Neon ketchup bottles, the Warhol Museum, monuments for Mister Rogers, Mount Washington, inclines, and enough Steelers memorabilia to make any visiting eyeballs hemorrhage black and gold – all pretty standard tourism fare for Pittsburgh. Where’s a person to go if they have a penchant for human remains in jars, taxidermy mash-ups, and enough antique murder weapons to arm a small colony?

Trundle Manor, Pittsburgh’s own little Wunderkammer.

Thank god for Roadside America for alerting me to such a wondrous haven in my own town. My fingers had barely given my eyes a chance to  jog over the description of “House of Oddities” before they were impatiently clicking over to the website.

Four seconds later, I was already trying to figure out when I was going and with whom. I texted my brother Corey the link and he immediately replied with a confident “Ya I’ll go.” We planned for Sunday, September 26th, since he would be in town that day from college. The website says to call or text Mr. ARM for an appointment. I was glad for the texting option.

“Um, I’m gonna guess it’s that house,” Corey said as we stood cluelessly in the middle of Juniata Street in Swissvale; he pointed to a house with an eerie green spotlight on top of a small hill. There was a definite sense of apprehension. Trundle Manor is an actual residence, not a for-profit museum. And since it was relatively late on a Sunday night, something told me we wouldn’t be taking a tour of the place huddled safely in the center of a traveling group of fanny-packed septuagenarians.

A coffin leaning against the house was the first thing we saw after climbing the steps to the porch.

I rang the doorbell (or maybe I knocked; I know these details matter to you) and we waited. Not knowing what we were walking into gave me the same bladder-molesting apprehension that occurs while waiting in line for a haunted house; I half-expected something to spring forth from that coffin. But nothing ever did, because Trundle Manor isn’t some dime a dozen haunted attraction.

It’s much better than that.

Before we could change our minds and flee from the house like two school children attempting to corral their lost ball from the neighborhood witch’s back yard, the heavy wooden door pulled open and we were greeted by a pretty, corseted blond in heels. She introduced herself as Rachel and explained that Mr. ARM would be out momentarily. We stood nervously in the foyer, which Rachel said is also known as the game room.

“Because there’s a dart board on the back of the door,” she explained, closing the door behind us. And it was officially too late to back out.

Rachel led us into the dining room, where Mr. ARM emerged with a flourish from the back side of red velvet curtains. He passed off one of the two rock glasses in his hand to Rachel and apologized for not greeting us at the door. “You can’t stop in the middle of mixing a good drink,” he explained, and Corey and I laughed nervously. And the tour commenced.

The dining room had cabinets displaying old medical mementos – scalpels, syringes, barbaric relics of dentistry which Rachel joked could be impregnating us with cancer at that very moment. There was a mannequin fitted with a vintage mourning jacket, and Mr. ARM gave us a brief history lesson on professional mourners, which sounds like something my funeral will definitely need.

Mr. ARM, who has lived in Pittsburgh his whole life and has a lot to say to the haters, has been collecting these oddities since he was seven. In addition to residing in a veritable Arcadia of artifacts, Mr. ARM is a talented steampunk artist with a remarkable moustache. (He keeps his first moustache framed in the foyer.) And Rachel is no schlep -in addition to being Mr. ARM’s muse, she’s also a talented artist with a flair for costumery.

Mr. ARM’s talking Lilliputian.

Back in the foyer (and next to the framed moustache), Mr. ARM revealed what I considered to be the pièce de résistance of the house: Olivia’s Tumor. It’s a real tumor gifted to Mr. ARM by his bellydancer friend Olivia, straight from her uterus. (I mean, it may have been fondled by some doctors first, but that’s besides the point.) Olivia said he could have it only if he gave it a proper display case. At this point in the story, Mr. ARM whipped the cover off the dome to reveal the tumor, and music began playing from the two little horns. It was sensational.

(The tumor was benign and Olivia is OK, which made me feel less of an asshole for enjoying the sight of a singing neoplasm.)

The final leg of the tour was held in the parlor, which had low, ambient lighting, an antique organ and a cornucopia of suspended death in jars. Antlers jutted from the walls and a zebra-striped rug covered the center of the floor.

And there was a jackalope.

“That’s everyone’s favorite piece,” Mr. ARM noted, referring to a taxidermied duckling perched atop a turtle; placed on a tall table in the middle of the room, they served as the parlor’s focal point. “The tagline is ‘All I did was drill a hole in a turtle?'” Mr. ARM said with a shrug. For some reason I didn’t get the punchline until later that night, at which point I laughed out loud.

The atmosphere of Trundle Manor was full of minutia which pandered perfectly to each one of the senses: the music of Henry Hall wafting from the rafters was accentuated by the clinking of ice swirling in properly mixed drinks; a musky aroma filled the room each time Mr. ARM puffed on his cigar, the smoke of which undulated around his impeccably coiffed hair. It was easy to forget that the year was 2010 not 1920.

Corey and I sat on a couch while Rachel and Mr. ARM wowed us with stories of their collections and future projects they’re planning.

“He asked me if I wanted to cut up squirrels,” Rachel said, recalling how she won the title of Mr. ARM’s muse. “So that’s what we did for our first date.” All I can say is thank god she said yes, because they’re a creative force to be reckoned with and, on top of curating a house of oddities, they’re also afficionadoes of the art of villainy.

Rachel dug out a photo of them from last year’s Zombie Fest in which Mr. ARM was the villain and she was the girl tied to the railroad tracks. I think that might have been the point where I blurted out, “You guys are my heroes.”

Hanging along the bottom of a cabinet was a row of old, rusty, and quite well-used cleavers. “This one is  my favorite,” Mr. ARM said, taking one off  and passing it over to us. It was heavy and misshapen; I had immediate red-tinged visions of using it.

“I always say, anything that can fit down my pants is free to take,” Mr. ARM said, after admitting to stealing some of the cleavers.

“What’s in that up there?” Corey asked, pointing to a large jug half-full of murky, sanguine fluid.

“Squirrels,” Rachel answered. “We had so many squirrels in the freezer that I couldn’t fit in any groceries, so I made him move them,” she explained with nonchalance. (It should be noted that Rachel and Mr. ARM do not harm living animals.)

Despite the sensory overload on the eyeballs, my favorite part of the night was – honestly – just sitting around with the ingenious Trundle Manor residents, talking about Pittsburgh and listening to their ideas and philosophies. They seemed genuinely interested in learning about Corey and me, as well, so we felt less lame about ourselves. (“Jesus Christ, I walked in there wearing a DC hoodie and Nikes,” Corey laughed on the way home, after I commented on how plain and boring we look on the outside.) There is not a single drop of pretentiousness in their blood; they’re down to Earth eccentrics with a willingness to share their work with the public and I left their abode feeling intellectually fulfilled. They even invited us back for their Victorian Sideshow Circus Halloween party, which I tried to tell Henry about when I came home that night, but I’m not sure he was able to decipher that from all my high-pitched squealing.

Visiting Trundle Manor was perhaps one of the best ideas I’ve had in awhile. If you’re ever passing through Pittsburgh and want to spend an hour or so examining creepy artifacts and perhaps even stepping outside of your comfort zone, I urge you to check it out. Just don’t forget to bring a dime if you want to see the 10 Cent Attraction.

Last week, I was walking away from the school, having just retrieved Chooch, when I heard a series of “Mrs. Robbins!”s coming from the school steps. It didn’t dawn on me until the third call that the teacher’s aid was actually yelling for me, the decidedly non-missus.

I responded awkwardly and unnaturally, because, well – that’s just not my name.

On Monday, the same thing happened. This time I responded after hearing her call it twice.

I considered correcting her, telling her that it’s MISS KELLY, thank you.

But that’s just as weird to me, because this non-marriage thing is kind of like my pet stigma, and I drag it around everywhere with me on a leash. Just bought it a new collar, actually, in a pretty shade of non-commital.

Oh, I know, I know – no one cares, it doesn’t matter, blah blah blah. Says you. I don’t care what other people think.

  It’s what I think.  The end.

This morning, Henry and I were talking about this in the bathroom. That’s where all the good conversations happen. It’s also where I tried to kill him one time.

Anyway, I was whining about it (I know, try really hard to imagine that one) and Henry asked, “What’s the big deal?”

“It offends me!” I cried. “And just so you know, if we ever get married, I’m not taking your name anyway.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Henry muttered.

“I’ll use it as my opportunity to have my last name legally changed to Appledale,” I said, the idea just then coming to me. “Will you change your name to Appledale too?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Henry grumbled, leaving me in the bathroom alone. I shrugged and turned my attention back to putting on eyeshadow.

I’ve suddenly found myself with a social life and I’m not sure how or why it happened. I’m sure I will go back to being lonely and agenda-less soon, don’t you fear.

Saturday night, Henry and I had a double date with my old co-worker Bill and his wife Natasha. Bill and I did data processing together at what I like to call the Eleanore and Tina Company, since they were my two co-workers who irritated me the most and gave me the most blog fodder from 2006-2008. I haven’t seen Bill since I left that place in August of 2008, and I had only met Natasha once before, when they both came to one of my infamous game nights. So it was cool to see them both and catch up. We met at the Green Mango for some Thai dinner and then went back to their apartment for Bill’s famous bourbon cake and some Penguins pre-season action.

I forgot how fantastic of a baker Bill is. That’s a lie. My taste buds never forget, like baked goods are tasty acts of terrorism.

It was awesome getting the scoop on my old co-workers (Tina moved to Wyoming!) and rehashing old memories like Murder Girl and the Coat Hook Conundrum. And it even made me miss Tina a little, oozing facial wounds and all. Here is a random Tina Memory from June 2007:

For the past few weeks, I’ve been power-walking around the parking lot with Tina. My elation is really beyond words, but I will say that it’s probably on the same level as diving into a pleasure pie, nude, and engaging in some aquatic ring toss with the cast of “Golden Girls.” And you better believe they’re nude, too.

Yes, it really is too delightful to be true.

During our laps, Tina is wont to release buoyant balloons inflated with complaints, gripes, whines and flat-falling jokes. The openings I have to speak are sparse, and Tina always cuts me off by mumbling a monotone “Yeah” before launching her next fleet of balloons.

Three of the four laps usually revolve around talk of her acid reflux and how she’s going to need to poop at some point before leaving. There was a reprieve of that topic last night in favor of menstrual pondering, so that was nice. I don’t want to be stingy with the details, so I’ll let you feast on the visual of Tina realizing her period started when she wiped (front-to-back, I hope) herself and saw a few blood spots on the wad of urine-saturated toilet paper. I was glad she told me this because I always wondered what that meant.

Two things to note from yesterday’s aerobic rendezvous with Tina:

1. It was the first time I saw her bare arms and could not stop myself from marveling over the variously hued splotches and dryness;
2. She was in the SERVICE, just like Henry! This explains why every time she talks about her “vehicle,” her tone makes me envision tanks and Hummers. Except that she was in the AIR FORCE, just like Henry!

I bet he’ll definitely want to go swimming at her house now. Maybe she was in Panama, too! I’ll have to show her Henry’s photo album from that golden time in his life.

While this little vignette played out in my head, Tina mistook my silence as a plea to learn every detail of her past failed relationships.

“My second husband would wake me up at five in the morning, wanting to have sex.” And then she said sex a dozen more times, each time making my labia curl and retract further inside of me. Two more times and I considered mummifying my entire vagina and never thinking of it again. She spat it out each time with a coating of vulgarity that made me want to be held by my mommy. I never thought there could be onomatopoeia for molestation. Even now, an hour later, I can’t quite shake the cloud of dirtiness cocooning me. I better turn into a butterfly, or I’ll be pissed.

Oh, how good those times were.

Anyway, Bill was one of the few people there who I could actually talk to without getting that “WTF is wrong with you?” look that I know all too well. In fact, he was the first person there who was privy to my shit-slinging blog. And his wife Natasha is super interesting and fun to talk to. She knows a ton about hockey and isn’t your typical “OMG Letang Sex Hair!” pretend-hockey fan that some girls tend to be. And have I mentioned her extensive collection of serial killer books?

I hope we hang out more often. I think they would also get along very well with my favorite Michigan couple, Bill and Jessi, so now I want to hook something up for the next time those two are in town visiting. They can all pretend they’re coming to my house for a comic book convention.

Afterward, we went to Henry’s sister Kelly’s house to give her a reprieve from Chooch Watch and wound up hanging out there for an hour or so, getting all the good family gossip. I even made Henry’s mom laugh! I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before. She usually doesn’t get that I’m joking. Henry said it’s probably because she doesn’t appreciate that her son is the butt of all my jokes.

The next morning, I met Jessy at Hot Metal Diner for breakfast. It’s one of those local places that somehow got super popular but you can never really figure out why. I got mini chocolate chip pancakes and wasn’t too impressed with them (less than half of them had chocolate chips in them and I paid a fucking dollar more for that shit!), nor was I impressed with the fact that it took an hour for them to be served. And I will never understand why some people enjoy being treated like shit by waitresses, but that’s just me.  Our waitress tried to get smart with Jessy, who in return used a tone that implied, “Look twat, I come here a lot, so watch your tone.” Jessy is awesome.

Anyway, it wasn’t the breakfast that mattered – it was getting to spend time with Jessy. I could have been digging into a lukewarm hill of curds and whey and it wouldn’t have mattered because the company was quality. I couldn’t let a weekend go by without seeing her! She’s like a fun therapy session for me – my chest always feels so much lighter after leaving her, and my cheeks are always sore from smiling and laughing. It’s a No Drama Zone with her.

We talked a lot about the beach vacation we’re taking next summer and I just know this is going to be the longest winter of my life.

I got home in just enough time to collect Chooch and set off for Kara’s son Harland’s 1st birthday party. I didn’t really know anyone there, and we all know how my social anxiety tends to leave me standing in a corner with my jaw wired shut, but having a disgustingly outgoing four-year-old is kind of cool because I just let him do all the socializing for me. And socialize he did, Jesus Christ.

Harland looked adorable as usual. I can’t believe it’s been a year! When we arrived, he sort of looked at Chooch all quizzically. I don’t think he recognized him without all the blood gushing from his mouth. My favorite part of the party was when Harland discovered Chooch had a bowl of chips on his lap and proceeded to toddle over to the couch, lean ever-so-causally against Chooch’s knee, and help himself to some Doritos. Chooch started to emit this throaty laugh that he gets when he’s nervous and kept leaning slowly away from Harland until he was almost laying down on the couch. Babies scare him, and watching this play out really amused me. There were two other babies on the rug (one was probably under a year, and the other one was able to walk) and Chooch acted like he was wading through a vat of alligators every time he got off the couch.

Chooch brought some balloons back from one of his many voyages to the kitchen (God only knows what he was doing in there since I was too lazy/socially crippled to follow) and began a balloon battle with an older kid and some of the adults in the room. A guy named Brad (I believe Kara said he was her cousin’s husband) commented that the good thing with balloons is that they can’t break anything.

“But if anyone could manage that, it would be my kid,” I mumbled, watching a lamp teeter as Chooch fell against a side table and making sure he didn’t get all Godzilla on the colony of babies crawling around on the floor.

There were enormous sugar cookies there with lemon icing. Chooch got one to go and let me have a bite in the car. I was kicking myself the whole way home for not getting my own. Goddamn was that a good cookie.

The weekend was capped off with a lovely family dinner which has already been written about and a surreal visit to Trundle Manor, which will be written about something proper-like in the next day or so. It was too good to be rushed!

I slept really good that night.

Who wants to draw a really awesomely exaggerated grilled cheese for me to get tattooed on my arm?

It didn’t sound so bad when he thought about it quietly to himself. But when Jorge heard the words as they tumbled off his wagging tongue, it occurred to him that perhaps he sounded crazy.

Pretentious.
Fatuous.
Obsessive.
Brain-fucked sociopath with a speech impediment.

He had good reasons though, for avoiding epidermic contact. It wasn’t the feel of flesh that diddled his nerves, no not that at all. Peggy Snorkleton had luxurious skin that felt like the distressed hide he wrapped around his Glock, and he did so enjoy a good rubbing against her.

It wasn’t until his mother accidentally lost her balance at the traveling freak show and collided with a leper that he began to see just how vile a human’s hull could actually be. The varying degrees of elasticity, the blemishes that sprung up the closer you got to a person, the moles dripping off bare backs like stalactic raisins.

Stretch marks.
Psoriasis.
Scars.
Freckles on an albino.

And then there was the dermatitis; the dandruff, the miniscule vellum scraps piling up like abraded artifacts across bathroom sinks.

Lately he was petrified of flesh-eating diseases.

Mersa.
Parasites.
Ticks.
Lice.
Crabs waiting to hail a new carapace cab from a dirty pubic pelt they’ve outgrown.

And still, after all the careful explaining, the guests at Francis Featherflicker’s birthday party didn’t understand why Jorge chose to stand in a corner while the rest of the revelers partook in a riveting round of Twister. It was nearly too much for Jorge to bear, even as a spectator: the mashing of limbs, the entwining of phalanges, the friction of bare flesh against the plastic mat, the rubbing and sloughing of a half dozen human appendages catapulting derma debris into the air.

He could be inhaling someone’s scalp scales.

Somewhere in between right-hand-red and left-foot-yellow, a boy with jagged-edged hair gave a diminuitive girl an Indian brushburn. For kicks, he did this. The sound of her flesh twisting beneath the boys clammy palm sent a fissure through Jorge’s psyche.

It was here  that Jorge began to notice that his teeth were grinding.

He was used to being excluded, though he supposed he excluded himself.

He was used to mostly sexless relationships; and on the occasion where he woke up feeling a bit randy, a sheet with a hole in the exact positioning of the genital vicinity would need to be laid down between him and whatever person was willing to be his partner in such Amish-styled relations. He was used to declining invitations to pool parties, the thought of all that moist skin, amalgamating into a filthy stew of sweat, urine, chlorine, saliva once sent him reeling into panic.

Jorge was accustomed to people regarding him as a pariah.

Freak.
Outcast.
Asocial.
Queerbot ripping entrails from roadkilled hobos.

But when, in the middle of quite some intense limb-locking, Curly Dustbin wafted a legume-laced bubble of flatulence into the faces of several unfortunate guests fighting for the green spot, causing a chain reaction of chunky purging, Jorge was thankful to be standing alone in a corner.

(Originally published April 14, 2009. Reposted today because I can do shit like that.

)

As Corey and I were leaving the funeral home last month after paying respects to our Grandpa Kelly, the idea of having a family dinner with our dad and Grandma Kelly was tossed around. She has never met Chooch and expressed an interest in doing so. It seemed like it would be a nice idea, since she had just lost her husband of 60+ years. Sometimes kids can do wonders for the grieving process.

And I’ll be honest, seeing her that day made me realize that I had missed her, and that I was kind of an asshole for not trying harder to stay in contact with someone who lives in the same neighborhood as me.

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me.

I made sure Corey kept reminding our dad to set something up, and finally the date of September 26th was set. I was under the impression it would be me and Chooch, Corey, our dad and our Grandma Kelly. But yesterday afternoon, Corey sent a text informing me that our Uncle Bruce and his awkward wife had been added to the guest list, along with our other brother Ryan. I was “eh” about Bruce and Judy, but happy that Ryan would be able to attend. I barely get to see him and we used to be pretty close when we were younger.

Chooch and I arrived at the Galleria promptly at 5:15 and I immediately cursed myself for being punctual to something my dad, who suffers from chronic tardiness, was attending. We sat on a bench waiting for my dad to arrive.

A minivan parked nearby and I casually watched the backdoor open and a young guy emerge. Then a tall, model-skinny girl. Then it dawned on me that this was my dad’s younger brother Kevin’s family.

“Motherfucker,” I mumbled as I watched my Uncle Kevin, Aunt Joyce, cousins Brian (14 maybe?) and Kristen (21), and Kristen’s boyfriend Joey approach.

“Katie’s on her way!” Kevin announced to me after I introduced Chooch to everyone, who was so overwhelmed he was practically trying to re-enter my uterus.

I barely know my cousins, but Kevin and Joyce were around a lot when I was younger, so I’m not too uncomfortable around them. Still, it would have been nice to know the whole brood was coming. Apparently this was such a Big Deal that Katie came home from college to attend.

My Grandma Kelly, Bruce and Judy were already inside Mitchell’s Fish Market, so I reluctantly followed Kevin and his herd into the restaurant.. We had a private room with one long table in the middle, and I was faced with the torturous task of finding the least awkward chair to claim. I settled for one next to my Aunt Joyce, who has always struck me as the most laid back of the Kellys. Thankfully Corey arrived soon after with my dad and Ryan, who sat across from me. I was happy to have familiar faces to look at.

Under the table, I read a text from Corey that asked, “What the fuck, is this like a family reunion??”

Poor Chooch was practically eaten alive by Grandma Kelly and Bruce’s wife Judy. He was gifted with a large Tonka truck and some Halloween witch thing that is super obnoxious and kitschy, which has always been Grandma Kelly’s m.o. When I was a kid, there was a store near her house called Labamba’s Variety or something, but we all called it the junk store. She would take Ryan and I there and we would go crazy, loading up our baskets with pure, unadulterated crap. I had quite the snow globe collection thanks to the junk store.

Now it’s some shitty car detailing shop.

Chooch got his own private booth to play in, and I was sort of surprised when Kristen joined him. Her boyfriend Joey also really took to Chooch, and I was glad that people were paying attention to him so I could enjoy a meal in peace.

Grandma Kelly brought some old pictures with her to pass around, including what appeared to be a page out of a scrapbook full of old photos of Ryan and me.

“Sorry Corey, you’re not in any of these,” I said snidely as I passed it over to him. This prompted him to vocalize his ages-old concern that he was adopted.

Apparently, there was a little article about my Grandpa Kelly in one of the papers after he died; Kevin had the foresight to make copies for everyone.

I wasn’t very close to the guy, but the fact that someone took the time to write this for the paper makes me realize he must have been pretty cool.

Meanwhile, Chooch had quickly found himself on a first name basis with our waitress, barking demands for chocolate milk and haughtily asking, “Do they at least have chicken?” Everyone at the table kept laughing at his charm, but I was praying that he wouldn’t start swearing. Especially after my dad was encouraging him to say, “Where the hell is my chocolate milk?”

He did talk candidly about zombies and Michael Myers, though. That was awesome.

I can’t remember what Corey was saying here,  but it wasn’t anything that called for as much intensity as he’s providing here.  I feel like we were just talking about some kind of cheese?

Always good to see Ryan. Corey calls him “The Other.” Ryan was my horror movie buddy growing up. I can’t watch “Killer Klowns From Outer Space” without thinking of him.

Yeah, it was a little awkward at first, and I was overwhelmed that every single person in the family showed up, but overall it was a really nice evening and it kind of felt good to feel like I was a part of a family, since my mom’s side clearly could give or take me. And they all freaking loved Chooch, so that negated some of my black sheepness.

Sucks that it took someone dying to get us all together.

If this looks more like something you’d want to motorboat and less like something that’s sucker-punching your gag reflex, then read on.

I love pie. For years, I’ve wanted to have a pie party but usually complacency sets in and I put it on the backburner.

But then Henry made an avocado pie for my mom’s Labor Day cookout and it was smooth as silk, tangy, rich and to be honest, I just closed my eyes and smiled while thinking about it. He even made a citrus-tinged whipped cream which he plans to slather on the next avocado pie he makes.

Which hopefully will be on October 10, 2010 for my first annual to nothing PIE PARTY.

It’s going to be held at a pavilion in South Park, and the invitation is open to any local person reading this who has a propensity for pies (or anyone who likes pies enough to travel to Pittsburgh!). I’m trying to convince Henry that we really need to pay extra to be able to have alcohol at the park because I can’t imagine spending an autumn day outside, eating pie, with NO MULLED WINE to wash it down.

Actually, I’ve never had mulled wine, but Alisha always talks about it like it’s her own invention, and has subconsciously convinced me that I must have a big steaming vat of this. I think she should make it in a cauldron. Alisha – we will discuss this soon. Look out for my telegram. Bring your decoder ring.

If we’re not friends on Facebook, here is the official event notice:

A Pretentiously Perplexing Pie Party

Sunday, October 10, 2010

2:00PM – 6:00PM

A Pavilion in South Park, TBD

Please pop a squat with me beneath a pavilion on a (hopefully) pleasant autumn day, plunging plastic ware into a plethora of piquant pies.

Please present one (1) pie for passage; a paltry price to pay for a party pinioned by prestigious proclivity.

Pursuing pies of all persuasions! Palatable produce, pungent pasty, puzzling pot pies.

Leave all picky palates at the plantation and come get your piper pied!
———————
In other words: let’s eat the crap out of some pies.

I’m having my mom make her amazing butterscotch pie, you guys. It could anally rape you and you wouldn’t even notice it, it is THAT good.

And I might be cajoled into baking the only pie I’ve ever baked in my life (not including the raw pumpkin pie that left my ex-boyfriend with a persnickety duodenum): a succulent pear pie.

If you would like to attend, please let me know! Even if we’ve never met before, what better way to say hello and swap saliva than with chunks of cherry pie falling from our mouths like the remnants of that Civil War reenactor we cannibalized last Arbor Day?

About a year and a half ago, I drew a heart for Alisha.

Yesterday, she had it tattooed on her arm. Might just be the greatest compliment ever.

Henry found this old video on his phone and sent it to me last night. It must be from about a year ago, when Chooch was three. I’m a little pissed that I never saw it until now! Thanks, Henry.

Anyway, this is Chooch impersonating the mechanical Jason Voorhees at the Halloween store.

In front of the Maul of Fame

I met Erica on LiveJournal sometime in 2004 or 2005. She’s one of the few who kept reading my crap even after I jumped ship and started this here blog, so when she wrote on my Facebook wall a few weeks saying she was going to be visiting from NYC, I was like, “Hells yeah I want to meet!”

Henry can never keep people straight. This is mostly because he’s old, but also because he doesn’t always listen to me when I tell him really important things about my day. It took me saying, “She’s the girl who told me about IP Relay Calling.”

“Oh. Then I hate her,” Henry mumbled.  Without her, there probably would be no Manuel!

Thank god for my life coach, Professional Driver Henry, because he was quick to make sure I realized I wouldn’t really have the time to take her to the places I wanted to, like Oh Yeah! for waffles and ice cream, or to Vanilla Pastry Studio for the best cupcakes in the city. Or, you know, to see Pittsburgh-y things.

My concept of directions are so skewed that I really hadn’t considered how much time would be spent in the car if I attempted to extract her from Monroeville, which is where she was staying. I’m lucky I even made it there on time, considering I was originally going to give myself only 15 minutes until Mapquest told me it would take at least 30.

Anyway, Erica expressed an interest in getting lunch at Eat n Park, so that quelled my tour guide anxiety, because I really had no idea where to go in Monroeville, aside from the mall, that would provide good tourist-y entertainment.

I am infamous for getting all socially awkward when meeting someone new for the first time. I’ve been told in the past that these situations can sometimes even be painful for my friends to witness. But Erica was very chill, and we had nice, casual conversation in between bites of grilled cheese. I was still a little nervous, but I didn’t choke on any chunks of low self-esteem or uncomfortable silence.

Afterward, I took her to meet her family at the mall, famous for being the site of Dawn of the Dead. Of course I had to take her to the zombie museum which is in the back of a collectible toy store.

Those were my big Pittsburgh representatives: a smiley cookie from Eat n Park, and a 2-minute jaunt through a tiny room stuffed with zombie memorabilia.

Don’t ever say I didn’t show you a good time, Erica!

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for me to hang out any later since Henry made me get a job. (Kidding – I’m glad I’m working. Just don’t go spreading that around).

I’m so happy that Erica wanted to meet me, after all these years of reading my latest endeavors in being an Asshole and watching videos of me stalking my prey. She really is just as awesome in person as I imagined. She’s fabulous you guys, and one of the best singers ever. You should all go and love her now!

I want her to be on “Glee.”

I didn’t know it then, but that trip Henry and I took to Cincinnati in August of 2005 would end up being the last time I saw Christina for quite awhile. We had a great time together, but I guess I was just too naive to see that it was a struggle for her to be “just friends.”

Especially when I found out I was pregnant shortly after that trip. She was ecstatic for me because she knew that Henry and I planned it, but she began crossing boundaries, wedging herself in between Henry and I like she was the third part to the procreation equation.

“I’m glad I got to see your vagina before it gets ruined in child birth,” she joked one night on the phone.

But I didn’t find that funny. The things, the intimate relations, that had transpired between us that spring was not something that was sitting comfortably with me at the time. I felt uncomfortable and a little gross, to be honest, when I thought about it. I had asked her to stop making comments like that, that saying lewd things like that wasn’t very conducive to us trying to maintain a friendship.

And then she began insinuating that she was experiencing sympathy pregnancy.

“Are you craving peanut butter?” she asked one day. “Because it’s all I can think about eating so I figured it was probably because you were craving it.”

It was things like that, minor irritables, that were all building up and collecting inside my head. It made me angry that she was trying to include herself in something that was so personal to Henry and myself. This was all on the heels of her buying me a vibrator for my birthday. A vibrator that Sylvia picked out.

For once, I had no words.

“This is getting weird,” Henry murmured when the birthday package arrived.

“Getting weird?” I questioned.

So when I called her one Sunday morning in October and discovered that some girl named Onna had spent the night, I was thrilled. I knew that the only way for her to be “normal” around me again was by distracting herself with another girl.

“Oh, I’ll let you go!” I said, happy that she was living in the moment for once. That’s the thing – my friends would joke that I would likely be so consumed with jealousy if Christina ever found someone else, that whatever poor unlucky girl she chose would wind up dead and buried in the woods somewhere.

But I wanted her to find someone. I wanted her to move on from me and Sylvia and find someone suited for her, someone who could give her the life she wasn’t letting herself live.

But Christina quickly insisted that she wanted to stay on the phone with me, that Onna was still sleeping anyhow.

Onna was apparently some (young – as in 18) friend of Steve’s. Red flag, right off the bat. Christina said she liked her because she had the same style as me.

“She wears scarves in her hair and likes really big jewelry,” Christina explained. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

Christina told Onna things about me, so Onna found me on MySpace and, as any other 18-year-old asshole would, began sending me obnoxious messages. Mostly just those stupid pictures where you stare at it only to have something jump out and scream. I called Christina and asked her what the point was, why Onna felt compelled to contact me through MySpace in the first place. If she had something to say to me, and she clearly had something to say to me, I’d have appreciated actual text and not Internet jackassery.

Christina admitted that it was a little weird, and that Onna had expressed mild jealousy when learning of me. I took her MySpace messages as a form of immature harassment, but wasn’t too concerned about it. Christina, however, was pissed off and told Steve what Onna had been doing. According to Steve, when he asked Onna why she was sending some pregnant lady random MySpace messages, her response was to laugh hysterically.

Meanwhile, all Onna was really doing was giving me easy access to her MySpace profile, which was rife with blinkies, misspellings and bathroom photos of her looking like she had eaten Raven Symone and then donned her skin as a suit. I was horrified and offended that Christina would draw any comparison at all between the two of us, scarves or no scarves. She just looked dirty.

To make things worse, Onna began throwing fits of rage in my honor.

She threatened to leave Christina unless she cut all ties with me. This was all in the first week, without ever having any interaction with me outside of MySpace (and I wasn’t even responding to her lame messages). One week into their relationship and she was already stepping up with stipulations.

“You’re not really going to let this little girl end our friendship, are you?” I asked Christina one day.

There was hesitation on the phone line.

Onna trash-talked me, called me a cunt, called me a whore. She was trying to change Christina, made her feel inadequate and “stupid” for having an interest in writing raps.

One week into their relationship, and she had already proved that Christina wasn’t free to be herself.

I’m not sure where Sylvia was during all of this. Probably fucking half the female population of Ohio while spying on Christina from behind their bushes.

We went round and round about this, Christina and I. Every day, she was calling me, emailing me, whining about what new way Onna had dreamt up to disrespect her, and what brand new unsavories Onna was spitting about me. And then in the same breath, she was admitting that yes, she had let Onna spend the night again. But oh, the fact that Christina was squealing all the things Onna was saying about me?

“That’s me being a loyal friend,” Christina insisted.

Funny, because it didn’t feel that way to me. It felt like I wasn’t being defended. The fact that she was letting Onna shit all over our friendship made me wonder how important I even was to her. The message that was ringing loud and clear in my head was that Christina didn’t really need me around now that she had some random tart spreading her legs for her. It made me feel like she never valued me in any way outside of someone to conquer sexually.

And the fact that she was letting herself be manipulated and put down by an eighteen-year-old piece of ass made me lose respect for her myself. Somewhere in the middle of an email full of anger and obscenities, I told Christina she had a lot of growing up to do.

Her response was to tell me that she was 24 and never had a real relationship. She was looking to change that with Onna. I told her she was pathetic and stopped talking to her for a few weeks. Sometimes it’s just easier to walk away and let them figure it out on their own.

****

By December of 2005, Onna was nothing more but a bad memory. Christina and I had been OK, but that was probably mostly because I was too busy with school and cooking one super-sized Chooch in my belly to really bother much with Christina.

However, MySpace would come into play once again. I received a friend request and a message from some guy named Sam who worked with Christina. In his message, he explained that Christina had told him all about me and my rape fantasies, and that he has his own rape fantasies too.

Now, let me me interrupt this story to explain that by “rape fantasy,” what I really meant was that I had always wanted someone (read: my boyfriend, Henry, father of my child) to dress up like Michael Myers and chase me around. And then, HEY WHATEVER HAPPENS YOU KNOW?! I’m certainly not out there, hitchhiking nude, hoping for some beefy trucker to hogtie me and drag me into the woods. But evidently, that’s how Sam took it. Thus began a lovely 2-day MySpace courtship wherein Sam sent me rape poems and told me about how he was at a poker game with his boss and all he could do was think about raping his wife. I forwarded the messages to Christina, blocked him, and then called her, using my Screaming Angry voice.

“In what world is it OK for you to share with your co-workers, or ANYONE, intimate details about me?”

“It’s not OK. It was wrong,” she cried. She apologized, but the fact that she had no explanation for why she did it not only confused me, but made me completely not trust her. It felt like a betrayal.

I just kept imagining her at some sleazy bar with the guys from work, speaking lecherously about me while hawking into a spittoon. Like I was just a conquest, someone for her to brag about. Not a friend.

I had never felt so dirty before in my life.

Meanwhile, all of my friends were waving red flags, calling her toxic and reasoning with me to just dump her from life. I knew they were right.

“I’m about to be a mother,” I said to her. “I can’t have people like you in my life anymore.” And that was it. She never tried to explain herself, never once contacted me after that. Not even when Chooch was born. Christina never really was one to fight for what she wanted. Why should she, when she could just as easily sit on her ass and complain about how pathetic and miserable her existence is.

With me out of the picture, Sylvia emerged from the trenches, pocketed her binoculars, and moved in with Christina and her mother. Shocker.

****

If you’ve read this far, you know that clearly at some point I invited her back in, the psychic vampire that she is. I’ve never given any friend as many chances as I gave her. And because of her, I really don’t give friends any chances now. Thanks to Christina, I’ve perfected the Walk-Away. But I saw something in her and I didn’t want to be wrong about it. Deep down I knew that she hadn’t done these things intentionally, that there had to have been an explanation. Because as idiotic and immature Christina was when it came to cultivating and maintaining friendships, she never would have gone out of her way to back-stab me. It was always the opposite with her. She’d jump through flaming hoops just to get me a grilled cheese. I was the one person she was always scrambling to protect, and even before Henry, she’d be the first person to open her mouth to defend me. Sometimes the only person.

When Onna and Sam happened, though – I was exhausted from being her friend. Exhausted from listening to her cry about the same things over and over when she refused to take a stance in life. Exhausted from the drama. I was pregnant. My family had turned their backs on me. I didn’t need any more drama. So Onna and Sam were my way out. I saw it as an easy exit, and I took it.

During the summer of 2006, when Chooch was a few months old, I found that old memory box she made me. I sat with it on my lap for a few minutes, debating on whether to trash it, set it aflame, drop-kick it into the river. I waited for that sense of roiling hatred to take over my belly.

That sense never came.

Instead, the sense was overwhelming sadness. I missed her. I looked at my baby son and suddenly regretted that she wasn’t there for his birth.

So I emailed her. I was too stubborn to be truthful about my intentions, so I instead pretended that I was wondering if she wanted the memory box back. Because if not, I was going to throw it out. With the lines of communication open again, she poured her heart out, explained what really happened with Sam the Rapist, that he overheard her trying to sell her co-workers on my blog and that when they asked her what I write about, she was rambling off the weirder topics I’ve had, including the Michael Myers bit. Sam took it out of context. After I blew up on her that December, Christina went into work and told everyone what happened. Sam ended up losing his job. But she never told me that then, because she was afraid to contact me. She’s always been afraid of saying the wrong thing, exacerbating  my anger.

And with Onna, she was only trying to move on with her life. Unfortunately, her choice of person to do that with was a poor one.

So I forgave her. You probably think I’m an idiot; I don’t need to be told that, because I already know. I look back on this now and think, “My God, what a fucking fool I was.” There was always that hope that things would change, that I could fix her.  “It’ll be different this time,” Henry would hear me swearing all the time. And Henry would never say anything, because he knew I needed to find out for myself. I didn’t see it as abusive while it was happening, so it was easier for me to keep opening my arms to her. Abuse if physical, I’d assure myself. Meanwhile, we were asphyxiating the shit out of each others’ souls.

Two weeks later, she was on my doorstep, meeting my son for the first time.

And the game was back on.

Every time I see this, I cry.

Then this morning I was watching the Flyers/Devils exhibition game from last night on NHL Network and seeing Billy Guerin in that orange piece of shit jersey made me cry again.

Oh, hockey. Who needs Days of Our Lives when I have you to bring the drama and the tears.

Pretty much sums up how I feel about 90% of the world’s population lately.

If I didn’t work for a law firm, I might even be persuaded to get this tattooed to my lips permanently. Then I’d walk around, doling out insulting kisses.

But even in spite of all the stupid people, I had a rad weekend with fantastic friends and hope you all did too!

(My lips are totally stained now.

)

Seriously, I wonder how many scene-babies have been conceived thanks to this song.