The day Cletus was kicked out of his home, he only
had a sack of lint, a dulcimer, and his signature big
floppy grin to his name.

Cletus soon found out that was enough.

Using the sack of lint as a pillow, he sprawled out
on a park bench. Plucking lethargically at his half-
busted dulcimer, he noticed that he had attracted an
audience. A blue jay perched quizzically on the
telephone wires above him.

“What song is that?” the bird chirped.

“I don’t know, just something I made up,” Cletus
answered through the corners of his sprawling smile.

“Are you available for bar mitzvahs?” the bird
asked with a cocked head.

And that is how Cletus found himself providing music
for a roomful of undulating yarmulkes while keeping
himself from living as a hobo under a bridge.

————————————————–

Out of everything I’ve ever painted, Cletus makes me most happy, so I recreated him on an 8×8 canvas. Hello, I want to smile and pass out gumdrops to orphans every time I look at him. That is so not characteristic of me.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 12:46 About to go wild in a cemetery. #
• 13:04 twitpic.com/1e4rl – Freaks at the cem. #
• 14:02 hello I officially found the best cupcakes in this city. #
• 14:05 I want to send roses and an engagement ring to the baker of the cupcakes I just had. #
• 19:16 The lies keep coming. #
• 19:19 In spite of all the drama my ex-bff is creating today, I can’t stop thinking about that cupcake I made love to. I mean, ate. That I ate. #
• 15:27 The person who stole my best friend from me continues to heart things in my Etsy shop. MALICIOUS. #
• 19:08 How do you say LYING in Spanish? #
• 19:12 My one duty was to half-assedly wash Chooch’s face before we leave the house. Henry just asked, “what did u wash it with, chocolate?” #
• 20:09 I love Anderson windows. They could, and do, rape circles around Gilkey, which is run by liars. #
• 23:15 Henry just theorized that maybe Chooch hates being cuddled because I never learned to properly swaddle him during his infancy. #
• 08:35 Sometimes I wish I could crawl up in Phil Collins’ voice and lay there in a fetal curve. #
• 09:14 Chooch has graduated from “Head on the Door” to “Wish,” which he keeps in his room on repeat. I love him. #
• 11:44 Chooch: “Speck can’t play puzzle piece. She doesn’t have hands. Just feet.” (He calls puzzles “playing puzzle piece” & he’s very into it.) #

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I do not care about much anymore.

I have a confession, something I’ve been holding out on: I succeeded in finding good cupcakes in Pittsburgh and I have known about them now since Sunday.  But I didn’t want to go forth and hold a circle jerk in their honor until I tried them again. And again. And once more.

The nirvana in a cup of which I speak so lovingly comes from a small bakery called Vanilla Pastry Studio. I had heard about this place before, but since its write-ups didn’t come attached with a veritable circus of exaggerated superlatives and a carnival of overrated kudos like Dozen and CoCo’s, I never gave it much consideration. Yes, I admit that I allow my intrigue to be tickled by clever cupcake names, marketing panache and hipster-pandering hype. And I admit that even though we had driven past Vanilla Pastry Studio last week, I still decided to patronize CoCo’s because I had heard so much about them.  And look at where that got me.

And so on Sunday, I played the “Oh my god, I am basically perching on the ledge of suicide and nothing will buffet my topple better than a fluffy cupcake, oh please Henry, splurge for me.” (Splurge, not splooge. That’s all in my other blog.)

When Henry got back in the car, he didn’t seem very confident. “What is with cupcakes and pretension?” he grumbled. And then I began tirading about that topic the whole drive home, scoffing at how something so simple as a cupcake now has such an hoity-toity air wrapped around it, and then we got in the house and I swiped a finger across the top of a vanilla bean cupcake with caramel frosting and—-

“Oh my sweet, tender Jesus Christ curing a pack of lepers,” I whispered as the frosting literally melted away into an essense of pure delight and world peace upon my once-angry tongue.  The texture itself was unlike anything that has ever crossed paths with my mouth, and it created a sensation that can only be described as taste buds fornicating with each other to a master mix of Sade upon a King-sized bed coated with the satine finish of this buttercream frosting. It was sexual. I don’t care; if a kid asks me how it was, I will tell them too.

THAT FROSTING IS GODDAMN SEXUAL.

Mothers should be swaddling their babies in this stuff. I am also willing to bet that the cure for cancer lives somewhere in that recipe.

It was like a mouthful of whipped magic. It made me feel safe and comfortable, like Mister Roger’s sweater was carmelized and ground into the granules of pure sugar, and then rammed into my mouth. I will have to write my own dictionary in order to properly review the wonderment that is Vanilla Pastry Studio frosting.

And the cupcake itself — MOIST. Delicate. Classic. Not a choking hazard. It was sweet and fluffy and light as air, and actually tasted like it was made by a 1950’s-era grandmother.

It was a Spartan and perfect complement to its piquant pate glaze, secure enough in its simplicity to take a step back and let its topping take the spotlight.

“Now I know what they serve God on his birthday,” I moaned to Henry. Speaking of, even Henry was on board.

“And! They were twenty-five cents cheaper than CoCo’s!” he said smugly. Bigger, too!

Today, he brought home another caramel, plus a mocha, coconut and chocolate. Yesterday, I worked out twice to prepare for this. Chooch and I stood at the front door, chanting “We want cupcakes, give us cupcakes” until Henry pulled into the driveway. He wasn’t even in the house yet and I had near-mauled the bakery box out of his hands and dashed into the kitchen. (I don’t know why I took it off him, considering I had to wait for him to come in and divvy them up, since I don’t know how to cut anything other than skin.)

Sucking the frosting off a piece of chocolate treasure, I couldn’t stop giggling. Henry tossed an annoyed glance at me, and I laughed, “I can’t help it. They make me happy!” and then I giggled some more. If these cupcakes make this girl happy, imagine what they could do for you. For Iran, even!

If I ever get married, I want to eat these off of hot naked people at my bachelorette party.

I am bellyaching and completely stewing in gluttony right now, but holy shit these are fantastic cupcakes. I want to devote my life to promoting this shop.

And on the website, the owner of the bakery calls herself a Sugar Fairy. Now, typically something like that might tend to disrupt my temper, but April Gruver deserves this title. She is a hero in this quality cupcake-deprived city. She may call herself a Sugar Fairy, but I call her a Sugar Messiah. And then when I gain twenty pounds in the next two months, I will call her a bitch.

I am Roberto. I am twenty five plus the number of chili dogs you can conceivably eat before getting the runs. I’m an average guy. I like to watch football in my underoos. I snack on beer nuts and Slim-Jims. I know how to change a tire and unclog a drain. I try not to fart in public and only two of my shirts have pit stains. I even volunteer as an usher at my church and I pick flowers for my grandmother.

Here are some things people are saying about me:

Neighbor Phil: Roberto has the decency to fetch the morning paper in a robe, unlike Cornelius down in #4 who flashes all the school children with his pasty, pimply buttocks.

The cashier at Pickle Palace: Roberto has a fine palate for pickled pabulum.

Cubicle mate Swanson: I have a cubicle mate? I hadn’t noticed; I listen to my iPod all day.

Ex-girlfriend Fran: Oh he’s a real gentleman alright. He let me keep that fabulous strand of herpes he passed along to me. Asshole.

But I have a secret. I’m not the nice guy everyone thinks I am. I steal from the collection basket every Sunday to fund my peep show addiction. I can’t get enough. Sweaty, bouyant breasts pressed against a pane of bulletproof glass, red spotlights providing a heavenly vignette? Come on now. When sinning feels so good, why would I want to stop?

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:06 OMG turn fucking 18 already, kid!!!! #
• 14:44 Henry’s giving me a lesson in confidence. #
• 17:22 chooch poured glue in Henry’s hair while he was laying in bed, and it was 24carat awesomeness. #
• 18:21 If you ask my kid who his grandma is, he not surprisingly only mentions Henry’s mom. #
• 00:48 Double Shot of Love has shown me that LOVE IS REAL and EVERLASTING. Thank you, Ikki Twins. #
• 00:49 And why is the girl so shocked she didn’t get picked at the end? THEYRE NOT REAL LESBIANS. #

• 09:15 Officially do not believe in the idea of bff. #
• 10:01 Lying to me must be some sick sport, because people sure love to do it. #
• 14:11 Henry just tried to have intellectual discourse with Manwich on his face #
• 17:27 One door closes and another opens. #
• 21:12 Funny, I didn’t realize that when I said “wish I could stay home!” b4 I left for work, that I’d actually get my wish! #
• 21:23 Oh universe, you sly devil. #
• 23:00 Oh hay, this is the first time I’ve been involuntarily unemployed. #

• 08:49 Oh shit. That wasn’t just a bad dream. #
• 12:25 I might have to learn how to cook. #
• 12:31 How I managed to snag such a patient and supportive man is mind-boggling. #
• 09:08 How Long Do You Ignore a Tantrum Before It Stops: a forthcoming essay on toddler (& personal) histrionics by Erin R Kelly #

• 13:25 I bet I could be a Sunday School teacher. Don’t you just need a Laura Ashley dress and some Jesus sandles? #
• 13:49 I’m starting to think karma lost my number. #
• 14:17 Srsly looking into starting Hank’s Dirty Cupcakes. I want the shop to have an awning made from Dickie’s with a big mustache on it. #
• 14:31 There is something to be said of my mental maturity when I squeal over new episodes of The Mighty B and iCarly. #
• 15:21 I could spend an entire day overthinking children’s jokes. #
• 18:41 My almost-to-be-ex-boss just gave me 2 valentine cookies so I will leave with a good taste in my mouth. He’s cute. #
• 20:51 HAHA Henry is buying STEEL NIPPLES at Home Depot. #

• 14:00 twitpic.com/1dj9d – Waiting for Alice to start. Glorified high school play up in here. #
• 15:03 Dyanna and I are totally the only ppl here w/o kids. #
• 15:21 I could be a dancing flower. #
• 15:23 Just enjoyed a lovely cookie and juice box. Thanks Dyanna!! #
• 15:48 twitpic.com/1dlzu – Best frog in a play award goes to that girl #
• 18:36 Henry’s going thru a really awkward monochrome phase. #
• 19:05 There’s a table of washed up strippers here at McD’s PlayLand and one of their daughters is 7 & totally not wearing underwear. #
• 19:37 Chooch just kissed some girl’s babydoll. Very odd. #
• 22:35 drawing juice boxes, yo. #

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Things I wish to remember about Alice in Wonderland:

1. The introductory light show that had Dyanna concerned. “Is this the whole show?” she asked, and I think she was only half-kidding. And trust me, if you were there, you would have only half-kid about that too.
2. The curtained doorway that looked like a celery stalk’s vagina, which all the characters kept running through, and later the Cheshire Cat poked his face through for drawn-out periods of time.
3. When we got up to get our pre-school refeshments during intermission, one elderly woman said to her friend, “And Alice is black, can you imagine?”
4. The man who sat next to Dyanna, making her feel extra comfortable.
5. Dyanna giving me a dollar so I wouldn’t have to purchase my snacks with a handful of coins. THAT MEANS WE WERE ON A DATE.
6. The 70-year-old man playing the King, who I just know was back stage goosing all the teenaged girls.
7. Laughing because we only went since I got some random flier in the mail, making us the only random people there.
8. Realizing that there were tons of worse entertainment we could have purchased for $5 (dollar off for us flier-holders!)
9. The way the Cheshire Cat sleazed around the stage (he was played by a girl) and kept rubbing up on Alice almost sort of kind of made me blush a little.
10. The narrator’s fabulous glittery starred vest that would have made Liberace burst into a jazz-handed fireworks display if ever the two were in the same room.
11. Dyanna’s juice box incompetence.

In summary: it was a good to get my mind off things for an afternoon, so thank you  to Dyanna for accompanying me!

Remember when we kicked around dirt under the Death Tree in that cemetery, thinking up slogans for suicide greeting cards and chasing people away with our immaturity?

Remember when we went to that diner and you planned your waffle order specifically so that I could have it when I realized it was better than mine?

The time we drove around listening to The Cure and you saved all your ecru jelly beans for me, even though those ones were your favorite too, do you remember that?

And remember, friend, when we went on that trip and you saved me from that hook-handed trucker who tried to kill me behind a rest stop vending machine? And then you pilfered a stash of brochures without me seeing, because you remembered my tourist literature collection.

Remember when I got you that medallion of your favorite band and painted you a picture of our friendship for that one birthday of yours, because I didn’t have the money to buy you big expensive electronical gifts like she did?

And then you started keeping secrets, engaging in clandestine relationships with that diseased ginger harlot from your past, taking hours to return my texts, and blowing off my knife-throwing party because you had to “drive to Oklahoma.” I’m sure you remember THAT.

How did we get so far apart?

A few weeks ago, we received an eviction notice in the mail. It’s not that we’re evading the landlord, choosing instead to lounge around in Steelers sweatpants while hitting the meth. We’re giving him checks, but we’re not getting caught up. Henry had been talking to him about some sort of an arrangement prior to this, so we were a little blindsided by the notice.

Henry left to go to the rental office, so he could have a conversation with the landlord face-to-face. He called me from the parking lot and goes, “Look,  the state constable is on his way to the house. Don’t answer the door.”

A simple command. Probably simple enough even for me to obey.

I decided to make it into a game for Chooch, which was, hello, a Very Stupid Move. “Chooch, some dude’s going to knock on the door, but we’re going to pretend like we’re not home, ok?”

“Huh? Where?” and he scrambled up on the chair and peered over the windowsill, his gigantic dome bobbing around like a buoy in the Atlantic. I’m on the couch, hissing for him to get down, but it was too late. The constable, unable to miss Chooch’s beach ball head, rapped on the window.

“It’s Blake!” Chooch exclaimed.

Now, here is where a normal person of average intelligence would scoff and tell the kid to STFU and get the hell away from the window. Me? I believe him. The same way I believe all the letters I get in the mail inviting me to claim my lottery winnings.

“Really?” I asked him, slightly skeptical at first. But when Chooch, face all alit with brother-love, squealed and looked back out onto the porch, I shrugged and made my way to the door. Blake has been known to sometimes show up on our doorstep, why couldn’t this particular moment be one of those impromptu visits? was what I was thinking when I pulled open the door.

And that is how I came to scream and slam my front door in the face of a state constable, who bore no resemblance to Blake AT ALL Chooch, you little asshole.

It is interesting to note that state constables do not prefer to have heavy wooden doors slammed on them. Sometimes, as in this case, it might even make them pound furiously upon said door while barking “STATE CONSTABLE” for all your neighbors to know that you are a criminal.

A criminal with no money who is only one mere paycheck ahead of drinking soup from a boot behind an abortion clinic. And then he updates his Facebook status so that all HIS neighbors will know, also.

And so, at this point, I wise up and do the rational thing: run. In circles. With my hands flapping in the air. I started to run all the way  up the stairs, planning to hide in the bathtub, but then I was worried he’d pull out a bullhorn next. So this is what I do: I stand a few feet away from the door and I shout, “I’m the babysitter and I’m not to open the door for anyone!

” I shout this, in all seriousness, at a closed wooden door. Because this is the best plan I have, aside from opening the door and groveling like a prostitute at Jesus’s feet. And my voice is fucking quaking, and my hands are fucking ice cold and sweaty all at once, because I know we’re really in some deep ass fucking corn-studded shit right about now.

But he buys it, doesn’t press me to open the door after that, and he calls out, all smoothly because now he thinks he’s talking to some young hussy babysitter, “Ok, well I’m just going to slip this paper in the door. You make sure that—” and here he pauses to read my name loud and clear off the notice, just in case there are some neighbors who haven’t heard “—gets this notice from the Magistrate.”

And then Henry comes home and is like, “What the fuck, how do you screw up ‘don’t open the door’? How was that so hard?”

This situation, this fucking little recession that maybe you heard of, this is why Henry is now coming home from his regular job and doing odd electrical jobs for the landlord’s rental properties. So that maybe we might still have a place to live because god knows my mother sure isn’t taking us in. And we thought that maybe things would work themselves out, but then, well….

It’s like this: I got laid off. Our terminal was deemed “over-staffed” by Corporate and, after dodging the first round of lay-offs in November, I was let go on Wednesday. As a courtesy, they had me finish out the week, which was awkward and a total drag.  I mean, who would want to go back after that? It’s like being dumped and then being told, “But wait! Will you still be my date to that wedding this weekend?” and you want to say no, but fuck, you already bought that shitty dress.

And so, like so many other people who are dealing with this same shit right  now, I’m not sure what’s going to happen.

But I will tell you this: if this blog goes a few weeks without being updated, assume that Henry has shipped me off as a mail order bride.

Ever since Smooshy was a little boy, he had been fascinated by rainbows. He drew rainbows everywhere he could: the bathroom stalls at school (this gave him quite the reputation); on Uncle Barfbag’s bald pate; and, later in life, on the tailbones of strippers in the champagne room.

Perhaps Smooshy was so entranced by rainbows because he had never seen one. There was this one time, back in ’67, when his sister tried to point one out to him from the car’s back window as their parents drove them to a traditional summer cock fight, but Smooshy had fallen asleep (more like passed out from the noxious fumes of his Mother’s bottled drug store scent) and didn’t open his eyes in time.

And Smooshy had no chance of seeing a rainbow any time in the past eight years, either, seeing as though he was in prison for impersonating a gynecologist.

But these days, Smooshy is a free man. His first week out of prison, he sat outside on a park bench every day until the sun went down, hoping for a miracle.

On the seventh day, a bird landed above him on a telephone wire and goes, “Look, son. You ain’t never gonna see no rainbow in this city, not through all this damn smog. You’re better off watching a goddamn Skittles commercial.”

And that’s how Smooshy LaBoosh came to possess the largest collection of Skittles memorabilia this side of Appalachia.

I do this every year, because let’s face it, I enjoy pretending like it’s third grade and I’m opening my little handmade Elmer’s-soggy mailbox while scraping the icing off a cupcake and simulatneously deep-throating a heart-shaped sucker, and then rifling through all the chicken-scratched, store-bought Valentines until I find the ones that come wrapped with candy.

You know, back when Valentine’s Day meant something.

Get your own valentinr

If you have one, link me to it! I like writing Valentine wishes. Because inside, I’m just a vat of churned marshmallow fluff.

Forget what you heard.

Sunday afternoon, we decided to try a semi-new cupcake specialty shop called CoCo’s. Now, keeping in mind that I reside in Pittsburgh (which, for those of you who are unaware, is not exactly a mecca for cupcake couture), I did not hold my hopes so high and loose that they’d soar away through the atmosphere, taking with them a little part of my heart and childlike wonder. Rather, I kept them ground level, tied to a fire hydrant. Because again, this is Pittsburgh. We have tried our illustrious city’s  other OMG-Look-We-Bake-Gourmet-Cups-Of-Cake called Dozen two or three times, and while their selection of frosting is creative and worth the inflation, the cake part is always dry and reminiscent of a school cafeteria dessert tray at 3pm. The last time Henry brought some home, one went missing; I later found it moonlighting as a saliva sucker at a dentist’s office. But their cupcakes are well-portioned. Dry, but bigger than your dominatrix’s fist!

“Maybe CoCo’s will be better,” I hoped, urging Henry not to give up after he made the twenty-eighth wrong turn (Professional Driver, who now?

). When Henry frowned beneath his bristing ‘stache, I added, “The website says that they use FINE INGREDIENTS.” But really, I knew deep down that this here CoCo would have had to swim across to the Amazon and pluck vanilla beans from the one and only Jack’s stalk and then have Jesus Christ bleed out in her sack of cocoa for it to mean much to Henry.

After road raging upon a poor old man from Wisconsin (you’d be a bad driver too if you had a cheese curd trampoline sealing your anus), Henry found a parking spot. I stayed in the car with Chooch, who chanted, “Cupcake. Cupcake. Cupcake. Pee asshole cupcake? Mommy asshole cupcake? What song is this?” over and over. Several minutes later, Henry was plopping a non-descript paper bag in my lap and growled, “There’s $10 worth of cupcakes.”

I peered inside the bag and at first saw nothing. Then, after some efficient maneuvering of tissue paper, I saw them. Four tiny pucks of ganache. I pulled one out. It felt dense and I was angry that the ganache ran over the paper cup. Mama doesn’t like messes. Immediately, my fingers were attacked by melting chocolate and I began sweating.

Chooch and I took a bite simultaneously. Now, Chooch’s barely three-years-old palate is about as refined as that of an ass-licking dog; he eats food off the floor.  So when he breathed, “Oh, it’s so good!” and, in tandem, I said, “Um, ew,” Henry took my word over Chooch’s. And then Chooch promptly started choking because these sons of bitches were drier than a nun’s snatch. You know how sometimes you’re eating corn bread, maybe it’s a day old, maybe you got it out of the dumpster behind that Mexican restaurant, because look, the economy is affecting us all, OK??? And now say you’re eating this cornbread like it’s fucking Manna from heaven and you just survived the motherfucking Apocalypse. You are eating the FUCK out of this shitty, rock-hard, stale as shit corn bread and then, uh-oh, you’re choking like the first time you drank up that trannie’s bitter sex jam.

Then now you know what it’s like to eat a CoCo’s cupcake. And believe me, you would be begging for a Dixie cup of that sex jam to wash it down.

NOW! To be fair, because I always like  to be fair, perhaps they were getting ready to close and Henry bought the last four cupcakes that would generally be used as pigeon chow, hobo deterrent, mother-in-law killing devices. Maybe they were too caught up in their collective “Holy Shit, Superbowl!!” fingerbanging session that they left the cupcakes in the oven too long.

I do not know. But I can tell you that there was no difference in my very scientific moisture-reading in the vanilla as opposed to the chocolate.

The ganache? It was decent. The little fondant shape thingie that was plopped atop each crown like a Crayola-happy turd? Probably that was meant to be a sweet touch.

It made me think of Play-Doh.

Here is Henry’s review:

“What the hell? It’s like, sucking all the saliva out of my mouth. Oh fuck, is Chooch choking? Oh shit, I’M choking! This chocolate one tastes like the other ones — yucky.” [I just included that because I don’t thnk Henry has ever said “yucky” before.] “Wait, I know what these taste like. Stale Tasty Cakes! These are nothing more than overpriced, out of date Tasty Cakes.” But without all the fluffy white, processed guts. You know, the best part.

And from there, he was on a warpath, a warpath lined with delicate cups of cake and dollops of fluffy frosting made by angel kisses and vintage porn. “I’m sorry, but I can’t believe this place is succeeding. You know what? I’m going to bake my own cupcakes and I’ll only charge $2.00 for them. $2.50 for these dry-ass cupcakes…” and he mumbled like that the whole way home, in that strange recipe-speak that I never did quite understand but I imagine it’s how Alton Brown and Bobby Flay talk during poker games.

I want him to call his cupcake shack Hank’s Dirty ManCakes. We’ll make it look like a miniature truck stop, and each cupcake will have bushy moustaches and be named after ’70s porn stars. And then on Sundays he will serve soup as well, so I can finally have my fucking souperie.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue my search for the best cupcake in the universe. If I was iCarly, I would give a shout out on my webcast and all my little teenage viewers would fucking trip over themselves to send me boxes of their local favorites. And then perhaps someone would even send me a smorgasbord of those famous Sprinkles cupcakes, at which point I will understand how Katie Holmes finds the will to stay married to Tom Cruise.  But I am not a Nickelodeon teen sensation, so I must seek other means. Such as, bundling Janna in a parka and sending her off through the tundra to bring me samples herself. I will even give her a little water bottle.

Oh boy, what should I review next.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 10:05 Just read this facebook status update: “our new president is cheering on the Steelere. Yikes not a good sign”. Get a life. #
• 10:06 I don’t even like football but if they win I’m changing my status to “and Obama made it so.” #
• 10:34 Chooch has congealed blood on his toe from a small cut I almost lost my breakfast. It makes my veins tickle. #
• 10:35 He keeps saying LOOK MOMMY LOOK! HAHA!!! And I’m cowering, fucking wilting over here. #
• 12:38 Chooch is having me play him various versions of “in the air tonight” on YouTube. He dreamily sighs, “oh, phil collins. Phil Collins!” #
• 14:42 I just had a fleeting memory of springtime, looked out the window and promptly cried. #
• 17:40 I’m a professional Biter Off of More Than Can Be Chewed #
• 18:42 Nothing I type makes sense anymore. You’d almost expect me to speak backward in real life. #
• 22:37 Sickness has struck. #

• 00:28 I picked the BEST things to eat on the day I was due to get sick. #
• 07:38 I have not gone to sleep yet on account of all the puking I’ve been doing since 9pm. Waiting for the angel of death. Any minute now. #
• 14:25 A shotgun, please. #

• 11:53 After spending the past 36 supine in bed/on the couch, I’m rearin’ for activity. Hiking, kayaking, spelunking – bring it. #
• 13:52 Henry dreamt of my funeral & in it, he was trying to find a Cure t-shirt to wear. Surprisingly, he said people actually turned up for it. #
• 13:52 Just no one he recognized, which would be about right. #
• 14:14 Now I know what a jew feels like on xmas. Shit. #
• 16:26 I wanted to put a sign on our house for the SUPERBOWL but henry quickly saw where that was going and diffused the situation. #
• 18:05 I feel a strong solidarity with the underdog. #
• 22:16 Et tu, QVC? #
• 22:21 Ben Fatassburger looks like a gigantic piece of shit sausaged into spandex. #

• 14:52 Chooch: “I want pancakes” Me: “I dunno how to make that.” Chooch: “WHY!?” Me: “cuz I suck.” Chooch: “Oh. Yeah, u do. DADDY will make it” #
• 18:10 Happy to announce that Chooch turned one living room wall into a scat exhibit. #
• 18:13 Me, about Chooch’s clutter: “if anyone came in the house right now I’d be humiliated” Henry: “me too, cuz I don’t have any pants on.” #
• 18:46 @lilweirdo the way he’s acting right now, I’d be willing to send him up for the weekend! #
• 19:30 Oh boy Home Depot! My day is fulfilled. #
• 19:36 Elton John playing over the Home Depot soundsystem does not seem like it would inspire men to purchase table saws. #
• 19:40 I was gagging on home improvement fumes. But thankfully Debbie Gibson’s melodious voice floated from the ceiling & helped revive me. #
• 20:00 twitpic.com/1b1ve – CRABASS AT THE HOME DEPOT #
• 20:09 Everywhere I turn I see a poorly disguised sex toy. #
• 00:45 Henry QOTD: “I love how you enjoy yourself more than anybody else” after I lost my shit upon reading him something I wrote. #
• 00:57 Jumproping is typically best done without a broken toe. #
• 01:11 John Tesh freaks my shit out with his germ PSAs. He’s convinced me that I’m going to get mersa one way or another. #

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1. I tried to buy something to drink in an Australian convenience store with a Chuck E. Cheese token.

2. Henry was only supposed to be a fling.

3. I wanted to go to art school in San Francisco but my grandma threw a fit because “that’s where all the gays live.”

4. In 7th grade, I stapled my finger to the wall on purpose just to make people laugh.

5. When I was 10, I had a treasure trove of slap bracelets but my mom pitched them all when OMG PPL WERE HAVING THEIR WRISTS SLIT BY THEM.

6. I used to be REALLY into collecting rocks. There used to be a Geek Store (note: not the actual name) at the mall when I was younger, and I would make my grandma buy me deluxe rock sets there. And then later, I was dead set on striking gold by formulating au naturale eye shadow from the powder of crushed rocks. Needless to say, I feel robbed now by all that mineral shit the make up moguls are shilling. MY IDEA FIRST!

7. Another store that was in that mall many moons ago was this incredibly hip shop called Art Explosion. It was kind of like if Spencer’s wasn’t tacky.

I remember that it was always dark in there, and they had the coolest, kitschiest things. I had a revolving lamp from there, it was squat, like a siren. The shade was translucent and had a Hawaiian-beach theme. I loved how it looked it my room with the lights off. But then we moved from that house soon after (when I was in second grade) and the lamp didn’t survive the trip. Ten years later, I found a shop when I was at Cedar Point with some friends, and they sold lamps that were almost identical. I bought one that had fish on it and it never freaking worked. Tears.

8. The worse thing anyone ever said to me was, “I’m going to gouge out your eyeballs and shove them up your vagina.” And considering it came from the mouth of the psychopath I was dating at the time, I was a LITTLE scared.

9. I was pregnant when I was 23 and the sound of bass made me so nauseated that I could only listen to soft rock channels. I have two mixed CDs from that time that I associate with morning sickness and still can’t listen to them.

10. I used to “run away” a lot in 10th grade, but I would only go two doors up to my grandparent’s house. I would sneak in through the porch, go through the garage, and hide out in their game room, where I would write suicidal stories, drink root beer schnappes from behind the bar, and make plans with my friend Jeremiah to take a bus to Hazelwood (quasi-ghetto in Pittsburgh) and join a girl gang. I did this so many times, and every time I would hear my grandparents and mom upstairs talking about me, freaking out, wondering if they should call the truancy cops, but never once did anyone bother to, I dunno, CHECK THE HOUSE.

11. My step-dad accidentally chopped off the tip of his finger on a log splitter when I was 17. We hated each other more than Jennifer Aniston hates A.Jolie (TEAM ANISTON, HOLLA) and so the first fight we had after that incident, I screamed, “I WISH YOU HAD CHOPPED OFF YOUR HEAD INSTEAD!!!” and fled to my grandparent’s house. It sucked then, but OH how we laugh about it now when it comes up at Christmastime.

12. When I was 15, I had a two-year friendship with some guy named Kevin Wilson. He was 18 and we met when he called my private number by accident. I remember he was asking for Celeste. He called back and was like, “You sound cute, wanna talk?” It was always strictly platonic. He lived nearby, but we never met, although he ended up working for my mom for awhile. I would always call him and cry when the guy I was SO IN LOVE WITH OMG would break my heart repeatedly. Kevin was like a big brother, and he ended up moving to Virginia Beach and we lost touch when I was still in high school.

13. Maniac Mansion for old school Nintendo is my all time favorite video game.

14. In junior high my old bff Christy and I once took one of those “word a day” calendars and used every word to write sexual sentences about Andre Agassi. We wrote it on my old Apple computer and saved the file as “math homework.” We never made it through all 365 words.

15. Growing up, we had a hammock in our backyard, the kind that was actually supported by trees and not a metal stand. I think of that hammock every summer, how I would lay in it whenever I wasn’t feeling well, and how my brother Ryan and I would do flips off it. There was a thin part of a tree root under it, where the grass had been worn down by our feet pushing off the ground, and Ryan would spend days pulling and tugging on that damn root. He was convinced it was Hell’s telephone wire.

16. I jump rope every day while watching my DVR’d shows. Usually shows that I won’t have to pay full attention to, like The Real World.

17. I have always been hurt more by friends than boyfriends, and to this day I have a tough time trusting girls and I open up faster to guys (EMOTIONALLY, you guys. God!).

18. There used to be a really nice restaurant in town called Tambellini’s. My grandfather was friends with the owner, Louie. When I was 4, my grandfather asked me where I wanted to eat for my birthday and my aunt Susie (his youngest daughter) was all, “Tell him you want to go to Tambellini’s!” So I did and he was all, “Yeah, OK.” So we get to this restaurant and he goes, “Here we are, Louie’s Lookout!

” and I think I’m the shit, right? Having my birthday dinner at Louie’s restaurant? So then it becomes tradition that we go there for my birthday. But once I start reading, I see that the sign says “Paulie’s Lookout.” Feeling betrayed, I’m all, “Yo, Pappap, wtf?” and that’s when everyone starts laughing and I learn that he just didn’t feel like going to Tambellini’s that one year, so he pretended Paulie’s Lookout was Tambellini’s. I still called it Louie’s Lookout after that, and I still always picked that place for my birthday dinner. It’s not open anymore, but if it was, I’d so be taking Chooch there on his birthday.

19. Once, when I was dating my last boyfriend Jeff, we went out to dinner at this place called SkyVue. As we went up to pay, we were told our check was picked up by an elderly couple in a booth. I didn’t recognize them, and when we went over to thank them, the man said, “You two look like a nice couple and we like to treat people from time to time.” It was one of the nicest things a stranger had ever done for me, and I will never forget it. Not surprisingly, it hasn’t ever happened to Henry and me, probably because we don’t look like a nice couple. And Henry looks like a molester.

20. I used to collect brochures. The kinds you find in the lobbies of hotels and truck stops? I’d take one of each. It could have been about the best place in town to get dentures, and I’d still snatch one up. I had so many that I kept stuffed in the drawers of my desk, that I often was unable to close them.

I will never forget how panicked I felt the day my mom made me throw them out.

21. When I was 16, Nick at Nite ran a marathon of Sid and Marty Kroft shows. It was billed as Puffapalooza and I watched every single show they aired. During the commercials, they’d run ads for commemorative Puffapalooza ringer tees and I begged my mom to order me one. That shirt is STILL my all time favorite t-shirt I ever owned, but I unfortunately haven’t seen it since I moved out of my mom’s house.

22. I went through a phase in ninth grade where I would shave stripes through my eyebrows. It didn’t make sense because I kept my bangs so long you could never see my eyes anyway.

23. I was always trying to fight people in high school. I had/have rage issues. There were times when the social worker would have to call my mom to pick me up because I’d be on a rampage. But I never, not once, had detention. Teachers liked me for some reason and I was usually able to schmooze my way out of situations.

24. No one ever wanted to be in my group when we’d have to make videos in English class, because I was known for my directorial histrionics when things didn’t go perfectly. And once, everyone in my group got an A and I got a B because I wasn’t “in the video enough” and I flipped my shit. “Do you not know that I WROTE THAT WHOLE THING?? I EDITED IT AND MADE THE CREDITS AND I TOLD EVERY ONE WHAT THE HELL TO DO!” Then I threatened to take it to the school board (wtf, lol) and after meeting with me alone after school, she raised my grade to an A. Personally, I think she was just pissed because there was a scene where I parodied her, but whatever.

25. I’ve picked up somewhere around 8 hitchhikers in my day and the only one that made me scared for my life was a woman.

Ever since Merry was a small gal, she had a soul-arresting kinship for unicorns. Rather than go to school dances, she would spend hours on the window seat of her bedroom, sketching pages of the majestic animals.

Merry knew that, in her dream land, unicorns were the most regal creature one could aspire to be. Without that glistening spire, you were nothing better than a meager horse. Everyone knew that horses were left to haul plows in the fields while unicorns were fed candied apples by princesses and galloped across rainbows to other lands where slot machines hit the jackpot every time, growing marijuana was not illegal, and everyone sang like angels. (Just not Jessica Simpson. She will never sing like an angel. God, I hate her.)

After her 567th viewing of Legend, Merry could bear it no longer. Standing before her bedroom vanity, she punched straight through the mirror and watched numbly as the glass spiderwebbed. Oblivious to the blood dripping like sanguine jewels from her knuckles, she bent down and snatched up a piece of mirror that had landed softly at her feet. Honing the jagged shard into the shape of a perfect cone, and adrenaline pumping harder now than the time she watched her first porno, Merry struck the fat edge into her pate. It didn’t take at first, her flesh tougher to pierce than she imagined. Grounding herself into the carpet, she fought against the double vision, hauling off and bashing the glass into her head with all her might.

Her mother found her three hours later, dead on the bedroom floor and, with arms akimbo, she sighed,  “Well, Merry always did want to be a unicorn.”

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This was inspired by my friend Merry, who I can totally picture doing something like this.