOOK GOOD?” A normal, non-suspicious person might have first asked her what the fuck book she was even reading, but I was too busy being squashed under an anvil of pressure.

 Eleanore seemed startled at my near-accusatory inquiry, and replied with a confused, “Uh, yeah, babe.

I’m only on page 100 though.” I shouted “THAT’S GOOD” and sat down clumsily at my desk.

And then I did it.

Try to remember back to 1988 when you snuffed that fisherman down on the docks, behind the tower of cargo, and you heard him suck in his last pitiful breath: all raspy and wet-sounding from choking on the blood corked in his throat, and you’ll have a good idea of what my forced laugh sounded like. Strangulated and weak. Pathetic. Painful. A soul drifting off into the ether.

Kim didn’t even hear it from her cube. If Eleanore heard, and I don’t think she did, she probably just thought I had indigestion.

I emailed Kim and apologized for single-handedly fucking her plan in the ass.

“Idiot.” That was her reply. Succinct, honest, deserved.

Sharing Harlan Coben books.

Weekend Players & The Flir.

Choking on chlorine.

Firecracker trips to Ohio.

Horror movies on humid nights.

Amaretto sours & A/C at McCoys.

Loving the Decemberists, hating bronchitis.

Pink Disney Princess phone.

Blue floppy beach hat to stay incognito.

Death by riding mower.

One plump lemon was thoughtfully procured by Eddie Orpik, whose live-in strumpet insisted that rubber ball gags tasted like her Uncle Herb’s sweaty taint.

Two lemons spotted with rot were unearthed from the bottom of the pile by Jamison Fitzshittery, who would eat them whole while sitting on the freshly covered graves of his recent slayings. 

Three ripe lemons were chosen by Jorge Martinez’s shaking hands, who would squeeze them into his mother’s favorite summer cóctel, a wishful attempt to soften the blow when he later reveals that he’s an el homo.

Four lemons were palmed by a paranoid window saleswoman, the curled rinds of which would be cautiously tucked inside the vents of her car to mask the lingering bouquet of marijuana.

Five lemons went into Mrs. Hunchsnatch’s basket, who was slowly luring her husband to his death bed with a panoply of meringue pies.

Seven lemons were plucked by Sasha Eltsin, who would pair them with oranges to create sacks of didactic citrus to unleash on the gulag unrulies.

Eight lemons filled Mother Bonnie’s basket, who planned on turning the tart fruits into sugared delicacies in order to capture ragtag boxcar kids for her signature stew.

When the sun set, the proprietor gathered the remaining bushel and turned it into fresh ambrosia for his wife, whose decomposing body slumped in a supine pile on a Laura Ashley bedspread. She always did like lemons in her ambrosia.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:26 Chooch waged war on baby powder before I left for work and I think I have some up my nose. #
• 20:37 I sign up for book clubs then consistently neglect to decline monthly selections. I just got three books sent today.
  buy xenical online xenical online no prescription

  A sickness. #

• 20:38 I’m going to start renting them out to Janna for like, $50 a book. She’d pay it too. #
• 09:37 For breakfast, Chooch is scooping up strawberry oatmeal w/ tortilla chips. Its delicious. There’s some flax seed up in that bitch too. #
• 10:09 If you ask Chooch what his name is, he says Riley and I’m not sure how he knows that but thank god. #

• 13:54 Henry: you really need to take fucking cooking classes. Ill even pay for it. #
• 17:53 I am really fucking bored with my life. Clearly the solution is an extended stay at the nearest strip club, post haste. #
• 21:17 I’m having these weird flashes of listening to Neil Sedaka and wearing a daisy-chain crown. #

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Ever since Tina came back to night shift, she has, as I’ve previously mentioned, been the proverbial dingleberry to Eleanore’s ass. They are absolutely inseparable, which is confusingly funny to me considering the amount of bitching and moaning Eleanore did upon discovery of Tina’s eventual return.

Last Friday, Tina was mad at Kim; a lingering anger from the fight the two of them had the night before. (Basically, it all stemmed from Tina having Know-It-All Syndrome which comes with that nasty side effect of Must-Have-Last-Word — which I hear really leaves a nasty coating on your tongue and makes you sound like you’re coughing up phlegm every time you laugh — and Kim telling her she can’t stand her.) Knowing that we were all supposed to order Chinese food together, Tina brought in her own, and was ever so kind enough to bring Eleanore some too. Fuck, she sucks on Eleanore’s ass so hard it makes you wonder if she gurgles with her shit, too. But for real Tina: way to stick it to Kim. God forbid Kim and I had to order food all by ourselves. I bet Kim couldn’t tell if her food just had too much soy sauce on it or if she was eating the tears she had shed from being excluded from the cool club.

A few moments ago, we all had to go outside and move our cars to the valet area because people are surveying the lot. I walked back in with Kim and Tina and we bumped into Eleanore, who was talking to another employee. Kim, growing impatient of holding the door for Tina, turned and said, “Aren’t you coming?” Seeing that Tina had fallen back and firmly lodged herself inside Eleanore’s asshole, Kim answered her own question. “Oh I forgot, you have to hold Eleanore’s hand.”

It’s the proudest I’ve ever been of my boss.

"I like holding rabbit hats while smiling for my daddy — Michael Keaton."

Seriously, those are some crazy-arched brows on that child.

I tried to counter the impending nightmares from watching The Lost Boys five times in three days by playing the Care Bears Movie for him today, but he was completely uninterested. I, on the other hand, was tearing up during the opening credits. That fucking Carole King song gets me every time. Later on, I put on MTV (which was actually — wait for it — PLAYING VIDEOS) and he gave the thumbs up. (Actually, he sticks up his pointer finger and shouts "Awesome.")

Maybe tomorrow we’ll watch his dad in Batman.

The weather forecast for Saturday was rain, rain and more rain. I asked Henry, “Do you still want to go on that fantastically awesome scenic train ride, even in the rain?” and he said yes. At this point, my memory forbade me to remember all the other scenic train rides I had been on in my life time, and how extremely boring they truly are. (Unless, you know, you’re into that scenery shit.)

Schenely, PA is about an hour away and I was sulking for the majority of the ride. Just part of my nature. But then Henry stopped at a Sunoco and returned with a bag of mint M&Ms. I acted all ambivalent about it, but still drank down half the bag. Mood instantly lifted.

As soon as we boarded the train, it began pouring. Like any other sensible person, I chose the open-sided car so we could be treated to a natural shower and then simultaneously bitch about it for the hour long ride. There were about twenty other people who had the same idea.

While we were waiting for the 2:00 departure time to roll around, someone pointed out that one of the cars in the lot had an open window. It was the car right next to us, so Henry shouted out to the woman who owned it and then was thanked profusely by her and her husband. He sat there with a smug grin on his face, like he was some kind of fucking hero. I bet he did heroic shit like that all the time when he was in The Service, helping hookers climb out of vats of penii.

Imagine how tickled I was when the train kicked into motion and a woman’s voice filled the car from a speaker. Wow, a scenic railroad excursion paired with a guide enlightening us with local flavored fun facts? What a treat. Unfortunately, there was so much commotion on the train that her commentary came off sounding like the teacher from Peanuts. Every time I asked Henry what she said, it was always the same: “Something about the river. I don’t know.”

Chooch was really great for most of the first leg of the trip. He sat on my lap to avoid the torrential downfall that was attacking us from the sides. But then he had the itch to roam, and it all unraveled from there. Once he had his feet on the floor, it was like an open invitation for the other children on the train to come out and play. Chooch procured the four cars he brought in his backpack, and suddenly I had a horde of small children surrounding me: a one-year-old, another two-year-old (Sioux, like the tribe!!!!) and her six-year-old sister (Cheyenne, like the tribe!!!!), whose grandma was wearing a Kermit t-shirt and would not stop chatting with me the entire time and I was so nervous that I was physically clenching. And you know, with kids come parents. I really hate socializing with parents. Chooch was doling out his cars, only to confiscate them at his will. He seemed to take an immediate liking to the six-year-old, and was adament on giving her all the cars.

The one-year-old’s dad was wearing a Penguins hat, and I couldn’t help but notice Henry didn’t scoff, “Hockey season’s over” to him, like he does to me anytime I mention them.

At this point, I was unable to take in any of the trees and shit that we were passing, because I had to fulfill Mom duty and make sure that my son didn’t come to blows with anyone over a couple of fucking plastic cars. I hate this part of parenting. And you know what else I hate? Having to acknowledge other people’s kids. That Cheyenne chick kept standing in front of me and flapping her arms like a bird. “Oh. Uh, pretty,” I would try to placate her, instead of shoving her off on another parent like I really wanted. Another mother, though, she heartily exclaimed, “WOW! What are you, a bird?? OH COOL! You are so COOL! I LOVE KIDS! HAHAHAHA ZOLOFT!” Who the fuck gives a shit? Not me. Flap all you want, little girl. I’ll continue looking through you like you’re invisible to me. Because you are.

Chooch made me especially nervous around the one-year-old boy. I kept praying he wouldn’t push him off the train or choke him. (I had just taught Chooch that morning how to pretend-choke himself and quickly started to realize that I might wind up seeing repercussions to that act real quick.)

This guy told me what his purpose was when we first sat down. Something about doing something with the brakes? Who the hell really cares what his purpose is when he’s wearing some hot-assed overalls, though? Basically, he mopped us all off with towels and repeatedly noted that, “There are a lot of kids playing on this car!” and thank God for that play-by-play, because I really hadn’t noticed that my crazy kid was dominating over a trio of weaker-willed children.

After about an hour, I was stoked to see the station looming ahead. My hope was dashed as we turned around though, and headed in another direction. Apparently, you just can’t visit Schenely and not teeter precariously on a railroad bridge for fifty thousand minutes while a guide gives you muffled commentary about trout. And who would want to miss out on that?

It all looks so pretty, but on closer inspection below and to the left, I noticed that the camp site was dotted with Deliverance cast offs, who brought their laundry lines, rusted out pick up trucks, and large jugs to use as yard ornamentation; I’m pretty sure I smelled some hot incest from behind the jagger bushes, too. I can only hope Henry takes me there one day on our honeymoon.

Finally we got to leave and now I’m determined to remind myself every day that train rides are boring as fuck. I’m just glad Chooch didn’t call anyone an asshole.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:38 My hatred makes me physically shake. I need a nice dunk in an isolation tank. #
• 21:49 Tina and Kim had a fight last night, today they are besties. Not the outcome I had hoped for. #
• 11:58 Henry just threatened to send me to live with the Mormons because I’m being tantrum-y. #
  

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• 13:13 Sometimes all it takes to turn my mood around is some mint M&Ms. #
• 13:38 We’re on a train getting ready to depart on a scenic ride through the rain. #
• 14:19 Chooch is being an asshole and we’re stuck on this fucking train in the rain. Best day. #
• 14:25 All the other kids on this train are so tame. #
• 14:57 I do not perform properly around other kids. #
• 15:50 Corn chowder, I will always remember you. #
• 16:17 When chooch acts like an asshole, I tell him Jesus is coming. #
• 17:01 Henry just bragged that he met Kenny Chesney before he was "famous." I feel like there must be a diary entry somewhere. #
• 01:03 Today I taught Chooch how to choke himself & say bitchin’. Now he’s watching Lost Boys for the first time. #
  

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• 15:21 Me: Do u think I’m weird? Henry: I think you need help. #
• 09:56 Chooch is obsessed with Lost Boys now. He says WHOA then laffs during vamp scenes. I started young too. #

(Ed.Note: A lot of these rhyme, wtf?!)

When I gave birth to Chooch, Henry slept at the hospital every night. Maybe it was because he was afraid he’d get his nads lopped off if he didn’t, but it was still a fair indication of how he was going to be as a father: very hands-on and always there. You know, the kind of father I never had.

Chooch and Henry are attached at the hip. They go grocery shopping together, they practically live at Target, and sometimes Chooch even gets to go to Henry’s workplace with him. (He loves it there because it’s a juice warehouse.) Henry does all the hard stuff, like cook actual well-balanced meals for him (as opposed to my popcorn-for-breakfast and freezepops-for-lunch methodology). He gets him strapped into the carseat in less than a minute without pinching skin. (It takes me three times a long and I usually hurt myself.)

Henry makes sure I don’t teach Chooch knife-throwing and flame-eating; that I don’t teach him how to build bombs and invent creative obscenities. Henry makes sure Chooch likes and respects other people and never runs out of diapers and juice. Henry never leaves him in the car with the windows up or snorts rails of coke off his ass. Henry’s catchphrase is "Don’t listen to your mother."

Henry has the daunting task of being the responsible parent. Henry is the father I never had.

While it remains to be seen if Henry and I will live happily ever after, at least I know Chooch will always have a dependable dad.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dad-dudes out there.

A mysterious commentor named Amber asked me some questions after I posted that meme thing the other day.

1.) If your life was to be made into a made-for-tv movie,  who would play you?

RuPaul, hopefully. Even though I’m a shortie. And white. With a vagina. And my hair is not nearly as fabulous. Wait, can it be animated? If so, Patty Mayonnaise, no questions.

2.) Who has been the most influential non-relative in your life?

I don’t know. I guess the writing teacher I had in eleventh grade, Mrs. Mercalde. I never took writing seriously (not like I do now), but I took two of her classes as electives, just for the hell of it. I don’t know what kind of crack she was smoking, but she liked my drivel and encouraged me to keep doing it. Of course, because I’m a stubborn asshole, I didn’t write for like, five years after that. But she’s the reason I keep haunted house journals.

3.) If you had to eat one food item/menu item for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Flax seed.

4.) Your cell phone, your home computer, your mp3 player. Pick one and tell us why?

MP3 player, duh. How else could I jog in the cemetery to the soulful melodies of Norma Jean and Horse the Band?

5.) Where do you get these super-creative ideas for your stories?

The stupid pictures people send me, retaining sentence fragments I hear throughout the day, and the rest is stream of consciousness.

That was fun, let’s be doing it again soon.