Instead of starting my new job on Tuesday as planned, the snow had other ideas and so I remained cabin-bound until today.  I woke up to that sickening “first day of school” full-body anxiety, but instead of hitting snooze and dwelling, I jumped up and pretended I was instead getting ready for roller skating or a Chiodos show (pre-Craig Owens departure) or just a good old fashioned hoedown.

The drive wasn’t as bad as I anticipated, plus it gave me some time to listen to some new music I recently acquired and that was good. There’s nothing like a screamo/post-hardcore cover of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” to make me want to conquer a boardroom.

I was a few minutes early and the man who would become my supervisor wasn’t there yet so I was stowed in the small waiting area, where I immediately realized that I was way overdressed after noting that most of the women who bustled past wore mom-jeans and ugly shoes. A few more seconds of spying had me noting the bouncing parade of antique knit sweaters. One of the sweaters was a gaudy purple hue interwoven with some sort of obnoxious silver thread. I’m pretty sure my Mrs. B., my kindergarten teacher, sported that same sweater in 1985.

I was inspired to clandestinely tweet: “Hopefully I get the memo the next time it’s 80s Day at my new place of work.”

And then the most Tina-ish woman there found me, like they all do. She was brash and tall and, around 20+ years of cigarette drags, she croaked, “Erin? Come on, I’m going to give you a tour.” I looked down as I trailed behind her and noticed that she was wearing boots similar to the ones my mom wore. IN THE EIGHTIES.

When the fuck was I?!

The only thing I remember being shown on the impromptu tour was a large, clear glass bowl that sat atop a filing cabinet in the middle of the office space. And you know what was in that glass bowl? CANDY. I couldn’t wait to start stealing it!

“You’re welcome to help yourself to that candy whenever you want, as well as all the pop in the fridge….” Alternate Tina continued to point out the free perks and I felt shocked. I wouldn’t have to PILFER? I could just…have? Like, while people were watching, I could just…take?

This might take some getting used to. I’m not sure I know how to fetch candy in an office without utilizing my slinky ninja-gait.

Alternate Tina deposited me in my makeshift office, which is just a small conference room set up with a computer. Moments later, the HR woman who interviewed me last week stopped in with some papers to sign and told me that everyone was allowed to wear jeans this week as a perk for coming in due to this shitty weather. But she didn’t say anything about the 1980’s Golden Girls sweaters. I had to sign a paper swearing that I wouldn’t make unwanted sexual advances on any of my co-workers, which was painful, like signing away my first born. (Though there are times when that feels like a wonderful treat.)

Next, I got to meet my supervisor, who is a very pleasant man who likes to overdose on the word “literally” and swears without apologizing. We had a small training session with another woman who actually works there but will be doing of this fantastic data entry along with me, and then I was left to do the practice work myself.

It’s just transferring information from shipping invoices onto an Excel spreadsheet. (I just typed in Spreadshirt at first, which shows you what little time I spend in offices these days.) I know it sounds awful, but as far as careers go, I go out of my way to find low-key data entry/billing jobs. I don’t want stress. I want to go to work, plug and chug quietly, and then come home and have the mental energy left to do the things I like to do. Is that selfish? Maybe.

There were no real invoices for me to work on after that, so I got to leave by 1pm. And that’s the other beautiful thing about this job: there are days when I will only have to stay until noon. My supervisor, after explaining this to me, offered, “If you’d prefer to be here for a full day everyday, I could try to look for other things for you to do…” but I very zealously interrupted, “No! No, that’s OK. I was told during the interview about that, and I’m completely OK with it.” And I am, too. I don’t want a full time job! I don’t want a job AT ALL to be honest but HENRY made me get one.

And you better believe that from the moment I got home today until, well, currently, I haven’t let him forget about that.

“Make me lunch!” I yelled as I stormed through the door.

He stood there gaping at me.

“Go make me lunch! I had a long day…because of YOU!” I spat.

And he started laughing. As if my working is a JOKE to him, something that he derives pleasure from, like watching Kate Gosselin and her douche-curtains suffer in public.

And you know what else? On my way home, I got an email from my work-at-home HR broad informing me that there was work out if I was interested. So I had to come home and WORK some more instead of watching MTV; oh pity me, Internet!

I’m going to go and schedule a day at the spa now.

Tomorrow, I have to try and learn how to use the coffee maker. Fuck. At least I get to wear jeans and my best sweater from 5th grade.

[I hope you know that this is a joke and that I am grateful to be working. The End.]

“I’m telling you, it was the best date of my life,” Billy boasted. “She was gorgeous; had this glow to her like a goddess statue or some shit, unlike any other ghost I ever took out. I’m telling you, it was the best date ever.”

Mason hovered quietly, allowing Billy to divulge the details of the best date ever. He tried to keep his lips in a neutral line, although the corners fought to unfurl.

“She just sat there, right? Just sat there at the table. Didn’t even order anything, cheapest date ever. She just sat there and let me tell her all about my days in the service.” Billy paused to send snot shooting from where his nose once jutted.

“Couldn’t get her to come home with me, though. Probably for the best, don’t like to overwhelm the ladies on the first date.

” Billy perversely circled his pelvis, causing Mason’s manhood to fall limp.

The afterlife hasn’t refined him one bit, Mason thought disgustedly.

“Christ, she was the best date ever. Shoulda seen the looks we was gettin’, me and that broad. Every dude in that place was taking a bus trip across her with their eyes, man, like she was the freakin’ Eiffel Tower or some shit. And she was there with ME.” Mason puffed out his chest and hitched his thumb at himself. “I owe you one, Mason old pal. Where did you find her anyway?”

“Downtown, 6th and Maple,” Mason replied.

“Oh, that old party store?” Billy deduced, sucking on the tip of a Slim Jim. “Can’t go wrong picking up a chick at the freakin’ party store, am I right?”

Mason nodded. It wasn’t really a lie. That’s where he purchased the clinquant, full-bodied Mylar balloon which he later tied to the chair at Chez Jizz, minutes before Billy’s arrival.

“I’m gonna bang her tonight, old friend, I can just feel it,” Mason predicted on the coattails of a processed-meat belch.

“Oh, I’m sure it will be quite the bang,” Mason agreed.

The votes are in and the Crosby/Talbot spot was voted #1 NHL commercial, which I’m sure has caused an uproar in the Crosby HaterNation and that makes it even more satisfying. I love reading the hate that spews from anti-Crosby fans on the NHL Facebook page because it’s so unwarranted and nonsensical.

Anyway, I love this commercial; it’s sweet and cute, even if you don’t like hockey. It makes me wonder if someday Chooch will be famous for…something, and the computer monitor he slashed with a pumpkin carver will be in a commercial.

This is an extended version of the commercial that’s on TV:

Seriously, Chooch slashed our monitor with a pumpkin carver. That was two nights ago. I’m only moderately sick over it now.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I got a job? Well, that was fun. I was trying to cram in as many hours (see also: minutes) as possible on the computer before Chooch discovered that I wasn’t paying attention to him. Yes, working at home sounded like a fine idea at the time. I wasn’t getting paid very much, but for as little work I was able to put in, my checks actually weren’t as dismal as I imagined. In fact, I was able to have my shoes cobbled, I was! With a little extra to spare for some luke warm porridge!

There was this one instance where Chooch came over and said, “Come play with me.” I go, “I can’t; I’m working right now.”

He disappeared for a brief moment, and when he returned, he was forcing a pile of dirty pennies into my palm. “Here, I paid you. Now come play.”

The sad thing is, he didn’t even realize how close he was to matching my pay rate.

So this job was supposed to last “a few months.” Try two weeks. Yes, the HR broad sent out an email thanking everyone for their hard work and that unbeknownst to anyone at the company, we had actually helped them meet their quota way faster than they imagined, and that we would be contacted in the future if there was more work.

I was back in the same boat, paddling toward the homeless shelter.

But then I remembered that my friend Sarah’s mom works at a staffing firm, and that she had given a valiant attempt at placing me somewhere safe and stable after I was laid off from FedEx last winter. I emailed her last Wednesday morning and by that afternoon, I had a new job.

I start tomorrow. It’s a temporary position, but at this point I’d shine shoes if I had to. Actually, I probably would be pretty good at that, among very little else.

And then today, the HR lady from the other place sent out an email saying there will be more work this week. I guess I have two jobs now. Or a job and a half, as it were.

Hopefully, there will be awesome people at this place tomorrow. I haven’t had a day job in so long, I hope the sun doesn’t blind me. But at least this means I won’t miss any hockey games or pout like the teenaged scene kid I truly am when a band plays on a weeknight and I can’t get off work.

I’m not looking forward to the commute though.

People are calling the great snowstorm of 2010 all kinds of knee-slappingly annoying things like  “snOMG,” “snowpocalypse” and “snowmeddegon.” Witty. Catchy. Obnoxious. You know what I call it?

Recipe for Snowslaughter.

I’m trapped in a house with a bearded asshole and a strong-willed three-year-old who can turn simple household items into parent-killing weapons. And there is nowhere to hide. Except for maybe an igloo but architecture has never been my strong suit. Or manual labor.

And how am I supposed to have my lovers court me when the snow has practically Siamesed Henry and me? This is just great. Really fucking fantastico. And if I hear one more deranged son of a bitch sing the snow’s praises, I’m going to use their body as a cushion the next time I go ice-fishing. Snow is only awesome if you’re a kid and school gets canceled. Well, I’m an adult. And my fucking WEEKEND WAS CANCELED.

Disgusting.

Most of the weekend was spent whining, catching up on DVRd TV, whining, watching the Penguins lose and whining, exercising, whining on the Internet, reading, falling victim to springtime mirages, drinking wine and lots of it.

Anyway, it appears that everyone is showing off their Snow Attack pictures, so here are some of mine.

Henry said we got “like, 20 inches.” However, people nearby are saying it was actually more than that. I’m like, “Once you hit a foot, who needs to bother with accuracy?”  Once Henry started shoveling, Chooch was nearly usurped by a foreboding snow wall, and that was kind of cool.

I decided it would be in my best interest to cannonball off the porch, right into the thick of it. I was wearing black cotton exercise pants. The kinds that stop right at the knee. While I had boots on (technically rain galoshes), that didn’t stop the snow from snaking inside the opening and raping my bare calves with its frozen embrace.  Then I started jumping closer to the sidewalk, which would create mini avalanches and unravel Henry’s hard shoveling work. Ooh, he was so pissed!

For all you fans of Henry’s “mehoover” LiveJournal, Hot Naybor Chris was outside shoveling to0. Henry puffed his chest out a lot and tried to look like a skillful shovel wielder, but I don’t think Chris was paying attention. Chris is the closest thing to a friend Henry has outside of work, and he instinctively clenches anytime he’s trying to bro-up with Chris and I’m around. Something about me ruining it…? My favorite Chris memory was one summer, years ago, when Henry was mowing the lawn and Chris was helping out by bagging up the cut grass. In a fit of immaturity (which isn’t actually a fit as much as it’s just my natural demeanor), I took the camera up to the bedroom and began snapping spycam pictures of the two of them. However, it was dusk so I used the flash. Chris caught the flashing light out of his periphery, spun all around, and yelled to Henry, “Did you see that light?” Henry, knowing exactly what had happened, shrugged. When Chris went back to bagging the grass, Henry shot me a threatening glare.

It was awesome. One of the highlights from our long nine years together, I think.

Later in the day, one of our other neighbors needed help shoveling out her car. Because Henry has a man-crush on her boyfriend, Mark, he suited up and sprinted out the door to help. One time, Mark approached Henry and caught him off guard with a bro-shake. I must have laughed for hours because Henry looked so awkward and so very, very Caucasian, trying to keep up with the steps.

Anyway, Mark busted me taking his picture from my front door so I had to swing around quickly and pretend like I was interested in the snow-smothered terrain.

Yes, it was an exciting, action-packed day.

And finally, here’s a picture of Chooch’s window. Looks like he won’t be escaping for awhile.

Just a moment ago, Henry was strapping on boots so he can go dig out the car. I said, “Here, I’ll come help you” and then promptly collapsed on a bed of belly-laughs.

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

• 15:27 Just turned in a debit card I found on an ATM. I’ll take my karma in cash, gold or unicorns, please. #
• 16:39 Ottawa Senators need to lose today, please. Perhaps Norbert and his debit card can help make that so. #
• 17:10 I really wish I was in Canada today. #
• 18:43 WHAA? RT @BreakingNews Actor ‘Rip’ Torn, 78, is charged with breaking into a Connecticut bank and carrying a loaded gun while intoxicated #
• 20:12 I don’t think I’ve ever had proper closure to The OC being cancelled. #
• 23:26 Well. My cross-stitching foray lasted all of two minutes before I freaked out and cried. I’m a disgrace to pioneerwomen. #
• ***
• 00:59 Can’t stop thinking about Norbert and his lost debit card. Sure hope they were reunited, and that it felt so good. #
• 01:18 Barges are disgusting. Fuck all barges. Next time I see one, I’m puking at it. FUCK. I am so angry over barges right now. #
• 09:44 Chooch: Who are those girls? Me: Poison. #
• 11:05 On my way to pick up #Pens tickets, began spontaneously crying to Open:Hand. #
• 11:06 It appears @saucalisha and I have a date at Mellon Arena! yfrog.com/35fdrqj #
• 12:58 Dear @awoodhick, Chooch & I want grilled cheese. I asked you in front of your Twitter friends so if you say no you’ll look like an asshole. #
• 13:41 If I were a religious person, I’d swear my son has the devil in him. #
• 13:58 Yeah, would ya just look at how “overrated” Sidney Crosby is? #letsgopens !! #
• 14:25 Omg this game. THIS GAME!! #letsgopens #
• 14:38 Fleury just can’t get that shutout. #
• 15:08 This is a kneel-in-front-of-the-TV, screaming type of hockey game. #
• 15:11 CROSBY! MALKIN! FLEURY! #
• 17:32 I always feel guilty sort of when I get tweet-happy during hockey games, knowing 90% of Twitter is like “Get a life.” #
• 18:34 9 years later and Henry still shows not an ounce of compassion for my panic attacks/anxiety. Just walked home in 10degrees & he was whatev. #
• 23:29 Henry’s watching Paramore Unplugged while toiling over a lot of serial killer cards. Someone bought 17! #
• 23:34 <3 Frank Turner RT @fthc I am actually fucking disgusted. The definition of punk? The opposite of a Green Day musical. Total fucking shit #
• ***
• 14:46 I guess next time b4 accusing Henry of not paying the electric bill, I should check the fuse box 1st. Chooch & I lived like Amish for 1 hr. #
• 15:20 I love the shock of finding FB profiles of various hoodlums I’ve had to call the cops on during my party days & seeing they have KIDS now. #
• 15:57 Being scalped by Miley Cyrus. #worstfeelingever #
• 15:57 Scalping Miley Cyrus. #bestfeelingever #
• 17:23 Alisha just tried to get me in trouble with a Radio Shack employee and he admitted that I look guilty. Wha???? #
• 20:44 Cr osby is amazing. And no, I didn’t throw my complimentary #Pens totebag on the ice. I like it! #
• 22:01 #Pens score 47 seconds in and Alisha missed it. LOLSIES. #
• ***
• 08:34 Hockey hangover and sore throat. I predict I will be quiet today. #
• 15:38 Why do I have to be cute as a button? Why not a cupcake? Or a grenande? #
• 16:10 Grenande is how you spell grenade when you’re sick. Don’t be dumb. #
• 18:30 I need a nurse. Henry is failing. #
• 18:44 Apparently Henry has a secret collection of change in his dresser which CHOOCH knew abt but not me. SECRETS! So many secrets in this house. #
• 19:06 I’m hardpressed to find anything funnier than scene kids puking on Silent Library. Ever so thankful for a second season. #
• 20:41 2 nongermane thoughts: I should learn to stop exercising while sick; all hockey announcing should be in French. #
• 21:18 Really wish I was more excited about Lost. Maybe if there wasn’t the equivalent to what seems like 2 TV seasons between finale & premiere. #
• ***
• 11:41 I have an interview today for a job that will hopefully last longer than two weeks. #
• 12:42 Trying to teach The Attitude to say “Mother may I?” He goes, “Mother may I have cheese?” but then negates it by yelling, “Go! Do it!” #
• 14:38 I hope I remember how to speak appropriately at this interview. And that I don’t get another false postive on a drug test. #
• 16:03 Ok, so take 2 on this “employment” thingaling, starting Tuesday. Hope it lasts more than 2 weeks this time. Or maybe not? #
• 16:26 When I ask for something deliciously outrageous for dinner, I at least expect a response, @awoodhick. #
• 18:20 Suggested that Henry work 2 jobs & I’ll stay home, make stuff & look cute. He reminded me we already tried that. Oh right = The Dark Days. #
• 18:44 I really want to start wearing veils everyday for no reason other than it w ill make me look saintly & inspire paupers to kiss my hand. #
• 18:45 Then I’ll just need to move somewhere where paupers are handsome like in fairy tales & not urine-soaked bridge dwellers. #
• 19:07 Or am I thinking of paupers I’ve seen in porn…? And where are the veil shops in Pittsburgh? Near the haberdashery? Questions, plaguing. #
• 20:26 Henry’s being such a priss about his guest blogging spot & I’m like what’s the big deal? Only 5 ppl are going to read it! #
• 22:03 If I wish any harder for Ashley to leave The Real World, I might get a nose bleed. #
• 22:0 7 RT @PensDay_Chatter RT @pens_bella_17: #ScuderiforUSA #ScuderiforUSA #ScuderiforUSA #ScuderiforUSA #ScuderiforUSA #ScuderiforUSA #
• 23:15 If I were a dude, I’d have no qualms whatsoever about punching Real World Ashley in her fucking mouth. Go overreact in private, you bitch. #
• ***
• 10:00 Chooch told me to stop mocking him. I have flimsy mothering skills but A+ torturous older sibling tactics. #
• 13:24 Words With Friends will accept Chimla, yet there have been actual dictio nary words it’s rejected. I’ll never understand. #
• 13:48 Watching Lady in White with Chooch. That was one of my favorite movies as a kid but Chooch isn’t very interested. No vampires. No Jason. #
• 14:57 To Chooch, it’s the Pizza Magazine. Not the Pennysaver. Don’t ever call it the Pennysaver. #
• 15:01 If anyone tried to kill my kid, I’d have no problem watching them fall off a cliff. No matter who it was. #
• 17:21 In @mrsevils’ dream, she came to a slumber party at my house where @saucalisha kept calli ng me The General. This needs to happen. Both parts #
• 21:24 I & turning it down for something. #
• 21:27 I’m eating crudités & drinking wine while discussing the Kovalchuk trade with Henry. #themoreyouknow #
• ***
• 11:43 Two things I don’t care about: The upcoming snow storm and football. I really don’t belong in this city. #
• 11:47 2 things that validate me: steady consignment payments & repeat customers. Maybe my art doesn’t suck as much as I thought. Still poor tho. #
• 11:53 Well. At least Chooch now quickly follows his “motherfucker”s with a &quo t;sorry!” #
• 13:12 The Kovalchuk trade actually made it into my dream last night. Clearly my life needs more action. #
• 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. #
• 17:06 Th anks for the #ff lovin’, my #EDT pals! #
• 18:25 The Dipthongs original painting on 6×6 tile by somnambulant bit.ly/atsLDy #
• 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. #
• 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. #
• 12:49 I’m officially a member of the Monster Etsy Street Team, yay! monsteretsy.blogspot.com/ #
• 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. #

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.

Some girls have a lot of shoes; I have a lot of purses. So many in fact, that occasionally I run into one while scouring the house for something else. This never fails to turn into a treasure hunt. I tear through that sucker like I expect to find wads of crisp greens or that damn SWV cassette single that’s been AWOL for the past decade. Sometimes I find lip gloss that I had written off as a pick-pocketing casualty; other times I only find a lone tampon and a broken cigarette.

Once, I found a testicle.

But a few years ago, I stumbled upon quite the bonanza. One of my lunch box purses had been negligently shoved under the couch (probably by that worthless sack of shit, Henry). I flung open the top and found four (4) lip glosses that I can’t even remember ever using (let alone buying), tobacco dustings, a free cd acquired at a local concert that I’ll never listen to, more pens for my house to devour and a note from myself.

But wait. What’s that? Oh yes, the pièce de résistance. A vintage picture of one of my pen pals past.

Eddie was my pen pal back in 1992 or so, when I was a spunky, yet highly naive twelve year old. I thought it was such a nice act of charity to be pen palling with a prisoner (and old habits die hard, let me tell you). His letters were filled with such tittilating nuggets of news like how much weight he bench pressed that day and how the canned pears at lunch were floating in just the right amount of syrup. Sometimes he would even placate my fiery loins with a love poetry or two.

As you can see from the cryptic question mark in the photo’s inscription, he really wasn’t sure if I was nice. Or if I was really a lady? Or young? But he probably figured it was a vary safe assessment.

Our friendship was really beginning to blossom until one fateful day. That damn mailman was late again and my mom ended up getting to it before me. My letter from Eddie was intercepted, something about how she saw the stamp from a state prison and felt it was her motherly duty to confiscate it. I saw right through her thinly veiled mask of jealousy – she just wished a hot, smoldering inmate was writing to her.

After unearthing this photographic gem, I curled up with a cup of tea and allowed a montage of what could have been to run through my mind. That is, assuming Eddie is out of jail now.

I could very likely be sharing a double wide in an Alabama trailer park with Eddie, shooting at pigeons with my cross-eyed son’s BB gun, swilling on the neighbor’s moonshine while talking about that day’s Jerry Springer and Judge Judy with my mother-in-law on the tellyphone. Evenings could be spent with Eddie and I giving eraser tattoos to our eighteen younguns. Bathrobe, cold cream and curlers a given.

Fortunately, my life with Henry is not too far off from that.

And just a few months ago, while rummaging in one of the kitchen drawers, I came across a photo of a more recent jailbird. (One could say I was once a bit obsessed with harvesting dangerous friendships.) His name was Mason and he was in there for drugs. Nothing fancy.

The back of this photo says: Erin, I took this picture in August. I hope you like it.

It was scrawled in blood. No I’m kidding. He just used regular old boring black ink. What good is having an inmate penpal if they’re not going to send letters written on chunks of prison guard flesh?

I never did get to ask him if that’s how he always dresses because Henry freaked when he saw this picture and started screaming, “I can tell by his sandals that he has a huge cock; stop corresponding with him immediately!” I mean, does he at least have a matching tie for Sunday mass?

And those were just two of my inmate suitors.

Some girls have a lot of shoes; it appears I have a lot of death wishes.

It all started Saturday morning in the kitchen. I leaned against the door frame while Henry made breakfast, and we talked about hockey.

“You know, one of my old high school friends has season tickets and sometimes if she can’t make it to the game, she’ll put them up for grabs on Facebook,” I told Henry.

“Huh. Well, maybe sometime if we catch her in time, we can buy some,” Henry said over the sizzle of grease.

Less than a minute later, I sat on the couch checking my Facebook newsfeed from my phone. And just like that, there was my old high school friend Stacey, selling two tickets to Monday night’s game versus the Sabres, for $50.

Henry couldn’t justify us both going, because we’re still trying to catch up on past bills, and I guess I couldn’t really justify myself going either, but that selfish part of me won out. “It’s the fucking Pens,” I reminded myself. So without hesitation, I texted Alisha to see if she wanted to go with me. That was a no-brainer because she put up with me during the entire Stanley Cup playoffs and finals last year when I did nothing but rip off my fingernails with my nervously gnashing teeth and chew on my hair; it was only right that she should be rewarded for that. When my question was immediately answered with a Caps-locked FUCK YEAH, I pounced on Stacey and called dibs.

Two nights, one Radioshack employee crush, and a dozen street-crossing yelps later, Alisha and I were walking to Mellon Arena. On the way there, we witnessed a loud-mouthed portly white man, a total fucking dickhead Yinzer (one of the reasons I don’t love this city as much as I should) running his mouth at a horn-blowing elderly black panhandler (who wasn’t bothering anyone, I should add).

“Get a real job!” the Yinzer snidely barked. And then, “How much money did you give to Haiti?! Fuck you!” And the panhandler, who stood there dumbfounded and initially took some of the abuse, finally started screaming “Fuck you!” which prompted the fat Yinzer to holla back “Fuck YOU!” and it was so tense, all these vacillating “fuck you”s, that my right strawberry knee high began creeping down around my ankle. Actually, I’m so angry about this right now that I’m trembling. I mean, did that Yinzer asshole feel good about himself after that? Yeah, you’re fucking cool, you Steeler-loving douchebag. Go home and rub one out while replaying your machismo.

Once Alisha had her suitcase rifled through by security, we made our way up to section F.

I thought it was going to suck, that we’d be too far away, but it turned out that we were in the first row of that section, which hung right over the side of the rink where the Pens shoot twice. In fact, during the second period, I could actually hear Fleury yelling.

This was Alisha’s first hockey game, and it was important that she was there that night because it’s the last year the Mellon Arena will be around. When the lights went out for the pre-game theatrics, she was like, “OMG I’m so excited” and it was completely without sarcasm. I cried a little during the pre-game stuff and was thankful for the darkness.

I don’t care much for the Sabres as a whole, but I really have mad respect for their goalie, Ryan Miller. It was really cool to be that close to him. And even cooler 47 seconds into the 1st period when our Mark Letestu got his first NHL goal and ALISHA MISSED IT.

Unfortunately, the Sabres answered with two goals later in the period. This spawned an onslaught of disparaging remarks from a few fickle fans nearby and suddenly I was 12 and at a Pens game with my step-dad, who loved to yell, “Stick a fork in them!” whenever the Pens would flounder. Or, my favorite (read: there’s some sarcasm there), when he would yell, “Lay down, Coffey!” anytime my ALL-TIME FAVORITE PLAYER Paul Coffey would have an off-night.

At one point, I started laughing to myself. I leaned over and said to Alisha, “I hope someone spills something on you.”

“Oh, too late. That already happened.” If it weren’t for what was to come during the 2nd period, that might have been my highlight of the night.

When the 2nd period started, I remember thinking, “It’s going to be OK. They can’t lose. Not when it’s Alisha’s first hockey game!” And before I could finish that thought, the Sabres scored again, making it 3-1. But then Sidney Crosby scored, and in the span of eight minutes he went on to score two more times (along with one from Staal). So not only did the Pens regain the lead, but Crosby got a motherfucking hat trick.

I got to see Crosby get a motherfucking hat trick. I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t cry.

It was like a goddamn Visa commercial. Eight minutes. That was all Crosby needed to get a hat trick.

The last three minutes of the 3rd period were harrowing. The Sabres came back to score one more time and the last two minutes found the Pens defending a 6-on-4, but we ultimately prevailed which obviously made it even sweeter. While we all stood and applauded Crosby for being the #1 star of the game, I turned to Alisha and said, “It’s not often I wish to be a boy, but I wouldn’t mind being Sidney Crosby for a day.” Most non-Penguins fans will say he’s “over-rated” though, just like people who don’t know shit about hockey will say the same about Alex Ovechkin, who is unequivocally one of the best hockey players in the world right now.  People who can’t appreciate that get on my nerves.

(However, when the Capitals play the Pens, Ovie will always be “Obitchkin” to me.)

Alisha and I later compared our applause-inflicted wounds while admitting that it was worth so much more than $25.

That night, as I tried to get my body to stop humming with adrenaline and excitement, I actually cried a little because I was that happy to have been at the game. It really meant a lot to me. Now that I got all that sentimental bullcum out of my system, I’ll be back on my game* tomorrow. I promise.

(* You know, the asshole game.)

The bristles of his brush ground hard into the nooks, flicking up suds stained with a subtle rouge, but now Norbert needed a break. He had been scrubbing the same spot in the rug with little relenting. Norbert balanced the brush against the lip of the bucket, stood and stretched his arms over his head.

It was a grand room. A deeply stained parquet floor had a chance to peek through where there weren’t expensive European rugs strewn about. Norbert only admired the beer steins and antique piggy banks decorating the fire place mantle for a few brief seconds before his eyes were pulled upward to a portrait of a resplendent woman.

“That’s my Katherine.”

Norbert spun on his heels to find Mister Williams, his barrel chest cloaked in a silk smoking jacket, framing the wide doorway into the parlor. Four thick slabs of fingers casually gripped a rock glass of scotch, which he subconsciously swirled with slight wrist flicks while his pinkie hovered incongruously. In between inappropriate slurps, Mister Williams slurred, “She was the love of my life.”

Norbert wiped his sweaty palms against his sullied coveralls. “I’m sorry, Mister Williams. I didn’t mean to snoop. I just needed to stand up for a moment; there’s one area of the rug over there that’s tougher than a nun’s habit to remove.”

“Beautiful, ain’t she?” Mister Williams continued, as if Norbert hadn’t spoke. He belched without apology.

“Why, yes sir,” Norbert admitted. “She’s stunning.” He looked away, not wanting his admiration of the woman in the portrait to appear salacious.

“She could make Hell feel like home,” Williams whispered, having moved in close enough to stroke Katherine’s oil-painted complexion with his scotch-free pinkie. He was standing close enough now that Norbert gleaned he hadn’t bathed in quite some time. Stale cigar smoke, urine, sweat and a mausoleum-quality musk clung to Williams like a protective wrapping. When Norbert said nothing, Williams asked, “Have you ever really danced on the edge, carpet cleaner?”

Norbert, growing overwrought, shook his head stupidly. “No, but I once had unprotected sex with four and a half Thai prostitutes.”

“Four…and a half?” Williams repeated questioningly, making eye contact with Norbert for the first time. Norbert looked away quickly, embarrassed by the vacancy and loneliness he saw in the gaze.

“Y-yes, sir. You see, there were these Siamese twins, and I, I only did it with the half that had the vagina.”

Williams wasn’t listening. He had set down his crystal rock glass on a chess table and had moved to the other side of the room where he stared catatonically at the wedding ring imprisoned flush against a rheumatic knuckle. “That’s what it felt like to love her: like dancing on the edge. Knowing that at any minute you could fall and nothing would ever be the same again, but the thrill you get? The thrill that tickles the base of your spine and makes your innards feel like they’re on a roller coaster with naked women to Babylon?”  Williams put a cork in his monologue long enough to pinch a cat hair from his lapel and take a drowning gulp of scotch. “That thrill is what keeps you from stopping even when it gets dangerous. Love. She was the love of my life,” he repeated robotically.

“What happened, why aren’t you together anymore?” Norbert asked apprehensively.

Williams shot his head back and laughed uproariously. The scotch on the chess table quivered, and somewhere, something dropped from a wall.

Wiping a viscous sluice of drool from his cleft chin, Williams’ face turned stony as he spat, “Because that’s her you’re scrubbing from my Persian, carpet cleaner.”

————–

This is my creaturely ancestor contribution for week 4 of the 52 Weeks Project I joined on Facebook.

Dear Internet Diary,

It appears that when I was born on July 30, 1979, I was bestowed with the flimsiest immune system this side of AIDs. I had intended on writing about Alisha’s and my very fortuitous evening at the Penguins game last night, but my throat hurts so bad that I am in tears and my skin is pleading with me to dunk it in a tub of hot, sudsy water. I don’t know if this is some kind of obsessive-compulsion, but I get real nervous if I go more than a day without writing in here. What does that mean?? I don’t know. So I hurried up and found something old to post from LiveJournal. It’s from the secret locked-entry vault because it’s about co-workers, but since I no longer work there, who gives a fuck, am I right?

—————————

Murder Girl and the Coat Hook Conundrum

January 2007

Thursday night, I walked into the kitchen to get a coffee refill. Two girls, Kristy and Allicia, were conversing near the counter. I was just in time to catch Allicia saying, “…and now I’m facing murder charges…”

I was stunned into silence and tried frantically to suppress nervous giggles. Two weeks ago, I had heard Allcia telling someone that she teaches bible study and that anyone who knows her knows that ministry is her whole life. My presence apparently didn’t faze her one bit as she continued telling Kristy things that would probably be best told to a lawyer. I tried to shake myself out of the stupor so I could hear more and try to piece together what she did, but the situation only proved to further unravel as Allicia noticed the empty coffee mug in my hand and reached over with the pot to fill it.

Horrified, I watched as coffee rose up to the brim. I have a system and she completely shot it to hell. So while she was diving deeper into the tumultuous situation she’s created for herself, I was too busy dwelling on the fact that she poured my coffee before I had a chance to lace the bottom of my mug with the flavorings of my choosing. I always add this stuff first because I’m lazy and it cuts out the dirtying of the spoon step, you see. Why bother pissing around, meat-fisting a spoon, when you can already be slurping the surface of the hot brew? So while I was standing there, now staring into a piping hot mug, Kristy–who earlier had seen the picture of Riley on my desk asked if he was “what, like three?” when he’s clearly still a baby– leaned over and handed me the cannister of sugar. I use sweetener, not sugar, but what did I do?

I thanked her and poured it into my mug.

Peer pressure works in mysterious ways. It’s amazing that I’m not waddling around with my asshole corked with bags of heroine, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think I purposely don’t say no, just to make things uncomfortable for myself. Why sit back at my desk with a cup of coffee garnished the way I like it when I can grimace through a seemingly never-ending cup of bad-tasting sludge?

Why didn’t I simply raise my hand in a halting fashion and say, “No thanks, Kristy, I prefer a pack of sweetener” or “No, Allicia, I’ll pour my own damn cup of coffee”? Because I’m Erin, that’s why! I mean, what’s the worst that would happen, Allicia’d kill me? Oh wait.

Sometimes my brain doesn’t work quick enough and get myself into these dumb scenarios. I really think it does this to me on purpose, to see how situations will play out. Awhile back, when some guy in the cemetery told me to have a nice walk, as we stood near my car, why didn’t I just say, “Thanks, but I’m actually finished with my walk and now I’m going home”? Or better yet, not said shit and just got in my car and left? Instead, I walked past my car and continued to walk, even though my legs were killing me and it was kind of fucking hot that day.

So now I had a cup of coffee prepared out of order and with real sugar instead of sweetener. There was nothing to stir my coffee with, and instead of dumping it for an improved cup I retreated back to my desk with my crappy cup of caffeine and sipped through the bitterness with a puckered face.

What if some day, Kristy is in a good mood and takes it upon herself to gift me with a cup of coffee and thinks that I like it with a dusting of sugar and not stirred?

But I guess the bigger question here is: I wonder who Allicia killed?

***

At first glance, Tina appears to be kind of white trashy, with her femmullet hybrid in gray. But I think maybe she just makes bad choices when it comes to her hair, much like Hoover. Tina was hired a week before Bill and me but one would mistake that she’s been here much longer, with her air of superiority and need to take charge. She wears high-waisted mom-jeans, sweatshirts with turtlenecks peeking out of the collar, and she caps off the ensemble with a pair of plain white Reeboks.

She’s a walking billboard swathed in United We Stand banners and yellow magnetic mini-van ribbons. Her daughter writes pro-war poems which Tina submits to Fox News and is then shocked when she doesn’t receive a response.

Allicia (aka Murder Girl) is a large-framed black woman who speaks softly yet each word is tinged with annunciated assurance. Usually she wears a golden weave but lately her hair has been pulled back into a natty ponytail held in place by a too-large and ruffled Scrunchie. At her last job, a co-worker told her that she liked her Coach purse, so Allicia gave it to her. A valiant and upstanding gesture for a suspected murderer, am I right?

During a quick meeting Tuesday night, there was a situation.

“Does anyone have any questions?” Michelle asked as she brought the meeting to a close. We were all gathered around the section where Allicia and two others sit.

Allicia slowly turned in her seat and  said, “Someone took my coat hook.” Each employee has a hook which attaches to the top of their cubicle wall, but in Allicia’s section, she and the other two employees have theirs hanging all in a row, on a shared wall. I looked over and noticed that now there were only two.

Michelle said she would get Allicia a new one. I thought this meant the meeting was over, so I started to turn on my heels.

“But Michelle, someone took my coat hook,” Allicia repeated. Michelle nervously repeated that she would simply get a new one for her.

“Wait, I think I took it,” someone piped up from behind me. It was Tina. Great.

“Well, it wasn’t your coat hook to take,” Allicia spat, flavoring her complaint with ebonical verve. (And that’s the best kind of verve to have, really.)

“I needed a coat hook and asked Michelle for one. We didn’t think anyone was using one of the ones on that wall, since there were three,” Tina retorted, not balking at Allicia’s increasing agitation.

If I hadn’t walked in on Allicia’s murder-talk last week, maybe this would have been easier to exit, but instead I stood there, glued to my spot, waiting excitedly to see how it would play out. Everyone else stared at their shoes or picked awkwardly at their cuticles while my head snapped back and forth like I was following a tennis ball during match point. Would it come to blows? Would I get splattered with blood? Maybe it would make the news. Oh, mama, one could only hope!

“There were three coat hooks because there are three people who sit here,” Allicia seethed behind her character-building gapped teeth. Michelle shifted in her seat and was probably desperately trying to find a way to diffuse this escalating situation. Once again, she offered to get Allicia a new hook.

“I don’t want a new hook. People should axe before they take.”

Tina turned up the volume when she shot back, “I did ask!” Her face was flushed with spreading florets of anger.

A heavy drapery of tension hung over the room.

Allicia turned her back on the room as she mumbled, “Next time, axe the right person.” That’s my girl, right there.

Michelle stood up and we all dispersed. On our way back to our section, Bill and I discussed our relief to be basically sitting in a desolate area of the room, ostracized from the rest of them.

This way, we wouldn’t get caught in any impending crossfire.

Later that night, Michelle was sitting with me at my desk, going over some new applications. I tried to press her for more information regarding Tina and Allicia but all I could squeeze out was that Tina and Allicia are both strong-willed women who clash and that the coat hook debacle was the stupidest scenario she’s encountered as a supervisor.

“I mean, do you know how easily I could have just gotten her a new one?” she said with tired eyes.

Yeah, what was the big deal, I thought. But then I discussed it with my super-sleuth friend Bill From Michigan who theorized that perhaps the coat hook was Allicia’s murder weapon which would explain why she was so desperate to get it back. I did notice the next night that the wall was once again decorated with a trio of hooks; I wonder if Allicia got hers back, or if she settled for a new one.

I bet everyone else forgot about the incident quickly after it ended, but I childishly obsessed over it for the rest of the shift. Besides, Eleanore wasn’t there for me to record snippets of her conversations with my cell phone, so I had to busy myself some other way.

Allicia stopped by my area near the end of the shift. I guess I should be thankful that Allicia likes me and will jiggle the back of my chair when she passes by and then laugh a Michael Jackson-esque “ha-HEE!”. She was complaining to Michelle and me about how tired she was and that she thought walking around the parking lot, in the brisk air, would wake her up but it hadn’t. Michelle implored her to be cautious while walking around out there at night, because the facilities border on the cusp of one of Pittsburgh’s seedier neighborhoods.

“I’m not worried,” Allicia drawled. “Besides, I have a knife.”

I think I’m going to ask Allicia if I can join her on her next walk, get her to open up to me. Maybe I can force her to say something mildly humorous and I’ll give her a playful shove and squeal, “Oh, you KILL me!” Do you think that would trigger anything?

God, I am so attracted to danger! It makes me giddy and hyper.