Unless you literally know absolutely nothing about me, you know that I have a special place in my heart for Craigery Owens, right next to Robert Smith’s property. But to me,  Chiodos was never just Craig, so unlike all the fans who have been bitching and screaming about the audacity of Chiodos forging ahead without Craig, I’m excited about it. From the live videos and the Equal Vision teaser above, I think their new singer Brandon (formerly of Yesterday’s Rising) has proven to be a great match.

As long as Chiodos continues making music, I’ll continue supporting them! They’ve been too big a part of my life for the last five years for me to stop loving them now.

Before I left for work yesterday, it began to downpour. Because I never think very far ahead, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed the camera and ran outside with Chooch.

“I had a dream that you were taking me to my new classroom and you looked ugly,” Chooch said when we were on our way to buy him new clothes for school.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“What?! It was just a dream. God.” And then came a series of annoyed and exasperated grunts that he must have learned from Henry because I am never annoyed or exasperated.

Nearly every shirt he picked out has skulls on it.  And he’s clearly not afraid to make bold statements by wearing purple.  I wonder what scene-kid fashion will be like by the time he’s in high school. I wonder if there will be cool scene-ish four-year-olds in his pre-school class.

Henry came home from work during our photo shoot and proceeded to sit across the street in the parking lot like a creeper, probably finishing up his daily phone sex with his girlfriend. I didn’t even realize he was there until I came back inside and saw that he texted “you guys are idiots.” He’s just jealous that he’s too old to play in the rain; it’ll enrage his arthritis.

And then I had to leave for work, where I sat in air conditioning for the next five hours while squirming under wet hair and damp clothes. And when I get sick, of course I’ll act surprised.

Last night at work, I received a string of really sweet emails from Henry. Totally out of the blue, he apologized for letting me down, especially on my birthday(S!!!). That’s the one day that always makes me realize how alone I really am in this fucking city, and Henry doesn’t really do much to help in that regard. But at least he’s acknowledging it. Baby steps!

Anyway, his emails were so nice that I actually started to cry a little while reading them. It made me realize that it doesn’t really matter how many people let me down, as long as I’ve got that Henry guy. (Ew, gross I know. But this only happens once every three years, so deal.) So today’s post is a Henry-centric flashback to 2007.

*****************

Things I Learned From My Fridge

April 18th, 2007

When I moved into my current home in 1999, my step-dad gifted me with a refrigerator. But not just any fridge! This was a true relic of his bachelor stint, a tangible slice of the 70s. One could tell at first glance that this box was old, but it was good enough for a single girl who acquired her groceries from the gas station.

The crisper had lost its lid during one of the fridge’s many locale changes, but what did I care? I didn’t even know what a crisper was until Henry moved in. Pre-Henry, I had adoringly referred to it as the Alcohol Receptacle. When he schooled me about its function, I laughed because the last time I checked, there was no produce department in Sunoco so why would I need to know what a crisper was? (I’m the world’s worst and unhealthiest vegetarian. I lived by the philosophy of “Can’t cook? Cheese curls!” But now I have a Henry1965 so I eat vegetables.)

And when various liquids and syrups hybridized into a mysterious pool along the bottom of that crisper, I learned that using the hose of a vacuum to suck it all out was not a Smart Idea, as evidenced by the exasperated “Oh, Erin, no!” evoked from Henry.

The freezer, bless its heart, was comprised mostly of a giant iced growth protruding from the top. One time my friend Wonka and I went homicidal on the ‘burg with screwdrivers and hammers. It was one of the most violently rewarding moments of my life. It taught me that therapy was a waste when I could be simulating crimes of passion on gigantic ice cubes as a stress-reliever.

And of course there was the time it smelled so bad and then Henry finally cleaned it, providing yet another great photo op.

I thought about all of these things Saturday morning when the fridge completely fell to its knees, totally gave up its rank ghost. But mostly I thought “Good riddance.”

Yesterday, Henry rented a Uhaul and went to my grandma’s to pick up her surplus refrigerator. It must be nice to buy a fridge to keep in your game room “just in case” and then oopsies, never use it because you never needed such loft in the first place. If I ever get to that place in this lifetime where I can have duplicate appliances on the off chance that I might someday house another family under my roof, then maybe I’ll sling a little less hate. Maybe!

Of course, Henry has no friends so he was all on his own with the Fridge Acquisition, which made me laugh. When he returned with it, chest puffed out like a man coming home with a freshly slain buffalo carcass slung over his shoulder, he made me stand on the front porch and hold the door open for him. As he stood there, he mumbled “This will be the true testament of my strength” and with a swift intake of breath he hoisted the fridge up the (only two, ha-ha) steps and into the house.

Now, I’m not one of those females who gets all panty over men exhibiting random acts of Herculean strength, so I was surprised when my obnoxious laughter — the usual soundtrack peppering Henry’s every movement — became strangulated in my throat by an impetuous sense of attraction.

But how could this be when my embarrassing crush on him had ended in March! Two days after it started! I was so angry at myself for succumbing to such typical womanly persuasions.

As I jumped around him and fulfilled my duty of Getting In the Way while jabbing the camera in his face, I realized that it was probably not so much the act of fridge transportation, but more so the gloves he was wearing while doing it.

Real manly, blue-collar worker man gloves. The kinds with the little black nubbies on it. I would be lying to you, Internet, if I said it didn’t make even the tiniest beads of sex-sweat bubble within me. To think, I might not have unearthed this new personal idiosyncrasy had the fridge not intervened.

I admitted my new found delight to Henry and he seemed annoyed. Probably because I never say things like, “Your pretty face turns me on. Hey, your weener makes me hot” but instead I blurt out mood-inducing gems such as, “You remind me of Michael Myers, please simulate a rape” and “The gloves that you (and millions of other people) wear make my nethers drizzle and sizzle, touch me all over.

But only if you’re wearing them!” I think he’s also afraid because this means hello, new role-playing scenario! Sure, Henry, I’ll spread the legs for you, but not until I watch you lug that fridge upstairs. Give it to me, Papa H.

Before I left for work today, he was telling me that one of the guys at work is plying him with blank DVDs, to which I excitedly responded, “Oh good! Now go find some glove porn to download. But none of that fashion glove bullshit. I want the big bulky ones. Like the kinds that garbage men wear. You know, dirty.”

The last thing Henry said to me was a tired sigh paired with “You’re disgusting.” Honestly, he couldn’t have slipped in an “I love you” somewhere in there? He better pray I don’t have a car accident and die tonight, because now everyone will know how callous he is and I’d love for that to be seared upon my headstone. Fantastic, yet disgusting, partner to Henry. She had a big mouth and a fat face, but still she will be missed.

We’ve only had the fridge for two days, and already I’ve learned so much.

You know it’s a slow night at The Law Firm when I’m taking pictures of my accessories. And can you believe one of the rings I bought Sunday morning at the flea market done went and BROKED on me? You’d think something that cost .

50 would hold up better!

Anyway. I’m fucking bored. Tell me things.

Chooch is going to be in for a shock when it comes time for school portraits and the photographer doesn’t pull out an animal mask or a tube of fake blood.

In other awesome parenting news, I spent a whopping two hours with him at the playground today. If this isn’t your first time reading this shitty blog, you should know how amazing and unusual that statement is. Being an anti-mom, I try to avoid any situation which is going to potentially pit me against other moms.

Playground Moms.  They are Massengill-filled sausages, I fucking swear to god. I can’t stand them. They are all sit around in snobby cliques looking down their noses at the other moms who aren’t cooze-y and granola enough to be included, like me and this other broad who was also sitting alone. And I have to say, if I was forced to interact with ANY of them, it would have been her.

Meanwhile, as the twatty hens were clucking away about apple sauce (I’m not lying), not one of them was watching their children and I had to go and herd a bunch of them away from the parking lot, all the while scowling at their asshole birth vessels on the way back.

Oh well. At least I got to work on my tan.

It was an awkward encounter at the beer distributor he owned; I had stopped there to grab some beer for an upcoming game night and there he was, behind the counter, waiting to check my ID. Of course he wouldn’t recognize me; it wasn’t like we had regular visits.

That was the last time I saw my Grandpa Kelly.

He’s my dad’s dad, and that in itself is awkward, because my dad is really my step-dad, and actually he’s not even that anymore because my mom divorced him something like ten years ago. But my biological dad died when I was three, and a few years after my mom married Kelly, he legally adopted me.

Since fourth grade, he’s been “daddy.” But we had a volatile relationship, I’ll go as far as to say we hated each other for much of my teenage years, so I always opted out when my family would go to his parent’s house for holidays or visits.

When I would go, Grandpa Kelly didn’t often come out from his room. He was a germ-phobe, had OCD, and oftentimes was pretty uncomfortable to be around. While I always really liked my Grandma Kelly, I didn’t have much of a relationship with her husband. I don’t think my younger brothers did, either. One of the last times I was over there, it was probably in 2002, my dad met me on the front porch, waiting to give me a refresher.

“Don’t mention you have cats. Don’t mention you smoke! Oh god, don’t mention that. Just, you know what? Just don’t talk.”

Because every little thing freaked Grandpa Kelly out. If he knew I had cats, he’d go into cardiac just imagining the trail of feline nastiness I was tracking into his house. This is a man who couldn’t eat from the same peanut jar as his wife.

My dad and I have gotten along fine ever since I’ve lived on my own. When I was 18, he even swallowed his pride and apologized for the nasty things he’d done to me. And I apologized too, because it’s not like I sat around taking that shit. We fought violently at times. Slung some really razor-sharp words at each other. I nearly caused the demise of my parents marriage on more than one occasion. (That would come later, and it was long over due.)

My dad was the only one who didn’t shut me out during my pregnancy. He’s never made me feel  unwelcome in his home. His name is on my birth certificate. He’s the only father I ever really had.

So I felt it was only right to go to the funeral home on Sunday, where my Grandpa Kelly was laid out.

I met my brother Corey in the parking lot.

“I’m probably only going to stay for a half hour or so,” I said, figuring that would be enough time for the black sheep. Aside from my dad, I hadn’t seen any of his family in almost ten years. In fact, his younger brother has three children that I know nothing about. The youngest I’ve never even met. And he’s like, fifteen.

The director of Debor’s directed Corey and I to the Rose Room, where we saw our dad immediately. He came over and hugged me, but we were completely out of sync without each. It became a dance of him lifting one arm and me leaning the wrong direction until we finally shot the routine like a lame horse after I smacked my chin off his right shoulder.

I come from a long-line of uncoordinated huggers.

My dad looked tired. His eyes were red-rimmed. But his voice was strong and his stance was sturdy.

“I cried every day he was in the hospital,” he started in his standard matter-of-act way of speech. “At this point, I’m just relieved he’s not in pain anymore.”

Meanwhile, I felt eyes boring through me as people began to wonder who I was. I could read my Aunt Joyce’s lips as she murmured, “I think that’s Erin?”

I felt confident that I would be OK being there. Though I didn’t have a relationship with this man, I was still very sorry that he passed, that the rest of the family lost their patriach. But I was sure I wouldn’t cry. I was just there for moral support for Corey, and out of respect for my dad. I was going to be fine.

And then I saw my Grandma Kelly and I fucking lost it. I didn’t downright sob, but my eyes filled up before I had a chance to fight it. And that was before I even had to talk to her.

“Why don’t you guys go say a prayer?

” my dad suggested, gesturing to the two mauve-velveted pews next to the casket.

I knew he was going to do that. Goddammit.

So I reluctantly knelt next to Corey, fumbled my way through the sign of the cross with a heavy hand, and then squinted my eyes shut.

Then I would feel a presence near me, so my eyes would flutter open. I would force them shut again so it would appear I was genuinely praying.

Things that went through my mind:

“How do you pray?”

“The flowers smell nice.”

“I’m supposed to keep my eyes shut, right?”

“Hi God.”

“Is Corey still doing this prayer thing?” as I’d sneak a sideways glance

“I kind of want a Zebra Cake.”

“This sucks.”

“I hope no one’s watching me.”

“It would suck if my period started right now.”

“OK, I’m done with this now.”

I waited a few seconds after I sensed Corey leave before rising myself. I turned around and found myself face-t0-face with my Grandma Kelly.

In her sweet, sing-song voice, she cried out, “Oh Erin honey! You came!” She looked the same to me. Tiny, energetic. The only thing that was different was the sadness tugging on her eyes. She kept three of my fingers clasped inside her small little hand while she turned her attention on some priest who came to pay his respect. I stood there awkwardly, in this painful limbo right smack in front of the coffin, feeling so uncomfortable with this lingering affection yet not wanting to wrench my hand away either. Finally, someone for her to hug approached and she released my sweaty hand in favor of wrapping her arms around someone’s neck.

“That’s my mom’s biological sister,” my dad pointed to a nun standing across the room.

“What do you mean by that?” Corey asked, but I knew damn well if he had just said, “That’s my mom’s sister,” we all probably would have assumed he was calling a nun a nun.

Having familial obligations to fulfill, my dad left us to go and greet some new arrivals. Corey and I sat in two white padded folding chairs along the wall. Of course we would choose the ones closest to the coffin, because we’re idiots. I kept finding my eyes drawn to it, to the waxy Rosary-wrapped hands; to the pasty nose,  slightly rouged cheeks, and pale parted lips. I could not stop staring. I’d try to fixate on the yellow roses strewn about his body, but my eyes unfailingly went back to his face.

It made me think about my Pappap, how I avoided looking at him in the casket until that last moment of the viewing, when the funeral home director was trying to shoo us all out for the night and I was pulled into the small room that held his body, everyone around me saying it was time to say goodbye, and I remember dragging my feet, shaking my head, until there I was, standing over that fucking coffin at my Pappap’s lifeless body and I don’t know what I thought. That if I didn’t look, it wasn’t real? But I looked, and I wish I could rewind time and go back that night in late February of ’96, stand behind myself and place a hand over my eyes.

It was so hard for me that I can’t allow myself to remember what I saw when I looked down that night.

To my left, I heard sobbing. I looked over and saw our cousin Katie, Kevin and Joyce’s 18-year-old daughter. And then I started crying, as I sat there guiltily watching her bury her face in a Kleenex, and I hated so bad that she had to lose her Pappap. These grandparents are probably to her what my mom’s parents were to me; I would not wish that heart-shattering pain on anyone.

“It must have been tough finding the best Hawaiian shirt to wear today,” Corey said, nodding in the direction of a total Captain Casual who, along with his wife and two young daughters,  was talking to our dad. The older of the two girls was crying into her mom’s dress. We figured they were cousins we didn’t know about, until they eventually made their way over to Corey and me. Since we were sitting right near the casket, I guess we looked like people needing sympathy, so a lot of visitors swung by us with apologies before hitting the casket.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt ended up being some guy who worked at the beer distributor for years. His whole family seemed distraught.

“Me and your dad had some wild nights down there,” he joked, and it was nice to have a reason to laugh. I liked that guy, Hawaiian shirt and all.

Corey was summoned by someone and no sooner than 2 seconds after his ass left the seat, some older man sat down next to me. Just as I was going to make a break for the door.

I didn’t catch his name, but I think I heard somewhere that he’s my Grandma Kelly’s neighbor. I’m not into small talk in any setting, let alone  a funeral parlor. What more is there really to say other than, “This really sucks.” No one feels good being there. No one’s going to wake up the next day and remember talking to Ed Kelly’s sorta-kinda granddaughter about what college she went to. I just don’t have the energy for that bullshit, especially when I’m surrounded by sniffling, sobbing, and a choral round of “I’m so sorry”s. Let’s just sit in peace.

Corey came back and sat next to the neighbor, who eventually rose in a bumbling manner and scanned the room for a more worthy parlor pal.

“What the fuck?” Corey mouthed to me, and I just shook my head in defeat. There went my half hour.

“Don’t leave me again!” I whispered.

More huddles of black-garbed respect-payers. More drafts of ice cold air from the vent. More inhalations of opulent funerary bouquets. More subconscious attempts to cloak the forearm tattoo from the more pious types.

I leaned in to Corey and said, “I even left my phone in the car so I wouldn’t feel the urge to tweet.”

Corey tried to suppress a laugh. “First rule of Twitter: never tweet with a dead relative in the room.”

One of the last viewings I went to was senior year of high school. Lisa’s grandfather had died, and while I didn’t even know him, I started crying uncontrollably as soon as I walked into the funeral home. And then I saw Lisa and her parents and the tears began flowing at a fire hydrant’s speed;  my friends Brian and Angie had to actually take me out of there because I was upsetting people. It was her grandfather. People around me just can’t go about losing grandfathers and expect me to be cool with that. Brian took me to Olive Garden and bought me raspberry cheesecake.

Now I associate raspberry cheesecake with death. It’s a good thing I’m morbid.

“Those are the flowers from Mom,” Corey pointed to the head of the casket, where a large arrangement of red and white flowers sat on the floor. The story is that my mom, whom I knew wouldn’t come even though I thought she should have, decided to send flowers in her name, Sharon’s, and their younger sister, Susie’s. Apparently, the florist forgot to put Susie’s name on it and Sharon, whom after spending the last twenty years (if not longer) of her life wishing murder upon Susie, is now suddenly a HUGE Susie advocate, freaked the fuck out on my mom. Then my mom in turn got angry at Susie, because she should have been the one buying the flowers in the first place, since she’s the only employed one of the three.

This was what I was able to decipher from the hysterical phone call from my mom, anyway.

Sharon wanted one of us to write Susie’s name on the card at the funeral home. She’s out of her goddamn mind if she thinks I’m going to mosey up to the casket, whip out a Sharpie and go to town on the card from a squatting position. Considering my sordid history with my dad, I can only imagine what his family would think when they saw me crouched down next to the casket. “She’s lighting candles for Satan!”

So no, I wasn’t about to write Susie’s name on the card. Go to fucking Hell with that shit.

I was going to try and leave again, but my dad walked over with his old friend Darrell. It was a total blast from the past. Darrell and his wife Brenda used to bring their son Clayton over all the time when my brother Ryan was in elementary school. Clayton wasn’t allowed to watch anything “violent,” like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so that was always interesting watching my brother play with him.

Darrell sat with Corey and me while my dad wandered off to meet an old couple I didn’t recognize. Darrell got Corey and I up to date with the college careers of his kids and when he asked me what I’m doing, I had the awesome answer of, “Well, I have a kid now. So I guess I’m doing that.” In the distance, we could hear Grandma Kelly crying again, and Darrell asked us about her.

“Sadly, this is the first time I’ve seen her in years. I feel really guilty about that,” I admitted, eyes welling up again.

“Well,” Darrell started that expressionless way he has of speaking, “maybe now’s the time to change that.”

Maybe it is time. Being the asshole black sheep of the family, all families, every family, is starting to get old. Maybe it is time to change that.

Darrell rejoined my dad after a few minutes and Corey and I talked about how awkward that was. Everything is awkward with Corey and me. We do awkward right.

Grandma Kelly wove her way back to us and sat down next to Corey. “Honey girl,” she said to me, she’s always called me that, “I heard you have a baby now!”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

It’s weird talking about stuff like that with a woman whose dead husband is sprawled out three feet from me.

“Would you like to meet him?” I asked.

“Oh yes! Would I!” she exclaimed. And I felt a little better about being there.

I was going to use that as my out, since I had her right there and could easily say goodbye, but a Deacon strode briskly across the room and chose that exact moment to stand in front of the coffin and call for everyone’s attention. Meanwhile, old women were passing out prayer books. Oh motherfuck. I was sitting right there in the front of the room, against the wall, where EVERYONE could see me, so I was stuck. Members of the bereavement group led us through page after page of prayers, and there were parts where the rest of us had to say things out like “Praise be to God” and remember, I haven’t been in church in many, many years, so it was chilling to me. One of the women in the bereavement group sounded like Blanche Deveroux. So that was a high point.

Grandma Kelly, who was still sitting with Corey and me, had sobbed her way through the prayer session. This made Corey cry, which in turn made me cry. Crying is fucking contagious.

“Hey, on a lighter note,” I said to Corey afterward, “I somehow remembered all the words to the Our Father.” And he laughed a little through his tears, so I was glad.

By the time all that praying was done, I had been there for over an hour. I might as well just stay for the home stretch at this point, I thought.

Our cousin Kristen came over. I hadn’t seen her since she was probably 3 or 4, and she’s at least 22 now. Just graduated college. Looks like a complete bitch. My Grandma Kelly clearly favored her when we were all younger. Every time my dad would take us to her house, it was always, “Baby Kristen this” and “Baby Kristen that.” It became a joke for my family.

Even now, when my dad mentions her, he twists up his mouth and says, “You know, Baby Kristen,” in the old-womanly voice of Grandma Kelly.

“So, where do you live?” Kristen asked me in exactly the type of snobby voice I expected to come out of that tight-lipped mouth. She was standing above me, making it slightly intimidating. “I like, know nothing about you.” The way she said it? I interpreted it to mean, “What are you even doing here?”

I told her where I live, smiled and said, “I haven’t seen you since you were really young.”

“Yeah, I like, have no memory of you.” And she gave me a quick, tight-lipped smile. The kind that doesn’t make it up to the eyes. I really don’t like her. Apparently, Corey doesn’t either.

Her boyfriend seemed nice though.

Finally, the director of the funeral home came over to my Grandma Kelly and advised everyone to leave now, to take advantage of the break before the 6:00-8:00 viewing.

As my Grandma Kelly hugged me goodbye, she said, “Tell your mom I said hello!” Then, with a hand shielding the side of her mouth so my dad wouldn’t see, she added, “I love her! He doesn’t know that, but I love her!” My dad just smirked and rolled his eyes.

This time, my dad’s hug wasn’t as awkward, and he thanked me again for coming. It made me feel bad that he felt the need to thank me at all.

“Well, so much for only staying a half an hour,” I laughed to Corey as we left at the same time as the rest of the immediate family. I got home and was telling Henry about it all, and said, “I didn’t think it would hurt so much being there, but it did. I feel really terrible. Really depressed.” For the rest of the night, I kept, against my will, playing back those images of my Grandma Kelly and Katie crying, of my dad’s tired eyes, of Corey getting emotional when asked to be a pall bearer. It was just too much.

I was telling Barb about it yesterday at work, and she goes, “Oh, you didn’t take Riley?”

“Oh God no!” I laughed. “Can you imagine? ‘Mommy, is he a zombie now?’ as he’s poking my Grandpa’s face with rose stems.”

Last night, as I was tossing the black shirt I wore to the funeral home into the laundry basket, I caught a whiff of my Grandma Kelly’s perfume and my heart fell a little.

I was interviewed over at Custom Zombie!

This doesn’t happen often, so if you went over and read it, I’d be really happy!

I totally paid her to feature me. Just kidding! (Maybe.)

Somnambulant Interview by Custom Zombie!

It’s really getting bad over here.  I’m so far into this alternate reality that half the time I forget that I’m not deaf. Or Mexican.

My hearing-impaired alter ego Manuel has really been having a tough time of it. First, he gets stabbed in his apartment by some crazy lady with a knife. Then his life-partner Henry forgets to pick him up from the hospital! That’s low. It’s a good thing they reconciled over season 2 of Queer As Folk the next night.

Then there was the whole affair with the realtor from Michigan and the peanut butter-coated hearing aid left on the commode.

This weekend, Manuel had to make a last minute trip to his hometown in Maryland (the relay operator pronounced it Mary-land) because Mother and Aunt Shirley got in a fight over cat food again and this time it was pretty bad. Aunt Shirley is very serious about her cat food!

Henry is trying furiously to block my personal relay phone number.

***

I woke up at 6:30 this morning to meet Jessy and Tommy at one of the flea markets in Perryopolis, PA. (Tommy calls is Perryhopeless and I’d have a hard time finding anything more apropos.) That’s how you know I love you, when I set my alarm on a goddamn weekend.  Prior to our arrival, Jessy tried to warn me of the utter trashiness of this particular flea market, of the foul stench that could be sniffed throughout the indoor portion, of the fact that she and I would look like hotel heiresses in comparison.

Just driving through the lot, I quickly learned that this flea market was like an outdoor People Of Wal-Mart festival.

And it was awesome.

Femullets abound!

Tazmanian Devil tattoos every which way! On shoulder blades and saggy, sun-damaged bosoms!

Wrecked livers and nicotine-tarnished teeth as far as the eye could see!

Troughs of worthless tools! (In a move reminiscent of Henry, Tommy felt inclined to explain the purpose of these worthless tools and no one cared!)

Piles of novelty t-shirts and creepy stuffed clown dolls!

Then we happened upon a certain expanse of tables and if my life was a TV show, this is where the record scratch would have been inserted. I had happened upon the motherland of cheap flea market rings. I almost never find cool rings at the two flea markets Henry normally drags me to. I couldn’t breathe for a second or two as I ran my fingers gently over the display cases.

I bought three. I didn’t even feel guilty. The lady behind the table kept trying to show me these neon bands that glow in the dark (“They ain’t even gonna turn your fingers green,” she emphasized as many times as Dubya reminded Kerry not to forget Poland – political flashback, holla!) and I kept pointedly ignoring her. She’s lucky her other rings were too fabulous to make her lose a sale. Like this one that’s giant enough to provide back-up next time I try to break Henry’s nose:

And then I really had to pee. Normally I’d hold it, or go behind a teepee and peepee in Henry’s cupped hand. But I wasn’t going to be near “safe” restrooms any time soon, and there were no teepees or cupped hands ready to be participant. I was forced to go inside and make a visit to the “ladies lounge.”

They could have called it The Queen Mother’s Diamond-Encrusted Porcelain Ballroom and it wouldn’t have done much to priss up the piss puddles atop an uneven floor the color of boogers and staph infections, Gretel’s toilet paper trail, or the lingering bouquet of old lady flatulence.

There were three stalls: one had a flooded floor, pubes dipped in menstruation droplets dotting the seat like ornamental garnish at the sewage plant, and a ripped toilet seat cover waving in surrender.  One was occupied by a human emitting low groans. One had a broken lock.

I chose the one with the groaning human. Straddled it’s liver-spotted lap and urinated right between its legs.

But really, I hate when bathroom stalls don’t shut! It’s hard work peeing with one foot slammed against the door.

The groaning human didn’t wash its hands.

I did. Wash my hands that is, not groaned. I lathered those phalanges up REAL GOOD with steaming hot water. Then I rejoined Jessy who bought me a red velvet whoopie pie filled with a hearty splooge of sexual cream cheese. It was enough to eradicate the horror of the bathroom. I’m convinced that baked goods is what makes it all OK. There are times I consider having another child while eating a particularly high class cupcake; makes me momentarily forget the pain and trauma of that whole “creating life” process.

“I totally get what you mean about that delicious aroma,” I said to Jessy. It was like a hearty stew of body odor, Nascar fandom, cigarettes and Looney Tunes t-shirts unwashed after weeks of marinating in Pabst spills, gasoline splashes, and juice squeezed fresh from domestic violence.

Delish.

Meanwhile, we couldn’t find Tommy.

“I left my phone in the truck or I’d call him,” Jessy said.

I didn’t even have to ponder what to do next. I’m always waiting for these opportunities.

“I’ll call him,” I said deviously. “What’s his number?” And as Jessy recited the digits, I typed them hungrily into my IP Relay iPhone app.

AND HE ANSWERED.

Manuel: Thomas. I am looking for you. Jessy fell into the commode. We are cleaning her off and will join you shortly. Thanks. Adios.

Tommy, to the operator: Ok. I know where she’s at. That’s my wife. Thank you. I’m gonna hang up, I’m gonna go where she’s at.

The operator, in parenthesis, informed Manuel that Thomas was speaking too fast. But the bigger picture here is, OMG how nice of Manuel to come all the way back from Mary-land to assist in Operation: Plunge Jessy from the Commode.

While this was going on, Jessy was talking to two jewelry vendors. I was hunkering off to the side, away from the flow of foot traffic, squatting to hold in my laughing-pee. I kept trying to tug on her arm, laughing so hard my speech was on par with that of a slurring retard with a Cockney accent and a fat wang in his mouth.

Jessy ignored me and continued her adult conversation.

By this point, I could barely breathe. I was laughing so hard that it was coming out in squeals. Jessy finally bought something and said goodbye to her new grown-up friends.

“You’re an asshole. I was trying so hard to talk to those people while you were over there laughing like an idiot!”

Then we found Tommy and he still looked confused from his phone call from Manuel. I explained to him and he was like, “You’re a fucking retard.” But I know deep down he was impressed.  Probably even honored to have received a call from the great Manuel.

Before we left, some guy approached us and said, “Do you have any plans for the winter?” He was trying to hook us into learning more about some home renovation thing he was selling.

“I thought he was going to ask us if we had any plans tonight,” I laughed to Jessy as we walked away.

So she turned back and yelled to him, “Hey she wants to know if you have any plans tonight!”

He blushed (I’m taking Jessy’s word for it since I had all but vaulted over vendor tables to avoid the awkwardness that was bound to ensue) and said, “Oh, that’s my girlfriend over there.”

How dare she! Turning me from Ridiculer to the Ridiculed!

Then we went to brunch at the Beach House, where I got to meet Jessy’s mom and her husband for the first time. Both were very lovely and I had a delicious frittata.

“Erin must love her food because she’s not talking,” Jessy said to the rest of the table.

“Thank God,” Tommy muttered.

An hour ago, I was ranting about being considered a Mommy Blogger.

I’m not a mommy blogger! Here, have a photo of my kid!

Most kids my age would be planning clandestine keggers while their parents were away, but me? I was ironing out the final details for my first real dinner party, and a vegetarian one at that.

It was going to be so perfect.

I was a senior in high school that September in 1996, and opted out of my family’s weekend trip to Tennessee. If you want to get technical, I think it was more that I just wasn’t invited because my step-dad and I hated each other. My mom didn’t really have a problem with me staying home, especially since her sister Sharon lived two houses up the street and we all knew that Sharon would be popping over in regular intervals of excess.

My dinner party was scheduled for that Friday night. I stayed home from school in order to get a head start on preparations, and by that I mean I was trying frantically to learn to cook.

  I had a few recipes torn out from Vegetarian Times and, aside from all the ingredients I couldn’t pronounce, it seemed like it was going to be a breeze.

Apparently, in the mid-90’s, being a vegetarian wasn’t the cool thing to do yet; I had a horribly difficult time finding nori flakes and tempeh, and truth be told, I didn’t even know what those things were. Most of my day was spent calling around to various markets, trying to not only locate these ingredients, but explain to the confused employees what it even was that I was asking for, and setting the dining room table with my mom’s good dishes. I was stressed. Harried. Frazzled. A good bit of the pumpkin puree for my soup was splayed across the backsplash like the arterial spray of a grisly gourd murder/suicide.

By the time Lisa arrived at  my house after school to take me on a wild nori flake chase, I was down-right furious with a tinge of self-pity, and on the verge of calling the whole thing off.

“It’s going to be a disaster,” I wailed to Lisa, slouched down in the passenger seat of her Jeep. “No one’s even going to eat this shit!”

But then we found the nori flakes and tempeh at some frou frou health food market in one of the yuppier parts of town, so I started to have hope again.

Lisa dropped me off and left to get ready. She was bringing a date with her to my dinner party. His name was Jon and he went to a local Catholic school. A mutual friend of ours had hooked them up and it was going to be their first date. Even more pressure for me to make a perfect dinner and tone down the crazy.

By 8:45, everyone had arrived. The guest list included: Janna, Keri and her boyfriend Dan, Sarah, Angie, Lisa and Jon.

Everyone sat around in the family room for social hour while I put the finishing touches on the pumpkin soup. I was still in panic-mode and unable to properly entertain everyone like I had wanted with trays of hors d’oeuvres, clove cigarettes and scantily-clad virgins performing parlor tricks. I felt bad that Jon, a perfect stranger, had found himself sitting in a rocking chair in some maniac girl’s house in the suburbs, waiting to eat a crap dinner made of pretentious faux-meat ingredients and inadequacy.

The entree, something called a Layered Tofu Supreme which I’m sure was actually just a glorified meatless lasagna, had finally been slid and slammed into the oven, and I was ready to start serving the soup. Everyone took their places around my family’s barely-used dining room table and stared at their small glass bowls with upturned lips and scrunched noses.

“That looks disgusting,” Keri scowled, creating persimmon peaks with her spoon.

“It’s just soup!” I yelled. “Made with pumpkin! It’s not disgusting, it’s fabulous.” I stamped around the table, firing my homemade croutons into everyone’s bowl, like angry torpedoes.

And the pumpkin soup was fabulous, much to my surprise. I honestly wasn’t expecting it to be. But it was thick and rich and full of hayride-memories and cornstalk mazes, and well, pumpkin patches. It was the perfect starter for an autumn dinner.

Dan liked it so much, he ate Keri’s too. Her palate was clearly too pedestrian to handle such an elegant waltz with flavor.

It happened during the salad course.

While everyone picked around the tempeh strips and nori flakes in the “sea-sar” salad (which I actually really happened to enjoy, thank you), the phone rang.

It was  Sharon, and in true Sharon fashion, she sounded frantic.

“Did you see that car that just pulled into your driveway?” she asked, her voice strained with concern. I had in fact noticed headlights, but saw that the car had turned around just as quickly. “So, that wasn’t someone coming to your dinner?”

“No, it was probably just someone turning around,” my reply was packed with teenaged attitude. I was trying to host a dinner party, not talk to my aunt. Plus, every time the phone rang, I had hoped it was my true (and verboten) love Justin, and my heart would soar.

I hung up and returned to the table in hopes of coaxing  my guests to give my salad a chance. I found it to be quite delightful and couldn’t imagine why they were rejecting it..

“What exactly is tempeh?” Jon asked, spearing a strip with the tines of his fork and holding it up to the chandelier.

“You want a jeweler’s loupe for that?” I asked scornfully. Really, I had no idea what tempeh was, other than it was a bitch to procure and these ungrateful fuckers were going to eat it and like it.

The stacked tofu extravaganza was still baking in the oven, so I filled the gap between courses by breaking out a bottle of 1986 Sutter Home White Zinfandel I had been hoarding since I was seven. It was a Christmas gift from my cousin/godfather Chris, who had attached a tag that read, “For the girl who has everything.” And it was true. When I tell people about this, they usually say, “What a stupid gift.” But to me, that bottle represented my future. I kept it on my desk for years, and couldn’t wait until I was old enough to open it.

That late September night of 1996 seemed like the perfect occasion. It was my first taste at being an adult, having a real dinner with my friends that wasn’t served by a waitress at Denny’s. It was a glimpse at living on my own, away from parental supervision. It felt good. I felt proud, mature and sophisticated.

But then came the ensuing fuckarow of trying to open the wine bottle, which sent my feel-good coming-of-age moment straight down to Hell in a shit-and-tempeh-coated pipe. Jon was ready to break out the samurai sword until Dan finally ripped the cork from the neck of the bottle in eighteen crumbly pieces.

We had just toasted and were about to enjoy (or pretend to enjoy, considering the unrefined palates that usually come with teenagers) the Zinfandel from my mom’s wedding glasses when the phone rang again.

“That car was on the lane again!” Sharon shouted. “I stopped them this time.” (What was she doing, sitting on the street with night goggles? Probably.) She went on to say that she asked them what they were doing and they said they were looking for me. “I told them they don’t need to be going to your house, then I think I saw one of them in a bush!” Sharon added, filling me with a dread that I desperately did not need right then.

My family lives on a private lane. A little ways past my house were two more houses, and then a dead end.  People didn’t usually just drive up and down this street, and any time this happened it was alarming because there are some big houses on that street.

My house was surrounded by woods on two sides. It didn’t take much more than a creepy car casing my house to put me on edge.

I hung up and was explaining to everyone what Sharon had said, when the phone rang again. Everyone jumped, and then laughed. A male voice was on the other end.

“Hello, Erin,” he said. I still had hopes of hearing from Justin that night, but this wasn’t Justin.

“Who is this?” I asked, calmly at first.

“A friend,” he answered in a deep monotone that implied the absolute opposite of camaraderie.

“Who the fuck is this?!” I screamed, because there is no keeping calm and carrying on with Erin R. Kelly. And then, from the living room window, I saw headlights. A car was idling at the end of my driveway.

Phone still to my ear, camcorder dutifully recording in my other hand, I ran out of the house, shouting, “Who are you? What do you want?” while everyone else was trying to get me to come back inside and STFU.

“They could be dangerous!” Angie cried, tugging me back inside. Meanwhile, it turned out to just be one of my neighbors, pausing at their mailbox before continuing on down the lane. (They were previously privy to my crazy rep, so I’m sure they thought nothing of this latest public outburst at 120 Gillcrest.)

Still, the phone calls had been enough to encourage Jon to retrieve a tire iron from his car, and Dan was pacing around the house with a knife.

We all crowded back in the dining room. In all the commotion, I hadn’t heard the oven buzzer and the tofu crap souffle had all but burnt down the house. And then a dish towel went up in flames on the stove that I forgot to turn off. It was all too much, and I ran up to my room to pout, after hurling my camcorder into a corner. I mean, I’m naturally dramatic on regular nights, but throw in some mildly threatening phone calls and a failed salad course, and the crocodile tears and butt-hurting are out of control. Dan followed me to my room and took this as an opportunity to put the moves on me, which he was always trying to do every time Keri had her back turned. Yes Dan, there’s a maniac casing my house and prank-calling me, please fuck my fears away. I won’t tell Keri.

That only angered me more.

“My entree is ruined! No one liked the salad! My vanilla rice milk tastes like shit and Justin obviously isn’t going to come tonight!” I sobbed into my pillow.

And then the phone rang again.

“It’s them again!” Keri called up the steps.  I rejoined everyone in the dining room, with the plates of wilted salad and flutes of warm wine, and snatched the phone from Keri.

“Nice little dinner you’re having there,” the voice. “Is the wine any good?”

“Whoever it is can see us!” I hissed, hand covering the receiver. Dan and Jon picked up their weapons and went into the backyard. “What do you want?” I asked again, trying to think of who I had pissed off lately at school. This guy Damien had been acting weird toward me, and he knew about my dinner. I added him to my mental shit list.

“Your dog’s not really all that tough, you know,” the voice went on. “All I had to do was feed him some of my fries and we’re best buds now.”

I ran to the front porch to find my German Shepherd, Rama, smacking his lips next to an empty bag of McDonald’s fries. Great watchdog.

While I was on the phone with him, Sharon came screeching to a halt in my driveway. “Those fuckers drove past again,” she said, marching up to the house.

I waved the phone at her and whispered, “They’re on the phone right now.”

Yanking it from me, she started screaming into the receiver some spiel about this being private property. Then she paused and asked, “Are you threatening me?” Meanwhile, Jon and Dan were walking along the perimeter of the property, like they expected to see the culprits perched on a tree bough.

“I’m calling the police. This is ridiculous,” Keri muttered after Sharon hung up. So Keri was on the phone with the 911 dispatcher while Sharon told us that whoever she was talking to was somewhere watching us, because he knew we were all standing out in the driveway, and apparently at one point, he threatened to kill my sheep. (My family had pet sheep. Don’t judge.)

I went back in the house and stood in the kitchen next to Keri, who was still on the phone with the police. My private line rang and at this point, I was ready to murder a fool. In lieu of standard telephone salutations, I yelled “WHAT?” into the receiver.

“Mrs. Kelly? This is Sergeant Hanson from Pleasant Hills,” the man on the other end said. I felt like an asshole for yelling and quickly put on my sweet little girl voice.

“This is her daughter,” I said politely.

“I just wanted to inform you that we’ve been receiving reports from other residents on your street of potential burglars in the area. Whoever it is could be armed and dangerous, so you should remain inside and keep all the doors locked.”

I was just starting to explain to the officer that we had been receiving threats when it dawned on me that he had called my personal, unlisted phone number. Why would the cops call that number and not the main house line. BECAUSE IT WASN’T THE COPS AND I WAS A FUCKING IDIOT.

Just as I started to say, “Hey—wait!” the fake cop disconnected the call.  I was less creeped out and just really fucking pissed off at this point. Because the real police were on their way thanks to Keri, I had to pour all of my wine into the sink since I wasn’t sure if they would be coming inside the house, and if they would even take note that a bunch of underage kids were imbibing alcohol.

All that wine. All those years of dreaming of the moment I’d finally get to savor this gift from my cool godfather.

All down the fucking drain.

This was the impetus; this is what set me over the edge. I grabbed a cleaver and ran into the backyard, with Angie and Lisa trying to stop me. Everyone knew that if this was a real life horror movie, I’d be the first bitch to bite it.

And while I was out there, cutting the night sky with a cleaver, screaming threats to my hidden harassers, the real cops arrived. Sharon spoke with them first, out in the driveway, while I waited impatiently for my turn to speak.

They said they would search the area, that they would report back in a few hours.

That was pretty much the ultimate party foul, so everyone left after that, except for Keri, Dan and Janna, who decided to stay the night with me so I wouldn’t have to be alone.

I cried about it for awhile that night. The fact that my tofu entree had turned into an inedible brick of charred vegetarianism. That I never had the chance to prepare my baked apples for dessert. That I hadn’t succeeded in converting anyone to the meatless side of life.

“Hey, that pumpkin soup was really good,” Dan reminded me. It was really good. Somewhere in between the harassing phone calls, flaming dish towels and threats to slaughter my sheep, I had forgotten all about that damn soup.

And what a great first impression for Jon, this poor unsuspecting guy who was just being introduced to me. Somehow, he stuck around for the next five years. Every once in awhile he liked to remind me that I still had his tire iron.

“Oh look, Halloween 6 is on,” I said. And that’s how we ended that scary, Scream-esque night. Watching a goddamn movie where people get stabbed to death by a psychopathic stalker.

Big surprise, the cops never did follow up.

***

About a week later, the truth came out. It was Janna’s boyfriend Matt and one of his friends. Matt despised me back then, certain that I was getting Janna to do drugs and have recreational sex with bait shop owners. So he did all of that to scare Janna into leaving, because god forbid she was spending a night doing something without her crazy-possessive boyfriend.

And how did that work out for you, Matt?

He did eventually apologize, and asked how he could make it up to me. But all the wine in the world could have never replaced that one special bottle.

(l to r) Janna, Dan, Lisa, Sarah, Jon, Angie and dumb old me in the front.

The last prank I fulfilled was for my friend Bill who wanted me to call the real estate agent he used while looking for a space for his store. It seems that Bill does not think too fondly of her.

I decided this wasn’t enough, so I called back today.

I hope her husband doesn’t inflict bodily harm to Manuel! It’s bad enough he’s already deaf.

Then last night at work, I found out that I could have an outgoing message, which an operator will read anytime someone calls my designated relay number. It goes something like this (but if you want to call for yourself, I’ll give you the number):

Hola. You have been reaching Manuel. Sorry that I am cannot hear the phone ring because I am deaf. Leave a message and someone will sign it to me.

Have a bueno cock.

I did this last night at work and then called to hear a male operator stutter as he read it.

Then I quickly turned into that weird girl who laughs hysterically to herself. I had to bite my hand to stop cracking up.

I would just post my relay number onhere, butyou know. I don’t want any one to abuse it.

Henry is not amused by any of this and is .00005 seconds away from blocking Manuel’s number. :(

The downfall of Blogathon is that there are 49 posts in all, and not many people have time to read 49 posts. Especially when most of them occur smack-dab during the prime time of Saturday night. And especially when they’re written by me.

So here are my favorites, hand-picked and waiting for your lovin’.

#2: Henry Gets a Stripper

#8 Something Nice About Henry

#22 Girl First: A True Account!

#24 My 19th Birthday!

#26 The Laughter: A New Band <——–MY FAVE

#31 The Plaza Cafe

#32 Purple: An Erin’s Best Friend

#34 Alisha’s History Hour & Steel Magnolias

#37 A Necessary Weenie Roast

#40 Henry & Baby Selleck

#41 Chooch

#42 The Trunk

#48 Percolator

Henry is trying to brainwash me with tales of FBI, imprisonment, and confiscation of all phones and Internet for the rest of my life. I guess he doesn’t like it when his life partner, Manuel, leaves him messages. (Often while Henry is sitting right next to me.)

No matter, Manuel had other people to call. Like Elizabeth, upon longtime LiveJournal friends Dawny Darko and Notbatman’s request. I try not to think too much about the calls ahead of time, preferring instead to just dive right in. I’m sure that’s not noticeable at all.

Meanwhile, Henry was in the kitchen making dinner I was laughing so hard, I kept stumbling into the kitchen and falling into him.

“It’s really not that funny,” he said, all disgusted and bothered. “You’re such a child.”

I know! It’s NOT that funny! But there’s something retarded going on in my brain that makes these things the funniest things in the world to me. And while I was laughing, and while Henry was considering pouring a pot of boiling water on me, I realized I forgot something in the message.

“I have to call back,” I informed Henry.

“No, you really don’t,” he sang from the kitchen.

But this time, she answered! I was laughing so hard at this point that I was in danger of sitting in a puddle of urine.

I don’t know why I kept saying “good eve.” But I kept imagining a phonograph playing in the background and I was wearing a velvet gown in the sultry shade of emerald.  Elizabeth was clearly wearing Mother’s girdle.

At least Elizabeth was nice enough to wish me good luck.