After the clusterfuck that is Mapquest directions and orange-barreled exits, Alisha and I didn’t get home from Cleveland until after 3am Sunday morning. And of course, I was too amped up by then to properly collapse in a snoring heap on the couch, so I wound up staying up until past 4am, trying to think of the name of some stupid rapper that Alisha had mentioned hours earlier.  I would like to take this moment to thank her again for that.

I got a little more than 3 hours sleep and was fatigued all afternoon, but refused to close my eyes during the Russian Olympic hockey game. And the next thing I knew, it was time to get Alisha and go to the Altar Bar to see one of my all-time favorite bands, Cold. This was my first time at the Altar Bar, and it was OK, I guess. A little too small for my liking, but when I got my hand stamped and looked around at all the Cold fans, it was honestly like coming home again. It’s not often that I get around to going to good old hard rock shows anymore, since I got swept away by the post-hardcore/screamo scene a few years back, and it felt amazing to not be the oldest person in the club.  I noticed a hearty collection of black hoodie-wearing men with long, bristling beards sculpted to a point and plenty of girls with ankh tattoos and smudged black liner (but not enough to be considered the raccoon eyes seen on page 56 of the scene kid style manual). I felt completely comfortable and forgot how much I liked being in that atmosphere.

The Canada-USA hockey game was being shown on the TVs behind the bar, so that kept me occupied during what seemed like an entire festival of opening bands. During Day of Fire, I made friends with two guys next to me, and we discussed the idiotic move of putting Brodeur in goal for Canada. Meanwhile, Alisha was a few feet ahead of me, being groped by sweaty porkchop hands. She was not happy and suggested that we find a new area to stand before Nonpoint came on.

Off to the left of the bar area, there was a section with banquette seating and a perfect view. Alisha gave the area her seal of approval and she got comfortable on a section of the seating while the drunkest guy in the history of alcohol claimed the spot next to me and began a series of drunk-appropriate teetering and swaying. I feared that he was going to fall on me, so I kept side-stepping closer to Alisha until I was nearly in her lap, running off my Christmas wish list. He got even worse once Nonpoint came on (and oh my God, I forgot how much I liked them back in the day) and when the singer suggested that everyone jump.  I envisioned myself coated with Pabst-scented vomit, but he ended up stumbling away.

I should have not had the energy to go along with this business of jumping, but my sleep-deprivation had placed me on the precipice of insanity and I jumped until my bra straps began slipping down my shoulders; it felt fucking great.

Team USA ended up winning the hockey game and the entire club erupted in cheers.

There was some major technical difficulties after Nonpoint, and we ended up waiting a good 45 minutes for Cold to be able to come on. I was a nervous wreck. My heart was beating so fast, I was wringing my hands. There was a time not too far back in the past where I was sure I would never get the chance to see them again. But then they reunited in the fall of 2008, and last March, Henry took me to Cleveland (House of Blues, actually) to see them and I was an emotional awakening for me. It’s always like that with Cold, but last year? I was a sniveling mess.

I knew walking into the Altar Bar that there were probably going to be tears at some point. But since I was with Alisha, and she has never seen Cold with me before, I had hoped that I could try and stifle some of that. It’s embarrassing! To be That Girl who cries at shows? I wish I could put a cork in sometimes, but the reality is that I love the pain they cause me. Yeah, it’s like taking a melon baller to my heart, but at least it reminds me I’m real, I’m alive.

(I know, I say these same things, over and over, in a variety of ways. I apologize.)

But where does that  power come from when a man can walk on a stage and a simple “Hello” into the microphone has my eyes stinging and my tongue tasting salt on my lips? It’s all Scooter Ward has to do to reduce me to a trembling volcano of emotions zipped up in a skin suit. He is the most real, most genuine musician I have ever met and I wish that I could take advantage of that, rather than starting to approach him only to spin on my heels and run away in tears.

They played “Back Home.” An older man next to me asked me if I was OK, I was crying so hard. I nodded, laughed, and cried harder. But motherfucker, I was smiling.

Most people are like, “Oh, Cold? That nu-metal band?” And it’s like, “Yeah, I guess. That ‘nu-metal’ band.” Makes me feel like I’m slitting my wrists to fucking Staind or Disturbed. They’ve never been a “nu-metal” band to me. They’ve been a band that helped me through some shitty fucking times in my life, a series of traumatic events that happened at the place where Henry and I both used to work. They’ve been a band that literally soundtracked my life as I became an adult. And going to their shows was something that Henry and I always shared together. And Henry might not have known what to do every single time I would leave their shows sobbing to the point where I couldn’t breathe, but he never made me feel stupid for it either.

I was sad that he couldn’t come with us this time. If Henry and I ever break up, Moses can add to his Commandments that I shall not ever listen to Cold again.

The first time I ever saw them was May of 2000. Their second CD had been released around that time, and “No One” was being played a lot on the radio. I remember liking it enough to buy the CD, but I never really gave it much play. May of 2000, I was at a radio festival with my friend Wonka and my neighbor Vinetta, when we happened to be walking past the smallest, most out-of-the-way stage at the outdoors venue, just as Cold was starting. I stopped and said, “I have their CD. Let’s check them out for a minute.” By the end of the first live song I heard from them, my heart was in their hands and Wonka and I vowed to try and see as many of their shows from then on.

During last Sunday’s show, I thought about Wonka a lot, how for the first time in my life I had a friend to bond with over music. How we would have conversations for weeks after a show, filled with things like, “Oh and remember when Jeremy changed the colors in his dreads” or “How great was it when Scooter and Terry played an acoustic ‘Bleed’?” I actually did the bulk of my emotional blood-letting after the show, all last week. There’s some strong connection that band has to my past, they’re interwoven with a lot of memories. And it made me think a lot about my friendship with Wonka and how much I miss him (he lives in Texas now). And I thought a lot about the place of work I mentioned earlier. It’s where I was working when I first got into Cold, and  that’s also where I met Henry and then he in turn became a fan too. But it was always a joke to my boss. “Oh, are you listening to Hot again?” he’d come into my office and ask, before letting out a spittle-laced laugh at his own failed attempt of a joke.

There were so many Cold shows seen in that four year period, and all the guys at my job had grown accustomed to me coming in the next day and gushing about how amazing the Buffalo, NY show was, or how Scooter gave me a Starburst at the Hershey show, or how Henry had thrown a muffin at my face on the way home from the Norfolk, Virginia show.  In time, I had begun to associate Cold with that chapter of my life, the [Unknown Company] chapter. And I won’t get into the gory details here, but my employment at [Unknown Company] ended extremely badly and traumatically, involving a huge shouting match with my boss, and learning of the death of his son, with whom I had a very tumultuous working relationship, that occurred two days later (it was ruled accidental but we all believed it to be suicide). That chapter closed a few months later, when I filed a complaint with the EEOC, had to face my ex-boss for the first time in mediation, and was eventually rewarded a small settlement.

I have had some therapy since then, but I never really healed. And all last week, on the way to my job (which ended on Friday), I listened to my old Cold albums in the car and let myself remember that era and I cried a lot. And I mean, a lot. But crying is good for me. I need to cry every now and then and eventually it’s like a snake shedding its skin, and I can go on about my business and start new.

Thursday morning, my friend and ex-office mate from [Unknown Company] called and told me that our ex-boss’s wife had died the previous day. And I didn’t think it would affect me. Maybe I was just already so emotionally raw, but I’m having a hard time processing it. I can’t really do anything about it, send a card or whatever, because I’m sure the last person that man wants to receive sympathy from is the girl who refused to let shit go. I know I shouldn’t feel bad for him, he was a bastard to me, but his wife was a nice lady and I had gotten to know her well from the four years I worked there. I feel kind of disturbed, like I’m back in 2004 and everything is still there, fresh and bleeding, begging to be properly buried and I don’t know how to do that when it keeps coming back up and rearing its Jewish head in my face.

But at least Cold is back to help me get past this too.

You think you’re half as good as me

The only thing you’ll ever be

Is just a way for me to bleed on this stage.

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

• 14:36 Having extreme regret for all I ate yesterday. Bad food puts me in a bad(der) mood. Hummus and carrots for lunch it is. #
• 15:09 Bullies, that’s all these Russians are. I’m boycotting white Russians until the #Olympics are over. N/m it’s been 5 yrs since I had one. #
• 15:12 And don’t even think you’ll see me in my kokoschnik until at LEAST April. #olympics #russiansarebulliesgoeatyourborscht #
• 16:50 Don’t hurt Jagr, you Russian Ovechfuck!! #
• 18:54 Been at Altar Bar for 15 minutes and don’t hate anyone yet!! #
• 20:24 Some beefy guy just clamped his porkchop hand on @saucalisha’s back. Can’t see her face but know she’s scowling. #
• 20:50 RT @penschat Anyone watching ice dancing or figure skating instead of #TeamUSA vs. #TeamCanada right now should jump off a bridge. #
• 21:09 Forgot how much i like Nonpoint. Drunk guy to my left is ready to topple. I have fear. #
• 21:34 At a rock show and STILL watching hockey. No biggie. #
• 21:51 Countdown to me crying like a baby. #
• 21:57 But no, don’t play Fleury or anything like that, Babcock. #teamcanada #
• 22:01 Altar Bar erupted in cheers for #teamusa. I felt so conflicted, like the time I couldn’t decide between rifle and ice pick. #
• 06:53 This past weekend was the equivalent to escaping Leatherface’s house on one leg. I feel horrible, mentally & physically. #
• 06:56 The only exercise I got all weekend was jumping to Nonpoint. I’m going to have to join the army or something. Obviously. #
• 07:06 RT @spacecoaster “Don’t just DO something–stand there!” The closest the Tea Party has to a political platform. #
• 07:18 I always feel so much more alive after seeing Cold. #
• 08:38 Sitting here trying to figure out a way to word my resignation without it sounding like “Daddy says I can’t work here anymore.” #
• 08:46 I’m so exhausted that multiplying 23×2 in my head made me cry. #
• 10:11 Fuuuuuuck I hate making bad-news phone calls. I guess I’m finishing out the week and I’m done. #
• 11:47 U know that feeling u get when u put out a hit & the hitman takes out the wrong person? Add a side of toothache & that’s how I feel. #
• 13:23 IKR?! RT @kausatoday Funny how no one is mentioning Fleury to be Canada’s goalie even though he has 30 playoff wins over the past 2 springs #
• 16:25 Chooch just explained to me the directions on the Mac n Cheese box; sadly his recipe comprehension exheeds his mother’s. #
• 17:45 My exhaustion told me that changing the spelling of “exceed” to “exheed” would be ok. Just a little FYI-aperitif before dinner. #
• 06:57 I’m sincerely hoping that Katy Perry’s turn as a Proactiv spokespizzaface means she’s on her way to obscurity, a la Jessica Simpson. #
• 07:32 Um. It’s been 2 days and i’m still crying about Cold. #
• 09:34 All I do is sit around waiting to be told what to do next, like goddamn Kindercare. It’s a wonder I don’t need a permission slip to piss. #
• 09:52 God I can’t even perform the inherent act of swallowing saliva properly. #
• 13:50 My boss said he’s bummed Henry had to ruin my job here; called me a good egg. I laughed. #
• 14:00 I feel like I work in a waiting room. I just SIT here WAITING. Kind of glad I’m done on Friday. #
• 17:52 Way to keep us posted, @NBCOhockey. #
• 19:58 Pulling for a #teamcanada win. Wish they’d have played Fleury but I do enjoy hearing the LUUUUU chants. #olympics #
• 20:06 Henry made a big pot of baby food for dinner; acted surprised when I wouldn’t eat it. #
• 21:42 I love the “We want Russia” chant from Canadian crowd. Fuck all the other events, #Olympic hockey is too exciting to watch anything else. #
• 07:22 I am definitely going through a life crisis. Listening to Frank Turner is coddling though. #
• 08:41 HEY GUESS WHAT IM DOING AT MY JOB RIGHT NOW, OMG IM WAITING!!! WAS THAT YR GUESS??? YOU JUST WON MY LIFE!!! #
• 08:48 I’m an ugly person. #
• 09:11 I keep dreaming about someone no longer in my life and it’s stressing me out in more ways than I could have imagined. #
• 09:16 Fuck I can’t keep sitting here, waiting. My skin is a’tremble; tears springing to my eyes. Don’t care that I’m getting paid to do fuck all. #
• 11:58 Frolicking in the cem with my nutso kid is way better than playing waiting games in an office. yfrog.com/4erdeij #
• 12:25 Chooch just praised me for getting him in his carseat without incident. Well, it IS a big deal if you know me. #
• 13:26 On Words With Friends, you can play “homo” and “lez,” but not “Jew.” Shit, you’re an asshole for trying. #
• 13:27 Got a box of chocolate cookies in the mail today just for writing @coupesetique’s name in the snow. The world isn’t so bad sometimes. #
• 14:10 The sight of my three year old thumbing through the new issue of @altpress (& recognizing bands) made my heart swell. #
• 16:46 That puck really looked like it went in for the Swiss. #teamusa #olympics #
• 17:00 I feel spoiled by #Olympic hockey. Henry who. #
• 17:19 If not for Hiller in goal, that Swiss-US game would have been a BLOWOUT. At least Mark Streit is used to losing. #teamusa #
• 19:38 I wish I had a #teamcanada jersey to wear right now. Oh god, please beat the Russians. #
• 19:39 GETZLAF! 1-0 Canada. Just think, that could have been doucheknobber Jeff Carter. #teamcanada #
• 19:42 Will be interesting to see if the Shark line scores against their NHL teammate. I should not be this excited while sober!!! #
• 19:59 I feel bad for Malkin and Gonch but GODDAMN GO CANADA! Was NOT expecting them to lead 3-0 in the 1st. #teamcanada #
• 20:17 Henry just ran down a laundry list of all his wifely duties (laundry included) while apparently all I do is watch hockey. I’m Tolhursting. #
• 20:27 I wish I had a La-Z-Boy and a taste for beer. Time to scour Goodwill for nacho- and Skol-stained flannels. #authenticatingtherolereversal #
• 21:09 Henry just found Chooch inside a pillowcase. Chooch is our son, by the way; not the family hamster. #
• 21:10 RT @drosennhl This reminds me of Game 7, Pitt-Wash. Big hype, and one team just dominates because a Russian couldn’t stop a puck. #
• 21:46 Canada/Russia = most entertaining hockey game i’ve seen in awhile. Tempers are FLARING. Malkin elbowed a benched Getzlaf in the face, lol. #
• 21:51 Final score 7-3, #teamcanada! Totally didnt predict this! GO HOME OVECHKIN. #
• 21:56 Mike Milbury, on Russia: I was disappointed that these guys came with their Eurotrash game. #
• 22:17 Went to HS w/ a girl who told ppl she drove a Hummer b/c she was “rich.” Funny, I thought it was because she was a slovenly American asshole #
• 07:04 Get fucked, nostalgia. #
• 07:08 Lindsay Vonn might be good at skiing or whatever it is she does, but she should put more practice in having a less annoying voice. #
• 07:35 The problem is that I have not rebounded. #
• 09:04 Just found out the wife of someone I shouldn’t care about died yesterday and I’m at this stupid job trying not to cry. #
• 09:07 I’m glad I get up at 6am to come to this lame job for entir e hour. I’ve srsly been working just to pay for the gas it takes to get here. #
• 10:35 On today’s Brightside List: I don’t know anyone in real life like The Real World DC’s Ashley. Certainly something to smile about. #
• 18:21 I hate it when the pizza guy interrupts my soul-baring moment with Henry. Not that Henry was listening anyway. #
• 07:01 Me: I was very mature at 4. Henry: Really? Because you’re not very mature at 30. #
• 07:35 I sincerely need to stop crying everyday on the way to work. Oh wait, this is my last day. Lolsies. #
• 08:12 Nothing beats an intense joyride through the snow to a job I won’t have after today. #
• 09:21 Erin, did you make it to work OK? Why, yes Henry, thanks for asking. #
• 10:31 I was only at this job for 16 days yet my boss almost made me cry when he wished me luck. FUCK SENSITIVITY. #
• 14:25 Asked Chooch if he wants to play hockey. “How about croquet instead?” he asked. Sure Chooch, I’ll sign you up for lessons w/ the Red Queen. #
• 15:08 I’m so happy I can end this emotionally exhausting week with two Olympic hockey games. Go #teamusa and #teamcanada!! #
• 15:31 Finland didn’t get the memo that this is the Olympic semifinal. #teamusa is up 6-0 and there’s still 6 min left in the 1st pd. Massacre. #
• 22:03 My neighbors have a staircase to infinity on which they walk in cinderblock boots. God love ’em. #
• 03:42 I might die if I don’t order a Swivel Sweeper G2 RIGHT NOW. I want to see if it’ll pick up the bone fragments in my basement. #
• 07:53 My cats are 9 sec away from filming a sappy Enya-backed starving cat commercial & I’m like, ” Have you SEEN the chubs on you??” Get a life! #
• 09:53 I can smell her on my sweat shirt. #
• 10:24 A little snow doesn’t seem so bad when other places are being ravaged by earthquakes and tsunamis. So fucking scary. #
• 10:25 I need a backpack that allows me to publicly display a box of tampons. Then I’ll take it kayaking. What’s up, menstruation? #
• 13:03 I would feel better if there were perhaps some sort of sign. #
• 13:35 Just overheard Henry say he’s tired of seeing Chooch’s weener. #
• 14:05 Of all the CDs to choose from, Chooch pulls out Copeland and asks, “Can we listen to this today?” Well. I DID ask for a sign, I guess. #

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

Dear people who read this:

First of all, thank you for reading this crap that spews from my head. I’ve been writing shit since I was a young kid and it is HARD to get people to read what I write, and even care about it, so I really am grateful for the people I’ve picked up along the way. I can’t even get my own boyfriend to read it.

But I was curious: What do you like best about this blog? What makes you come back and read more (assuming you do)?

I’ve been blogging since 2001, and you know how everyone always says, “Oh yeah, I write for myself, no one else”? Fuck those people, they’re lying. Yes, I partially write this shit for myself, for my own posterity, but I also write in the hopes that some random person might stumble upon this site and find something that resonates with them or makes them laugh.

I just don’t know what that might be, to be honest. I’m kind of all over the map with this and that’s sort of how I like it, because variety can be nice.

When I was on Live Journal, it was easier to gauge what people liked, mostly because LJ users were quicker to drop a comment.

So if you feel like it, leave a comment here, on this post***, and help me figure shit out. Tell me what you like, if there was a post that stood out to you, what you’d like to see more of. Please don’t be mean though. Not today, at least. My psyche is feeling kind of fragile this week. Ha-ha. (No, I’m serious. Lots of spontaneous crying-while-driving, lol.)

I’m not exactly fishing for compliments here; consider it research. Because I feel like I’ve lost my direction.

Naming fruit since 1996,

Erin.

(***For the people who comment on the LiveJournal feed, I don’t always get those comments. They’re not emailed to me since it’s a feed and not an LJ, so I have to physically go to the feed page and check. If you don’t always get replies from me, that’s why and I apologize. I’ve already lost a LiveJournal friend because she thought I was being rude/too good for LJ, when really, I wasn’t getting any of her comments, and that makes me sad. It’s always better to comment on the actual site to ensure that I see what you have to say, because it’s important to me! <3)

EDIT:  OK, LiveJournal people, I get it. Commenting over here is HARD and ANNOYING. You don’t ever have do it again.

The line outside of the House of Blues was not very long and we were blessed to not be surrounded by roiling assholes. Alisha kept saying she felt old, but it seemed to be that there was a pretty good mix of ages out there. I’ve been to much younger shows so I felt like a big sister standing in this line, instead of a den mother.

Once the doors opened and our persons were checked for weaponry, we headed upstairs to the balcony. I’ve seen The Used enough times to not care too much about being close to the stage, and Alisha was still bummed about last year’s show at a shitty Pittsburgh venue where we could barely see the stage no matter where we stood. So the balcony seemed like the best bet for us.

I had a feeling I was going to dislike the opening band as soon as the curtain was drawn to reveal a set decorated with anarchy propaganda. And then Drive A bounded onto the stage and started playing stale punk anthems that knocked off old school Greenday and I was immediately in hell. I hate Greenday and therefore I hated Drive A. They had BORING stage presence too. The singer felt the need to explain what every song was about and all that accomplished was taking up more time.

After their set, two guys klutzed in front of us to claim the seats next to me. Instant entertainment. They appeared to be in their late 20s and the dorkier one was wearing slacks. The one immediately next to me spoke in a way that screamed Card Carrying Dork and seemed intent on talking loudly about all the chicks he’d fucked lately. Alisha was more annoyed than me and she wasn’t even sitting next to him. “He’s trying to impress you,” she kept saying.

When Atreyu came on, I would then learn that my new friend was a very skilled and thorough multi-air instrumentalist. He even fist-sung a few times. I was impressed for real at that point and was hoping I could be the next chick he had sex with in the back of his dad’s van.

Atreyu was boring. I swear I liked them once in my life, maybe when their first album was released? But they just weren’t holding my attention. I was freezing in that building, and was using Alisha’s coat as a blanket at that point. Rock shows should not leave a person cold.

I hated this broad. I’m not sure what it was about her: the fact that she and her boyfriend were seconds away from reproducing from the moment they sat down, her hair that I envied,  or the cattiness I detected behind her eyes. I just sincerely couldn’t stand her. I laughed when her boyfriend rubbed her back protectively when Atreyu took the stage with a sound equivalent to 800 air horns going off at once.

It was during Atreyu when I first noticed the girl screaming behind me. I don’t mind loud noises when I’m at a show. That’s what shows are meant for – screaming and acting idiotic (to a degree; I don’t condone asshole-y behavior at shows). But this girl? My god the lungs on her. It sounded like a bag of babies screeching behind my head. I have never really been in a position to say that something was blood-curdling and mean it. But my blood was curdling all the way down to West Virginia. This was not an euphoric scream meant for shows; this was better reserved for expressing just how insanely painful it is when Leatherface nips your thigh with his chainsaw as you’re stumbling through trees in the the dark woods of Texas.

I fucking hated her and the way she made my left shoulder rise up to my ear, like she had it on a fucking string.

There was an incident in the crowd below, and one of the guitarists paused before starting the next song to ask the crowd to please help out the person who I imagine must have fallen. The singer of Atreyu very disinterestedly repeated, “Yeah, give him room. Security, get out there or something. OK the next song—” only to be interrupted again by the guitarist, who was pretty much refusing to continue the show until the person in need was helped.

I was kind of disgusted at that point, because the whole situation made the singer look like an insensitive prat and somewhere around that time I had also realized that from where I sat, he looked like Dunbar from the Real World: Sydney, so I double-hated him.

“I love how you have a talent for incorporating The Real World into your daily life,” Alisha said. At first, I thought she was being sarcastic but then I noticed she was shoving her Autograph pad at me.

When The Used came on, I was immediately overcome with mixed emotions. I so badly wanted to enjoy the show, but I couldn’t fight off the nostalgia; I felt really sad and frustrated and began to wonder if it was a good idea that I came at all. When I saw them last year, my friendship with Christina had ended (God only knows what do-over number that one was) and I was at a point where I had a lot of hate for her and the situation, so seeing The Used that time was like revenge in a way. Like, “Haha, this was our favorite band but I’m going to see them with someone else, you dumb bitch.” And it felt good, like a release.

But this time was different. I don’t have hate for her anymore. That has dissipated and left me with a very raw pain and an excruciating sense of betrayal and confusion. Being there in the House of Blues, especially when they played “Blue and Yellow,” it was like having our friendship play out in front of me, while being forced to drink kerosene.

I thought I was doing a good job keeping it together though, keeping my emotions in check. Until the very end, during the encore, when this drunk Napoleon with a God complex behind me started getting to me. I could feel my skin burning as my temper rose, and it’s a feeling I know all too well.

I did not want to lose my shit there, and I kept repeating that to myself over and over until I found myself pre-rage blackout, twisting around and spitting Angry Girl ire in this fucking frat boy’s face. We exchanged heated words in a cloud of alcohol-fumes and profanity until his girlfriend (who I’m pretty sure was the murder-scream girl) begged him to shut up.

I don’t even want to get into it, really, because it doesn’t make me feel proud of myself. It doesn’t make me look “cool” or “hard.” It just makes me upset every time I replay the situation in my mind, which is something I did A LOT that night and the next morning and the next day and yesterday and right now. And it sucks. To work that hard to be a good sport, to try so hard to mind my temper, only to waste all that on some doucheknob who instigated a situation that didn’t even deserve a response from me, that wasn’t even directed solely AT me. But no, I was already so tense, so confused in my head, that I let a complete stranger get the best of me, and I’m not stupid – I know I was projected. He gave me an opportunity to unleash and I took it when I should have bit my tongue and walked away.

I wanted him to hit me. I honest to god wanted that guy to hit me.

Just so I could feel pain on the outside instead of within.

Worst of all, it created a tiff between Alisha and me. She wasn’t mad, just worried that the situation was going to escalate and she wouldn’t be able to protect me if he got physical. So I stormed ahead and acted all angsty for a few minutes before realizing how stupid I must have looked. And we were good after that, but I fucking swear to god that really killed the night for me. I’ve spent all week being totally reflective about myself and the situation and my triggers, and it’s been exhausting. Just exhausting and traumatic. Perhaps that might be the last time I see The Used.

After getting lost after the show, we found an IHOP where the plastic cover to the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom stall opened up and fell onto my lap while I peed.

(Bathroom: 3, Erin 0.)

There is no reason why a 2-hour drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland should take nearly 4 hours, yet that is how long it took Alisha and me to get there on Saturday. I blame Henry and his propensity for printing out defective directions. Granted, we did a lot of dawdling, but Henry doesn’t need to know that.

I didn’t get kidnapped by a trucker at the rest stop, but I didn’t have a bathroom issue, as usual. First, as soon as I shut the stall door, the automatic flush was triggered and I’m not sure why, perhaps I was over-caffeinated, but the rush of water as it was being sucked into the bowl made me yelp. Yes, yelp. Not one of my finer moments. Then, the stall door started to drift open and I didn’t have my pants all the way up yet. Public rest rooms are my enemy. I’m certain that one of them will be the scene of my future murder. (Bathroom 1, Erin 0.)

It was a little after 4:00pm by the time we parked in the garage across from the House of Blues. Doors didn’t open until 6:00pm, so we decided to check out the Chocolate Bar that was right across the street. A quick once over of the menu posted by the door was all it took to convince us we might die if we didn’t enter the door, however I might have changed my mind had I been privy to the fact that their website intro actually says “What happens at The Chocolate Bar stays at The Chocolate Bar.” Oh really?

Someone needs to call the fucking Mafia and have them bury that slogan next to Miley Cyrus’s body in the desert.

(What, she’s not there yet? Patience, my friends.) And there will be no pouring of the 40s, no ironic “What happens in the desert…”s slung around for old time’s sake. Bury it dead, please.

“I can’t believe this place is attached to the hotel Christina and I stayed in last October and we didn’t even know it,” I irrationally lamented, upset that I missed out on something I didn’t even know existed.

“Yeah, but if you had come here with her, she’d have thought it was a date,” Alisha pointed out. I looked around and noticed that the ambiance was definitely dimmer-switched and candlelit, with edible underwear for sale in a corner nook.

She is wise, so wise.

We had a very perky blond waitress whose name I didn’t care to remember, but she complimented me on my rings and that’s the most important thing to me. I ordered a flight of mousses and Alisha got a platter of strawberries accompanied by a martini glass full of melted chocolate. My teeth got all sprung just looking at it, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to swipe it from under her nose and chug the whole motherfucking glass.

This “incredible sample” of dessert mousses included double chocolate, creme caramel,  cappuccino chocolate and lemon ginger; the tray was finished with halved strawberries lying quite sexily atop rose petals. I tore into the creme caramel first and it was actually pretty amazing; it was hard not to swipe at the caramel residue with my finger toward the end when my spoon exhausted its welcome. The double chocolate was topped with white chocolate curls that were definitely not shaven from one of those pink-eyed albino candy rabbits that no one ever wants to see in their Easter basket, but more likely from the wings of angels, fresh from a celestial orgy.

Did I mention my presentation included rose petals? Well, it did. Alisha’s didn’t. She tried to act like she didn’t care, like her vat of molten chocolate made up for the petal-less platter, but I kept seeing her ogling my petals and I felt, as usual, so very triumphant.

The lemon ginger mousse was a pretty large let down. Whatever the hell that white stuff was on the top tasted synthetic, like frothy plastic, or ejaculate if it had been whipped like egg whites. The lemon was too potent and overpowered what trace notes of ginger even existed. I was disappointed with it and am now determined to get Henry to make his own (ejaculate-less) version.

By the time I got to the cappuccino cup, I was on the verge of choco-nausea. I think it tasted great, and I was mad at myself that I wasted the remainder of my sugar tolerance on that ginger shit when I could have been savoring some cappuccino mousse crap.

Alisha must have some strong-ass will power for not slurping that drinking chocolate once she ran out of strawberries. Actually, I don’t think she even ate all of the strawberries. What a crybaby. Anyway, her dessert must have been good because she was relatively nice to me during the length of our stay.

I later looked up The Chocolate Bar on Yelp and most of the reviews were beyond negative. I mean, yeah, the spoon in my setting had been previously used, but who doesn’t like experiencing someone else’s final bite once your saliva moistens it from its crusted cocoon?  And apparently, there is big beef in Cleveland with the waitstaff of this eatery. I mentioned this to Henry and he pointed out that I was taking the word of the inhabitants of America’s most depressed city. Touche.

However, too many choices remain on the menu for me to not want to give it a second shot.

Afterward, I tripped when I failed to realize that the bathroom floor sloped upward. (Bathroom: 2, Erin, 0.)

Sometime in high school, I made the implausible leap from gangsta rap-lovin’ yo-girl to a classic rock hussy. One particular band I had an intense liking for was .38 Special, of all bands. I would listen to the classic rock station all day with a blank tape on the ready, waiting for “Caught Up In You” to come on so I could dive into some finger-stubbing “record” action.

My friend Lisa, who was into more alternative music, was probably the happiest of all my friends when I retired my gritty urban flava mix tapes in favor for music that didn’t scare, offend and irritate her. So in 1997, when I asked her to go see .38 Special with me, she was more than happy to agree.

I’m sure it didn’t hurt that my mom was buying the tickets for us.

The day of the show, my boyfriend Psycho Mike came to my house. He didn’t want me to go to the concert and thought that starting a fight with me would suddenly make my head clear so I could understand the error of my ways.

“You’re going to end up fucking some drunk guy!” he yelled, his eyes getting that crazy glint to them, like the time he told me he was going to poke out my eyes and shove them up my vagina.

“Maybe even more than one!”

Yes, Mike. You’re right. Foiled again!

He left in a huff. Soon Lisa had arrived and we left for the Rostraver Ice Garden. Not surprisingly, we were the clear winners in the “Youngest Concert-Goers” category, and probably the only one who didn’t have the Harley-Davidson logo somewhere on their person.

During Molly Hatchet and another opening band that Lisa totally loved but I can’t remember anything other than their wildly crimped and Aqua Netted manes, we took in the sheer frenzy of shaking mullets, over-sized tie-dyed shirts, and leather-vested bikers showing off prison-quality ink on their forearms. I loved every second of it. It was fun and the energy of the crowd was contagious.

During the bands, we made friends with a completely blitzed cradle robber named Nelson and his slightly sober and calmer sidekick Nick.

Sadly, if I were to revenge-cheat on Psycho Mike, Nelson and Nick were probably the cream of the crop from that crowd. I think Nelson sloshed his beer on Lisa.

Goddammit I loved that shirt. It was metallic! I didn’t love that hair though. I remember I had gotten a horrible hair cut at Fantastic Sam’s of all places (the only time I ever deviated from the fluffy salons I usually go to and immediately learned why I pay so much to get my hair done – so it will look GOOD) and spent the next month and a half pulling what was left of my hair back into ponytails.

Side bar: A few years ago, I was riding in the car with Henry, my mom and Corey after a night of haunted houses. “Caught Up In You” came on the radio and I shouted, “Yes! I love this song!” My mom, ever so casually, goes, “Huh. This is the song that was on the radio when I was driving to the hospital after your father wrecked.” You know, the wreck that killed him 27 years ago, no biggie.

***

When I came home from Cleveland at 3:00 this morning, I was about to pass out on the couch when I noticed I had a voicemail from Lisa. It started out with her humming something vaguely discernible before belting out “So caught up in you, little girl!” She went on to sing for a few more seconds before stopping to add, “So I’m at a supermarket right now and this song came on; I had to call and sing it to you.

”

Not going to lie, that kind of meant the world to me.

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

• 15:43 The noises in my house right now make me wish I own a shotgun. #
• 15:45 Chooch just told Henry that I hit him, he fell down, & then I hit him again?!?! But he left out the part where I burnt him with a lighter! #
• 19:33 MAMA’S TRYING TO WATCH THIS HOCKEY GAME STFU. #pens #
• 21:32 Jesus Christ, I love Sidney Crosby!i can’t wait to watch him in the Olympics! #letsgopens #
• 22:34 I need a shot of te stosterone. Or heroine. #
• 23:07 It seriously starts out with Justin Bieber? Fuck this “We Are the World.” And Miley Cyrus probably doesn’t even know where Haiti is. #
• 00:21 I feel guilty but I want the men’s Canadian hockey team to win gold. #
• 08:18 Henry is right where he belongs: in the kitchen. #
• 14:36 Alisha spent 15 minutes talking about the “breakdown” in the 90s hit “All For One” by Sting, Bryan Adams and Rod Stewart. #
• 16:16 Pretty sure I’m going to wear a clown wig from now on. #
• 21:42 Me: it’s not easy being me. Henry: it’s not easy being WITH you, either. #
• 21:43 While watching the #Olympics, I enjoy accusing athletes of cheating & then sitting back while Henry defends them passionately. #
• 22:48 I love/hate getting sucked up in the Olympics. I especially like making faux-hateful comments that raise Henry’s bushy brows. #
• 22:52 The way the guy says “I’m right here, & I always will be” in that Kay’s spot makes me feel like he should be pressing a gun into her side. #
• 23:36 Just made Chooch’s Valentine, elementary school-style. Red construction paper heart, lots of red glitter. No patience for macaroni though. #
• 08:58 I wish Jillian Michaels was my Valentine. #
• 09:07 Henry just winked at me. What year did I wake up in. #
• 09:16 I fucked up by going traditional with Chooch’s valentine. The first thing he said was, “Um, why aren’t there any zombies on it?” #
• 09:38 Old school Vday picture of Chooch: www.ohhonestlyerin.com/archives/366 #
• 11:06 Henry suggested I make greeting cards that don’t offend so many groups of people. I’m pretty sure my head transformed into a question mark. #
• 11:14 I really feel like the Kay’s commercials subliminally promote murder. I’m writing them a letter. #
• 13:12 Nashville Predators is the only team I don’t know jack about. #letsgopens! Give mama a VDay win! #
• 13:31 Chuckle City as usual with these FSN announcers. Oh Bob & Steigy. #bringbackmikelange #
• 13:34 I can’t WAIT to watch Crosby play in the #Olympics. #
• 13:43 Ate a fist-sized Reeses heart; pretty sure I’ll be puking @ some point 2day. But really isn’t that what VDay is for? Nausea? Puking? Murder? #
• 14:58 FREE CANDY! #letsgopens #
• 19:35 Figure skating is my least favorite but at least I can have fun heckling. #douchinguptheolympics #
• 20:25 It’s a good thing I don’t have a screen printer. #
• 09:00 I think I already hate someone here. #
• 14:14 Don’t care what the critics say: “3 Cheers For Sweet Revenge” will always be My Chemical Romance’s opus in my eyes. #
• 16:11 If you ever want to see my son get all up in arms, take a bite out of string cheese. “Youre not doing it right!!!” is what he’ll scream. #
• 17:09 The way Henry said “You’re annoying” to me, it was almost as if it just now occurred to him after 9 years. #
• 22:53 It seems like every time I look up, someone on my TV is falling. Bad Olympians. #
• 23:01 Don’t you ever try to hack off my leg again. I need it for the ant parade. #
• 23:04 I kept my mouth shut about Undercover Boss. But now Minute To Win It & The Marriage Ref? TV needs to get a fucking life. #
• 06:49 Henry just said “It’s not like we’re living high on the hog” & I might puke from laughing. #
• 07:52 Perhaps old school Dance Gavin Dance wasn’t the best choice of music for my morning commute. #
• 08:18 I think i just found an Elenore replacement. Suddenly I can’t remember how to spell Elenore’s name. #
• 09:17 Remind me again how I wound up with two jobs. #
• 10:23 Thinking about the men’s Olympic hockey starting today made me cry WTF. #
• 10:52 I really have no right to feel so sad today. Maybe I should find a clown to fuck. That usually helps. #
• 12:15 Shelly Lee, Rep #58? You’re a cunt. #
• 14:43 My new goal is to meet a real life curler. #
• 14:43 That replaces my old goal of interviewing a bait shop owner. #
• 14:50 Great, but what about my grenades: In Virginia, you can now carry a loaded gun into a bar as long as you don’t drink bit.ly/ddbhVI #
• 14:58 MEN’S HOCKEY FINALLY OMG. #
• 15:34 Bobby Ryan scores on his NHL teammate. Awkward! #olympics #
• 15:42 All pendants are $10! Just enter the word MOIST in the message to seller upon check out & I’ll issue $2 refund. tinyurl.com/yeaq7rg #
• 16:03 Ryan Malone scores! He’ll always be a Penguin in my heart. #Olympics #
• 19:17 The new @circasurvive track is sick, not that I expected any less from one of my all time favorite bands. I can’t wait to see them again! #
• 20:02 How did country music become synonymous with the #olympics? And can curling please go away now? My TV wants real athletes. #
• 20:04 So CNBC finally stops jacking off over curling and the #teamcanada hockey game has been playing for nearly an entire period. Awesome. #
• 20:28 Lol RT @penschat Breaking news: @NBCOlympics to preempt the 3rd pd of tonite’s Canada-Norway game in favor of Olympic Hot Dog Eating contest #
• 20:45 I feel cheap, cheering after a Mike Richards goal. #teamcanada #flyersstillsuck #
• 21:49 My prom date Jarome Iginla just got a hat trick for #teamcanada! Olympic hockey is sexy. #
• 22:32 Apparently Iginla’s last goal went to Nash instead, but Crosby still had 3 assists & Iginla called him best player in the world, TRUTH. #
• 08:46 Hope this is the final answer // RT @NBCOHockey Scoring changed on Canada’s 8th goal, credit goes to Iginla, and he gets the hat trick. #
• 11:13 Here’s Henry: “Get a job NOW!” & when I get a job? “When are you coming home are you done yet did you leave yet???” FUCK. #
• 13:15 Home from my dumb job; have to take some test for a Census job later. I miss being a lady of leisure. #
• 13:16 At least I have a recording of Team Russia’s hockey game from last night. And a pocketful of crack. (Kidding. God.) #
• 13:48 I think today I’ll hate the Swiss. #Olympics #
• 13:54 Apple juice face. yfrog.com/3nbbakj #
• 15:34 Henry, you motherfucker. #
• 15:40 It took Henry this long to realize he fights with me like I’m his teenage daughter. #
• 16:01 About to take some lame Census test, sitting in a stifling library with a bunch of gaybos. HOPE I PASS LOLZ. #
• 16:09 Some people need their hands held through the application process. I might be here awhile. #
• 17:03 I just had a flashback to taking GED test. I now require a bucket of cold water and a sharp slap to the face. #
• 17:12 I spent most of the test duration trying to remember what 9×7 is bec ause I’m super smarteeeeeez. #
• 17:15 Apparently I’m slaloming home. yfrog.com/37yweij #
• 19:25 What? No. I wasn’t at mass. I was giving head in a fireplace. #
• 20:10 As usual, Chooch drew attention in Target with his loud commentary. #
• 23:18 @NBCOlympics I couldn’t wait for Olympic hockey to start, & for what? To miss nearly a full period of Team Canada due to CURLING? #
• 23:20 @NBCOlympics No figure skating on tonight, yet hockey is still banished to NBC’s bastard channels. Makes sense! #
• 23:22 RT @walsha Crash their Twitter accounts, blast them! Every fan enraged with NBC’s treatment of hockey,let them hear from you @NBCOlympics #
• 07:17 If a song has “funeral” in the title, odds are I’ll like it. Unless it’s backed with the grating “vocal stylings” of one Miley Cyrus. #
• 07:57 There are 4 antique shops & a dollhouse mini store in the town I work in case yr looking for a 1800s shoehorn or a bidet for yr dollhouse #
• 10:18 There are scissors within my reach and I’m tempted to give them a free ticket to the Hair Cuttiing Carnival on my head. #
• 10:39 Just sent Henry a sad pic of myself looking super sadly sad. Maybe he’ll buy me a present. Or let me quit my job & go back to being awesome #
• 15:09 One thing I’ve learned while waiting impatiently for #olympic hockey games to get TV-time: America has a shitty curling team. #
• 15:50 I was going to say that I’m starting to resent Henry but I guess since that started back in 2002, it’s a pretty fortified resentment by now. #
• 15:58 This resentment has the stench of aged fromage. #
• 20:00 That’s ok @NBCOlympics. I didn’t need to see that Heatley goal for #teamcanada. I had BONUS COVERAGE of CURLING to “entertain” me. #
• 20:12 Google this “erin is so stupid cuz she wont make dinner only pizza and that is so dumb” and my blog is the first result. Awesome I think. #
• 20:17 Henry: “Just be thankful they’re showing hockey AT ALL. Remember when the Olympics used to only be on one channel?” God, he’s so old. #
• 20:43 Well, I guess showing one out of three goals during this Canada/Swiss hockey game isn’t too bad, huh @NBCOlympics? Fuckers. #
• 21:11 The only way @NBCOlympics could fuck up th eir hockey coverage any further would be if they had Jay Leno announcing. #Olympics #
• 22:01 Sidney Crosby scores in an #Olympic shootout, wins the game & Canada drowns in their celebratory ejaculations. Go #teamcanada! #
• 22:45 I ate a lot of carrots tonight. I said ATE. Not fucked. God. That was last Tuesday. #
• 08:43 Oh my god. I should never leave the house that early on the heels of one of my ridiculous rants. I think I’m in early stages of a coronary. #
• 12:09 They shoulda let ME write this: bit.ly/cIQ016 NBC still refusing to answer questions on why it’s ruining the Olympics. #
• 12:54 I’m so glad I got a job so Henry can stay home playing online poker. #
• 20:05 I guess bitching when you don’t win gold is the new #Olympic sport? Figure skaters make me angry. #
• 20:13 Going to start going to town hall meetings; I have a lot to say/yell. Maybe public access is the way to go; my rants are broad in design. #
• 20:23 Am I the only one not offended by Tiger Woods’ sexcapades? Maybe it’s my dried up well of morals, but fuck who you want, dude. #
• 21:58 Goddammit I need a Valium or some shit. #
• 22:04 At least I’m going to Cleveland tomorrow to see The Used, rather than sulk around being morose like every other Feb 20th. Progress. #
• 22:47 Henry is upstairs. I just called him so he could hear our cat Don talk. I don’t think his heart swelled. #
• 10:01 The upside to not selling my pendants is that I have something for every outfit. Birds you say, pink s weater? Then birds it is! #
• 14:44 I just like giving truckers something to smile about, OK? #
• 16:02 Being lost is awesome. How else would I have a reason to go to Caribou Coffee and immediately find 2 broads to hate. #
• 16:55 Chocolate Bar before The Used, no biggie. yfrog.com/371ugbtj #
• 17:03 @saucalisha Right? Sometimes it’s amazing how awesome my life is. Covet away!! #
• 17:20 I’m choco-sick now. #
• 19:18 MY HANDS ARE NOT SWEATY. Alisha always has to criticize me because she’s JELIS. #
• 19:35 Oh, the people in front of me. I can’t even. #
• 19:45 And I KNOW this other slut is wearing a Bumpit. I’m sure of it. Thought I’d be jealous but no, not so much. #
• 23:35 Great show until the end when I got in verbal confrontation with some dude. Now at IHOP feeding my aggression. #
• 23:57 Alisha likes her meat sweet. #
• 03:13 Words cannot describe how good it feels to be home. All I can say before passing out is FUCK OHIO. #
• 11:26 Have I learned nothing from The Jersey Shore? #
• 12:00 Did not wake up feeling very cool, like I reverted back to one of my past, less stable versions. Not compatible with 2010. #
• 13:51 Maybe if he were a bit more aware, he would know what’s wrong with me. #

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.

Fourteen years ago today, my pappap died.

It doesn’t suck any less, but you know what? What good does it do to sit here and mope and be all darkly nostalgic like I usually am on this day?

He wouldn’t want that; he hasn’t wanted that. Christ, I get all somberly reflective about him on any other random day of the year.

 So this time, on this day, Alisha and I are going to Cleveland to see The Used and I think that’s exactly what I need.

This past week can be shoved in the FML bin, but I’m going to make today awesome.

Here are some things that are currently attaching themselves to my mental health like tassels to a stripper’s nipples. And not pretty tassels either, but macrame ones that someones blind grandma made in a nursing home in Ypsilanti. Skip if you’re a fan of the sanctity of marriage, figure skating, and Sarah Palin.

Tiger Woods: Am I the only one not offended by his actions? I don’t feel that I was entitled to an apology and you shouldn’t feel that way either. Let him apologize to his family and be done with it, OK? Maybe it’s my dried-up well of morals speaking for me here, but I don’t give a shit who he fucked. It’s not my business. He can fuck whoever he wants for all I care, so long as it’s not a child or an animal. If he wants to fuck your grandfather in a barn while hens peck chicken feed off his ass, and your grandfather consents? Beautiful.

Perhaps he should have not been married before indulging his weener in such a vaginal buffet, but still. Not my business.

Get a fucking life. Go find a fucking whale to save or some shit. Go get laid and stop concerning yourself about into whom Tiger dips his wick. If he was a basketball player, ESPN would be trying to get a bronze cast of his cock.

And now there’re these assholes out there who are don’t want the debacle to end, so they’re going to start lighting pyres of angry entitlement and shout that, oh my GOD, how dare he schedule this disgustingly unnecessary public apology DURING THE OLYMPICS. He took away from the all the events that are billed as live, but guess what my friends? NBC IS NOT AIRING THIS SHIT LIVE. I know who wins what color medal and at what fucking time, hours before NBC decides to get off its rich, lazy ass to show us, all while acting surprised as though it’s happening in real time.

And speaking of the Olympics!

Who the fuck is in charge of the hockey coverage? Because I missed nearly the entire first period of both Team Canada games because CNBC (or whatever the equivalent is to the lunch table for NBC bastard channels  unloved hockey was relegated to) decided they needed to show bonus coverage of curling. And on top of that, they cut to commercial whenever they felt like it, TV time outs be damned, only to return to a game in the middle of power play for a penalty that was never shown; or, my personal favorite – returning from a commercial with a completely different SCORE. But I mean really, who watches hockey to see goals? I watch for the AMAZING commentary by the AMAZING NBC announcers.

Really, the only way NBC could fuck up their Olympic hockey coverage any more would be if they had Jay Leno announcing.

Figure skating. Why? Why does it have to be so douchey. I feel like when I was a kid I actually enjoyed it, but now I watch it for more than thirty seconds at a stretch and I feel like I’m watching Liberace go down on my grandma.

Those skaters are fucking assholes. Arrogant and snotty. I keep hearing about how some Russian douchebag on skates (no, not Alex Ovechkin; this Russian douchebag has his questionable ballsack ensconced in sparkly spandex) is bitching about scoring being unfair or some bullshit and it’s like, who does that? I mean, besides me if I were an Olympic loser. I guess bitching about not getting the gold is the new Olympic sport.

Speaking of douches with sparkly spandexed ballsacks, why is Sarah Palin still around? Has no one thought to mistake her for a wolf and shoot her aerially? Usually I can just tune her out, turn the channel, plug my ears and hum, but her latest publicity headlock made me laugh because as usual, she succeeds in making herself look like a complete you-betcha hick-cunt asshole piece of shit, this time by voicing her outrage of a Family Guy episode that featured a character with Down Syndrome. It really set me off, and I found myself ranting about her to Henry The Great Conservative to the point where it felt like a game of Space Invaders was in session inside my chest. I don’t generally like to get involved in political rants because I fear it’s horrible for my health, and I’ve had this Sarah Palin shit clogging my arteries for a few years now.

You know, I’d like to pay someone to rape her and then laugh when she has to pay for her rape kit.

I’d be screwed if I had to pay for my own rape kit, because I’m going to be unemployed again real soon here. Oh yeah, that’s right. You know how Henry was breathing down my neck to get a job, and being so emphatic that if I had to get a daytime job, he’d work it out with his boss and for me not to worry?

Yeah, that lasted two weeks. Today, Henry had to go back to the office for a meeting in the afternoon, wherein his boss handed out new job descriptions to everyone. In Henry’s, it states that he now he has to stick to a more rigid shift of 6am-3:30pm.

Which means I’m faced with the awkward task of giving notice at a job that I only just started, a job where I was told today that I could “have a bright future.” Sure, that made me laugh in my head, but really – when was the last time something like that was said to me?

I came home from work today to find the house looking like a crime scene and Mr.

Mom stationed at the computer, playing online poker. “Every Conservative’s dream,” said my friend Matt when I tweeted about it.

Maybe I should just consider Bedazzling a soapbox and grabbing a spot on Public Access.

Usually Henry is super quick to remove videos from the hard drive because he’s super protective of that “free space” shit on the computer, so I was surprised to find that this old movie thing my brother Corey and I made from Polaroids way back in like 2003 was still a workable link.

It’s seriously one of my favorite things ever, because my life lacks substance.

Click it!

I remember the day we took these pictures.

I had stopped over my mom’s after work and Corey had just gotten one of those trendy Polaroids that printed on tiny sticker things and I can’t believe I can’t remember what that camera was called. I had one too. It was fun. Anyway, I must have been supremely bored that day. I do remember getting pissed at my mom though because I wanted her to take a picture of Corey and me for one of the “movie frames” I was laying out in my head and she refused, wanted no part of our idiocy. I know I seem like such an even tempered sweetheart, but anytime I’m immersed in some sort of project, even one that doesn’t count for anything more than filler for a boring day, I will lose my shit faster than you can say Skullfucking Miley Cyrus. Probably even faster than that but I just wanted to have a reason to write “skullfucking Miley Cyrus” and now I just gave myself two reasons to type “skullfucking Miley Cyrus.” Oh shit, THREE reasons.

In other news, I really hate figure skating.

A week and I still have a job. I won’t lie – I’m not happy about it. Being in an office again makes me feel angry and stifled, completely unhappy. But this was something I had to do, mostly because Henry is MEAN and made me, and I’m only working half days so I shouldn’t complain. I have no RIGHT to complain.

Prior to this, I had been looking for evening work, like my last two jobs. I’m not lucky enough to have anyone who will watch my son for me so I can get a full time daylight job and I refuse to put him in daycare because my luck, it will be one of those fly by night ones that wind up as a breaking report on the nightly news because the proprietors are using it as a drug front.

But things started to get tight around here and Henry was like, “Look, just get a job, any job. Don’t worry about the shift; I’ll figure it out.”

So when the temp agency offered this particular job to me, Henry said it was OK that I’d be working daylight, that he’d adjust his schedule at work so that he could just work around me.

He’s been leaving here around 2:30AM every morning, and coming home by 6:30AM so I can leave. Then when I come home, he goes back to work. Except that he sends me texts throughout the morning, saying things like, “[My boss] scheduled a truck for 1:30 this afternoon; when are you leaving?” So then I’m pressured, stressed and annoyed. Look, Moustache. Don’t ride my ass about getting a job, and then when I get one that SAME DAY because I’m hustla, don’t start sending me these namby pamby texts talking about “Wahhhh, I have to go back to work, when are you coming homeeeeee?”

Fuck you, you said it wouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t want to work, remember?! And now you’re making me rush through the shit I have to do and feel all panic-prone because I don’t know what time I’m going to be able to leave so that you can go back to your REAL job.

(Because my job is fake and meaningless.)

I don’t know, I just feel so disheartened. I like my supervisor all right, but he acts all surprised when I get my shit done faster than he anticipated and then gets all apologetic for not having anything else for me to do, but before he could run off to find busy work for me, I reminded him that I took this job mainly because most days I’d get to leave by noon.

I mainly sit by myself in a conference room, my makeshift office with lights that shut off if I’ve been sitting too still. I have to wave my arms like an idiot to get them to recognize that a human is in there. How appropos; I’m so temporary that the LIGHT doesn’t even recognize me.

Last Friday, I was sitting there, quietly sifting through information on a stack of invoices, when two older women came in. They introduced themselves as Cindy and Cindy. When I said my name, the rotund Cindy contorted her face in a look I’ve come to known as the standardized “Am I dealing with a retard?” expression.

I repeated my name twice before she comprehended. The last time I checked, I don’t have a speech impediment, speak too quietly, or communicate in aboriginal grunts and clucks. So Rotund Cindy must be the retard.

Even though we had just gone through a round of introductions, the Cindys proceeded to talk about me as though I weren’t there. Surveying the conference room, the taller, yuppier one remarked that it would make a good place to stow the auditors when they arrive.

“The temp can just move to Karen’s old office by the kitchen,” she suggested to the fat Cindy.

“But there’s no phone in Karen’s office,” the fat Cindy pointed out.

“The temp doesn’t really need a phone, though,” Yuppy Cindy countered.

You’re right, the temp doesn’t need a phone, but hello she’s SITTING RIGHT HERE LOOKING AT YOU.

Fuck.

And then the other day, there was an email sent out from one of the Cindys, reminding everyone in a very uptight and pretentious syntax that all unmarked leftovers in the fridge would be discarded on Wednesday. I’m not sure which Cindy e-penned that friendly reminder, but it made me hate them both even more.

I’ve really grown to like the woman I hastily wrote off as Tina-esque (some of you might remember Tina and her skin legions, mullet and One-Uppiness from two jobs ago). I guess she’s the office manager, but she greets me cooley every morning in a teasing tone. I like that, to be teased. It makes me feel little girlish, but not in the patronized kind of way.

Today, some strange man wandered into my conference room, muttering something about how he was used to the room being full of boxes but now they’re gone. I joked that now the room was just full of me, and it took him awhile but he eventually laughed as comprehension set in. I thought at first that he was special needs, but I think he was just tired.

I can’t remember his name, but he was nice enough and reminded me that lunches are catered on Thursdays. I haven’t been there long enough in a day to eat lunch with everyone, though. It’s just as well, as all that will do is open up the awkward can. It’s bad enough being the new person, but even worse being a temp. No one really cares about temps, because why bother expending energy getting to know someone who’s just there for a few weeks. And you know, that’s unlike me to have that sort of attitude. I have always been out going at my jobs, sometimes to a fault perhaps. But being friendly and having camaraderie with co-workers has always made going to work worth it for me. Just anymore, I don’t have the energy or the drive. I just want to get in there, get my shit done and be done with this assignment. That makes me feel horrible just typing it, but it’s the truth and I don’t know how to be anything but honest.

I just feel that every time I get an office job, it sets me back so far. I will literally stop doing everything that I enjoy because I just don’t have the time or the mental energy.

Maybe it’s selfish, but I would rather not have a ton of money than sacrifice doing the things that make me want me to get out of bed every day. I’m not sure that Henry understands that. Maybe he does, I don’t know. I spend so much time and energy working up to certain goals, like finally being able to take up that shop owner on her offer of a gallery showing, only to be yanked back into the bowels of another generic American office. And I can’t get ahead.

Today I came home and was able to watch a recording of the Russian Olympic hockey game, one of the few things making me happy this week, and then afterward I went to the local library and took a test to become a Census employee. My friend Stacey did it and suggested that I try it out too. It’s basically going to door-to-door to collect information from people who didn’t send in their Census.

There were eight of us in  stuffy meeting room in the library. The instructor was an old man wearing a cable knit sweater. He obsessively opened and rummaged through his briefcase every few minutes. I kept wondering if he had candy in there and then my mouth got all dry because I was thinking about candy in a briefcase. Goddammit why do I think about shit like that.

You would think that the actual test would take longer than filling out the application, but no. I sat there for FORTY MINUTES while these idiots stressed out over filling in a few fucking boxes in a three page application form.

It was standard shit! I can only imagine that two of them must have a lot of felonies to list because every time the instructor asked if they were finished, it was all, “No, I’m still working on this one page.”

Working on this one page? It’s a goddamn application to be a fucking Census worker, not a blueprint of the Sheik’s new skyscraping harem house.

I sat there, bounced in my seat, stared at my cuticles, and obsessively checked Words with Friends on my phone. At one point, I had a wicked flashback to the GED testing room and instantly required a bucket of cold water and a sharp slap to the face.

This seriously took forty minutes. I got there at 3:45, like the Dumbledore impressionist on the phone advised, and it was 4:25 by the time the instructor was finally able to pass out the tests and read the instructions. I laughed at how his voice went from deep and ambivalent to rehearsed and excited when he began going over the typical “Please don’t be a douchebag and cheat” spiel.

My favorite part was when he was like, “Don’t ask me any questions once testing begins. You have to figure it out by yourself” because I knew at least 3/4 of the room was silently thinking “FUCK” in their heads, and I wondered who the instructor pissed off to be punished by sitting in this  depressing room and monitoring a bunch of directionless people who have nothing less to aspire to so why not try out for the fucking Census.

The fucking CENSUS.

What has my life become?

We had thirty minutes to complete twenty eight 5th grade level questions. I zipped through all of them until I got to a multiplication problem that involved three digits and DECIMALS. I had to skip it because I kept wanting to shift the number with the decimal to the right, like in addition. When I came back to it later, I remembered the correct way but proceeded to spend the remaining minutes trying to remember what the fuck was nine times seven.

9 x 7.

Seriously.

I had to start with 9 x 5 and then add in increments of nine, what the HELL has happened to me. There was a time when I got As in Calculus and now multiplication tables make confused spittle form in the pockets of my lips.

Oh, I got it right in the end, don’t you fret. It just took half a piece of scratch paper.

Friday, June 1, 2007

There are two of them ascending the steps to my front door, wrapped in a shroud woven of the Holy Word and sweat beads; long wool skirts shifting left and right against their panty hosed-calves. Their presence is announced not by the gentle rapping on the door, but by inflexible clodhoppers amplifying their chaste footfalls against the concrete.

Henry, in typical older male fashion reminiscent of our fathers, is splayed out on the couch in a striking pair of boxer briefs; he hurriedly stuffs a pillow onto his lap and coaxes me to get the door.

Balancing my kid on my hip, I open the screen door and nervously greet them. I learn that they are Mormon sisters which intrigues me as I have only ever encountered the elders;  they had not intended to stop at my house but happened to notice Chooch at the door and that little asshole smiled at them, which I guess is the Mormon code for “Someone in here needs some savin’! Come on down!”

I think I’ll make my child a Tamburitzen as his future penance.

I like to humor solicitors by feigning interest. Especially the Mormons, who have always amused me so. They provide me with human contact, doses just large enough to keep my society membership card from being revoked. And sometimes it does end up being interesting! There were two Elders who swung by once on a Saturday evening, many years ago, after I spotted them walking past my house and hysterically screamed for them to come say hi. They allowed me to video tape them as they commented on the party debris covering every flat surface of my living room. “The Christmas lights are lit, there’s beverage on the table, looks like a party to me!” the one hollered, channeling his best frat boy dialect which he probably picked up from the WB, while the other Elder stood nervously to the side. Then the bolder one took the camcorder just in time to pan onto me as I stumbled drunkenly onto the sidewalk, tripping all over my halter-topped slutiness. He was my favorite Elder. Strangely, I never saw him again. And after all that flirting, even?

However, I have a really terrible tendency to laugh in their faces, only partially because I’m an asshole. From birth, I’ve been tagged as an Inappropriate Laugher. Even when I actually was religious (truth!) and cheered when I was blessed with a Sunday School teacher who deemed it necessary to give us exams, I would still rip open the insides of my cheeks with my molars in awkward attempts to stop laughing during mass.

So when one of the two sisters enters a coital-like trance and begins her spiel, I start to relive the day Henry and I attended baptism class. It’s like my bottom lip is trying to mount the top one, like humping earthworms, causing them both to contort in jackass-y smirks and lewd leers. I laugh hard and try to project it all onto  Chooch, hoping they’ll interpret my uncomfortable display of giddiness as the universal sign for a mother’s joy. Look at me! I am so happy to be the mother of this sticky kid that I just can’t stop twisting my face into sneers better reserved for serial killers! Oh-ho, will the laughter never stop?

They pause in between glory be’s to acknowledge my giggles with interjections like “Yeah! Uh huh!” as though I’m that delirious from their recount of Joseph Smith’s vision that I am losing my mind in a God-loving fervor.

And then, as I’m in the height of my seasonal lesbianism, it dawns on me just how hot this here Sister McRae really is, with the natural highlights sparkling in the sun’s heat and her cute little sweater vest enveloping her in innocence. Her words begin to perform a strip tease on her tongue, grinding to the hottest ecclesiastical club anthems, and making me want to collapse in a fit of immature giggles.

A thousand knee-slappers whir through my mind, the kinds that have made the Elders crack smiles; but as past instances have pointed out, I can’t flirt with girls. My tongue gets caught and I end up spitting out sociopathic flag-raisers like, “I have cats!” (Another truth, and possibly one of my darker moments on the playing field.)

The more marmish-looking one asks me if I know that Mormons have a living prophet.

Do I. I’ve watched Big Love.

It is clear that she is the no nonsense, get-convertin’ one of the pair, so I deep-six all eye contact from that point and focus on Sister McRae’s perfectly plucked eyebrows.

During all of this talk of Joseph Smith and light pillars (which I already know about thanks to the last time I was approached), I have been inadvertently leaning back on the front door, causing it to open wider and expose Henry and his Fruit-of-the-Loomed nut sack. He is very unnerved by this because the ugly Sister keeps staring at him (he swears she is only looking at his face, and I kind of believe him because who’d want to gawk at Henry’s package?).

The couch becomes his Iron Maiden.

My cat Marcy slips out through the crack I left in the front door and proceeds to weave in and out under the stauncher Sister’s skirt, pausing underneath to look up. Marcy has a long tail, which is erect and wagging like a large feathered quill, dusting the cobwebs. I bet that’s considered first base back on the compound. Stifling back chuckles, I give Marcy halfhearted scoldings and fight the urge to regress to a fifth grade mindset.

Fifteen minutes and lots of unintentional laughs later, the pretty Sister picks up on my dire need to retreat into the house (or else her love for Jesus isn’t strong enough to keep her standing in the ninety degree heat for more than twenty minute intervals). She asks if they can come back another time. I happily agree because I love torturing myself. She pencils me in for Monday at 1 and gifts me with a church pamphlet, which I am told to study in the meantime.

I am sad to see that the Jesus depicted on the cover is of the gentle, lamb-cradling shepherd variety, one that I just had no right picturing in sweaty, pretzel-bodied trysts. No, a date with this one would probably be jam-packed with seed scattering and roof thatching. Maybe a few blessings before dinner and then a reenactment of the apple scene by the local youth group.

Unless there’s some back scratching and strawberry shortcake involved, I’ll pass.

Henry shot off a torrent of disbelief. He asks me things like why I invited them to come back and if I’m really going to attend their mass like I said I would. I ignore him as I flip through my Mormon study guide and laugh at pictures portraying loving families and content hand-holding parishioners.

I will undoubtedly spend my weekend daydreaming about what Mormon mass is like and how quickly I get myself blacklisted. Will they at least serve  doughnuts and orange drink first? Can I wear a bonnet? I hope to make lots of friends there so I have more people to invite to future game nights. Then I’ll put them in a room with my friends who are adamant debaters of opposing religions and have them all sic each other.

At least they didn’t make me pray with them.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Henry is home from work early. On his way upstairs for a nap, he reminds me that I have a date with the Mormons.

By 12:45, my front door is barricaded, the windows pulled closed and robed by curtains, and the volume on the TV lowered. I’m on lock down. I even bite off one of my nails in a fretful fit.

1:00 comes and goes, and I feel abandoned and unloved. Am I so pathetic that even religious recruiters stand me up? I go upstairs in search of consoling from my napping partner, but he shuns me, so I return to the living room and make snarly expressions with my mouth until I’m distracted by a Ciara video.

The clock turns to 1:35 and my ears perk at the sound of Christ-like exaltations growing louder outside my door. I swear that I even hear the heavenly notes of harps helmed by cherubs, but it might just be the sound of my own angelic breathing. Suddenly, I’m consumed by an animalistic danger response and I flee to the bedroom, tripping over my flip flops on the way.

This is my mother’s fault. I grew up hiding with her in the attic as Jehovah’s Witnesses circled around our house like crows; PTA member Donna Thomas made spontaneous visits to try and get her to type programs or bake cookies or be a room mother; and my uncle’s insane girlfriend Stella would appear for impromptu cups of tea, her psychosis only thinly veiled as she choked on tears and hysterical laughter (she once hid under the bed for a week because she wanted my uncle to assume she had gone off and killed herself). I’d pretend whoever my mom had us hiding from on that particular day had shotguns and that if I lifted my head, my brain would explode like Gallagher’s watermelon and sound like a moist sponge as it splattered against the wall and dripped down into a gelatinous pile of blood and skull fragments. It was exhilarating.

As I spy between the slats of the blinds, Henry asks me through a sleep-coated slur what I’m doing and in my best hushed tones, I inform him that the Mormons hath returned and I’m hiding. I haven’t even read their literature! The only term I learned was Aaronic Priesthood, and that’s only because it topped the list. I didn’t even complete the study questions at the end! Did Jesus’s Apostles know that an apostasy would occur? I don’t know!

Henry shakes his head and rolls over, rejecting me with his back.

I cower in the dark sanctity of my bedroom corner until I’m certain they’ve left. They pull out of the driveway in what appears to be a brand new Camry in golden hues, probably meant to mimic a halo’s tint. I then briefly consider converting, until Henry informs me that the car is likely owned by the church and not two Mormon hustlers who don’t have jobs. But then I start to think of other scenarios that could afford them a car, like drug dealing. Mormonism is starting to sound scandalously tempting. I could probably get used to the itchy wool caressing my thighs if it meant reaping the rewards of Christ’s drug deals. The scratchy caresses might even be an improvement on Henry.

Do Mormons engage in self-flagellation?

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

I’m hanging out in the living room with Henry and Chooch, enjoying a block of music videos that teach my son to call girls bitches and hoes and to fuck them barebacked to see if they really are a wonder woman. To keep our wandering child in one room, we pull out our chaise and use it to block the entrance to the dining room, since it’s too wide of an area for a standard baby gate to cross. Henry is presently laying across it on his stomach in a position he hopes will make him look younger than he really is. How is he going to slip his hand down his pants with his jock pressed against the chair? I wonder.

In my peripheral, I catch two wool-skirted smudges through the open front door. The Mormon Sisters have nearly reached the front porch, but I’m not opposed to obvious dodgings. In what feels like slow-motion, I leap up from the couch and lurch into a scissor-kicked hurdle over top of Henry’s lazy form on the chair. I pause briefly once I land, impressed with the height I reached on that one, but then I sprint like I’m being chased by the muthafuckin’ popo until I’m swaddled in safety’s sweet embrace at the top of the steps.

I hear the soft rapping upon the front door. I hear the door open. I hear Henry’s gruff voice. Though I can’t hear it well, I imagine his voice all but paints a portrait of his chagrined state.

I hear silence.

And then, Henry is standing at the bottom of the steps.

He hisses for me to get my ass downstairs.

No, I hiss back, slinking further into the shadows.

This is your doing, he seethes. Tell them you’re not interested.

But I won’t, and he knows he can’t make me.

He shuffles off to do my dirty work. I wait a few moments after I hear the closing of the door before I come out of hiding.

Henry tells me smugly that they’re coming back tomorrow. I hope they come in time to spectate the simulated baby sacrifice that I perform on Chooch. He loves it so much that he laughs until he vomits.

I love the thrill of the chase, the sensation of being stalked; I love how my heart palpitates wildly and I feel my blood rushing, in a nervous race to hide from the word of the Lord. Sometimes I call myself Susie and pretend that I’m in the Witness Protection Program. Other times I pretend my house is a forest bathed in moonlight and I’m fleeing from a chainsaw-brandishing Jason Voorhees, tree branches snagging my camp shirt and jagger bushes carving thin trenches into my flesh. What really provides good cardio is envisioning that they’re rapists saddled with 12-inch barbed-wired and hot sauce-ensconced dildos, pelvises thrusted and jutting, ready to penetrate.

I can’t wait for them to come back.

It started with some blue and yellow, and ends with this.

Nice to know that you care.

Alisha and I had plans to meet down the street at Eat n Park for lunch.  I don’t mind walking there because it’s only a few blocks away, but I hate that I have to cross over a main road; it’s a phobia.  Fortunately, there was a young guy ahead of me who was about to cross, so I ran and yelled, “Wait! Wait for me!” He turned mid-step to eye me up suspiciously. Catching up to him, I panted, “I don’t like crossing the street by myself.” It wasn’t awkward at all. But then I made the mistake of telling Alisha and she was like, “Why are you so stupid.”  Later, she ordered a turtle sundae but that is a story for another time.

__________________________________________________

OK, it’s time. Alisha decided we should get dessert and since she was buying, I heartily agreed. “I’ll have the dutch apple pie,” I said to our waitress, Barb. This was after I recovered from the shiver session I had when, in passing, Barb imprisoned me in an intense eye-lock. I really don’t know what that was all about, but afterward I was literally trying to bear hug my way through to my soul, you can ask Alisha.

Barb nodded and duly jotted it down.

“And I want the turtle sundae,” Alisha mumbled with the general disdain she reserves for strangers.

“Ooooh, the turtle sundae!” Barb exclaimed in an intonation preschool teachers must master before getting their own classroom. And then she let loose with some celebratory sound before shuffling away.

Shocked, I asked Alisha, “Did she say ‘God damn’?!”

“No,” Alisha shook her head, looking alarmed. “It was just some excited noise. And why was she talking to me like I’m 8 years old?”

When Barb came back, she made some monotoned comment about, “Here’s your dutch” before raising her voice several octaves and cooing, “And here’s your….turtle sundae! Ooooh! Look at that!” Alisha gave her a fake smile and was all, “OK bye bye now.”

“What the hell, it’s just a sundae,” I said. And not even a signature one at that. But then I remembered I had the pie of the Dutch beneath my face and focused on that for awhile.

Barb reappeared a few minutes later to make sure we were competently devouring our desserts. “How’s your TURTLE SUNDAE?!” she shouted, fawning all over Alisha like she was a visiting diplomat, because don’t all visiting diplomats stop at Eat n Park for a turtle fucking sundae while visiting Pittsburgh?

Alisha, refusing to make eye contact, assured her it was fine. Satisfied with that review, Barb began to retreat. She made it a few feet before turning, as an after thought, and asking over her shoulder, “Oh, and how’s the pie?”

Oh, why it’s no turtle sundae, Barb.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that this situation seemed redundant. Like, I was having some major deja vu. And then I realized I had been in that same situation before, three years ago, only that time I was in the Queen Seat. I went home and checked LiveJournal, and sure enough, this was not my first run-in with Barb, the Dessert Snob:

July 2007

Lisa temporarily resides in Colorado so I was excited to get to see her Wednesday afternoon during her Pittsburgh visit. We walked down the street to Eat n Park for coffee and dessert, the perfect pre-work sugar fix.

Our waitress Barb was an older woman with the easy-to-talk-to charm of a seasoned server. Lisa immediately overshadowed me with her big smile and confident voice.

“I’ll have the chocolate cake!” Lisa cheerfully ordered.

Barb smiled and jotted it down.

“And I’ll have the blackberry pie with ice cream,” I ordered not as cheerfully, but I sort of smiled. Which is big for me.

Barb’s body shook with pleasure. “Yes! Good choice!” she sang as she scratched my order on her pad with a flourish.

“That’s my favorite!”

I smirked at Lisa after Barb retreated. “She likes me better than you,” I chided.

“What makes your pie so much better than my chocolate cake? I mean, it’s chocolate cake!” Lisa’s visage melted into a befuddled glaze.

“Chocolate cake is a menu mainstay, Lisa. My pie is a seasonal delight.” This seemed to distract Lisa long enough for me to continue droning on about my life’s conundrums. It’s nice to have counseling ears across from me sometimes.

Barb returned with our desserts and the reminder than I am, and always will be, better than Lisa. She set down Lisa’s plate with an unremarkable motion, but then turned to me with the fanfare of a queen’s arrival as she gently placed my pie beneath my fat face and took a step back.

“Look at that pie, would you?

Oh, I hope you will enjoy it. It really is the best!”

I hesitated before crushing into the crisp sugary crust, unsure if Barb was going to stand there and gawk. She smiled once more and carried on with her rounds of coffee refills.

Lisa was absently slapping her cake with the back of her fork, scowling at me. “Enjoy your freaking pie,” she mimicked.

During our meal, Barb came back later with our separate checks. She was delighted to tell me that my check was special. “Lookie here! There’s a number at the bottom to call and complete a real short survey. Then you write down the code they give you and bring this back next time for a two dollar discount!

” She clapped her hands together and held them under her chin, waiting for me to call my mommy and thank her for birthing me so that I could one day experience the jubilation of getting an Eat n Park survey check.

I feigned happiness for the sake of Lisa’s plummeting self-worth. “It’s because I was smart enough to order the delicious pie and not the boring cake,” using my words to further wheedle away at her ordering inadequacies.

We continued to pick away at our desserts and imbibe (too much) coffee, when Lisa spilled her water all over the table. Barb came running over with her rag and we all tried to make light of Lisa’s fumbling fingers.

“At least it didn’t get on her pie,” Barb sighed.

The worst part of today’s episode in dessert racism is that suddenly Alisha likes cherries now and no longer gifts me with her unwanted maraschino sundae toppers. FUCK.

__________________________________________________

Just a few moments ago, Chooch started shouting some nonsense about how there’s a Valentine card for me in the car.

“No there’s not,” Henry said tersely, all but making throat-cutting motions to get Chooch to shut up.

“Yes there is!” Chooch battled.

“No there’s not!” Henry said through gritted teeth, like the subject was hidden paternity and not some flimsy supposedly secretive greeting card for a holiday that I know is tomorrow, sorry, but I have a calendar and people on twitter reminding me every .005 seconds that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

“Yes there is!” Chooch shouted, getting visibly upset at this point. “We bought it in the Valentine card section!”

The jig is up, Henry!

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

• 14:32 Good afternoon! I’m walking through a snowstorm to the post office. With wet hair. I’m a smarteeeeeee! #
• 14:46 Got schooled by some old man when I almost fell while attempting to walk too fast on the snowy sidewalk. #
• 15:54 The Warped Tour iPhone app is fantastic. I’m going to use the shit out of it. (OMG I can’t wait for Warped!) #
• 16:56 I wonder what it will be like when @awoodhick sleeps to death. #
• 17:03 It’s inspiring that a writer as shitty as Nicolas Sparks can get his books made into blockbuster movies. #
• 20:24 I’ll never let Henry cut Chooch’s hair again. He’s graduated from cancer kid to a baby Rue McClanahan. #
• 22:11 Tall sit-ups are my jam. #
• 22:14 The #Capitals must have read “The Secret.” #NHL #
• 23:11 I just stepped onto my front porch without thinking, like the asshole I am, and wound up with snow halfway to my knee. #
• 23:19 And for the second time today I’m reminded, way after the fact, that I have snow boots. #
• ***
• 01:01 :( RT @nhllive Condolences to Brian Burke on the loss of his son Brendan. All our th oughts and prayers are with Brian and his family. #
• 01:59 Hay look @ the dumb! 2 Prison Penpals: Some girls have a lot of shoes; I have a lot of purses. So many in fact, th… bit.ly/bGdCzj #
• 08:44 I’m going to dive off my porch into the snow, enjoy it for 10-20 seconds, & then promptly return to hating snow’s guts. #
• 08:54 Although, with my neighborhood, there’s always that chance of diving onto a hypodermic needle. #
• 10:31 About to snow dive like it’s an Olympic sport, ya’ll. Here’s hoping I don’t impale myself on any urban weaponry. #
• 10:57 Henry is trying so hard to shovel & I keep cannonballing into the yard, sending snow flying back onto the sidewalk. He is PISSED. #
• 10:58 Fucking asshole motherfucking ass raping snow shit. yfrog.com/au32825693j #
• 10:59 Our Chooch got stranded. We let him sweat it out a little before swimming over to him. yfrog.com/3n1dygj #
• 11:11 Chooch is trying to run from a Kleenex-brandishing Henry but he’s limited considering its a real life Dig Dug out there. Now he’s trapped. #
• 13:16 WTF is going on w/ #wordswithfriends. There is nothing to do today! & some retard is trying to ride a bike past my house in all this snow. #
• 13:22 Paul Coffey is still so hot. #pens #
• 14:02 Someone ne eds to make me mayor because I’ve got some fucking ideas that need implemented. #
• 14:03 Go FSN! We didn’t want to watch the #pens game today anyway. #
• 14:19 That was bullshit. Fleury was fucking bulldozed. Awesome revenge goal by Dupuis! #letsgopens #
• 14:22 18:51 and the #pens #habs game is already tied at 1. Weird start. #
• 14:44 Someone must have told the #Habs that their only chance at beating the #pens is by continually tackling Fleury. #
• 16:34 Um, I hope this isn’t how the #pens are going to play against the #caps. #
• 17:38 Neighbor drama!! I love my street. #
• 17:58 For someone who doesn’t care about The Vampire Diaries, Henry sure asks a lot of questions. #
• ***
• 01:30 Paul McCartney has always made me feel uncomfortable, like I’ve been repressing memories of him molesting me. #
• 01:31 You know, kind of like how most people feel around Henry: suspiciously violated, phantom moustache burns. #
• 11:49 Everyone should turn on NBC at noon (EST, yo). #
• 12:18 I can’t imagine going to McDonalds and thinking, “That’s the best dollar I’ve ever spent.” #
• 12:20 CROSBY! I’m too afraid to get too celebratory, given what team we’re playing. #letsgopens #
• 12:26 Keep booing Crosby, everyone; he loves it. #letsgopens #
• 13:27 My hockey-provoked fistpumping puts the Jersey Shore to shame. And also puts my shoulder in pain. #letsgopens #
• 13:28 Helluva Captain, that Ovechkin. Hold on, I got some sarcasm caught in my throat. #pens #caps #
• 13:31 Fucking OMG this game is exciting. Who’s gonna get the hat trick first, Crosby or Staal? #pens #NHL #
• 14:42 At least 15 new grays have sprouted up thanks to this fucking game. #letsgopens #
• 14:48 Motherfucker. #
• 16:31 A Superbowl recipe for you! “Making Cookies From Bread” bit.ly/bubthK #
• 17:39 I just watched the priest across the street get a pizza delivered to him. It was wildly exciting. So exciting that I have chest pains now. #
• 18:05 Henry’s on the prowl for slutty broads with broken legs. #
• 18:31 Yeah, I have no idea who’s even in the Super(dumb)bowl. #
• 18:51 This is the first weekend in forever that I didn’t go anywhere or do anything. I died a little, I think. #
• 22:41 Shit, I forgot I had one of these: Ask me anything formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin #
• 22:52 Q:If you could change one thing that happe… A:There was someone I gave a 178635th chan… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/137433457 #
• 23:38 Again, I’m so glad sexting wasn’t around when I was in high school. I got in enough trouble as it was. #
• ***
• 12:30 I feel like doing some math problems today. #
• 12:33 Q:Is there going to be a Riley 2.0? A:No!!! Those 9 months were some of the darkest of my… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/139081816 #
• 14:45 I can’t even. RT @AltPress BREAKING NEWS–New Chiodos frontman revealed: altpress.com/news/chiodosnewsinger.htm #
• 15:34 Ugh. RT @MikeSheaAP The Day the Flood Gates Broke: Yes,….Craig Owens to be signing to Pete’s Decaydance, Managed thru Crush Management. #
• 15:36 Today is a really shitty day for music news. I blame Alex Ovechkin, snow, and Miley Cyrus’s man voice. #
• 15:56 I start my new job tmw & apparently I still have the work-at-home data entry job. So I guess I have 2 jobs now. Workaholic, they call me. #
• 15:57 Which means soon I’ll be an alcoholic too. #
• 19:43 My son just deemed that there will be “no valentines for mommy!!” Take note, secret admirers. :( #
• 21:35 I don’t know why I’m watching this hockey game. It’s not like I need affirmation that the #flyers are dirty cocksuckers. #
• ***
• 00:01 Q:why were there so many damn “Guys in the… A:This question made me laugh!I actually w… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/142739707 #
• 07:37 Today should be my first day of work but Father Henry doesn’t trust my driving-in-snow skills and is making me call off. HE should call. #
• 11:00 Had the brilliant idea of taking a family walk through the snowtrails to the post office. Henry is so irritated but Chooch & I had fun. #
• 11:23 Gave Chooch a lesson in yellow snow. “This is the stuff you want to throw at daddy, then promptly pitch yr gloves in the nearest trashcan.” #
• 12:18 Googling “Jonny Craig is a dick” brings a lot of traffic to my blog. Thanks for being a douche to me, Jonny Craig! You spike my stats! #
• 15:13 don’t remember ever writing this, wtf: “I’ve clearly been fucked w/ the Downs dildo somewhere along the cobblestone road to the whorehouse” #
• 16:48 Chooch deemed Taylor Dane “stupid” but that was b4 I showed him an entire dance party can be built around her husky voice & frosted locks. #
• 17:33 I miss my Vans that were embellished with Chinese newspaper. Made me feel cultured. #
• 18:03 Thanks, postal service, for adding a lost package to the list. Because I didn’t have enough to worry about. #
• 18:53 Justin Bieber’s puking on Silent Library inspired Henry to cheer, “Good for him, the little fuck.” Strong words about a 15-year-old. #
• 19:33 Silent Library: it’s why God gave men nipples. #
• 19:51 There are 6 plows in the parking lot across from my house right now. Maybe I can actually start my job tomorrow! #
• ***
• 07:48 Henry is being nice to me. That’s newsworthy! #
• 12:46 Q:Do you hav e any scars on your body? If … A:Chicken pock scar on my cheek (the face … formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/149394943 #
• 12:49 Apparently, I’d make a GREAT candidate for the US Army. Glad they noticed. #
• 13:06 Could host quite the perfect murder party ’round here. yfrog.com/3nm00j #
• 13:13 Chooch put on some country music video channel & I can’t find the remote. Now I’ll be writing country songs all day about being snowed in. #
• 13:40 Chooch is getting his first taste of “The Gate.” My bro Ryan & I used to watch the shit out of this. “You’ve been BAD!” #
• 15:59 I just walked in aimless circles around my house. This snow is finally breaking me. I want to GO SOMEWHERE. #
• 16:22 Chooch enjoys beating himself in the head with Henry’s hand, while yelling “you bastard!” It’s mesmerizing. #
• 17:48 Henry coughed, inspiring Chooch to exclaim, “Are you OK?!” Henry was taken aback, as he’s not used to anyone caring about him. HAHA. #
• 17:52 If Getslaf’s injury doesnt heal, Jeff Carter could be his replacement for the Olympics? Thumbs down. #nhl #olympics #
• 17:52 Getzlaf, even. #
• 20:48 KUNITZ! #letsgopens #
• 21:46 The Shut Out gods have something against Fleury. #pens #NHL #
• 22:02 Good job #pens! It’s good to hear Kunitz’s name again! #
• 23:02 The Capitals disgusting win streak was finally snuffed, at the hands of the Habs no less! Go #Habs! #
• ***
• 06:59 Just threw my first official I Dont Want to Go to Work tantrum. Ok, second. #
• 07:04 Henry said “welcome to the world” as he shoved me out the door. Wah. #
• 07:20 Well. If I wasn’t awake before, Of Mice and Men’s “Poker Face” cover sure did the deed. #
• 08:16 I am WAY overdressed. As usual. #
• 08:25 Got a tour of the facilities by a pleasant smoker-voiced broad in a 1980s sweater who kept coughing in my general direction. Makin g friends! #
• 08:36 I hate signing off on something that prohibits me from making uwanted sexual advances. The world is so unfair. #
• 12:22 My supervisor says “literally” every other sentence. Literally. And he pronounces “us” like “uzzz.” I like him. He swears. #
• 16:35 Hopefully I get the memo the next time it’s 80s Day at my new place of work. #
• 18:31 Just had the good fortune of playing my favorite word on Words With Friends . “Broads,” holla! #
• 19:34 Instead of saying “I’m so cold,” Chooch said, “I’m cold so bad.” And then, “Daddy turned the heat off like a retard.” Oy. #
• 19:34 Dude. I NEVER say “oy.” #
• 20:23 Fisting ramen, watching Ashley be a throaty-voiced drama queen on Real World. yfrog.com/32eosj #
• ***
• 07:40 I hope when I see them in Cleveland next weekend, @wearetheused play “On the Cross.” I’ll cry! #
• 08:11 just sought out the lady who gave me a tour yesterday &, w/ batting lashes, asked her to get me later so I won’t have to eat lunch alone. #
• 08:12 She thought it was funny and I exclaimed, “Being new is awkward!” I think she thought i was being dramatic. Not me. Never. #
• 10:09 I just downed a 5 Hour Energy rip off that Henry’s company sells & I’m pretty sure I’m in the throes of cardiac arrest. #
• 11:18 The upside to today is that I’m wearing a pair of jeans that haven’t fit me in a year. #
• 15:43 The noises in my house right now make me wish I own a shotgun. #
• 15:45 Chooch just told Henry that I hit him, he fell down, & then I hit him again?!?! But he left out the part where I burnt him with a lighter! #
• 19:33 MAMA’S TRYING TO WATCH THIS HOCKEY GAME STFU. #pens #
• 21:32 Jesus Christ, I love Sidney Crosby!i can’t wait to watch him in the Olympics! #letsgopens #
• 22:34 I need a shot of te stosterone. Or heroine. #
• 23:07 It seriously starts out with Justin Bieber? Fuck this “We Are the World.” And Miley Cyrus probably doesn’t even know where Haiti is. #
• ***
• 00:21 I feel guilty but I want the men’s Canadian hockey team to win gold. #
• 08:18 Henry is right where he belongs: in the kitchen. #
• 13:19 Q:Who was the best boss you’ve ever had? A:Kim from MSA was pretty damn fantastic. Any bo… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/166039497 #

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