Oh hey, Happy Memorial Day. My big plans consist of watching the shitty parade that bumbles past my house every year at 10am, and then possibly playing some Thingie Ball. Big deal.

I spent the day with Alisha yesterday. Henry sent me a series of texts that looked like this:

“Couch is next door playing with josh and madison and we were invited to their lookout which is awkward since we have nothing to take so I told them I was sick.”

“chooch.”

“cookout.”

“Dame xt9.”

“spellcheck.”

“damn.”

I came home around 8:00 and found Henry, “sick” as he was, down in the backyard with “Couch” at the neighbor’s “lookout.” What this really means was that he was engaged in man-stance with Hot Naybor Chris, drinking Straub. (HAHAHA.) I’m not a huge fan of Hot Naybor Chris’s wife – some bad blood boiled last summer – but going in the house would have made everything a thousand times worse.

So I was neighborly and it pained every fiber of my being.

But at least 1950s Housewife wasn’t there.

She has a new look by the way: androgynous thirteen year old boy.

It wasn’t too bad, I suppose. Hot Naybor Chris (why am I even still calling him that?) was totally blitzed and spouting off nonsense, and then Mark – Henry’s token black friend – came home from work and joined us out back. Because I’m an adolescent and stupid shit like that tickles me to no end, I started sending out hysterical texts and tweets because MARK AND HENRY WERE BOTH WEARING BANDANNAS. I think it made Henry feel cool because lookie here, Mark was wearing one too and everyone knows that Mark is the coolest dude on the block.

Never mind that this is Brookline. As long as you’re not a meth head or an inhabitant of the neighborhood halfway house, it’s not hard to be the coolest.

Then Chris and Mark’s wives took weak stabs at emasculating them, and I stood there silently observing. If they only knew the shit I did to Henry.

Also! I added some Google Friend Connect bullshit to the right side of my blog. I always thought it was just a Blogger thang, but apparently it works for WordPress too. So now I have one. I’m always late to the party. So yeah, click that shit! Let’s pretend I actually have more than 10 followers!

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

• 15:04 You just don’t really see people drinking wine from severed heads anymore. #
• 17:06 Spending an hour running in the rain thru the cemetery while listening to post-hardcore = best thing EVER. Can’t wait to live there. #
• 17:42 Nice empty net save by Bergeron! #Habs #StanleyCup #
• 17:44 If the Flyers win this series, I will literally have no one to root for in the Stanley Cup finals. No one. #
• 17:46 Leig hton is the new Halak. #
• 19:24 Oh hello lavendar white chocolate iced mocha, let’s have sex tonight. I’ll bring the strap-on. #
• 20:04 Just ran into my old friend Kim at the craft store. Apparently, her mom & Henry’s mom were friends back in the day so Henry butted in. #
• 20:16 Seeing her brought back memories of slipping into bars when I was 17. BACK WHEN I WAS EXCITING & NOT BORING. #
• 21:56 Pretty much my only ability in life is unfailingly knowing where the tape measure is, even tho I NEVER use it. & trust me, it gets around. #
• 22:39 Q :What is the significance of Appledale? … A:I saw it on a sign for a farm two years … formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/583403326 #
• ***
• 00:07 Henry just went down into the basement to break up a cat fight and he is NOT happy about it. #
• 00:09 And by “break up,” I mean that he tossed a screen at them, of which we evidently have extra. #
• 01:41 Heidi Montag: “All guys are controlling.” I just looked at Henry, who’s eating ribs & reading Better Homes & Gardens, & laughed. #
• 01:45 I’m glad @mrsevils chose to test on me, & not some poor, downtrodden albino Thumper. #
• 01:58 Don’t these broads on The Hills realize that the only person who can save Heidi is LC? By making out. That should send Spencer back to Mars. #
• 10:24 Waiting for my eye doctor to not approve my 1800Contacts order because he hates me. #
• 10:48 I wish Henry would start making POLENTA again so I can brush the dust off my POLENTA blog category. #
• 11:22 I put my pants on left leg first; I don’t even know who I am anymore. #
• 13:02 Alisha, Chooch and I were just God blessed by the town schizo. #
• 16:00 My upstairs is clean for the first time in at least 6 years! (& I do mean the upstairs of my house, not my mind – that remains filthy.) #
• 16:41 I feel remarkably better since throwing my Sunday temper tantrum. #
• 16:52 I think I was lavendar in a past life. #
• 18:33 Having a 4 year old means never getting to watch live TV. DO NOT SPOIL THE #LOST FINALE FOR ME, TWITTER. Vampire Diaries was bad enough. #
• 18:39 I’m going to avoid the Internet altogether. As soon as I figure out how to do that. #Lost #
• 19:10 I wonder if Donald Trump fired the person responsible for scheduling Celebrity Apprentice’s finale on the same night as #Lost. #
• ***
• 00:35 That was a depressing 2.5 hours; spent a good portion crying into Henry’s stomach. I’m in denial. #Lost #
• 00:42 Just went to hug Henry for solace and he pulled back because he thought I was going to hit him. 9 yrs, should be desensitized by now. #
• 09:35 Don’t mind me, I’m just reaching for your necklace. #
• 10:07 anyone asking me to explain the #lostfinale is clearly amnesic to the fact that I’m a dummy. #
• 11:00 Chooch is sick. I’ll be damned if he’s going to out-drama me. #
• 12:22 I’m confused as to why Dancing With the Stars is America’s #1 show. How embarrassing for our country. #
• 14:34 Q:What’s the most unselfish thing you’ve e… A:Allowed Henry to use me as arm candy. Be… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/590465801 #
• 14:36 Ask me how I like my dead bodies: formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin #
• 17:37 My Top 3 Weekly #lastfm artists: Punk Goes Classic Rock (8), Chiodos (5) and Pierce the Veil (5) #lastfm bit.ly/cShGmp #
• 19:02 Macaroons are apparently not what i thought they were. Turns out, they’re my new favorite cookie. I’d eat thru my arm for one. #
• ***
• 09:04 Day 2 of Chooch’s “IM SO SICK IM DYING!” pity party. Jesus Christ, where does he get this from?! #
• 11:10 Q:If you could change anything about yours… A:I still have a flesh inner-tube from Cho… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/594160118 #
• 11:10 Q:Why do you keep asking people to ask you… A:Because I’m a gullible asshole. You shou… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/594161190 #
• 12:09 I think it’s a little preposterous that Henry won’t leave work to get me a lavender white chocolate iced mocha. He needs to learn priorities #
• 12:39 Having a 4yo means unintentionally acting out variations of Who’s On First. All day long. #
• 13:15 Chooch is quoting the old Gypsy woman from Drag Me to Hell. Now he’s recounting all the scenes. “& then the girl pukes all that blood…” #
• 23:38 An episode without Sue Sylvestor does not fill me with much glee. #
• ***
• 09:36 Legitimately panic-attacking because I have an eye doctor appointment in an hour. #
• 11:00 My new eye doctor is worlds better than my old one, & not just bc she didn’t call me a crack head. #
• 11:11 Old people walk remarkably like zombies. I know this because I’m sitting in front of Old Country Buffet & a swarm of them are headed my way. #
• 21:08 Do not talk about being a paramedic in front of Henry; I’ll have to hear him rant about it later. #
• 21:47 I was LITERALLY just thinking, “Not enough cars idle in front of my house, causing earthquakes w/ their bass” when God answered my prayers. #
• 21:58 Q:What’s your biggest guilty pleasure curr… A:Totally MTV reality. I think the only on… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/602062702 #
• 22:15 I just read somewhere that bloggers shouldn’t “cuss” in their posts; they should keep it “professional.” Well, my shitty blog is FUCKED. #
• ***
• 12:05 Chooch makes my job easy sometimes. He just ate soap of his own volition. #
• 13:44 I need like, 10 potato sacks. Thanks. #
• 14:57 I finally added Google Friend Connect on my blog. U should click on it so I look popular. It’s on the right side! ohhonestlyerin.com #
• 14:59 I hate how much I still love Emarosa, in spite of all it means to me. #
• 15:41 Henry just yelled at some jaywalker. Through a closed window. He is so hardcore I’m tempted to bare my breast for him. #
• 15:46 There are Menonites downtown putting on a choral concert on the sidewalk. I’m tempted to punt Chooch out the car at them & flee. #
• 18:18 Fuck a patent. #
• 18:22 My declaration of things being “righteous” doesn’t happen as often as it should. Probably b/c I’m neither Bill nor Ted, but still. #
• 20:19 I hate the word “snarky.” How is that even a portmanteau for “fucking asshole.” #
• 22:51 Next Winter Classic to be held at Heinz Field – another reason for the rest of the country to hate the Penguins! #nhl #
• ***
• 09:52 It is never too early to be this obnoxious. Or drink from the w ine bottle. #
• 13:10 Why do I have to DO stuff when I come outside, Chooch? Why can’t I just sit on my ass & tan? It’s pretty much my best talent. #
• 13:22 How am I supposed to send my kid to preschool when he can’t grasp the simple logistics behind HOPSCOTCH? Oh my god, laughing stalk. #
• 13:23 Wait. I don’t think I’m doing it right, either. Isn’t someone supposed to chuck a rock at my face at some point? #
• 15:06 Hopefully before Gary Coleman died, he learned what Willis was talkin’ ’bout. #
• 15:47 Henry’s jaywalker bloodlust is out of control. He just made a bunch of teenagers scream in horror. #
• 17:50 Listening to Barb ordering Sounds of the 70s. JELIS. #
• ***
• 11:08 Nothing beats getting held hostage by a carful of Witnesses while I’m drenched in sweat at the cemetery. #
• 11:32 Sorry ladies, this is 14 yrs too late. twitpic.com/1s61tu #
• 12:19 According to the Jesus people, I’m a “very energenic little thing.” I’m still laughing at the “little” part. #
• 12:43 Oh. I guess I never told Henry that I have a sex tape. Well, now you know, buddy! #
• 12:57 @sandehagen it’s ridic, right?? I had Menonites or some shit hand me literature on my way into work 2 days ago, as well. I must be marked. #
• 13:49 Et tu, Dennis Hopper? #
• 13:59 I’m pretty sure Chooch thinks the only way to die is to be killed by Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers. #
• 14:05 At a different cemetery now, flowering my Pappap’s grave. They have their own radio station here called Prayer in the Air. It’s fantastic. #

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.

Alisha and I saw Of Machines last October, when they opened for Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance. I knew who they were prior to this because I’m 16 and devour all the information I can from various message boards, and I had a bunch of their stuff on the computer but never really gave it my undivided attention.

And when they took the stage, singer all dressed up like Wolverine, I wasn’t expecting to be literally moved to tears during their set. Before they were halfway into the first song, my face was wet, and it wasn’t because Alisha was trying to pee on it again. I can’t explain what it is about this genre of music, and people can scoff at me all they want, say that I have shitty taste in music all they want. But look – I spent years listening to pretentious indie shit and was rarely moved by it. (Except for Xiu Xiu; Jamie’s voice still gives me major emotional spasms.) I still LIKE that stuff, in an aesthetic sense, but if I want to feel like my heart is going to explode, I know where to go. (The Rise Records website.)

There is something about that sort of music that, combined with a boy hitting high notes so hard that it wavers on screaming, massages the right lobe of my brain and releases so much tension, and if the end result of that finds me weeping openly in a public, then that’s alright by me.  This is why I love Warped Tour – by the time it’s over, I feel like I just came home from an emotional spa. Henry just rolls his eyes anymore when I dramatically wail, “This song makes me want to DIE.” He doesn’t get it, why I would want to listen to music that makes me sad. But it’s not so much that it’s making me sad, as it is making me feel less alone. Combined with the heaviness of the music, it’s a release.

Of Machines have since broken up, as so many of these young bands do. But their one and only album will most likely stay in my playlist a lot longer than the few short years they remained a band.

Music, to me,  isn’t just something to have on in the background. It’s therapy.

What song/band does it for you?

And here is the thing I said I was “quite fond of” and would be posting later, about my dick of an ex-eye doctor. It’s from March of 2008, in case you need to know for your Erin scrapbook.

**********

“Your prescription hasn’t changed,” my eye doctor said, pushing the butterfly-shaped apparatus away from my face. I started to relax in the orange leather seat, thinking that I would get to leave sooner than I imagined.

He pulled out a pen light and some sort of magnifying glass and after blinding me while forcing me to stare at his ear, he started pressing down on my closed lids.

“Have you been in a car accident recently?” The question made me pause; I answered no.

“Any sort of trauma? Been hit with a basketball?” he suggested. I said no to both, but started wondering what Henry does to me in my sleep that would change the shape of my eye balls. Am I going to lose them now?

Then my doctor dropped the false concern from his voice, adopting instead a tone of mild irritation. “Oh never mind, it’s because you wear your contacts too much.” He wheeled his seat back behind his desk and began scribbling in my chart, shaking his head at my irresponsibility. He told me that my over-used contacts have caused an allergic reaction to my upper eye ball area in both eyes. The name he gave it sounds like an STD gone optical. The good news is that my medical insurance will cover it, because what was originally just a routine exam (back when the sun still shone and birds chirped my name) was now an appointment to treat a medical condition.

“I’m going to prescribe you some eye drops. Use it for ten days, then I’ll see you again to check the progress. Don’t wear any contacts for the next ten days! I’m serious. I’ll know if you’ve been wearing them.”

I’m certain this was the point during the exam where I gulped. I’d have rather been getting a pap smear right then.

The conflict lies in the fact that I don’t have any glasses. I broke my last pair in an Incredible Hulkulean fit of rage, instigated by my extreme agitation of viewing the world through lenses. But I couldn’t tell my doctor this because five breaths ago I was swearing that I alternate wearing contacts with wearing my glasses.

I’m sure he could smell the stench of bullshit seeping through my cheese-clothed lie. He’s an eye doctor, for Christ’s sake. But I’m stubborn, so I left his office armed with a prescription and no eye sight. I tripped a few times on my walk home, flopped down on the couch and proceeded to panic.

How would I drive to work? How would I see who’s walking past my area? How would I spy on the creepy cleaning guy? Oh yeah, and how would I work?

I cried to Henry about it, but received no consoling. “That’s what you get. You idiot. Just go back and tell them you need to order a pair of glasses.”

“No, I don’t want to pay for them! I just spent $150 on a contact supply,” I whined.

I slapped my old contacts in right before I left for work, so that I could at least see while driving. Except that the lenses have grown ornery in their old, abused age, and refuse to stay suctioned to the curve of my eye. I blink and they ride up, like my eyes are trying to reject them. Even my EYES aren’t as retarded as me. I had to drive with my head tilted back, peering down my nose. Christina, trying to find the bright side, pointed out that at least I’ve had a lot of practice with looking down my nose.

Work was long and arduous. I had to pull my monitor as far out as possible, without knocking the keyboard off the edge. I  couldn’t slouch in my seat.

The worst part of the night was when I tried to pay my coffee bill. The lady in charge of the coffee club was gone for the day, so I was instructed to give it to her friend Sharon.
I’d never been to see Sharon before, but the coffee lady told me in an email that Sharon sits near her.

I did my best to walk over to their area of the building without reaching with my arms, an inherent reflex when vision becomes obstructed, or so I’m learning. Convinced that Sharon had an office, I began pressing my nose up to the first several closed doors I came upon, squinting to see the names. The third or fourth door (blindness renders me dyscalculate, apparently) was open. I know this because a bright haze emanated from within, like I had finally reached Heaven’s gates.

I could detect a blurry outline of a human situated behind what I assumed was a desk. “Sharon?” I called out hesitantly. I jumped a little at the sound of my voice, which I had raised the volume on to compensate for my lack of sight, I suppose.

“No, this isn’t Sharon’s office,” answered the voice of a man.

I squinted and brought my hand above my brow, like I was trying to see into the sun. This did nothing to sharpen the man’s outline. I know, I was surprised, too.

He tried to point me in the direction of Sharon. “No, the other way,” he said, as I turned to leave. I couldn’t see where he was pointing, so I was trying to fake it. He had to correct me THREE TIMES before I finally pivoted to the right and walked right into Sharon’s cube.
>
He probably thought I was autistic.

On my way back to my desk, I took comfort in the fact that I didn’t even know who I was acting like an asshole in front of, so when I get my sight back, I won’t even know to be embarrassed if I ever encounter him again.

Until I inadvertently found out from my friend Jenn, who works during the day, that this guy in her department just got his seat changed. His name is David and I had a brief crush on him during our Christmas party, wherein I spent a good twenty minutes taking clandestine pictures of him sitting alone and brooding. After she mentioned that, it occurred to me that the man in the office sounded like him. I tried to imagine David with a blurred face. Later, when all the dayshift people were gone, I groped my way back to that office, stood with my nose an inch from the door, and read a line of fuzzy letters that spelled out “David [Hopefully-Erin’s-Future-Surname-But-Certainly-Not-Now].”

Great.

Today, I had planned to go to Goodwill and see if maybe they have a box of unwanted eyeglasses that I can pick through, maybe find a nice old man pair or fabulously over-sized owl-frames, in the style of Brett Somers. But Henry argued that Goodwill doesn’t just collect a box of prescription glasses to re-sell. “They probably send them to old people homes,” he reasoned. But how will the poor people see?

“Here’s a thought,” Henry posed over the phone this morning. “Why don’t you just call your fucking eye doctor and tell them that you can’t fucking see?”

“Because I don’t want them to know I lied! Ooh, unless! What if I call them and say that I left my glasses on the bus yesterday and I need an emergency pair?”

“Or, why don’t you just tell them you’re a re-re who has never had glasses.” When he came home from work, I had the bean bag pulled two feet from the TV and I was lurched forward, squinting to make out the undulating forms of Danity Kane. “Is this where the blind people sit?” he asked, with a roll of his eyes.

Once I’ve woven a tangled web, the lies and deception just get deeper and deeper; there’s no turning back now. And it’s stupid things I lie about too. I mean look, I’ve been writing on the Internet since 2001. You would think that if I was so into knitting ridiculous afghans of aspersion with a distorted reality fringe, I would do a better job constructing a polished image of myself. Like, maybe I would lie and say that I went to an Ivy League, perhaps Oxford, Photoshop my pictures and pretend to be in porn. But no, instead I’m like, “Hey, I’m a fatso! And a high school drop out! I’m not even awesome enough to have a hot boyfriend!”

But glasses I’ll lie about.

Henry sad he might have his old glasses, a pair of 1980’s aviators. I really hope he finds them, because I bet they’d cover at least half of my face. Until then, Christina is sending me her glasses.

I’m starting to lose sight (ha-ha) of my initial point. Why am I doing this again? Oh right, because I’m an idiot.

To know me, to really know me, is to know that I am almost constantly having some sort of eyesight drama. I kind of feel that someone could easily write an entire sitcom around on it.

Now, I haven’t been to my eye doctor in two years, because he is MEAN TO ME. One time, he called me a crack head! Yeah, he did! Because I tried to tell him that I thought I had an astigmatism and God forbid I should be attune to my eyeballs, you know? He finally admitted that I had a slight astigmatism but that it wasn’t enough to prescribe me toric lenses. I had to FIGHT him on it because I had been reading up on the lenses and was pretty sure they would help me, considering I couldn’t see out of regular lenses without squinting, even when the prescription was brand new, and I had a hard time keeping the lenses from popping off.

“Fine, I’ll pacify your neuroses,” is what he actually said, I’m NOT LYING, as he went to find a sample pair of toric lenses.

They were amazing. They didn’t do gymnastics across the arc of eyeball like regular lenses did, and I felt my eye sight was more balanced. He didn’t seem to believe me when I went back a week later to tell him this, like it was all psychosomatic. Yes, we all know I’m a crazy-ass, thank you; maybe even a little bit of a hypochondriac. But when I say I can’t see, I REALLY FUCKING MEAN THAT I CAN’T SEE. He seemed to be smirking when he wrote down my order for a full supply of the toric lenses.

I’ve continued to order them on my own, and I’m proud to say I haven’t had any jumpers since switching to the toric lenses.

Unfortunately, I needed to order more contacts last week, but my doctor denied my 1-800-contacts order since my prescription is expired. Goddamn fucking LAWS.

“I am NOT going back to that guy,” I yelled to Henry. It seemed like every time I was there, I was finding myself caught in some stupid lie. And besides, the last time I was there, I apparently had some infection and was supposed to go back and see him after 10 days of not wearing contacts, but I wore my contacts that entire time and was too afraid to go back and suffer his wrath. (In fact, I will re-post that entry later because I’m actually quite fond of it.)

(I should be slapped for saying that I’m “quite fond” of something.)

This morning, I had an appointment with some broad at Pearle Vision. As soon as I entered, she exclaimed, “You must be Erin!” in a slight Southern drawl. “I already checked you out, you’re good,” she said cheerfully as she slid my insurance card back to me.

As I sat in a small room, removing my contacts, some older gentleman passed by and said, “Oh, that must be Erin!”

“Everyone’s excited to see you today,” the doctor laughed.

“I like it. Makes me feel like a celebrity,” I said as I plucked out my right lens with a nick on the edge.

In the exam room, she slid back from the eye machine and said, “Well, you have an astigmatism.

” As she scribbled on my chart, I told her about my war with the other doctor.

“That’s scary,” she said. “That you would know more about it than your doctor.” She looked appalled.

“Yeah, thank god for Google!” I laughed. But I was serious. Thank god for Google.

“I don’t know how you were able to see, wearing regular lenses.”

“That’s the thing! I thought I was getting more blind by the day. And my contacts were always popping off my eyes.”

She fit with me a pair of Acuvue toric lenses and they were ten times better than the off-brand ones the other guy prescribed to me. “I really think you’re going to like these ones so much more,” she said all nice and Southerny.

Everything was so crisp! It made me want to grab a parasol and start singing.

No one there pressured me into ordering a full box, or trying on glasses. They were vultures in the other office. It was a good start to the day.

Henry had dropped me off at the eye doctor,  because Chooch had a check-up at his pediatrician’s office down the street. To kill time, I walked down to McDonald’s to get an iced coffee, and then sat in front of Old Country Buffet right in time for all the old people to arrive in droves. What is it with geriatrics and buffets? Old people, when in swarms, walk remarkably like zombies. I was a little fearful, but the fact that I could SEE it was old people staggering up to me, and not mobile sacks of potatoes, negated my fear.

Finally Henry arrived. In the car, he noticed I was drinking directly from the plastic cup and asked, “They didn’t give you a lid?”

“No, they didn’t give me a STRAW, and when I couldn’t FIND a straw, I said, ‘Hey, can someone give me a STRAW?’ and no one answered so I was like FUCK YOU THEN, threw out the lid, and have been drinking it strawless ever since.”

“Wow. You sure showed them,” Henry muttered.

One of my co-workers is the antithesis of me. Her name is Kaitlin, and she’s really good at baking. The downside to working in the evening is that usually by the time I get there, everything  she’s brought in for the office has already been devoured, so I’ll have to sit there and listen to everyone’s verbal orgies about the lingering tastes in their mouths from Kaitlin’s delicately baked cookies.

As a self-proclaimed expert on the tastes of baked goods, keeping a polite smile on my face is hard when all I really want to do is start skulking around for crumbs.

But yesterday Kaitlin and Barb were thoughtful enough to make a little sample plate for me and stow it away in the fridge. It even said “Treats for Night Train” on it so no one would try and steal it. I’d have felt better if they booby-trapped it, or hired a ninja to crouch all spider-like against the ceiling in the kitchen, but if you’re confident a flimsy strip of Scotch tape is enough, then whatever.

“They’re macaroons,” Barb informed me before leaving for the day. I was a little let down. I was hoping for something more amazing, like something that maybe Lady Gaga could be found dunking in a delicate cup of Earl Grey with the Queen. (Something not from a sex toy line. We’ll save that for Sunday.) Something ritzy. Something exotic. Something made with lavender because I am still on a lavender kick and keep trying to convince Henry to put it in everything. (Lavender, not his dick.)

When I think of macaroons, I think of my Sunday school teacher wearing a shawl, surrounded by eighteen cats. (What? You don’t still think of your Sunday school teacher? You’re weird.) I think of hard coconut things. I think of your grandma’s wake.

I decided that I was going to just wait and take the plate home with me. Kaitlin has been saying that she wants to learn to take photos of her food and I was like, “OK! Just let me learn how to do that first. Then I will try to act like I know what I’m doing and teach you.” Originally, she was going to teach me to bake in exchange, but I think I would rather her do all the baking herself. Ovens don’t agree with me.

There I was, sitting at my desk, trying to get my work done, when two of the analysts decided to stop right next to me and gush about the macaroons. Now, these were two guys and not some blue-permed Eloise and Matilda wearing puffy-painted cat sweatshirts and fanny packs.

“Oh my god, did you try the coffee one?” the one asked the other.

“No, but I had a raspberry one and it was so fucking amazing,” the other answered back. There are raspberry ones? I thought.  I like raspberry things.

“I expected them to be hard like rocks, but then I bit into it and it was the perfect crisp, AND SHE MADE THOSE HERSELF!” the first one exclaimed incredulously, like this was the dessert version of Jesus Christ, getting Nazareth all up in arms. Let me remind you that they were right next to my desk, getting their bakery ejaculation all over my stapler. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were taunting me, trying to get me to cave and eat through the refrigerator door for my own set-aside allotment of macaroons.

Later in the night, one of the processors stopped by with two of them on a napkin (macaroons, not guys talking about them). “Special delivery for you!” she smiled. “I wanted you to get to have some before they’re all gone!” I examined the two round cookies as she placed them in my hand. “There’s a lemon and a chocolate,” she pointed out. “Sorry, I ate the last raspberry one! It was too good to save!”

I was about to mention that Barb had set aside a plate for me in the fridge, but now that these macaroons were eight inches from my face, I forgot all about honesty and was overwhelmed by glutton.

When she walked away, I tapped one. The shell felt hard, but its answer to my tapping was hollow. I took a small bite of the lemon one. The shell broke away crisply just like the one guy had said, but inside it was moist, cakey.  The filling between the two domes was light and lemony, which is a good thing since it was a lemon macaroon. I actually murmured (MURMURED!), “Oh my god.” The only other time this has happened was the first time I tried a cupcake from Vanilla Pastry Studio. The stack of conflict checks on my desk eschewed, I began thinking about putting Kaitlin and the Sugar Fairy into a ring and have them bake-off for my love.

I quickly placed the macaroon back down on my desk. This was clearly not the sort of delicacy you pop in your mouth and ingest in one bite, like some fucking mini Chips Ahoy.

Then I picked it back up. I looked at its innards real close and marveled that someone I know in real life could make something so fragile in her own kitchen, as opposed to being made by a magic French baker from 1874 with an oven heated by elves fanning burning coal. And of course I use “magic” as a codeword for “Satanic.”

Try to imagine back to that time a fairy gave birth atop your tongue to pure bliss and a sack of crack-coated laundered money, how happy and rich you felt with minimal cleanup.

Now you know what it was like to eat one of Kaitlin’s macaroons. Happy and rich, obviously, since I have to spell it out for everyone, everywhere, all the time.

Happy and rich. Like I should have been wearing pantaloons and drawing a mole on my face while waiting for my turn under the guillotine. Who cares about death when there are MACAROONS.

Clearly, whatever I originally thought was a macaroon is not a real macaroon. I’m also pretty sure what I thought was a macaroon came packaged in cellophane from the grocery store and was made with cheap ingredients that even paupers would scoff at. (I’m also an expert on things paupers scoff at, as I’m dating one.)

As my taste buds panted in the afterglow, I began firing off a flurry of customary emails to Henry, informing him that he needs to learn to make macaroons because it’s the only thing I’ll be eating from now on.

Do you know how painful it was not to eat the entire fucking napkin afterward, like a goddamn goat?

And to come home with the plate Barb had left for me, only to spend another half hour setting up the lighting and fucking with the camera settings to get a photo for Kaitlin, when all I wanted to do was forcefully masticate the shit out of those little pastel bitches? In the end, I didn’t even care how the photos turned out. Chooch and I were too busy wading in saliva.

I think Kaitlin’s ‘roons* have rendered me retarded. The only thing I can say about the raspberry one is that I’d give up sex for life if someone promised me one of those a day. There was a REAL RASPBERRY IN THE MIDDLE! I was totally not expecting that and I really almost died.

I have big plans for Kaitlin. She just doesn’t know it yet.

*This is what we experts call macaroons. Also, I am so much of an expert, that I didn’t even realize I was supposed to be calling them “macarons.” I win at French stuff.

When Alisha moved into her current apartment last summer, I was immediately entranced by the old-time creep factor of the house’s foyer and had been wanting to take pictures of someone in it ever since.

I just wasn’t sure who. Finally, Alisha’s pug, Bonzi,  was like, “OK fine, I’ll do it. You can lose the number to the Humane Society now, Jesus Christ.

”

I wish I had a flapper to drape across Bonzi’s lap.

Miraculously, we were able to get Alisha’s cat, Fallon, to sit still for a couple of shots. This one was my favorite, sitting with their backs to each other in typical sibling fashion.

Doubly miraculously is that Chooch was there and managed to keep his big head out of all the shots, and only tripped over the lighting once.

Henry brings home a donut for Chooch every Sunday. He looks cute eating it for approximately .002 seconds before all the sugar activates his Asshole Switch.

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

• 16:05 There are men fishing in front of a crowd downtown, with Whitney Houston playing on a transistor radio. Like it sounds, it’s not awesome. #
• 17:38 Henry to Chooch: “Yr the last thing ppl want to see while eating.” Right. Not sliced eyeballs, Speidi 69’ing, hobo chugging tranny sex jam. #
• 17:58 Hay look @ the dumb! tweets: burying the Penguins hashtag for awhile. :(: Earth-shattering updates throughout the … bit.ly/aD8xM5 #
• 19:35 I don’t dislike the Chiodos stuff I’ve heard, sans Craigery Owens, but I do feel dirty listening to Brandon Bolmer sing “Letter to Janelle.” #
• 20:13 I’ve never heard the expression “soup to nuts” before this week, & have since heard it twice. Maybe it means I should eat more soup & nuts. #
• 20:15 Same here, much to the relief of my followers RT @Jagrmeister: Without Penguins hockey, my tweets will decrease by 17.34% on a daily basis. #
• 21:05 I hope I turn pretty when I get older. Just like Queen Latifah did. #
• 23:45 Could have sworn Henry said he was going to the morgue. #
• 23:46 ☂☹♥♠✈✔♨☁❦☕✩ #
• ***
• 02:32 My text about hockey to 93.7 The Fan was read on the air, followed by an emphatic “EXACTLY” & b/c I’m half-drunk this has made my life. #
• 12:32 Pictures of Chooch & A Pointless Trip Downtown bit.ly/bQHXJp #
• 12:50 Last night was one of the best night’s I’ve had in awhile. Here’s hoping Henry doesn’t poop all over that today. #
• 14:03 I am not goddamn Goldie Hawn. #
• 14:08 Henry doesn’t know if I like lime or not because we just met last week. #
• 14:51 At Yuppie Mecca, ie playground at North Park. Henry & I don’t stick out AT ALL. Chooch is the coolest kid here, at least. #
• 14:54 Oh please. This lady is NOT sitting in lotus. No, seriously. What a fucking twat. #
• 15:54 Watching Henry teach Chooch to ride a bike showed me a montage of future Jackass segments. Chooch was trying to crash on purpose!
• 16:22 Judging by the positive reaction of strangers, the faux hawk was the right choice for Chooch’s dome. #
• 17:12 It’s nice being able to watch this hockey game without my heart (& fingernail shrapnel) getting lodged in my throat. #Sharks #Hawks #
• 19:08 He only eats the good part: j.mp/cpe851 #
• 19:21 Chooch to Henry: Dont marry Mommy; that would be so disgusting. #
• 22:41 Can’t wait for the new Oceana album. Pretty sure it’ll devour all the fucking annoyances around me. If not, back to the bomb manual. #
• 22:45 Wish Satan would stop communicating through my son every night at bed time. It was silly at 1st but now I’m ready to call the God Squad. #
• 22:47 Q:If you could have a super power, what wo… A:To bind assholes with cheese curd trampo… formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin/q/556375001 #
• 22:50 I”m going to start walking around on stilts fashioned from plastic tumblers, a la Romper Room. Maybe then ppl will stop talking down to me. #
• ***
• 00:42 I’m so giddy, posing hypotheticals, that I almost just puked on Henry’s stomach. He keeps yelling, “OK, GOODNIGHT!” #
• 00:46 I NEED LITTLE GIANT BLUEBERRIES! I want to take my dentures out & eat them with a spoon for breakfast. #
• 00:50 The real tragedy on this episode of “Design U” isn’t that the homeowner’s foyer is dated, but that her 90yo bff told her so. #
• 00:51 Just mishea rd “closet doors” as “suppositories.” #
• 01:08 Henry: 45 minutes ago, you said you were going to bed. Me: No, that was when you told me to go to bed. #
• 09:23 Video: Chooch doesn’t need paint on his face to get into zombie-mode bit.ly/dwlgqP #
• 13:41 A painting that I shipped in January was just returned to me today. I hate mailing things. Worst part about having Etsy shops. #
• 14:13 Currently: 4 cops at Robin’s. #
• 16:40 Ever look at your thumb and it’s like looking at a stranger? Somewhere in the Bible, it will say amputation is the answer. #
• 18:33 The analyst in the office next to me is blasting T’Pau & I’m suddenly very happy, although wishing I could swap out my heels for skates. #
• 19:49 I always have to catch myself before adding “z0rz” to the end of words at work. Ohwellz0rz. :( #
• 19:50 And I wonder why p eople are shocked to find out I’m 30, not 20. #
• 23:47 It’s not drugging when the Nyquil trips and falls down Chooch’s throat. Right? #
• ***
• 00:18 I haven’t watched the Gossip Girl finale yet but I can only hope a chandelier made from daggers & Lady Gaga’s acrylics falls on Serena. #
• 10:42 Today I Learned the Definition of “Later” bit.ly/aXIewH #
• 12:29 I am being ordered to tweet about Chooch’s dream, in which he was bad at the playground, & it was “white&dark, white&dark, white&dark.” #
• 12:30 Perhaps Chooch can just start writing in my blog for me, too. I could use a break. And his posts would probably be better anyway. #
• 19:39 It makes me happy when lawyers here compliment me on my clothes & shoes. It’s the small things.
• ***
  
• 00:15 Just saw previews for Eclipse; realized I do n’t remember shit from the book except it being another 300+ pages of 0 character development. #
• 11:24 Chooch’s Zombie Party: the official account bit.ly/cIiE2l #
• 12:02 I hope someday I make it back to Morocco. #
• 12:05 I love how Henry sends me ads for all the shows I can’t go to because he keeps making me get evening jobs. Fucker dummy. #
• 13:39 Chooch & I were doing yoga; he was making me laff so hard I had to stop & take his pic. twitpic.com/1p6h5e #
• 15:03 My child is attempting to garrote himself with a strand of Easter basket grass. At least he’s suicidally creative. #
• 18:30 My easy job is about to get much more challenging & I kind of can’t wait. #
• 19:47 Young Yoga Master bit.ly/9lnS3u #
• 20:29 We’re giving one of my co-workers a ride home tonight. I hope Henry & Chooch don’t act like fucking turkey basters & screw this up for me. #
• 22:01 Chooch is on a yoga kick, for real. He just paused during his “goodnight stretch” routine to take a huge gulp of chocolate milk. #
• 22:43 Finally made it to the 3/30 episode of Lost. Why did I let so many build up? Oh right, because this season is boring the shit outta me. #
• ***
• 08:26 left chooch alone for 5 mins with informercials; now all he can talk abt is a blender called the Amazing Power Puff (?) that we HAVE to buy. #
• 12:19 Just spent the last 30 minutes befriending a wasted boy trying to sell magazines. His parting advice to Chooch: don’t get branded. #
• 12:20 And out of the blue, he asked me if I was happy. We’re Facebook friends now. (Assuming he accepts my request! I might die if he doesn’t!) #
• 12:52 It’s so rare that I converse w/ strangers at length these days, that my short episode w/ Ray the Magazine Schiller really struck me. #
• 17:30 My coworker was bragging about meeting Chooch last night & all the ladies made jealous exclamations. I’m like, “Ladies, don’t fight.” #
• 18:44 The date has been set for Blogathon 2010 & I’m totally doing it again. Who’s with me??? WE CAN MOVE THE WORLD! #
• 19:50 Please keep this up, #Habs. #StanleyCup (Sorry, just can’t quit the hockey tweets.) #
• 21:51 Took Chooch w/ me to run on a high school track & he nearly out-ran two men for an entire lap. They were impressed & stopped to tell me so. #
• 21:52 “He’s gonna be on TV someday,” the one man said. Yeah, let’s hope it’s the Olympics & not OUTRUNNING THE LAW. #
• ***
• 08:46 Well. Henry left me another voicemail of himself having sex with machinery. Get a life. #
• 12:34 Henry asked me if I missed him; I said YES real quick, because I thought it meant he had something for me. Turns out he was just wondering. #
• 14:18 Discovered 11 voice memos on my phone, all left in various zombie groans. Thanks son. #
• 15:10 Me: according to all my old journals, we shouldn’t even be together. Henry: I don’t need any old journals to tell me THAT. #
• 18:02 Henry texted me to say that Chooch ordered his own rib dinner; waited his turn & everything. Now all he needs us for is to wipe his ass:( #
• 22:32 Come on, #Sharks! #
• 22:37 Went to the high school track again w/ my bodyguards. It’s scary there at nite, could get raped by the industrial arts instructor. #
• 10:32 I apparently just ate a toaster struedel like it was my first time. #

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

I almost didn’t open the door yesterday afternoon when the knocking came. But it was a friendly rap, not the battering ram banging that the gas man brings with him.

Thinking it must be Hot Neighbor Chris, I relented and opened the goddamn door.

It was not Hot Neighbor Chris. A young guy dressed all in white who looked to be about eighteen (and wasted) stood on my porch. He had a friendly smile and short, kinky dark blond hair, and in spite everything I try to instill in myself about stranger-hatred, I was immediately infected by his personality. He was a talker. Noticing my fingernails, he said, “Oh lime green is my favorite color! Well, I like my lime green a little brighter than that, but still – good choice.”

Then he launched into his very confused magazine spiel and told me a yarn about how his group had traveled straight to Pittsburgh from Tennessee last night with no stops. “I’m like, exhausted,” he laughed. “I’ve had so many energy drinks, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how many,” came out in a blurt of high blood-pressured mania. I’m still not sure what he was earning points for, a trip or something? But his smile was so elvish and sincere and he already told me his name was Ray, that I didn’t have the heart to cut him off. He started fumbling with all the literature and subscription forms and asked, “Is there somewhere I can sit down to show you this stuff?”

I NEVER let people in my house. Not even my neighbors. Mostly it’s because I’m inhospitable, but also because ever since having a kid, my house’s interior rivals the ambiance of my first apartment which was little more than a party palace. I’m pretty sure Chooch shits clutter. But this kid had me captivated, completely intrigued, that I didn’t want to send him away yet. I’m pretty sure this is how Charles Manson operated. (Don’t worry – I got the Henry Lecture.)

I had to literally clear a spot on my couch for this poor kid to sit. I don’t think he noticed; he was too busy rambling on and on about everything. At one point he said something about not having parents and quickly added, “But don’t feel sorry for me! I’m OK!”

And Chooch, prancing around in his Diego underroos, was so excited to have a visitor. “Oh, you like Ben 10 huh?” Ray said as Chooch thrust one of his action figures at him. Chooch looked at me in amazement, like, “Oh shit, this guy KNOWS.” They become instant besties,  Chooch’s  second in as many days.  (We gave one of my co-workers a ride home Wednesday night. I let her have shotgun, figuring Chooch would accost an unfamiliar backseat companion. He still accosted her. They passed his Ben 10 toys back and forth and he was so excited to tell her all their names. Then he invited her to his carrot party. She told me yesterday that carrots are her favorite food so I guess it was destiny.)

Chooch ran off to find more shit to show him.

I leafed through the magazine selections while Ray was struggled to spell my name on the subscription form. He stopped abruptly in the middle of his high-speed ramblings – wherein I learned he doesn’t like Crown Royal and his iPhone was dead – and asked me, with so much seriousness, “Are you happy?”

I was really caught off guard. I sort of froze with this crumpled-up magazine brochure in my hand and noticed that he was looking at me very intently. He didn’t seem like a church person, although he was wearing a silver cross that he rubbed occasionally, like when he was talking about not having any parents and turning his life around. So instead of being insulted by his question like I would if a Mormon came calling, I was really touched.

People I talk to on a daily basis don’t even ask me that question. Which doesn’t mean that they don’t care, but it’s still not something I’m asked often. Therefore, I assumed I misunderstood him. We had just been talking about Robert Smith from the Cure a second before, so I said, “Is Robert Smith happy now? I guess so, because the last album–” He cut me off and said, “No, are you happy?

”

I really had to wrangle with my tongue to spit out a meaningless “yes.”

Ray stayed and hung out for about thirty minutes. I didn’t end up buying a magazine because they were all three-year subscriptions and I didn’t want to spend that kind of money in the middle of trying to get caught up with everything else. But Ray understood and didn’t pressure me. In the end, he used my name and address as a reference so he’ll still earn points. Then he gave me a small sign to tape on my door that said BUG OFF RAY’S #1 in case anyone else from his group showed up trying to usurp his territory.

Before leaving, he mentioned that his birthday’s in July, that he’ll be 21. “I know, I look super young,” he said.

“Are you a Leo?” I asked.

“How did you KNOW that?!?!” he exclaimed, and looked genuinely impressed to have met a real life psychic.

“Because my birthday’s in July, too,” I said, never mind that it’s basic astrology and it was a 50/50 chance he was either a Leo or Cancer.

Ray thought this was absolutely wild, like we should share each other’s blood there in my living room, next to Chooch’s Bat Cave. “What are you going to be – 25?”

RAY, I LOVE YOU.

When I told him 31, he refused to believe it and I was like, “Can I keep you?”

I gave him a bottle of Faygo root beer to take with him, and he in turn gave Chooch some parting advice. “Buddy, don’t ever get branded!” He showed us the back of his calf, which had giant, raw-looking letters seared into it.

“My boss paid me to do this a few days ago! I jumped three feet! Well not really, I’m just being sarcastic now, but it really did hurt!”

Once he was back outside on my front porch, we still continued to talk. “So, you’re from Tennessee you said?” I asked.

“No!” he yelled in horror. “South Carolina. We were just in Tennessee for a trip,” he explained.

I laughed. “You seemed so offended at the thought of being from Tennessee!”

Ray went on to tell me of his hatred for Tennessee sports teams and from there we talked about hockey, which I always try to work into every conversation I have on a daily basis. (I don’t talk to many people, so my stats aren’t that great.)

Before I shut the door, I said, “Wait! This might be weird, but are you on Facebook? Can we be friends?” He said he was, told me to just search by his name, which he had written on my copy of the receipt. I looked for him later but couldn’t find him, and that made me more sad than I thought it would. He’ll probably never think of me again, but I’ll never forget him.

All night at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about his question to me. I never really give myself the chance to stop and ask myself if I’m happy, does anyone really? But having a total stranger do it really made it swirl around in my brain and I realized that, oh my God, I think I actually am happy. And I can’t remember the last time I could say that honestly, or the last time I was touched like that by a stranger, and I’m not talking about the “your uncle just fingered me under the picnic table” type of touching. Probably Justin the Gay Hitchhiker from 1998.

I’ve felt really calm and good about things since he left yesterday afternoon. You might say it’s coincidental, but I’ll never believe it. Thank you, Ray the Magazine Schiller. I hate Crown Royal, too.

I know that I should hate her. What she did was creepy and a total invasion of my privacy, not to mention a complete shitfest upon my trust. So that should mean I’m done with her, right?

Then why do I still fucking care? I should hate her, but I just feel BAD for her.

I wrote that in my journal the morning after the ambush. I wanted to fix her, could I be more cliche if I tried? What is it about sad sacks that strum the strings of my bleeding heart? It would have been the right thing to walk away, send her back into Sylvia’s desperate arms.

“Oh, but I’ll give her another chance!” I declared, like a battered wife or the owner of broken bladder’d mongrel. “I’ll salvage this friendship yet!”

Except that a few days later, literally the same week that found her crying on my doorstep, everything went to shit at my job. I had been working at Weiss Meats for 4 years, and it had become a hostile work environment. My boss’s son was in rehab and I was working longer days to compensate for his absence. It was taking a toll on my sanity, and I was getting pissed that no one was telling me how much longer I would have to pick up his slack. It was a Wednesday when my anger blew the roof off the building.

Engaging in a furious war of words with my boss, honestly one of the first face-to-face desk-pounding confrontations of which I’ve ever been the co-star, I walked out of my office that morning, for the last time ever. Three days later, the son my boss and I had been arguing about had left rehab and was killed in a car accident (suicide was the speculation).That’s the super condensed version.

The son’s death rocked me, really fucked with my mind. I was all over the place, mentally and emotionally. I was unemployed. I was distraught. I was in shock. And all the while, I had Christina bugging me, wanting to talk “about us.” I didn’t want to talk to her about anything right then. I wanted to talk to Henry. We worked at Weiss Meats together and he knew better than anyone what I was going through. But once again, Christina tried to weasel her way in, tried to desecrate this extremely personal and intimate thing, trauma even, that Henry and I were experiencing by insinuating that she had any idea what I was feeling. If she couldn’t be my girlfriend, she was evidently going to be my therapist.

I started to avoid her again. Especially when she started getting jealous of other friends I had. I had tentative plans to go to this girl Moira’s house for a sleepover. Christina found out about these plans via LiveJournal and called me.

“You better not kiss anyone,” she warned.

Seriously? Because my boyfriend doesn’t even say that to me.

After a little while, my blow-off tactics were finally being noticed by her. She sent me an IM saying, “I’m going to give you some space since it seems like that’s what you want.” But then she continued to IM me! And email me! And call me!

I completely cut contact with her that May. I was so stressed out about the unemployment issues and looking into filing a complaint with the EEOC, that I just couldn’t be patient with her anymore. I needed to worry about what was going on here in Pittsburgh, not how she was feeling in Cincinnati. And to be honest, she was good about staying away. It wasn’t until sometime in July that she IMd me and asked, “Can we be friends again?”

Of course, she had perfect timing. I was having issues with another friend – Cinn – who was blowing me off and putting me in an awkward position by being generally rude to my other friends.  “Having someone to talk to about this might not be such a bad thing,” I thought, and I replied to her IM with a succinct “fine.” Besides, Cinn could make the most sniveling sycophantic stalker seem like the stable, sympathetic, harmless best friend you’ve been asking Santa for since you were eight. The kind who’s read every book in the Baby Sitter’s Club series and has a hot dad.

Christina suddenly went from enemy to ally.

And that was her MO: finding me when I was down. Reminding me that when everyone else was too busy to lend an ear, she was always ready and willing. It was like she had an extra sense that would let her know every time another one of my friends fucked me over, because that’s when she would be seen in the best, most pore-reducing light.

However, in that short interim we weren’t speaking, I had made a new friend named Stacey, with whom I’m still friends. Christina of course knew all about this from cyber stalking me and made some comment about Stacey being “cute and blond – just your type.” I”m not even sure what my type of boy is, let alone girl, but Christina apparently had me completely pegged. Aside from that one envy-tinged snide remark, the rest of 2004 was stable. We saw each other once that fall, when she tagged along with a newly outed Steve, who was here to hook up with an Internet boyfriend.  Christina brought me the new Used album, but it took me a few months to really listen to it.

Christina of course got back together with Sylvia, so instead of listening to her drone about how much she loved me, I got to listen to her bitch and scream about how bad she hated Sylvia, how Sylvia awakened a rage within her like no other, how Sylvia smothered her and had a forked tongue and made her listen to Top 40.

And again, I turned into a broken record again, repeating, “So just break up with her,” over and over to deaf ears.

I guess I forgot how unhappy I was in 2004, until I skimmed those old journals.

No wonder it was so easy for her to leech on to me and drain my emotional blood.

[My apologies to those who have already seen this via Facebook, but I wanted to preserve it on here.]

One of the most daunting tasks I face daily is trying to coerce Chooch into playing quietly while I attempt to get some exercise in. Sometimes he’s a great sport about it; other times he winds up peeing down the basemnet steps with a Sharpie’d replica of Picasso on his thigh and stomach. (Don’t worry – he saves feline mutilation for when I’m washing dishes, apparently.)

Today, I tried a different tactic.

“Chooch,” I started with hesitation. “Let’s exercise together. We could do yoga or something.”

He seemed game and discarded the hatchet he was using to make flesh ribbons of his latest victim.

I found a beginner’s Yoga program on FitTV and turned it on in hopes that if anything, maybe it would mellow his shit out a bit.

“This is really stupid,” he said as we began with arm and shoulder stretching. Then it was time to salute the sun and this perplexed Chooch. “But I can’t see the sun today,” he said in that haughty tone, pointing over his shoulder at the window, where the overcast sky coasted past.

“Your body should start to feel warm now,” the instructor said as she went from cobra to downward dog.

To my right, I could hear Chooch muttering under his breath. I stole a quick glance and his ass was in the air, his limbs a pretzled mess beneath him. “I don’t think I’m doing this right,” he mumbled in defeat.

I couldn’t bear to see him quit because it was just too hilarious, so I insisted that he was doing fine. “Seriously, you’re doing this better than I am,” I encouraged, which wasn’t even really a lie considering how much I HATE Yoga. (Pilates girl all the way, yo.)

“What the hell is she doing now?” Chooch asked no one in particular. “God, I really hate this broad.”

By the time he moved to Warrior, I had to stop for fear of pissing myself.

(And yes, I’m aware that we’re probably the last household in America without a flat screen. Us and roadside motels.)

Guest list:

• Alisha
• Bill & Jessi
  
• Kara & Harland
• Charlie
• Henry’s mom
• My mommy
  
• Henry’s sister Kelly & some of her kids
• Blake
  
• Evonne, Sadie & Lydia
• Christy & Claire
• Janna
  

When Chooch told me months ago, like literally it might still have been 2009, that he wanted to have a zombie themed birthday party, I had every intention of going all out. I even started thinking of ideas for like, ten entire minutes.

With the exception of designing the invitations with Chooch (which actually was not last minute and were mailed out in timely fashion), there wasn’t much more that I accomplished, aside from a last minute trip to Goodwill on the morning of his party, to shop for clothes to mutilate and bloody for the photos I wanted to take of each individual party guest, as a souvenir. Kind of like a prom picture, except with blood, a fake cemetery in the background, and a pine tree with Christmas lights haphazardly slung across its lower boughs, which really bothers me now when I look back at all the pictures. I think Bill should have painted the wires green. It could have been a zombie / Alice in Wonderland crossover, guests arriving while an undead Bill slops green paint on a tree and nervously yells about the scary queen (THAT’S ME) who’s running around with hedge clippers and shouting, “Off with your balls.”

The plan was to have the party outside; but like last year, it was around FIFTY DEGREES with the threat of rain. In May. So everything was set up in my mom’s garage to protect the guests from the impending deluge of rain. The kids had enough rain-free time to run amok outside for most of the party, at least. Because I can’t imagine Chooch being contained in a three-car garage for three hours.

Chooch the Zombie Enthusiast flipped his shit when he saw Bill for the first time, post-zombie makeover. We thought Chooch was just playing into it when he used the car as a barrier, but then Bill noticed he was legitimately crying and we all had an “oh shit” moment. Bill retreated to the garage to allow Jessi and I to try and coax Chooch from the car.

“You can open one of your presents now!” I pleaded. That worked. Good thing I used that first, instead of “You can cut Bill with this knife I got here,” because maybe Jessi might not have liked that. (And Bill wouldn’t have had much say.)

And Chooch was fine after that. So fine, in fact, that he wanted Jessi to make him up as a zombie too. I think it was just initial shock combined with Bill’s overzealousness (which Chooch ended up loving later).

Jessi somehow encouraged Alisha and Janna to get made-up, too. They kept trying to get me to do it as well, but having that much make-up on my face is yet another item in my treasure trove of neuroses and just the fact that I had to keep saying no nearly made me break out in hives. It’s probably not good that I took myself out of therapy all those years ago.

BFFs again, no biggie.

And the food! Don’t get me started on that. I had this great vision of mini meatloaves baked in over-sized cupcake tins and then Ketchup’d, like chunks of bloodied flesh. Well, Henry took that vision and fucked it up the ass. He basically made a plate of meatballs. When I voiced my aghast-ness, he then tried to get all Alton Brown: meatloaf edition on me, but I think he was lying. It could have been done.

I don’t even know what else there was to eat, to be honest, aside from what I initially thought were turtles (chicken breasts, apparently). But I will tell you there was no gelatin brain.  I mean, why would there be something so disgustingly anatomical at a zombie party??

It’s a good thing a four-year-old doesn’t give a shit about the catering at birthday parties.

That morning at Goodwill, I found (fine – Alisha found) these two lovely nightgowns and I instantly had visions of my friends Kara and Christy swathed in bloody versions of night attire, and holding their babies in front of the cemetery I set up. The cemetery was the only thing I was concerned about all day. It was a very big deal for me. I texted Kara before she arrived and said, “I have a nightgown; will you wear it?” She said yes and thought nothing of it, because I’ve asked her to do dumber things before.

This ended up being my favorite picture of the day.

I barraged Christy before she was even out of her car. She just rolled her eyes at my request because we’ve known each other since we were four and short of auto-amputation, nothing I do really shocks and awes her. At first, she tried to say that she couldn’t get the nightgown on over her hoodie and I was like, “Bitch, you best be tryin’ a little harder. Don’t make me pretend I’m in a girl gang again.”

Also, this was my first time finally meeting Christy’s baby Claire and she is so sweet! The combination of Claire and Harland was like an upper-cut/right hook combo to my ovaries, though. At one point, Henry even grabbed my silk-gloved hand and said, “Darling, shall we try for another?” And then I rammed my parasol up his tweed-trousered asshole.

The best part was that Kara and Christy both kept their respective nightgowns on for the rest of the party. I like to think it’s because they thought it was AWESOME, but warmth probably had a little more to do with it. They spent most of the party together, in a baby bubble, and I couldn’t  help but crack up every time I turned around and saw the two of them in their bloody nightgowns, cooing to each other’s baby.

“Just another night at the shelter,” Charlie said at one point, and I could NOT STOP LAUGHING. Don’t worry, I said the Rosary that night.

Charlie opted to play the role of “Victim #1.”

I realized afterward that I have zero pictures of Blake or any of the cousins, except Zac. None of the teens wanted to dress up, which I thought was strange since that’s like, something kids want to do. I mean, other than betting on cock fights in Biloxi and foxtrotting with trannies. (Is that still what teens do nowadays?) And Blake didn’t talk to me the whole time. I guess that’s a new thing or something. It wasn’t awkward at all and it certainly didn’t make me cry to Alisha behind the garage.

My mom ordered the cake undecorated, aside from the Happy Birthday part, and then made the graveyard scene with those new Oreos and zombie finger puppets. She apparently forgot to make sure it flowed with the writing on the side, but that’s just my bastard nit-picking coming out. I thought she did a great job! Unlike the photo I took, which is out of focus because I had like, 20 people staring at me and I just wanted to be done. Yet another reason why I’d never consider photography as anything other than a hobby!

He got a ton of great loot, like: a Jason Voorhees action figure, vampire movie collection, Night of the Living Dead DVD, and a Spiderman book (being held in above photo) from Bill and Jessi; a Spike Jr. and a dragon from Evonne, Sadie, and Lydia; a remote control zombie from Alisha; a Leatherface figurine, with interchangeable heads and arms, from Charlie; two plush zombies and a Tony Hawk bike from my mom; this really cool zombie figurine from my brother Ryan; a complete artist’s orgasm from Kara; gift cards from Christy and Kelly; and a Spiderman skateboard from Janna.

It really made me wish I was still a kid!

Before I knew it, three hours had passed and everyone started to leave. There was a Penguins game on that night and I’m sure most of the guests were happy to know that I’d be the first one to abandon my kid’s party for it.

Bill and Jessi had to check in to their hotel first, zombie makeup and all, but came back to my house later to hang out and, more importantly,  so Bill could get called a “douche cup” by Chooch when he had the audacity to deviate from the Lego instructions.

When they came back over the next morning for breakfast, Bill held out his hand and said, “Here, somehow Leatherface’s head made it into my pants last night.” So, now we know what Bill does after drinking a little Manischewitz.  I think that was the highlight of my entire weekend.

Thanks again to everyone who came and showed your love for my little zombie-child. It was so great to see everyone, especially you guys who came from hours and hours away. It really meant a lot to us! (Maybe not Henry, because he’s rude.)

And ever since his party ended, Chooch has been going on and on about his next party. “It’s going to be a CARROT party,” he says so full of certainty. “With CARROT ICING.” And no, he’s not just insinuating he wants a carrot CAKE. This is a full-scale carrot PARTY, you guys. And he wants everyone to dress as carrots. Have fun with that!

“Do you want Cap’n Crunch?” I asked Chooch in an attempt to be a mom.

“Yeah, I already said that I want it later,” he replied in his patented drawl of sass, mockery and exasperation – your typical teenage side dish.  I always have to pull back from flicking him.

“OK. So you want it later,” I reiterated, making sure I got it right because god only knows with him.

“It is later now,” he yelled. “Go get it!” SEE??

And as I came over here to preserve this lovely conversation in my blog, he appeared next to me and said, “Make sure you tweet about it, too.”

Yes, Your Majesty.

I have blog apathy lately, so have a video of Chooch. It’s not very exciting, which is why I don’t normally post videos.

Just a typical evening, trying to sit next to him on the couch.