Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 10:20 Yes Chooch thats exactly what Nicotina was put on earth for, to model your blocks on her head. At least she got in a good 10yrs of peace.#
• 10:21 He held up his diaper wipes and announced very srsly, “These are for my poopy asshole.” FUUUUUCK.#
• 13:36 twitpic.com/17w6u – The Statue of Liberty is very sad today. #
• 22:12 East End Brewery linked to me in their newsletter. My blog stats haven’t spiked so hard since my last flame far.
  buy wellbutrin online wellbutrin online no prescription

  Thanks, Scott! #

• 10:57 Can never get enough Naked Eyes! Dance party! With a broken toe! #
• 12:16 twitpic.com/18afw – New artwork for the wall, a Choochie Pollack original. #
• 12:28 I love it when Chooch rips magazines out of my hands and starts pointing out the letters he knows. But then I’m like “ok, give it.” #
• 12:30 Life Lesson #236 From Mommy: Do not listen to what anyone says, Chooch; Phil Collins is awesome. Perhaps not so much the Disney stuff tho. #
• 17:33 Chooch had his first big kid puke session today. He’s highly disturbed by it, but I’m amazed it took this long to happen. #
• 18:30 Me: “Chooch, you’re sick. Lay down and rest.” Chooch: “No I play cars–BLARRRRFFFFF.” #

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On Wednesday, Chooch announced that he was awake from his afternoon nap by emitting a blood-curling wail. Running up the stairs, the only rational explanation I could come up with was that Marcy’s inner succubus had emerged and she was finally carrying out her plot to eradicate the bane of her existence. When I reached his room, I found him standing in his crib, tears and snot squirting out all over the place. He pointed next to him and sobbed, “LOOOOOK!!!” Oh my god, she tried to kill him and he killed her first, was  my first hypothesis.

“Mommy I PUUUUUUKKKKKKED!!” he wailed, and that was when I saw what he was pointing to was not the grisly corpse of a murdered cat, but an orange pool of vomit glistening and stinking on his mattress. Oh, yummy. I picked him up, tried to mask my disgust and horror so I could properly comfort him, when his body started racking and quaking and I had .0009 seconds to suspend him over the bathroom sink before he began projectiling.

This was his first kid-puke, as opposed to the not-too-rank baby stomach-spooge that consists of nothing more than liquid and perhaps some strained greenbeans. This puke, this delicious toddler puke, was not nearly as friendly and served as a billboard for everything he ate that day. It was seriously all I could do to keep myself from succumbing to the Vomit Chain. This went on for the next four or five hours;  Chooch burping up vomit in a bowl held by my shaky, clammy hands, to the melodious tune of strangulating “blarrrrrrrrr”s.

The first two or three times, as I tenderly rubbed his back  and tried  not to cry, I engaged in an inner monologue that went something like this:

Oh, poor kid. If I could puke for him, I would. Huh. What a completely selfless and maternal thought to think. I won’t even give that kid the cherry off my sundae, and now I’m wishing I could be his puking proxy?

Oh my god, I’m becoming a mother. I mean, obviously I’m a mother, but now I’m acting like one? I think that means I’m growing old. Time to add the best of American Idol, Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand to my playlist. Ok, I admit that Barbra’s already on there.

That album she recorded with the Bee Gees was so masterful. Do I have to cut my hair real short now, I wonder? Oh ew, he’s puking on my hand. Jesus Christ. No, not on the cat! Oh fuck it’s my turn to puke. I want Henry to get ice cream. No, pie. No…ice cream.

That kid is so fucking weird. Every time he’d finish expelling his stomach contents, he’d push the bowl at me and forcefully demand, “Put it on the table! I’m done. Wash my hand off! I playin’ cars.” And then he’d slide off the couch and play with his toys with the aggression of a kid who had NOT just been puking his guts up. Henry and I kept trying to coax him to sit on  the couch and relax, but he’d have no part of that. He wanted to go-go-go. So he’d play for a half an hour, and then proceed to fill up the bowl with more sick-juice like it was an everyday thang. After the second time, he managed to puke without even crying, which is something I certainly have yet to master. I mean, I puke and then proceed to curl up in a pathetic ball on the bathroom floor and pray for the demons to take my soul. Not my kid. He pukes with all the verve and determination of Rambo. I half-expected grenades,  nails and Clint Eastwood’s brass balls to be landing in his puke bowl.

That kid, he’s kind of my hero.

Finn is a man of habit.

Every Monday he can be found at the corner deli, ordering five pounds of blood pudding and pig knuckles.

And even though he always orders the same thing, Finn never fails to go through the motions of someone with an unmade mind, causing the line behind him to snake out the door.

Each Tuesday, you’d be hard-pressed to find him anywhere but the local record shop, buying up the latest polka albums released that day.

Wednesday was laundry day, and you could find Finn starching stacks of long johns and jock straps.

He always uses the second to the last washer on the left-hand side at Worshell’s Wash House. If it was being utilized, he simply wrenches open the door and tosses some stranger’s  partially laundered clothing into a heap on the cracked linoleum floor.

“Been using that one too long to stop now,” he once said when asked what the fuck his problem was.

Thursdays, well, no one knows what Finn does on Thursdays. But anyone will tell you that it’s the only day smoke comes out his chimney.

And Friday. Every Friday, Finn returns home from work just a few minutes earlier than any other day and he peers into the small hole he drilled outside his bedroom wall, where he unfailingly catches a glimpse of his strumpet of a wife servicing the milk man. Story goes, Finn never busts in on them, but instead, silently backs away into the kitchen, where he gouges out the naughty-seein’ eye with a barbeque spear.

“It must be Friday,” we say, when we see Finn stumbling through town, half-blind and dripping with bloody eye jizz.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:58 Henry is sick for the first time in 4 years & I DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO. He asked for an aspirin & i couldn’t handle it. So I threw it at him.  ****
• 17:04 I hope he’s well enough to make us dinner. Jesus Christ. Chooch and I just might die. #
• 19:13 Henry is making me go to the store to get stuff for his faux-fever. UNREAL. #
• 19:16 He doesn’t look very sick to me. #
• 21:55 And I just know that piece of shit-caked condom got me sick. And by that I mean Henry got me sick, not fecal play. #
• 22:54 There is no such thing as being “too sick” to watch a horror movie, Henry you pussy. #
• 23:00 So I will watch it alone, with every fucking light on. Still not as pussy as Henry, the Unwell. #

• 12:36 I just agreed to colloborate with an animator and I’m super stoked to see how that pans out. #
• 12:43 And after that I’m going back to high school so I can learn how to spell words like collaborate properly. #
• 18:07 I am so sick off of varnish. #
• 23:47 I’m getting sick, I’m falling asleep, but I’m still sitting here writing dumb ass stories. i need help. #
• 23:50 Taylor Dane is on the radio in Chooch’s room (soft rock, I can’t deny you) and I want so badly to wake him up and make him dance with me. #

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****In actuality, I think this was the last time Henry was sick, and I almost died then, too.

At first there was two birds on the wire above me. But let me start from the beginnin’ ya‘ll.

Ma forgot to pack my lunch that day, after a late night gettin’ sauced on rotgut, and I had to sit in the cafeteria and watch all them kids eat their crabapplesauce and chomp on maggot-laden hamslices and it was horrible,  just plain awful, ya’ll, to have to sit there and watch the whole school, the entire student body, chowing on their delicious hot lunches while I had nothing to my name. I had to sit there and pretend like I was too busy reading my finger-twirlin’ horoscope to spoon anything more than a packet of sweetener down my gullet.

I was starved, ya’ll, ready to eat my arm to my elbow, no salt, no Ketchup, just plain naked flesh melting in my mouth.

But I did not do that, ya’ll, no this boy abstained from auto-cannibalism. Instead, I played games with my watch, countin’ down the minutes til Gangly Georgette’d be on her knees in the cubby with Eddie Dandruff; then I’d be knewin’ it was time to do the old skedaddle and soon after that  I’d be jumping off the school bus and sliding
down the gorge to our cabin where I’d slurp down a can of jack mackerel like it was a moss-covered oyster, the likes of which we ain’t ever be affordin’, not with Pa blowing his paychecks on the poker machines and manicures.

When the bell blew, I ran outside to wait for the bus. My hunger was makin’ me feel like I was bein’ eatin’ from the inside out, ya’ll. This sickening, rolling pang washed over me like the time I spied on Ma and Pa intercoursin’ in the wash house, and I could no longer stand to go for one more second without some kind of vittle in my maw.

At first there was two birds on the wire above me. Now there’s bein’ only one, ya’ll.

Henry and I don’t get out very often, but we had tickets to the Where’s the Band? show on Saturday night and I was really looking forward to it. The tour showcases the solo efforts of Anthony Raneri (Bayside), Chris Conley (Saves the Day), Matt Pryor (The Get Up Kids, New Amsterdam, et al) and Dustin Kensrue (Thrice) and if you know me at all, you can guess that I was spittling all over myself when I heard it was coming to town.

We ditched Chooch with Henry’s mom and left for Mr. Small’s. I kept insinuating that it was a date, and I think it made Henry nervous, like he was worried he’d have to put out later or, God forbid, hold a door open for me. He at least knew he wouldn’t be expected to hold my hand during the show, because, you know, ew.

Arriving thirty minutes before the show was set to start, Henry pointed out that the marquee said the show was sold out. “I fucking told you it would sell out, you idiot!” I spat. I started getting really heated, tugging at my collar like a coal miner about to whale on his wife for not having dinner ready at 6:05pm, until Henry reminded me that we already had our tickets. “Yeah, thanks to me!” I yelled. And then I realized that it was ok to calm down and savor yet another moment of righteousness.

Inside, I was pleased to see that it was an older crowd. We stood behind a couple and when the guy put his arm around the girl’s back, I motioned to his wedding band and quipped, “You don’t see that very often at the shows we’re accustomed to, ha-ha” (and that’s how I laughed too–a staccato “ha” followed by another staccato “ha”), but Henry didn’t get it. “You know, because the people at  most shows we go to aren’t legal for marriage” I explained, but he wasn’t paying attention to me ON OUR DATE so I don’t give a fuck if he ever gets another joke in his life.

We’re waiting for the show to start, and it’s a little delayed. So Henry, he tries to make small talk and suggests that he show probably sold out because the tickets were cheap. “Oh right, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with the lineup” I sassed. But he had the audacity to laugh and say, “Yeah, it’s the cheap tickets” which made me rant about how these guys that were about to bleed their hearts on stage are likely going to be legends by the time they die.

That only made Henry laugh even harder. But Henry, he’s old; he quit understanding music sometime right after the arrival of Quiet Riot.

The show finally started around 7:30, and I loved it because there was no frilly, flouncy bullshit. There was no waiting twenty to thirty minutes between sets, waiting for the next one to come out. One left, the next walked on.  Just each dude and his guitar, so fucking vulnerable, but at the same time it made them look even bigger. I also liked how, sans band, their individual stage personalities were showcased alongside of their songwriting brilliance. It was interesting to see how they varied from each other, and while I was musing about this, and also the fact that I bet their mommies are so proud of them, I realized, “Yes, I’m officially old. I’m analyzing their showmanship and not wondering how big their weeners are.”

• First up was Anthony Raneri. I’m not the biggest Bayside fan, so he was the act I was least looking forward to. Well, from the first pluck at his guitar, he had me eating out of his. I bought a ticket primarily for Dustin Kensrue, but Anthony Raneri may have won my heart that night. Besides Dustin, he’d the only one who made me weep openly, and that was when sang the Bayside song “Don’t Call Me Peanut.”

This isn’t from the Pittsburgh show, but it’s the best quality video I could find on YouTube. When the song was over, I hoarsely whispered to Henry, “I want to kill myself. I want to fucking kill myself,” and he was like, “Yay! Please do!” While Anthony engaged in light banter now and then — like when he informed up that the next song he was going to play was political and that it’s such an exciting time in the country which predictably led to some heavy grumbling over in Henry’s corner– his set was fairly straightforward. He played the songs he came to play, and left. With my heart. There, I said it.

• Chris Conley was next and brought with him a set that was heavy in crowd participation. He took requests for each song, which turned into a screaming free-for-all. Henry’s musical memory sucks, and he kept asking me a million questions about Chris (I think he thought he was hot, I don’t know) and I kept saying, “He’s the guy from Saves the Day, you idiot. I have all their albums. You’re not going to like him.” And predictably, as soon as Chris sung the first estrogen-laced note, Henry’s balls were sucked up into his bowels.

Again, not from the Pittsburgh show.

Chris told us a story about some crazy guy they saw that day, pushing a broken down car, who got angry when Chris and the rest of the guys asked if he needed help. “Yeah, you can get the fuck out of the way” and then apologized, saying it had been a rough day. So Chris goes, “I guess you’re just naturally sweet, right?” which apparently greatly offended the dude, because you just don’t go around telling guys in Cleveland that they’re sweet unless you want to get shot. It wasn’t that funny of a story really, but the fact that it was Chris Conley telling it made it so. It was right around that time that Henry got a call from his mom, saying that Chooch wouldn’t stop screaming and had apparently wedged himself in a corner and she wasn’t sure if maybe he was dying or what, so Henry took that as his cue to leave. “I’ll come back for you later,” were the parting words that drifted back to me in his anxious wake. Honestly, he booked out of there so fast, it was like a fucking echo. You lucked out this time, Henry J. Robbins, but next time you won’t be so lucky.

Chris ended his set by bringing out Matt Pryor to sing “At Your Funeral” with him. It was beautiful.

• I really like the Get Up Kids, but never had the opportunity to see them live when they were still together, so Matt Pryor is kind of this mythical character to me. Out of all four performers, he lit up the stage most of all. In fact, I admit to being more entertained by his rapport with the crowd than by his actual songs (most of which were super short. He summoned Chris from the wings to play the tambourine during one song. “Do you even know how to play the tambourine?” he dourly asked Chris, who turned toward us and pumped his arms in an exasperated “Are you fucking kidding me?” motion. Afterward, when Chris left the stage, Matt goes, “Chris Conley makes me so happy. Did you see him, all blissed out, playing the tambourine with his eyes closed? That dude is so weird.”
  

Pittsburgh people, put  your fucking videos on YouTube already, shit.

Matt was wearing a newsboy cap at the Pittsburgh show, and he complained that it was his first time wearing a hat while on stage and he kept bumping it off the mic. “But I’ve been wearing it all day, and you know, once you commit to wearing a hat, you have to follow through.” Then he paused and realized, “Wow, I’ve been such a whiny bitch up here. They’re going to have to change the name of this t our to Diva Camp.” And I laughed so hard, you’d have thought it was my first time finding out about motherfucking Dave Chapelle or some shit; like if Matt had been closer, I’d have slapped him and maniacally shouted “OH MATT YOU CARD HAHAHAHA.”

Then he goes, and this is where I get all somber again, he goes, “Anyone here on a date? Well, these last two songs are LOVE SONGS. Just think of me as your BALLADEER for the evening.” But of course, what I heard was, “Erin Appledale is a loser and here by herself because she’s not awesome enough to go out on dates” and then a bucket of pig’s blood overturned and painted me pathetic.

Thank you, Matt Pryor.

• DUSTIN KENSRUE DUSTIN KENSRUE DUSTIN KENSRUE!!! Fucking Dustin Kensrue!!! I do not have enough superlatives in my pea-sized, fan-girl vocabulary for him. His presence is very god-like. He picks up his guitar and you hold your breath. That’s just how it is, unless you just don’t love music. His main gig is with Thrice and while they’re a powerful, unmistakably intelligent post-hardcore outfit, he is just as big and powerful and intelligent on his own. His solo style is alt-country and he even brings out his harmonica, complete with the around-the-head contraption, and I’m not like some raging harmonihomo, but good goddamn that man amazes me.

I was super pleased when he christened his set with an acoustic version of the title track from “The Artist In the Ambulance.” Stripped down, it just takes on a brand new meaning; it’s so raw and moving.  That album is so personal to me because I associate it with Henry, when our relationship was still new and we were learning about each other. I remember driving around one Sunday, ending up in West Virginia with no destination in sight, and listening to that album. It was one of the first times Henry admitted to sharing somewhat of a partiality to a band I liked.  So Thrice always makes me feel bonded to him, in some intrinsic way, because music is the biggest way I bond with people. I never told Henry this, so he’ll probably read this and be all “awww gosh darnit” but then he will act like it didn’t faze him. You know, the Henry Way.

So I’m standing there, by myself, next to a girl with her boyfriend who slurs, “Oh wow, [Dustin Kensrue] is so hot” and then proceeds to  spend the entire set texting. And down a few heads from her is this gaggle of peacoated sorority whores who never stopped loudly conversing in their twatty faux-Valley Girl cadence . I mean, it was a goddamn ACOUSTIC SHOW, how loud do you really need to shout? That is when I realized that perhaps I prefer shows with a younger crowd, because those kids are there for the music. They show respect for the artists that have sacrificed so much just to be able  to get up on a stage and play for us. Those kids, they don’t go to shows and stand with their backs to the stage, giggling with their tactless posse.

And that is also when I realized I didn’t mind the guy standing slightly behind me, who had taken on the role of Dustin’s backup singer and LOUDLY sang along to each and every song, even the covers, and in between pauses, he would shout little pieces of trivia about Dustin and Thrice to his very tall and curly-haired friend who evidently didn’t know much. Anyway, Dustin the Second and I were the only two people in our area who screamed loudly and applauded furiously after each song.

It’s fucking Dustin Kensrue, ya’ll. His drummer is my fucking son’s namesake.

Out of all the guys that night, Dustin was the one who meant serious business. Instead of telling us stories about crazy tweakin’ men pushing cars or trying to egg the crowd into heckling him (seriously, someone said, “screw you” to Matt Pryor after he begged to be heckled, prompting Matt to take a swig of beer and dryly retort, “Ooooh, screw you. Good one.”), Dustin went off on fucking brilliant tangents about faith and spirituality and accepting the fact that he will never know everything there is to know, and it was so articulate that I won’t even try to paraphrase it, because we all know I’m practically illiterate. But here is the profound statement that Obsessive Texter’s boyfriend made about it: “He is like, so smart.” Word.

And then he played this song about his wife, wherein I lost my shit and gave myself Tammy Faye Bakker eyes.

Dustin ended his set, devoid of any bells and whistles, with the  most heart-wrenching cover of “Round Here.” Now, I like the Counting Crows; I won’t try and act like I’m too elite to appreciate radio-friendly alternative. (Plus Jennifer Aniston dated Adam Durwitz and hello, she’s my fucking homegirl, whut.) But there was something very moving about Dustin’s rendition of it, that my heart felt constricted in my ribcage and I sobbed the whole way through it.

• Encore: Dustin and Matt re-staged and attempted to do a duet of Ryan Adams’ “Sweet Carolina,” but  Matt was having tuning problems and had to run off stage to grab a new guitar, shouting, “I’m so fucking prepared for this” as he disappeared. When he came back, he mentioned that someone had told him he looked like a ’30s gangster in that hat, so he proceeded to talk out of one side of his mouth in this creepy Dick Tracy-esque drawl. It was nice, much-needed moment of levity after Dustin’s amazingly sovereign set. And when they finally sang the song, it was sweeping and gorgeous and gave me chills up my spine.
• Afterward, Chris and Anthony joined them for aJawbreaker cover, and thenNOFX’s “Linoleum” which I felt was a perfect note to end on.

I’m very grateful that I got to be there for such a wonderfully gut-wrenching night of music from some of the most revered men in today’s scene. I just wish I had been able to share it with someone, because the only thing worse than post-show depression is not having anyone to ruminate with. (Not that Henry is wildly known for his post-show ruminations, but you know what I mean.)

Fucking music, man.

[Note: Chooch was fine, just being a drama king because mommy and daddy left him with his grandmother, oh the horror. And for the record? If Chooch had been hurt, and not just overreacting to the fact that we weren’t home, I totally would not have stayed at that show. I’m not THAT terrible of a mother, no matter what you’ve heard.]

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:21 Just found one of my cats cowering in a corner with chewed-up Skittles adhered to her head. #
• 17:40 My boss totally just came onto me. if I was one of them there feminists I’d probably have filed a suit by now. #
• 19:42 Stuck in traffic on a bridge. Will be puking now. #
• 23:52 I suggested that Chooch give the cat a break, so he got in her face and threatened to break her. #

• 10:36 Henry and I have a date tonight! Henry and I have a date tonight! Head may explode at the concept! #
• 14:59 Chooch’s lunch is a sandwich consisting of shredded cheddar & bacon bits, melted to perfection in the microwave. #
• 15:00 Look for my cookbook to hit shelves early 2010. #
• 18:09 So excited to be going out that I sprained my ankle running like an idiot to the car. #
• 18:28 I told him this show would sell out and he didn’t believe me. We have tickets, so I can enjoy the fact that I was right. #
• 18:56 Henry wont hold my hand, citing the fact that its our first date &we’re just getting to know each other. At least I wont have to put out. #
• 18:59 Talking about the things that need fixed around house before the show starts. We are so old. Well, Henry is so old. #
• 20:32 I just asked Henry for gum and he said “I haven’t had gum since high school.” That was back when there was just one flava, ya’ll. #
• 20:54 Shortest date ever. #
• 21:18 I guess I just don’t understand the point of coming to a show and talking loudly through its entirety. #
• 21:33 Matt Pryor just asked if anyone is on a date right now. NO BUT I WAS. #
• 23:27 Aside from Henry having to leave halfway thru Chris Conley’s set bc Chooch was at home pretending to die, it was a tubular night. #

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Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:15 Shoulda done bought one of them swords I seen at the flea market, ya’ll. Reckon I’d use it on my throat right about now. #
• 20:55 Nerd alert: my kid’s under 3 and wants everyone to know he knows what akimbo means. #
• 21:55 One of the cats walks into the room & chooch is all “oh good, a road for my cars” #
• 22:11 I’m so glad last night’s episode of Brothers and Sisters was interrupted to air footage of drunk Steelers fans. I feel dumber now. #
• 01:55 I like it when I start fuming after an hour passes and my bff hasn’t replied to my text, only to realize I tweeted it instead. #

• ---

• 12:18 I’m glad Henrys not here, peeing on my inauguration parade. #
• 13:00 Me, to Chooch: “Daddy doesn’t like Obama.” Chooch, scoffing: “Dummy. Asshole.” #
• 13:26 I did one of my infrequent checks on Facebook & was immediately reminded that I hate ppl. #
• 17:15 Holy shiz, local news interrupted Steelers coverage long enuf to mention there may have been some sort of inauguration thingy today. #
• 21:12 Things like drinking out of a regular cup are embarrassingly exciting for parents. #
• 21:46 One of the guys working on my kitchen sink gave Chooch an extra pair of pliers & I think he likes it better than any of his xmas gifts. #
• 11:18 I don’t feel like a parent so much as a prisoner of the king’s court. 
  

  ---

• 13:59 twitpic.com/15jyd – I wish he was always this calm. #
• 00:23 I think I’m going to become a betting kind of person. #

• ---

• 13:41 Chooch and I will do the “yes/no” game until he gets so frustrated he cries. I’m a winner every time!! #
• 13:42 Today’s round: I told him I changed his name to Smooshy LaBoosh. He said no. I said yes. Five minutes later, he’s red in the face. #
• 16:29 Henry was fraternizing with the gas man. Sickening. #

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Two weeks ago, I went over a friend’s house to attempt my hand at Spades. Before any cards were dealt, I forewarned everyone that I was pretty much card-retarded, and that it would probably take me awhile to catch on. I was wrong:  it was ridiculously confusing and frustrating, and I never really did catch on. We were even showing our hands and every time it was my turn to announce how many tricks (hoes? whores?) I had, I would swallow nervously and ask my partner to do it for me because I just didn’t understand it. Suffice to say, it was not very fun. (Well, until we switched to Uno Attack, which was designed for the braindead, like me.) Still, I left that night hating cards.

The next day, I dwelled on it. I remembered how my old friend Allison (aka Cinn) used to come over and we’d play Gin. Even though I always had to be retaught as the cards were being shuffled, I always associate that game to lots of laughter and good times. And wine, I associate it with bottles of wine and purple-stained lips.

I haven’t seen Allison in three years. We speak sporadically on the phone, but my invitations to her are usually awkwardly ignored. I know she has weird feelings toward kids, and I figured she was being avoidant. But when she said she and her boyfriend would come over that following Saturday to play cards, I couldn’t help but feel excited. Henry frowned and voiced his uncertainty, but I just felt like maybe this was it, maybe this would be the invitation she would follow through on.

I emailed her during the week to see if she was still coming, but she didn’t reply. I called her twice and texted her once the day of, and still nothing. I started sulking, feeling sorry for myself, and Henry was all, “After all this time, you would think it wouldn’t bother you anymore.” And I know it seems like she’s a shitty friend, but the truth is that she was always more than a friend to me, more like the sister I never had. When I really need her, she’s there, and that includes rushing me to the hospital when the occasion calls. Our history is bizarre, abnormal, sometimes laden with distrust and resentment, but I believe that we have a fierce loyalty for each other. I can’t explain it, and I know my other friends don’t understand it. My best friend Christina, who has never met Allison, has admitted that Allison will always be a mystery to her. And really, I  guess she is to me, as well.

So last Saturday, I whined about it, I sent out bitter tweets, I cursed and spit at the entire fucked up institution of friendship. And then she called me to tell me that she and her boyfriend Bill were going to be here around 8:30. I know I lit up like a kid whose deadbeat dad had remembered her birthday for the first time in six years.

Chooch was still up when they arrive. He took to her immediately. She teased him mercilessly and he seemed to eat it up. After he went to bed, she admitted that she was nervous to meet him. I know that’s a big reason why she hasn’t been around these past few years, and I hope that will change now that she sees he’s a pretty alright kid.

When we sat down to start playing cards, it was like nothing had ever changed. Cinn started laughing for no reason while I was dealing, prompting me to yell, “What? What did I do? Meanwhile, Cinn is crying from laughing so hard, and I still don’t know why, but this is just how it is when we’re together. I do nothing and she laughs her way to a stomachache.

“Every picture you have of me, I’m either eating, or crying from laughing!” she cried.

Sitting there with her, listening to synthpop, drinking wine from spider glasses, it was like no time had passed. It was like we had just gone to the Dracula’s Ball last week, not ten years ago; it was as though she had just kicked an unwanted Canadian out of my house last month, not eight years ago. (I am not anti-Canada. This was an isolated incident.)

Henry was annoyed because I kept winning. And because I kept taking breaks during hands to play the “remember when” game, and to swivel in my chair to put a different song on, and to continuously splash wine down my gullet until I was so giddy (see also: drunk)  I couldn’t see the cards in the discard pile.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play this,” Henry scoffed at one point. My motto was: I don’t care who wins, as long as Henry loses.

And he lost, alright. In so many ways.

After they left that night, I went through that awful whirlwind of emotions that often strikes after a bittersweet encounter. I feel like, even though we let so much time lapse in card-playing and  friendship, that it all came back so easily.  It always does, every time. I’m trying not to get too excited about it, though, because I don’t want to be let down.

Seeing Cinn again made me realize how badly I miss having a good friend here in this city; someone I can call up just to talk about the day I had, meet up for coffee, or just hang out at each others houses. I haven’t had that in a very long time.

And while I was sorting through all these mixed emotions, Henry informed me that we were actually playing 500, so I got to add “deceived” to the frothy feelings cocktail.

The masterminds over at DiPoe have spawned a spanky-spankin’ blog and, after sloughing off the afterbirth, they are christening it by having a super terrific contest/giveaway. All you have to do to enter is comment on this entry over at their blog and then start clenching to see if they pick you. If you need anymore motivation than IT’S FREE, let me remind you that they are the brilliant duo who whipped this up for me:

The contest ends this Friday so get your names added to the proverbial hat before it’s too late, ya’ll.

When Miles arrived at the warehouse full of wanna-bes pantomiming karate chops and roundhouses, his only hope was to land a small part in a new video game. Sure, like all the other struggling no-names at the audition, he went to bed every night praying to be the next Pacman, the second-coming of Frogger. But his ma taught him not to get too over zealous, to walk into situations with humble expectations. So, when Miles chose a seat near two anxious auditioners with perfectly coiffed, yet varying degrees of spiked hair,  he wasn’t aiming for lead character. Not yet. Maybe he’d be one of the easy-to-obliterate level one villains, or maybe he’d wind up as background filler; he didn’t care. It was his dream to be immortalized in pixels, undulating along through a 1980s Casio soundtrack, thick and saccharine like pudding. And then maybe one day, he could move up to the big time, rubbing elbows with Mario and knocking back whiskey with camo’d Commandos and Max Payne.

Yes, Miles decided to aim low in the beginning. And since his aim was low, he never expected to meet the love of his life there, sitting in the dingy waiting room among men who smelt of beef jerky and musty, damp locker rooms. But there she was – sassy Sissy Sparkleburg – pinching her cheeks to make them flush, sprinkling an extra dash of glitter in her hair. She was gunning for the love interest, the princess locked in a cage suspended above Satan’s jock at the end level of the game.

They left together, after the auditions, and went out for some sexy pasta and boxed wine. Neither of them got the part that day, but Sissy got a positive pregnancy result the next week.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:06 I love how lastfm slips in Metro Station on synthpop radio. #
• 19:31 Once my friend Cinn and I bought an order of Hush puppies and paid with a baggie of Susan B Anthony coins. Thems were the dayz. #
• 10:07 When I laugh so hard I get hiccups from reading a poem I wrote about a tampon, it might be a good time to get medicated. #

• 20:10 My boss is trying to get me to do the Hangin Tough dance. #
• 20:15 They haven’t learned that I dance for snacks. #

• 12:59 Apparently, I can find ways to botch a simple request of “do not answer the door.” #
• 16:37 I don’t know why I act appalled every time I’m dicked over considering how often it happens. #
• 16:50 twitpic.com/13zu3 – But then I got tickets to this, so my dicky friends can suck one. #
• 20:41 Tonight could restore my faith in friendships. #
• 23:04 I thought I knew how to play Gin but I guess I really am just a card retard. #
• 23:05 Or else henry is changing the rules so I can’t win. #
• 23:08 I’m an accidental winner. #
• 23:28 I LOVE GIN. #

• 00:42 Evidently henry doesn’t think its sexxxy when I drunkenly thrash to Europe and then slam my hand down accidentally in a jar of salsa. #
• 00:43 But I’m like, are u kidding? I’d totes have sex with myself right nowz0rz. #
• 00:48 I WISH I COULD EAT AN ICE CREAM CONE WITH GIADA DILAURENTISSSSSSSS ROAARRRRRRR!!!!!!! #
• 00:50 HAY I HAVE HOLE IN MY SHIRT HOW DID THAT HAPPEN WHUT #
• 11:55 Give Henry the remote and it magically becomes Stupid Movie Day every time. #
• 13:05 I would rather listen to songs from Barney than one more fucking round of that hideously god awful Go Steelers aural horror. #
• 14:52 SHUTOUT #

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Through Etsy, I’ve done several custom orders: Virgin Mary birthday cards; Charles Manson Christmas card; several cupcake couples; and even a sushi couple at the request of my friend Lauren, who is now engaged and I attribute it solely to the fact that once her boyfriend saw the two of them in sushi form, he knew he could never find another girl who looked so good with a face made of raw fish. You’re welcome, my friend.

But recently I got a request from a local girl to make a larger version of one of my miniature monsters, and she just happened to pick my favorite one, too: Cletus. I had a lot of fun with this one, and in the process I got to know the buyer, Dyanna,  via Flickr and Etsy conversations, so I feel like I made a new friend. I got to meet her briefly last night when I brought Cletus to his new home after work, and though I was half-dead from a night of being teased* mercilessly by my boss and a fleet of drivers while attempting to unscramble stacks of bills of lading that made dittos completed by a classroom of first grader left-handed crack babies seem legible, Dyanna was warm and friendly. It was the first time I got to see someone’s reaction to my painting, and I have to say it was worth braving the 1 degree weather to get Cletus there.

Plus, I got to see Dyanna’s new shoes that have mini skateboards attached to the soles, which I might have otherwise never known existed. I’m glad Cletus went to a good home.

Now I won’t have to send over a social worker.

Etsy: Helping Social Retards Like Erin R. Kelly Make New Friends.

*Seriously, no I’m not going to do the Hangin’ Tough dance nor will I ever sing Mmm Bop. I told my boss I’d probably need a bottle of wine and definitely a raise.

“We are going to give you a raise,” he said, and my pulse quickened. “We’re going to raise you up on some pallets, so you’ll have a stage. Go ‘head. Dance.”

Oh.

I’m glad it was apparently such a laid back night for the guys while I spent most of my night with my face in my palms thanks to a computer that kept freezing and a myriad of billing anomalies. Fuckers.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:10 Chooch held up Good Housekeeping and said, “Daddy’s.” He knows the roles ’round here, apparently. #
• 21:29 Rather than wait another year for Henry, I made my own blog header. What a dickshitter. #
• 21:41 Henry QOTD: I like how I work 12 hour days, come home & make dinner. U work 4 hrs, come home & drink wine. #
• 12:18 twitpic.com/12hfv – It only took more than a year for the landlord to have our ceiling hole patched. Best landlord ever. #
• 22:33 Remote is awol & I don’t want to leave my wine to look for it, so I guess I’m watching Farm Show Live on cable access. #

• 10:28 My friend Lisa called me yesterday just to tell me she was thinking of me & I nearly cried. A good indication of my present mental state. #
• 11:01 2 3 4 5 6 seis 7 8 k = Chooch counting birds on canvas. #
• 11:08 If all the world’s a stage, then I’m performing at the feet of Satan. #
• 13:49 My friend Merry’s winter purse collection is now available. She amazes me. merrylake.com/index.html #

• 09:08 My favorite mornings are when Chooch wakes up and doesn’t want to be looked at or talked to, like he’s goddamn greta garbo. #
• 09:58 twitpic.com/132e3 – A rare pause between barking commands. #
• 11:29 I need to start stalking people again. My life has turned hollow. #

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