All I was doing was putting gas in my car at a gas station. It was night time, near my apartment, and I was eighteen. A lot of things happened to me when I was eighteen.

“Is that an EAGLE TALON?” some ginger guy shouted with thick Pittsburgh intonations. It turned out he also had an Eagle Talon at one point in his life, so we started talking about that. Then I thought it would be a GREAT IDEA to invite him back to my apartment for a get together! Because that’s what you do when you meet strange men at the gas station late at night!

I wasn’t home alone though. My friends Heather and Brian were there as well. Brian gave me his typical “What did you DO?” eye brow raise when my new friend Kevin arrived with his friend. We ordered pizza and for the most part, Kevin and his friend sat at the dining room table, drinking large cans of Miller. Every one in awhile, Kevin would blurt, “MAN DO I LOVE THIS PLACE CAN I MOVE IN WITH YOU” and I would giggle sweetly. Because that’s how I do.

Kevin’s friend excused himself to use the bathroom.Getting to the bathroom required one to cut through my bedroom. A minute or so later, I went up to my room to get something.

The bathroom door was open.

In the reflection of the mirror, there quite clearly hung a large penis.

I screamed, because I was a VIRGIN! Sike, naw. But I did scream, because I was very immature about things like this. I would NEVER screamed right now if I saw some random penis! Not in a million years would I!

I ran back downstairs and crumbled to the floor in laughter.

This was a much better story at the time. Now it’s just DUMB AND I’M SORRY I CAN’T ENTERTAIN YOU, MY GOD.

I look so psychotic in that picture. I NEVER look like that! Not in a million years do I!

So, with Erin only giving me about 3 minutes to think and type this up…this may not be as exciting as the rest of her posts for the remainder of this day..or any other day for that matter. (standard disclaimer)

This is a behind the scenes plea of Blogathon 2010.   While Blogathon is a GREAT idea, it can turn the most docile of us into a crazy hyper manic turtle.  That’s right, have you ever seen a crazy hyper manic turtle?  Me either, but still..  If you know Erin at all, you will know that she is far from a turtle.  I mean, she’s not even green!  Well, accept for that one time.

Last year I thought to come with stuffs.  I mean, I brought lots of stuffs.  I brought canned air(seriously) and wine and chocolates and all kinds of stuffs.  Which were never even used.  This year?  I brought myself.  Coffee.  And a veggie flatbread sandwhich thingie.  I now know the important things to equip myself with to keep Erin in the butterfly and rainbow moods.    That is my job.  Butterflies and rainbows…so, while this post is not so much with the words…I realize that they may be my last.  So, if anyone(ANYONE) reads this, please..remember that I was at Erin’s house until tomorrow morning..and if you don’t hear from me again, or hear of me again..please go feed my dog.  kthxbai

Alisha

I just spent an hour fucking with the camcorder after PERFECTING THE DOUGGIE.

I mean, it was amazing how thug I was, how much SWAGGER I HAD. I even had on Henry’s jeans and shirt and a BANDANNA AROUND MY MOUTH and Alisha’s BIG SUNGLASSES and a hat.

“You look like a dyke,” Alisha said.

It took a good fifteen tries before Alisha (“Did I do it good this time, boss?

Durr de durr”) finally mastered the camcorder and by that time I was SWEATING. And my neighbors were pulling into the driveway and stopped to gawk through my open front door.

But I was FEELING IT. I’m all about the Douggie now.

TOO BAD IT DIDN’T RECORD AND I JUST QUIT OK, I QUIT.

And every little thing is setting me off. I freaked out and ranted to Alisha about how I hate contrary people and I’m ready to snap. But then Evonne showed up with a green tea frappucino thing from Starbucks and Zombie Squad marshmallow hand sanitizer, whatever that is, so I’m OK now. I’m good.

Although, the flesh on my shoulders hurt because when I was doing the “fly” part of the Douggie, I kept pinching myself.

Perhaps I will try it again later.

In middle school, I was REALLY into rap. I wore Cross Colours. I wore Karl Kani. I had African beads that I wore and made my mom buy me a black angel Christmas ornament for the tree (which she wouldn’t let me use, so I hung it from a shelf in my room).

This went on in high school too, and at one point this guy Jeremiah I knew who lived in one of the “bad” urban parts of Pittsburgh was going to help me join a gang. This was my ambition, to run away from my big house and wealthy family in favor of living on the streets and engaging in knife fights.

My therapist at the time said it was my way of “rebelling” against the fact that my family were constantly trying to buy my love. REALLY DO YOU THINK SO? You mean it’s not normal for a teenage girl to want a grill and a tear drop tattoo?

Fifteen years later, and I’m sitting here typing this post in an oversized t-shirts and a pair of Henry’s jeans, because I’m about to attempt to “do the Douggie” for my friend Alyson.

Actually, I already did it but that asshole Alisha hit “photo” instead of record. She got a nice still of me in my thug-stance though.

I’ll be back in 30, my brosefs.

The summer of 2005, I was placed at HydroTech for a totally craptastic temporary secretarial assignment. Pasted inside my journal, I found this email that I sent to my friends regarding my short time there, so I will now transcribe it because I’m panicked for content:

I arrived at this pipe-cleaning place at 8am and met my “boss” for the day, Anton. Literally, my only duty all day long was to answer the phone and take messages. I was supposed to get their name, company, phone # and reason for calling. Basic secretarial minutia.

Right after I arrived, Anton gets a call on his cell.

He stood next to my desk and repeated in a raised voice everything the caller was saying to him. Common sense told me, “Hey fatty, maybe you should be taking this down” so I grabbed a pen and scribbled down everything he was repeated. When he hung up, he put his hands on my shoulders (gross) and said, “That’s really excellent that you knew to write that down when you heard me raise my voice. You’d be surprised how many people wouldn’t know to do that.

Good job.” I wanted to yell, “Yo, I was on the Dean’s List.”

After an hour, he said he had to go to the doctor and then he would be back. He called about 45 minutes later to tell me not to be alarmed, but he was being admitted into the hospital. I was officially there alone, save for the very weathered and grizzled mechanic in the garage (John). He had me put John on the phone so he could take care of the scheduling and other odds and ends.

Shortly thereafter, Anton called again and had me take down some info. Basically, he had a few companies he needed me to call to confirm appointments. When he got done with one of them, he said, “You have their number, right?” I said, “No” and he literally freaked the fuck out on me,

“What did I tell you this morning?! The most important thing is to get their phone number! Without that, I can’t do anything! DO NOT DEVIATE FROM THAT! Do you see what you did?! Where does that leave us now, Erin?!”

I somehow calmly (and you know my temper, so this is a feat) explained to him that the company in question had not called, and that maybe John had spoken with them because I knew that I had not. He yelled (from his hospital room!), “Why the hell is my goddamned mechanic answering the phone?! This is the only think I asked of you!!

” And I indignantly said, “I HAVE ANSWERED EVERY CALL THAT HAS COME THROUGH HERE TODAY. PERHAPS JOHN CALLED THIS PLACE ON HIS ACCORD.” Then I suggested that I could just look up the number, and you know what that fucking blue-collared prick said to me?

“You aint’ that good.”

Excuse me?! I’m not good enough to LOOK UP A FUCKING PHONE NUMBER?? So while he continued on his tangent of how I’m a moron who can’t take a message, I somehow mustered up enough intuition from my sorry moronic ass and FIGURED OUT HOW TO WORK THE BIGSHOT ROLODEX ON MY DESK and found him his motherfucking number.

Nine hours of sitting alone in a wood-paneled office and dealing with THAT cocksucker? No thanks.

And that’s today’s issue of my Summer Jobs newsletter.

Signed,

Erin “Housewife Never Sounded So Good” Kelly

——————-

DONATE NOW!!

I decided to start out easy, work up to more ambitious facial food-placing once the wine bottle is popped.

Because when I think of moustaches, I think of Henry, and then I think of anger and frustration.

I stood outside and stared at people for a minute or two, then I came back in. Alisha was trying to talk to me about some show she likes, and I kept scrunching up my face and stroking my mustard goatee to emphasize my interest.

“I can’t even look at you,” she yelled. And then, “I hate you.”

Please send over your requests. If it’s a food I’ve got in the house, I will slap it on my face.

“That he’s not here is nice,” mused Alisha as I typed the title to this post.

But seriously, I promised my sponsor Rob that I would write something nice about Henry. So here it is.

Before Henry and I started dating, we were just co-workers who occasionally hung out. It was 2001 and I had just met my biological dad’s mother and her sister Charmaine for this first time. Now, for the last 21 years of my life, all I heard was horror stories about how my father’s alcoholism, drug addictions, and the abuse who let loose upon my mom’s face. He was a monster, and not someone I spent a lot of time thinking about.

But sitting there with my grandma and her sister, looking at old photos of him and hearing about the good side that he apparently harbored, I felt really conflicted. Guilty for hating a man I barely had a chance to know, since he died when I was three. I was always thankful that he never had a chance to inflict pain on me, but these women were making me wonder if good things could have come from him being in my life.

I left their house that day and went straight the cemetery, where I sat by his grave and cried. My boyfriend called me while I was sobbing and said, “Oh. If you’re going to be crying all night, then I’m not coming over.”

Then I got a call from Henry, who wanted to know if I wanted to go on a drive with him. When he heard me crying, he said, “Where are you?” I told him and he said, “Stay there.”

He found me in the cemetery and brought me water. We leaned against his car and he let me cry.

He let me talk about my family and my feelings and quietly made sure I was drinking the water; he would always lecture me for not drinking enough.

Later that night, my boyfriend wound up coming over anyway. We sat at my dining room table while he ate the fast food he brought over for dinner (for himself, nothing for me). And I sat there, watching him eat, and I realized he was totally not the person I wanted to be with.

I made him leave.

“You still up for going for a drive?” I asked Henry when he answered his phone. We wound up sitting on a big rock in a deserted parking lot by Station Square, talking and laughing and just having a good time getting to know each other.

And then I broke up with my boyfriend.

This is late because I talk too much.

THIS IS WHAT I LOOK LIKE NOW. This is before the tears and the hair pulling and the sweating and the crazy laughing and the self-injury.

OH THANK GOD ALISHA IS HERE NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!~!! And she brought me iced coffee and breakfast. Oh my god, she just tried to feed me sausage.

When I was a senior in high school, there was a boy named Dan a few grades below me who got harassed and harangued on the daily for carrying a purse to school. It was sort of an odd contrast, considering he was always wearing Anal Cunt and Cannibal Corpse shirts, but I always felt so bad for him. There was one boy in particular who seemed to have been the ringleader in the witch hunt for Dan. He got most of the school to call Dan “Purse Boy” and basically made his days hellacious.

I’ve always been a sucker for the outcasts, so I took it upon myself to give Hell right back to this kid, whose name I won’t mention but I will say he looked like Edward Scissorhands, was short and drove a big truck. Actually, a lot of it was that I liked confrontations and it gave me a reason to get all aggressive with this guy whose mere presence in my school rubbed me the wrong way.

One night, this kid happened to be at Denny’s at the same time I was there with my boyfriend at the time, Psycho Mike, and our friend Jon. The kid was sitting at one of the round booths, acting like the King he thought himself to be, and I marched right over and said, “Get outside, we need to talk.

” He laughed at first, but then I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and he followed willingly, because how dare I attempt to stretch out his precious shirt.

We had words. Jon stepped in at one point and made some threats too, which was funny because Jon was this big 6’4″ guy sneering down upon this little Goth kid.

Anyway, it must have worked because Dan was never called “Purse Boy” again; at least not to his face.

I ran into him at the Rib Fest the summer of 1998 and he thanked me for that. (I was at the Rib Fest to see BAD COMPANY, hahaha.

)

And then ironically, Jon and I wound up becoming good friends with the little Edward Scissorhands. I actually miss that guy.

After all of that, I still named this photo “purseboy” when I scanned it.

When I started my current job at The Law Firm back in April, there was a little discussion about what to call me. There’s already an Erin there, plus an Aaron, whom they call “A-ron” to avoid confusion with the girl one. But now that there was going to be another girl Erin, it was clear that I was going to need a nickname.

Night Erin was quickly decided upon since I work evenings (in a LAW FIRM, Chooch; not the strip club) and I was like, “Well, that’s better than when I worked at Weiss Meats and was known as The Girl for four years.”

There’s one analyst there who, unfailingly, pauses next to my desk and says, “Hello….Night Erin” in this very overly dramatic, husky tone. And then she laughs maniacally like it’s the first time. Her name is Trish.

I had already been there about a week or two before finally meeting Wendy. She had other ideas for my name. Literally right after we were introduced to each other, she goes, “I think we should call you NightTrain,” and then launched into this tale of her hometown and how everyone called the town drunk “Night Train.”

“So you’re naming me after the town drunk,” I repeated, making sure I got this right.

Wendy laughed and nodded.

“I like it,” I said, after considering it. Unfortunately, Night Erin had already started stick, so only those privy to Wendy’s story continued to call me Night Train.

One day a few weeks ago, my boss had caught wind of Wendy’s term of endearment for me and was standing near my desk, talking about it loudly and laughing. “Only Wendy could get away with calling someone that and having them NOT be offended.” It’s true – Wendy might be the happiest person I’ve ever met. Somehow she was able to slap me with an unsavory nickname shared with a fucking sauced hobo and I found myself flattered.

One evening, my boss was yelling, “Night Train’s here!” and Trish, who was walking back to her office, stopped dead in her tracks. “Did you just call her Night Train?” When my boss confirmed, Trish went on to say, “Why in the world would you call her that?” She seemed genuinely concerned about it. “You do know that Night Train is the cheapest liquor money can buy?”

Just another reason to love my new name.

We’re in a typical disorganized frenzy to enroll Chooch into pre-school. Naturally, like any good parents, we can’t find his birth certificate so Henry was sitting in a pile of personal affects yesterday, hoping to find it. And to not get bit by something living amidst the relics.

Chooch was “helping,” as he does so well. Suddenly, he comes running into the living room where I’m sitting on the couch and shouts, “HAHAHA, LOOK WHAT I FOUND!” And then, “LOOK HOW BIG MOMMY’S BOOBS ARE!” and somehow I knew what it was going to be. I just knew.

And then I saw the flimsy purple plastic photo album in his hand and my fears were confirmed. Before I could steal it from him, he had flipped to the page he wanted me to see and held up, covering his mouth with his other hand and laughing.

Pictures from Henry’s 30th birthday party in 1945.

Pictures from Henry’s 30th birthday party in 1945 WHEN HE HAD A STRIPPER GRINDING ON HIS LAP.

Snatching it from his hand, I shouted, “This is not me!

This is a STRIPPER!”

“No it’s not,” he chided. “It’s YOU!”

Maybe I might have been flattered if it was some hot piece of 20-year-old ass, but this broad looked past her prime, not to mention I’m pretty positive she was a Steve at some point in her life.

Besides, had this been me, I would have been SIXTEEN. I mean, I had a rough childhood, but it wasn’t bad enough to send me gyrating against poles and the laps of moustacioed creepers.

I was going to wait until later to post these  great retrosexual photos of Henry but I want to humiliate him while he’s still in the house. He’ll probably go AWOL here soon, because it’s Blogathon and he fears Blogathon Erin.

She actually looks somewhat hot here. Like Kristen Bell a little! Must have been a good angle.

This is my favorite! What a fucking loser. “Oh mama, there is a female ASS in my face right now!

HOOOOO BOY!” I bet he called all his old SERVICE friends to tell them about it. “And this time, I didn’t have to pay for it! Someone ELSE did!”

Seriously, I’m not convinced that’s not a man.

Also, I’m glad I didn’t get “Clean Shaven, Sleazy Henry.” I prefer “Bearded Woodman, Sleazy Henry.”

I bet Henry’s wife had sex with her later.

Good morning! Here is my first entry! Can it be done now?

Boy, have I got a whole lot in store for everyone for the next twenty four hours. A whole lot of nothing. Hopefully I will find a way to scrounge something up, even if it means clipping off Henry’s ballsack and writing about the sound it made.

As you know, or maybe you don’t know, I’m doing this 24-hour blogging thing to raise money for the Greater New Orleans Foundation’s Oil Spill Relief Fund.

This money is not for me! It never touches my hands. You won’t see me pulling up to the soup kitchen in a Escalade next week, I promise. To ensure everyone’s trust, I’ve created a page over at razoo.com so I can keep track of the money raised, but the donations go straight to the charity. So far I’ve raised 6 thanks to the kindness of others!

Some of my sponsors have given me laundry lists of chores to complete throughout blogathon. I must include these words somewhere in a post:

• pterodactyl
• rannygazoo
• janiform
• absquatulate
• retrosexual
• craptastic
• barbiturate
• schadenfreude
  

There are some stunts Henry must perform, such as having a baby shoe fall on him, hugging Marcy, cradling a picture of Tom Selleck like a baby, and learning how to do the Percolater, which I just can’t wait to see. I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU.

If you’ve sponsored me, don’t forget to send over your requests! You can just leave it here as a comment.

I’ll be taking donations the whole time this is going on, so if you feel particularly inspired, I would love your help! Every little bit counts. The donation page is here:

DONATE NOW!!

(I mean, if you want.)

Hopefully I won’t throw any fits this time around. Keep stopping back and dropping comments! I’ll be here. All day. And all night. Until 9:00am Sunday morning. Fuck.

And oh my god, hopefully Henry and Chooch leave. Like, NOW.

My friends Jessy and Tommy are currently vacationing in Top Sail Island, but they were thoughtful enough to send me flowers for my birthday. That’s a really beautiful thing to come home to from the cemetery!

I think maybe I’m supposed to cut them down and fit them into the base of the cupcake, but I’m a floral-retard and Henry wasn’t home, so I just stuffed them in this skull stein that I always forget to drink my Absinthe and brain puree from.

Anyway, they are lovely and make me feel very loved!

Also the other day I got an Aw Snap! camera t-shirt and this gorgeous hand-carved skull bracelet from Bill and Jessi:

I have some really awesome friends. They make me feel loved!

The other night when I got in the car after work, Chooch handed me a wrinkled piece of paper that he had decorated with a stamper at Henry’s office. “It says, ‘Happy birthday, Mommy. I hope you get more presents.’ And I have a surprise for you at home!”

It was a latex glove. Blown up like a balloon.

I didn’t get ANYTHING from Henry. He has less than twelve hours. I’m counting.

In non-birthday news, tomorrow is Blogathon and I’m panicking as is customary for Blogathon eve. I’m worried I’ll run out of things to write about.

I’m worried that my high-energy brand of hysteria will chase Alisha and Henry off for good. I’m worried that somehow the Internet will break like it did last year, and I’ll be forced to post from my iPhone and after nine months of being an official Apple-hoe, I’m still texting with the speed and dexterity of a fingerless hobo drunk off boot-infused Nighttrain.

Things I am requesting for tomorrow (take note if you’re planning on stopping by!):

• WINE
• no candy/chocolate because it always seems like a good idea, but it makes me crash and then I get pissy and wind up being even douchier to those around me  Changed my mind! I want a bag of raspberry Kisses.
• WINE
• iced coffee!!
• grilled cheese!!
• presents!!
• WINE
• Things to fashion into moustaches
• Willingness to pose for stupid photos
• FODDER
• grenades
• Sparklers
• things in which to dip myself
• WINE
• bonfire in my living room so I can make s’mores while whispering “s’mores” creepily in everyone’s ears

Also, I turned off email notifications (which ironically JUST STARTED WORKING AGAIN after crapping out on me a year ago) and the Twitter feed so you guys won’t get inundated by 49 scatter-brained blog posts. See how considerate I am of your patience?

It’s not too late to sponsor me! All proceeds go directly to the Greater New Orleans Foundation Oil Spill Relief Fund. Please visit my donation page for more information!