Wednesday night,  Chooch was over Janna’s house, making her family think he’s some kind of angel or something. Feeling inspired to listen to something other than the stack of MP3 CDs I have in the car, I backpeddled to one of my CD racks, closed my eyes, and plucked out a CD by the Pale to listen to on my way to pick up Chooch. (Yes, a CD! Remember those?) I vaguely remember liking The Pale enough to put them on mixes back in the day – I think this might have been circa 2003-4. I also vaguely remember that they changed their name to the Pale Pacific sometime after the release of this album and I never really followed them after that.

The first song didn’t really move me much, but by the time the opening notes of the second tracks filled my freezing car, I was 24 years old again, it was spring time, and Henry and I were walking in a cemetery. And then I listened to the words, really listened, and suddenly my face was wet and I was murmuring “Aw” out loud and I swear to you, the last eight years of my life flashed by and it hit me, fucking cold-cocked me in the face, and not that I didn’t already know, but I was taken over by this overwhelming realization of how lucky I am to have Henry. Yes, I said it! I have fucked up so many times that it’s almost like, why get a job? I have one! I work in the Fucking-Up Lab. And somehow Henry forgives me every time (though he keeps track).

I am the one who can solve all your problems
A savior with only you to save
That’s why I’m here
At least I tell myself that
The motivation becomes so blurred

Henry’s always picking up the pieces (sometimes quite literally, because I’m a destructive wild woman), always making sure I don’t run off with a razor blade/bottle of sleeping bills/keys to the car, always supporting me even when everyone else is placing bets for me to fail.

And you want them to see
And you want them to know
But they never find the real you
You never once complained
But now twenty years are gone
And you’re ready to explode

That’s me, Vesuvius Rachelle.

In light of recent events, I’ve just been finding perspective everywhere. In music, in my little family, in my underwear. It doesn’t matter if not everyone appreciates you, as long as that one person does. So, I don’t know. I guess, thank you Henry. And don’t get too used to these PDAs.

The Pale – Gravity Gets Things Done

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

• 18:56 Henry & Alisha are chatting pointlessly about gamey meat. I think I might die. #
• 19:31 I just fashioned my tree topper from an aluminum baking pan thingie and a McDonalds straw. It’s trailer fabulous. #
• 19:40 Ayo, tree topper delight up in here. yfrog.com/4a1dvtj #
• 20:32 @katyhardy a bit belated but the new hair is hot! #
• 21:24 I think today’s highlight was when Chooch saw me from behind wearing a full length coat & said, “Nice dress, bitch.” My mini Nicole Richie. #
• ***
• 00:20 I’m still affected every time I hear Sponge’s “Plowed.” It always makes me feel 18 & drunk again in my first apartment. Simple times! #
• 00:35 Let’s play Words With Friends on the iPhone! My username is ‘Ohhonestlyerin’. bit.ly/2qbpQ #
• 02:01 I’m letting provocative thoughts of eggnog impede my slumber. #
• 10:57 I would be more excited about the new Lost previews if I could remember what happened last season. #
• 11:28 Trying not to topple the Xmas tree while exercising is an exercise in itself. #
• 14:04 I’ve been waiting 13 hours to throw down “neuron” on Words but bananahands won’t take his turn. I feel jilted! #
• 15:54 Me to Henry: I wish you had an iPhone so we could play Words together. I also wish you knew how to spell. #
• 16:07 Someone just said “I actually kinda like your tree.” Actually? Kinda? It’s like she’s admitting to liking Spencer Pratt! #
• 16:08 I bet her head was hung when she typed it out, too. #
• 20:43 Fuck I wish I was at THIS hockey game. #Pens #Canes #
• 20:46 I think I gave myself a celebratory broken bone. #
• 21:48 Hay look @ the dumb! The Christmas Tree Episode: In some families, pulling out the old Christmas tree and decoratin… bit.ly/5QWuwn #
• ***
• 10:37 Chooch & I mauled the tree with another pack of tinsel; looks even fruitier. Needs a garter belt. #
• 14:33 In the most serious game of Words. If I lose, I must marry my opponent. He lives in GA; I’m shivering in PA. I might just throw this match. #
• 14:41 Got my first consignment payment from Wildcard. 3 of 5 pieces I gave the shop last month sold! Better than I’ve been doing on fucking Etsy. #
• 15 :57 Plus: my new Word boyfriend can SANG. Minus: he’s a God person. He might not like me once he gets to know me. #
• 19:07 My new boyfriend Rob is 11 years younger than Henry, and still older than me. Whoever would’ve guessed I’d meet my soulmate playing Words. #
• 22:12 Nice dress, bitch. voicesapp.com/kz2nrk #
• ***
• 01:16 Hay look @ the dumb! And it was better than Christmas: I got to go to the Pens vs Blackhawks game Saturday night wi… bit.ly/5aFNDy #
• 01:41 Jawbox on Fallon. Never thought i’d see the day. That was completely worth sitting thru the rest of the show. Yay J. Robbins! #
• 12:06 Last ditch effort. Need help with yr xmas shopping? Use the code TWEET in the “message to seller” to receive 15% off. bit.ly/6BAlBk #
• 12:25 I woke up today feeling better than I have in years. I can’t explain it, but it’s like I drank a cup of Disney World anticipation. I likey. #
• 19:28 It’s a good thing Henry is here to water the Christmas tree considering I had no idea trees needed water. #
• 20:53 Chooch started bitching about something in the other room & I had this quick moment of “OMG I have a kid; I forgot.” #thatsgoodparenting #
• 21:09 Henry’s making shortbread. I offered to separate eggs. Watched him do 1; almost puked. I’m back to watching hockey. Talk abt role reversal. #
• 21:38 I wonder how pressured Henry must feel, knowing that he takes care of my whole entire family. #
• 22:29 Henry made lavendar shortbread. I was totally prepared to orally ejaculate my piece in h is face but Holy Cheating Tiger this is good shit. #
• 22:39 The fact that I can’t even spell “lavender” says it all, really. #
• ***
• 11:32 How the fuck is this stupid ginger ballroom bitch still on SYTYCD. America’s fucking retarded. #
• 19:28 It’s goddamn frigid in my hizzy. God bless my Pacman fingerless gloves. yfrog.com/4arj9pj #
• 21:12 I love it when people assume that I’m a Steelers fan because I’m from Pittsburgh. I’m only their #1 anti-fan. #
• 22:03 Keep booing, Montreal. #pens #

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I have this new toy at the top of my blog, kind of like a billboard for “featured posts.” So this morning, while Chooch was watching cartoons (and by that I mean playing games on the phone I never get to use), I decided to go back into the archives and find some more oldies-but-goodies (goodies to me, anyway) to add to it. Basically, this is just another life distraction. Every time I came across an old post from my data processing night shift job (I worked at that place for a year and a half and still don’t know what to say when people ask me what I did there. Stalking? Blog-writing? Candy-stealing? Co-worker-annoying?), it made me miss having a job. And not even so much of the part where I had money, but moreso the extracurricular activities I partook in, like stalking the cleaning staff and developing faux-crushes on boys in other departments just so I could annoy those around me.

This post from March 2008 made me especially inspired to find a job.

————————————————-

Creepy Cleaning Guy Visual

For over a week, I had been trying fruitlessly to capture a picture of the creepy cleaning guy at work. One night last week, I tried four separate times but my asshole flash went off, blowing my cover; twice he and I locked eyes, me frozen like a deer for an excruciating moment of timelessness, before finally pivoting and running away.

I tried over-the-shoulder shots, from-the-hip shots as I (probably very conspicuously) paced in front of the cleaning office, through-the-window shots which only resulted in the flash ricocheting back and blinding my eyes.

It was hard to stalk him this week, due to my lack of vision, but my luck changed last night.

Toward the end of the shift, I heard Eleanore in the kitchen saying hello to someone. When she came back to her desk with a cup of coffee, I hoarsely whispered, “Was that him??” She laughed and nodded. I was so angry that she didn’t even try to stall him! I ran out into the hallway by the loading dock and I noticed that his big wagon of garbage bags was parked at the far end of the hall.

I ran back inside.

“Bob! Pretend like you’re getting something out of the vending machine so I can act like I’m taking your picture,” I ordered. So Bob and I went back out into the hallway and loitered in front of the vending machines, waiting for the cleaning guy to return to his wagonmobile.

“I don’t think he’s coming back. You’re going to have to just go look for him,” Bob said, tired of standing around like an asshole.

So we went back inside.

Shortly after, one of the security guards — a friendly young man named Aaron — came over to say hello. I decided it was time to recruit new reinforcement, so I told him what I was trying to accomplish.

“Oh, you mean Bill?” he asked, laughing. “You know what to do? Throw some paper on the ground. He’ll have to stop and pick it up and that’ll afford you some time to take his picture.”

Best idea ever.

I grabbed an empty package of peanuts from my desk and told Collin, Bob, and Eleanore that Aaron agreed to go on watch for me.

“What’s he going to do? Whistle when he sees him?” Collin would not take any part in mission. But I know he’s secretly sad that he’ll soon be missing out on the shenanigans. I offered to start sending him a newsletter and he was like, “Of what? All the weird things you say?” Then he tried to recall a time I said something normal, and came up short.

Ignoring him, I ran back out into the hall, looked around frantically, and tossed the trash in front of the vending machines. If there was a surveillance video of me, it’d be a ridiculous montage of me side-stepping, ducking around corners, crouching down, peering through windows with cupped hands, and fleeing with my hands up and waving.

“He’s not a rodent, you know,” Bob said, accelerating my giddiness when I came back to my desk to wait for Aaron’s signal.

Unfortunately, one of the other cleaning guys picked up the peanut bag, so I replaced it with a crumbled sheet of notebook paper.

I waited for hours (probably 20 minutes, really) and just when I was about to give up, I heard the gentle squeaking of a wheeled garbage can, followed by the swishing sound of a broom against carpet. Standing on my tiptoes, I peered over the edge of our divider wall and spied the top of Bill’s head from over top of someone’s cubicle.

“Hey Bob,” I said loudly. “Now would be the PERFECT time for me to take that picture of you.” He looked at me, confused. “You’re the only one here I don’t have a picture of!” I enunciated each word and widened my eyes, hoping Bob would catch on.

“Oh. Okay. Where do you want me to stand?” I pointed to the area right by where Bill was about to emerge and Bob said, “No, that’s a stupid place—oh, unless I’m just a decoy?” I ended up not needing Bob anyway because Bill walked right past us and started going down another corridor in between cubicles. I hurriedly snapped two pictures.

“Here I thought you actually wanted my picture,” Bob said, pretending to be hurt. But I think he really was crying A LOT on the inside.

“Oh Bob, if you only knew how many pictures I have of you that you don’t know about,” I said with a wave of my hand. He probably thought I was kidding BUT I WASN’T.

I ended up getting more pictures of Bill later as he was helping himself to a cup of coffee. I felt very satisfied by the end of the shift. Another chapter closed.

I got to go to the Pens vs Blackhawks game Saturday night with Brenna and her friends as a belated birthday party for her. Crosby was sidelined and we ended up losing 1-2 in OT, but oh my sweetly spanked Mussolini was it a self-hugging good time. (Except for when Jordan Staal got the game tying goal with 1:32  left in the third – then it was a Brenna-hugging good time.)

It had been years and years since I got to go to a game, and the way the Mellon Arena smelled and sounded and the way the crowd melded together in verifiable best friendship (minus the Chicago urinal cakes behind me) as soon as the Penguins took the ice made me realize I shouldn’t have taken my family’s season tickets for granted back then.

I like to imagine this is how God shits on me, plopping me down amid fans of the opposing team, because this always happens at a sporting event. Last hockey game I went to, we played the Sabres and a group of asshole frat boys from Buffalo were right behind me, mocking me every time I cheered, ridiculing Lemieux, being regular beer-chugging pigs, spouting off made-up stats to sound cool and mighty. I’m  not sure if I  mentioned this before, but I don’t have a good lock on my temper and it seems that males try to capitalize off this the most.

So here I am at this hockey game. I’m 17, at the game with Lisa and our friend Angela. I can bear it no longer and find myself spending most of the game half-turned in my seat, attacking these flanneled mother fuckers with words they probably don’t even understand. Meanwhile, Angie has her face in her hands and Lisa is squeezing my arm, reminding me that I am a weak girl, susceptible to rape and having my intelligence insulted because girls aren’t supposed to know shit about sports, damn ya’ll, get me back into the kitchen so I’s can finish bakin’ my hubby a bundt cake.

Of course I wouldn’t back down. I motherfucked those inbreds all the way to the end of the third.

And of course we were parked in the same lot as them. And wouldn’t you know, as soon as we got outside the arena, it was all, “Hey baby, wanna go get a beer with us?”

Sure, ten minutes ago I was just threatening to fillet your mothers and string them up by their intestines like mistle toe, but yes, now I’m ready to sneak into a bar with you guys, drink some Schnappes and suck you all off in the mens room later.

Unfortunately, Lisa was there, perched on my shoulder, and steered me toward her car.

“That’s the last sporting event I go to with you,” she said, as Angie stared out the window exhaustedly.

“Yeah, really,” she agreed.

In some families, pulling out the old Christmas tree and decorating it together is like, how you say? Tradition? A Hallmark memory? An evening to pretend to give a shit about your siblings as you sip egg nog while “accidentally” breaking their baby ornaments? When I was younger, I always tried to convince myself that it was a big deal. I’d try to give my mom helpful suggestions when we’d shop for lights. You know, maybe do it all one color instead of mixing strands of skinny lights with those gigantic bulbous ones. Themes have always been important to me. I wanted an elegant tree, not the agglomeration of chipped Hallmark ornaments that adorned the tree year after year. Always the same batch.

We’d go to the holiday store and no matter whether it was 1986 or 1996, I’d try to sway her to the tinsel side of tree decorating.

“No.” She wouldn’t even look at the luxurious strand of sparkling metallic riches I’d have draped around my neck, showcasing it like Zsa Zsa modeling an ostrich-feathered boa. Suggesting the loose tinsel would inspire looks better reserved for gender reassignment announcements.

“Well, then how about these fine-looking crystal bulbs?” I’d been punished with enough QVC to know exactly how to hold them in one hand and feign molestion with the other.

“No.”
“Or what about–”
“No.”

Oh, but she’d have no compunction when it came to hanging my brother Ryan’s Elmer’s glue-covered construction paper shit-houses all over the boughs. And it was always, “Oh my god, look at what that precious boy made in art class! He’s a prodigy!” while ignoring the fact that it was leper’ding  loose fragments to the floor below.

My fondest memory of our tree was when Ryan was about a year old or so and crawling around beneath the boughs. I was six and even then I knew it was a precarious route for him to take, but he used to punch me and pull my hair. So I sat and watched as he crawled with too much moxie over top of the metal base, goo-goo’ing and ga-ga’ing that tree right the fuck into a toppling situation. Unfortunately, Ryan was saved when the tree landed against the nearby coffee table, and found himself crouched underneath a tent of artificial branches. The impact of the land busted off the top section of our tree. My mother remedied this by purchasing a miniature tree and adhering it to the top.

We used that dilapidated tree every year until I was in high school.

I think the moment when I officially gave up on the decorating and family bonding was in tenth grade when my mom banished my black angel ornament from the tree. One lousy symbol of my faux-heritage was all I asked, but the angel and I were discriminated against. I hung her up on a shelf in my bedroom, where she watched over me every night, making sure my mom didn’t try and pour bleach into my mouth while I slept. Later, I bought my own white-branched miniature tree and my black guardian angel was the lone ornamentation, a beacon reminding me to keep it real.

And then there was the pet ornament snafu. Who knew that dog ornaments made from milk bones would cause a stampede into the tree?

Maybe my mom was onto something by not letting me pick out the decorations.

Meanwhile, my grandparents’ tree looked like Martha Stewart projectile vomited her entire collection upon the branches. My aunt Sharon would always say, “No no no!” if any of us came within twenty yards of it. Before I was born, they used to hire someone from Kauffman’s to decorate it for them. (I’m sure that was more my grandma’s idea than my grandfather’s.

)

I’ve lived on my own since 1998 (fine, Henry’s been around for eight of those, but considering how he’s a professional ignorer, one could still argue that I live alone), and still never splurged on a tree. Not even a miniature. And Chooch is nearly 4 now so I began to think that maybe it’s high time to do something about this.

Of course, I’m not one for normalcy, but I’d like to give my child some sort of static tradition. Sure, the magic wasn’t there for me when I was young, but surely I can try and make it right for my kid. You know, slap on a hard core Christmas carol album. Light a fire in my decorative fireplace. Tell Jesus jokes. All the things I missed out on as a kid.

Henry and I discussed it once when I was pregnant. I told him that I didn’t want our child to grow up and go to school and then come home and say, “All these kids think I’m weird because we don’t put up a Christmas tree.”

He agreed that having a Christmas tree around again would be fun. (Maybe I fabricated that part, as I often do when it comes to Henry’s involvement in things. I know, spoiler alert!) Every year I suggest that we forgo the actual tree and instead make my fifteen-year-old vision of an alternative Christmas tree come true. That is, buy a mannequin and solder extra hands, feet, legs and arms all around its head, torso and appendages. Like branches, see. And then I would make ornaments out of Homies. Maybe craft a little crack house and glue a few Homies milling around out front, listening to NWA on their ghetto blasters while waiting for Whitney Houston.

“Oh, because that won’t make kids think our child is weird,” Henry said, wiping the sarcasm from his moustache.

But in the meantime, my mom bought us a live tree. I’ve never had a real, straight-from-the-earth tree before. It came from Home Depot, my least favorite place in the world, tied with Wal-Mart, but in my imagination we went to a hobo-run tree farm in Minnesota and, with the help of the mom from “Bobby’s World,” adopted a sprightly spruce self-adorned with gilded candlesticks and all the effervescent verve of  Cyndi Lauper visiting Big Top Pee Wee. And it bowed and introduced itself as Francois Twinkletoes of the Expensive Chocolate Tribe and began dispensing calorie-free truffles right straight in my gyrating maw, ya’ll.

You know.

For the time being, we only have a few Target-procured bulbs (which will soon have the names of my crew on them, a la Days of Our Lives, though I might do Janna’s for her so she doesn’t break it or misspell her name) and a small selection of ornaments my mom handed down to me probably because they hold no sentiment for her (LIKE MY FIRST XMAS ORNAMENT CIRCA 1979). She also came calling with no less than eight packs of tinsel.

The loose kind that I always wished for as a child. I may have had a quick flashback of Henry firmly stating, “No tinsel, you can put anything you want on this tree, but please – no tinsel” as I draped seductive clumps of that sexy shit all up on my branches.

“That looks really nice, but you need more,” my mom said, supervising from the couch.

“I thought you hated tinsel?” I asked, ripping into another box.

“I do, because that shit gets everywhere. But this is your house, so whatever.”

When Henry came home, the obnoxious shimmer of the tinsel made him pause for a second. He scowled and then walked away. “I’m not picking that shit up when it starts migrating,” he muttered. “And believe me, it WILL.”

So far, I’ve pulled it out of the car and the fridge, and accidentally decorated the booth at Donut Connection with a rogue strand. When I catch the migrators around the house, I try to eliminate the evidence as fast as I can before Henry can stumble upon it. I get all panicked about it, like the runaway tinsel is a piece of my lover’s DNA and Henry has a gun collection.

It’s a fun game.

“I just want it to look fun and festive,” I explained to Alisha when she was over yesterday. (Henry made us soup and I think it should become a standing tradition.) “Do you think it looks fun and festive?”

“Oh…um, yeah. That’s exactly what I thought when I walked in the house. How fun and….festive,” Alisha deadpanned as she watched me (WATCHED, not HELPED) fluff branches and redistribute tinsel.

This was honestly the only ornament I cared about getting. I’m not ashamed.

My friend Sarah made Chooch several eyeballs during the height of his optical mania, so I shoved a hook in one to give it a greater purpose. I like to believe it’s watching over the tinsel, but considering I just pulled a strand out of my underwear, I guess that’s naive. (Oh, please, like you don’t masturbate on Christmas trees. Just please.)

A Penguins bulb, enough tinsel to inspire the tree to belt out a Cher medley, and an eyeball – what more could Alisha need to feel fun and festive in the tree’s presence? A tree topper. We didn’t have a tree topper and it was really bothering me last night. I kept trying to watch TV, I mean, retain interest in Alisha’s drivel,  but my eyes would magnetize right back to the bare twig protruding from the pinnacle. It looked so Charlie Brownish and I knew I had to do something, and FAST.

I tried to prepare my army for crafting war, but Alisha and Henry were all, “No, we’re good right here, watching TV” and Chooch was too busy calling everyone a bitch. I didn’t need them anyway. Storming into the kitchen, I grabbed an Xacto knife on the way and in my search for foil, I found something better: an aluminum baking pan. I sketched a scribble of a star in the middle and even in my haste it was far superior to anything Alisha or Henry could have shat out. They would have gone to the store for a stencil. The next part was very hard and I wouldn’t suggest that anyone reading this try it unless they have all the courage and ability to be a hero under pressure as one Erin Rachelle Kelly. Could that be you? I didn’t think so.

Oh, it was a tough and trying time, sawing away at this curling sheath of deadly metal, deftly swinging my wrists out of the way as shrapnel exploded through the air with the aim of a skilled marksman and the blueprint for staged-suicide etched out in its head.

Anyway, once it was cut out to perfection, all I needed was packing tape and something wand-like to shove it into the tree. God shone down his celestial spotlight which landed in a pool of righteousness on top of the refridgerator, which is where I found an unopened McDonald’s straw. Now it’s all a matter of sitting back and waiting for that broad on She’s Crafty to invite me on her show.

If that’s not the poster child for all that is majestic, then I don’t want to live in this shitty, uncultured world anymore.

It’s no mannequin, but it’ll do.

And that is the story of how the Liberatree was born. Hopefully it will be even more magical next year, provided some of that tinsel doesn’t find its way into my bedroom one night to recreate a horror movie strangulation scene.

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

• 15:30 Today, I’m pretending Lady Gaga is coming for dinner & Henry is making personal pumpkin pies in the shapes of spiked dildos. It’ll be fab. #
• 16:29 Seriously, how the fuck do you delete an Etsy shop?? I’m clearly too stupid to figure it out. #
• 17:27 My child won’t talk to me b/c he’s “tired of this shit, Mommy” but then he angrily spat “I love you, ok?!” I feel like I’m in a film noir. #
• 17:27 @MrsBsConfession that’s just absurd & insulting ! #
• 17:29 Witness! Check out my voice recording: voicesapp.com/sn4vwu #
• 20:15 Let’s go #pens! #
• 20:49 Chooch & I have a joint Xmas list & a Dippin’ Dot ice cream maker is definitely on it. #
• 22:25 I still don’t get WTF girls saw in Jaromir Jagr. Unless I just never learned the equation where mullet + snaggle-teeth = wet panties. #NHL #
• ***
• 13:41 The lovely @mrsevils sure has a great way of lifting my spirits! I just got the motherlode from her; Chooch & I don’t know where to start! #
• 13:50 Ayo! Candy up in the hizzy! yfrog.com/33oanlj #
• 13:51 Double fisting. yfrog.com/4ad46dj #
• ***
• 09:04 The more previews I see for MTV’s Teen Mom, the more similarities I see between them & my own parenting style. #
• 14:55 Our duplex is for sale & a realtor is walking someone thru it tonight. We tried to pretend I have h1n1 to deter them; mission failed. #
• 16:27 At least the situation has inspired Henry to clean. #
• 17:07 Chooch & Henry had an argument; now Chooch is collecting Henry’s personal effects to throw in the garbage. #
• 17:36 Chooch just gave a friendly & informative tour of our house all while in the comfort of his underroos. #
• 19:57 Hay look @ the dumb! Don’t Forget Your Holiday Cards: Etsy: Your place to buy & sell all things handmade noncompo… bit.ly/6CK9a2 #
• ***
• 00:42 Christmas seems to be approaching so quickly, but December 30th feels so far away. #
• 01:29 1:26am and I called Henry upstairs to inspect the bedroom closet because I was sure I heard the neighbor crouching in there. #
• 01:33 Was told to turn up radio so not to fixate on the floor creaking under my killer. I’m coming to your house to sleep; I’ll bring a pillow. #
• 11:23 For the first time in the 12 yrs of living on my own, I’m getting a Xmas tree. This is a good way to end a shitty year. #
• 15:01 My 3year old can surf the Internet, shop on Etsy, buy apps for my iPhone but god forbid he should comprehend the proper way to play Memory. #
• 16:29 I hate Home Depot. I hate Home Depot. I hate Home Depot. #
• 16:37 Henry is crying because the tree I chose is far superior to his pathetic choice. yfrog.com/33456qj #
• 16:39 Even Chooch is helping secure the tree to the car roof while I stand worthlessly off to the side, tweeting. #
• 19:41 My two favorite hockey teams are playing against each other tonight. I love you Matt Duchene, but I gotta side with the #Pens. #
• 19:44 I will clap covertly under my pillow if Duchene scores, though. Don’t tell. #NHL #
• 19:58 Not sure what the proper response is when your 3yo says you make him nervous but laughing evidently was not the way to go. #
• 22:11 It’s going to be a true test telling these “Jersey Shore” assholes apart. Aside from that, I already love this show. But you knew that. #
• 22:31 Henry just learned the reason for my December 30th anticipation and duly frowned. Real World DC, holla! #
• 22:38 I’m preparing to go all Brady/Horton family on these ornaments. (That’s a DAYS OF O UR LIVES reference for those of you with lives.) #
• ***
• 12:38 Henry reminded me how lucky I am that I don’t have to milk a cow every morning because i’d die. PERSPECTIVE. #
• 13:16 Henry, you can nap anytime. There are NHLicious Christmas tree ornaments waiting somewhere to be boughtededed. Let’s go. #
• 16:39 Had I lost my hearing in the factory explosion of ’81, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of hearing this Target broad call her kid moomoo cow. #
• 17:44 Nothing like the holiday season to bring out the aesthetically challenged. This might be the year I start ticketing Xmas light fouls. #
• 19:19 I need a brick, tin foil, Fixadent, a dead nun’s pacemaker, a slap bracelet & some Lee Press Ons. I’m making a tree topper, obviously. #
• 19:28 Watching Lach & Bouchard jerseys retired; they’re so old & cute it’s making me catch the humanity bug & cry a little. #NHL #
• 19:30 And I’m not sure they know they’r e at a hockey rink in Canada & not at God’s surprise party in Heaven’s really cold strip club. #
• 21:28 Hay look @ the dumb! Still thanks-giving, a week and a day later: In spite of everything going on with my grandma,… bit.ly/4Jcv8p #
• 21:44 It’s good to see the Canadiens playing so well on such a special night for them. Tim Thomas is going to skin albino babies after this one. #
• 21:46 When Henry came home at the start of the 2nd period, I joked that it was 6-0 instead of 1-0. 15minutes later & it very nearly is. Go Habs! #
• 22:46 Henry finally got his wish & will be partaking in a cookie exchange. I’m trying to lay low with the jokes because this benefits me well. #
• ***
• 17:51 I’m going to a Pens game tonite; trying not to be too annoying abt it. Last time I went I was 17 & started a fight w/ 3 guys from Buffalo. #
• 17:54 The tree so far. Trying to coax Henry into donating a testicle to use as a tree topper. Not going so well. yfrog.com/33mtirj #
• 19:08 Holla!!!! yfrog.com/4fl87rj #
• 19:20 It smells so good in here. #
• 19:58 I guess it’s a standing tradition for fans of the opposing team to be sitting behind me. #
• 21:25 I could burst I have so many snide remarks building up. #
• 22:09 Little Chicago bitches behind me left. Waaaaaahhhhhhhhh. #pens #NHL #
• 22:50 Pens lost in overtime but goddamn was that a fun time. I didn’t even lose my temper at any Blackhawk fans. Not sure if maturity is to blame. #
• ***
• 00:36 Realized my tree has a bunch of Stars of David dangling from its boughs. I need to represent some Kwanzaa now or I won’t be able to sleep. #
• 10:00 I would totally eat sausage for Giada DiLaurentis if she invited me to her holiday dinner party. #
• 12:14 Gun shot wound or jail t ime. I choose jail. Alisha would take the bullet. #
• 12:15 Although I also choose fashion over warmth. #
• 14:13 Alisha’s shitting on every toy I want for Xmas by saying it’s a waste of money; she’s telling Santa to get me a Hannah Montana throw. :( #

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In spite of everything going on with my grandma, my mom still decided to hold Thanksgiving dinner at her house, which I thought was really great. I mean, my family canceled every holiday for years after my pappap died in ’96 and it just didn’t help heal anyone. It made it worse because instead of being around each other, we all went our separate ways and pouted, sulked, cried, denied. Because that’s exactly what he’d have wanted, you know. For us to abandon all holiday tradition and rot underneath our self-woven cocoons of misery.

Now, when I say I can’t remember the last time a holiday was held at my mom’s, I’m really not being dramatic. Usually, we go to my grandma’s, but I’ve always preferred spending holidays at my mom’s because she allows to hang out around after dinner and bullshit, whereas Sharon rushes us out of my grandma’s house as soon as dinner is finished, leaving us standing in the cold on the porch like dirty whores. But my mom has been really great lately and I’m glad we’ve been talking again. I think maybe the recent trips she’s made to the hospital for her blood pressure have helped her put things in perspective, because she’s not starting political fights with me anymore and her presence in Chooch’s life has been much more consistent these days. She’s starting to act like her old self again and that was reason enough for me to give thanks all pilgrim-like.

I’m actually really proud of my mom for keeping it together. We were all holding our breath, waiting for the phone call to say that she was canceling dinner. But she soldiered on, even made some new side dishes, like a sweet potato casserole capped with a layer of what I can only describe as a pineapple omelet, and I know that sounds gross and maybe a little confusing, but it did a pole dance all the way down my throat, OK? My mom was upset with it, thought it was too sweet. I was like, “Are you retarded, that’s why it’s so good!”

Sharon didn’t stay, thank God, but that didn’t stop her from fingerprinting the spread with her own culinary disasters. Imagine me, in the kitchen, making up recipes as I’m wont to do when times are tough (i.e. Henry’s not home, there’s nothing microwaveable, and my son is whining about being the hungry. The nerve!). But now imagine me thinking that those same kitchen nightmares are Food Network quality and you now know a little more about the inner workings of Sharon. Her vegetarian “stuffing” deserves it’s own post. (But it won’t get one, don’t worry.)

Clearly I’m not one of those people who get all clenched if their food mingles. I’m Ok with it. In fact, I’ve even been known to spear a sample of three separate dishes on the fork. The best part about holiday food is that the healthiest vegetables get to take a caloric bath in butter, cream, and cheese and then bust out of the oven cloaked as the super villain Cardiac Arrest, sumo-ing the shit out of your Dr. Atkins.

Even the green beans were rendered nutritionless under their blanket of coagulated bleu cheese and lard. In other words, best green beans ever!

My mom kept apologizing for using paper plates and plastic Solo cups. “I just didn’t have time to get everything ready this year,” she kept saying remorsefully. I had to continually remind her that we all appreciated the fact that she did this at all.  And really, I was just happy to even be in her house again! I think this was only Chooch’s third time inside her house so he went hogwild. Before dinner, he and Corey rummaged through the box of ornaments and hung some of the ones my mom obviously felt were NOT GOOD ENOUGH, like the one I made for her in art class in 1988. (But the popcicle stick-framed photo of Corey sitting on Santa’s lap was hanging smugly from a bough!)

Here are some thoughts provoked by this hideous abomination to Christmas ornaments worldwide:

• For what reason did my mom bother to keep this? (If you say “love” I will argue!)
• My art is still at the 3rd grade level
• How has this not disintegrated by now and blown away to the sanctuary for molested tissue paper?
• You can tell that my inspiration was Boy George. I was really into Boy George. I wish Henry was Boy George.

I volunteered Henry’s cooking prowess for a side dish and dessert. I already knew that he was going to make Pioneer Woman’s turnip gratin that he made last year for our little grassroots attempt at Thanksgiving. (He used the poor man’s Gruyere again – swiss. I called “cop out” but he said he refused to pay $28 for cheese. Whatevelyn.) But I also knew that the dessert had to be something even more fabulous so I spent hours (at LEAST fifteen minutes) scouring online for the perfect pumpkin pie. I found one on some slutty girl’s food blog and instantly knew it was the one because it called for brandy. Any dessert made with liquor’s helping hand is my new best friend. So I wrote down all the ingredients for Henry and naturally he came home with ingredients for something totally different.

A boring sweet potato pie. Yes, it was good. But it wasn’t weird or classy or made with products procured from an oak pantry in France and it certainly wasn’t drenched with enough libations to make Janna pull down her pants and perform a puppet show with her ass. FUCK.

But you damn well know it was all “I made that pie” all night long.

Chooch was too busy setting up conference calls on his new iPhone, doodling on Henry’s face, killing zombies, and buying apps to pay attention to his surroundings, let alone give a shit about Henry’s fucking sweet potato pie. He did enjoy the dinner rolls though.

Photographic evidence that I have another brother. Ryan is 25 now and lives with our dad (well, his dad and my step-dad). He used to be my partner-in-stalking. Fuck, were we terrors. I wonder if he’s outgrown stalking people? I know I sure haven’t.

My family might be a little screwed up, (though isn’t that the central theme in most people’s lives?) but I still love holidays.

There are a bunch of things I want to write about, like Thanksgiving blah-blah, the magnets you guys have sent, and one of those lame flash fiction thingalings, but all I want to do is lay on the couch and read.

It always works that way. I can have nothing on my plate and no desire to relax with a book.

A hundred things I need to do, though, and you can be sure all I want to do is blow off responsibility and do word searches, give my brain a rest before it starts blueprinting the apocalypse.

So for now have a picture of Chooch. He posed like this on his own and I was like “WTF are you doing, freak. This isn’t a Gymboree catalogue.

“

Also I’m posting this from my phone so god only knows how the photo will format.

Now I need to go back to reading, taking breaks only to add shit to my Christmas wish list. (Chooch and I really want a Dippin’ Dot ice cream maker and not just so I can mastermind hideous flavor combos for Henry and Janna.)

(So I can stuff Alisha’s pillowcase with cherry-flavored dots.)