It only takes someone a few seconds of being in my house for the first time to realize, “Hey, she must like the Cure. Like, REALLY like the Cure.” There is honestly at least one picture of Robert Smith on every wall downstairs.

Although Robert still rules over most of my heart — and walls — there have been some new men who have managed to plunge their flags into unclaimed acreage.

 So, a few weeks ago, I asked my e-friend Francesco of DiPoe to whip me up a custom portrait of Craig Owens from Chiodos.

When he showed me the mockup, I splooged a little. I ran around in a little circle, squealing a little. I tugged on Henry’s arm a little. But it didn’t prepare me for yesterday, when the actual painting arrived, safely packaged, on my front porch. I opened it with trembling hands (which was scary since I’m not very skilled with a box cutter when my hands are STEADY) and proceeded to pant and scream and repeat, “OMFG” until Henry was all, “OK, I get it. I got it. You like it. Yay.”

Craig is already at home on my wall, and I think Robert is a little swoll, but come on – a girl’s gotta have her flings.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:15 It seems the idea of me ever getting married is hilarious. #
• 18:25 Henrys trying to teach Chooch about patience. I can’t stop laughing. #
• 19:59 Jonny Craig Jonny Craig Jonny Craig Jonny Craig. Craig, Jonny. #

• 12:43 The CW keeps me a perpetual teen. #
• 20:28 Trying to talk henry into having a pie party but he decided we should just find someone else’s to crash. #
• 22:57 anticipated a hunk of carrot cake, but ordered blueberry pie. my mind and mouth do not work well together in message delivery. #
• 09:59 Nothing says good morning like a fat, bloody lip. #

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A few weeks ago, I came across this awesome beetle ring from 19Moons on Etsy. I’m a connoisseur of big, gaudy rings and HAD.TO.HAVE.IT, so I started hounding Christina to buy it for me.

Imagine my surprise when it appeared between my doors the same day Christina finally ordered it. At first I thought Christina was so afraid my wrath would incinerate several boroughs that she paid an extra grand to have it shipped via rocket; but then I realized that the seller, Niffer, lives only a few streets down from me and hand-delivered it. I thought that was so nice, and aside from the ring being even more gorgeous in real life, the packaging was so great, too.

After exchanging a few convos on Etsy, we met up last night for some greasy diner food and a slice of blueberry pie sandwiched between the strangest, tasteless, compressed crust I’ve ever come across that wasn’t processed in a snack food factory and packaged in cellophane. The filling was nice, though.

Niffer was really cool and on top of having amazing talent for creating unique jewelry (I’m seriously complimented at least twice every time I wear my beetle ring out), she has really great taste in movies. I hope she didn’t think I was lame and that she’ll go to a haunted house with me next month.

Check out her shop, for real. Her pieces are so much fun, sturdy, and amazingly detailed.

“Barbara.”

He said it with a strained tone, the kind of tone someone uses when they’re trying to downplay an arthritis flare-up. Barbara was growing accustomed to the taut, cold tinge plaguing Larry’s voice these days.

She guessed it was the stress of his job weighing down on him. Barbara didn’t turn around, didn’t stray her eyes from the cross-stitch in her lap.

“Barbara, do you love me?”

The tension was tighter now in his voice. It was never like that in the beginning, when Barbara loved Larry. He spoke with warmth and tenderness, back when Barbara loved him. She supposed there was still love there, as much love as there could be after thirteen years of marriage and countless bland dinners endured with the absense of words, scraping knifes and slurped milk serving as the soundtrack.

Her mother had taught her that you love your husband no matter how many shades of lip-prints you’re made to remove from his work shirts, no matter how many hotel receipts you pull from his pockets before washing.

“Barbara, answer me! Do. You. Love. Me.”

When was the last time they had said those words to each other, Barbara wondered. It used to  be the punctuation at the end of every phone call, the last words mumbled in bed after a long day. She supposed Larry knew, or at least suspected, of her long-going tryst with her boss. Barbara was never very good at lying. When she was fourteen, she stole a pack of Lucky Strikes from the gas station. Later that night, she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from curling up when her father asked her where she had gotten the money for it, as she crouched behind the shed in the backyard, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from her strawberry glossed lip, a handful of cherry Pop Rocks coagulating with the sweat of her palm. Barbara could still see the sticky cerise streak she slimed onto the sleeve of her denim jacket. Barbara could still see her mother in the laundry room, scrubbing the pink from the denim jacket, scrubbing the pink from her father’s work shirts.

“Barbara.”

Barbara, back when her mother had schooled her on marriage, never fathomed that it would be her lipstick on a man’s collar. Never imagined it would be her back rubbing against the scratchy wool of a brown and taupe highway motel comforter. Barbara’s mother told her about wives straying; it was always the husbands.

A shrill giggle purged from Larry’s throat just then, some kind of hysteric laughter reserved for a clown who leaves a child’s birthday party and returns to his basement apartment to feast on the thigh of his last victim. The giggle froze Barbara in her seat, the giggle made the cross stitch slide from Barbara’s knees.

“Barbara, look behind you.”

When Barbara was twelve, she went to a haunted house with some of her friends from school. She didn’t want to go, she remembered her friends needling away at her, calling her names and clucking their tongues, until she finally shrugged into her jacket and followed them out the door.

The haunted house was set up in the old school house and was being run by the YMCA.  Costumed volunteers with fake blood seeping from their eyes, noses, mouths exploded from corners and hidden holes in the walls. Barbara shuffled and stumbled her way through, grasping onto the shoulders of the person in front of her, when a hoarse voice whispered from behind her. “Look behind you.”  Later that night, sipping hot cocoa and hunkering beneath her jacket in the police station, Barbara learned that the figure she saw cloaked in a white sheet, concealing everything but a flaccid penis which was left wagging obscenely through a hole cut at the groin,  wasn’t even a YMCA volunteer, just some bindle stiff who had been making his rounds in their county. Probably was abused a lot as a boy, the police man attempted to reason.

“Look behind you, Barbara.”

Larry’s tone was hard, callous, his voice cracked when he said her name. She detected something more than anger in his command, something more like madness. Barbara wondered again if Larry knew, if the knowledge of her affair had him straddling the fringe of lunacy.

Something heavy and orb-like hit the ground next to her feet with a wet thud, spraying the carpet with a glistening red substance. It reminded her of that denim jacket she bought in ’87. The acid-washed jean jacket with the neon paint splattered across the back. A Rod Stewart pin gave the right shoulder flair, and she had had her mother sew a Debbie Gibson patch onto the breast of the jacket.  Teresa Oster tried to rip that patch off one day on the bus, in a fit of hair-tugging and face-scratching. Everyone knew that Teresa loved Chad Brown, but Chad loved Barbara and had even given her a jelly bracelet. That night, Barbara had found, in her jacket pocket, one of Teresa’s Lee Press On nails.

“Do you like your present, Barbara?”

The blood on the floor. There was blood on her floor. The blood from her lover’s severed head splashed so artfully across the carpet. It really does look like that denim jacket, Barbara mused out loud. That fucking denim jacket that I wore to that haunted house. Barbara laughed. That fucking haunted house.

“You’re next, Barbara.”

Barbara laughed even harder. She could taste briny rivulets trickling past her lips, wondered if her mascara was leaving streaks, and she laughed harder still. She was still laughing when the hatchet blade plunged into her head, like an hirsute cantoulope, shattering her skull with a sickening crunch. As she looked down at the crimson splashes on her cross stitching, she wondered what ever happened to that fucking denim jacket.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:49 I hate that the combined forces of humidity and rain make my house sweat. #
• 15:21 Thanks to surprise issues of Good Housekeeping being mailed to me, I’ve been finding lots of new tasks for Henry. #
• 17:16 Trying to get Chooch to replace “asshole parade” with “rainbow muffin”. #
• 19:38 Fucking humidity enlarges my pores like a penis in a virgin anus. HATE. #
• 20:28 @satanmetalady :( I was thinking the same thing earlier, only “if I lived by myself” lol. #
• 22:05 Blake met a girl at the mall and named her Cortez because she looked Mexican, and she still gave him her number. #
• 22:37 I didn’t sign on for a second degree assault party. #
• 22:47 Janna thinks my photos are excelsior #
• 23:50 Fuck it, pizza. #
• 00:18 I don’t make enough outfits with twine and cardboard. #

• 11:25 We like to make fun of that which we don’t understand. #
• 11:33 We’s goin’ to a real life art myooseeim ta’day. Gettin all cultyooral n shit. #
• 13:20 Chooch and his damn legs. #
• 14:00 twitpic.com/bko8 – Conveniently placed Moo card #
• 14:00 twitpic.com/bkof – I am here. #
• 14:27 Note: never take Henry to art museum again. #
• 14:36 twitpic.com/bkvh – Art. Observe. #
• 15:00 twitpic.com/bl07 – Chooch was non-assholey at the gallery so he got presents. Wish I could say same for Henry. #
• 15:51 Chooch gave himself an intensive Vaseline treatment. #
• 19:05 Can’t wait until the day we can go to a restaurant without clenching in fear of a tantrum. #
• 10:35 Asked my mom to help me decorate for halloween. And by “help” I mean “do it all for me” #

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Blake let me scan this fantastic photographical evidence of scene kid existence, and I rejoiced. We’re trying to talk Henry into letting us throw a scene party sometime very soon.

Henry just sent me this picture of THE GIRL that he nabbed in the library. I am overjoyed, seriously tickled to the brightest pink in the apples of my cheeks.

And not only because he gifted me with another secret picture of THE GIRL to add to my collection, but also because my very own Henry has finally, after seven years of being my reluctant beau, succumbed to the dark and seedy underworld of stalking.

Take my hand, Henry; you’ll be safe down here with me.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:01 Unmotivated x 89. #
• 14:28 Chooch found Marcy’s old purple velvet rhinestone “choker” (not collar!) and is insistent on putting it on her.
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  This should be good. #

• 15:18 Chiodos in two weeks. Tunnel vision employed. #
• 18:15 I’m sick for the thirty-fifth time this year. #
• 18:38 Letting the Supernatural DVD babysit my kid. #
• 21:19 twitpic.com/b5s0 – Unwinding with eyeball play. #
• 09:23 my blog doesn’t translate very well in LiveJournal’s syndicated feed. #
• 17:11 I need to take a class on how to manage sickness with grace, and realizing that a cold doesn’t have to be debilitating. Fuck. #
• 22:14 Even when I’m sick, Henrys hands won’t wash a single dish. Dickstick. #
• 09:47 Blake and I want Dunkin Donuts but I’m sure Henry will find a way to kibosh it. #
• 12:17 In one single morning, I succeeded in burning not one but two pots into complete ruin. I am a kitchen master. #

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For some people, summer is synonymous with baseball, sailing, unprotected sex underneath the pier. For me though, it doesn’t feel like summer until I’m having my insides pulverized on thrill rides that, with a little tweaking, could be used by the military to snap necks. Usually, I don’t get to enjoy this awesome brand of gear-grinding, bolt-popping pleasure because my boyfriend is a Grade A stick-in-the-mud kill joy; but now that his son Blake has been spending more time with us, you better believe I’ve jumped in with rubber gloves and got to milking.

When I read about Lakemont Park, I jabbed my finger at the computer screen and excitedly yelled, “Here! This is where we should go this weekend with Blake! Two hours in the car, we can sing carols! We can play truth or dare! We can drink mulled cider and chat about when we lost our virginity!”

So Henry, who has a very close and personal relationship with Blake, texted him to see if he was interested.

And that is how we ended up in Central Pennsylvania on Saturday afternoon.

It was the last weekend in Lakemont’s season, and what better way to close out the summer than by inviting people to schill their country-inspired arts and crafts in the middle of the park? There was no shortage of wolves painted on wood, patriotic yard adornments, and psychics. All of this for a five dollar admission? It’s true.

One of the vendors had an assortment of God-inspired cross-stitched sweatshirts, which made me simulate abdominal hemorrhaging as we walked past. This made Henry, in turn, tighten his grip on my upper arm like he so often does to keep me in line.

Somewhere between a county fair and an amusement park, Lakemont had the obligatory kiddie ride fare. Chooch took a liking to the boats, especially after he learned that by pulling the rope, a bell would ding. He always sits on these rides like he’s in the middle of a presidential procession, rarely emoting, keeping his lips in a taut line. Riding is serious business, and he has a stoic composure to uphold.

Of course, he freaks when the ride is over and begs to ride the blue one, or the red one, or the green one, oh please, I can have that, the orange one, here please.

It didn’t take long for Blake to get the sinking suspicion that we didn’t fit in there. On top of all the Christian-influenced artistry, food vendors sponsored by local churches, and a sea of Nascar-chested patrons, McCain signage sprouted up along the park grounds like weeds in a garden.

“There aren’t any kids here like me,” Blake complained, scanning the lines we stood in. Later on, two scene boys passed us, paused to take in Blake with widened stares. Henry pointed them out, but Blake was irritated. “They didn’t even have GAUGES in their ears!” It was true: they were half-assed scene kids, with too-loose band t’s and bangs that only provided a SLIGHT eye-coverage. I wear black eyeliner every day, but I don’t call myself goth. YOU KNOW.

In addition to a dizzying array of spinny staples, Lakemont is also home to a really fucking rickety wooden coaster called the Skyliner, and the oldest coaster in the country – Leap the Dips. Standing in the short line, I wondered what the meaning of Leap the Dips was. Then as Blake and I, stuffed into an antique four-seat car, careened down the first hill, it occurred to me that the car was jumping the track every chance it got. Nothing beats having a question answered before you have to ask it. Blake later admitted that it was “fucking exhilarating.” I was just glad our car didn’t perform one last fatal leap over a dip before delivering us to safety.

Lakemont is also home to the Toboggan, which is another ride I have never come across in my theme park carousing career. Each car is sent one by one inside that tube, where the car is then lifted up the shaft at a jerky ninety-degree angle. At the top, the car is then righted before it tilts to an extreme angle and sent spiraling down to the bottom. I tried to take mental notes on this one, but I was too distracted by my inner voice chanting PLEASE DON’T TIP OVER OH FUCKING GOD DON’T TIP OVER I HAVEN’T EVEN HAD SEX WITH A TRANNY YET. PLEASE DON’T LET ME DIE ON THIS SHITTY TOBAGGAN. AT LEAST LET ME DIE ON A REAL TOBOGGAN. WITH A TRANNY. I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO SPELL TOGAGGAN. I was shaking a little when the ride attendant released my toboggan’s jaws and watched with little expression as I struggled to extract myself from its depths. Seriously, these rides are designed for five-year-old physiques.

Maintenance, janitor and security in one capable body. I watched him with a scrutinized eye and was impressed with the skillful way he handled his walkie talkie. However, the Rollercoaster Tycoon in me wanted to pick him up with pinched fingers and transport him over to a wayward Coke bottle I saw clogging up a walkway.

An untrained eye won’t be able to tell, but there is actually a small child squished underneath my armpit. Thinking the Scrambler would be a good initiation into the world of big kid rides for Chooch was pretty poor judgment on my part. But I don’t claim to be a smart mom. To me, I look at Chooch riding those slow-moving boats and think, “This poor kid. Let’s get him on something good. Teach him what whiplash is all about.” Chooch seemed like a willing participant at first. He scrambled (oh-ho) into the seat, cozied up next to me, and cheered when the attendant slammed the safety bar shut. But before the ride started, he looked at me and said, “OK, let’s go,” as he leaned forward and looked for a way out. So I kind of had a feeling that maybe this was a bad idea. Cementing that theory was Chooch’s horrified pleas of “No. No. No. NO. NO!!! NOOOOO!!!!??????” which escalated in pitch and volume as the ride picked up more speed. I felt so bad for him, but couldn’t stop laughing because that’s just the natural reaction on spinny rides – even as bile is rising, you fucking laugh. IT’S A WAY OF LIFE.

However, when the ride was over and Chooch’s feet were back on Lakemont’s conservative land, he pumped his feet in the air and yelled, “Woo-hoo. Awesome. Fun.” Like he was reading it from a script. Kind of like me, post-coitus.

Just leave me in Kiddie Land, thanks. Assholes.

“Henry, take a picture of that dumb looking idiot on the Tilt-a-Whirl,” I implored, hands frozen in an endearing clap under my chin.

“You know he’s retarded, right?” Henry sighed, holding up the camera.

Lakemont even had Christian bean toss! Chuck the bean bag into Jesus’s tomb and get a SECOND wafer at tomorrow’s communion! Ping it off the church lady’s olive-covered holy hiney and get a FREE RAFFLE TICKET FOR A JESUS BOOKMARK! Pop her hemorrhoid and get a free pass to stab a hobo WITHOUT GOING TO HELL! I can’t tell if that castle is supposed to be heaven or Care-A-Lot. My friend Nicolesaid one of those hearts should have at least had some of Jesus’s blood trickling down and I agree.

I never saw any actual participants in this fast-paced, high-staked game of skill. I can’t imagine why! I guess people in Central Pennsylvania just don’t like to have all of the fun.

Thank you, First Evangelical Lutheran Church, for giving us the opportunity to ingest quite possibly the worst bouquet of onion petals to have ever entered a deep fryer. The breading was something left over from a Baptist fried chicken dinner, and it only coated the tips of the onions. The onions themselves were too thick and reminded me of elogated albino beetles. What? I used to eat those a lot when I was in ‘Nam.

When I used the park restroom, I was the only woman in there not sharing a stall with a child. The entire time I was peeing, a small girl stood directly outside my stall, waiting to slide in as soon as I exited. I kept waiting to see her eye appear in the gap between the stalls and was prepared to gouge her eye out with my key. Washing my hands, I observed the other moms in the mirror, gagged a bit at the overwhelming scene of tapestry bags, brown leather mules and ill-fitting capris, and felt proud that I was not dressed like any of them. I’m probably less responsible than them, though, but I guess that’s the trade-off for not succumbing to frumpy fashion and mushroom coifs.

This is what the sky looked like most of the day, but the rain never came. A shame really, because nothing adds excitement to thrill rides quite like the threat of electricution.

A ginger, in line with Blake and Chooch. In the past, Blake probably would have made some snide remarks because he’s anti-red hair. But that was before he met Amanda, a waitress at the Blue Flame, who just happened to be the first cute red head Blake ever did see. They’re dating on MySpace. She has “cute little gauges.”

Waiting for Henry and Blake to exorcise their go-carting urges, I took a liking to this cute old man. I like to think he was watching Henry, zipping past in his bright green go-cart, while murmuring to himself, “I think I know that lad from The Service.” Nice floral tote, lady.

See this ride? This is a fucking ride built by the cooperative genius of Hitler, Satan and Mr. Burns and camouflaged behind the cute and fuzzy appearance of a ferris wheel. LOOK CLOSELY. LOOK AT THOSE CARS, JUST DANGLING THERE HARRY CAREY. LOOK AT HOW SOME OF THEM ARE UPSIDE DOWN AND POINTED TOWARD THE HARD, GRITTY SURFACE OF THE EARTH.

Of course, Blake and I simultaneously salivated at the sight of a metal contraption that could potentially send us spiraling to a grisly demise, after which I would hope our mangled, mashed, and possibly vivisected corpses would be studied laboriously and recreated for the next “Final Destination.”

No one was in line when we approached, but a trio of teenaged girls stood near by, ogling its height with craned necks. We assumed that the ramp they were standing near was the entrance, but it turned out to be the exit so we were sent away by the two greasy beer-bellied attendants. As we passed the girls on our way to the real entrance, one of them said, “Oops, we made them think this is the entrance by standing here,” and I called out, “I know! Now we look dumb!”

NO, WE LOOKED DUMB FOR WILLINGLY PUTTING OUR LIVES INTO THE FATE OF THIS FUCKING RIDE THAT THEY CALL THE SKYDIVER. First, the padded bar was slammed down onto legs and applied so much pressure that I went numb below the knees. It created a beautiful illusion of amputation, so much that I began complaining of phantom limb pain before the ride even started.

Did I mention we were the only ones riding it?

We hadn’t even made a full revolution before my body was wedged against the side of the cage, leaving a very fashionable waffle print against the side of my face, and I’m not sure but I think my bowels were capsizing. Our cage was spinning and revolving and flipping in so many different directions, and combined with revolutions of the actual wheel itself, I had no fucking idea what direction we were facing. Except when our cage was pointing straight down to the ground, giving us the delightful sensation of plummeting toward Hell.

I knew we were at the bottom when I would catch blurred glimpses of the neon green shirts of the attendants, so I would scream – NAY, bellow – “PLEASE LET US OFF THIS FUCKING RIDE. OMG FUCK YOU PLZ.” I began wondering if it would count if I quickly typed up a Living Will on my Blackberry. I think Blake was crying. Every time it would fling us upside down, my arms would shoot out to brace myself, even though the lap bar was ensuring that nary a penny could escape.

Just then, the spinning began to slow, gears cranked and ground, and eventually we slowed to a stop near the attendants. My hand flung to my heart and I started to thank them, but my words slurred AS THE RIDE EMBARKED ON A BRAND NEW CYCLE, BACKWARD.

My body gave up fighting and resumed its former position, smashed against the grated window of our torture cell. I began clenching, to prevent any accidental pants-poopage. “Please God, don’t let me poop my pants in front of Blake. He’ll tell all of MySpace” I prayed to the giant pink plastic heart pendant that became my makeshift Skydiver rosary. That’s what fifteen-year-olds do, you know. Send out bulletins, outing adults who poop their pants. That’s what’s I’d do too, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

The first round was obnoxious, but tolerable, like watching an anal fisting. You grimace, you laugh at the enlarged asshole, you cry a little. But then the Skydiver decided it had to go backward too, and that was about as unnecessary and gratuitous as the part where the girl shits on a glass table.

And that is how the Skydiver is quite like a Japanese porn.

(More pics here.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:37 was called in to meet the manager. PLZ LET THIS MEAN I WILL HAVE A JOB. #
• 14:53 Chooch just made a puppet squeeze my boob. #
• 17:31 twitpic.com/aw9g – Trying on jackets. #
• 18:24 Chooch stunk up all of Famous Footwear with his rancid feet. Its a stench that no one could grow used to. #
• 22:29 I light candles and Henry follows behind me, moving away flammable objects. #
• 11:12 It used to be that the only thing on my agenda was spending my moms money, liberally. I miss those days. #
• 15:59 Sitting in a room with a bunch of unsavories, waiting for drug test #
• 16:10 Turns out I’ve been lounging atop some kind of melted yellow confection #
• 16:20 Ill be able to just wring my underwear out into their hands, if they’d like to make me wait any longer for my scheduled cup pissing. #
• 16:31 Some man just fisted at least 10 jolly rangers from the jar at the counter. Greedy prick wants to use the phone now too. #
• 16:33 Its a good I don’t do drugs, only sell drugs. #
• 16:35 A good THING, that is. Too many kilos on my mind, I guess. #
• 18:23 I’m hoping someday I get to check YES for “have u ever been convicted of any crimes?” question on applications. #
• 18:25 Driving to dinner. Me, upon seeing a man walking down the street: “that guy was AWESOME. What was he?” Henry: “Homeless.” #
• 18:53 Cannot blog when Henry and Chooch are around or I start making up words. Then I look like more of an idiot than usual. #
• 20:36 Just had a surprise visit from blake and robbie and their posse. Now I have unrealistic crush on some scene boy in said posse. . #
• 05:53 I’m looking forward to a new season of the Colie Bun. Long live MTV’s Challenges. #

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Today was a cruel reminder that summer is coming to a close. Aside from the fact that all the awesome amusement parks are done-zo (though I still have one more to write about, as soon as I get all my swear words loaded up in the blogging cannon) and the fair circuit has exhausted itself, there was a constant chill in the air all day that made me want to do nothing but cuddle on the couch with my runny-nosed kid.  Because of said chill, I tried to get Chooch to wear jeans and a hoodie but he absolutely freaked at the thought of having his limbs completely swaddled in cotton after two months of dressing like a Californian. The hoodie has ROBOTS on it. I would wear it if it came in my size.

Chooch likes to admire it, but he runs every time I scrunch it up to prepare for his gigantic head. He’s in for a rude awakening this winter when he’s walking around in the snow in barefeet and a tank top, and here comes CPS to take him away from mommy and daddy.

In other news, I got called back in for a second interview today. I signed some papers, took a clerical test, passed the clerical test, and was sent down the street to engage in some obligatory cup-pissing festivities. Thankfully (depending on how you look at it), I quit indulging in meth back in ’94 and had to give up heroin after my veins collapsed, those bastards.  So I would imagine my results will come back in good standing. And I didn’t even have to have someone urinate in a condom and shove it inside my vaginal cavity.

During the first interview last week, there was mention of an online psychological test, so that should be a lot of fun.

With luck, I should be employed again soon. Now I’m making Henry take us out to eat. It’s an pre-celebratory “Erin Might Have a Job” occasion.

But I’m considering it my reward for sulking in a stinky waiting room at the clinic for an hour, waiting to be drug-tested.

I sat amongst vagrants, now give me cherry pie.

This picture has no correlation to the words below it, other than IT MADE ME SMILE.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 09:56 Today I woke up to Chooch frantically calling me from his crib because the Cure was on the radio. Not a bad start to Shitty Sunday. #
• 17:43 I wish every day was an amusement park day. #
• 21:20 Britney Spears, fucking finally. Suck a vag, Katy Perry. #
• 09:38 I somehow got my son to be scared of Jesus. I would make a great sunday school teacher.
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• 10:51 Could watch Lil Wayne perform all the livelong day. #
• 16:58 Just got awesome news from my oldest friend!!! Old as in, “we’ve known each other since we were 4”, not as in “she’s in a nursing home.
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  ” #

• 19:11 At grocery store. Every time henry says no to chooch, I turn around and toss what he desires into cart. #
• 21:52 Can’t a bitch watch Gossip Girl without constant interruptions? #
• 23:17 I don’t put stock in horoscopes but the one I just read for myself sounds pretty devastating. Like I should be buying a cemetery plot.
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• 23:23 The 2005 Gay TV Challenge is on public access and it is THE LIMIT. “She’s like the wind” is being sung in front of a rainbow RIGHT NOW. #
• 23:34 Thank God they got rid of night shift, or I’d have missed this piece of quality local programming. #

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I wish I could still get away with rockin’ sweater dresses. I’d try it, but I have a sinking suspicion I’d look more like a mountain of scrotum covered by a rumpled sack than a cute 80s throwback with whom you’d want to double dutch. Maybe if I crimped my hair and decked my crown with a neon green floppy bow, it might distract from my stumpy legs.

Finding this photo made me think about all the other dumb fashion trends I bought into (read: my aunt Sharon bought into and projected onto me). Along with side ponytails and Punky Brewster hi-tops, I used to collect these cute and colorful plastic charms.  They either were from Kinney’s or David Weiss, but each charm had a tiny bell and clip that allowed them to be attached to a strand of coordinating multi-colored plastic links. I took pride in my blooming collection of unnecessary trinkets, ranging from a cuckoo clock to a can of hair spray. When I wasn’t using the clunky strand of plastic as a whip or trying to garrot my baby brother with it,  I would belt a jean skirt with i and jingle my way through a day of Kindergarten.

I had forgotten all about that fucking annoying leash of neon plastic until my grandma unearthed it a few months ago. Most of the charms had fallen off years ago, being in the brutal hands of a destructive child, but about eight charms remained intact on a short fragment of the chain.

Well, that was until I brought it home to Chooch’s lair. He’s since ripped every platsticized piece of 80’s nostalgia from the chain. Occasionally, I step on one and kick it under the couch in frustration because it’s like by having a child, I was duped into signing some secret contract, with a calligraphy pen wetted by afterbirth, stating that I will do nothing but pick up fucking toys all day long and that if I do not have a stooped back by my thirty-second birthday, I am fucking up my duty as a mother and will be relegated henceforth to the nearest Fantastic Sam’s where I will be drugged and supplied with the standard close-cropped Mom Bob.

Last night, we were chilling out on the couch, rubbing our meat fists together with fervor as we anticipated the start of the twenty-fifth VMAs, when Chooch (completely speaking out of turn, that little bastard will be mopping the basement floor tonight) said, “Mommy, look!”

Now, by seven in the PM, I have heard the pairing of the words “mommy” and “look” more times than my sanity is realistically able to comprehend, and I just don’t think any two words should ever commingle that much, unless they go by the names “sex” and “party”.  So, keeping my glazed eyes suctioned to the gyrating images and pornography of color and sonic diabetes that MTV spoon feeds me daily, I mumbled, “That’s great, Chooch.” But he kept chanting it over and over, louder and louder, angrier and angriest, until I began subconsciously flinching because I’ve grown so accustomed to having chunky pieces of toy parts chucked at my cheek bones. Fearing another bruise, I looked to see what he was desperate to show me.

A tiny plastic revolver charm.

I used to wear a cute little replica of a weapon around my waist. To school. To Kindergarten. I probably wore that to church at some point too. And how people probably wouldn’t have batted a lash at it. I mean, it was sold in kids’ clothing stores.

So I laughed about that for awhile, and joked that it could have been the catalyst to my present obsession with death and murder and violence.  Then I laughed while thinking about a kid nowadays, in the year 2008, sporting the likeness of a revolver to school and not having it turn into a Very Big Deal.

Tell me about YOUR childhood fashion style!

Hopefully, there will be a day when I stop holding my breath as Chooch ascends/descends a flight of stairs. Hopefully, that day comes soon.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 19:28 Teaching Chooch about hearses. A relaxing Friday night. #
• 20:47 Whoever does my eulogy, I hope they include the fun fact that I preferred to mix my own chocolate milk. Syrup, never powder. #

• 09:45 I think I might be slightly OCD. Every time the pillows and throw get messed up on my couch, I feel nauseated. #
• 09:51 Talked to @satanmetalady on the phone for the first time last nite and it didn’t induce anxiety. It was good. #
• 10:09 Henry is such a slob that its breaking down my psyche, one razor slash at a time. Srsly, PICK UR SHIT UP. #
• 10:47 On our way to Lakemont Park and already fought 63 times before getting in car. #
• 11:06 Told Henry that I went to Consideration School and he said I must not have made it thru the first week. Whatev. #
• 11:26 Just made eye contact with a hunter. Need sanitized. #
• 11:29 Henry knows so much about the jitney industry! I feel like if the History Channel did a special, Henry could give expert commentary. #
• 13:07 I just changed my name to Erin Appledale. Please make necessary adjustments to your records. #
• 15:20 The Skydiver at Lakemont Park could be the funnest ride ever. If there wasn’t so much pain involved. #
• 15:34 Just learned my son does not like sand. #
• 16:48 Me: “I wish this ride spun more” right before I found it necessary to choke back vomit. #
• 17:03 They have Christian bean bag toss here. #
• 19:10 We’re in Bedford at some food joint. Chooch is being an asshole and I want apple dumplings. #
• 19:23 The guy at the table next to us just announced that he has some serious phlegm. #
• 19:23 Should teach him about Twitter. Imagine the scintillating tweets. #
• 19:25 The waitress just apologized for the wait. “He’s not used to cooking,” she said. I feel scared. #
• 19:47 twitpic.com/aj93 – Some slow ass eaters. Might have to serve their dessert in the funeral home. #
• 20:26 Blake knows how I take my coffee and Henry, his own father, doesn’t! I don’t know how our relationship has survived the past seven years. #
• 20:57 Playing 20 questions in car. Henry gets mad that mine are too obscure. “That one guy we saw selling flowers 6 yrs ago! Duh.” #
• 21:43 Remember when the wedding was down the street from where my dad died? LOLsupreme. #

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