Leticia loved haunting the Appledale’s farmhouse. It always smelt of blueberry syrup and fresh linen, with a tiny tang of far-off manure to keep it real.

She loved watching the Appledale brothers dig for worms, and later, watching them stuff those worms down their sister Amelda’s cotton blouse.

Leticia loved bobbing invisibly behind Mother Appledale, watching as she darned Papa Appledale’s socks with a slightly arthritic hand. Leticia knew that soon Mother Appledale would “accidentally” be tossed into the combine, but she didn’t try to warn her because it would be handy to have someone like Mother Appledale on the other side; on top of the darning, she made a mean chicken fried steak.

Papa Appledale. Big, overall’d Papa Appledale with the grass stains on his forearms and worn leather belt for whippin’. Leticia generally stayed away from him. He always moved within a flock of pernicious energy which often stunk of cabbaged flatulence.

While Papa Appledale was killing Mother Appledale, the boys were down by the train tracks playing with the box car children, Amelda was at her girlfriend’s house learning about Kegel, and Leticia cowered in the safety of the washing machine.

And that’s where she remained while Papa Appledale lumbered into the laundry room, peeled off his ensanguined murder uniform, and stuffed it into the washing machine, along with Leticia and a handful of sweaty socks unappreciatively marked by Mother Appledale’s handiwork.

“Hey Leticia,” one of her friends taunted back home. “What happened, someone throw you in with the reds?” A bunch of them held their bellies and laughed till they wheezed, all a’shimmer in her God-given pearlescent suits.

“Yep. Something like that,” Leticia muttered, while waiting for Mother Appledale to ladle some gravy on her chicken fried steak.

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

• 14:38 Immediately he has no less than 3 large sticks every time we come to the cem. yfrog.com/1dvlvkj #
• 18:59 Walked in on Chooch wearing my strawberry kneehighs & polkadot shoes, & otherwise completely nude. #
• 19:01 @vagynafondue #failedtwitternames
• 23:56 I wish my job was cheese. #
• ***
• 12:48 Amid all the Lets Go Flyers chants and the sea of orange, Alisha asks, “Where are the Pens playing?” #
• 15:01 #Pens!!!!! Fuck the Cryers!! #
• 15:06 That is a true Testament to Johnson’s worth to the #pens. Excellent game!! #
• 20:09 Someone with the same name as me found my blog & I think accused me of writing about their life. Fuck, the jig is up, I guess. #
• ***
• 00:21 Alisha said the paintball Bud Light commercial reminds her of me & I can see that. Makes me want to play paintball… & fly a helicopter. #
• 13:05 Today I learned the difference between a true NHL fan & a #Pens fan is that one knows Crosby is overrated. Orly? Thx 4 the knowledge. #
• 15:26 I got my first paycheck today which makes me think that maybe this job really isn’t a scam! #
• 19:07 Proceeding with my #pens game-watching ritual: pouring a big motherwhomping glass of The Wine. Let’s go Pens! Make mama into a happy drunk! #
• 21:17 There are a bunch of JACKED OFF people at Madison Square Garden right now. Go #pens! #
• ***
• 11:17 I’m not sure how to react at being called a hootchie by a three year old. #
• 15:53 I feel like the only way Im getting into Heaven is if I’m hired as God’s personal ass wiper. #
• 20:29 I just heard Chooch congratulate Henry for not peeing on the floor. #
• 21:10 It never fails that as soon as i sit down to work, it’s all WIPE MY BUTT MOMMY! Or intense crying from a phantom injury. Spectacular! #
• 22:33 Oh shit, I swore Henry had the Miami Vice theme as his ringtone for me, but it turned out to be some lame calypso-flava’d midi. #
• ***
• 00:55 OMG Henry just called my stuff STUPID. #
• 01:11 Lookit, it’s Marcy! I was just told to go to bed because I’m too FUN for Henry to compute (see also: manic) yfrog.com/35f7zbj #
• 09:34 Little boys must attend lectures in the womb on how to evade baths. Chooch, once captured, acts like he’s being dunked into a vat of acid. #
• 11:04 I’ll be out back practicing some new laughs & warming my hands over a pile of burning bod—-….garbage, if anyone needs me. #
• 14:33 Usually when I write in my blog, I hear myself in my head speaking it aloud, typically in Dutch and/or cartoon accents. #
• 15:45 Oh to be rich and have a nanny. I thought that’s what Henry was, but I was wrong I guess. #
• 15:46 Maybe when I finally get my one-person cottage in the Black Forest, this work at home thing will be more doable. #
• 19:38 Chooch saw me hug Henry & yelled, “Why you hugging him? I thought you hate him!” I LOLd all over town. #
• 21:10 WHAT. It’s 9:00 and I haven’t had any wine yet? #
• 22:15 Eye Alaska is on The Real World. WTF. #
• 22:30 I think I was just likened to an obnoxious, vulgar teenaged boy. That’s better than most impressions. #
• 22:49 This season doesn’t hold my attention. I’ve been whiddling cleft palates out of string cheese this whole time. #
• 22:51 Also, I might be the only person who doesn’t know, nor care, what the fuck is an iPad. But I know spe llcheck wants it to be uPas. #
• ***
• 00:51 Hay look @ the dumb! Wendy 1999: Really, no one flinched when I told them I was going on a date with a lesbian. Su… bit.ly/9j0llG #
• 09:02 If it weren’t for the squeaking of shoes on the court making me want to kill a small village, I’d probably love basketball. #
• 10:47 Tried telling Chooch that we don’t get along anymore because he won’t cuddle with me. He punched me in the face. Guess he disagrees. #
• 11:08 WTF is with today & backhanded compliments? It’s like the universe knows when I’m feeling too positive and sics the negative pricks on me. #
• 11:17 Again, I would like to express my extreme jealousy of those who have parents on which to dump their children. #
• 12:55 Google search term that found my blog: “my busty mom came nude to my friends and” AND WHAT?? I need to know. #
• 15:04 Welp. Chooch finally discovered the joy of petting pets. Can’t believe it took this long. yfrog.com/3l52401091j #
• 15:46 That last tweet should have said “painting” pets. Mama needs a nice nap. Preferrably on a beach. #
• 19:22 Would be nice to see the #pens spoil the #sens winning streak. And then maybe Henry can guest blog about it! #
• 19:28 We need the number to Nanny 911. Though I suppose regular old 911 might be appropos by the time this night is over. #
• 19:29 Unless my neighbors dial it first. #
• 23:00 I can’t look at Jamie Lee Curtis without thinking about how perfect her shits must be. #
• ***
• 00:20 I’m so glad Mia Caruthers is back on my TV. Maybe when I’m a grownup, I’ll trade in MTV for CNN. Or Oxygen. Haha, no I won’t even… #
• 00:38 There aren’t enough pictures of my tits on the Internet. #
• 08:53 Chooch and I are thoroughly spoiled by @mrsevils! And we thank her for it! (As Chooch devours an entire box of Hobo bubblegum cigarettes.) #
• 08:59 Zombie hand ring by @mrsevils! yfrog.com/4im66ekj #
• 09:04 Chooch won’t let me take a picture of him with a bubblegum cigarette because “people will be so pissed.” (And yes, that’s his breakfast.) #
• 10:00 I know #etsy must really be my full time job when I start stressing every time I get a convo. #
• 10:31 Chooch asked for pancakes. I told him he’ll be sorry. #
• 10:39 God I’m good. Just smashed down on one and batter splooged out. yfrog.com/3n3jjwj #
• 10:46 I’m trying to d esmoke the kitchen while Chooch bitches “these aren’t pancakes.” #
• 10:57 I found the will to make edible pancakes and he accidentally dropped them on the floor. I wasn’t meant to be a mom, everyone was right. #
• 11:14 Pancakes: banned from my house. The mere WORD “pancakes” will come in tandem w/ a fine for anyone who even dares to utter the 2 syllables #
• 12:19 Afterlife Love 6×6 repurposed tile by somnambulant on Etsy bit.ly/9Ish8g #
• 16:16 I don’t know if I should wave the white flag or hang myself with it. #
• 17:41 You’d have thought it was the constable, had you heard the urgent knocking on my front door just now. #
• 21:19 Valentine Ghosts 4×4 wooden block painting by somnambulant on Etsy bit.ly/b03ShD #
• 21:32 Henry telling me he was like Chooch when he was that age is NOT reassuring. #
• ***
• 10:17 I was telling Henry what I considered funny high school memories but he frowned and shook his head sadly. #
• 10:48 I just scored tickets to the #pens game for Monday. Trying to remain calm. #
• 12:21 Alisha is making me sit w/ her at H&R Block while she gets her taxes done. Riveting. Totally went to HS w/ her “tax specialist.” Awesome. #
• 12:22 I can’t believe Alisha isn’t claiming me as a dependent. #
• 12:57 Hay look @ the dumb! That’s How You’d Knock a Block Off, I Imagine: With Henry and Chooch off at the store, I thou… bit.ly/dqFgpf #
• 13:07 Right on the nose. #

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.

With Henry and Chooch off at the store, I thought that I could relax a little, get my nerves to stop buzzing.  After posting that last entry about the Valentines, I went upstairs to change into my exercise clothes.

Approximately 1.3 minutes later is when the knocking started.

I’m not talking about some demure rapping from an old lady looking for her lost cat. The knocking I’m talking about here was intense.

Urgent.

Motherfucking frightening.

Initial thoughts:

• It’s too late to be the gas man!
• Wait, we’re not behind on the gas bill.
• OMG it’s the CONSTABLE.
• Jehovah’s Witnesses?
• My blog has finally discovered by Robin and she has her meth herd out front with fiery torches and a battering ram!

I did what I always do in these harrowing cat and mouse situations: I hid on the bedroom floor. The knocking continued, in angry, I’ve-come-to-murder-you spurts. During the few moments of silence, I’d get courageous, pop up a bit and peek through the blinds. Across the street in the church parking lot sat a white Suburban, the headlights of which still shone. I became obsessed with the idea that my knocker’s accomplice was sitting quietly in the dark interior, shuffling a deck of cards and wearing brass knuckles while waiting for the knocker to return with my dead body.

It sounded like the knocker was trying to open my door. And my head was full of expletives as I tried to remember if the door was even locked or not. It was bad enough that EVERY light downstairs was on (green, what?), including the TV, so the knocker knew someone was home and seemed undeterred by the fact that I wasn’t speedily answering the door in a bathtowel.

After a few minutes of this (these situations feel longer when you’re in the thick of it; especially if you’re like me and pretend you’re a diamond thief hiding from the CIA), the knocking ceased and I stole a look just in time to see my neighbor James retreating.

James and his family moved in next door last May. They’re quiet all day long, but come 9pm, it’s like they’re throwing cinder blocks around over there, building something, I don’t know. Probably I’m better off not knowing. And there’s 4 young kids, too, who we rarely see. Alisha is convinced that they’re a family pop group, like The Jackson 5, and only come out when they can rely on the night shadows to cloak them. They have a brand new Mercedes, which they keep parked on the street, even during snow storms, and this ain’t no residential cul-de-sac on which we live. It’s a pretty rockin’ road, with buses and large trucks to boot. They also have a Lexus SVU which they seem to hide in the garage.

The block we live on is not exactly known for luxury vehicles. We’re talking Elantras and Focuses up in here, OK?

They have these flashy cars, yet no furniture on the entire first floor.

Henry, who swears he doesn’t spy on them, says they spend all their time upstairs. In fact, I think whoever is on the other side of our bedroom has been cooking in their room lately, and it stinks.

They’re a mystery.

Where was I? Oh, James! I had just spotted James and felt a mixture of relief and also apprehension, because why was James knocking so maniacally? Maybe he was locked out and needed to use my phone.  I was still standing at the window, wondering this, when I realized that he had stopped on the sidewalk in front of our house and was staring up into my window. I do love me some creepy.

Ducking, I grabbed my shoes, ran downstairs and out the front door to find James standing idly on his front porch.

“Hey, was that you knocking?” I asked innocently, shoes untied and knees knocking from the burst of cold.

“Yeah, can I borrow your shovel?” he asked, walking across the front yard toward me.

“My what now?” I was confused. I must have misheard him. Probably what he really said was, “Can I borrow your bone marrow?” because who knocks like THAT for a shovel?

“Your shovel.”

Seriously? Had he just murdered someone?

I gave him the shovel and he didn’t even use it right away!

So much for giving my nerves a chance to stop buzzing. Fuck.

Perhaps the serial killer Valentines over at my non compos shop are a bit too extreme for you? Don’t worry, because I have new Valentine paintings over at Somnambulant. They feature the same poem from last year, because people seemed to really like that one, but a new theme.

(I am not too proud to admit that I was watching America’s Best Dance Crew when I felt inspired by the dance crew Ghost.

Of course they were eliminated right off the bat and TRUST ME, I will avenge them.

)

If you will be my Valentine
I’ll get you drunk off wine
Buy you 20 thousand carat rings
To make your fingers shine

If you will be my Valentine
I’ll erect for you a shrine
Coated with a gilded glaze
Topped with the heart of a swine

If you will be my Valentine
My mom won’t have to hear me whine
And I’ll no longer have a need
For this binding roll of twine

It like, really flows, don’t you think? God I’m such a fantastic poet. Look for my chapbook to be released in 2044.

Really, no one flinched when I told them I was going on a date with a lesbian.

Sure, I got several memos reminding me that I wasn’t gay, but that didn’t deter me.

Because the fact was, I just wasn’t meeting any cool guys. Not that I was looking for any, really, but more that I was addicted to the thrill of blind dates. My personal ad even said, in large font, that I was just looking for casual encounters, something to bud into a friendship. And then I would go on for a paragraph swearing that I wasn’t a whore. And I wasn’t. I never went home with any of those dates. I just honestly lived for the opportunity to meet new people.

My friend Brian, upon perusing my ad (which actually started as a joke), deadpanned, “Oh yeah, you won’t get KILLED or anything.

Have fun with that, weirdo.”

But the guys I was meeting were all vapid, bore me with football talk, and wanted to get into my pants. (Well, I was shocked!) So I decided it was time to switch things up and try my hand at a girl date.

And that’s how I found myself meeting Wendy and her friend Ron at Eat n’ Park.

Wendy was vapid, wore an offensively large Dallas Cowboys belt buckle and wanted to get into my pants.

I found myself in a silent prayer, thanking God for sending Ron with her.

During our meal (I had grilled cheese, that much I know), Wendy sat across from me and failed in her attempt to seduce me with her eyes. Instead, she just looked drowsy from psych meds. I was a bit let down that Wendy didn’t seem much involved in the conversation, or in getting to know me. At all. Unless it involved the exchanging of bra sizes and saliva. I was content chatting casually and comfortably with Ron while demolishing my grilled cheese (which he paid for and I can’t remember if I said thanks) and ignoring the salacious stares and ribald posturings belching from the Wendy Zone.

Toward the end of the meal, Wendy had been silently dragging her spoon across her sundae, presumably bored with the conversation topics which did not include:

• belt buckles and where to buy them the biggest
• ecru work shirts and the women who wear them
• the perils of dating outside of your sexual orientation

But suddenly, she looked up at  me, and with those weird drowsy eyes, drawled, “I like whipped cream…and cherries.”

And then she licked her lips. And her eyes flittered down a little and I found myself hugging my boobs protectively, trying not to pee.

That night, while retelling the details to my friends, I felt so violated. So objectified!

“Well, was she hot?” I was undoubtedly asked.

“No!” I yelled.

“If she were, would you have—?”

“Maybe! But she wasn’t. It’s OK, I gave her no inclination that we’d be seeing each other again. Plus, she lives an hour away.”  

Until the next day, when the phone calls began. Oh, the phone calls! Her primary job became calling me. In fact, I’m pretty sure she quit her actual job to make this so.

“So, I’m thinking of moving back to Pittsburgh,” was what I was presented with one day, with all the pleasure and joy of getting slapped in the face with a dead fish. “Ron said I could move in with him again.” And then, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Ron’s cool,” I said, at a loss for how to address her proclamation, and feeling a strong urge to peek out the blinds and make sure she wasn’t squatting behind a tree.

“Hey, what’s that song you have in your email?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s ‘Question of Lust’ by Depeche Mode,” I offered reluctantly. Why did she want to know? Was she going to give it to the DJ she already hired to play at our wedding reception, oh my God what I have done?

“I love it,” she slurred in her own warped version of sexiness. ” I play it all the time and I made my whole family listen to it.” When I said nothing, she went on to add the AWESOME admittance of, “They know all about you.”

I went on to handle Wendy the same way I handle the gas men: ignore the assholes until they go away. She called me for months. Hands down she was the toughest blind date to shake. Probably she’s forgotten about me by now, but I’m still cursed with her memory every time I hear that damn Depeche Mode song (which used to be my favorite!).

I’m not even sure Wendy was her name. I had written “Ron and the lesbian” beneath their picture in my photo album.

Now that I think about it, maybe it was Michelle.

Henry and I are just hanging out on the couch right now. Hi! And somehow the subject of me being a hussy came up, how some guy made me feel uncomfortable when he called me pretty.

“Uncomfortable?” Henry said with incredulity. “That’s funny.” Because I eat that shit up with a fancy grapefruit spoon, you see.

“Yeah, but right now I’m just not in the frame of mind,” I said, trying to reassure him that I won’t be out roaming the pastures.

Henry laughed again. Not a “I’m watching Chapelle’s Show” laugh, but more of a disgusted “You’re a cheatin’ whore” throat scrape. “But you can change like that,” he said, snapping his hard-working, blue-collared fingers.

Desperate to ease his paranoia, I pointed out that my annual spring fever will be coming up soon. “And maybe it’ll be for you!” I punched his stomach for punctuation.

“Oh please. When you have ever spring fevered me?”

“I did that one year!” I blurted out.

I think it would be fun if Henry guest-blogged on here. Maybe write about his favorite kitchen memories or tediously tap out tales from his days in THE SERVICE, which maybe could make people respect him! (Not me though; lost cause right here.

)

If there’s something you’d like Henry to write about, let me know right here! Misty suggested a day in the life, which I think would really be riveting. (I mean, as long as I know in advance the day he’s going to start writing, in order to create fires – metaphorical and literal – so he’ll have something other than work and sleep to tell the Internet.

)

When I came across this gruesome Jason Voorhees hair decoration in AgonysDecay‘s shop, I immediately thought of how much cooler I’d be if I had one of those jutting from my crown. Not to mention the points I’d score with Chooch, who went as Jason on Halloween (still wears the mask, thank you) and has declared “Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter” as his favorite installment in the slasher’s ouevre.

Luckily, I buddied up with Jenny, the mastermind behind that shop last year when I first joined Etsy’s Dark Side. (I knew that would come in handy someday!) So approaching her for a trade was very easy, because I’m me and she doesn’t just trade with ANYONE.

OK fine, she’s trade friendly. But I like to believe that I was a special case (STFU) and also that I’m the only one she calls darlin’.

On Friday, it went down. I traded her two noncomposcards for one sensationally serial killer hair accoutrement, and it is already on my dome today. That’s some fast shipping; I wish I could say I was that on the ball. As soon as Chooch saw it, he did a double take and asked, “Is that me?? Yes, that’s me!” Great, now he thinks he really is Jason Voorhees.

Jenny is fantastic. I also own a Michael Myers ring from her shop; I believe I bought it before we knew each other and she was just as personable and lovely then, too. I hope to start the Freaky Features! back up again very soon and give you guys a tour of her brain. (If she agrees!)

I can’t wait to wear it out in public. I think the next time I’m with Alisha, I’m going to wear this one and the TWO that I have from Mrs. Evil’s. All at once, to see if it blows Alisha’s mind. Perhaps I’ll be able to stake them in the beehive that I’ll soon be sporting. (It’s true, I have been dreamin’ of an exquisite beehive lately. I might try and get it done in time for bowling next Sunday, OMG!

)

No one will fuck with me while this is clipped to my coif. To test that theory, I’m going to loiter in some dark alleys tonight. Then you’ll see!

I was 19 when my mom decided to tell me that I share the same dead biological father with an older brother and sister. My brother lived close enough that my mom began to worry I might meet him at a bar and go home with him. I swear to god that’s the reasoning she gave me! She arranged for us to meet shortly after. His name is Shawn and we got along alright but he was way more into this newfound sibling thing than I was. He moves around a lot so I don’t really have much contact with him, but I remember that he was really into clubbing, Corvettes and creeping. Too bad “The Jersey Shore” wasn’t on MTV back then. And our sister Sonja lives in Oregon. Neither of us have met her, and while I’ve talked to her on the phone a few times and receive (extremely egotistical) letters from her every Christmas, I’ve never felt any sense of a familial bond there. Totally not a fan, to be honest. We couldn’t be more different if I amputated my right leg and replaced it with the decapitated head of a cow.

Apparently, there is a rumor that the three of us have another half-sibling as well. Our father was clearly a gigolo.

Around that same time, my mom dropped another bomb on me: I have another half-sister, but this one was the product of my mom. Now, when I was younger, my mom loved to fuck with me. She was always making up farces to see if I’d fall for it. I can’t count how many times I’d go to school and spread outright lies told by my mom, fully believing them. Like when she told me Mr. Wizard cancelled an assembly he was doing at my elementary school because he died. I told all my classmates that Mr. Wizard WAS DEAD and it wasn’t true. So there were times when she would mention a baby she had been forced to give up for adoption, a few years before I was born, and I would laugh. “Yeah right,” I’d say sarcastically. “Let me try and get that put on tomorrow’s morning announcements.”

Sometime before I moved out of my mom’s house, I was rummaging through her dresser looking for old ringer tees to steal (my favorite is a blue Jackie Sorenson aerobic marathon shirt that I still have), but instead found an old, fat manila envelope stuffed full of old correspondance with friends who had moved away, notes, and several letters from an attorney addressing the case of Baby Stonick.

So when my mom told me that, all those years later, I knew it was true. But there was more: my mom had found her. Her name was Amy, she lived in Wheeling, WV and my mom and brothers were going to meet her.

I remember reacting completely immaturely about it, throwing a tantrum, unwilling to accept this. I had grown up thinking I was my mom’s only daughter. And our relationship had always been kind of fucked up, strained, and I just knew that she was going to give Amy her best side. So I was jealous and hurt and refused to have anything to do with it. Eventually, my mom just stopped mentioning it. I guess I didn’t mind so much about the other half-brother and sister because the dad we shared was dead. I don’t know, and I probably didn’t know then, either. It was just too much. In the span of a summer, my family had doubled. I couldn’t really handle it. And eleven years later, I feel like an asshole.

This past December,  I received a friend request on Facebook from Amy, and she said she’d like to meet. Eleven years later and yes, it was still shocking, but I didn’t have that jealous pang anymore. It was replaced with absolute curiosity and a desire to see what it’s like to have a sister. We began sending messages, getting to know the pertinents of each other, and finally last Wednesday, I found myself driving to a Panera in Washington, PA, oscillating back and forth between: “What if she hates me?

” “What if she resents me?” “What if this is actually just my mom fucking with me?”

I was fully prepared for it to be awkward, but instead I found myself hugging her right off the bat. I’m not a huggy type of person. There are people I’ve been friends with for 15 years and have never hugged. But I share genes with this girl and at that moment, right there on the sidewalk in front of Panera, it seemed like the right thing to do. And I hoped she didn’t think I was a freak. Plus, she was wearing a yellow vest which simultaneously soothed and invited.

Over coffee and a grilled cheese from the kids menu, we talked about our childhoods, our relationships with our parents, the various issues we both share (it’s uncanny), and the choices we’ve made over the years. She remarked that I look like our younger brother Ryan and I pointed out that she and I have the chin. It was surreal. And it made me regret the way I acted all those years ago, but I wonder if I had met her right away, if I’d have acted like a complete bitch and sabotaged what could have been a cool relationship.

And I hoped she didn’t take offense to that, because I really am a different person now, and more open to change.

She had to leave after an hour to take her son (my nephew!

) to get school supplies and I actually found myself feeling a little disappointed. I didn’t want to leave! I had so many more questions, like what kind of music she likes and if she went to the prom and what are her thoughts on uncooked tortellini, but she said she’d like for all of us (her family and Henry and Chooch) to get together sometime soon. I hope I have enough time to teach Chooch that Amy’s five year old daughter is his COUSIN which means he can’t stalk her like he does all the random girls he sees at Target.

I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and I hope that it’s not too late to build a relationship with her, because we have a lot in common. I mean, it’s sick how much we have in common. Plus, she said she likes my art, so I was all, “Welcome to the family!”

Probably I should draw a family tree so that this makes more sense:

It’s crazy because for 19 years of my life, I believed I was the oldest child. Not only am I NOT, but I’m also the YOUNGEST child on a completely different side of the tree.

Hey, so something you might not know about me is that I kind of like hockey. Yeah, a little bit. Here and there. So when I heard there was a Pitt vs Duquesne hockey game last Friday, first I said, “Pitt has a hockey team?” and then “Duquesne has a hockey team?” and then “Tickets are only $5? I’m going.”

The whole way to Bladerunners in Harmarville, Alisha asked questions like, “Wait, what are we going to see again? A lacrosse match?” and “Is there going to be nude entertainment of any sort” and her most oft-asked question “Do you know that you’re totally the coolest person I know? I’m so lucky.” So we get there and follow a pack of Pitt students who knew which way to go. I appreciated when the ticket guy had to ask hesitantly, “Adult?” instead of just assuming that this broad is clearly not a student. He didn’t ask Alisha. In fact, he tried to give her the Downs discount. I kind of felt bad.

Since both of us went to Pitt for a minute, it was logical that we root for the Panthers and not the snobby Duquesne Dukes. I made sure to ask which side of the rink was for the Pitt fans, so as not to have any tense situations like when I accidentally sat on the visitors side at a roller derby bout I once went to.

Initially we sat all the way down by Pitt’s goal, until Alisha reminded me of my poor eye sight, and we moved slightly closer to the middle to ensure both sides of the rink could be seen. We were actually seated right next to the glorified runway that the Pitt players used, and you just know how idiotic I acted about that. Alisha’s suggestion ended up being quite serendipitous because we moved seats right as the busloads of Pitt students poured into the rink and about 20 of the loudest skinny-jeans, Ugg-wearing girls with their respective frat boy partners all ascended on the side of the bleachers we had just moved from. Now, I’m all about getting rowdy at sporting events. That’s the POINT. But even I’m able to mute my asshole-isms during the National Anthem. Unfortunately, no one told this group of kids that, and they proceeded to yell and scream and heckle and sing along in mock tenors and I was so thankful to not be standing in their midst and get labeled as a douchebag by the dumb luck of proximity. There were groups of students behind us who were furiously shushing them.

How embarrassing.

Not that I was expecting slick NHL action, but goddamn is college hockey sloooow. I mean, time-wise it goes fast without the TV timeouts, but there was little action. The passing on both teams was pretty shakey and neither team had a good grasp of puck control. I teach hockey to mutes, so I know these things. However, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t fun for what it was. Alisha and I found ourselves heavily supporting Pitt, and we learned from the loud-mouths to our left that Steve, Brad and Mike were the popular players. I was frantically trying to check the roster on my phone and I still have no idea which ones were Steve, Brad and Mike. But you better believe I was a little minah bird every time I heard someone shouting their names. It was like this:

Pitt students in the know: “STEVE!!!!!”

Me, half a second later: “…..YEAH, STEVE!”

Alisha called me an asshole a lot.

During the first intermission, we went to the restroom, where I used the handicap stall after some older ginger woman in a mauve sweater inspected it and decided to pass. There was nothing wrong with it! She wound up in the stall next to me and when she sneezed loudly, I laughed out loud.

It made me feel bad at first, but later I spotted her across the ice on the visitor’s side, at which point I hoped she had heard me laugh and that she will now have a sneezing complex, fucking Duquesne bitch.

The second period was more of the same. We were hoping for a fight. I went so far as to hope someone would get their eye poked out and skidded across the ice. But it was during this period that Pitt scored and tied the game. I don’t know who scored, but I don’t think it was Steve, Brad or Mike. Actually, I’m pretty sure Mike was the goalie.

Duquesne has a midget on their team! A little fucking Napoleon named URSO. Hate him with me, everyone! Alisha pointed him out first. “Look at that small boy. He seems like he has an attitude, so I hate him.” I decided to hate him too, not so much for the solidarity, but because I hate short people. No I’m kidding.

I just hate midgets.

A Pitt student in a fuzzy yellow pullover, with a ditzy-looking brunette at his side, walked past us to take a seat in Section O (for those unfamiliar with the seat chart, that is O for Obnoxious). One of the boys behind me yelled, “HEY MIKE!” at which point Yellow Pullover turned to the side and acknowledged him with a drunken smile. Then under his breath, the boy behind me goes, “Oooh, I’m telling Michelle!” and I took that to mean that the ditzy-looking brunette was not Michelle. And I was right! Because whoever that girl was, Mike is like, IN LOVE with her but she only wants to BE FRIENDS and poor Mike isn’t taking the hint. “I feel sorry for him,” the boy behind me said to his friend, another boy behind me.

So then I was finding myself all wrapped up in this drama that I was barely paying attention to the game and Alisha started asking me questions like, “Wait, what does icing mean again?” and all  I do was blurt  things out like, “THAT’S NOT MIKE’S GIRLFRIEND OMG!”

Then Mike came and sat behind us! And I learned that he’s taking O Chem and some random biology that he doesn’t even need but just because he wants to, and he said it with this dismissiveness like it was merely some intramural kickball and not a fucking pre-med requisite, and my brain just couldn’t process it because he just exuded dumbness. He didn’t know jack about hockey though and even asked, “So, like, do you have to like, try out for this team?”

During the third period, I noticed that some cock roast on the enemy side was standing up and pantomiming in the direction of Section O. Then! Then, a boy from Section O started doing all these flashy finger-flippings back at the other guy and I was like, “Wow, finally maybe some shit will go down,” and I tapped Alisha on the shoulder to alert her of the drama but they had both stopped by then and she totally didn’t believe me.

“It’s true! That guy over there was gesticulating wildly and then this guy was all—”

“Shut up, I don’t believe you.” And then! Then she goes, “And I think it’s safe to say that none of my other friends ever say the things you say.” She wouldn’t tell me if that was good or bad and I found myself feeling paranoid and insecure.

Anyway, 3676489730954 penalties later, the game went into OT and we won less than a minute in! I was so excited about it, I don’t really know why. I don’t actually have much loyality invested in the Panthers, but at $5 a ticket, I’d sure go to another game.

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

• 16:39 I’m elbow-deep in a mix CD for Alisha and it feels nice and cleansing. Making mixes is one of my favorite things to do. #
• 18:48 Sitting in Taco Bell while Alisha writes a verbal thesis on drapes. #
• 19:57 I was going to say that I might be the worst wii player ever but then remembered that Alisha is playing too. #
• 21:01 Me: I hate this game because I can’t cheat. Alisha: I LOVE this game because you can’t cheat. #
• 21:40 I love Canada. #
• 23:12 Fleury!! Way to not take that shit! I love it when goalies get scrappy. #pens #
• 23:51 PENGUINS! I’m so worked up, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep after the game ends. I love these late games. #Pens #
• ***
• 10:24 I am an entire floor and two rooms away from the radio in my bedroom, but there’s no mistaking the distinctive intro to Whitetown. Holla. #
• 11:44 Succeeded in offending someone, as usual, on Facebook. You’d think after 10+ years some ppl wouldn’t bat an eyelash at my antics anymore. #
• 12:37 I want to give Callie from The Real World a big fat hug. #
• 14:10 The only way I can please everyone is by hiding who I really am and that’s just lame. Not doing that, no apologies. Fake people are dumb. #
• 14:24 Dear Twitter god, plz pray that the job training I’m going to tomorrow isn’t too good to be true. #
• ***
• 14:21 Well. I apparentally have a job-thing. #
• 14:27 And the first thing I thought was: Now I can donate to Haiti! #
• 15:16 Someone should come take my son for a few years. Hours, I mean hours. #
• 18:25 The first thing I do in the morning is say fuck that shit. #
• 19:55 It’s stupid how much I like data entry. It must be all that missing responsibility attached to it. #
• 22:13 Would have been amazing to see a Fleury/Luongo matchup but we have faith in you, Curry! #pens #
• 23:02 If I could maybe convince Henry that all these years his citizenship has been a farce, then will he marry me? I wonder. #
• 23:13 Omg this goalie sitch would be funny if it wasn’t happening to a team I love. Bring in the 19 year old! #
• 23:26 “Boo the #Pens got a goal, now they’re only 45 goals behind us!” STFU Vancouver. & Luongo, I like u but not when ur imitating my 3yo. #NHL #
• 23:58 No one in the training session today thought to ask how much we’re getting paid. It can’t be any less than what I’m already making. #
• 23:59 Which is, you know – NOTHING. #
• ***
• 00:45 I hate it when girls are on Silent Library. There – one more thing for the book you’re not writing about Erin R. Kelly. #
• 10:47 I love how Henry forces me to get a job and then bitches when he has to do things around the house now. Asshole. #
• 10:48 To be more specific, I asked him to FEED THE CATS OMG! But he’s watching TV! Oh noes! #
• 11:03 “Love Will Tear Us Apart” will always remind me of my Canadian mistake. #
• 15:37 My blog stats have been spiking lately, which makes me believe I’m about to get in trouble for something. It’s not easy being this paranoid. #
• 16:16 At Alisha’s. Evonne brought her Psychic Circle and has invited us to join a coven. I could use some witchiness in my life. Stfu Henry. #
• 18:21 Just spent the last hour being ganged up on and given a deadline for a book outline. I’m scared! And tired. Very tired. #
• 21:42 And that’s the LAST time I offer up my phone so the cat can call her father. #
• ***
• 01:15 I’m really into stripes. But not Westerns. #
• 10:24 The plea for someone to take my kid is still on the table. There might be blood on that table now too, though. #
• 11:42 a nice girl found me interesting eno ugh to feature on a website. you should check it out! awholelotofwhatever.com/?p=688 #
• 14:50 I almost forgot what panic attacks felt like. Welcome back to my overwhelming world, old nemesis. #
• 19:13 I’m working until the new iCarly comes on, and that’s IT. #
• 19:51 I miss miscegenation. #
• 21:18 So far, I have decided that I want my book to be “large.” And I wrote my name in the notebook I’m using for the outline. Exhausting day. #
• 22:43 Good old Further Seems Forever. #
• ***
• 00:03 Dictionary.com tells me “glutes” is a word, so get choked, #wordswithfriends. #
• 09:41 Seeing Kara & her cute baby, I had a fleeting desire to have another kid. Then I took a good hard look @ Chooch & changed my mind. Quickly. #
• 11:29 Chooch wanted me to make him a grilled cheese. I whimpered through the whole process. #
• 14:56 I just found the perfect wedding invitations. So whenever you’re ready, @awoodhick. You asshole. #
• 15:27 Today, I miss Elliott Smith. #
• 20:39 Brent Johnson is the MAN. #pens #NHL #
• 20:47 How The #Pens Got Their Power Play Back. #
• 21:00 It’s hard, even for me, having conversations with someone who’s ignoring you. #
• 22:13 Hat trick for Malkin; 6 point night for Crosby. When the #Pens are on, they’re ON. #
• ***
• 11:38 Chooch is getting his first taste of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. #
• 13:45 I think I need to take a seminar in productivity. #
• 16:33 About to meet my older sister for the first time omg. #
• 20:15 Meeting my sister was surreal yet awesome. We have much in common & I’m excited to learn more. Thanks to all who wished me luck! #
• ***
• 00:32 Joss Stone is my own personal chalkboard scratcher. #
• 11:07 Just walked in on Chooch struggling to put on one of my camisoles. #
• 11:12 #pens / #caps game tonight. Feels like Christmas! I love Ovechkin, but tonight the “Obitchkin” nickname reappears. #NHL #
• 11:15 This is the stuff that should get people interested in NHL & maybe forget football for a second: www.nhl.com/ice/news.htm?id=513677 #
• 12:18 I’m trying to work while the obnoxious sounds of the Fresh Beat Band quickly kills my sanity. #
• 13:05 ALISHA JUST ADMITTED SHE MISSES ME. Hello, diary entry! #
• 17:49 I can’t eat with Alisha watching me ugh! #
• 19:49 I feel like I’m watching a playoff game. Even Alisha was like “hey I want to be like my idol Erin & watch the #pens game tonight!” #NHL #
• 20:51 Thank you, Threeormore!! #pens #caps #
• 23:54 Oh, Conan. #
• ***
• 09:45 When Chooch says, “I have something really important to tell you”, I flinch. #
• 10:19 I love that today’s Urban Dictionary word is “Leno giver”. #
• 10:31 Chooch wants you to please stop calling it Raisin Bran, for Christ’s sake. Everyone knows it’s Raisin Brains. FUCK. #
• 12:21 Anything from the freezer that requires heating in the oven will be retold later as “When I was slaving in the kitchen….” #
• 13:51 I am for real trying to do way too much with my days; you’d think my life was just given an expiration date . #
• 15:01 I find that listening to the Flashbeagle soundtrack while working really ups productivity. #
• 16:07 Henry’s ringtone is so intense, it makes me clench and expect Jean Claude Van Damme to dive thru my window, with explosions in his wake. #
• 20:36 Alisha and I are pretending to be Pitt students at the Pitt/Duquesne hockey game. #
• 20:41 Yeah go Pitt! i need to find a player to latch onto. yfrog.com/35uebdj #
• 21:12 Alisha just thought Pitt got a penalty for splashing and I’m like, “Yes exactly.” #
• 21:40 Alisha and I shared a sink in the restroom. Now we are BEST FRIENDS. #
• 22:32 Alisha just said, “it’s safe to say that I don’t have any other friends who would say the things you say.” good/bad? #
• 22:46 I hate #19 Urso for no reason other than he’s short. A short prick. Fuck off, Duquesne. #
• 23:12 Yay Pitt! Why do I care?? yfrog.com/1yzasdj #
• 02:22 Watched The Tonight Show twice and cried both times like Conan is dying or something. I hate when I project my emotions! Unbecoming. #

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.

It was difficult sometimes, especially when Rue was meeting someone new. There were several ways it could go:

– The person would ignore her stutter, in the same way someone might ignore an obese albino who just got flattened by a trolley.

– The person might get so agitated after only a few minutes that they flee the scene with no other explanation aside from their body language screaming, “Freak!”

– The person just might have the audacity to ask her how she acquired her stutter.

They’d expect fantastical explanations from her, to check against their elaborate theories.

They expected tales of toddler play dates gone awry when an over-achieving jack-in-the-box’s appearance came packed with too much vim and vigor, scarring her vocal tenacity for life.

Or they’d pin a childhood bicycle accident as the culprit, imagining Rue so stunned after careening over the crest of a ravine that it would always take her longer than others to place an order at McDonald’s or give an eulogy at a funeral.

Or when they’d learn of Rue’s abduction from 1986-1989, a time for which she has no recollection, they’d be so sure that was the origin for her habitual stammer. But the only thing Rue took away from that experience was an aversion to nylons and a taste for peanut butter and Cheez-Wiz on sardines.

So Rue doesn’t even flinch when her date, scratching a pair of too-perfect breasts in the leftover syrup on his plate, blatantly asks, “What’s the deal with the stutter?

”

Over the din of the roadside diner, busty waitresses hollering at the counter-perched regulars and knives raping plate surfaces as they slaughter through chicken-fried steak, Rue contemplates telling him what he wants to hear, what they’ve all wanted to hear – some woeful yarn of an incident so traumatic, her speech is still impaired twenty years later.

But she likes this guy. He’s not as good-looking as the one before him, the one who looked like that Edward fellow from Twilight but had a propensity for calling her “Mama” and had a scarily large collection of used band-aids (a few dozen are OK, but an entire chest is overboard, Rue thought). But he’s definitely a step up from the one eight dates ago who had plastic surgery to purposely look like Steve Buscemi and wore purple polyester slacks every day.

Rue opts for the truth. She wrings her hands, coughs a little, sits up straighter so he’ll focus on the fact that she’s not wearing a bra and the top four buttons of her paisley blouse had busted open sometime between ordering breakfast and leaving the ladies room after busting open the top four buttons.

“Ok,” she starts, modestly shaking her rack.

His eyes dart down. “I really like the hit MTV series The Jersey Shore.” She waits, but his ogling eyeballs are still focused below her chin. “And The Situation was on the radio a few weeks ago. He said he likes Rues that stutter. So I rented My Cousin Vinny and started practicing, so that if I ever run into him, he might call me ‘broad’ and plop me in a jacuzzi somewhere.”

Behind her, a trucker with pits that smelt of bologna and urine and the giant steaming shit which Miley Cyrus dumped on Top 40, turned around and splayed a thick chunk of arm across the back of their booth. “Not that I’ve been eavesdropping, but I heard that interview too. It was the American Idol has-been Rueben Studdard he said he likes.” He paused to hawker out a muculent pud of chew into his empty coffee cup. “Not ‘Rues that stutter’.” His belly-laughter shook both booths.

“You’ve been FAKING your stutter?” her date bellowed. “That’s the only reason I came out for this second date, because your stutter gives me an erection.” And with that, he snatched his top hat and accordion off the seat and stormed out of the diner, leaving Rue alone with a lingering tendril of smoke from his anger-stubbed cigarette, the still-laughing trucker, and the check.

“And it wasn’t The Situation who was on the radio,” the trucker added, lifting his Jim Deere cap to brush back a greasy pelt of hair. “It was Pauly D!” he exclaimed, giving Rue one last rib-kick.

———————

So I joined this 52 Projects group on Facebook, in hopes that it will inspire me to start making monsters again. This was from week 2.

When I was in high school, way back in those scary times known as THE NINETIES, FX started showing reruns of a 70’s show called “Vega$” starring a pre-cancer Robert Urich. I don’t know what it was about that show, but I was sucked in. I mean, I would drop everything when “Vega$” came on. I could have had Robert Smith’s dick in my hand and I would’ve dropped that too. Or probably multi-tasked, but still.

I was in the attic not too long ago, looking for incriminating evidence against Henry to post here on the blog, when I stumbled upon an old VHS tape that boasted VEGA$ MARATHON! in orange marker (and under that in pink: Bone videos! Bone on the VMAs!) and it just all came flooding back. It feels like that show consumed years of my life, like it was with me when I got my braces off, learned to drive, lost my viriginity, graduated (oh, wait. haha). But really I think I only watched it for a few months. But that was long enough to make fond memories! Walk with me.

• In 11th grade English, we were put into groups. My group had to make a video about Longfellow. Because that’s not a boring subject or anything. I remember this to be at the height of my Vega$ mania, as evidenced by the ridiculous cameos I made in other people’s scenes, walking slowly in the background while holding a large posterboard sign urging people to watch Vega$ on FX, with air times and maniacal exclamation abuse following. But everyone in that class knew I was retarded so I don’t think it illicited much reaction, aside from maybe a few eye rolls.
• That same year, FX was having a Sunday MARATHON. Can you imagine? An entire afternoon of that beloved 1970’s wok-wok disco soundtrack carrying a polyestor bell-bottomed Dan Tanna across my television screen. The only thing that would make that day better was to have a PARTY to go along with it. Of course, none of my friends thought this was a very enticing way to spend a day off from school so I ended up making a sign to advertise my Vega$ party, and I tied it on the street sign at the end of our lane. With balloons. Don’t worry, I’d never forget the balloons. Oh, it was going to be grand! I could imagine cars pulling over left and right and random strangers showing up with arms full of spinach dip, wine coolers, and disco balls. Of course, it was only me and my brother Corey home at the time (and he was only 5 or 6), so this came as a nice surprise to my mom when she turned onto the lane later that day and saw my open-to-all invitation billowing on the street post. Then she burst into the house and saw that it was just Corey and me, eating chips and watching Vega$ together. If I remember correctly, Corey was wearing a dishtowel on his head. I have video of this somewhere.
• One of my favorite episodes featured an appearance by WAYNE NEWTON! He sang this one song that went something like “Daddy, don’t you walk so fast” and I was OBSESSED with it. I made all of my friends watch it. They were like, “Ok?” Luckily, my friend Lisa was mildly amused by my Vega$ infatuation, so when I asked her to sing that Wayne Newton song with me on my answering machine (I had my own line in high school, which didn’t get me into any trouble at all), she agreed and it was my favorite answering machine greeting ever. Maybe tied with “Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina” which angered my Aunt Sharon so much, she quit calling me for awhile. That’s a winning situation if you ask me.

And I could go and on about Robert Urich’s appearances on “Battle of the Network Stars” (I was so obsessed with that too, but that didn’t happen until much later, which was awesome for Henry because it meant he got to witness me taking a good thing and running it into the ground). But instead, I will leave you with the opening sequence to my beloved “Vega$.”

What old shows did/do you obsess over? I really need to know. It’s for… research.

Eyelids heavy, Chooch slurs, “I hate squid.”

At a loss for anything profound to say (the ungodly hour of 4:43am will do that to a person), I say, “Oh. Well, I’ll be sure not to get you one for your birthday.”

On the brink of falling back asleep, he goes, “Ok.”

After a few seconds to consider this, he adds, “Well, will you get me a whale instead, since I hate squid?”

He never heard my answer over his snores. And now I’m wide awake.

For the remainder of the month, I’m donating 15% of all Somnambulant sales to Haiti. I know it’s not much, and I’m hoping that once I work a little bit and help Henry catch up around here, maybe I can give some more. So, I don’t know – have a look around my little shop if you want!

In other Somnambulant news, I was interviewed by Amber over at A Whole Lot of Whatever. In true Erin fashion, I had a thousand things going on around me, so I’m sure it’s peppered with nonsense.

And in ERIN news, I’m supposed to be meeting my sister tonight for the first time ever. I thought I would be scared, but I woke up feeling excited. Hopefully it pans out and I’ll have a great story to share with you guys!

That’s all I have for today, unless you want the rest of this post to be a hundred sentences like this: “OMG LAST NIGHT’S HOCKEY GAME WAS FANTASTIC!”

Now I have to try and “work” and pray that Chooch isn’t naked on the roof.

My first internet boyfriend was wrangled back in the fall of ’98. His name was Misfit and we met in a now-defunct goth chat room called Darkchat (where my nickname “Ruby” flourished to the point where it’s now hard to shake, and no, I was never really “goth”). Misfit and I became soon embroiled in a hot-and-heavy phone relationship, even watching Sleepless In Seattle together while cradling the receivers between shoulders and ears. He asked me to come to San Diego to spend Christmas with him, and I went through great lengths to make it happen. My mom thought it was cute (she was secretly hoping that he would see to my demise, I’m sure), and promised to help me get a plane ticket. Then I called him one night and heard the giggling of a horny female from within his dorm room.

My internet lust did not die with Misfit; there were plenty more faceless nicknames scattered around the world for me to fall for, like Fade who was in his twenties and admittedly never had a girlfriend; and Darq, the adrogynous Brian Molko wannabe from England who would send me angry ICQ messages if I wasn’t home when he would call. Each time I met someone new, I’d break up with my boyfriend Jeff. He was the most lenient boyfriend I ever had. Probably because he wasn’t very threatened by some dude who lived a thousand miles away and knew I’d be back after the initial white horses and rainbows of it all fizzled.

Until October of 1999, when Narcissus from Vancouver and I realized that after a year of chatting in Darkchat and over ICQ, we were soul mates. His real name was Gordon and I charged ludicrous amounts of calling cards to my mom’s company gas card. My friends Jon and Justin, who were always with me back then,  hated Gordon because he had a knack for calling at inopportune times. Like when we would all be engaged in dead baby hypotheticals or watching my friend Jon model wigs.

But he’s my soul mate, I’d remind everyone as I kicked them out of my house so I could call Gordon.

Through all the mix tape swaps and late night phone sessions, Jeff toughed it out. He’d sit there and listen to me gush about how educated and refined Gordon was, and how someday I was going to bear his child and we would raise it on love, chatroom etiquette and The Cure.

But then a pivotal moment occurred:

Gordon was flying to Pittsburgh.

He had arranged a flight in December with the intent of shacking up with me for two weeks. It was going to be perfect — we would obviously fall even more madly in love and then I would go back to Vancouver with him and we would get married and live in a big house filled with coffins and pictures of Robert Smith and it was going to be all so very perfect.

Jeff cried.

Jon and Justin vehemently vetoed this plan and begged me not to get my hopes up, that he could arrive and all illusions could shatter. But he’s my Gordon, I argued. There ARE no illusions, just buckets and barrels of twinkling True Love.  

I was subsequently mocked every time Gordon would call in their presence. But one evening, my friend Justin could bear it no longer and reluctantly crossed over to my side. “Let me say hello to him,” he asked. After making him promise to be nice, I passed him the phone.

“Hey Gordon, how’s it going?” The air hung heavy as Jon and I waited expectantly for Justin to wrap it up. “Yeah? Well fuck you too!” Justin slammed down the phone and yelled, “Your friend’s an asshole, Erin!”

Gordon had replied to Justin’s greeting with a “Fuck all.” This was a new phrase for Jon and Justin, and no matter how hard I tried to explain what it meant, they assumed I was trying to cover for Gordon, and that clearly it was the Canadian way to say that he wanted to kill Justin’s mother and rape his sister. They took offense and set off on the war path. Plans were made to drop by while he was visiting, and parade around my house in “Fuck Canada” t-shirts while mocking the dialect. I even heard whispering about a maple leaf burning.They were going to hold this against the entire country.

I eventually got them to cease fire and they agreed that they would be civil when he arrived. I had two weeks left to prep them, reminding them of sensitive subjects and other sore spots to avoid.

“His brother died of AIDs, so don’t make any AIDs jokes,” I warned.

Jon was appalled by this. “How often do we tell AIDs jokes? I don’t even know any!” Still, I feared that he would go home and start putting together an act.

Finally, Gordon’s arrival date was upon us, and I rushed to the airport. I couldn’t wait to run my fingers through his coal black 80s retro hair, and oh how I hoped he would be wearing the military jacket that I had seen him in in one of the pictures he emailed me.

I leaned up against a wall and waited as a stream of passengers poured off his flight. I saw a young, tall guy with a long gray pea coat and wobbly red head approaching. We made eye contact, but I quickly pulled away. Weirdo, I thought. I looked past him, waiting expectantly for Gordon, when I realized Big Red was still staring at me and smiling goofily.

He was Gordon.

But where was the shiny blue-black hair that flopped so precisely over his left eye? Where were the big black stompy boots? What I saw in front of me was a walking ad for Banana Republic.

I wanted to run but my feet were frozen to the ground. I had never in my life seen a pate that enormous. Even when he came to a complete stop before me, his head was still jiggling around on his shoulders. Biggest head ever. How was it even possible for a neck to support a head that large without some sort of brace, I wondered. I tried my hardest not to stare, but my eyes kept wanting a tour of that globular cranium.

We exchanged pleasantries and Gordon moved in for a kiss. “Oh, hey now. Ha-ha! Let’s go get your luggage first!” I pulled away much too quickly, with my hands out like a shield, even; but he didn’t seem fazed.

And so I spent the next forty minutes trying to ward off any public displays of affection that he mercilessly flung my way. I finally acquiesced and allowed for one quick, impersonal hug before we got into my car. I had to try not to cry into the breast of his coat.

Jon wanted to come over to meet him that night, so I called him as soon as we arrived home and insisted that Gordon was really tired and not up for a visit, because really I was entirely too embarrassed. I could just hear all the “told you so”s. Could TASTE them, even. “No, I’m quite fine. Tell Jon to bring his jolly ass over!” He really said that. Jolly ass.

“In-person Gordon” evidently liked to speak with a faux-British accent. I would also find that he would slip over into a Scottish brogue as well, all the while never omitting the “eh”s and “aboot”s. He was an accent mutt. I could not allow Jon to witness the monstrosity on my couch. I would never hear the end of it.

Through my patented gritted, toothy smile, I hastily suggested that we order food. If he’s eating, maybe he won’t talk, I prayed. Gordon insisted on placing the order, which turned into a condescending, one-sided shouting match with the pizza place through the phone.

“Hey, we’re Americans, not deaf,” I reminded him when he hung up.

While we ate our pizza, Gordon began asking me about what I had planned for his visit. Nothing that we can do now, I thought, as I glanced at his quaking head. There was no way any of my guy friends were going to be hanging out with him. I would be teased for the rest of my life. I wasn’t sure I could risk ANY of my friends meeting him, to be frank. He was a giant, bobble-headed manifestation of my naivete and Internet love abuse.

Two weeks of this oaf hulking around my house — could I stand it? All those marathon phone calls had left us with little to say to each other. How was that possible? We were supposed to have everything in common.

Gordon needed cigarettes and suggested that I take him to my favorite gas station that I had told him about in one of our many all-night phone sessions, the gas station where hundreds of my mom’s company dollars were spent each month on groceries, toiletries, and Slushies. I began to resist until I figured that it was late at night and the only person there would be the night employee, my buddy Mitul. We had a love-hate relationship, but he wouldn’t say anything about Gordon.

As Gordon roamed the aisles in search of American goods, I stood at the counter with Mitul. Maybe I was just paranoid and reaching to find flaws in Gordon. I bet no one else will even notice his head size.

“That the Canadian you in love wit’?” Mitul asked in his thick Indian staccato. I rolled my eyes and shrugged, prompting Mitul to bust out with a laughter-coated, “Erin’s goofin’ wit’ Big Head!” For two years I endured this mockery from my supposed friend Mitul. Two years. If Mitul was able to see past the language barrier to make fun of the situation, then there was absolutely no way I could bring him around anyone else. They’d collect enough fodder for the biggest, bloodiest roast of Erin of all time.

Later that night, Gordon was leafing through my photo albums, while simultaneously bitching about how horrible American cigarettes are. I was trying to show him high school pictures of my friends and me, but he insisted that he just wanted to see Jeff and the other guys I hung out with; I watched as the flesh covering his over-sized skull grew redder and redder. Someone was jealous. To curb any impending outbursts and awkward trust conversations (because clearly I must have been fucking every friend with a penis), I grabbed a new photo album from the pile and flipped to a random page, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, and this one right here? That’s Tex. It’s a bad picture of him. Doesn’t he look like an AIDs patient?” Several decades of silence passed and I slapped my hand over my mouth. All that rehearsing and pre-damage control I practiced with my friends, and I end up being the idiot who makes light of AIDs.

“My brother died of AIDs,” Gordon said, the weight of his enormous head causing him to hang it. And he cried.

Not knowing what else to do, I gifted him with pity sex. Yeah, that’s right, Erin goofed with Big Head. I was going through a dangerous “sex is the answer” phase, OK? I was YOUNG.

(Henry wishes I was still in that phase.)

And that was awkward, I have to say. I didn’t want to touch him, but a few times I slipped and placed my hands on his head, causing me to experience internal vomiting. I took a hot shower afterward, locking the bathroom door to curb any attempts for him to join me. I was afraid that the soap suds would be unable to penetrate the smarmy pretentiousness that I was so sure had coated my flesh, so I scrubbed myself raw.

(I’m shuddering right now, at the memory.)

The next morning, I called my friend Keri and begged her to come over. She’s the one who took me to the hospital when I had a condom lost inside me, so I figured if anyone would be blase about the situation, it’d be her. “I don’t want to be left alone with him. I might say more stupid things and be forced to have more Big Head sex!” Keri agreed to be my buffer and came right over.

“Where is he?” she asked, looking around the room, as if anyone’s eyes would not immediately be drawn to the mother whompin’ head, like flies to a carcass.

“He’s engaging in a shower,” I answered with air quotes, imitating his phony accent.

We sat on the couch and I purged and ranted as long as his shower enabled me to, until he made his grand entrance down the steps.

Wearing nothing but a towel.

He nodded at Keri while he walked across the room, slapping his big feet against the floor, and spraying droplets of water in his wake. He stooped down in front of us and rummaged through his suitcase, which he had left laying open in the middle of the room. He stood up with his chosen wardrobe for the day, and nodded again at Keri and me, before retreating back to the bathroom.

Keri sat rigidly, her eyes opened wide in horror. “That’s the biggest fucking head I’ve ever seen! Does he have some sort of condition? Why is it so big?”

“I don’t know. He’s very pretentious, do you think that’s why?” But then it came down to: “Is his head big because he’s pretentious, or is he pretentious because his head’s big?” For the fifth time since he arrived in Pittsburgh, I started to cry.

The three of us went to Denny’s for lunch, where Gordon proceeded to cut Keri off every time she tried to speak. He sat there and droned on and on about how great Canada is and what a poor country we live in here in America, and my god, this restaurant was terrible. And then he talked about British comedy and how rich his grandparents were, all while I stuffed my mouth with grilled cheese and stared out the window. Keri tried her hardest to make conversation, but he didn’t even attempt to feign interest, talking right over her as though she wasn’t even there (Kind of like how I do around Janna. But that’s different!), all the while twirling and flicking his scarf in his hands.

Yes, we know your scarf is cashmere, motherfucker. This is what I longed to scream while wrapping it tighter and tighter around his thick neck until it turned a pretty azure hue.

Keri left as soon as we returned back at my house. She couldn’t be paid to stay. I don’t even think she said goodbye.

“Would you care to join me in some viewing of ‘Fawlty Towers’?” Gordon invited as he procured a tape from his suitcase. With him? No. With someone else? Gladly. I politely declined so I wouldn’t have to sit with him, and busied myself with a magazine, figuring we could at least have some quiet time.

And then the simulated British tittering began. Not wanting to stick around long enough to hear him bust out with a “Chortle, chortle, that was a  jolly fine joke,” I played the headache card and excused myself, locking the bedroom door behind me. Laying in bed and wondering how the fuck I was going to survive two entire weeks of Bobble Head, I picked up the phone and called the one person who could rescue me.

Cinn arrived a short while later. I heard her knock and waited for Gordon to open the door. There was silence, and then I heard her knock three more times with increased impatience. I ran downstairs and realized that Gordon wasn’t even there.

“Where the hell is he?” Cinn demanded, pushing her way into the house. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I explained to her how he was rude to Keri and how he was being so negative about America (and I’m not even patriotic) and that I literally had nothing to say to him, and he was clingy, oh so clingy, and I couldn’t breathe and every time I closed my eyes, I pictured the butcher knife in the kitchen.  Cinn said there was little time and began to rummage through his suitcase.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I cried, pulling back the curtains to ensure he wasn’t on his way back from whereever he had disappeared.

Tossing aside his underwear and socks, she found his return flight intinery and called the airport. When she hung up, she assured me that he could be out of here and on a plane by morning, without losing his mother’s frequent flyer miles.

All that was left was for us to wait. Maybe he won’t come back at all, I hoped. Maybe he’ll get mugged or wooed by a carnival committee, that could happen, right Cinn?

When he eventually returned to my unwelcoming arms, and explained in his haughty British accent that he had “gone for a walk around the block,” Cinn took him by the arm and led him back outside. On the front porch, she sat him down and first chastised him for leaving the house without telling me, like he was a seven-year old who took a detour to the arcade instead of coming straight home after school. Then she explained to him that Erin was a little overwhelmed by the idea of him staying for two whole weeks, and frankly, she felt very uncomfortable to the point where it would be best to cut the trip short. How short, Gordon asked. Oh, like tonight, Cinn answered.

And so, with all the flair of a menopausal woman, he burst into the house, crying, and implored me to change my mind. I tried to be compassionate and told him that I just wasn’t ready, but when I was, I would come and visit him in Vancouver. This is all just moving too fast, I said dramatically. Do you still love me, he asked me through the tears. Of course, I lied.

He ate it up, like it was just another chapter in our perfect love story.

Cinn helped him book his flight and then spent a few more hours chaperoning us, ensuring that I wouldn’t succumb to more pity sex, and, you know, have to talk to him. But eventually, she had to leave. That left me with about five hours to kill.

“You know, you should probably get to the airport early,” I recommended. He asked me how early I was thinking and I said, “Oh, you should leave now, maybe.”

He asked me if I was ready to take him and after thinking it over for, oh, half a second, I explained to him that I would be too sad to go to the airport with him, and that he should just call a cab. And so I handed him the Yellow Pages. I hardly wanted him to slobber all over me at the airport, in front of people. It was bad enough he was doing it in the privacy of my house.

The hard part was next — trying to stay awake in the middle of the night, so that he wouldn’t miss his cab and/or his flight. I sat on the couch in a very annoyed and disgusted position, as he lay with his head in my lap, serenading me with Joy Division songs.

I’m not kidding. To this day, my skin crawls when I hear “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” It’s not love tearing us apart, moron, it’s your watermelon-sized dome and accompanying ego. I couldn’t believe how much someone could differ in person. The Gordon I knew via the phone was sincere and sweet and funny. The Gordon who was snotting all over my lap was brash and arrogant and pretentious, and worst of all – rude to my friends. That’s intolerable.

Just as Gordon was humming the opening notes to track 5 of his Joy Division Sob Fest, I leapt off the couch.

“Oh my god, I didn’t even get a picture of you while you were here!” I realized. I went to grab my camera, leaving Gordon with a few seconds to wipe the tears from his eyes and blow his nose. I took his picture just as the cab pulled up the house. It’s disappointing how the true enormity of his head is camouflaged in this photo; my friends and I have lamented over this for years. But take my word for it — others saw it and cowered in its shadow.

He called me from the airport in hopes that I had changed my mind, as though the twenty minutes we had been apart would have made my heart swell with lonliness and regret. I assured him that nothing had changed. He said he still loved me. I tried not to puke.

Needless to say, we haven’t spoken since; and last I heard, he was in Ireland, so one can only imagine how incredible his accent collage is these days.

Jeff and I reunited, but there would be more boys down the line to break us up. You know, like our friend Henry.