Before eating dinner on Thursday, Henry and I hung out in the living room while my brother Corey and Chooch hung ornaments on the tree. Corey took a break and acted like it had been decades since he moved out of our mom’s house (and not just barely over a year) by rifling through all the drawers and cabinets.

“I forgot I used to hide stuff in here,” Corey giggled as he pulled out two photographs from the old roll-top desk that my mom uses more as an aesthetic piece of rustic art than functional furniture. “I used to take horrible pictures of you and then hide them, haha.”

I vaguely remember being bombarded by surreptitious  camera flashes. I do not remember ever seeing this pictures*** though, but I suppose that’s the point.

The sad thing is, while I’m sure I would have hated them then, now I’m wistfully thinking, “Aw, before pregnancy morphed my body into a fleshy bag of potatoes.”

My eyebrow was pierced in the hair-dye one, so that means these are from 1998.

Baked beans?

I still enjoy a good catalogue.

Corey also unearthed my old summer health class folder, the same one you’ll not remember I used as an instructional manual on resuscitating my dead rabbit, Rudy.

The front of the folder informs the reader that “Erin <3’s Andy” though it is suspiciously penned in boyish handwriting.

There was really no point to this other than to remind myself that life is too short not to laugh at ourselves.

[*** “This pictures” –  I love how stress makes me type like English is my second language. Or maybe that’s more retardation than stress. Who cares at this point.]

I’ve spent the last 2+ months working on some custom paintings for my LiveJournal friend Dorothy. I’m very honored that she trusted me with this!

The Fam, 17×17

Dorothy and her bestie

The boys (Dorothy’s sons and her best friend Kay’s son)

These were so much fun to do, thank you Dorothy!

My grandma fell last week. She lives with my mom’s older sister, Sharon and that in itself is a very storied history that would exhaust me to try to type out. But I will say that in the years since my pappap’s passing, Sharon has grown increasingly damaged. In a nutshell, I tend to liken the situation to Grey Gardens.

Rather than call 911, Sharon called Henry who proceeded to go to my grandmother’s house at 10:00pm, pick her up from the floor and put her back into bed. When he came home, he told me that my grandma’s legs looked very swollen, like she has no use of them. “I don’t mind going over there and helping out, but I really think Sharon should call the paramedics.”

This happened a year ago. My grandma wound up in the hospital and from there she was placed in a nursing home for two months, where she received physical therapy and had the opportunity to interact with people not named Sharon. (Sharon doesn’t let anyone come over to see her. I saw my grandma more when she was in the nursing home than when she lives at home, because Sharon can’t LOCK ME OUT of a nursing home.) She was happy, more vibrant than I had seen her in years. Then she was released and Sharon went back to her old ways of not taking her anywhere and forcing my grandma to a life that consists of shuffling back and forth between her bed and a chair in the den. My mom has barely even seen her.

Last Thursday, less then 12 hours after Henry picked her up, she fell again. Sharon called me, panicking, asking when Henry got home from work. I lost it; convinced her to call the fucking paramedics. What if she was hurting herself every time she fell? This isn’t something for Henry to detect. So Sharon called 911, the paramedics came and left, saying she was fine.

That night, my grandma started having hallucinations, and seemed convinced she was studying her English. Sharon took her to the hospital, which actually made me feel relieved rather than upset, because I know that if she’s at least in a hospital, she’s going to get proper care.

(Well, best case scenario, anyway.)

I went to see her on Sunday, after hearing stories from Sharon about how my grandma had lost her mind. Sharon swore my grandma had suddenly “come down with” Alzheimer’s, but my mom and I weren’t so sure, since it seemed like the onset was essentially an overnight process. She was sitting in a chair, tray of stinky hospital food in front of her, most of it stirred into ecru puddles of ambiguous sludge.

“Mom, do you know who this is?” Sharon wheedled in the most obnoxiously condescending tone.

“Of course I know who that is, it’s Erin,” my grandma snapped.

My mom told me that the night before, Sharon kept speaking for my grandma, who eventually lashed out.

“You have to excuse my mother,” Sharon explained to the nurse. “She has a very quick temper.”

To which my grandma spat, “It’s because you piss me off!” My mom said Sharon called her crying, but really, when the only form of human contact you get each day is that from your eldest daughter who has NEVER MOVED OUT, wouldn’t you be a little temperamental too?

During the visit, my grandma kept bobbing in and out of coherency, weaving between reality and her supposed trip to Hawaii she took on Saturday. “And I never expected the meatloaf to be so good,” she enthused. “In the hospital?” Sharon asked. “No, in Hawaii!” she said.

The nurse came in while I was there and informed us that her MRI came back negative, and that the doctor deduced it was the Vicodin that Sharon had given her Thursday night after she last fell. Typically my grandmother gets half, but Sharon gave her a whole one since she was in so much pain. The nurse said that once it left her system, the weird waking dreams should subside, and then they’d move her into the rehab unit to work on her legs.

Walking down the hall with my mom and Sharon, I said, “It must run in the family. Don’t you remember when I got my wisdom teeth out and I totally went crazy?”

My mom looked at me blankly.

“Don’t you remember? I was so suicidal!”

“Yeah, but you always were suicidal,” my mom laughed. Oh yes, ha-ha, memories.

Henry and Chooch were waiting in the lobby, casually eating candy shat from a vending machine.

“Don’t ever give Erin Vicodin!” my mom joked.

“I already knew that,” Henry muttered.

****************

Henry, Chooch and I met my brother Corey at the hospital on Thanksgiving. We thought it would be nice to spend some time with her before going to my mom’s for dinner. She was sitting awkwardly in a chair, slumped over slightly to the side, and seemed to be in a restless sleep; her body was twitching and she just didn’t look very swell at all.

The she woke up, saw Chooch, and promptly started to sob. I mean, she was so distraught that she covered her face and wept into her hand.

Not the reaction I was hoping for. Maybe a little more bells and whistles; praise for being such an outstanding grandchild?

Henry pulled Chooch out of the room; Corey and I, being the awkward species that we are, stood in our best awkward regalia. I kept nervously asking, “Grandma are you OK? Are you alright?” and Corey was in a speechless stupor.

A nurse came in. She had on a set of those god awful wearable studies in abstract art, presented in varying hues of Pepto Bismol and Nyquil. (If I was a nurse, I’d have to find a way to get a customized scrub set. Maybe something black, with random Cure lyrics in red.) In an abrasive, no-nonsense tone, she looked at me through lens-magnified eyes and asked, “What’s wrong?” In my head, I heard, “What the fuck did you do?”

I explained that we had just walked in as she was starting to awaken, and that’s when she began sobbing.

“Jeannie, what’s wrong? These kids came to see you.”

“I can’t. Not tonight. It’s been a really bad year,” my grandma moaned. I’m not sure if she meant to say “day” or if she was being profound. Because yes, it’s been a really bad year.

All this time, Corey had been clutching a card he made her; a Thanksgiving turkey card made the old school way – from his handprint. (“And in true Kelly household fashion, I had to use Scotch tape covered in dog hair,” he explained moments earlier in an elevator.) He slid it into her hands before we left, and she moaned, “Oh Corey, thank you,” and then cried some more.

On a positive note, she at least knew who Corey was.

On a negative note, that was the single most depressing moment of my adult life. And the worst part is that since I’ve always had a tumultuous relationship with her, all I could do was stand there with a worried expression and arms crossed protectively (and insecurely) under my chest.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever hugged my grandma. I know that she’s always loved me, I do believe that, but I also know that of anyone in the family, I’ve been the biggest disappointment to her. Chubby as a pre-teen, a yo-girl in high school instead of a billboard for equestrian couture like she’d have preferred, a high school dropout, a black sheep having a baby out of wedlock. I was just never what she wanted me to be, and she proved that by lying to her friends, telling them that instead of not finishing high school, I had graduated and gone on to study journalism at Kent State.

She berated me when I got pregnant, yelling that I “wasn’t meant to have children.”

She never asked me if I was happy, though.

This blog? It’s called Oh Honestly, Erin because that’s what she’s always said to me. “Oh honestly, Erin” –  every time I let her down. “Oh honestly, Erin” – every time I did something imaginably stupid. “Oh honestly, Erin” – every time I tarnished the family name a little more.

And I’m not sure if I ever told her I loved her before last night, when I said it as we flitted from the room; but it was only because Corey had said it first and I coattailed him.

I do love her. I just don’t know how to say it. When it comes to my family, there is this fucking force field barricading the entrance of emotions, and any sign of weakness or utterance of honest endearments will be zapped dead like a mosquito poking around a bug lamp. So I just stand there stupidly and useless while my grandma is entering an existential crisis in the hospital.

It wasn’t until later  tonight, after Chooch and Henry went to sleep and I was left completely alone on the couch, that my emotions had the upperhand advantage. And it hit me, hard.

It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was taking my Pitt course guide over to her house, poring over it excitedly while she made me a cheese sandwich, finally feeling like she was proud of me. Now, college is just one more thing that I quit, she doesn’t even go in the kitchen anymore, and somewhere along the way I went back to feeling like a fuck up.

In this photo, she’s judging me. But I still love her.

A Note From This Tweeter: If you cannot grasp the concept of facetiousness, or if you feel you might literally stop breathing unless you correct my every spelling error, then perhaps you should not follow me. Because:

1. I do not have time or the care to reply to every douche bag and say “Dude, it was a joke.”
2. I do not have an editor to proof-read my tweets, nor do I need you, a stranger, to do it for me. Guess what?? I’m a HUMAN BEING sending TEXTS from a CELL PHONE. And sometimes I even do it when I’m DRUNK. Until someone starts the Twitter Gestapo, GET A FUCKING GRIP. This is Twitter not the motherfucking New Yorker.

Thank you. Proceed.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 16:45 I just scheduled something for 12/12; now I have a sinking suspicion that I already have something going on. Hope it’s not that gang bang! #
• 19:29 Just spent the past few minutes forcing my cat Willie to play w/ a Polly Pocket. The other cats are totally all “Better her than me.” #
• 19:32 twitpic.com/q5yih – She fucking loves it. #
• 21:31 “Crumbled in the 3rd” is an understatement. #pens #
• ***
• 00:16 Called Henry & ;thru heaving sobs, told him I missed him. He hung up on me. (Probably has nothing to do w/ the fact that my tears were fake.) #
• 10:46 My sanity is fissuring. Please send cupcakes to repair. #
• 11:51 I wish I could wear something like this w/o looking like a complete asshole: Seduction in StripesSpecial Circus bit.ly/5ncxMS #
• 13:26 All I want to remember about this past week is Chooch laughing while watching “Jumanji” for the 1st time. #
• 18:36 At Cracker Barrel with Alisha and I feel like our waitress keeps reminding me that I ordered a kids meal. Also, Alisha tried to abandon me. #
• 18:52 You know stress is getting to me when I can’t even finish a grilled cheese. #
• 21:45 I’m thankful for Alisha alerting me to bags of dutch apple pie pecans. They might not fix my crumbling family but they sure are tasty. #
• ***
• 11:09 Hay look @ the dumb! Freaky Feature! Mary&#8217 ;s Treacle: Have you ever laid awake in bed.. bit.ly/07575UE #
• 12:26 Don’t ever expect me to eat oatmeal made with WATER, My palate is way too refined for such hog slop! #
• 12:27 Plz, Santa? :( www.anthonygreenschildren.com/owlstore/ #
• 13:49 Henry:”Why do I want to give anything to Invisible Children? If I can’t see them, what good are they?” Those are the best kinds of children! #
• 14:36 Wow. I’m having chest pains and for a whole .5 seconds, Henry acted like he cared! #
• 14:51 So delighted that Chooch has made the whole house stink like the inside of his intestines. Want to come over? #
• 15:38 Spent a few riveting minutes with Chooch discussing whether or not Jason Voorhees poops. Chooch says no b/c clearly Jason lacks a butt. #
• 15:39 As for me, I’m undecided but plan to pen a research paper on this very topic. #doesjasonvoorheespoop #
• 18:08 Watching @daboogmang & @bed_in_revolt get married via webcam. Alisha and Henry are crying!! #
• 18:09 Actually, Henry’s eating peanuts and Alisha is ogling Jessi’s rack. #
• 19:40 Apple wine & pizza & #Penguins at Mark’s with Alisha. Nothing to complain about right now! (Until Alisha gets lippy with me.) #
• 19:47 Alisha told me she hates me, as a preemptive measure. And Mark thinks Sidney Crosby’s cute. #
• 20:31 Oh what I was just doing? Climbing a tall ladder onto a roof to break into Mark’s kitchen window. THATS RIGHT IM A HERO. Or burglar. #
• 20:32 Missed all but 2 minutes of the second period but my adrenaline high was worth it. #
• 20:34 Just so you know, that was the first time I climbed a ladder. Apparently Mark was more concerned about his Fiestaware than my bones. #
• 21:07 Melted chocolate on my chest, this is the best Saturday night I’ve had in aWHILE. #
• 21:09 Discussing with Mark who is the cutest Penguin. Too much wine turns me into one of “those girls” I guess. # (In the original tweet, I had the audacity to leave out the “of.” Thank god some poop smear caught it and proceeded to school me for the next 4 tweets!)
• 21:13 Mark to me: “I don’t think that makes you seasonal, that makes you bi.” #
• 22:05 The Penguins w on. Alisha and Mark missed every goal. I laughed in their faces. #
• 22:08 Me: “My boyfriend’s technically still married.” Mark:”That’s fine, if anyone’s going to hell, I fucked a priest.” #
• 22:24 I wonder what would have happened if I had to perform a tracheotomy tonight instead of climb onto a roof. #
• 22:33 Alisha looks sad when she watches Ghost Hunters. :( No really, I’m laughing. #
• 22:58 And if you’re Mark, you’d think that one of the last Harry Potter books would be perfect to shove down your pants. #
• 23:52 Glad there wasn’t a masked killer chasing me home, because I dropped my keys 4x before I got the door open. #
• ***
• 00:58 I wish Henry said, “Oh come in! I’m just taking a hot batch of cookies out of the oven!” everytime I came home. Failed a test. Got raped. #
• 01:38 I think it’s mighty rude that Henry left the room because I’m watching Degrassi. #
• 10:26 Had 1 of my recurring underwater nightmares, plus got an homage to Whoopi Goldberg inked on my thigh. That calls for consolation cupcakes. #
• 10:49 I get to visit my grandma in the hospital today. This is a very big deal. #
• 11:24 Pray that Henry’s not the only one you have to rely on in times of family trauma, unless u enjoy getting a pat on the back & nothing more. #
• 12:31 Today’s lesson: my family should steer clear of Vicodin. #
• 12:37 My grandma is telling us about the strip show that was performed in her hospital room last nigh t. She was in Hawaii two days ago. #
• 12:38 They WOULD make a good meatloaf in Hawaii. #
• 13:04 LOL @ Steelers. #
• 15:14 Chooch is telling everyone he wants a Jack in the box for Xmas. Not sure he realizes how gay those are. He’s going to be so disappointed. #
• 15:54 Hey, you know who makes a surly photographer’s assistant? That Henry fuck. #
• 21:09 I’m scoring pretty low at life today. #
• 21:21 Son, as far as I know, “bitch” is not replacing the period as a way to punctuate a sentence. So stop that shit, bitch. #
• 23:18 Hay look @ the dumb! What Bill & Jessi Look Like On a Computer Screen, with Elvis.: My awes.. bit.ly/07h8ugm #
• 23:29 Oh my god, who would pause TV to watch their cat follow an ant around the room — oh, shit. Nevermind. #
• ***
• 08:07 Oh shit, the morning radio DJs might talk abo ut hockey later? BUT WHAT ABOUT THE STEELERS. #
• 11:02 I can’t wait until it’s bye-bye Blackberry. #
• 12:53 Chooch to Henry: “I hate mommy because she doesn’t get me SHIT!” #
• 13:37 Yes, that @ladygaga sure is a music industry abomination. She writes her own songs and plays piano? THE AUDACITY!! #
• 16:54 No really, cardio when you’re sick is a great idea. I promise! You burn twice as many calories when your lungs collapse. #
• 18:14 I’d buy gingerbread deodorant. #
• 18:39 I wish I had a storm cellar in the backyard where Henry could go whenever he had to sneeze. #
• 20:01 Henry tried to get Chooch to trade out “bitch” for “puppy tails.” So now he just says “puppy tail bitch.” Getting the homeschool info now. #
• 20:24 Hay look @ the dumb! When hockey-watching begets heroism: The proposition of &#8220;Let&#82.. bit.ly/071c2K6 #
• 21:50 There is no reason why Miley Cyrus should ever be played at a hockey game. Unless they’re using her gaping maw for the goal. #nhl #pens #
• 22:08 Sorry Florida. You shouldn’t have any hockey teams anyway. #pens #
• ***
• 13:16 My friend Lisa said she can’t wait to move back to Pittsburgh, have kids, & maybe – MAYBE – let them be around Chooch. I laughed. #
• 13:48 My new phone came today. Perhaps later I’ll take the Blackberry out to a field & sledgehammer it. But 1st, acid bath! #suckadickblackberry #
• 15:40 Hey @awoodhick: your son is wanting to know what makes his weener big. Plz hurry home with your answer. #  (And thank god that same poop smear from above is on twitter and learned me about erections and how to be a good mother.)
• 17:54 I love how I get a new phone and @awoodhick ran off with it. #
• 19:24 Oh please hold – 19 clown cars just arrived. BAM. #
• 21:53 Apparently I’m a bitch when I have to learn something new. #
• ***
• 01:28 Watching NHL On the Fly makes me appreciate our local announcers. Some of them sound like they’re herniating over goals; my ears weep. #
• 09:56 I’m starting to get verifiably excited for thanksgiving. I hope everyone is in a good mood. And by that of course I mean well-medicated. #
• 10:12 In the short span of a minute, I burnt butter, started a small fire & seared my pinky. It was awe-notsomuch. #
• 14:52 I wish I wasn’t so ambivalent about my Etsy shop. I have so many pieces laying here, unlisted. Definitely over the pendants, too. #
• 21:41 I &lt;3 how I scour online for the classiest pumpkin pie this side of Heaven only for Henry to come home w/ ingredients for something else. #
• 22:17 I never know what to do with myself once hockey games have ended. Oh look, there’s Henry. Guess I’ll just go punch him a lot. #
• 23:26 Bleeding from a fight; smeared it on Henry. He said “ew” but secretly he’s aroused. #
• ***
• 01:14 Meticulously planning the demise of my neighbors. I’m thinking of having a themed par ty where my guests act out my desires. #
• 10:06 This Chockafuckee High School marching band needs to learn the concept of “straight line.” Go home, fuck ups! #
• 10:17 I’d be so pissed if the only thing I was able to amount to in life was being on Sesame Street. #paradebullshit #
• 10:23 I’ m thankful for making it to 30 without going to jail. And Caller ID so I never have to answer a call from my aunt. #
• 11:12 Oh my sweetly spanked Mussolini – Stefano DiMera is going to be at the Pittsburgh holiday parade?! I’m so there. But probably not. #
• 12:09 OMFG dog harness hell!!!! #
• 12:25 Here to report that after exhausting the patience of the human race w/ my incompetence, I’ve moved on to the animal kingdom. #

Automatically shipped byLoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts, actions and tampon-change. Please do not call the FBI.

Hello. Through a beautiful miracle, I was able to upgrade my downtrodden Blackberry with the busted-ass trackball for an iPhone. Now I can finally join the Mob.

Isn’t that the criteria? No?

Oh wait, but I can join the mob of Feist-loving, scarf-wearing hipsters at Starbucks?! Bonus! (<—OMG that was a joke.)

In other news, Thanksgiving is this week & I’m so excited to be finding shit for Henry to make. My mommy is having dinner at her house, after refusing to acknowledge that special November Thursday as a holiday last year. I love Thanksgiving. Mostly for the food. Ok, only for the food.

If you’re American and you’re reading this, what are your Turkey Holocaust plans? And no matter where you’re from, what’s your favorite holiday dish?

And this concludes my typing practice. I’m proud to report that I didn’t chuck the phone once. I just curtsied.

The proposition of “Let’s go downstairs” seemed innocent enough. No, that’s a lie. I was actually quite taken aback and had visions of being knifed/blackmailed/tickled/forced to lick a shoe until I caught Alisha shaking her pack of cigarettes at me.

We were at her friend Mark’s apartment, watching the Penguins game, eating pizza and quickly drankin’ our way through three bottles of wine.

“I’ll come too,” Mark decided, since the first period had just ended. He and Alisha grabbed their wine glasses. Not wanting to seem like some wino who can’t be without a glass in her hand for five minutes, I left mine on the table.

I had never met Mark before, but he was very affable from the get-go and had good vanilla handsoap in his bathroom. And even though I usually get annoyed with girls who watch sports for the eye-candy factor, it wasn’t annoying when Mark gushingly admitted to thinking Sidney Crosby is cute.

After Alisha and only Alisha finished her cigarette because she was the only one smoking, not me, I don’t smoke, Mark swung his keys in his hand and went to unlock the front door.

“Oh, shit,” he spat. Alisha and I stood there waiting for an explanation, but all he had to do was open his hand to expose my car keys dangling from his finger.

Mark lives with his brother, who conveniently was in Ohio for the weekend. And of course, Mark’s phone was in the apartment, watching the hockey game that had resumed by that point. His landlord’s number was in his phone, along with his brother’s, which he didn’t know off by heart. Through a phone relay, Mark managed to acquire his landlord’s number, and it naturally went straight to voicemail.

And then a bunch of panicking happened. At one point, we found ourselves sitting in my car, where we at least learned that the score was 3-0 Penguins. I emitted a dialed-back, near-silent “yay….

” accompanied by a watered-down roof-raise, because I had a feeling maybe Mark was a little bit too stressed for someone to be punching the roof of a car in jubilation.

“I can always ask one of my neighbors for a ladder,” Mark postulated. Moments before, we had scoped out the back of the house. He lives on the second floor, and there’s a small roof beneath his kitchen window, which he admitted to not locking. Standing on the sidewalk in front of his neighbor’s house, Mark turned to us and asked, “Before I go and ask for a ladder, will one of you actually climb it?”

My hand shot up to the sky. “Me! I’ll do it.” I could sense Alisha looking at me in surprise. But probably it was adoration.

“Hold my glass,” Mark said, shoving it at Alisha’s hand. As he turned to walk to the neighbor’s house, I started jumping up and down in excitement.

“This is fantastic! I’m so excited!” I squealed.

But Alisha, turning somber, placed her hands on my shoulders. “I just want to say that, of all my friends, I am so glad that it’s you here tonight. You are the bravest person I know, and I feel safe in your presence. When this first happened, in fact, I thought to  myself, ‘A-Prid, you need to calm yourself right down, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine. Erin’s here, and she’s like MacGyver. She will get us through  this. And then you’ll have the rest of your life to bake her chocolate-covered rewards.'”

And then she thrust one of the empty wine glasses at me so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a drunken sidewalk-bound hobo.

Able to procure a ladder, Mark tramped around to the backyard. I followed, beginning to feel the onset of nerves manifesting as prickles in my fingertips. The ladder was sprawled out on the shadowed grass with Mark muttering, “How do you open this thing?” while I scoped out (with eyes stretched out to the size of porn-industry standardized tits) all the things I could potentially impale myself on. Like literal wooden stakes that were used to prop up flowers.

The ladder was opened to its fullest potential and propped against the back of the house. Making sure Alisha and Mark had firm grips on either side, I began my ascent. It was a wobbly ascent. The ground below seemed uneven and I can’t say I felt very secure. But I thought about some really awesome things to help me get through it and by the second rung I was already pretending I was on one of the Real World / Road Rules Challenges, about to win $10,000 for my team and a snowboard I’ll never use. And then I remembered my team was Mark and Alisha and I won’t lie – I considered throwing the challenge.

By the fourth rung, I began ruing the fact that I left my wine on the coffee table.

By the fifth rung, it occured to me that no one asked Mark why he wasn’t shimmying up to the roof to save us. I already knew why Alisha wasn’t – she’s not a team player. And also, I think she once told me she was raped by a ladder one time? Maybe I dreamt that? Oh right, I remember now what it was – she’s allergic to heroism.

I vaguely remember hearing forced and monotoned words of encouragement, in the style of “Bad Actor Reads From Cue Card.” Supportive gems such as “Oh yay. You are. Doing.  A great. Job. Yay. Woo.” and “Don’t worry if the a/c unit falls on you! I don’t care about it!” and “I see that weather vane just plunged into your thigh. Can you try to not get any blood on the walls though? Thanks.”

Finally, I was at the top. The only thing left for me to do was turn to my right and swing my body onto the roof. And for the record, I’d like to point out that from the ground, the roof looked flat. But with it half a foot in front of my face, I was able to see that it had a slight peak to it. Awesome. But I had two people below counting on me, and without even swearing once (I KNOW RIGHT), I did a gentle dive over the gutter, where I then landed with the grace of a prima ballerina. And I won’t even remark on how the ladder simultaneously started sliding to the left, except that I just did.

Crab-walking to the kitchen window, it dawned on me that I never thought about what I’d do if I couldn’t get the window open. No way was I going back down that ladder. I once sat in a treehouse for hoursbecause I was too scared to come down the ladder. Granted, I was four. But I haven’t grown up much. I was able to slide up the screen with ease, but the window was more stubborn.

Every time I would get a good grip on it with my palms, the top half of the window would jiggle, and I’ve watched enough Dario Argento movies to know that this is not a good sign. Finally, I held my breath and pushed up as hard as I could. The bottom window slid up high enough for me to drop my forearms under it and finally have something other than clammy palms to use as leverage.

And then something that had been hanging on the inside of the window fell and made a loud enough crash for Mark to scream from the ground, “Do NOT break my Fiestaware!” This was right as I was swinging a leg onto the ledge and kicked a bowl that had been placed decoratively on the sill. My arm shot out and grabbed it, which was probably enough of a talent-display to play for the STEELERS. Just as I set the bowl out of harm’s way, my other leg was en route though the gaping window and kicked another Fiesta piece. I saved that one too. I may be clumsy, but ain’t no one ever said nothin’ about bad reflexes. Safely in the kitchen, I straightened up the Fiestaware collection and noticed that the first thing that fell was actually a stained glass window hanging. A quick examination learned me it was unscathed. A good thing, as I would later learn it was the first piece of stained glass Mark made.

There was two and a half minutes left to the second period. I got to see Max Talbot attempt a penalty shot as I poured another glass of wine.

“Hey Mark, you know what’s funny?” I said once he returned from taking back the ladder. “I’ve never climbed a ladder before.” And oh, how we laughed. This was when Mark admitted to not wanting to climb it because he was wearing slippers. And really I have to agree that my ballet flats are way better for house-scaling.

It’s crazy to think about what might have happened had I not succeeded. We’d probably have had to fashion an igloo from leaves and Alisha’s cigarette butts, catch some rats to cook with her lighter. Maybe we could have eventually started a brand new colony down by the river. Oh, the homeless have already done that? Shit.

The “how” isn’t important, but I found Alisha’s diary entry from that night.

With all the roof-raising I do, it was only natural that I would wind up on a roof someday.

My awesome friends Bill & Jessi got married yesterday by Elvis in Las Vegas. I wasn’t able to turn enough tricks to finance a trip out there, but luckily there was a webcast. So Alisha came over and we ate cupcakes while waiting for the big show to start. I mean, you know it’s a Really Big Deal when Alisha willingly puts down the Chia Pet she’s grooming to come over to my house to watch something on the computer.

Chooch pretty much had no idea what was going on, and every time Elvis started to sing, he’d slap his hands over his ears and yell, “TURN THIS DOWN!” Alisha was closest to the speaker, but she was too busy ogling Jessi’s boobs to rescue Chooch’s hearing.

You can’t really tell from a photo taken of a computer screen, but Jessi looked ridiculously hot in her dress. How could Bill concentrate??

And Bill’s hair was ridiculously pomp’d up. It was impressive. How could Jessi concentrate??

There was a major party vibe to the ceremony and I can’t imagine anything otherwise for the two of them. It was so sweet and fun to watch, but I wish I could have been there in person.

TOO CLOSE!

Congratulations, Bill & Jessi!!

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.  

• 15:22 twitpic.com/pdvdn – Chooch wrote this on my arm, said it means “Mommy’s awesome.” Then he called me a bitch b4 I could coo. #
• 21:23 Me: “Here, watch The Wizard of Oz.” Chooch: “Is there gonna be blood in it?” No blood, no swearing – he’s going to hate this movie. #
• 23:16 Hay look @ the dumb! TWLOHA Day: My Story: I&#8217;m cheating and posting what I wrote for.. bit.ly/XjwWD #
• ***
• 13:08 I’m going to see Thrice tomorrow. That should be enough to put me in a great mood all weekend, regardless of Henry’s plans. #
• 13:28 Walked outside and it smelled like the summer before 10th grade. Which is to say, like sex and grass. #
• 13:31 @awoodhick is that what that was? I thought you were just being careless with your hygiene again. #
• 14:34 In case anyone was wondering what Henry listens to while he cleans – totally Paramore. #
• 19:45 Never thought I’d be so happy to see the number 71. #
• 20:34 I only constantly correct Henry’s grammar so that my son doesn’t grow up talking like he was a Walmart baby. #
• 21:41 I love this hockey game! It feels good, after the last 4 games, to not cringe the whole time. #pens #nhl #
• 22:09 #nhl .04 secs left, Guerin ties the game & I made my son cry w/ my joyous screaming. Sorry Chooch, at least it wasn’t as bad as June 12. #
• 23:18 I mean, if Henry won’t babysit my Fishville tank while I take a gin bath, what’s he going to do when we have KIDS? Oh shit, nevermind. #
• ***
• 12:02 I have big plans for the Easy Bake frosting pen that someone is hopefully going to buy me soon. #
• 14:33 Remember when we kicked around dirt under the Death Tree in that cemetery? bit.ly/2Po1kb #
• 15:18 Who doesn’t want some Jeffrey Dahmer for Xmas? bit.ly/3TO7FV #
• 17:53 Why do I have a feeling that Travel Channel’s Meet the Natives is going to force me to pretend I’m not crying behind a pillow. #
• 18:39 HELLO IM AT A CONCERT WITH THE BIGGEST DICK EVE R. And no, it doesn’t feel good. #
• 18:40 He could have least worn a fitted flannel. #
• 19:02 Singer from Polar Bear Club just said Sidney Crosby’s his boy. I may be dumbz0rz but I’m gon’ go ahead & assume he’s LYING. #
• 19:27 Trying to explain the music world’s family trees to Henry is exhausting and fruitless. #
• 22:08 That was such a fantastic show until the end where I almost fought some scenester dick in a leather jacket IM NOT KIDDING. #
• 22:26 I was laughing & punched Henry’s shoulder real hard then screamed in pain. THAT my friends is why I didn’t try to punch the guy @ the show. #
• ***
• 11:22 twitpic.com/prgiz – Who knew monsterfied Abe Lincolns would be so popular? I’ve made 3 by request so far. #
• 11:58 @mrsevils HOLLA!!!!! I’m gonna stitch the shit out of that, you just wait!! #
• 13:59 Some people make it terribly hard to care. #
• 14:02 Apparently, sending Henry a “911” text because Roller Coaster Kingdom has cheat software was not a good idea. #
• 14:43 Whoever invented the exercise mountain climbers can go on & suck a dick. I’d consider growing one just to have them suck mine. #
• 17:18 Just found a thread on some Sarah Connor Chronicles (wtf) where people I don’t know were talking about me & my blog. Dunno how to feel. #
• 17:22 @awoodhick LOLLERSKATES #
• 17:26 Sarah Connor Chronicles FORUM that should have said. I have no idea how my shitty blog could come up in convo, let alone have readers. #
• 17:27 @Would_You That stupid exercise is evil and makes me cry every time! BUT I AM NO QUITTER! #
• 17:30 “Unfriend” is Oxford Dictionary’s Word of the Year bit.ly/Qwbm8. Good, because I use this a lo-hahahahahaha-t. #
• 18:09 If I do things retardedly Henry gets irritated & does it for me. This is just 1 of the ways I successfully eke thru life doing very little. #
• 19:31 @leota tsccwiki.wetpaint.com/thread/3472822/-?offset=240&maxResults=20 so random!! you have to scroll down a bit to see it. #
• 20:40 Pens game, Chardonnay. I really don’t need muc h more than that. Maybe a new boyfriend. & a Mogwai. & 1595 other things I just thought of. #
• 21:43 I hope so badly that my neighbors think I’m having rough sex. #
• 21:58 I could look at Matt Cooke smile all the livelong day. Preferrably while eating a sandwich. #nhl #pens #
• 23:47 Hay look @ the dumb! Thrice @ Diesel: When tickets for Thrice went on sale over the summer,.. bit.ly/3GGEAS #
• ***
• 13:19 I feel like I missed an important date yesterday. Like high tea with the Queen. Shit. #
• 15:18 Apparently I’m not supposed to laugh when Chooch calls his dad a bitch. #
• 15:37 According to the post on my Facebook wall, I just purchased a Sardine in Fishville. Thanks, Chooch. Just what mommy always wanted. #
• 15:55 One way to warm up super fast is by having some asshole knock a latte into your lap. #
• 20:10 I need to convince the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to detour thru my home so my neighbors can know what it’s like sharing walls w/ them. #
• 20:11 They should bring some jackhammers too. #
• 20:25 I spent a good 30 minutes pretending Chooch was pregnant & didn’t feel weird about it all. Then Henry made me stop. #
• 20:49 Facebook brings me dangerously close to old enemies. It should offer an “alley behind non-descript high school” application for fights. #
• 21:39 Henry’s favorite thing is sitting next to me while I’m working my way through a psycho-giddy fit & stealing peanuts off his plate. #
• ***
• 00:44 Instead of taking my playful mood for what it’s worth, Henry is acting suspicious, says I have a sneaky vibe. OH WE’LL SEE. #
• 08:12 I mean, I knew my child was strange. But give him a fever & all I can do is sit here & gawk. #
• 09:16 I think my son just asked the cat out on a date. #
• 09:31 RUN TRISH!!! #
• 13:26 Attention @awoodhick. Plz come home soon, else your son & girl-thing could perish. Bring coffee and chocolate. Oh, & medicine. #
• 13:52 Who needs chicken noodle soup when you can cuddle up to “The Lost Boys,” right Chooch? Better than a Snuggie, too. #
• 16:17 I’m sitting here thinking about how much of a BITCH Chooch is while he’s sick & I can’t help but feel reminded of someone. Can’t place it #
• 19:17 I can hear Henry upstairs trying to give Chooch medicine & it sounds eerily like he’s attempting an exorcism with a hot poker. And losing. #
• 19:18 I can’t handle one tank in Fishville, yet I went ahead and bought a second one. Oh the parallels to my life. #
• 20:16 It seems that my name is Erin, and I poop in a boot. #
• 20:33 Ew. My child is certainly not too sick to sass. #
• 21:34 My grandma fell again. I’m trying not to freak out. #
• ***
• 10:23 twitpic.com/q3v2c – Henry brought us breakfast. Chooch is using it to find new ways to be an asshole. #
• 12:50 Freaky Feature! Mary’s Treacle bit.ly/1EUFVo #EDT #etsy #
• 13:09 Wish my family would stop confusing Henry for a paramedic . #
• 13:49 Pretty sure @saucalisha has the ESP. #
• 16:45 I just scheduled something for 12/12; now I have a sinking suspicion that I already have something going on. Hope it’s not that gang bang! #
• 19:29 Just spent the past few minutes forcing my cat Willie to play w/ a Polly Pocket. The other cats are totally all “Better her than me.” #
• 19:32 twitpic.com/q5yih – She fucking loves it. #
• 21:31 “Crumbled in the 3rd” is an understatement. #pens #
• ***
• 00:16 Called Henry & ;thru heaving sobs, told him I missed him. He hung up on me. (Probably has nothing to do w/ the fact that my tears were fake.) #
• 10:46 My sanity is fissuring. Please send cupcakes to repair. #
• 11:51 I wish I could wear something like this w/o looking like a complete asshole: Seduction in StripesSpecial Circus bit.ly/5ncxMS #
• 13:26 All I want to remember about this past week is Chooch laughing while watching “Jumanji” for the 1st time. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts, actions and tampon-change. Please do not call the FBI.

Have you ever laid awake in bed at night thinking about how you want to be friends with a  girl who bakes delicious cookies, serves their friends coffee proper-like in vintage cups, and OH YEAH makes gorgeous art? Well, I found her. That girl you want to be friends with? Her name is Mary Louise and she is the proprietor of a shop on Etsy called Mary’s Treacle.

Mary’s  paintings, while whimsical at first glance,  have tenebrous tones to them; imagine if Alice had to submerse herself in the ocean to get to Wonderland. So it’s no surprise that she’s also a member of Etsy’s Dark Side. (However, if sea creatures looked the way Mary’s mind creates them, maybe I wouldn’t be so goddamn terrified of all things ocean. Maybe I might even want one as A PET.)

Having had no interaction with Mary prior to this, I felt somewhat of a creeper propositioning her with a feature on my little blog. But she said yes, and now I get to learn about this fabulous teammate of mine along with the rest of you.

—————————-

1.You currently reside in Seattle. Being so close to the Pacific, it’s no wonder your art is full of such fantastic sea creatures. But are there any other inspirations you draw from your surroundings?

Yes, definitely! Seattle is incredibly lush and beautiful. There will definitely be some paintings in the near future that depict its mountains, wide array of pine trees, colorful autumn foliage, the damp mist and the ominous black cloud cover we get in wet weather.

2.Mark Ryden once collaborated with Stan Ridgway and Pietra Wexstun to create a soundtrack for his Blood Show. What would the soundtrack to YOUR art show sound like?

Ooooh, Coco Rosie and Tom Waits.

3. I’m not ashamed to admit that I was a fan of MTV’s Laguna Beach and seeing that you once lived there, my fingers are practically doing the Lambada over here atop the keyboard. OMG I’ll just ask it: Did you live there while it was filmed and did you know anyone that was on the show? (OK, I’m a little ashamed that I asked this question, but it was burning inside of me.)

Heheh, I was going to Art School there at the time of the show’s filming. Laguna is sort of a small Beach Town and I actually found myself really annoyed when I wanted to go eat somewhere or run into a shop because it seemed they were always filming. My friends and I would always be groaning “Arrrg we cant eat (shop there, go over there, etc) there because they’re filming that stupid show!” I also wondered why anyone would be interested in Laguna enough to watch a show about it and the people there. Its seemed so humdrum at the time. My brother was actually in High School with them and they are in his yearbook.

My parents and friends still live there and I occasionally watch reruns of the show when I’m feeling home sick.

4. That really shouldn’t be as awesome to me as it actually is. But now that I’ve just let my guilty pleasure out of the bag, it’s only fair that you share one of your own!

That’s fair. I’m completely obsessed with all this Twilight crap, especially Edward. I just love it and I’m so embarrassed.

5. Don’t be! I catch my boyfriend every now and then trying to molest his hair into an Edwardian coif.

You are given the opportunity to have a commercial made for your art and have any film director of your choosing to make this into a advertising masterpiece. Who do you think would most accurately be able to represent your art and vision?

Spike Jones- Where the Wild Things are made me cry the whole way through, It was so thoughtful and beautiful.

6. If art wasn’t an option for you, what would be your Plan B?

A baker or a pastry chef, I would want to make people happy some how.

7. I love the baroque-style framing to your pendants. Does this reflect your personal style?

Yes, very much. Not appearance wise though, maybe a little bit. I’ve been really into gold in paintings lately. I just love the Gothic era paintings covered in gold leaf. I end up putting gold in most of my paintings, I try to pull that feeling into the pendants too with those settings. I’m currently working on integrating some old tarnished metal into my paintings as well.

8. For the sake of this question, let’s pretend you’re trying to get on a reality show and you need to make a video application spotlighting your most interesting characteristics. What you would film yourself doing?

The process of making my art and the wonky, erratic structure of my work day. I’d like people to understand just how much work goes into anything handmade; the planning, experimenting, execution, successes and failures. I also would want the non-artists to fully understand that art IS work , is important, and should properly be paid for and that it’s not “Fun” for us just to do it for free all the time. Whew… did I take that too far?

9. No, definitely not! I feel the same way sometimes.

In Pittsburgh, we say “nebby” instead of “nosy.” I’d be a disgrace to my childhood nickname of Nebby Debby if I didn’t ask what you were like in high school.

GOTH of course, then there was that weird, year long embarrassing Rave thing, then Goth again. I’ve tamed myself down quite a bit, but the dark music, clothes, and tastes still lurk.

10.What can fans of Mary’s Treacle expect to see from you in the future?

I have so many ideas that I’m overwhelmed and becoming quite scattered. There will be more intricate jewelry with some sawing , soldering, and riveting involved. As far as paintings go. I’ll make you a vague list with no explanations, because I don’t want to give too much away prematurely.

* Eggs
* Evergreens
* 2 more Bunnies
* Eyes closed
* Masked
* Matryoshkas
* Rhymes
* Self Portrait

———————————

If you’re as intrigued as I am, here are some ways to keep tabs on Mary:

Etsy: Mary’s Treacle

Blog: Mary Louise Art

Thank you Mary, not only for taking the time to humor me with fantastic information, but for painting a world in which I’d like to live.

And I gotta say, I wouldn’t be mad at all if some guy decided to buy me one of her necklaces for Christmas. Perhaps that guy’s name is Henry and he’s bumbling around somewhere with Twilight tucked under his pit and half a can of mousse in his hair. (Don’t deny it, Henry.)

Chooch is sick, won’t let me sit with him on the couch. For a long time this morning, I was told to “go in the kitchen and stand by the oven. Leave me ALONE!” But then he softened and crumpled into a sick heap on the couch and whined, “I wanna watch sumpin’ scary!” So we watched Friday the 13th together. The one with Corey Feldman. At one time, I knew every movie in order. But now I’m an old broad and actually forgot that Corey Feldman was even in any of these until I put it on this morning. And Chooch, god bless him, every time someone gets kilt, he goes, “Who did it?” Um, Jason, maybe? Stupid.

But now it’s over and I’ve been banished from the couch again. So, with nothing else to do and no motivation to paint right now (that’s after hours, now you know), I’ve been reading through all old LiveJournal entries, trying to find something in particular. Instead, I found a series of posts written from my second-to-last job at the data processing monkey house. While I was reading these, all I could think was, “It’s a fucking wonder I was never fired from there” and “Wait – did I ever do any work?” I’m sure Collin can answer that last one.

Then I found two entries about the bathroom there and it simultaneously made me miss that place and swallow throw-up. I’m reposting it because I have nothing else to say while I await the next Freaky Feature subject to bare her soul for me. (It should be a good one, too!)

Oh, and P.S.! Thanks to Andrea, Tiff, and Dorothy for sending me magnets! More on that later this week, too. (I’m still looking for more magnets, btw!)

——————————————————-

Bathroom Discourse

August 2007

One of my favorite things about working here is playing a little game called “What In the World Will Make Erin Dry Heave Tonight?” Could it be the dumpster in the outside hallway, long overdue for an emptying, contents ripe and roiling in the August humidity, the putrid stench of which permeates through the tiniest nook and cranny and wafts its way in sinister coils into our work areas and kitchen where it gyrates near the fridge and dares us to retain our appetite?

Maybe Jonnie May the Security Guard will want to shoot the shit with me and I’ll be forced to fixate on her dirty snaggle tooth while being held against my will in the bubble of rot we around here call “the kitchen.”

Mostly, it’s as simple as taking a stroll through the restroom.

If it’s a particularly good day, I’ll arrive right on the heels of some nasty ass broad pinching a loaf after devouring a petting farm, and then forgoing the courtesy flush and Glade spritz. Because nothing complements a fresh cascade of diarrhea than the crisp notes of apple cinnamon.

Maybe a tampon, bloated with toilet water and menstruation, will be fanned out like pretty cotton origami bouncing off the sides of the toilet bowl.

Last week was a memorable delight that I took great pleasure penning in my diary with flourishing strokes of calligraphy: Along the side of one of the sinks was a bright, thick streak of  Red.

Oh look, it’s 1976 and a blind extra just walked in here from the set of Carrie and mistook the sink for a towel. I tried to shrug it off as an average day at MSA.

Or maybe someone performed an auto-kidney extraction next to the commode because they don’t have the Internet at home and needed to list it on eBay immediately. I hope they made it back to their desk to do that.

Maybe someone was eating a heavily ketchup’d burger next to the sink because they have some weird disorder where they need to watch the reflection of their teeth gnashing. This is a true condition. Janna has it.

Maybe some bathroom birthing enthusiast shot one out and left the remains of the placenta on the porcelain in lieu of a victory flag.

No matter the scenario, I wasn’t going anywhere near that sink and subsequently failed to eradicate the memory of it from my mind for two days. Look, I’m a girl and I too put on my menstrual party hat every month, but I don’t swipe a veritable advertisement of it on the sink as an invitation. Though really, I’m hoping the blood flowed from an orifice not betwixt legs. (Sometimes it feels like I’m in the bathroom of CBGBs and I half-expect to step over someone in the throes of over-dosing.)

Then on Friday, the industrial-sized roll of toilet paper in one of the stalls had fallen out and was strewn dejectedly near the base of the toilet, where countless strands of bacteria were inevitably colonizing. I continued on to the handicap stall. While I was basket weaving (what, you don’t think I perform regular bodily waste removal like the rest of you, do you?), I noticed a rather large box, with a built-in handle, off the right of the stall, half-concealed in aged Christmas wrapping paper. A post-it note adhered to the top informed me that it belonged to our new employee, Babi, and to “Pls not remove, Thank U.”

Of course, my gossip-greedy fingers spun it around to the non-gift-wrapped side. It was a toilet seat raiser. I’m excited to have a new mystery to involve myself in: Why does the new lady need raised upon the toilet, and why doesn’t she stow it away discretely in the utility closet so assholes like me don’t make fun of her on the Internet?

Oh wait, she is concealing it. With wrapping paper.

Operation: Photograph Toilet Seat Raiser

I was on a mission when I got to work last night: to acquire evidence of the Christmas-papered toilet seat raiser. Every twenty minutes or so, I’d stuff my cell phone into my pants and duck into the restroom, hoping that Babi had finally stowed it away in the handicapped stall. Three hours into the shift, I began to have doubts and started to wonder if Babi had quit. I think I voiced my concern a little too emphatically to Eleanore, whose answer of, “I don’t know, babe,” seemed coated with suspicion, because who the fuck cares about New Employee’s status? Well, I do. My hands were actually trembling, I’m embarrassed to admit. I finally found out that she had merely called off, and I was relieved. I mean, she can quit, but not until I get my picture.

It took Babi several hours to hit up the bathroom tonight, but she eventually did. I mean, she’s old. How long can the elders really hold their bladder?

Raised eyebrows were probably flashed every time I walked in and walked back out. What? I’m checking for my period. It’s usually over there, in that corner, with a purple Post-It note on it. Your period doesn’t have a name tag on it, too?

I forgot to turn the sound off of my phone during the bathroom recon, so the enchanting melodies of a boing-ing spring ricocheted off the tiled walls, like I opened up a can of clown sex. It nearly gave me a stroke.

When tickets for Thrice went on sale over the summer, I bought them the very day. No hesitation. I believe my exact words were, “We might not have a place to live by November, but at least we’re going to see Thrice.” It’s like when people are financially-strapped, but still find ways to buy cigarettes. That’s me and concerts. I’m just lucky that all the shows I want to go to are typically $15 tickets.

The hard part was buying the tickets in August and then having to wait until November 15th for the show.

The venue was Diesel, which used to be Nick’s Fat City and at one time in my life, I spent more time there than anywhere else in the city. It was my favorite venue and I saw Cold there countless times. Now, it’s some trendy club piece of shit for mulleted Roethlisburger-jersey-wearin’ yinzers and faux-fur wearing hos to fuck in a dimly corner, Mike’s Hard Lemonades in both hands. In other words, it’s a shitty fucking place to watch a rock show.

Henry and I started out in the upstairs lounge, but it’s impossible to see anything up there now. But because Henry is An Old Guy, I let him rest his arthritic laurels on a creepy leather couch during the opening bands. And I really like the opening bands (Polar Bear Club and The Dear Hunter), so he should have been giving me a hand job AT LEAST. If he wasn’t too busy trying to figure out everyone’s sexual orientation. And just because there were bands playing, don’t think for a minute that meant anyone around us stopped talking. No, everyone just upped their indoor voice’s to ale-scented SCREAMS and went about their conversations like they were casually mingling around a punch bowl at Uncle Jimmy’s retirement-from-pedophilia party. And you KNOW all they were discoursing was that BOO HOO the Steelerslost. Oh fucking well! Jesus wept, now get the fuck on with your life.

I only had one drink there. But before we left, I had downed (read: chugged) a large glass of Chardonnay. I was feeling fucking frisky. And I was also ready to go the fuck downstairs where I could be around the people who maybe gave a bit of a shit about Thrice. I could tell Henry was 100% against this plan, but I paid for his ticket so he was at my mercy. The floor downstairs was packed, but I wasn’t too bothered by it. Thrice pulls in an older crowd, so I didn’t have to worry about accidentally grazing underage cock. (This was in Henry’s “con” column, though.)

During the longest sound check in the world, the burly man next to me kept massaging my left boob with his elbow. I kept laughing about this, and Henry would turn around and, also laughing like he was in on the joke, would ask, “What?” I’d just shake my head guiltily and laugh harder because it was EROTIC OK? I kind of LIKED IT. That guy was (one of) my type(s).

Finally, Thrice took the stage. I won’t go into too much detail because I’m sure no one gives a shit, but they were spot on and amazing as usual. It was a very testosterone-driven crowd, but there was no violence to be concerned with, just a mutual admiration for the talent before us. I spent a good bit of the show wiping tears from my eyes because Thrice is just really that good. I named my kid after their drummer, for Christ’s sake! (To clarify, it was mostly because he had an Ask Riley column in Alternative Press for awhile during  my pregnancy, so that kind of put the name on my radar. But he is a really tremendous drummer!)

My favorite part of the night was watching Henry, who was still standing statue-like in front of me, twitch in irritation through the whole show. The group of people to our left were really moving around a lot and singing, which didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I really liked the crowd around us. But Henry kept getting bumped by them and I’d see him turn stiffly and give off Pissed Off Dad radiation waves. I could NOT stop laughing. He was in so much anguish. Sometimes I’d see him swipe at his brow in defeat.

It got even better when they lit a joint and began passing it around. The clench in Henry’s ass was so fucking hardcore at this point that the military could have used it to crush al qaeda necks. I wanted so badly for one of them to offer it to Henry so I could see him unleash 1986 Panama-stationed Air Force Hank on their stoned asses.

The show was over by 10:00pm. Thrice was being rushed off the stage because, in Dustin Kensrue’s words, “discotheque 2000” was about to start.

There is one way in and out of that dump, and of course every fucking idiot began a mass exodus in the general vicinity of the exit. I was trying to hold on to the back of Henry’s shirt so I wouldn’t get swept away. The merch tables were all lined up by the exit, so people were stopping, causing everyone else to slam into each other. Some leather-jacketed scenester analdrip kept pushing me. And not just little nudges, like he was going with the momentum of the rushing crowd. No, these were hands-on-my-back shoves.

So I’m standing there, smashed inside a wall of sweaty dudes, inhaling beer breath and ripe body odor, and I’m getting angrier and angrier. Clearly, we’re all trying to achieve the same successes in life: to get out of this boiler room in one piece, before the shitty house music starts bumping. But he’s pushing me, and he’s pushing me one too many times and I lost  my temper. I turned around and screamed, “Dude, I can’t fucking GO ANYWHERE, motherfucker.”

And still, he pushed.

So I yelled again, “Dude, STOP PUSHING ME.” I dug my feet into the floor and leaned back into him.

And then, oh this is my FAVORITE part. He took his hands and RAN THEM DOWN MY BACK. And it was NOT sensual! AT ALL.

I jabbed that motherfucker in the gut so hard with my elbow.

Meanwhile, Henry’s bobbing on ahead of me, whistling Disney toons and throwing a yo-yo.

Once outside, I stomped the entire way back to the car, bitching about how murderous that prat made me, and demanding Henry to look at my hands, all a’shook with THE RAGE.

I try, I try so HARD to stay cool in situations like this. But I have a really sick temper. And it gets worse with age. I try to tell myself that you just can’t be too cautious in situations like that, that someone could have a knife or a gun. And it doesn’t matter that he was a guy and I’m a girl. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have hauled off and cold-cocked me in the face. And we all know Henry does not, and will never have my back, because he’s always the first one to say that my inability to bite my tongue is going to get me in trouble one day.

And this may be so, but it wasn’t that way last night, and I’m glad I got to get a shot at that asshole behind me. NO ONE PUSHES ME AROUND.

FUCK.

It was a shitty end to a really great night. Well, that and the repulsive middle-aged couple we passed on our way out, who were wearing age-inappropriate spandex-mix and practically fucking up against a wall. Discotheque 2000, indeed.

(Srsly almost lost my shit when they played this.)

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 14:43 Today, Chooch discovered the glory of Roman Dirge & then made me apologize for giving him a kiss. Somehow, these are connected. #
• 23:53 I wish Jarome Iginla would ask me to prom. I’d even let him honk a boob every time he punctuated a sentence with an “eh.” #
• ***
• 10:17 Nothing like a little kickboxing to simultaneously relieve stress and promote aggression. I want to pet a bunny and kick a hobo in tandem. #
• 10:18 So now, not only does the post office lose my packages, they steal the contents too. Fantastic system. #
• 10:59 In the past when I felt like this, I’d just have a party. Guess I should start perusing the Internet for a guest list. #
• 11:42 I love that Henry gives me choices & then chooses for me. That’s how I know I’m in a real relationship. #
• 13:18 Hay look @ the dumb! Franklin&#8217;s Bar, two years later: It&#8217;s hard to believe it&#.. bit.ly/3YoNFX #
• 14:52 It’s weird to know someone for over half your life, yet really not know them at all. I’m too old to keep holding on. #
• 15:13 For all your inappropriate Xmas card needs: noncomposcards.etsy.com
• 17:09 Swear I just heard Wolf Blitzer say “retarded” army general, instead of retired. #
• 18:18 Henry, about 2006: “That was a bad year.” Me: “Uh, that’s the year Chooch was born.” Henry: “That was a good year.” Remember that, Chooch. #
• 22:43 #Pens #Kings game just started and I already have a dancing WTF above my head. #
• 17:40 Hi Twitter. My mommy just called & complimented me. I nearly amputated a leg, but no – I wasn’t dreaming. #
• 19:04 I keep telling Chooch to get a life, and he just keeps sitting on the couch. Like, shouldn’t he have a job by now or something? #
• 19:22 If Chooch was a Horton in Salem, he’d wake up tmrw as an 18yo. Great, but then he’d also have amnesia & a prego gf who might be his sister. #
• 19:38 If anyone here uses flickr, add me! I’m bored over there: flickr.com/photos/rowdyruby. I’ll add you back & comment I promise! #
• 19:57 If my tears were ever discovered to be an antidote for zombie bites, just put on a jersey retirement special & I’ll fill a few chalices. #
• 19:58 What, aren’t antidotes stored in golden chalices? Beer steins? Don’t tell me cobwebbed mason jars. #
• 22:26 I refuse to read nursery rhymes to Chooch. He wants to know about Georgie Porgie, he can go out & buy himself some Hooked on Phonics. #
• 22:32 twitpic.com/okf12 – Henry’s speed reading it to him, but that’s mostly so no one will notice he can barely read. #
• ***
• 13:35 I just speedbagged myself in the face. It was a refreshing wake-up but maybe next time I’ll just stick with a spritz of ice water. #
• 14:10 On the phone w/ Henry, he goes, “Ok gotta go, looks like Chooch is gonna fall off a pole.” I KNEW they’ve been going to strip clubs w/o me. #
• 18:28 I’m trying to eat my SOUP and Alisha won’t stop looking at me and laughing. Let me eat my SOUP! #
• 19:09 Alisha is obsessing over Thailand and keeps asking me questions, since I’ve recently emigrated from there. #
• 19:50 Alisha is dying for some blood cockles cooked with prik peppers. #
• 21:47 HENRY PUNCHED MY THIGH IM FILING FOR A PFA! Or buying a gun. HENRY PUNCHED MY THIGH IM BUYING A GUN! #
• 22:55 Oh Penguins, your power play unit makes me drowsy. Not that the Sharks was any more invigorating. #
• 23:58 3/4 of me wants to turn off this hockey game, but I’d feel so fairweathered. It’s devastating to watch, though. #
• ***
• 00:44 TRAINWRECK. #
• 12:09 Henry: “Look at the palm tree.” Me: “Is it real?” Henry: “Yes, because palm trees are red and plastic.” #
• 12:17 Outback should give out commemorative tshirts w/ their awesome blossoms. “I just fought in a war & all I got was PTSD &a shitty onion thing.” #
• 12:29 We’re en route to Ligonier, PA. The last time I was here, Henry & I nearly fought to the death, but I guess that’s just like any day. #
• 16:19 If I lived in the countryside, I better have a long ass driveway. And a lantern. And a helicopter to get me to the city. #
• ***
• 11:30 Hay look @ the dumb! Legwarmer&#8217;d Octopi: Recently, this really great girl named Barb.. bit.ly/2AeENS #
• 12:05 Um. I feel like Henry and I didn’t fight ONCE yesterday, but how can that be possible. #
• 14:24 Henry: “For all the things I do for you, you should just be on your knees all the time…..praying that I don’t leave you.” #
• 16:13 Can anyone spare $400? I need to buy a puppy. I mean, bills. I need to pay bills. #
• 17:23 Called Henry while he was at the store & tried to get him to say hi to our cat Marcy. He WOULD NOT & I’m outraged. #
• 22:13 GO BLACKHAWKS GO! #
• ***
• 05:34 Things I Learn From Chooch @ 530am: He wants to hammer snakes to trees like picture frames. And mosquitoes are bitches. #
• 12:17 I hate that I catch myself humming mindlessly to the Fresh Beat Band. THIS IS PRECISELY WHAT THEY WANT. #
• 18:19 Why do I have to be the ring in which my kid tortures the cat. I’m about to throw a fit to get them to back the fuck out my space. SHIT. #
• 18:28 Me: “I hated Operation when I was a kid. I used to kick it & throw it against the wall.” Henry: “So you haven’t changed. At all.” #
• 19:11 Seriously hoping the #Pens don’t make me cry again tonight. #
• 19:26 Please let Chris Bourque score tonight. Hell, please let ANY Penguin score tonight. #
• 20:18 Billy Guerin is playing like a hooker with a chronically dry vagina. Must be so frustrating. #Pens #nhl #
• 21:31 If I hadn’t had a glass of wine, this latest #Pens blowout would hurt way more. #
• ***
• 10:52 If I ever saw a real tornado, I’d pee my pants and push Henry into it. Then after that, I’d push him into the tornado. #
• 11:25 twitpic.com/p4a90 – Isn’t it pretty though, @skyspun?? #
• 14:41 When Henry asked him for a kiss, Chooch scoffed, “Guys don’t kiss!” O.o I didn’t teach him that. #
• 15:02 Yay, that’s me! RT @EtsysDarkSide: RT @grigiodesign feature of the week!somnambulant grigiodesign.blogspot.com/ #
• 17:05 Well, it only took 2 months, but I finally finished Alisha’s birthday present. Maybe now it can count as a Xmas present, too. #
• 18:55 Henry’s not interested in art because he doesn’t understand it. #
• 19:11 8 seconds into the #Caps game, and Semin scores. And then punches the glass in some little kid’s face. #
• 19:12 And as I was typing that last tweet, Islanders came right at Theodore with a retaliation. Fuck I love hockey. #
• ***
• 00:09 As a coach, how do you stand there watching your team lose by EIGHT GOALS and not stick flaming bamboo spears into their assholes? #
• 11:49 I am not a factory. #
• 12:30 My son slept with a spatula and 12 cents last night. #
• 14:03 I can’t stop calling my kid Bitchy Luongo and when will he understand that bananas need more than 10 minutes to ripen. Get a life, Bitchy. #
• 14:12 twitpic.com/p95sf – “Jason [Voorhees] put a rope over that kid” Original drawing by an underroo’d Bitchy Luongo. #
• 14:48 I tried to cut Chooch’s hair but then had to stop because it was starting to look like he did it himself. #
• 16:50 My friend Lauren wrote on Henry’s wall in honor of Veteran’s Day, and I honest to god almost made myself puke from laughing so hard. #
• 17:16 Alisha, please hurry and get off the trolley so we can go have our taco orgasms. For real. And also because I have to pee. #
• 17:19 Alisha is precisely a minute late at this point. Rude. #
• 17:21 OMG walk a little slower, Alisha. #
• 19:31 I just had a delightful date with Al isha. Even the quail fetus dripping down my thumb was pleasant. #
• 19:48 Watching hockey should NOT make my fingertips numb. #
• 20:00 Fucking FINALLY! And that’s how a goal is scored! LET’S GO PENS!! No shutout for Brodeur! #nhl #pens #
• 22:07 I just ran all the way up a steep hill because rape paranoia set in. #
• 22:14 So the guys I thought were going to hogtie me? Turns out they’re very nice guys. happy ending! (But not THAT kind.) #
• 22:20 I could never be a streetwalker. Crossing that off the list RIGHT NOW. . #
• 23:16 I’ve never understood the phrase “dollars to donuts.” I’m maybe too dumb. #
• ***
• 05:55 Today I’m learning to shoot a gun. Hope some Witnesses come calling. Also, I should probably get a gun. #
• 09:44 Someday I’ll tell the harrowing tale of my coffee foibles and how Alisha saved me with packs of Via. #
• 09:54 Don’t forget! Today is To Write Love On Her Arms Day bit.ly/3E6sOH #
• 12:10 I appreciate that people want me to learn of their Erin-centric anger via Facebook, but tweeting it will get the point across quicker. Duh. #
• 12:37 Chooch won’t let me write love on his arm because he hates love. #
• 13:00 Today Chooch’s name is Polka Dot Cuddles. He loves it about as much as any death row inmate would. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts, actions and tampon-change. Please do not call the FBI.

I’m cheating and posting what I wrote for Blogathon, because it concisely sums up how I feel about TWLOHA.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had bouts of depression, mania, suicide dreams, the urge to hurt myself or break things. It got really bad when I was in high school and I knew something wasn’t right, that living like that couldn’t have been normal; and the school’s social worker knew that something wasn’t right, but it was something that my family just didn’t want to hear. Still, my mom abided by the school’s wishes and got me into therapy, though she held true to her theory that this was all “because of a boy.

”

But it wasn’t because of a boy and it was the first time things started making sense to me. Depression, bi-polar, any mental illness, wasn’t something that was being talked about that much and it wasn’t like I could call up a friend and be like, “Hay girlfriend, how ’bout that chemical imbalance, oh hahaha.” I did a lot of suffering in silence pre-therapy. If I tried to talk to my family about it, I was laughed at. Accused of trying to get attention. Well, um, yeah. I kind of was. Attention to the fact that I needed help.

But then my mom pulled me from therapy. I went back to being unmedicated and it didn’t take long at all for the heaviness to come back over my heart and the noise to refill my head. For years and years and years, when people would ask me, “Why did you drop out of school?” I would say I didn’t know.

But I do know. It was that. Depression was making going to school into a horror show for me. And my family still laughs at me when I try to talk about how I feel. Still. Because they don’t know how to handle taking it seriously.

These days, kids talk about it. And if their family is as close-minded as mine, they have other people to go to. It’s not taboo anymore. And with organizations like To Write Love on Her Arms, kids are starting to realize that there is help, and hope, available to them. And becauseTWLOHA is very tightly affiliated with music and Warped Tour and you see bands wearing the shirts, I think that makes it even better for the kids because it gives it less of a clinical help-line feel and more of a haven for kids to know that it’s OK, that they WILL BE OK.

I wish To Write Love on Her Arms was around when I was in high school.

Yeah, this picture wasn’t hard to accomplish AT ALL. No, I just had to bribe my son with a shitload of chocolate, threaten to get Santa’s fat ass on the phone, and promise a lifetime of wedgies until he finally conceded. I dont know WHERE he gets his bull-headedness. And the unfortunate inability to stand tall under bribery’s iron fist.

The beginning of November always weighs heavily on me because it’s when my pappap’s birthday falls. I try not to let it bother me, but it’s like his ghost is always there, hovering. It’s not like I don’t want it to be, though, but that doesn’t make me feel any less sad. Part of me doesn’t want to “get over it”, no matter how many “friends,” family members, or therapists tell me to, because the hurt in my heart reminds me of who I am and where I came from.

I had wanted to post this photo last week on his proper birthday, but I couldn’t find it.

I tore through all of my photo albums, to the point where I started to think that I had constructed the photo in my subconscious, and started to panic because I’m afraid to start forgetting things about him, like his loud laugh, or the way he would tap his pinky ring off the church pew and say, “One day this will be yours” (for the record, it’s not mine). I don’t want to forget about the time he got pickpocketed in Rome and remained so calm, yet lost his shit when some asshole grabbed the cab we were waiting for.  How we would go on family vacations to Wildwood, NJ and he and I would sneak out for ice cream after everyone else went to bed. How he would listen to his Mike and the Mechanics tape in his truck and say, “This song reminds me of my father” every time “Living Years” came on.

And my photos of him, don’t even get me started on my photos of him. My aunt is so afraid I’m going to raid my grandma’s house of all the Lalique and jewelry when all I would actually take is every photo album I could carry in a potato sack. OK fine, and there’s the fucking fantastic sculpture of Marquis de Sade that I have always had my greedy eye on. I recently asked my aunt Sharon for the purple heart that he earned in WW2 and she got completely spastic on me.

I don’t have anything of his. I don’t want it for materialistic reasons, for greed, I just want to have something that he once held. I don’t care at this point if it’s a scrap of a shirt. My family won’t let me have anything and that’s a hard pill to swallow sometimes. I guess it’s my punishment for being the black sheep.

But I finally found the birthday photo the other night, in this big red velvet album full of my baby pictures. I’m guessing from the not-yet jaded look in my eyes that this was back in 1980. Chooch and I sat on the couch and pawed through the album and every time we turned a page to find his face perma-glued onto the yellowed backing. I would proudly say, “That’s my PAPPAP,” like a kid boasting the best toy ever during show and tell. And that’s what makes it suck even harder lately, not the fact that I don’t have that shiny toy to brag about anymore, but that Chooch never got to know him. And those two would have been crazy about each other.

My pappap was the one who made all of my birthdays amazing. He raised the bar so high that sometimes, in his death, I don’t even want to bother to celebrate my big day. And looking back, I realize that aside from a lousy birthday cake, no one ever really did anything for his birthday. If I could have one last chance, one last opportunity to light up some trick candles, I’d make sure he knew for real how much everyone loved him. I guess he did know, even in the absence of actions, but still. He deserved a party. A really fucking lavish party. With clowns and twenty bottles of Dom. Or, at the very least, a card with all these sentiments scrawled in ink.

He never expected anything from any of us: my brothers, my mom, my aunts, or my grandma. All he wanted was happiness for everyone, and it seemed like so much of the time, someone was always mad at him, always for materialistic bullshit.

This was Halloween, 1983. I found it during my search for the birthday cake photo. I can guarentee that whoever took this photo, whether it was my mom or grandma, someone was pissed that my pappap was walking past in the background. I’m certain there was an annoyed hiss of, “You ruined the picture, John!” but for me, I look at this and think, “Oh good, another picture of my pappap,” and I bet the rest of them would think the same thing.

You guys remember the organization I blogged for during the last Blogathon?  Well, this Friday every one can be a part of their movement just by writing a simple word on their arms. I’m doing it, and you should too. Take pictures and share them on here with me!