Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:11 Gang life sure sounds dreamy. #
• 13:29 Sylvia Nunn is my fucking bitch. Ruthless. #
• 13:54 Henry said I’d never make it in jail. Now I’m on a mission to prove him wrong. #
• 16:43 Hopefully before I die, I’ll order an ice cream that I actually like. #
• 16:45 And this time I don’t even like the kind I robbed Henry of. Fuck you, shitty ice cream. Fuck you, Subday. #
• 16:45 Fuck you too, Sunday. #
• 17:46 As we drove past a cemetery, Chooch pointed to it and desperately begged “Please?!” YES. #
• 20:05 twitpic.com/844x – Coming to get you. #
• 22:22 Bela Karolyi: “it was a rip off. A total rip off.”. Yeah, he said it. # 
  

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• 12:28 Once a year, I lament the extinction of Josta. #
• 16:21 I wish I knew how to make a couch because I desperately need a new one. My current bane. #
• 23:25 Would be nice if the American gymnasts would quit getting robbed of medals. #
• 09:13 Chooch just pointed at our cat Marcy and yelled BOOGEYMAN. A truer accusation has never been voiced. #

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Some of my earliest memories center around the stereo room in my grandparent’s house, a.k.a my grandma’s clown room. Listening to a plucky rendition of Dr.

Zhivago’s Theme play from a music box, rifling through my mom’s and her sister’s old record collection (and always pulling out Frank Zappa’s “Valley Girl”), carefully dusting around the clowns with a feather duster for money and thinking I was such a big help.

I’d like to use my (hopefully brief) employment hiatus to do some kind of project in this room, but my damn aunt is fucking possessive about the house now that I’m not sure if I can find a way around her.

It would be fun to have people dressed as clowns, chilling out around the fake ones. Hiding in corners, rolling blunts on the chessboard.

I need to send my aunt to a fucking day spa and get this done.

My aunt seriously hounded me all weekend about coming to visit, but then as soon as she caught me taking pictures in the clown room, she got all flustered and pushed us out of the house. She must have fucking Hoffa hidden under the floor boards or something.

Remember in June, when I failed to buy you a birthday gift? And then later that month when I didn’t even get a Father’s Day card for Chooch to sign? WELL, HERE IS HOW I’M MAKING IT UP TO YOU.

I am going to buy myself this delightful apron. Which means I will be doing more of that cooking activity to give myself a reason to wear it. Whip up some jello salad, trays of deviled eggs, Baked Alaska. Probably I will just wear it while watching TV. Maybe I’ll stand up a few times and do some twirly spins. Some curtsies. Jump rope. Maybe I’ll wear some high heels and bright red lipstick, walk up and down the street and get PAID ya’ll.

Henry, you’re probably asking yourself “How is that a gift for ME?”  Because YOU get to wear it too!

Perdoozy sells these on Etsy, and she takes custom orders too. If I don’t wind up going with this one, plan on me being aproned in custom weener fabric.

Now I have to get a cookbook thingie.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 23:26 Just laffed heartily at the Chinese vaulter who ass-slammed the mat & Henry freaked on me. “SHE MIGHT GET KILLED FOR THAT!!!!!” #
• 08:18 Who knew eggs could taste like cardboard. #
• 17:47 A new pair of shoes, and suddenly I’m smiling. #
• 18:14 Chooch makes me look awesome by helping me send out illiterate texts. #
• 19:42 Chooch is running in hysteric circles, car keys in hand, because he thinks he’s going to Budapest. #
• 22:16 Phelps made me chug my wine. #
• 22:22 Hereby petitioning to get jump roping in the Olympics. Then I’ll start training. With all the kids at the inner city playground. #
• 11:32 Chooch makes me feel like I just lost a bar fight. #
• 14:23 Everyone on the Croatian water polo team look like Freddy Mercury. #

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Chooch is obsessed with my shoes. He takes them all out of my closet, strews them around, admires them, then rearranges them. Sometimes the occasional pair call out to him and he feels obliged to try them on.

My brother Corey went through this phase.

He didn’t grow out of it until he was thirteen. (As far as I know – he might be hording an impressive moonlight stiletto collection.)

The sad thing is that I feel like he walks in these ones with more grace than I do. I know, I know, not much of a feat.

His legs are screaming for a garter.

I just found this today and I can’t stop laughing.

I totally need to recreate this outfit so I can achieve the ultimate jump roping experience.

A girl on Etsy asked me yesterday if I had any Virgin Mary birthday cards, having seen the Mary and Jesus Halloween cards I sell. I didn’t actually have any, but felt inspired so I hurried up and whipped one up. She actually bought it, too, which surprised me.

The inside says: “Though it won’t be awesome as my son’s.” The two other versions are: “Hopefully God doesn’t knock you up” and “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I also added a Ted Bundy general “thinking of you” card.

The inside says, “…and how this piece of nylon would look wrapped around your neck.”

I love Ted Bundy. I love making cards.

Today, I got to hang out with Lisa. She’s visiting from Colorado and I was lucky to rank high enough on her social ladder to score a visit with her. Over iced Chai tea and strawberry cake, we talked about how I should have one more kid (Lisa’s suggestion, and it made me laugh myself to death), we talked about the varying hues of menstrual blood, about how she couldn’t taste the strawberries in her cake yet mine was bursting with succulence, and we talked about how we’re going to party like heathens when she moves back to Pittsburgh in hopefully less than a year. (OK, that was mainly my suggestion, at which Lisa laughed herself to death.)

I birthed an entire being made of joy and g-spots when I saw an announcement for the upcoming Chiodos show in one our city papers. Lisa, annoyed that I interrupted our grown-up conversation with a fan-girly shriek straight from the pages of Teen Beat, was like, “OK. I don’t know who that is.” I hated her for a little while after that, but then she distracted me with, “Hey, you look good, by the way,” which opened the gates for an ecstatic sermon on the Gospel of Jump Rope. I seriously might die without that fucking rope. Or WITH it, due to my jumping mania and fury.

Lisa and I have drifted apart several times over the years, mostly because we consistently choose different paths. She chose “graduate”; I chose “drop out”. She chose “Christianity”; I chose “none.” She chose “abstinance”; I chose “like rabbits”. Our lifestyles have clashed at times. She left my nineteenth birthday party marathon because it was lewd, debacherous, drug-laden, and overpopulated with underage drinking. I rarely visited her at Bible College because happy people would try to hold my hand and I couldn’t smoke anywhere on campus.

But through the past few years, we’ve come closer to meeting in the middle. I thought she would have freaked at the idea of me having a bastard son, but she never once criticized me, or judged me. She loves my Chooch and is a huge Henry advocate.

Between sips of her latte, she was telling me today about an issue she had with some guy she met, how she emailed him and prefaced it with, “As your sister in Christ…” followed by a dissertation on faith. A few years ago, I might have once laughed at her for being such a God homo. But today, I have a greater respect for her as a person and for all that she’s accomplished, so I just laughed inside my head.

I love Lisa.  I love her so much that I use a song she absolutely abhors as her personalized ring  tone on my Blackberry. And THAT is how you know I love you – through torture.

To commemorate my day with Lisa:

 My favorite Lisa memory is circa 1997, during the spring of my senior year of high school. I was tooling around town with my friends Jon and Justin, killing time before meeting up with the rest of our motley crew later that night.  Justin came to a realization.

“Shit! ICP is playing at Laga tonight. We should go.”

Being a yo-girl at heart, I had no objections to his spontaneous suggestion, until our previous engagements crept into mind.

“But we’re supposed to go over Melissa’s tonight and watch movies with her and Lisa, remember?” A far cry from the havoc we could potentially wreak at a concert, but an obligation nonetheless.

“We’ll just get everyone to meet us at Laga instead.” Jon’s solution seemed so simple, but he was forgetting something very important.

“Lisa’s not going to go for that,” I sighed. The aforementioned Lisa was, and still is, a Christian who just could not get down with the likes of ICP. Becoming a juggalo was not something Jesus would do. (Maybe not her Jesus. My Jesus would have helped pen some of their rhymes.)

 “I have a plan,” Justin said. He dialed Lisa’s number and confidently urged her to put movie night on hold in favor of what could potentially go down in the annals of Very Special High School Moments.

“What is an ICP?” Lisa asked suspiciously.

“They’re a band. It stands for…Intensely Christian…Punks.” Lisa, having a soft spot for non-secular punk bands, called everyone else and informed them of the changed plans.

There were six of us that night, all sardined into Jon’s car. Half of us were giddy to be going to a concert; the other half were giddy because we got away with a lie in order to go to the concert in the first place.

As soon as ICP took the stage, Lisa was chagrinned. “They don’t look like punks…?” she yelled above the crowd of undulating and rioting juggalos. Once they started rapping and she heard their lyrics, she edged back from the stage. Once they started spraying the crowd with Faygo, accompanied by lewd and suggestive gestures, she migrated back some more until a wall prevented her from retreating further. She probably had quite a few dialogues with God that evening.

When the show was over, we all tiptoed over the puddles of Faygo left to coagulate into sugary stains. Lisa, the bottom of her Vans slick with the liquid, slipped and fell down the steps.

Best night ever.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 09:43 I wish the fair in the Hidden Valley Ranch commercial was real. I’d have my next birthday party there. #
• 11:14 Tried with no success to remove a stuck nickel from Chooch’s wagon. Two seconds later he says MOMMY LOOK as he rescues it with ease. Bested by a 2yo. Great.  #
• 11:14 I was even using a KNIFE for shits sake. #
• 11:22 Chooch & I walked to the bank. Didn’t realize how filthy he was until we were standing in front of the teller. me & my boxcar kid. #
• 15:20 Its peanut butter murder time. #
• 16:00 Three banks, one bill collector brouhaha, and a post office later, and now you can hardboil eggs in my blood. #
• 16:26 U know ur in erin’s crib when u hear things like: Give me a Gacy. We’re out of Dahmers. You got glue on Bathory! Got an order for 2 Geins. #
• 17:10 Setting up a liposuction soda shop on my back porch. Free refills with purchase of large frothy fat float. #
• 17:56 twitpic.com/7l77 – Dear Twitter, don’t know what this is, but its good. #
• 10:29 If I was president, an infinite surplus of bubbles would fill the air. And there would be nude traveling circuses. #
• 10:38 This morning, I inadvertently listened to worship music & liked it. Satan will surely rape me w/ corn cobs tonight for my penance. #

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• Having all the fun
• Emarosa
• My sparkly Converse (would be so much hotter if red):

• Staying alive. (As in “to not die”, not the song. Sidenote: that’s my least fave Bee Gee’s song; “How Deep Is Your Love” all the way)
• Not drinking Chooch’s floater-laden backwash
• Writing serial killer poetry
• The brazen audacity of Bela Karolyi that would get lesser men put on China’s hit list, so much that I took twenty minutes out of my super-busy day to make this graphic, which is going on a t-shirt so my boobs can do the boasting:

• Learning to play the kazoo as well as my son
• Jonny, my jump rope (even with a suspected swollen spleen, my feet could not resist skipping his sinewy piece)

Your turn.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:54 Today I feel like god wants me to know what AIDS feels like. # ****
• 19:58 Oh god, please don’t blow up, spleen. #
• 20:54 Cutting out serial killer heads to soft rock balladry. A lowkey Monday night. #

• 11:34 I will not blog about ppl in the hood. I will not blog about ppl in the hood. I will not blog about ppl in the hood. I will not blog about– #
• 20:17 Slave labor has been implemented. #
• 23:46 I just started up my Christmas card factory two weeks ago, and my lone employee is already staging a revolt. #

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***I really thought God was punishing me for making fun of Greg Louganis on Sunday night. Then yesterday, I woke up to an HIV commercial. But Christina, who is a servent of God, assured me that she didn’t think Greg had that much pull with the Big G-O-D. I don’t have AIDS, but probably I have mono for the fortieth time.

After we left Greenman’s Tunnel on Sunday, Henry decided he needed to drive a half an hour out of the way to get soft serve with sprinkles and crunchies. He’s infatuated with crunchies.

A poster for Dole low-fat soft serve, complete with a cascading waterfall of plump-looking fruit, was pasted on the window. In a moment of insanity, I decided that a cone stuffed with this low-fat shit would be a tasty choice. I wanted raspberry, but they only had pineapple, which irritated me but I ordered it anyway. Not without a tinge of uncertainty, though.

As soon as I tasted it, I was racked with buyer’s remorse. I gave it a maximum of three sad licks, before whispering, “This is disgusting; I want yours” to Henry.

So while he dejectedly devoured a low-fat twist of melting hideousness, I got to enjoy this:

And Chooch ate his kid cone, my pawned-off pineapple puke on a cone, and my hijacked Henry cone. God,  to still be a kid, getting everything I want. OH WAIT.

That shitty cone seriously had the potential to ruin my day. Luckily, I walked away from it with little more than a puckered face. I don’t even think Chooch liked it, but Henry insisted that it “wasn’t that bad” and that I was over-reacting.

Blake wanted to get a bucket of golfballs to hit, but Henry deliberately ignored him. I don’t think he was in the mood to explain that since I quit my job, I’d have to turn some tricks at a truck stop in order for Blake to drive a bucket of balls. But we all know I’d do that for free, so whatev.

Afterward, we went to PIzza Hut, where I dunked an egg morsel (WITH SALAD DRESSING) into Henry’s iced tea while he was filling up his THIRD plate at the salad bar. He looked really nervous and apprehensive when he caught Blake and me laughing evilly, but shrugged it off. It wasn’t until the egg clogged up his straw mid-sip that he realized what was going on and completely flipped his shit, making us laugh even harder. Then Blake sold me out and I was like, “Sleep in a box under a pier, buddy!”

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 22:20 What I Miss Most About LiveJournal: having comment parties with all my fake journals. #
• 23:52 Am not a fan of 8-9-08. #
• 23:57 The Olympics never fail to make me hate humanity. On the bright side, it forces me to continually best my repertoire of heckles. #
• 11:11 Today, I will catch flies in my mouth. #
• 12:40 I want to get a WorxGT and manicure all the yards in my ‘hood. The head tilts a full NINETY DEGREES. This is my new dream. #
• 12:41 Then I’ll come home and use it to give Henry’s flesh some precision edging. #

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• 15:56 One of those wisdom nuggets from Henry: Trust comes with trust. WOW. #
• 17:08 I wonder at what moment Henry decided he wanted to look like a child molestor. #
• 18:27 For the first time in twelve years, I am inside a Pizza Hut. #
• 18:42 Just got yelled at for putting egg morsels in henrys iced tea. Then he tossed some on my crotch. #
• 18:54 Trying to convince henry and blake that manorexic and boylimic are real terms. A non-success. #
• 22:23 Trying to arrange a picnic in the park for Henry and Greg Louganis. #
• 23:07 One should not jump rope while juiced on Zinfindel and flipflop-clad. #
• 10:02 About to trade in Chooch’s toys for passels of pennies, since that seems to be all he wants to play with anyway. #

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The first time I met Blake, he was an eight-year-old flesh-and-bone Bart Simpson and I was a twenty-two-year-old jealous brat, confused and not so willing to share his father. Henry brought both Blake and his other son Robbie (10 at the time) over my house one afternoon for some pizza.

Arbitrary Posturing

As we sat at the table, Henry commanded Blake to retrieve his Mountain Dew which Henry had left in the living room. Blake rose to fetch it, but I said, Henry, get it yourself! He’s not a DOG.” I remember Henry shooting me an angry glance, but getting his own drink after that; I remember as Blake smiled his gratitude at me, I thought to myself, “This might actually work out.”

Unfortunately, Blake was still very impressionable and let his mother cloud his perception of me. For years, things were awkward and tense at best, and Henry and I were fighting nearly every time he had his kids for the weekend.

I was sure Blake hated and resented me, but instead of being a responsible adult, I would stoop to his level.

I did and said a lot of assholey things that still haunt me to this day.

Seven years later, Blake is this really fucking awesome kid who thinks independently of his mother, adores Chooch, confides in Henry, listens to really great music,and for some bizarre reason — doesn’t hate me. I’m really excited that he’s moving in with us, and hopefully we can do lots more photo shoots like this one yesterday at Green Man’s Tunnel. And hopefully he shares his band tees with me.

There’s gotta be something better than this out there. Like cotton candy and illegal arms rings.

Please don’t get cattail jizz on my future Emarosa shirt, thanks guys.

Picking a bouquet for Chooch.

After we exhausted all ability to give a shit about nature and the fucking elusive Green Man, I proposed we hit up a strip club, but Henry took us to get ice cream instead.

Fuck you, Green Man.

This was at Warped Tour, where you couldn’t walk an inch without accidentally booting a crushed water bottle into the heels of the person in front of you. For some reason, I always have this itch to photograph random feet when I’m out in public. Maybe I have a fondness for trampled litter, who knows.

And hey, the Bronx is a great band.