I can’t tell you how many times a day I say to Chooch, “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Not that it would be any easier to ship him off to the nuns if he, I don’t know, had a cleft palate; that would be rude. But you know what I mean. It’s make it hard to stay mad at him for too long. Although after he modified Speck’s ear last week, my extreme anger and disappointment were able to withstand his cuteness for nearly an entire day.

This was at Buttermilk Falls on Mother’s Day, lovely fucking Mother’s Day. It was the day after Chooch’s party, where he apparently suffered some mysterious injury to his leg/knee/ankle/foot which rendered him partially handicapped. Anytime we’d ask him which leg hurt, he’d wailed, “All of them!” I have a feeling he twisted his ankle or something, because he was fine after the weekend.

This is my current favorite picture of Chooch.Henry said he thought this door used to belong to a porn shop. “Or a gay bar,” he said.

We spent the day downtown yesterday. The entire day. Doing nothing but walking except for the thirty minutes we sat down for lunch at the Oyster House, where the waitress did that thing where Chooch is the only patron at the table and all her inquiries are directed at him. She was trying to guess his name, and the first name she came up with was Henry, which I thought was amazing and couldn’t stop talking about it afterward, even took up ten pages in my diary just for that. This is not true. I told Alisha when she met us downtown afterward, and that was it. Oh, and the Internet. So I guess I told three people.

This was immediately after Chooch chased a huge pack of pigeons into a table of diners.

After wrangling Alisha, we got tart pomegranate frozen yogurt from some new place near my work called Sweet Lix. It was good, but Henry was quietly fuming at the cost. But come on, he had to have known as soon as we walked into the shop’s glowing white interior, with space-aged tables (the kinds you’re expected to STAND at) and new age music floating pretentiously from the ceiling (from which hung large white lanterns that can probably be purchased at IKEA) that he was about to pay over $7 for two small cups of frozen yogurt.

Alisha got granola on hers and talked about it for upward of an hour.

Apparently Alisha REALLY likes granola. I’m going to buy her some Birkenstocks. I’m pretty sure that was what she was hinting around to.

On our way toward the Point, we witnessed two elderly black men fighting in the middle of the street. A middle-aged man was trying to convince the taller one of the guys to just walk away, which he did, but not without a ton of attitude and vitriol. The other man, a short toad-looking asshole, waited until he was clear across the street to start running his mouth again. I was like, “OH NO HE DI’NT” and apparently the taller one was thinking the same thing because he came barreling around the corner right in front of us, speed-walked through traffic (nearly getting hit by a bus, except not so nearly but it sounds more exciting when you think he nearly did), caught up to the toad guy and THREW HIS DRINK ON HIM.

I stood there watching, in the middle of the sidewalk, while Henry tried to get me to stop gawking. “I’m Team THAT GUY,” I enthused to Alisha. It made me want to get into a fight.

Not that I do shit like that. I’m a lady, after all.

Then, for the third time that day, I found myself walking across a bridge. This particular bridge was having construction done on it and ROCKS were flying down from above and HITTING ME. I wasn’t pleased about this and am now going to one of those town hall meeting things so I can yell about it. I’m going to bring a gun and wave it around a lot. That’ll get it done.

Once across the bridge, we walked along the disgusting river.

A small docked boat contained a lounging couple, sipping champagne and looking generally snobby and extremely uninteresting to me.

“Who does that?” I scoffed to Alisha.

“Well, some people do actually enjoy that,” Alisha explained, and I rolled my eyes.

Yuppies.

There is a horrifying monument to Mister Rogers down there. I had nightmares.

On the way back to the bridge, a crowd had gathered around two old black guys who were fishing.

“Looks like they caught a fish,” Henry stated obviously.

I began gagging. But then I was just annoyed. “Really? People actually stopped to watch this?” I asked loudly. I was appalled. And then Alisha pointed out that they were listening to Whitney Houston on their transistor radio and I wanted to kick it into the river.

Then Chooch interrupted a couple trying to smoke a joint and we went home. I’m really tired today.

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

• 18:08 Somehow I managed to not tweet once during Chooch’s zombie party. #
• 18:15 RT @CocoaDeeLamo: pic of @daboogmang and the birthday boy as zombies! bit.ly/bToyEi #
• 20:30 Bill and Jessi are here for post-zombie party #Pens madness. Just apologized for screaming when Gonchar scored!!!! #
• 22:34 @Josh_Hilden nudity at my house! NSFW! brizzly.com/pic/2DOJ #
• 22:39 Chooch told the pizza guy, “I have pants on.” He didn’t call him a douche cup though; that name’s reserved for @daboogmang. #
• 23:13 Just learned the critically acclaimed dance called Dishing Out the Sausage. Ever heard of it? #
• ***
• 00:33 Good job, #Sharks! #
• 09:53 I’ve learned t o expect nothing for Mother’s Day, much like my birthday. #
• 10:30 Chooch, in his glory with a remote control Zombie and Leatherface from his party// brizzly.com/pic/2DTS #
• 12:29 At King’s. Just yelled at Chooch but the offender was really Bill! #
• 13:04 The same pot has been in my sink for a week now. I’m proving a point by not washing it. Unforch, that point has gone unnoticed by Henry. #
• 13:52 I hate it when Jessi and Bill leave! So does Chooch, but the fact that he can now take off his pants is comforting him. #
• 14:35 I just washed the dishes while Henry naps luxuriously upon the couch. Happy mother’d day. #
• 16:09 King’s bit.ly/9Lygw8 (my blog titles get more and more generic) #
• 17:31 HENRY PULLED MY HAIR. CALL THE POPO. #
• 20:07 Zombie Chooch: Sneak Peek bit.ly/cSOfGO #
• 20:18 Henry tried to strangle me while I had my hands in my pockets and my panicking made them stuck! It was horrible. #
• ***
• 09:47 Thanks to @ohidontthinkso for buying every coloring utensil known to man, Chooch is in a very quiet zone this morning. Bless you, Kara! #
• 10:1 8 I never tire of “Hungry Like the Wolf.” Chooch just said it’s a bitchy song & he’s mocking it. Asshole kid. #
• 11:39 Thank god for sidewalk chalk brizzly.com/pic/2E6T #
• 11:49 My neighbor Robin is broadcasting some serious classic rock from her house right now. I’m imagining her slunk across the sofa, binged out. #
• 11:50 I just realized it’s Bad Company’s greatest hits. I love Robin. #
• 12:15 Asked Chooch what kind of bday party he wants to have next yr. W/o hesitation he said, “A carrot party. W/ carrot icing.” Got it, friends? #
• 12:45 My Favorite Neighbor: Robin bit.ly/abq7Aj #
• 12:57 I think I was just criticized by an older mom-type for having the audacity to throw my kid a zombie party. Glad she didn’t come, then. #
• 15:46 Making Henry listen to the new Pierce the Veil in the car & staring at him for a reaction. I know he loves it. The blank stare tells me. #
• 19:17 I wish people would stop printing important legal documents so I can HEAR THE HOCKEY GAME. #
• 19:23 HAHAHAHA CROSBY SCORES! #Pens #Habs Keep taunting him, Montreal. #
• 20:45 CHOOCH GOT ME SEA MONKEYS!!! I have the best kid. #
• 20:50 Henry is Cruel bit.ly/9ZjsBI #
• 20:57 Had the nerve to call Henry a douche cup, making Chooch flip his lid. “NO THAT’S BILL! BILL IS THE DOUCHE CUP!” #
• ***
• 11:06 I may be alone in this boat, but the customer support ppl at AT&T are the only ones who don’t cause me to make stabbing motions. #
• 11:13 Chooch will take a bath in five weeks, in case you were wondering how long to expect the jelly smears to remain stained on his cheeks. #
• 15:41 Henry is angry because he took a whole minute out of his day to explain a pressure washer to me, only for me to say “That sounds stupid.” #
• 16:18 Rain + #Pens loss = wrist-slitting atmosphere in the office today. #
• 16:31 I sure hope the mere fact that I like Happy Town doesn’t curse it into cancellation. #SaveHappyTown!!! #
• 22:12 Forgot how stupidly high my heels are until I took them off and had to re-train myself to stand flat-foot. #
• 23:26 Boy, watching “Drag Me to Hell” alone, before I go to bed, is definitely going to turn out to be one of them there brilliant ideas. #
• ***
• 00:37 My neighbors are dragging body bags down the steps again, no biggie. Probably stuffing them in the trunk of their $207,000 car about now. #
• 10:06 Welp, today’s (obvious) lesson is definitely: Don’t Trust Chooch With Scissors. #
• 10:18 Nothing like starting the day with some bloody trauma, mopping up big crimson drops. #
• 11:26 Oh just great. Now my other cats have developed blood lust. TODAY IS WONDERFUL, THANKS FOR ASKING. #
• 11:29 I am trying to avoid anything hockey-related until the game starts for fear of puking up stomach acid. #Pens #StanleyCup #
• 13:00 Since this is popular now, maybe ppl will actually ask me something! formspring.me/ohhonestlyerin #
• 13:58 Hard to imagine that this kid innocently watching Tom & Jerry was the cause of blood shed earlier. #
• 15:03 Maybe I’m WEIRD but I fail to see the humor in my cat nearly getting her ear lopped off by my child. Fuck today. #
• 15:04 And apparently, my son has taken to pissing on the basement floor. My grandma was right: I wasn’t meant to have children. #
• 16:30 We’ve been discussing flashlights at work for the past 10 minutes. Henry would have a boner if he were here. #
• 17:42 Hockey anticipation is seriously raping and pillaging my entire nervous system. #
• 18:16 @ohidontthinkso and if Letang fucks up again tonite, I’m blaming Brenna & her stalking. #
• 18:42 Had a bunch of women share their own children/pet horror stories & these are kids who were raised on Barney, etc. #
• 19:53 Preparing for the worst. It’s not the end of the world. There’s still hockey to watch even if the #Pens lose. <– My fake “mature” side. #
• 19:54 Still, it would be nice if it was the #Habs turn to blow a lead. If they win this, they deserve to hoist the cup in June. #
• 21:13 “Great save by Halak.” When ISN’T it. #
• 21:39 I love you #Pens. It was a fun season. #
• 21:47 #habs better go all the way. I’ll be rooting for them. #stanleycup #
• 22:01 & they earned it: RT @NHL: #Habs first 8th seed to reach Eastern Conference Final since current p layoff format adopted in 1994. #StanleyCup #
• ***
• 00:37 I think tomorrow I’ll dress like Shabba Ranks. #
• 01:06 I’m wide awake & just had a flashback of going to work at the lawfirm, but it was the 1970s. 1970s Erin is much better looking. #
• 01:12 I’ve been getting lots of condolences, like I just had a miscarriage instead of suffering a hockey loss. I have sweet friends. #stanleycup #
• 09:37 Had a dream that I chipped my front tooth. I didn’t handle that very well. #
• 09:50 Chooch thinks Henry’s a doctor since he put Neosporin on the cat’s ear. He’s i n for a rude awakening when he finds out Henry’s salary #
• 11:33 remember that song sheryl crow & kid rock did together? me either until i just had the misfortune of hearing it on the radio. ruined my day. #
• 11:35 Crosby, you’re still my boy. Fuck all the haters in Pittsburgh. Most of the ones bitching probably never watched a regular season game. #
• 12:27 Foxy Shazam keeps getting better like I keep getting dumber. #
• 15:00 Gelato before work. Henry wins today. brizzly.com/pic/2FEI #
• 20:16 Was just asked, “May I flick your switch?” Please do, yes. #
• ***
• 03:56 Thank god Chooch’s dramatics have me awake at 3:54am otherwise I’d have missed “Easy Lover” on the radio. #
• 09:33 The Vampire Diaries finale was great, though not very shocking thanks to all the SPOILERS I saw on Twitter. Fuck. #
• 11:12 #Twitition We want to KEEP Happy Town on TV (ABC) twitition.com/pbqrp @apparelbyal #
• 12:50 Yes! Robin is outside in a bikini top. It’s things like this that make me thankful I work at night. #
• 12:54 Sidney Crosby can’t even move out of Mario Lemieux’s house without backl ash. #NHL #Pens #
• 15:37 Henry to me: Why would I want to listen to music that makes me want to die, when I can just talk to you? #
• 19:39 KEEP IT UP #BRUINS!!! #
• 20:47 Coulda left work early but got accosted by Tina Replicate, who was set on giving me a verbal tour of Hawaii. MOTHERFUCK. #
• 21:00 It will be interesting when Chooch starts school & has classmates to invite to his bday parties, with the ideas he’s been throwing at me. #
• 21:51 I WAS JUST SNUBBED BY ROBIN OMG. #
• ***
• 01:59 One look at Chooch while he’s sleeping & I almost forget what an asshole he is when he’s awake. #
• 08:57 PILATES. #
• 11:41 He’s way too big:( might as well just be 21. yfrog.com/juvgsj #
• 11:54 In the span of 20 seconds, Chooch made a table of ladies “aw&qu ot; & a retarded guy laugh. #
• 12:19 On the trolley, laughing at a cop who’s brushing his hair. Just got A Look from Henry, made me laugh harder. #
• 12:27 Today I’m going to try and learn about my city. No, I’m not. Haha. That’s just silly. #
• 13:56 At Oyster House, Chooch was told by the waitress: Youre not your average kid, are you? #

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.

Have been ob- to the -sessed with this song lately. I can’t help it; I have a thing for androgynous little boy singers, scene hair-helmets and all. The chorus makes me involuntarily tear up. The 1:50 mark makes me hug myself.

Someone in the YouTube comments said: “Jonny Craig and Jag* had sex and came this guy.” I’m not sure if they meant “And then came this guy” as in “and then this guy was born” or as in he literally sprung out as ejaculate. Either way, I’m like “hell yes, I can see that.”

As long as this music makes me feel alive, I’ll keep listening to it, no matter how much I get made fun of. (Grow up? Why?)

*If you don’t know who these people are, that’s OK. It probably just means you’re an adult.

P7220101, originally uploaded by appledale.

Came across this picture tonight at work while I was going through my Flickr photostream, looking at old photos of various carnivals and fairs and getting super excited for the summer.

This is the perfect photographical metaphor for how I feel about parenting: the second you attempt to rest on your laurels is the second your kid is going to attempt to break his crown, splatter feces on the wall, cut the cat’s ear.

This photo still makes me laugh so hard.

“I’ll post about Chooch’s birthday party,” I thought to myself while I was washing all the dishes Henry left in the sink for me from last night. Suspicions are seriously being raised. I’m certain he’s hosting dinner parties while I’m slaving away at my SUPER HARD job every night. And if I find out he’s making maple-baked pears, I will seriously hedge-clip his nutz0rz.

A muffled commotion broke through the sound of my SENSITIVE SKIN pruning from all the dirty dish water lapping against it. I turned off the water and marched into the dining room, where I was sure I’d find my serial-killer-in-training bugging my cat Speck (nee Nicotina) as usual. She was perched a top one of the computer monitors and Chooch quickly fled into the living room, shouting, “I didn’t do anything!”

All the toys he has, and it’s the poor cat he wants to bend in unnatural directions. A cursory glance at her told me she was OK, and I went back into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal.

When I sat down at the computer desk with my Special K, my arm stopped its spooning motion halfway to my mouth. There were bright red droplets of something on the desk. I looked closer and, while I hoped it was Faygo Red Pop, I was pretty sure it was blood. I looked up at Speck. Her paws were dyed a diffused red, and there was blood-splattering on the wall behind her.

I freaked. She had both eye balls. She still had a tail. She wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to inspect the pads of her paws.

“What did you do to her?” I yelled at Chooch, who at this point was the personification of guilt and evil fucking on a bed of carnage.

“Nuffin’!” he shouted, hysteria tinging his voice and completely giving himself up. “Smidge did it!” (Smidge, nee Marcy.)

Meanwhile, Marcy was perched, stock still, on the steps, watching this play out with huge owl-eyes.

I noticed a pair of orange kids’ scissors on the dining room table. Chooch clearly skipped over the “Hiding the Evidence” chapter of his serial killer handbook.

“Did you cut her with scissors?” I asked, trying to stay calm but there was BLOOD TRAILS ON THE FLOOR AND WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY CAT?

He wouldn’t answer me, so I sent him up to his room and called Henry, at which point my panic burst out of me like one of those pressure washers Henry was trying to teach me about yesterday.

“YOU BETTER COME HOME RIGHT NOW!” I screeched into the phone. “OUR SON IS A GODDAMN SERIAL KILLER, OH MY GOD, THIS ALL YOUR FAULT, HE GETS THIS FROM YOU!”

By the time Henry sped home from work, I was able to deduce that Speck’s ear had been snipped by scissors. The snip was about half an inch long, maybe a little shorter, and my friend Rhonda reminded me via Twitter that head wounds bleed a lot and that Speck had probably forgotten all about it by then.  When Henry arrived, Speck was curled up in my lap, purring contently and looking around with her signature question-marked expression.  The blood had begun to congeal on her ear by then, and I was able to clean up the rest of her with a wet paper towel, so the scene was less “Leatherface was here” than it was when the mutilation initially happened.

Henry deemed that it wasn’t bad enough to take her to the vet. He cleaned off the wound and dabbed it good with Neosporin, then sat down with Chooch and tried to reason with him (HA!) before confiscating the new Ben 10 toys he just bought with his Toys R Us giftcards.

One by one, the other cats have realized that Speck’s ear is oozing blood, and there is an intense blood-lust situation going down right now. They keep trying to inspect her, and Speck is getting all alley-cat on them, hissing and screaming, and there’s fur flying, and I’ll be honest here: I feel like I’m in some horrible made-for-TV Stephen King adaptation and I DO NOT LIKE IT.

So, instead of writing about the fond memories I have from my asshole son’s birthday party, I’m trying to find a good, safe home for my poor cat who doesn’t deserve this shitty life.  This is only because my initial suggestion to get rid of Chooch was vetoed.

I really, really don’t want to give Speck up. I’ve had her since 1998, when I lived in my first apartment!

[I know, I know: reposting old shit from LiveJournal is a cop-out, but!! I’m trying to slowly move the entries I like over here so I can have everything in one place; I’m on a Robin kick; I’m trying to buy myself some time while I organize all the photos for Chooch’s birthday party post and I honestly go through these phases of extreme mania where I get a panicked sensation if I don’t post here once a day, what the fuck is my problem, I don’t know. No, really – I do know.]

When Janna arrived at my house yesterday, I’m sure it was beyond her wildest dreams that she would have front row seats for The Robin Show.

Around 5:00, Robin rapped on my front door. The sudden sound caused me to jump in my seat; but for Janna, it was the sight of Robin’s emaciated frame, skeletal face, and sun- and nicotine-ravaged skin that forced her to lurch in shock.

Robin asked to borrow a flashlight. A simple request, I thought; and besides, I have no qualms about lending out Henry’s belongings.

I was unsure where he kept the flashlight, so I had to call and ask. Once he told me, I quickly thanked him and hung up before he had an opportunity to ask why I wanted to know.

While I was retrieving the flashlight for Robin, she skittishly prattled on about how “he put the papers in the rafter and I have three flashlights and none of them work.” I assume “he” refers to her son, Brandon. But papers in the rafters? No idea. The thing with Robin is that she has problems and wants the world to know it, but she cuts herself off in the middle of explaining things and then moves on to something unrelated, so I’m always left standing there in a state of confusion.

There should be anti-drug posters with nothing but Robin’s picture on them.

Henry returned home shortly after and cautiously asked why I needed the flashlight. When I told him it was currently with Robin in her boarded up house, he became noticeably irritated.

Every half hour therein, he would remind me that Robin had not returned his flashlight.

“Hey, I can’t see. I need my flashlight,” he would say dramatically. Still, I sat on the couch. I can’t express how badly I did not want to go over there.

Around 10:00 PM, Hoover had left to take his son Blake home, and I was getting ready to put Riley in his crib. Just then, Robin vaporized at my front door, nearly giving Janna her second coronary of the night.

Janna opened the door and Robin poked her head in, waving her white cordless phone in her hand like a baton.

“My basement is all filled up and I can’t see and that’s where your flashlight is. Can I use your phone? I can’t dial out on mine.” She waved the phone again to illustrate her point.

My cell phone was laying out in plain sight on the coffee table, but I put on my best “Uh-oh so sorry” face and told her that the battery was dead. She pointed her phone at Janna and said, “What about you? Can I use yours?”

Janna denied having a phone. In fact, Janna uses carrier pigeons and telegraphs, that’s how certain she was that she didn’t have a phone to lend Robin.

She turned to leave, promising to return the flashlight the next day, and took her perfume of nicotine and liquor home with her.

Janna looked at me with scared eyes and said, “Oh Erin, you weren’t lying. I have never actually seen such trash in real life!” We laughed heartily, and then Janna asked, “Does she always speak with such a slur?”

Henry returned home a half hour later, dismayed that his flashlight wasn’t awaiting him, swathed in ribbon and unicorn hair.

I should note that Henry is fiercely protective of flashlights. He used to have this small green flashlight and he would seriously flip his lid anytime he caught either me or his kids playing with it. “You’re going to waste the batteries!” he’d snap, always with more venom when it was directed toward me, because he favors his kids. If someone dropped a flashlight and Riley simultaneously, Henry’s head would probably explode as he tried to determine which to catch. I have no idea what’s up with that.

Janna and I tried to piece together what we could make of Robin’s incoherent reasoning, to which Henry responded, “Great, now my flashlight is part of her meth lab. Thanks, asshole!”

Earlier this evening, we drove past her house on our way home. Her son (who just turned six and had a ghetto birthday jamboree on Friday that I was not invited to–I wouldn’t say no to cake) was standing on the porch with the door open, and Henry yelled, “I want my flashlight back!”

An hour later, I heard the outer door open and spied the silhouette of Robin’s brittle nest of hair. A soft plunk alerted that she had dropped the flashlight between the two doors. As she began her slutty sashay back to her yard, she called out through my open window that she had left the flashlight inside the doors. We think she’s intimidated of Henry (finally, someone is) because she won’t come over when he’s home.

Henry swiveled out of his chair and snatched up his flashlight, clutching it lovingly to his chest.

I still don’t understand why she needed it.

Henry likes to rub in all the awesome things he and Chooch do while I’m biting my nails listening to the hockey game, I mean, working.

He’ll send me pictures of random drunkards stumbling in front of our yard or evidence of whatever totally awesome store they’re in.

Just now, he sent over a picture from Toys R Us, where Chooch has money to burn thanks to his birthday party.

Hello! I want everything on these shelves!

Mostly the Sea Monkeys, which I know is why he had the audacity to send this to me, that fucker. I am in so much pain that I can’t be there, coaxing Chooch into purchasing everything I think he should have.

Fuck, I do really have a thing for Sea Monkeys.

Do the right thing, son!

My Brookline post from last week got me thinking about my neighbor Robin and how I don’t really see her and her crazy red mane too much anymore, and just like that she came out of her house while Chooch and I were cavorting around our front yard; she and I had a brief, chummy exchange before she got in someone’s car and took off.

And then earlier today, Chooch and I were sidewalk chalking while the Best of Bad Company wafted from Robin’s open front window. Crappy classic rock always perks me up. It was then that I vowed to find a way to ingratiate myself with Robin again this summer, because she is one hot character study. When Bill and Jessi were here over the weekend, I nearly had a stroke pointing out Robin’s son Brandon to them as we drove past her house. “LOOK THERE’S HER SON AT THE FRONT WINDOW, WEARING A RED SHIRT!” Who needs a tour of Pittsburgh’s historical landmarks when there’s so much to show visitors right here on my block?

A few years ago, my friend Sandra pledged a generous amount when I was doing Blogathon, under the stipulation that I would take a photo of Henry with Robin. He was less than enthused about this, but since it was for charity, he knew he’d be a big asshole if he refused. And this is how it went down:

July 31st, 2006

All afternoon, I kept a watchful eye out the front window, hoping to catch Robin outside of her drug den. I didn’t get to see her, but there was some young man crossing the street near our house who put on quite the show for Henry and me. Henry grabbed the camcorder and I squealed in delight as the man weebled and tottered around in his drunken stupor. And then he went to Robin’s house! I think maybe it was her son.

Later on, I decided maybe we should go and knock on Robin’s door, because I really wanted that picture. I asked Henry when he wanted to go to Robin’s, and from his Vigilant Neighbor post at the front door, he said, “Certainly not now. There’s a fire truck there.”

We thought maybe they were there because something happened to that weird guy, because it looked like one of the firefighters had a medical bag and gloves in his hands. But the ambulance never came and no one was brought out. And why was Robin running down the street?! Who was she flipping off?

After a certain point, my nosiness was killing me so I got in the car and drove around the block first before pulling into the parking lot across the street, so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I sat slumped down in the driver’s seat and felt like a sex predator. It was awesome.

The man standing on her porch near the end of the video is her equally-fucked up neighbor. He talked to us once about Riley and how precious babies are but I had a hard time hearing him because I was fixated on his gray teeth and trying not to get drunk off his whiskey breath.

So, after all that excitement, Henry put his foot down.

“I’m certainly not going over there now. Robin’s been wearing that same outfit since Friday. She’s clearly on a bender.” This could have very well been true, because the other day I saw Brandon leaving with whom I assumed was one of Robin’s older daughters. Screaming, “No, I don’t want to go!”

I reluctantly agreed that Henry was smart about not going to her house; I wasn’t trying to inhale any fumes either, so I agreed to wait until we see her outside again.

August 6th, 2006

Robin had become elusive ever since the debacle with the firemen last Sunday, so my efforts to arrange a photo-op with her and Henry were futile.

Henry’s son Blake was here this weekend, so feeling brave in his company, the two of us trampled over to her house last night. No one answered the door. I noticed that her son Brandon was sitting out back with our equally as crazy/drunk/high neighbor, Paul, who has turned stints in rehab into his own Olympic sport. Now that’s a great babysitter.

We couldn’t have been any more obvious last night, hanging around on the front porch and staring at Robin’s house with open mouths. There was the incessant whispering: Where is she? Is she home? What if she’s dead? which caused my neighbor Fish to spy on us from his front door. Then I would throw a ball over to her yard so Blake could go get it and casually peer into her front window at the same time. At one point, a woman came out of the house next to Robin’s and Blake screamed, “Is that her!?!?” He’s clearly a graduate of my school of subtlety.

It brought back delightful memories of when Henry’s kids and I played a fun game called Cable Guy Mania, which consisted of taking recon-style photos of the cable guys as they fixed our cable under Henry’s watchful eye. Basically, we stood on the steps and held out the camera. We’re slick like that. Every time they would go out to their van, we would run into my bedroom and snaps pictures from the window. Henry was supposed to put it all together with Ludacris’s “What’s Your Fantasy” playing over top, until he realized that we were turning it into a gay love story and he was the main character. Then it wasn’t all fun and games anymore. (This was back when he actually tried to set a good example for his kids. What?)

Today, Blake came back over and after feeling like I was going to dry heave with giddiness, I calmed down long enough to try again. This time, she answered. As soon as Blake caught sight of her face, he took a step back and mouthed, “Holy shit!” I hope Blake doesn’t tell his mother about the shit I make him do when he visits.

Robin’s t-shirt was rolled up under her boobs, spotlighting the outline of her rib cage. Sexy.

I told her that we were playing a photo scavenger hunt and Henry needed a picture with a red head; she was the only red head I knew. She misunderstood me at first, and began stumbling around her dining room, looking for a picture of herself.

“No, Robin. He needs to have the picture taken with you.”

She tried to deny having red hair. “Are you sure this will work? My hair isn’t really red, is it? Really, you think it is?” No, I think it’s orange.

I had to run back to the house to fetch Henry, who seemed highly dismayed that this was actually going to go down.

To add even more to Henry’s dismay, we had to enter Robin’s house to take the photo. I was sad to see that she had pulled her shirt down.

I think the Internet would have been impressed by her sunken abdomen.

Henry refused to put his arm around her, saying it was bad enough that he had to enter her den of ill repute. So this was the best I could do:

What I hadn’t anticipated was Robin’s mega interest in our “scavenger hunt” ruse. “What other kinds of things did you have to get?” she asked with hunger in her eyes.

I knew I should have made up that bunk list! On the spot, all I could do was stammer about clowns and then I turned to Henry and asked, “Gee whiz, what else did we need? I can’t remember!”

“I don’t know, but this is the only one I’m doing.” He glared all the way through to my soul. It kind of hurt.

As we left, Robin called out, “See ya, hon! Hope your team wins!”

(Tomorrow maybe I’ll post about the flashlight incident! OH BOY AREN’T YOU LUCKY?)

I have a ton of shit I need to write about the zombie party, but for now I couldn’t resist posting these two pictures of Chooch because I like them so much.

The makeup was courtesy of Jessi. Thanks again, Jessi!

He was seriously in his glory.

Chooch got some sweet loot at his zombie party yesterday, including a remote control zombie and a Leatherface figurine, which he’s been playing with all day. He even took them with us to King’s for breakfast, where he and Bill (who, along with Jessi, was visiting from Michigan) raucously fought with them in our booth. Jessi and I were hungover from blackberry Manischevitz, but I wondered how much of our headaches were brought on from all the smiling we did after the Red Wings were eliminated from the Stanley Cup playoffs last night.

While at King’s, we also saw a woman in a camo jacket (“I literally can’t see her from the waist up,” Jessi marveled.

“It really works.”), a senile old man seemingly drunk from communion wine (Chooch told him he doesn’t have a mom), two dickhead fathers, and an old woman with Beethoven hair who wished us all a happy mother’s day (Bill was the only one who said thanks).

And our waitress, Jodie, admitted to me that she only just recently watched Dirty Dancing. This was after she served Jessi her “eggs Benny,” and said it in a way that made me believe it was an inside joke between them and it made me jealous! I’m very possessive of Jessi.

And my waitresses.

Bill and Jessi have since departed for home, and Henry and I are en route to Buttermilk Falls with a sleeping zombie in the backseat.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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

• 16:46 The Jonny Craig. brizzly.com/pic/2AM5 #
• 16:49 Watching Shaun of the Dead, Chooch just yelled “You failed!” to the zombie who got speared at the playground. #
• ***
• 12:47 Every time the Lady Gaga “Telephone” video comes on, Chooch stops what he’s doing and get this perverted smirk on his face. Scares me. #
• 14:04 one faux hawk and a little too much honesty // bit.ly/a9sqgN #
• 14:20 I feel better already. #
• 15:07 Let’s play We Rule on the iPhone! My gamername is ‘ohhonestlyerin’. bit.ly/d4seUk #
• 16:15 Chooch Nostalgia: The Big Baptism Class bit.ly/b7LDtX #
• 16:26 Looks like the #Habs have your number, #Pens. #
• 16:59 Chooch and I are about to wash dishes together. This probably won’t be funny. Not at all. #
• 18:27 Oh that’s nice. Now it looks like one of us punched Chooch in the eye. #
• 20:19 I’m always the last to finish my ice cream cone. #
• ***
• 00:30 It would be a lot better if the sequel was Sex and the City Goes to Hell in Hand-Me-Downs. #
• 12:04 The UPS man just shattered Chooch’s dreams by accidentally coming to our house instead of the Professional Stair Stompers next door. #
• 12:40 Wishing for Batcaves // brizzly.com/pic/2B9X #
• 14:40 The Baptism //bit.ly/crSIYN #
• 14:56 “I don’t want you to watch hockey anymore; you’re always putting noise in my ears,” Chooch said casually as we washed dishes. #
• 15:37 Henry was just telling me Panama/The Service stories & I was crying/laughing. “This is why I don’t talk about myself!” he yelled. #
• 18:21 I inhaled way too many varnish fumes today. I think it’s making me type faster. And see purple spots. #
• 19:43 Hahahaha I almost just passed out. I think maybe I need a nutritionist. Oh and better ventilation. #
• 19:47 I madededed a bracelet // brizzly.com/pic/2BF3 #
• 21:20 It’s been so long since I’ve been to Denny’s NOTHING HERE IS FAMILIAR. #
• ***
• 00:46 I just gave myself implants. Should I be bleeding this much? Oh well, the plants needed watered anyway. #
• 12:49 Today I cleaned the microwave. That should make me exempt from any form of labor for at least12 yrs. Oh wait, the Princess Card trumps that. #
• 13:13 Since I cleaned the microwave, @awoodhick should cut the grass. And I do mean the yard, not the pubes of his Ukranian concubine. #
• 13:38 When I asked Chooch why he put a large rock in the middle of the sidewalk, he said “So ppl will trip over it.” He must think I’m so dense. #
• 13:43 OMG Hot Naybor Chris is cutting his grass & Henry is missing it. Oh well. #
• 14:12 Please reserve a gurney; I’m teaching Chooch how to do cartwheels. #
• 15:14 I could probably have an orgy in front of Henry & he wouldn’t notice as long as I put True Life on first. #
• 16:52 Oh good I’m down to 50% vision. Been too long since that’s last happened. #
• 21:06 MALKIN!! Glad they waited for me to come home from work before scoring. #pens #stanleycup #
• 21:39 Fleury gets shutouts when they matter. Yay #Pens! #
• 21:53 Chooch Nostalgia!: A Photoshoot, December 2006 bit.ly/aJUIZZ <–Oh, that’s so close to JIZZ! #
• 22:39 What’s up, Red Wings? #
• ***
• 13:14 The Chooch and Dumb Mommy Show is happening live outside the house right now. #
• 13:40 10 Random Things bit.ly/bVaWue #
• 14:33 Henry wasn’t home for 1 minute before he found the phone charger I’ve been searching for ALL DAY. One of the few reasons I keep him around. #
• 15:18 Criminal Neighbor bit.ly/9bv5aF #
• 19:22 Ever since I posted in my blog about hating being a mom, Chooch has been a real treat. Can he read now??? #
• 20:17 Obsessing over my neighbors, no biggie b #
• 20:19 “No biggie b” is the new no biggie. I OWN my typos, bitch. #
• ***
• 01:55 i wish it was 1986. I’d borrow a sweater from Dr Huxtable and audition for a Levert video. Maybe go to bed at a decent hour. Ayo. #
• 11:27 Aside from the legit schizo* we had to cross the street to evade, Chooch’s and my walk to CVS was quite uneventful. (*Not a joke.) #
• 11:29 Ok fine! My nerves are a little cranked right now. I’m calming down with a Java Monster. #
• 11:40 SCHIZO JUST WALKED PAST MY HOUSE! I yanked Chooch inside to keep him safe, but mostly because I wanted to take pictures of her. #
• 11:44 Today’s definition of awkward: a feuding couple walked belligerantly by. Chooch interrupted them to say hi. #
• 11:47 There are schizophrenics in my family. Watching this lady roam around the church sidewalks, shouting, is like a glimpse of my future. #
• 13:00 Chooch, watching the 2006 Night of the Living Dead: a NUDE zombie? What the hell? #
• 14:02 Two guys in a truck slowed down to gawk at Chooch and me playing zombies in the front yard. Then I realized how lowcut my shirt is. Fuck. #
• 14:08 I never get to be a zombie! He always makes me be Barbara! Furthermore, Chooch is the fastest zombie ever. He scares me! #
• 17:32 Some of my co-workers have been dreaming of me. The plan is in motion. #
• 19:22 Chris Kunitz and his reviewable goals; my fingernails suffer some more. #Pens #StanleyCup #
• 20:53 Standing downtown, waiting for my ride home. Pretty sure these guys are scrubbing up a murder behind me. #
• ***
• 11:28 Who needs TV when there’s Brookline bit.ly/9hwxyb
• 12:22 To all the ppl who didn’t give a shit about hockey until the #Pens made the playoffs: Yes, plz keep up the criticism! You know everything! #
• 12:30 Dreamt that Matt Goddard from @chiodos was staying at our house and thought I was cool. The last part is how I know it was a dream. #
• 12:36 Got an invitation to lunch from my boss at work. IN THE MAIL. So this is what a good work environment is like. Strange! #
• 12:42 When Henry & I engage in a deadly domestic dispute (inevitably), I hope it’s somewhere cooler than Old Navy. #
• 14:51 If I had to choose between my face & tits, I’d stare at my tits too, fellas. #
• 15:00 Henry looks like one of the three muskateers today. And now I’m making myself sick from laughing at him. #
• ***
• 09:22 Henry is on the phone with his ex-wife! BE QUIET YOU GUYS. #
• 11:07 Henry just called me a tattletale and said I’m like Chooch’s sister. :( #
• 11:57 Listening to Armor For Sleep and mixing up some blood. #
• 13:05 It’s a good thing i’m not a party planner professionally. #
• 14:25 Alisha was blowing up a balloon and it burst in her face and I couldn’t stop laughing and Bill said it was forced. :( #

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.

There’s this fun-lovin’ folk tale that people in my town like to tell. Something about when patients were discharged from Mayview, the local mental institution, they were put on a bus and the driver was only given enough fare to get them as far as my lovely little town.

Lately, I’ve been starting to think there’s less lore to that than I originally thought.

For years, there was a man who lived in the house where 1950’s Housewife lives now, next to our neighbor’s duplex. In the summer, he was constantly outside mowing the yard, where he could be seen with his straight white hair flopping atop his beet-red face, sheer celery-colored shirt half-buttoned, fist punching angrily at the air as he yelled, “You motherfucker! Fuck you, bastard!”

At nothing.

He’d march down the sidewalk, perma-scowl weighing down his jowls, pointing at all the houses he passed and cursing us all. I always wondered if he was seeing something else, in lieu of the brick houses lining my street. Like maybe  claymation figurines of all his ex-lovers, pointing and laughing at him while they fuck his dead father on all our rooftops.

There were times when I’d cross the street just so I wouldn’t have to pass him. But one time  (just the once), I was brave enough to say hello to him. Just typing that made my shoulders scrunch up in memory of the horror. My hello wasn’t reciprocated, but was devoured, I’m sure, by his roiling aura. Still, I like to think that my brief moment of reaching out might have saved a life that day. If not potentially endangered my own.

I took to calling him Tourette’s.

He moved a few years ago, but he’s still in the area. Almost every time I go to Tom’s Diner down the street, I see him eating alone. Last week, he was leaving CVS as I stood in line to pay. And sometimes I still catch him walking past my house, muttering and spitting in rage. With no one around.

There’s also this woman (maybe?) with whom Henry and I have been obsessed for the last eight years. Her skin is sun-damaged, has the texture of leathery tree bark; she’s always alone, always expressionless and staring straight ahead.  We see her walking everywhere and she’s almost always wearing a dirty parka, no matter the temperature. Up until a few weeks ago, she always wore purple sweatpants. Now she has white ones! After eight years! HUGE news day. I called Henry immediately and we then marveled over this together.

I don’t think they’re new pants though. They have that aged look to them, like Henry’s face.

One time, I was out walking around the neighborhood and saw her approaching from the opposite direction. I was so excited! As we were about to pass each other, I said hello to her.

She fucking growled at me.

Yesterday, less than 24-hours after the incident with my methodically paced neighbor, Chooch and I walked the few blocks up the street to CVS. I promised him sidewalk chalk because he’s been really good all week, almost like he knows about my “I hate being a mom” post and is trying to make me feel like shit.

After leaving CVS, we crossed through the parking lot and got on the sidewalk, where a woman in a red shirt was walking in front of us. I recognized her from inside CVS; she was standing next to the cooler as Chooch painstakingly tried to decide what kind of juice he wanted. I had that feeling we were in her way, and tried to get him to speed it up. I get nervous around people who don’t smile or acknowledge my kid in any way, because not to be all “I have the best kid ever,” but he really is infectious and almost everyone will at the very least throw him an amused smile. Even young guys! Just yesterday, a kid who couldn’t have been older than 20 was walking by our yard in a studded belt and a black workshirt covered with anarchy patches. He literally slowed down to watch Chooch’s front yard antics, smiled real big at him and called out, “Hey buddy!”

This actually sucks for me though because sometimes Chooch can be a small-talk catalyst and I don’t really like small talk. It’s awkward and I generally have nothing polite to say so I come off sounding robotic and perhaps slightly stunted.

So this red-shirted lady was now on the sidewalk in front of us. As we got closer, she stopped. Just stopped dead in her tracks and stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, in this weird hip-jutted one-knee-bent pose that I haven’t seen since the last time I laughed at photos of Henry from the ’70s. Chooch and I skirted past her, leaving her in all of her Sha-Na-Na glory, and continued along the sidewalk.

That’s when she started shouting.

I quickly glanced back and she was moving again, gaining on us, shouting hysterically in a voice that was dragged down a few octaves by the weight of her testosterone reserves.

“ANGIE GODDAMN YOU! I’M SO FUCKING SICK OF THIS, ANGIE!” Her arms were taut at her sides, slightly flexed; her hands were squeezed into crazy fists.

She was not yelling into a phone like I had originally hoped. And there was no girl standing anywhere near where the woman’s eyes were focused.

I grabbed Chooch’s hand and picked up the pace, forcing him to keep up. She began moving again too, shouting out unintelligible slurs and maybe I’m paranoid, but I watch a lot of crime shit on TV and couldn’t stop envisioning her pulling a blade out of her big white purse and sticking it in my spine. Maybe it would be because Chooch and I hogged the CVS cooler for an entire thirty seconds. Maybe because I was wearing a green tank top. Maybe she’s barren and wants to kidnap my son.

YOU DON’T KNOW, OK?

“Chooch,” I whispered tersely. “Get ready to cross the street.”

“WHY, BECAUSE OF THAT WEIRD LADY!?” Chooch asked in his normal too-loud-for-public who-needs-a-bullhorn shout.

Of course we had to wait for eighteen cars and trucks to pass, because we live on a fucking busy asshole street. But once that busy asshole street was separating us from the schizophrenic, and I’m pretty sure she was a legitimate schizo, I felt safer. Until I started wondering if she had a gun in her purse. That was when Chooch and I started running.

The feeling in my stomach reminded me of when I was little, five or six, and used to play this game called the Villagers with my neighbor Adele. Essentially, we would run around her background, hiding around her above-ground pool from the invisible Villagers who were trying to kill us. My stomach would churn while we hid, the adrenaline making me nauseated.

Adele had pitbulls. I was more afraid of them than the Villagers.

But that’s how I felt yesterday, as Chooch and I ran down the sidewalk away from the crazy lady in the red shirt. Only it’s less fun when you’re running from something real.

Once we made it home, Chooch ripped open his package of sidewalk chalk and resumed being a kid, while I quickly called Henry to regale him with the story of how his girlfriend and son almost died.

“OH MY GOD, SHE’S COMING!” I screamed into the phone as I saw her in my peripheral. She must have crossed the street after Chooch and me, because she was thankfully on the sidewalk across the street from my house. That was still too close for comfort so I hissed, “Chooch, get in the house.”

“You’re going to scare him! Stop that!” I could hear Henry reasoning on the other end.

“I HAVE TO GO!” I yelled at him, ending the call before he could say anything.

Mostly it was because I wanted to go in the house and get the camera though.

Look at her hands!

After she walked past, she went to the end of the block, turned around, and came back. Before she made it across from my house again, she abruptly turned and began walking toward the church across the street. She then roamed aimlessly around the sidewalks over there for a few minutes, before coming back down to the street. Walking back down the block, I watched as she squatted in front of a Jesus shrine, rummaged through her purse, blew her nose, and then continued on her way.

Oh, Brookline. I can’t wait to leave you/don’t want to leave you. They should film anti-psychotic ads here.

Do you know how often I hear, “Oh my god, Chooch looks JUST LIKE HENRY?” Too often. Too fucking often. In my Chooch Nostalgia research, I found this old comparison exhibit I made, because apparently when he was a year old, everyone thought he looked JUST LIKE HENRY, too. Maybe he looks like Henry when he’s blankly staring at shitty television programming or cupping his jock like all little boys (and men) do, but everything else is all Erin, OK? EVERY THING ELSE, right down to the attitude.

I like that at my new job, they have no one to compare Chooch to but ME because fuck if I have any photos of Henry on my desk. Henry has a photo of his nieces and nephews at his desk. His nieces and nephews. But not one picture of me. So I let people continuously ask, “Which one is your boyfriend?” when they see the picture of Chooch with Chiodos.

“All the way to the right, guys,” I answer every time.

A few weeks ago, Chooch and I were outside eating lunch when this strange man came out of one of the houses on my block and began methodically pacing back and forth along the sidewalk with his head down. Every time he’d get to my driveway, he’d pause, pivot, and begin walking back up the sidewalk.

This went on for several repetitions.

“What is that guy doing?” I asked Chooch in a hushed tone.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled around mouthfuls of waffle. “Walking?”

But it was suspicious to me, especially since I remember Henry mentioning that he thought the house next to Hot Naybor Chris’s had been converted into a halfway house.

“Maybe he’s on house arrest,” I suggested to Chooch, because all four-year-olds know about house arrest. “And he can’t go any further than our driveway before his ankle bracelet alerts the authorities.”

Chooch gave me a “yeah, whatev” shrug and went back to licking the syrup from his plate.

Paranoia got the best of me and I quickly ushered Chooch back in the house before the deranged pacer had a chance to brandish a bloody machete or a lethal pedometer.

“What the hell,” Chooch complained. “He’s just WALKING.”

I quickly called Henry at work and told him how Chooch and I were almost victims in a mass murder.

“I know who you’re talking about,” Henry said, ignoring my hysterical conclusion jumping. “I think he’s just a little slow or something.”

A few days later, we were coming home from somewhere, probably the crack house, just in time for our criminal neighbor’s daily leg stretch.

“Don’t get out of the car yet!” I yelled at Henry. “I don’t want him to get scared and leave before I can get a picture of him.”

“Do not —-” Henry began arguing, but it was too late. “Oh, he totally saw you. That wasn’t obvious at all,” Henry muttered as I slunk my entire torso back into the car.

***

Just a few minutes ago, Chooch and I were outside embroiled in a pathetic mess of Thingie Ball, when the criminal neighbor exited his front door and began his slow amble toward our house. It’s at least eighty degrees out and he was clad in the winter jacket he wore in his photo above.

I was hoping Chooch wouldn’t see him, but he threw a glance over his shoulder just as the criminal neighbor came to a stop in front of our yard.

“HEY,” Chooch exclaimed. “IT’S THE WAFFLE GUY!” Apparently Chooch now associates waffles with the freak up the street, awesome.

I quickly put my finger to my lips and tried to use the sheer power of my eyes to will Chooch to lower his voice. Instead, Chooch chose to drop his Thingie Ball paddle and stare as the criminal neighbor slowly tromped back up the sidewalk.

On his second lap, Chooch screamed to him, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, ANYWAY?” The criminal looked up at me and I had no choice but to smile and say hello. He half-raised his hand into a wave, hinged on his heels, and lumbered back up to his house, never saying a word.

If Chooch can’t find the answer, then it truly is a mystery.

I miss the good old “You’ve been tagged!” days of LiveJournal.  So here’s one of those 10 Random Facts things, after which I’m going to hunt down some of you and tag your asses.

1. Littering boils my blood. I once pushed a girl (who also appeared to be a minor) for throwing an empty cigarette pack on my sidewalk. And when our foreign exchange student (the summer of 92) willingly allowed the wind to catch his straw wrapper, I yanked him back by his shirt collar and learned him that while his triflin’ ass was in MY country, his refuse would go in the trash can.

2. When I was 18, I befriended a garbage man (albeit a CUTE one, please) at a Steve Miller show. A few days later, he came all the way from Ohio to smoke me out in his car. He was also owned the first pierced-tongue to ever slip into my mouth. But then I panicked and thought he was going to rape me, so we went to the mall and he bought me custard. It was good. The custard. Was good.

3. The first time I ever tried to leave a message on an answering machine was when I was in elementary school. I kept messing up, so I would hang up and call again, not realizing that although I had terminated the call, all seven of my screwed up messages remained etched onto that tape, waiting for my friend and her parents to play back and laugh.

4. I called grilled cheeses “girl cheeses” for the first ten years of my life and would get highly agitated anytime my brother would eat one. Even after I learned the correct name, it took me another five years to break the habit.

5. The first time I heard the word “scenery” was in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, and even though my friend Christy told me what it meant (I think I was seven), it took several more years for me to actually comprehend.

6. I spent months convincing an ex-boyfriend that he had a stalker. He was so paranoid that he would come bolting into my house, panting that someone was following him the whole way and that he just knew it was that girl from the internet! I even wrote myself a fake threat-note from her and he turned pallid as he read it.

7. I wanted to be in a gang really badly when I was 15. My mom threatened to send me to boarding school. I laughed at her bluff.

8. I hate cops to the point of risking getting pulled over (and worse) when I see them because I get real obnoxious and Henry gets so paranoid and yells for me to grow up. I guess it stems from when my mom called the police on me because she thought I was in my room “doing drugs and suicide.” (I think I wrote about this once already?) I had bruises on my arms from the asshole cop who broke down my door. AND he made snide remarks because my room was messy, and it really wasn’t that bad! Fucking popo.  Even worse, one time I caught a cop LITTERING. This also works for #1.

9. I was one of 12 white people at a Bone concert in 1996. I went with my friends Jameelah and Ericka (my sistahs, if you will) and my then-boyfriend who embarrassed me by wearing a NIN shirt. The nerve. There was a shooting in the parking lot afterward and I was really angry that I missed it. But now, I’m petrified of guns, thanks to Tales From the Hood. Life-altering movie for me, right there.

10. I worked at Olan Mills when I was 18. My supervisor was on work release, but came to my apartment once before the shift started and we got drunk off Jack Daniels. He got busted later that night at work (I didn’t because I’m a sweetheart) and things escalated to where he wound up in jail. He used his one phone call to call me instead of his wife. My boyfriend at the time was NOT pleased. I bet that dude’s wife wasn’t too thrilled either. <–I actually might write about this soon because my naiveté always makes me laugh.

I tag:

MrsEvils

Misty

Francesco

Carrie

Kate

Ally

SWSNBN

Rhonda

Scienter

Nance