Foreword:

I had a quick flashback of staking out in a mini-snow storm to video tape some pizza delivery guy whom I was stalking for God only knows what reason, and I decided, “Hay ya’ll, that was a fun yarn, let’s all reflect on that right now, ya hear.”

 Originally a LiveJournal post from November, 2005.

The Jimmy Set-Up

One night while taking a leisurely stroll with Henry, I insisted that we walk past the pizza place which employs the latest delivery guy that I’m stalking (I have a thing for pizza guys: Exhibit A / Exhibit B). His name is Jimmy. This I know because last week as Henry and I were ambling past, Jimmy was sitting in his car, waiting to pull out when another employee of Pizzarella came running out, yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy, wait!” Alas, Jimmy didn’t hear him and pulled out into traffic with a squeal of his tires, the Pizzarella sign adorning the top of his car. “Huh, there goes Jimmy,” I said as we looked on.

Big deal, right? Well, on our way back from our walk that night, we were crossing  the street. All was clear, but suddenly, while we were in the middle of the road, a car came flying up over the hill, forcing me to run the rest of the way. I was clutching my stomach and yelling, “Don’t hit me I’m pregnant!” (LOVE playing that card), when I happened to toss a glance over my shoulder and I saw that it was Jimmy in his dinky white sputtering car with the Pizzarella sign on top. “Aw, it’s Jimmy!” I yelled, as I tugged on Henry’s arm. He didn’t care.

One block over, and it was time to cross the street again. We had just stepped off the curb when another car came barreling at us. I started to yell threats about being pregnant when I stopped and screamed, “Hey, it’s Jimmy again!” His window was down and he clearly heard my zealous exclamations of his name; they were rather orgasmic. Henry was embarrassed. So I decided that it was fate; I mean, obviously. Maybe there’s supposed to be a movie made about us, I suggested to Henry. A romantic comedy!

I began to outline the premise for Henry. Man drives recklessly around town with the intent of running over any and all pregnant women he comes across, because he hates babies and the vessels which bear them. One fateful night in November, he sees me walking with Henry. Henry selfishly dives out of the way, leaving me in the headlights of Jimmy’s car. He hits me, but unfortunately for him, I survive, and so does the baby, which ends up being his, so he spends the rest of his life hunting down me and the kid, trying to kill us with his pizza delivery car.

“How is that a romantic comedy?” Henry asked. Well, maybe it’s more of a thriller. Or it can be a dark comedy and we’ll just have Pee Wee Herman doing something occasionally.

Ever since that night, no matter what Henry and I are involved in, I make time for Jimmy. “Hey, remember Jimmy?” I’ll ask. “No,” he’ll say. Maybe his lack of a Jimmy memory is because he’s trying to trick me into having sex at that particular moment or he’s too engrossed in “Good Eats,” but I know deep down there will always be room for Jimmy’s memory in Henry’s heart. Someday, maybe he’ll be secure enough with his manhood to admit it.

Unfortunately, Jimmy wasn’t at the shop last night. However! As we walked past, a man exited the pizza shop, carrying a precariously-stacked tower of trays. We watched him walk over to his parked Audi and struggle with the opening of the passenger door.

I’ve never seen Henry move so fast in my life. “Here, let me get that for you!” And then an awkward exchange of “No, it’s cool, I got it” and “Are you sure, man?” followed by “Yes, thanks man” and ending with “Oh, OK, bud!” ensued. I was able to hold it in long enough for Henry to rejoin me on the sidewalk, but then it all came tumbling out of the loose cannon.

“Oooooooh! Henry’s new boyfriend!”

He wouldn’t talk to me after that and even tried to walk me into a sign.

Anyway, I’m going to order from Pizzarella this weekend, but only after I make sure Jimmy is working. Then when Henry is paying him, I’ll be hiding by the window, taking his picture. You just wait, Jimmy.

The Jimmy Fake Out

But I don’t even like their food, I thought, after I urged Henry to place an order to Pizzarella that Saturday night. And when Henry brought up that tiny detail, I of course lied and said, “You must be thinking of another place, buddy. I love Pizzarella. It’s like being in Italy. With all that real Italian food. Mmm. Trevi Fountain, holla.” Indigestion brought on by sub-par Brookline Italian fare was a small price to pay in order to lure Jimmy to my doorstep.

Thirty minutes later, Henry began pacing back and forth in front of the window, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Wow, I thought, Henry is nervous too!

Turns out he was just really hungry.

When I heard a car pull up to the house, I lurched for the camcorder and yelled, “Is it him!?”

It wasn’t. It was some worthless piece of shit who could never match up to Jimmy’s talent for pizza slinging.

My pasta tasted like poison. I ate bitterly as I reflected on how Henry refused to grant me permission to cut him earlier that day. Just one little slice across his chest with a box cutter, it was all I asked; a small token of our love, I begged. “Shed your blood for me, you son of a bitch,” I hissed with my fingernails at his throat. If he really loved me, he’d have let me. So now I can add this to the list of his other vetoes: me vomiting in his mouth; him dressing as Michael Myers and raping me (I would have loved to one day tell my child that that’s how (s)he was conceived); allowing me to take a Danish lover; and the list goes on, my friends. The list goes on.

And so I start thinking. I don’t have the money nor the appetite to continue ordering shitty food every day in hopes of drawing Jimmy to my front door; I would just have to go straight to the source. I begged Henry to give the night one more chance by walking with me to Brookline Boulevard, where we would have a real life stake out.

“Either do this or let me cut you”: a proposal in which I win either way. I suggested that we pack a small bag full of sustenance, maybe some crackers and peanut butter, because there was no telling how long we’d be gone.

“Oh, we won’t be gone that long,” Henry mumbled as he zipped up his jacket. I tucked the camcorder snugly into my pocket and pulled my hat down low over my eyes.

It was time.

****

There was no sign of any of the Pizzarella delivery cars as we walked past the shop the first time,  me giggling uncontrollably and Henry telling me to shut the fuck up. When I’m giddy, I walk like a drunk, forcing him to grip my arm hard to pull me out of the way of other pedestrians. I hoped it would bruise so I could show the cops, but it didn’t. Damn those cold-weather layers. I plan on battering myself in time for my sonogram next week so all fingers will point to Henry.

We passed this guy Brice who used to stalk me, and his dog took a dump in the middle of the sidewalk. He acts like he doesn’t even know me now, I thought, as my wave and bright smile were met with a vacant stare. I looked at Henry in disdain. It’s all his fault. All of my stalkers retreated with their tails between their legs once Henry came barreling into my life, disrupting the natural order of things. (Gas station grocery shopping, inviting people over from chat rooms, blind dates, roller skating in the house. This list deserves its own entry. Or book.). I walked in silence for a few seconds, shedding invisible tears for stalkers past. Tossing a quick glance over at Henry, I felt a thousand pounds of hatred as I watched the way he scrunched up his shoulders to block the wind; the way he looked like a hoodlum with his hood pulled up tight around his fat face. Look at what he’s done to me, I thought, thinking of all the fun he’s driven out of my life. Maybe he can give me some STDs too, to ice the cake; make sure no one will ever want to stalk me again. No more Brices or Gothic Carls or Johnny Blazes. I’ve been tainted by domesticity. What stalker in their right mind would risk peeping into my window only to catch a glimpse of Henry traipsing around in his underwear? Who wants to stalk a boring quasi-housewife? (If you answered “I do” to that, my address is available upon request. I can also send pics of Henry’s bare legs to requested parties, as well.)

Luckily for Henry and the fate our unborn child, I distracted myself from further thoughts of running away by making zombie noises. The first one I did was the best, but then I couldn’t remember how I did it and I began to try too hard, which resulted in me sounding like I had emphysema. Still, I practiced on and on, relentless, because I’m no quitter. Plus, I wanted to test it out on unsuspecting passers-by.

“Was that it?”

“No.”

“Was that it?”

“No.”

Finally, Henry stopped answering me altogether, but it didn’t matter since we were now across the street from Pizzarella. I dusted off a spot on a retaining wall and made myself comfortable.

Cracked my knuckles a few times, blew on my finger tips, punched Henry in the crotch — you know, all the things people do when they’re preparing to undergo some heavy surveillance.

While I was getting nestled, two young kids pedaled past on their bikes, so I hit them with my zombie sounds. And then I laughed about it for a few minutes and kept saying, “Hey Henry, remember when those kids rode by and I made zombie noises at them?” He wouldn’t answer; that happens sometimes. I guess it’s because he’s old.

As luck would have it, right when I got the camcorder all set up (you know, extracted from my pocket and turned on), a drunk old black man came from our right, slightly staggering with his head down. So I taped him, with Henry whispering, “Don’t. That’s not nice. Stop.” See what I mean? I am so oppressed. Too bad Henry then started to laugh. Mr. Fucking Humanitarian. This is the same guy who comes home from work and brags about seeing prostitutes fighting and a woman wearing white pants with a menstrual Rorschach pattern on her crotch.

But I’m cruel for videotaping a wino.

While I was fully immersed in this anthropological specimen, Henry jabbed my arm and pointed across the street. A delivery man had returned. I swung the camera in his direction and began squealing, “Oh my god it’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy!!” The butterflies were ricocheting all over my stomach as my laughter shook the camera, and then Henry said, “Oh wait. That’s not him. Jimmy had a white car.”

What, daddy? There’s no Santa?

I was crushed. Even more so than when I lost the Alternative Press “Number 1 Fan” essay contest last year. (I lost to some cunt in California who wrote something similar to this: “OMG I DON’T HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER BUT THANK GOD I HAVE AP BECAUSE YOU ARE LIKE AN OLDER BROTHER WHO SHOWS ME GOOD MUSIC.” How does that make her their number one fan? I would say that makes AP her number one imaginary friend. Fuck you and your non-brother, you fucking slut. Of course, I didn’t follow the rules and my essay was about three hundred words — give or take a few hundred — too long.

In any case, I know that girl’s name and where she lives. And in one of my lowest and darkest moments, I even tried to find her on LiveJournal so I could flame her. There, I said it.)

You see, we don’t actually know what Jimmy looks like; just his car. Still, I really think I’m in love with him.

I really am, I think.

We waited a little longer, huddled together against the wind. “Sweetie, I don’t think he’s working tonight,” Henry said as he patted my head. You know it’s dire when he calls me sweetie.

But then the clouds parted and another delivery car pulled up.

“That’s not him. That’s the guy that delivered to us earlier,” Henry said with authority because he excels in all things pizza and vehicles. But while Henry was shooting me in the face with his smugness, he totally missed the delivery guy emerging from his car. Suddenly, one of his legs completely gave out, like it was made from putty, and he fell back against the side of his car. I laughed, and I mean laughed, with enough volume and zest for him to hear and look over at me. This made me laugh even harder and I’m going to admit something here because I’m honest: I peed. Yes, I pissed my fucking pants, right there, sitting on the wall. Erin urinated. Granted, it was the tiniest dribble, maybe the size of a gum ball at best. But it was enough to feel warm and uncomfortable.

Look, I’m pregnant, OK? This shit happens. And by shit I mean piss.

This was the final straw for Henry and he urged me to get up and start walking home with him. Also, he was pouting because he missed the stumbling delivery man.

“Wait,” I said. “Not until I know for sure. Give me change, I need to make a call.”

And so I walked a half of a block down to the gas station and called Pizzarella from the pay phone, because I’m proud to be part of the world’s 10% without a cell phone. While I dialed the number, Henry stood beside me but I pushed him away because I didn’t want to laugh. I needed privacy for this one.

A girl answered and, while my mouth was wide open, there was this ill-timed delay in my speech. I almost hung up but didn’t want to waste the fifty cents. (Fifty fucking cents to use the pay phone now? It’s been a long time since I had to use a pay phone. Jimmy, my man, you’re raping my pockets.)

I had it all rehearsed in my head. A simple, “Hello, is Jimmy working tonight?” would have sufficed. But instead, I ended up sounding like a head gear-wearing 12-year-old Bobcat Goldthwait making his first prank call at a slumber party.

“HI!!!! [pause to bite back laughter] IS JIMHAHAHAHAPFFFFFFFFT WORKING TONIGHT!?!?!?”

“Who?” She was clearly annoyed. I hoped it wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Jimmy.” I wasn’t laughing now, but rather trying to hold back more spurts of urine.

You know how hard it is to manually shut yourself off once you’ve started!

And so I was informed that Jimmy was not working that night.

“THANKS” I yelled and slammed down the receiver. And then I laughed all the way to a stomach ache, while the urine burnt my thighs as it dried.

ETA: At exactly 2:20 PM, I was on my way to Pitt to schedule classes and I totally passed Jimmy and his white car on the road. It’s so on for tonight.

When Milly came calling on Ethel one afternoon, she was a bit unnerved by the soft plopping sensation she kept feeling on her shoulders.

Milly tried not to look distracted while Ethel yammered on about the new compost pile her husband Jim-Bitch had engineered right there in the backyard, next to the rusted 1967 pick up truck and behind the pig sty. As more gentle plops landed upon her shoulders and gingham’d bosom, Milly tightened her grip on the mason jar of moonshine Ethel done served up. Trying her darndest to retain eye contact, she waited for Ethel to get up and whip her kids before flicking and swiping at the hardening lumps on her shoulders.

Twenty-eight minutes into her visit, Milly was taking a long slurp of ‘shine when something wet and mushy went splat-squish on her head. And then, a second later, a thick brook of warm goo glooped right on down her forehead, right on past the whisker-sprouting mole, before pooling into a moist inlet of fecal marsh at the bridge of her nose.

Looking up slowly, Milly was met with ruffled feathers and at least eight sets of beady eyes.

“Ya’ll gots some birds up in there,” she drawled to Ethel, pointing up at the rafters. And she took another long gulp of moonshine while Ethel went to town with a leather belt on the backside of her redheaded stepson for burying the neighbor in the brand new compost pile, goddammit.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:50 If you take my son’s word for it, I’m a “cookie cake asshole.” #
• 17:53 I want to have a party where everyone sits with an afghan and quietly reads a book. Janna’d come early to that one. #
• 19:13 Um. I was talking about last season’s SYTYCD and actually choked up. The worst part? It was in front of Henry. #
• 13:00 I think I suffered slight brain damage or I really am losing it. I find myself unable to remember the spelling of simple words. #
• 13:01 The sad part is that I don’t even care anymore. Its high time I start acting like the high school dropout I am. Spelling, who needs it? #
• 19:05 my strategy of purposely oversizing photos on my blog backfired. I’m left w/ no new layout & a blog that looks designed by a 5yo. #

• 01:27 Half drunk on wine with Henry braiding my hair. #
• 16:06 I apparently made the wrong choice back in 2004. #
• 16:15 sometimes friendships need put out of their misery. wish i had a shotgun. #
• 17:25 20 19 & 4: numbers that make me sad. #
• 18:39 Chooch calls me Lady Gaga. I’m oddly pleased. #
• 18:50 If only Henry could use his talent with turnips to generate more income. #
• 19:10 Just played Candyland with Chooch for the first time. What word is one degree up from “frustrating”? Because that’s what it was like. #
• 19:11 Like if “frustrating” had sex with “impatient’ while “aggravating” watched. #
• 19:13 At one point, I admitted that I no longer cared what Chooch did with his gamepiece, as long as I won. Henry was disappointed in me. #
• 21:48 I don’t predict I’ll be making a career of Spades. #
• 00:21 I guess I should edit the Etsy descriptions I wrote while drunk. #
• 01:16 Just watched the Firefighter Physical Ability Exam. I love cable access. #
• 01:20 Henry lingered on MTV long enough to watch previews for the next episode of The City. & then tried to say he thought he had it on Spike. #

• 11:58 I think I got Henry addicted to mumblecore. #
• 16:19 Stuck in a conversation prison with a McDonald’s employee as she sweeps Playland. Bitch can’t u see I’m trying to eat a salad? #
• 16:29 Chooch is playing it up with an autistic kid and its kind of warming my heart, ok? #
• 17:43 Target has FunSlides! Now I just need carpet. #
• 18:12 Oh, the Steelers are playing today? I hadn’t heard. #
• 18:13 Go Chargers! (Henry just said, “and then u wonder why u have no friends.”) #
• 00:31 Trying to have a convo with Henry but he’s too engrossed in “Bromance.” #
• 10:43 Henry saves the day so often that Chris Conley should write a song about him. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter Now you can rest easy, knowing my inner most thoughts and movements.

I always try to snap some shots of Chooch while he’s playing, because a kid enjoying a moment with his toys is like, pure embodiment of innocence.

Well, as long as you ignore the fact that he mutters insults at uncooperative trains, like “bitch” and “bastard” (which, when originating from Chooch’s lips, sounds more like “passerd”).

“Well, it’s another one of those weekends,” Malcolm grumbled that Saturday morning, twisting to knock the clanging alarm off the nightstand.

Little Molly, the youngest of the Petapotamuses, whimpered from beneath her pillow.

Tossing socks and underwear into her canvas knapsack, Marjorie informed her younger siblings that they could cry and complain all they wanted, but she was going to be proactive about it. “I’m hitching to Canada,” she huffed, breathless from her frantic packing.

But it was too late. They could hear Dad’s booming voice sneaking up through the floorboards. “He’s already here,” Malcolm groaned, slugging his mattress.

It’s not that they hated their father, but now he lives with his girlfriend Britney, who slinks around the house in nothing more than a ringer tee and satin panties and has a penchant for pinching them under their arms when their dad isn’t looking. Marjorie once invited her boyfriend over to help her with a school project, and when she returned from the kitchen with a tray of ants on a log, she caught Britney grinding against him “accidentally.”

Malcolm once foiled Britney’s plan of selling Molly on eBay, and had the good sense to snatch a screenshot, but their dad didn’t believe it. Or, if he did, he kept his big mouth shut. Dad had it too good with Britney. She served him expensive microbrews from real, honest to God German steins; whipped up genuine, award-winning jello salads loaded with exotic fruits; and lets him have the guys over for weekly poker games, and she would choose those nights to saunter around in tiny dresses while watering her strategically placed house plants.

Plus, she wore a double-D.

And so, at the start of all of those weekends, the Petapotamus siblings had to be pried from their mother’s calves.

I must be getting old. It used to be there was nothing more fun to me than attempting to cram my house near capacity with friends, bounty hunters, and random strangers from the street and Internet, fill them up with Jello shots and proceed to piss off most of the block. Sometimes I’d cap off the night by pulling on my roller skates and having guests whirl a frisbee at me as I coasted up and down the street.

But now I just want to hunker down with some family-friendly board games, maybe wrap myself in a shawl, perhaps  nibble on some Melba toast.

OK fine, maybe I still like to drink a little and get sort of kind of a lot too loud. But now I almost can’t imagine having a party without games. Games bring people together, ya’ll. Or, in the case of Henry and me, push people apart.

The guest list for Game Night #1 of ’09:

• Corey & his not-girlfriend-but-should-be-girlfriend KC
• Blake
• Niffer and Weird Paul, who brought Pretzels and only the most fascinating board game of all time
• Collin and a lovely bottle of wine for me for me for me
• Rhonda & her wonderful Jill, who brought a cute hippo for Chooch and delicious baked goods for me
• Brenna

It was unusual not having Janna there, but I guess it’s my fault for not keeping better tabs on her, otherwise I’d have known not to schedule game night on the same weekend she was out of town.  She’s the only person besides Henry who I feel I can physically assault when a round of Scattergories gets particularly tense and heated. Her absence also meant no homemade guacamole or platter of fancy cookies, which is really the only reason I invite her anyway. Surely it has nothing to do with her game-playing braun.

Rhonda filled Kara's position of Game Night Rule Nazi

In my Evite, I swore that, unlike Game Nights past, we would not be fixating solely on Catchphrase. I was dying to play Last Word, which was veto’d at the last game night, so I plopped it down in Jill’s lap and said, “Here, you do it.” She looked like someone who might enjoy reading and relaying directions, I don’t know. She quickly deemed it confusing, as did Rhonda, so Last Word was kicked away like a pissing puppy.

Instead, we played the Pop-Up Video game that came with Rhonda and Jill, but it was kind of obscure and Collin kept whimperingabout not wanting to sing (meanwhile KC was begging to sing – I will never again be able to hear Tracy Chapman singing “Fast Car” – even if it wasn’t her turn, and then she’d catch herself and slap her hand over her mouth. That girl would be my bff if I wasn’t an old lady!) so we switched to Catchphrase, which erupted into a near-lethal debate over button-pushing right from the start. If Kara had been there, she’d probably have started shanking people. She is very serious about her Catchphrase.

My favorite moment of Catchphrase was one of Blake’s turns. He kept shouting out clues like: “What I would say when I’m really excited to go somewhere! I’m in the car and can’t wait to get there!” So his team is shouting things like, “Are we there yet? Shotgun?” and Blake, he’s getting real frustrated now, and has taken to accentuating his clues with a series of wild gesticulations, pumping his arms and pulling faces. “I’m so excited to be going somewhere and this is what I say!” he shouted one last time before the buzzer went off. No one could guess it, and he exasperatedly said, “Away we go!”

“I’d like to see a video of you saying that in the car,” Collin said, sulking because his gay team lost a point, boo-hoo. And then I couldn’t stop picturing Blake – with his plethora of piercings, tattoos, and gauges large enough to stuff with bratwurst – skipping to the car, swinging his arms, and cheering, “Away we go!” Corey and KC left during Catchphrase. It was simply too fast-paced for them.

Niffer, bracing herself for some wild Uncle Wiggily gameage

Paul brought with him an old board game called Uncle Wiggily. I found myself gawking at it, ogling it even, from across the room. I’d find reasons to go to the dining room so I could slowly walk past it, dropping hints here and there about how, gee whiz, that game sure looked swell. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it intrigued me nearly as much as the time in ninth grade when I walked in on Jameelah and her brother smoking pot from a crushed can of Cherokee Red.

This game demands to be played harder than a hooker with a whipped-creamed checker board on her tits.

Paul regales us with details of Uncle Wiggily's journey.

The Uncle Wiggily game referenced odd-sounding herbs (Niffer, who is wiser than the rest of us, had to educate) and name-dropped characters who had names stranger than the ones I make up. Collin goes at one point, “What the fuck, was this shit written in the ’20s?” Apparently the books it’s based on was. Jill laughingly said, “Whoever made this game was high,” to which Blake retorted with, “Yeah, high on vocabulary.” Do not underestimate the power of a sixteen year old’s comedic timing.

Brenna readz0rz for the win.

Team Brenna&Collin won. It’s true, they were more skillful at card-drawing than the rest of us thought. I thought Brenna was going to get up on the table and do the Big Shoe Dance, she was so pumped up. Collin funneled his enthusiasm onto a pink balloon.

Those two got so cozy, I wouldn't have been surprised if one of them birthed baby pink condoms at the end of the night.

I decided to suggest one last time. Paul and Niffer hadn’t yet arrived the first time I begged to play it, and Paul made the mistake of admitting that he had played that game before. I pawned it off on him and he proceeded to freshen up on the instructions.

Jill's just as confused when OTHER people have the instructions. I will say that she got further than I did, which was the third line.

Up until this point, I feel that I was pretty well-behaved. I hadn’t been punching Henry or engaging in loudly slurred conversation, even though I had been quietly sipping vodka. But when a game is centered around having the last word? I don’t know, I could have been imbibing Shirley Temples laced with the essence of Sunday School all day long and I still would have been an out of control, must win at all costs, token person you want to coldcock at the party. Besides, games with timers have a certain urgency that make me shout my words to compensate for the rising panic.

Henry sucks so bad, he's the caboose of Last Word

When I sat back down, Brenna goes, “Calm down” and patted my thigh or some shit, as I recall, but that’s what game night is all about! Getting the blood pressure up! Being the best! BEING A WINNER. Besides, I was having all the fun.

Speaking of winning, I won that game even when Henry vetoed my last word of “fang” for the “Things That Are Metal” category, even though I stamped my feet and screeched what would he know, he’s never been to Dracula’s Ball? And then he said, “But then the letter would have had to have been ‘m’ for ‘metal fang'” and I was all, “Are you a fucking retard?”

Blake considers enrolling in Camp Cool Like Erin so he can be a WINNER.

Everyone was exhausted after having their minds obliterated by my genius, so game night came to a satisfying close.

Two concluding thoughts:

• I should have these more often
• I am not proofreading this
• I would like to hang out with Rhonda more than just once a year

(Pretend 3 is the new 2.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:58 In a moment of desperation, had Henry cut my bangs. At first I looked like Lady Gaga but its growing on me. My stylist is gonna be mad. #
• 14:51 If u ask Henry what his fave thing is about me, he might not say: when she sings the Weeble song at deafening volumes. #
• 16:53 Depending on how u look at it, my bangs either make me look like a brooklyn hipster, or Girl Interrupted. Thanks, Henri! #
• 11:54 Dreamt some kid I hate had a web show where he wore a bonnet and slapped stickers on a wall. Now I want to recreate that. #
• 11:56 Have the bonnet and stickers. Just need a fatsuit, acne, and an alarmingly obnoxious lack of tact. Oh, and a John Waters shirt. #

• 20:17 My male boss and the male manager have been talking about diets and caloric intake for the past thirty minutes. #
• 09:52 I must give off a vibe that screams “no really, don’t return my phone calls! I get off when friends reject me!” #
• 13:06 Chooch should feel honored that he’s the only one who can make Satan’s daughter Marcy, who made 2 ppl bleed at game nite, hide in fear. #
• 15:55 I wish there was a 24hr Real World channel. Toss some Road Rules in there and I might even pay extra for it. #
• 23:09 I’m going to have more parties this year. Next up: quilting bee. #
• 23:38 Henry’s thoughts on Bromance: Why don’t they all just touch dicks and get it over with? #

• 10:21 We’re having melted pot handle and burnt milk for breakfast. Maybe I’ll sprinkle in some salmonella for some added zest. #
• 10:23 I wonder if Wonder Hangers could even help organize the bodies hanging in my closet. #

For my friend Jessa, who appreciates Craig Owens as much as me!

In other lame areas of my life, I had the first game night of 2009 on Sunday but have been too lazy to write about it. Blogging is becoming a chore again. All I want to do is listen to music, write stories and skin missionaries. Drink some wine after that’s all done. You know, the usual.

I think my goal for 2009 is to make crepes filled with rich delicacies of the world. Then I will open a creperie and I will dress the windows with crepe draperies. I’ll have a specialty crepe called The Janna, which will have boot straps strategically folded in.  Another goal for 2009 is to learn how to make crepes in the first place.

Also for 2009, I would like to stop typing without my contacts in.

My friend Francesco had everyone ask him questions about 2008, and I’m going to ask everyone the one I asked him because I like it when you people tell me shit:

You have one day from 2008 to relive, maybe it’s because you want the chance to do it differently, or because it was just so good that you want to live it all over again. What day would you choose and why?

And I will tell you my answer, because you know I’m just screaming on the inside to talk about more about myself, tralala:

2008 wasn’t too horrible for me so I wouldn’t want to really change any of it. Even the parts that found me crying and puking out my guts in a cemetery? Those parts went on to become better days. So I would want to relive my favorite day of 2008 and there are two that are impossible for me to choose between so I guess if suddenly it were possible to make this question a reality and go back in time, I’d have to flip a fucking coin and then also I would want to go and have sex with Moses and see if that would make it in the Bible. And then after that, I would go thieve some bitches in Constantinople so next time I had to flip a fucking coin, I’d least have something cooler than a goddamn quarter.

Anyway, I’d pick either Warped Tour in July (obv.) or the Westmoreland County Fair in August which I can’t explain, but that was a fun fucking evening. For me, anyway. Henry notsomuch. Last summer was just really rad.

OK YOUR TURN DO IT NOW GO.

Farfel and Toenail have known each other for nine years. They live on the same block and used to be friends, until the first annual Neighborhood Lights challenge was conceived. Now every year they vow to outdo the other in terms of hokiest Christmas display.

Farfel won this past year by having a real live baby pose as Jesus in his Nativity scene. He said it was his cousin, but really he found it in a Dumpster outside of a crack shack.

At block parties, it is not unusual for Toenail to purposely shoulder past Farfel, leaving his lapel smeared with a strata of spinach dip, mustard and Mudslide. And once, Toenail “accidentally” pushed him into a pool just as he was about to get Sharon Semenshower’s number, and then proceeded to go home with Farfel’s brother, Rufus, who was a gynecologist and kept a bag of shiny apparati in his trunk.

Farfel’s mama raised him to never lay a hand on a girl, but Toenail made him want to eschew his mama’s sage words.

Last summer, Farfel and his current girlfriend, FlyStrip, were having a picnic in his front yard. He fed her grapes and oysters while she giggled and made vapid attempts at conversation.

She said things in rapid and random succession, like: “There is a sale at Macy’s! I like toast with jam. Say, I wonder why the sky is blue? If your crotch itches, you should just scratch it. Oh, a birdie!” Farfel was always one to include intellect near the top of his list of standards, but the way FlyStrip’s gelatinous jugs bounced around like two buoys in a sea of spray-tanned flesh kept him distracted long enough to not care. It also didn’t hurt that she was wearing a bikini top.

Toenail was walking her dog when she spied the two of them, splayed out on a blanket, twirling delicate-stemmed glasses in their hands. She couldn’t explain it, but her heart began to race and she could feel the blood rolling to a boil beneath her cheeks.

Full of disgust, and some terribly uncomfortable feeling she’d never felt before — she hoped she wasn’t developing pockets in her colon — Toenail stormed over to the lounging couple and kicked mud in FlyStrip’s face. Clumps of sod and possibly some dog shit dripped down FlyStrip’s chin and coated her silicone accessories. Without her secret weapon, FlyStrip’s spell on Farfel was broken and he remembered that she was little more than a bleached blond beach bimbo who drove a Pinto and made bank by slopping under-spiced chili in a diner.

Rising from the blanket, he got real close to Toenail’s clenched jaw. He got so close he thought for sure that this would be the day that he broke mama’s rule and coldcocked that broad right upside her head. But instead, the two of them stood there, breathing all heavy, panting in anger, hands curled in taut fists at their sides.

And that’s when it occurred to Farfel that maybe they didn’t hate each other as much as they thought.

“Hey,” Farfel grabbed Toenail hard around the elbow, and she waited for him to cuss her out. But Farfel goes instead, “Let’s be in love.

“

And Toenail, her belly shook like a bowlful of chicken fat, that’s how hard she laughed. “Are you kidding me?” she gasped between peals of laughter. “I hate your guts!”

Maybe it just might take Toenail a little longer to figure it out.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:00 If you ask Chooch what my name is, he confidentally and triumphantly answers, “Princess!” #
• 14:15 Sitting on the floor, playing trains and eating chick peas = The Life. #
• 18:13 Hello I’m trying to paint and Henry decided he needs to COOK in my studio. #
• 18:38 Chooch said he wants to eat his arm for dinner so I had Henry put some salt on it. #
• 19:48 Henry got a pair of lounge pants that make him look wrapped in a sofa from 1972. #
• 00:23 20 minutes into The Sweetest Thing, and Henry asks hey, why are we still watching this. Yeah, really. #

• 15:32 I think I just got the sagest advice inadvertently from Sharon Osborne. #
• 17:11 If we ever had a reality show, it’d have to be on HBO or something, otherwise you’d never hear Chooch talking over all the beeps. #
• 20:11 I have visions of homeschooling in my future. #
• 21:39 My loud-mouthed antics just caught the attention of a security guard. #

• 13:01 Throwing parties is the only way to get Henry to clean up around here. #
• 17:39 A news van is down by the bait shop and I’m convinced they found a body in the river. #
• 11:35 Game Night must have been pretty alright if I was too distracted to tweet. #
• 12:21 I’ve begun chewing on my hair again. Could be my body’s way of saying it’s mousse deficient. OK body, I hear u. Chocolate mousse for dinner. #
• 13:24 I don’t understand why Dora has football head and everyone else on the show is normal. #
• 17:44 I am trying not to flirt with Henry via assault and battery. I think I’m progressing, as I only punched him once last night. #
• 23:55 Purposely over-sizing photos on my blog until Henry cracks and gives me a new layout. #
• 09:40 I need an axe with blood on it. #

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Last Saturday, the weather was sunny and 70, so my brother Corey met up at Jefferson Memorial to take some pictures. We saw a wedding ceremony which we desperately wanted to crash, and we also broke up a couple’s romantic interlude near the pond we chose as our location.

The pond is my favorite area of this cemetery, but it also happens to be near the scene of one of my most traumatic childhood memories. I was eight or so, and was with my mother and younger brother Ryan. I don’t know if we were visiting some dead relative or just poking around, but I remember we were all out of the car and it was getting close to dusk. Because my mom enjoyed inflicting psychological trauma on her children even back then, she decided to lock me out of the car. Here is where I will state that my mom to this day insists (through streaming tears of laughter and delight) that this even never occurred and that I dreamt it all up, that I always had an overactive imagination. But that’s only because she doesn’t want me to get to the climax of the story, which is where she would only let me back into the saftey of her Blazer if I read her three names off the mausoleum wall.

This is fact; it happened.

Conversely, my mother likes to make up her own memories, like the one where I pushed my brother Ryan down the attic steps. She still swears that this happened, and I know that I was an evil witch of a child, but I never pushed that kid down the attic steps, I’m sorry. Not even after he drove his twenty-wheeled remote control car in my mid-back lengthed hair which subsequently resulted in my mother doing one hell of a number on my pretty blond locks with shearers. Not even after he caused me to suffer through years of inadequacy issues and brutal, bloody competition. (I was the better tennis player, but  my family never came to any of my matches so they wouldn’t know.)

Fuck, I hate my family. (Not you, Corey. You’re safe from my voodoo doll army.)

Wow, thank you Random Picture Sunday. I feel much better now.

McGoogle loves Nutter even in the mornings when she has gray encrustations in the corners of her eyes. He loves her even when she emanates a “straight-from-the-docks” aroma on those not so fresh days. He even still loves her after she had to get her stomach pumped of an entire football team’s love yogurt.

And Nutter, she loves McGoogle too. Maybe not his breath after a night of Snakebites and cigars with the union guys.

Maybe not the way he can make the duvet rise and billow with the sheer force of his flatulence. And maybe Nutter doesn’t so much love the way his visage can morph from rugged lumberjack into that of a convicted molestor with the simple act of shaving*. But McGoogle, damn if he doesn’t make the best crepes with fresh strawberries and cream on her birthday, and God love him for not beating her with a belt when she wrecks the car swerving to miss a caterpillar.

That’s love, for real.

—————–

* This part was inspired by Henry, who makes me feel sad and also worried for small children every time he shaves. Some men should not be bare-faced! Happy new year to me, I guess.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 12:45 Got to spend a few hours with Lisa before sending her back to Colorado. Colorado is so lucky.#
• 12:49 Going to tell my Etsy customers that I have my paintings packaged at a handicapped house so my poor wrap jobs will seem more endearing. #
• 14:11 iCould watch iCarly all day long. #
• 18:01 I can’t imagine what life would be like if I had to cook dinner every night. Likely a lot of ER visits. Thank god for Henry. #
• 18:31 I’m mostly certain my son just said “you’re at the jackass awards.” And earlier he was chanting “psychopath” quietly to himself. #
• 23:13 McGoogle Schlepper ejaculated in my Schweppes. #

• 00:59 I feel like someone is in the house but my bitch boyfriend won’t go look!!! I’m calling 911. Or not, according to Henry. #
• 13:50 Janna and I have a movie date tonight and that ho better bring me flowers! #
• 19:02 Its been so long since I’ve been to a theater that Janna just asked, “did you KNOW that they play commercials now?” #
• 23:07 Judging by tonight’s experience, I think it might take another three years for me to see a movie at a theater. #

• 11:20 The very thought of the Where’s the Band? Tour makes me salivate. #
• 11:27 With the exception of Tickle Me Elmo, I’ve never hated a toy as badly as I do this airport playset. It disgusts me. #
• 11:30 Its so poorly made that a simple glance in its general direction will cause pieces to fall off. Like it has leprosy or some shit. HATE. #
• 15:23 Friendship is a crock of shit. #
• 16:44 Of course no one here has tylenol. I work with all men. #
• 18:15 I might start puking now, which would be a new New Years Eve record for me. #
• 23:41 OMFGJONASBROSWOO! #
• 10:05 You better bring me a pony, 2009, or I’ll dynamite you. #
• 10:32 Henry shaved off his beard so now I’m looking for a new boyfriend. Preferrably one who doesn’t look like he has molestation priors. #
• 11:47 I guess I just don’t understand how a 28 year old “adult” still needs to get permission from mommy to go to parties. #

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