Many moons ago, when I was a spry sixteen year old, I went to my neighbor Jessy’s house to color Easter eggs. Not knowing Jessy very well, I had to censor the ideas I had for my eggs. It’s never wise to draw pictures on the eggs with wax crayon depicting Jesus molesting young boys when you haven’t officially tested the waters surrounding your company. She may have been a Bible jockey – what did I know? So our eggs were your standard fare – brightly colored, some boasting our names and superlatives expressing the magnitude of our undeniable coolness.

As we marveled over our freshly colored eggs, Jessy shared with me a tradition from her childhood. She encouraged me to select my favorite egg from the batch and then told me to take it home, place it somewhere dark and dry, and eventually it would shrivel and become hard as a rock. I would be left with an unbreakable souvenir of that year’s Easter. She said her grandma did it every year, so I had a lot of confidence in her.

I went home and chose a porcelain container situated in the hutch in our dining room. Carefully nestling the egg inside the dark compartment, I gave it one last loving stroke for good measure and replaced the lid.

After an uncertain amount of time, my mom decided that she was going to clean. Typically, when my mom said she was going to clean, it entailed clutter being kicked and shoved under furniture and into drawers that already were resisting closure [note: this is where I learned my housekeeping ethics]. But on that day, something had possessed her to go all out and dust the dining room.

All was calm and quiet in the house; the muted din of cartoons mingled with a cacophony of chirping birds from outside. Suddenly, my mother’s piercing shriek could be heard ’round the neighborhood. I ran into the dining room just in time to witness my former pre-birth vessel, frozen in terror, holding the lid to the porcelain jar while an army of maggots swarmed around it, undulating and looking generally disgusting.

I was in trouble.

Since then, I’ve learned that there’s an entire process that needs to be followed in order to preserve Easter eggs. And it’s too much work for me.

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Four years ago, in an effort to really immerse ourselves in the Easter spirit, Henry and I invited Alisha over to indulge in some adult egg coloring. And by adult, I mean to say none of this wholesome “I Love God” egg-dyeing bullshit. My eggs were billboards for unsavory epithets like Fucknoodle and Dickshitter. This was the way eggs were meant to be. This was art.

I had huge dreams of making a Porno Series, in which we would enhance each egg with paint so that they would depict naked nymphos, ready to get it on. I had this highly ambitious endeavor of creating an entire storyboard from it which would propel me into stardom.

I could sense the fear that Henry was emanating. It smelt of nachos and the Service, circa 1984.

“Um, so what exactly is this going to entail, this porno egg thing?” Henry questioned as he nervously rubbed his arms. I’m afraid that he was picturing some grandiose scene of us shoving freshly-colored eggs into his ass while paying spectators watched from behind a red-velvet rope. So paranoid. But that would make for some classy performance art.

Everything was progressing normally until Alisha plopped an egg into a mug of dye and ogled over the unusual sludgy color. Henry, always needing to stick his nose into everything, came over to inspect it as well.

I haven’t dyed eggs probably since the previous story unfolded, so I assumed that maybe Paas was trying to be all hip by not discriminating against colors and they were maybe slowly introducing ethnic shades into their color line. Personally, I thought it was a huge leap forward for the future of egg-coloring.

Alisha swished and swirled her egg around in the brown dye a few more times before announcing that nothing was happening. That was when we realized it was my coffee. It took three of us to come to this conclusion. College has made a huge impact on me so far!

The eggs turned out splendidly, especially my blue and yellow variation, but unfortunately the eggs in my Porno Series did not come out as expected. The … male genitalia that I drew with tongue-protruding concentration and accuracy dried to resemble a smiley. I remembered that we had glitter egg paint, so I demanded that Henry drop trou and model for me as I attempted to paint over the failed weener. He refused and opted instead to Google images for me. Because I’m Amish.

The result was still terrible and looked more like an elephant. Much respect for Michelangelo. However, the boobs I painted on the female egg came out perky and voluptuous, rivaling any silicone-enhanced pair crafted by the hands of a Beverly Hills surgeon. Well, almost.

And I made a very special, Henrydandy egg that will surely be cherished by a certain someone for years to come.

[Henry used to wear a bandanna and have long hair, FYI. (Not FTW.)]

There was no hiding of eggs in dark, dry places yesterday after Alisha and I painstakingly turned the ordinary stark shells into glorious masterpieces. So this Easter, while some people were in church learning about the Resurrection of Christ, I was learning that coffee does not adhere to eggs and that I shouldn’t go into business painting weeners.

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I’m hoping that tomorrow night, when I try my hand at egg-dyeing once again with Alisha, it will be so much fun that Jesus will rise a day early to dunk his junk in some green Paas. I mean, egg. To dunk his EGG. Oh, and Blake will be here too, so maybe, if all goes well, the night will veer into  STD Cookies: Ovum Edition.

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Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 16:10 Lock me out once, shame on you. Lock me out twice, time to upgrade to fingerprint sensors. #
• 23:01 Wish my kid would stop asking to see my weener. I might get a complex. #
  

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• 09:17 I wonder if Pebbles ever got someone to ride in her Mercedes, boy. #
• 09:42 chiodos “baby you wouldn’t last a minute on the creek” ♫ twt.fm/33131 #warped09 bit.ly/buywarpedtix #
• 11:30 I dunno what u foolz be talkin’ bout, I love me some April snow. #
• 13:15 Chooch just added to his birthday wishlist the new Burtney Phears (aka Britney Spears, in non-toddler speak). #
• 17:42 some people’s audacity will never cease to amaze me. #
• 18:20 Thanks Chooch. I love discovering that my Etsy shopping cart includes a yellow floral throw pillow. I do so love floral. #
• 21:42 I can’t handle this game. #
• 22:12 twitpic.com/2zfw2 – Heeeey. #
  

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• 10:00 Henry bought his and hers Nivea body wash and I can’t stop laughing. #
• 12:27 FATA – Cherry Kiss gets me every time. #
• 13:37 my last fm is stuck in espanol and i can’t make it go back to english because I CANT READ IT TO FIND OUT HOW. SOS! #
• 13:57 @satanmetalady help me, jenny!! #
• 14:02 @satanmetalady there’s a flag but it takes me 2 a FAQ page in Spanish. The url is lastfm.es. when i try to make it .com it goes back to .es! #
• 14:04 @satanmetalady i even tried shutting down the page and re-opening it! i’m doooomed. maybe henry knows spanish since he was in the SERVICE. #
• 14:10 well, i was able to at least change my picture on last.fm, language barrier be damned. #
• 15:40 Overheard Chooch singing part of “Intensity in Ten Cities” & almost cried. #
• 18:19 Risotto is the #1 dish that gets people chewed out on Hell’s Kitchen. So why did I think I could make it? #
• 09:33 Yo MTV, thank you for the RR/RW Challenge. #

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It was back to Cleveland on Sunday to catch Craig Owens on his solo run. I was so thankful that it was another weekend show, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have made it and then you’d all have to suffer through bitchy angst-ridden posts for at least two weeks. Another thing I was thankful for was the fact that Alisha and I dusted off our friendship earlier in the year and that she was willing to spend time with me in an enclosed space and see some bands she didn’t know much about. Thank god for Alisha!

The Drive

Before we exited Pennsylvania, we stopped at Ruby Tuesday’s for lunch, and I brought in my empty Starbucks cup in hopes of disposing it because I have issues about leaving garbage in the car, something Henry is very insensitive of, do not get me started, DO NOT. My anxiety of seeing Craig Owens was starting to make me do stupid things, like squeal a lot, squirt soap all over my arm in the restroom, and stash the empty coffee cup in my purse UPSIDE DOWN upon discovering there was no garbage can outside the restaurant, so Alisha suggested I order an adult beverage. She slid the drink menu toward me, but I go, “No, I’m good. Seriously.” I think she was relieved when I ordered water instead of more coffee, but after a few more minutes of me giggling degenerately and doing weird breathing exercises, she was all, “No really, I insist” and then I found myself getting carded over a Sangria which made me VERY HAPPY. Especially when I got to pull my ID out of my iCarly purse.

After we left, I realized that when I retardedly stashed the empty coffee cup upside down in my purse, the remnants spilled out right onto the painting I made for Craig. Henry had painstakingly (not really, but he did act put-out that I asked him to do it) wrapped it for me that morning  and it was completely stained on one side. “I can’t give him something that looks like it was fished from a dumpster, what the fuck am I going to do?” and I could tell that Alisha was preparing to pull over and have me sedated, but I was OK once I peeled the painting out and saw that it remained untainted. The envelope to the card, however, was also stained. So I outlined it and turned it into a dumb little creature and prayed for the best.

There was a rogue diaper strewn across the backseat, and I considered wrapping the painting in that, you know, to keep it safe and give it some pizzazz. “I can guarantee he’s never received anything wrapped in a diaper,” Alisha said. And it would soften the blow when I lost my nerve to hand it to him, and ended up chucking it at his head and bolting. But ultimately, I decided that messing with it any further would likely turn into a disaster, so I stashed the painting in the backseat and tried very hard to forget about it.

And then I was fine, really fucking fine, until we made it to Cedar Road, which was the third to the last street we needed before reaching the Grog Shop. That’s when I started getting all stupid and dizzy-feeling and Alisha began tensing up because my anxiety was contagious and then I fucked up the directions and she cried a little. It was an amazing 15 mile track of emotional roller coaster. And it only got better after we parked and began walking the street, looking for a place to pee, only to settle on a grocery store in which I accidentally locked myself in the restroom and then BROKE MY ICARLY PURSE trying to break out. It was awful. Who was going to take me seriously without a purse that says “LOL” on the zipper pull?

In Line

Because I’m not normal, I really enjoy standing in line before doors open. It’s a great opportunity to people watch and make enemies, which almost always is inevitable. This time it was immediate, so that was fucking lovely. I overheard a girl behind me mention she had seen Chiodos last year at Club Zoo, so I excused myself for butting in, and then asked, “Are you from Pittsburgh? We’re from Pittsburgh,” you know, just trying to make convo with someone to kill time. Well, this dumb ginger bitch was all, “Um, yeah, kind of, but not really” but the way she said it? It came out like a word-encapsulated scoff dipped in a vat of holy attitude jam and wrapped in pretension and I swear to god I wanted to punch it right back into her crooked-toothed maw. It was like a hobo having the audacity to speak to Paris Hilton, is exactly what she made me feel like. My hate bell was ding dang RUNG, bitches.

A few minutes later, I heard her complain about there being so many scene kids there and my palms were instantly half-mooned. Seriously? What did she think SHE was with her Stay Positive hoodie, day-glo t-shirt and seam-popping skinny jeans? And you all know how deep my scene kid love runs, so she was really stirring my pot. And she had hideous lime green eye liner on and I wanted to spit on her eyeballs and scrub it off with a Brillo pad, that dumb whore. You are in line with a bunch of people who share the same love of music as you do, so put a fucking hat on the hate, Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t even be making fun of her right now if she hadn’t opened up the ignorance spout. I can’t stand that shit.

Oh, and she thought she was a regular Chelsea Handler too, with her dead-panned commentary of every fucker who walked past us. I kept making faces at Alisha and hissing, “SHE IS SO NOT FUNNY WTF??” And unbeknownst to me, one of her minions heard me talking shit on her and ratted me out. Alisha knew of this, and was wise enough to not tell me until much later when we were inside because she didn’t feel like dealing with a fight. But evidently the girl was all, “I don’t care!” and Alisha said something else non-threatening was said but it wasn’t bad enough for her to remember I guess. And when she told me this, we were sitting at the bar, and I found myself scanning the room looking for that douchebarrel so I could kill her. Alisha reminded me that she was underage. I DON’T CARE.

So no, I guess that pickled tampon really wasn’t a scene kid; she wasn’t awesome enough.

Aside from that. the wait in line was cold yet entertaining. We got to watch some boys in front of act like assholes with a half-full bottle of Vitamin Water and Alisha was braced to call 911. It ended up bursting at one point, the contents splashing right past my feet. I cried, “I so knew that was going to happen!” and they were genuinely apologetic, which I was NOT expecting. They kept asking, “Are you sure it didn’t get on your shoes? I’m so sorry!” and then the one boy was all, “And those are really cool shoes, too, by the way” and I was like, “OMG a scene kid accepted me!” and I was so happy and Alisha was like, “You are so pathetic” but I could NOT STOP SMILING even though it was like 40 degrees and I wasn’t wearing a coat. I seriously smile like a mentally incapacitated farm hand the entire time. When I later relayed to Henry that for once people were approaching me left and right, I hypothesized that it must be my darker hair. But Henry goes, “No, it’s because you didn’t have a 44-year-old man standing next to you.” Touche, Henry.

There was also this crazy phenomenon where, no matter where we stood, passers-by trying to get into the neighboring sports bar or Chipotle would always cut in front of us. But not without a warm “Excuse me” and a smile. Alisha was getting annoyed, and finally deduced that it was because of me, not her, because she was not wearing an inviting expression like I was. “I’m like, the golden entrance,” I said with a shrug, and then decided that sounded like a porno so it became even more apropos. Alisha’s final straw was when some guy said, “Chinese cut!” before squeezing past us. I couldn’t stop laughing. Two of the guys from VersaEmerge — the fantastic opening band — chose me to squeeze past as well, and they were both very gentlemanly and friendly about it. Especially the drummer, with whom I wound up dancing  in my effort to step out of his way when he tried to enter the Grog Shop, and we shared a laugh over that so you know, we’re bros now obviously. And every time this would happen, I would turn to Alisha and laugh and she would roll her eyes.

The Show

Inside, the doorman was all taken aback that I was ready to greet him with my ID, because apparently we were the first people over-21 he had encountered in line so far. It was hilarious, but once the room started filling up, I was shocked at how many older people had turned out to support Craig. It was a beautiful thing. Especially since we sat at the bar most of the night and I proceeded to get drunk off cider and walk into the men’s room two fucking times in a row, like it was my first time in a fucking bar.

VersaEmerge and The Color Fred preceded Craig, and both had excellent sets, although Fred’s went on a little longer than we liked. It had a little to do with the fact that he broke a string, twice, and only had one guitar. Both times that happened, he allowed people to go on stage and tell a joke while he rushed to restring. One of my Vitamin Water friends went up and told a joke and I was like, “OMG YES!” and clapped and screamed real loud, and Alisha was all, “STFU.” But that was our BOY Tony, I said to her! And then I wondered aloud if he still had a price sticker on his ass, which Alisha prevented me from telling him about in line because it would be too “mom-like.”

But VersaEmerge were incredible, and not just because the singer was a really hot chick with magnificent scene hair. Alisha ran off to buy their EP but swore it had nothing to do with her fast-developing crush. And later, we chatted with their bassist Devin, when he came over to the bar for a drink and I had to rub my eyes because that boy did not look 21. He was very down-to-earth and personable, and seemed genuinely humbled when he saw Alisha’s copy of their EP resting on the bar in front of her. After he retreated with his drinks, the bartender paused to talk to us about how  nice he was, and how she’s much more willing to cater to bands who are kind.

“The boys in Agnostic Front? Some of the nicest guys I have ever dealt with, no lie,” and that was when she noticed that I was drinking Woodchuck. “Ever tried Strongbow?” she asked, and then proceeded to sell me the perks of the English import. She gave me a sample in a plastic cup, and when I agreed that it was really so much better than Woodchuck, she set a tall glass of it in front of me and said, “That one’s on me.”

I really love the fucking Grog Shop.

But what I didn’t really fucking love was the texts I was getting from Henry, keeping me abreast of the Pens game, which they lost. It nearly ruined my night. I’m sure Alisha thought that I was reading a text alerting me to a horrible accident at the homefront, but when I tilted my phone her way and she saw that I was just reading the score to the hockey game, she was like, “Oh” and then quickly added, “That sucks.”

 By the time Craig walked past us, I was feeling REALLY FUCKING good. So good, in fact, that I was able to enjoy the entire set without bawling, sobbing, shaking, or obsessing over giving him that fucking painting. I just remember smiling so big and feeling happy and lucky to be sitting there with Craig singing a few feet away.

He started with “Letter From Janelle” and I was all, “Oh yay!” and next thing I knew my fingers were involuntarily curving into heart-formation, and Alisha was happy too because she likes that song, and it was just good, so so so good. He did a Bright Eyes cover, two Cinematic Sunrise tracks (I thought of my friend Jessa when he busted out “You Told Me You Loved Me”), and the most beautifully heart-stopping acoustic version of “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute on the Creek” that I ever could have imagined possible and I know I was beaming like a five-year-old getting a unicorn and a Mogwai all on the same Christmas. And maybe also like Henry when he was getting a hand job, the Vick’s VapoRub edition, from a Thai hooker.  OK, maybe my grin was not so sleazy. I hope, anyway.

But then today I watched a video of it that s0meone posted and since I no longer have hard cider acting as a dam for my emotions, I got all emotional band-y and cried a little. But seriously, this song has some prime fucking real estate staked out on my heart.

(Original version here.)

Craig was happy and full of humor and stories. I didn’t expect to go to this show and laugh! He said “J/K” for some reason, and some girl up front mocked him. He was all, “Did you just mock me? I’ll punch you in your face, little girl” and I started to think, “Wow, he could punch me in my face anyday!” but then I remembered that I don’t like anyone that much to receive a fisted gift in the grill. Not even my own son, but he still does it anyway.

So, Craig admitted that the reason he was so happy was because he’s in love now, and like any good fangirl, I already knew about his girlfriend (who is so freaking cute, by the way). He wrote a song for her, tentatively titled “Song For Joanna” and before he played it, he had everyone sit on the floor, and then he, Brian (Isles & Glaciers, ex-Receiving End of Sirens) and Nick (of Underminded, Cinematic Sunrise, Isles & Glaciers) all sat at the edge of the stage, sans microphones, and Craig proceeded to serenade the room campfire-style. It was intimate and absolutely beautiful. They played the rest of the set like that, including “Vacation to Hell” which he wrote when he was 16, and “Intensity in Ten Cities” (one of my favorite songs off Bone Palace Ballet and Chiodos never plays it live). It was like nothing I had ever experienced at a show before. That alone was worth it.

He is so beautiful, in a myriad of ways, and I could barely stand it.

After the show, we ran back to the car so I could grab the painting, and then spent the next 30 minutes or so standing in a small group of anxious fans eager to say hello to him. I realized there was a half-assed line forming, and Alisha and I were sort of off to the side of it. A young couple heard me mention it and turned around to say it probably wasn’t a big deal.

“I’m not trying to cut in line and take away anyone’s time with Craig. In fact, I don’t even want to talk to him. I just need to hand him this painting and then run away.” So then we started chatting a bit (I almost said “for a spell” because apparently I’m an eighty-year-old now) and the boy member of the couple reached out to touch my arm (this is according to Alisha, as I was kind of hammered) as a means to console me since I was probably blubbering on about how I’m a social reject. Alisha said his girlfriend seemed angered by the physical contact and that was the end of that convo.

While standing around, I was thinking about how awesome it was that there was such a large turn-out of older people; but then I saw one of those older people (a ginger around my age, I guess) who was so drunk she was laying on the floor and being a general nuisance, and suddenly I remembered why I enjoy shows that have a primarily under-age attendance. Alisha thought she was hot.

Eventually, my bartender friend emerged from the back and gave us the bad news that Craig wasn’t feeling well and therefore was not going to be able to come and talk to us. I was disappointed for about .000005 seconds until I realized, “Hey, now I don’t have to unravel into an overzealous and embarrassing display of verbal impotence.” Spotting Nick Martin coiling up some wire on the stage, I decided to just pawn it off on him, but felt like an absolute heel in doing so. It’s like, “Hey faceless boy who plays guitar with Craig, this token of appreciation is NOT for, can you please give it to Craig? Wait, what did you say your name was?” But really, I love Nick. I think he’s amazingly talented and I tried to convey that as eloquently as possible as a preface to my request, but unfotunately it sounded more like, “Oh wow, you were awesome. You guys were awesome. What an awesome show. Would be awesome  to see you in Pittsburgh. How ’bout the awesome weather. I’m upchucking the awesome. Oh, and can you give this to Craig thanks see ya.” I felt awful about it, but he was so sweet and said, “I promise you this will be in his hands tonight.”

I know, wow, fan art. How fucking precious. But, you know. Craig’s lyrics are what inspired a lot of my paintings. So what better way to say thanks than to give him one that’s made especially for him. I trust that Nick gave it to him, and I feel content and even a little relieved, to know that maybe, in some small way, I might have been able to touch Craig’s life like he has touched mine. And I don’t care how cornville that sounds, motherfucker.

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On the way home, I stared out the window at the dark, malignant expanse of forest next to the highway and asked, “Do you ever wonder if someone, right now as we drive by, is getting murdered in those woods?”

In a horrified tone, Alisha answered, “Um no. But now I am, thanks.”

19 comments

Wanted: Random photos in order to write my standard brand of dumb stories, recalling the glory days (day) of Blogathon 2007. If you have one, and would like to see what lame yarn I will weave about it, please leave it here on this entry or email it to me: butgavincantdance [at] gmail.com. I can’t promise anything good will come of it, but I suppose if you read this blog semi-regularly, you don’t really expect too much to begin with. Ha-ha-z0rz.

And now I am preparing to watch the Penguins game. I really wish I had  never gotten back into hockey.

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Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 19:12 I don’t know about you, but I do so enjoy a good sharp elbow to the throat. Now if only I could get a nice brutal punch to the kidney. #
• 21:12 Revisiting my love for Cursive and naming the freckle on Chooch’s butt. Oh what fun Friday nights hold for me these days! #
• 23:00 Official name on Chooch’s ass freckle birth certificate: Tawny Buttaen. #
  

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• 00:36 Polka dot ties don’t seem all that funny these days. #
• 12:36 Today is Saturday, in case some people might not have previously known. #
• 17:46 Synaptical brushfire in my head, please douse with wine. #
• 18:06 Best friendship should not be synonymous with flaring tempers. #
• 19:04 Hola, wracked nerves. WHERE IS MY WINE. #
• 21:23 And what do you call your cheerleaders, the Whoricanes? #
  

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• 09:14 Using a hatchet to sever THESE ties. Expect a lot of blood. #
• 10:04 Cleveland today with @saucalisha to see @craigeryowens! Might die! Or at the very least pee-puddle my pants. #
• 12:35 Allowing alisha to drive and stray from the directions I prepared. This might become part of the Wrong Turn franchise. #
• 12:39 Alisha is having doubts and I am being a good, silent passenger. #
• 12:56 “Easter egg hunts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be” says Alisha. CRACKED UP, GET IT? OHHOHO. #
• 13:35 At Ruby Tuesdays, was carded for a sangria. “Let me get my id….out of my iCarly purse.” #
• 13:42 Me: “I’m a mess.” Alisha: “At least you have insight.” #
• 15:02 twitpic.com/2vmzg – Alisha’s cocktail. #
• 16:31 Just stretched 5 miles into 15 bc I’m a shitty co-pilot. We were almost there until I got it in my head that we were going the wrong way. #
• 16:38 I do believe I’ve seen him in that hoodie before. #
• 17:01 In the span of 2 seconds, I became trapped in a grocery store restroom & broke my iCarly purse trying to escape. #
• 18:08 In line, some gigantic older man in a Star Wars shirt lumbered by & said “must be one of those emotional bands.” DYING. #
• 18:58 Doorman, when I flashed my ID: “wow, I wasn’t prepared for someone to be 21. You caught me off guard.” #
• 20:27 Yeah there are people here who are WAY older than me. I feel good about myself. I’m also drunk, though. #
• 20:36 I want peanut butter & jelly, and I walked into the mens room and saw a weener. #
• 20:40 Remember when those scene boys liked my shoes? # (my original drunk-tweet said “shows.” did you not know i’m a stripper?)
• 21:33 Oh @Craigeryowens. So fucking good. #
• 21:41 BABY U WOULDNT LAST A MINUTE ON THE CREEK WHUTWHUT #
• 21:46 I’m not crying because I’m drunk. #
• 22:50 Here Craig, I reek of a brewery, but plz accept this painting. #
  

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• 00:17 Alisha should be a sunday school teacher. Yahweh indeed. #
• 08:45 Hangovers just aren’t fun unless you have a three-year-old bodyslamming you. #
• 09:24 Created a safe word for when Chooch gets too rough. Gave it a trial run, said “candy fart” 1500 times & he DIDN’T STOP. Game over. #
• 10:41 Gone < 24 hrs, yet my house is in total disarray. Henry: Strewn Wrapper Potentate, Sovereign of 3021 Rubbish Rd. #
• 11:40 Chooch keeps making me rewind “Making the Band” so he can re-hear the one member’s mom say, “its something DEEP!” I don’t question it. #

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Thoughts are being gathered over here at 3021 Pioneer, so have an oldie (but probably not really goodie) for today. Originally written August 13th, 2007, and apparently on that day I felt compelled to call Chooch by his actual name.

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I’m not sure Henry’s and my relationship was much stronger the last time we were there , but in an attempt to recapture some of the magic we painted smiles upon our faces and stuffed the child into the car and headed out to the Living Treasures Animal Park. It’s about an hour drive from Pittsburgh, and we managed to arrive without a single episode to cause me to stare out the window in protruding-lipped angst. A good sign.

Of course, with Riley being the wild man that he is, it wasn’t exactly the casual hand-holding stroll beneath Victorian lace parasols in Kensington Park, but more like running a relay race in an attempt to chase around your child in near-90 degree heat, trying to make sure he doesn’t end up leaving with another family, shoveling rogue rooster poop into his mouth, or falling into the duck pond. When you’re drenched in clammy-handed sweat there’s no way do you want to be holding the hand of your partner who just got done feeding a cow and the entire three-ring fly circus he’s hosting upon his back.

For the most part, it was what you would imagine from a small zoo.

Animals shitting, lions sleeping with their backs toward you, asshole kids cutting in front of you while their asshole parents talk on their asshole cell phones like the asshole Ray-Banned yuppies they are. And all my child cared about was this one fucking duck over in a gazebo and finally I was like, “I didn’t just spend $20 for you to sit here and throw shit at a duck when we could have driven five miles from home and done this shit for free so now you’re going to come with me and look at a monkey and fucking like it” and then he melted down into a full-blown display of histrionic fireworks, complete with real, plump tears, and it was a nice little glimpse of the next eighteen years of my life. (And also the last 27 of my own, I guess I should add.)

I splurged on the large bag of feed and of course, with the exit in our sight, half of the bag still remained. Not wanting to waste it, I spent some extra time with the dromedary camels. Henry kept yelling at me to keep my hand flat, and I was getting angry. It was flat! I’m quite capable of reading signs, I’m in college, remember?

So I’m standing there, grimacing and dry heaving over the thick and sticky saliva being lacquered onto my hand, when suddenly the one camel started to inhale my entire palm into its large vacuum of a mouth. I was so horrified that I actually choked on my scream. I was wrist-deep in this motherfucker’s jaws and it was starting to apply pressure with its flat teeth. I tried to yank myself back out, but the camel clamped down harder.

Hysteria renders it impossible for me to relay every detail, but I’m fairly sure I roared something to the effect of, “Get it the fuck OFF OF ME!“

You know the situation has reached emergency status when Henry forgoes the eye-rolling and nearly drops our child to come to my aid. I had to squint to see it, but I do believe I detected a trace of panic filling in the lines of Henry’s weathered face. But by this point, I was losing consciousness, so what do I know.

Great, soon I’ll be attending tea parties on a cloud with Steve Irwin, I thought pitifully.

Luckily, Henry used his big manly muscles to rip out my arm with force, postponing my tete-a-tete with the Crocodile Hunter.

It was the closest we came to hand-holding all day. Aw, thanks camel.

I was afraid to look at what mangled flesh and bone remained. I held it up, with my non camel-molested hand wrapped around it, stroking it lovingly and swearing to never place it in such compromising situations again. When I finally peeked at it, there were red splotches here and there, presumably broken blood vessels, and my one fingernail was black underneath.

I shoved my camel-battered hand in Henry’s face and screamed, “Look at what that asshole has done! He’s murdered my hand!” Henry seemed alarmed at the blackness of my nail and urged me to show it to one of the staff members. I inwardly gloated at the fact that the son of a bitch actually gave a shit, waited a bit for his concern to balloon into hospital bill horror, and then admitted that it was really just paint souvenirs from my weekend of furious and maniacal art therapy.

Apparently, by ‘flat,’ what the signs really meant is “Don’t feed these fuckers, else you’ll be devoured up to your elbow until you’re fisting this Satan-spawned beast’s hay-stuffed colon. And if, by chance, you’re still conscious when that happens, grope around a bit and see if you can find my wedding band.  – The Handless Management.”

All of the fond memories I harbored of riding camels in Morocco have flown out the window. Ahoy, Aversion Island.

And thus, the tone of the day was set. We went to lunch after we left the farm of maim, where we ate to the tune of my whines. “It’s growing worse by the minute!” I’d sob. Henry would make exaggerated efforts to lovingly squeeze my hand from across the table; I’d scream out in pain.

Feigning concern, he would ask, “Oh, was that your camel hand?”

I really wished he would stop calling it that because it made me feel like I was wearing an ill-fitting glove.

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It’s not that Anne and her mother had a bad relationship. Mother cooked warm and hearty meals for Anne. Mother braided Anne’s hair just right for school photos. Mother took Anne to the zoo in the third grade and to the gyno in the tenth, after she found out Anne was promiscuous.

But there was something Mother would never talk about, and it drove Anne wild with curiosity.

June 5th, 1956

Diary, today I overheard Mother talking to that beastly Constance Huffington from down the street. Mrs. Huffington asked Mother when she is going to settle down again with a nice man. Mother got all choked up and said she’s not ready, not since the accident.

What accident, I wonder. Did she poop in her pants?

It wasn’t that Anne and her mother didn’t talk. Mother told Anne about the sales she read about in the weekly circular. Anne told Mother about gawky Penny Pisshawker and how she got chewing gum all caught up in her head gear. Mother told Anne to clean her room.

But Mother would always change the subject when Anne asked about the accident.

April 18th, 1960

Diary, Mother and I were at the department store yesterday and I was looking at the swimming suits. Mother started crying when I asked if she was going to buy one too. She said she hasn’t worn one since the accident! The accident! What accident??

But oh Diary, the swimsuit I bought is pink and blue and has the most darling bow which lies plumb against my tailbone and camouflages my sway-back.

It wasn’t that Anne’s childhood was defined by not having a father around. Mother would call up her brother for situations that required a man’s finesse. Like teaching Anne how to throw a baseball. Like putting together the dollhouse Anne got for her birthday. Like blacking the eyes of the boy who groped Anne on  the bus.

But Mother would never talk about Anne’s father, and Anne didn’t remember ever knowing him.

January 31st, 1995

Diary, Freddie proposed to me tonight! Oh, it was beautiful. We were watching Romeo+Juliet and I nearly choked on the ring because that slick son of a bitch had hidden it in a jar of macadamia nuts! I said to him, “Baby, why would you do that? You know I chug these fuckers like it’s a frosted mug of lactation and I’m a nursing baby.”  Then we had sex and spilled a box of wine all over Mother’s white shag. After she was done screaming at me about that, I waited for her to take a Valium before asking about Father. We had a huge argument and she was crying and pulling at her hair. I said that it’s only natural for a father to walk a daughter down the aisle and she was sputtering all sorts of nonsense.

But I swear I heard her say she hasn’t heard from him since the accident. WHAT FUCKING ACCIDENT.

It wasn’t that Anne was glad to see her Mother marinating in her own piss at the nursing home. Anne didn’t like that her Mother’s once-tanned skin had turned into a translucent sheath, scaly tracing paper revealing the blue and purple tubes snaking through her body. Anne didn’t like that her Mother had to push a button for a nurse to come help her take a dump. Anne didn’t like the fact that when it came down to it, she was the one that would have to pull Mother’s plug.

But maybe, if she was to be honest for a second, learning the truth about the accident would make that easier.

“Mother, please,” Anne pleaded, her fingers intertwined with her Mother’s near-skinless phalanges. “Tell me about the accident. I’m a grown woman now and you can trust me.”

Mother expelled a wad of mashed potatoes from her throat with one forceful cough. The unswallowed morsels splatted against the lampshade and hung there like maggots on shit. “You,” she wheezed, hacking up a tawny membrane of gooey phlegm for dessert. “You were the accident.”

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Earth-shattering updates throughout the day. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 14:53 shouldn’t still be crying about this. #
• 17:34 Chooch just asked me if he can say asshole. He’s been saying it freely for a year, and NOW he’s going to ask for permission? Seriously? #
• 19:43 Makes me hot when Henry roasts vegetables. #
  

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• 11:00 Have an incredible urge to build a lemonade stand, then use it as a snuff film front. #
• 12:42 Chooch just lost a battle with a bottle of white pepper. Commence sneezing. #
• 12:56 twitpic.com/2n7ot – There are days when defenestration sounds desirable to me, too. #
• 13:46 twitpic.com/2na1t – Chooch’s gang sign. He be skinnin’ bitches. #
• 17:38 Teaching Chooch to throw a frisbee is turning into a circus sideshow. #
• 21:38 “I already know I can’t like that,” said Chooch upon seeing the swiss cheese in my hand. #
  

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• 11:10 Wants to have a fondue party, complete with a naked waitstaff. #
• 11:56 My hair stylist said she was going to mix my color b4 I came in, but had a hunch I wanted something different. I love psychics. #
• 14:13 if i leave now, i can be a free woman by sunset. #
• 17:33 Dear passersby: glad to have given you a good show as I broke into my own house after my son locked me out. #
• 19:50 I promised Chooch I wouldn’t scream during tonite’s Pens game. Broke it in the 1st 6 minutes. Sorry babe. I’ll buy ya a pony. I promise. #
• 20:09 MVP!!!! #
  

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• 13:17 I never have liked collaborations. Now I remember why. #
• 19:54 Chooch, getting fresh with older ladies since 2006. #
• 20:09 I want to get 5, maybe 11, Bumpits and stack them on my dome for a coif all 1950s diner waitresses would envy. #
• 20:39 Chooch, pretending to talk to Jesus via Converse: “I hate you, bitch!” & then, all upset: “Oh no, I forgot to say bye!” #
• 20:55 Just chucked a water bottle at Janna so hard that there is legitimate deformation. To the bottle, not Janna. (Unforch.) #
  

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• 10:22 I want to have an easter egg hunt. But, you know – my way. #
• 12:35 Chooch: I want to be born again. Henry: Cool. I’ll help push you back in there. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts and actions.

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The blue ones were the easiest to blow up, so Owen saved them for last. When it was all over, he was winded, with floaters and sparkles undulating in his periphery. A few times, his oxygen-deficient brain had tried to convince him that an inside-out Liza Minelli was climbing backward down his dining room wall. Maybe I expelled too much breath, he thought, plopping down on the chaise.

Hallucinations and beestung lips aside, Owen stood back and basked in the beautiful array of birthday balloons ricocheting with static electricity and adding bursts of latex grandeur in otherwise naked corners of the room. It was worth the hours it took to blow them up on his own, even when a few naughty ones decided to pop in his face and leave welts that stung like souvenirs from a scorned lover.

Yes, Owen was very proud of his work and couldn’t wait for his mother to walk into her surprise party later that evening. Balloons reminded her of batting around blown-up condoms at summer music festivals so he was sure it would prove beguiling for her.

Owen found that he had devoted a little too much time to balloon bloating, and not enough to the soiree’s snacks.

Inviting his brother Pierre over an hour early to finish draping streamers from the rafters, Owen slipped into the kitchen to begin deviling eggs and stabbing cocktail wieners with colorful plastic swords.

When Owen re-entered the dining room, a tray of hors d’oeuvres balanced precariously on each skyward palm, he was stricken to see that Pierre had penetrated every last balloon with the metal file that Owen had sworn was confiscated after Pierre mutilated that biker gang by the river last fall.

For a few seconds, Owen stood motionless amongst the latex carnage, shock rendering him speechless. And then, in a mad fervor, Owen banished Pierre from the party, swearing that what Pierre had done was irreparable.

The next day, Pierre stood on Owen’s doorstep and, with a lopsided grin, presented him with a potted plant.

“You think you can patch the popped pearls of my party with your puny potted plant, Pierre?

” Owen wailed in anguish. Slamming the door in his face, Owen was unsure if he could ever forgive his brother.

But the one thing he was sure of was that the metal file had been usurped once and for all.

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Thank god the weather has been getting nicer. Taking Chooch outside really helps break up the monotony of being pathetic housebound charity cases. Plus, Chooch’s obscenity arsenal always enjoys a nice change of scenery. It’s basically like he’s taking his show on the road. Yes, random person ambling past our house, this really is how my child always acts. Awesome, right?

It was warm yesterday, mid-sixties at least, yet he insisted on keeping his hood up. I think he’s embarrassed of this one patch of hair on the back of his head. It’s still super short, stunted almost, from him sleeping on his back, and so frizzy that it appears cinged.  It drives Henry nuts and at least once a day he threatens to shave it off, as though this poor, Charlie Brown-like follicular thatch is phycially assaulting him. It doesn’t bother me at all, though I do catch myself making futile attempts to slick it down with my saliva.

The rest of his hair has finally grown to a significant length. This is good because Henry and I have already decided that he’s going to Warped Tour with us this July so we’ll be able to style it accordingly. Unless he tries to wear a hood in spite of the ninety degree weather, for fashion’s sake.

I can’t express my gratitude to the person who invented puzzles, because they have been keeping Chooch’s wandering attention rapt for weeks now. He’s built up quite a collection, and thank god we upgraded to larger piece-counts, because it gives me some time to return a phone call in peace, read a few pages in a book, take a fucking piss.

Thank you Mr(s). Puzzle Inventor.

Chooch loves feta cheese, but he already knows he can’t like Swiss. His words, not mine. He’s put Lost Boys on the backburner for the time being in order to adequately obsess over Twilight. Henry apparently saw somewhere that they’re holding auditions for extra vampires and we want to take Chooch, since he already has the natural fangs. Seriously, I will be so sad if they fall out and aren’t replaced by an adult set. His fangs are fucking badass.

Chooch somehow always knows when I’m on the phone with Christina, without me telling him. I know this because he’ll take the phone and say, “I’m going to eat Jesus’s face!” He only says this to her, because he knows how much she loves that Jesus fellow and he gets great satisfaction from making her upset. She probably feels inspired to say the Rosary every time she talks to him.

He’s not saying “asshole” as much as he was, having graduated to the scathingly monosyllabic “bitch.” However, he was acting a fool the other day, and when I started to say, “Chooch, you’re such a—-” he finished it by saying “Asshole!” Not what I was going to say, but it effectively conveyed my point. So yeah — bitch. He loves it and says it with such detached ambivalence and blase that I can’t help but wonder if he’s been palling around with Paris Hilton. In fact, just the other day we went to visit my grandmother, whom he hasn’t seen since Halloween. (That in itself is a story for another day.) So, he walks right into her den, leans against the couch and goes, “Hi, bitch.” To my grandmother, who is offended by pretty much anything that I even had a remote part in.

But she laughed, the same lady who nearly had a heart attack when I announced my pregnancy and screeched “You weren’t meant to have children!” ad nauseum. This same lady laughed so hard I had to hiss, “Grandma, don’t encourage him!”

“But he sounded so casual!” she cried.

Indeed.

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