After a day of Amish-spotting, it was just getting dark as we drove back to the hotel. To the right, we saw a wide expanse of Christmas lights so Tommy pulled into the parking lot so we could see what was going on. It turned out to be Dutch Wonderland, a small amusement park I BEGGED Henry to take me to the last time we were in Lancaster but he was all, “This is a CHILD’S park!” OK, and? Turns out that Dutch Wonderland has special holiday hours, complete with a “spectacular light show.” Admission was only $11.95 and I guess Henry figured Chooch and I deserved to cut loose after spending all day looking at arts and crafts, our least favorite past time. Tommy and Jessy opted out of the adolescent festivities, but I really think they would have enjoyed it.

It was already 6pm by the time we made it back to the park after getting our car from the hotel, so that gave us three hours to ride the shit out of that park.

Chooch and I got to take in the “spectacular light show” as we rode the Sky Coaster, which was the longest and most heart-in-throat 10 minutes of my life. “Could you please stop trying to make yourself fall out?!” I kept yelling to Chooch as he clotheslined himself across the bars in order to get a better look at the concrete walkway below us. Jesus Christ, no fear. Meanwhile, I spent the whole ride having anxiety about the inevitable end when we would be forced to slide out of the car while it was still in motion.

And oh my Lord, they have this little tiny Chapel in the middle of the park. Just sitting there, hoping to hear your prayers. Of course Chooch and I had to barrel through it and act completely ignorant to everything it stood for, while Henry waited uncomfortably outside.

Seriously, what a fucking creepy park! Made me love it twice as hard.

There was this little building that held a diorama of Dutch women quilting at a table. There was a button you could push and the women would come to life, creepy mechanical voices warbling out of a speaker, giving a lesson in Dutch people, I don’t fucking know. The only part that stuck with me was when the one old bag was saying something about how someone was late because “the horse was lame,” and then I couldn’t stop saying that all weekend, in the same weird accent she used. I’m pretty sure it was a man doing the voices.

Unlike Kennywood, Chooch was game for anything and even seemed let down that the little wooden roller coaster wasn’t one of the rides open for winter operation.  All three of us rode the Twister together, and I thought for sure Chooch was going to hate it but he was cheering behind me while Henry was trying to keep his glasses from flinging off. Then Henry went off to find the bathroom, which probably had Scripture graffiti’d in the stalls, while Chooch and I rode some baby airplane ride and I embarrassed him by squealing “Wheeee!” while throwing my arms up. He kept shrugging away from me and saying, “OK! Stop doing that now! It’s not funny.”

I walked away from that in wide-eyed horror.

But it got worse. While Chooch was riding some mini-whip thing, there was a small gingerbread house nearby. I ducked inside to check it out and honestly haven’t been the same since. It was another mechanical scene. This one involved deranged serial killers in bakers hats, mixing up intestines for “gingerbread cookies,” I don’t even fucking know. But it sped up my heart rate something fierce.

Look at the weaponry behind him! OMFG. He was in my dreams that night. It was not erotic.

She looks like that fucking broad from Dark Crystal, which is weird because Dark Crystal came up twice that weekend.

Ahhhhh! Uncle!! Uncle!!! MAKE IT STOP!

After my experience in the gingerbread house, I walked robotically back to Henry.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, and all I could do was stand there and stare at him, my face frozen into a grimace.

Dutch Wonderland is fucked up.

The three of us went on some space shuttle ride that played a video from 1978 and I’m not quite sure what was going on exactly but I think we were being shot at in outerspace? Chooch didn’t like it because I kept falling into him every time the ship rocked to the side in a rusty-geared fashion. It was pretty lame, but I imagine Henry thought it was to the limit.

But my favorite ride was the Wonder House! Oh my God the Wonder House! I want one for my front yard! Everyone sits in the middle of this little tiny house, on a large suspended wooden bench, and the operator then says, “If you start to feel sick, just close your eyes OKHAVEFUN” and then LEAVES while the house revolves around, giving the appearance that you’re upside down. Chooch unfortunately did not grasp this concept and kept yelling, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THERE IS A ROCKING CHAIR ON THE CEILING. I WANT TO SWITCH SIDES” after the ride operator specifically said not to stand up under any circumstances lest you knock your head off the ceiling or floor.  Then there was a little cupboard in the corner for decor purposes and he was desperate to open it WHILE THE HOUSE WAS SPINNING.  This is what happens when rides don’t belt four-year-olds the fuck in.

It was three hours of perfect family bliss, as nauseating as that sounds. But it’s true! Earlier in the day, Chooch and I were not getting along at all. It’s hard to keep him stimulated when there’s nothing to do but look at jars of jam and quilts. So he was acting up a lot and I was losing my patience and there were several moments that threatened to morph into Really Bad Scenes. It was exhausting and aggravating. But Dutch Wonderland kind of brought us back together because we were having so much fun and it was non-stop action. He and I joked around a lot, like when we were in line for the Turnpike and some old man was bending over in front of us and I pushed Chooch’s face into his ass. Good times between mother and son.

Even the pretzels were winter-themed! And there was a s’mores-making station too! AND A SOUP HOUSE. SOUP!

We saw some kid jump up and attempt to punch the Frosty mascot in the nose. It was pretty intense. I couldn’t stop laughing, but everyone else who saw it was appalled and Frosty backed away with his hands protectively guarding his carrot-nose.

Everyone there was so happy. Maybe I’m just used to the jaded teenagers schlepping around in Kennywood polos, but these kids working at Dutch Wonderland? I bet they go home and tell their parents over a snack of apple sauce how grateful they are to be spearing cigarette butts off the grounds of Dutch Wonderland. Even on the train ride, as we chugged through the park, all the employees stopped watching their respective rides to turn and give us cheerful waves. Custodians waved latexed hands at us. Even the guy ejaculating behind the Wonder House gave us a good shake of his dick.

In other words, it would be no place for me to work.

The lines were short, the other park-goers weren’t too obnoxious, I didn’t even run into any Kate Gosselin-wannabes. Plus all the boys running the rides appeared to be legit Dutchmen and they all stared at my boobs. God, Dutch Wonderland made me feel fantastic.

And Henry held my hand a lot. When does that ever happen? In Dutch Wonderland, apparently.

It was the highlight of our weekend. My face hurt from smiling so much.

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This wasn’t the best Thanksgiving, but it definitely wasn’t the worst either. My mom at least didn’t call twenty times to cancel, making us scramble for the Chinese take-out menus.

My biggest beef of the day was the side dishes Henry chose to make.

I guess since Alton Brown says to chuck an entire chipotle factory into the sweet potatoes, it must be OK. If there was any lesson I hope Henry took away from Thanksgiving, it’s that Alton Brown, while a food genius most of the time, IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT. Holy shit, those were the worst sweet potatoes ever. However, they did serve to provide comedy when we “forgot” to tell my brother Ryan that they were “kind of hot” and he almost skyrocketed from the table.

The other side he made was corn porridge.

I will go on record and say that this was my pick. It’s that Tyler Florence motherfucker’s recipe, but more importantly, it’s PORRIDGE. I felt it was my way of doing a solid for all my orphan hoes.  Anyway, that shit tasted fine when we were still at home, but once we brought it to my mom’s and it was sitting amidst 49 different vegetable casseroles and a pot of mashed potatoes (which almost didn’t get made and I would have walked out, I’m not kidding), it became very obvious that it didn’t complement the standard Thanksgiving fare. At all. So fuck you, Food Network, for including that shit in the Thanksgiving sides category on your lame ass website, you fuckers.

I think I was the only one who ate it, anyway.

Chooch made this centerpiece at school. Thank god there was a prayer pasted to its back.

Chooch had giraffe for dinner. Everyone knows you need three forks for that.

Not pictured: my elusive brother Ryan, otherwise known by Corey and me as The Other.

Blake and Chooch, enrapt in Toy Story 3 Matching Game on my phone.

Obligatory chandelier shot.

Much to Henry’s chagrin, my aunt Sharon (who never joins us because she’s a crazy half-recluse) took it upon herself to cook the turkey. Of course it wasn’t done on time, so my mom had everyone start eating the side dishes (which is all I ever get for Thanksgiving anyway because no one considers making me a Tofurkey because who cares about the dumb girl who doesn’t eat meat, she should just be lucky she was even invited, right? Just stick a carrot in her mouth, she’ll shut up). When the turkey was finally done, my mom asked Henry if he would go pick it up (Sharon lives two houses up from my mom, up at Grey Gardens).

“Wow, is she actually going to let him in?” I asked my mom, because Sharon, you might remember, keeps the house locked-up airtight.

“I guess,” my mom shrugged.

Of course it was the first question I asked Henry when he returned with Chooch.

“No,” he laughed, but not in the jovial way. “She had it sitting in the driveway.”

There was a short silence as everyone at the table waited for him to laugh and admit he was just practicing being, what are the kids calling it these days? Funny.

But he was serious. She had the turkey in the roaster thing, wrapped in a blanket, waiting in the driveway for him.

I started laughing. Like, really laughing, with food in my mouth. “I don’t know why, but now I can’t stop picturing the turkey as baby Moses, floating down the lane.”

And then Corey started laughing too, and so did Henry’s mom but her eyes had a questioning crinkle to them, like she was silently thinking, “I don’t understand this girl at all, better to just laugh along with her though.”

Sometimes laughing is the only thing to do when you have a screwed up family. It staves off the tears for a little bit, at least.

Christmas plates and Halloween utensils: Keepin’ it classy.

Henry’s third and final mistake of the day was choosing to not bake the pie I selected, but rather some apple butter pumpkin pie found on some motherfucker’s blog. It was pretty terrible. Everyone at the table was all, “Oh wow this is a good pie, Henry” (except for me; I am very honest when it comes to pointing out Henry’s cooking fuck-ups) yet it was funny how no one finished their slice! Not even Corey! What kind of man leaves an uneaten piece of pie on their plate? A man whose taste buds are revolting, that’s who.

At least I had the foresight to bring a 6-pack of Strongbow for Corey and myself. That was my big contribution. (That’s a lot for me!)

Don’t worry, Henry. Christmas will be better. Just leave the recipe-finding to me this time.

Hope all you people had a great (and tastier) Thanksgiving!

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Henry and I stayed up late the night before Thanksgiving, drinking and listening to the new My Chemical Romance, when we started talking about our recent trip to Lancaster and how it’s changed so  much since the time he and I went there in 2003.

“I remember taking pictures of people’s laundry, and that’s about it,” I said.

“No – I don’t think that was Lancaster…” Henry said, thinking about it. So I decided we better pull up the photos from that trip so I could prove that once again, Henry is a clueless dillsack.

“Wow,” Henry said as we looked at all EIGHT photos from that trip. “You sure were a picture-takin’ fool.”

And aside from the one of the laundry line, the rest were basically photos of random people I decided to hate for no reason. Except for the guy in front of us on the train ride in Stausburg. I had good reason to hate that motherfucker.

So we started looking through the other pictures from back then and sat here in front of the computer cracking up. I bet 75% of pre-Chooch pictures are of people I’m stalking. Just utter asshole-y randomness.

“Why did I take a picture of that car?” I asked.

“Who knows, but with you, there was probably something about it you hated.”

Then we came across the picture I took of Henry honest-to-god leading a blind man down the sidewalk in Norfolk, Virginia; I lost it. I was laughing so hard, I’m not sure how I didn’t poop my pants.  Henry frowned. “I don’t understand why helping a BLIND PERSON is so funny,” he said, but I could tell he wanted to laugh really hard too. I’m a super good influence.

There was a picture of the muffin Henry chucked at my head.

Copious shots of the cable guy that Robbie, Blake and I pretended Henry had a crush on. (“Pretended.”)

The fake Italian guy my old friend Cinn brought over to my house one year for my birthday, making me think he didn’t speak English; naturally,  I pantomimed and shouted things to him.

He was not Italian.

But my favorite was unearthing a picture of Henry worshiping at my altar. I think it was for some LiveJournal meme where people got to tell me what sorts of photos they wanted to see, and some wise-ass felt that was a pretty great way to emasculate Henry further.

(There’s also one of him in his underwear, gagged and on all fours, with me on his back.

Second fave.)

Various pictures of bands at Mr. Small’s inspired us to talk about all the shows we’ve been to (he swears we’ve seen TV on the Radio and I feel like I should remember that but I don’t?).

“Who’s that?” Henry asked when we came across a picture of a girl singing.

“Emily Haines. That was the night we went to see The Stills and Metric in 2004 and I found out we are political opposites. Then came home and made a fake LiveJournal for you.

Also, I was wearing white pants at that show and kept thinking I was about to get my period.”

Henry nodded as it all came flooding back.

I know this is a day late, and it’s not that I needed Wednesday night to make me realize this, but god fucking damn I’m thankful for Henry. I can’t believe we’ve been together since 2001, how did that even happen??

And I’ll tell you right now, don’t let him fool you – he still worships me, altar or not.

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Coolest place in Lancaster, PA.

Home of shoo-fly pies and creepy $5 paper mache clowns.

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It was kind of hard to miss it when we came home from Lancaster Sunday night. The web was strung from the bottom of the porch roof, to the right of the front door, and lounging in the middle of the web was the biggest motherfucker with eight legs I’ve ever seen in Pittsburgh.

The front window of the house is directly on the other side of the web and it’s common practice for me to run up the front steps and lean off the front porch so I can peek in the window to see what the cats are doing. I like to observe them when they think no one is watching. If I were to do that now, I’d be face-planting myself right in this bastard spider’s lair.  I thought of this immediately on Sunday, as we all stood there staring in disgust, and the thought of it gave me full-body shudders.

“Is it poisonous?” I asked Henry. His “probably not” didn’t sound very convincing.

A few minutes later, Henry frantically called me to the front door. “He caught something!” Henry said, probably reminded of all the nights he spent street walker-watching when he was stationed in Panama.

We stood with the front door open, watching this big brown blob of horror drag a small bug up to the middle of the web, where he then proceeded to cocoon it. It was fascinating, and I decided that Marcy shouldn’t be missing this so I ran in to the house to get her.

“She won’t look at him!” I whined, holding Marcy up to the web.

“She’s a CAT, Erin. She doesn’t give a shit,” Henry said in annoyance. And then he repeated, “She’s a cat!” in an exaggerated sing-song voice when I pushed Marcy closer to the web like a sacrificial lamb.

The rest of Sunday night was spent with me confusing Henry with someone who actually knows things. “Is it going to come in the house? How long is it going to stay? Will it jump off the web at me? Is it going to suck the blood out of that bug now? Can we just throw bugs into the web? Will it eat this dead stink bug? What if it gets in my hair? What if it attacks the mail man? What if one of my enemies planted it there OMG we’re all going to die now!”

Monday night at work, Henry emailed me the photos I took of the spider Sunday night so I could show Barb.

I know my southern friends are laughing right now and thinking, “You dumb Yankee, that ain’t SHIT.”

Barb seemed adequately horrified when she opened the photos, as did everyone else in the office who had the misfortune of strolling by while the picture was up on her screen.

“Do you own or rent your house?” Derek asked me.

Before I could even finish saying that I rent, he blurted out, “LEAVE. Just leave. Don’t pack your stuff. Set the house on fire and leave.”

He really doesn’t like spiders.

One of the analysts, this big tall guy who I recently discovered is much less Fearless Leader than he looks, glanced at it and said, “KILL IT I WOULD HAVE KILLED THAT THING BY NOW OMG.” Another analyst recommended I give it its own Twitter account.

Meanwhile, Barb was scouring the Internet to see if I was going to land my ass in the Exotic Bites ward of the hospital. “Well,” she said around dry heaves. “It’s not a brown recluse.” I didn’t even need to know what she was looking at; the gagging concert behind me was enough to make involuntarily shudder.

I snagged Jeannie as she was walking by, because she’s a genius so I figured, “If anyone knows if I’m sharing my house with a murderer, it’s Jeannie.”

“I doubt it’s going to hurt you,” was Jeannie’s verdict after looking at its mug shot. “I mean, just don’t go out and PLAY with it.” And it’s a good thing she said that, because I was already thinking of looking for dresses for it on Etsy. It would be greater than the time I was 10 and my dad caught me in the garage teaching a Praying Mantis how to count change. (100% true tale.)

When I came home from work that night, he was gone. I was kind of sad about this. I had somehow grown attached without even realizing it. But then I was angry! What, my fucking front porch wasn’t good enough for this elitist arachnid? What a motherfucker! And then my anger turned to horror and I screamed, “What if he’s in the house? WHAT IF HE’S IN MY HAIR?”

“He’s still there,” Henry said. “He retreated into that little crevice up there.” And sure enough, next to the web was a little hole in the ceiling of the roof, out of which one of his spiny legs was dangling.

My friend Gina lives in the same part of town as me, and she said she recently had a similar-looking spider at her house, too, but now he’s gone.

“Are they like, new to the area?” I asked her, because I have never seen spiders this big around here.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” she said. I’m now convinced that it’s the same spider, driven away by her sarcastic attitude. So now I feel like I have to care for the poor thing. I want to give him a blanket and a copy of Us Weekly but I’m afraid to get too close. God, this is already just like every relationship I’ve been in. Except I haven’t blown him yet. Sorry, spider. But I wouldn’t even know where to start.

***

When I got to work yesterday, I had just sat down and went to put my hand on the mouse to log on when I noticed it.

“Aw, who put that there?” I asked out loud, and was answered by snickering.

“I was waiting for you to notice it,” Derek said from his desk, but it was Kaitlin who did it! Sweet, demure, macaron-slinging Kaitlin. Bravo, Kaitlin!

“Did it scare you?” Barb asked excitedly, like she had been waiting all day for this. (Too bad she wasn’t even at her desk when I sat down!)

“Well, no. It has glitter on it.”

***

I still have to think of a name for him. Right now, I’ve just been calling him Sir.

As in, “Good day, Sir; you’re looking mighty majestic today, Sir. Please may I pass peacefully, Sir? I brought some more of Henry’s blood for you, Sir.”

This is way more fun than the pet mouse I had in 2008.

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I have blog apathy, so here is an old LiveJournal post from August 2007. Peace out, girl scout.

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It’s been dire straits ’round here ever since our car abandoned us. Thankfully, Henry’s mother has been generous enough to let us use her car whenever she doesn’t need it (and as luck would have it, that’s quite often). We decided to be nice and not force her to rot away in her apartment over the weekend, so we rented a car at Enterprise. It was one of those vixens on four wheels — a Mazda 3. I wanted to hug it every time I got into it. But that’s not the point of this story.

Last night, Henry informed me that he wouldn’t be home in time from work to return the car by its noon curfew. When it slowly (but surely!) dawned on me that what he was really trying to say was that I was going to actually have to get off my ass and do something, I freaked out.

“But I don’t know how.” A good enough excuse as any, I figured.

“What do you mean you don’t know how? Just drive it the whole whopping one mile down the street to Enterprise, give them the key, and have one of them bring you back home.

”

Oh, anxiety! Hold your horses!

I began to grow weary just by imagining the impending hassle, much like the day when I will round a corner and get my head lopped off by a sickle-wielding serial killer.

My mom came over this morning so I could get it over with while my wrestler-child was napping. As I backed the car up the driveway, I glanced at the car seat, still fully-fastened to the backseat. I’ve never had to deal with removing the front-facing car seat, only the rear-facing carrier.

“Mother fucker!” I yelled. Henry was supposed to take that out for me. I threw the car in park and climbed into the backseat, thinking that I was about to embark on an easy journey. Within five seconds, it became clear that this was a job for a spinach-eating Mensa member. My mental energy quickly waned as I searched for the magical release button to make all my dreams come true.

Right after I nearly snapped off a finger, the spandexed idiot we employ to mow our lawn crept up on me, whining about his six dollars. I’m pretty sure he’s that paper boy from Better Off Dead, all grown up. I told him I didn’t have it and he did this really obnoxious motion with his head, like he was using his body movements to whine “Aw, maaaan.”

“When can I stop back?” he asked impatiently. Just to get this asshole off my back, I ran into the house to see if my mom had cash, which she didn’t. But at least it looked like I kind of cared by asking her.

I reported the bad news to him and he stalked off. “Sorry!” I yelled sarcastically at his back. I also didn’t appreciate the way he looked the rental car up and down, because I know he was thinking, “Oh, she drives this but doesn’t have six fucking dollars for me?”

Asshole. I’m so over him anyway.

Returning to the task at hand, I accepted the fact that I needed help. My mom came out and together we toiled and bumbled in the backseat until I broke down and called Henry. Obscenities were sprayed, nails were broken, ulcers burned, and my mom was bracing herself for a trip to the nearest psych ward, before I finally conceded that I’d just let one of the guys at Enterprise do it for me, per Henry’s suggestion.

“They know how to do it there!” he promised.

When I handed the key over at the counter a few minutes later, I asked the Enterprise employee if someone there could help me remove the car seat.

“Um, I can see if someone will try, but I can’t make any promises. None of us here have children.”

An older woman was leaning against the counter next to me, waiting for her invoice. “I can help you; I have three children of my own.” I thanked her, but a young man in a dress shirt popped up from behind a desk and enthusiastically asked me to let him try.

“I’m up for the challenge!” he said eagerly, like I was holding tryouts for some outrageous Japanese game show.

After a few minutes, I returned to the lot to check on his progress. He got about as far as I had.

“What did your boyfriend do, glue this in here?” he laughed, but I got a real sense of anguished emasculation out of it.

The mother-of-three jogged over. “No luck? Let me try.” She climbed in the backseat and began furiously working to unsnap the opposite side.

After a minute passed, she turned around and looked at me. “Holy hell!” she laughed, as she blew out a breath saddled with exhaustion.

The woman she was traveling with got out of their minivan and came over. “I gotta see this car seat!” she said with wide eyes.

The mother-of-three saw this as her way out. “Oh good, see if you can do it!” she yelled over her shoulder as she ran back inside the office.

“Wha—I just said I wanted to look at it!” But she shrugged and climbed in anyway.

Another Enterprise employee came over and the first one called out, “Oh good, are you here to help?”

“Aw shit, no. I’m just here to take the girl back home.” What a nice gentleman. I’m sure that will be a pleasant cruise to look forward to, I thought.

Oh yes, Henry. This is so easy, that’s why it took three people to do it. I hope we get a car soon so I never have to worry about this car seat bullshit again. Or, I hope Henry and I stay together at least until Chooch graduates from car seats. The reality of either option is a scary one though.

The Enterprise employee finally dominated the car seat. He stood up and stretched his back. “Tell your boyfriend not to work out so hard!” he laughed. Yeah, I’ll tell him to lay off the cock-pulling, I thought bitterly.

Everyone involved had a nice laugh and exchanged contact info for a future reunion, and then I got back in the car with my chauffeur. We made strained small talk as he shouted and pumped his arm out the window every time we drove past his homies. Which was a lot. Then he flipped on the radio just in time to catch a lovely joint by Bel Biv Devoe.

“Daaaamn, I always forget how old this jam is!” I nodded in agreement and added that I thought I was in middle school when it came out. You know, just to tip him off that I have more urban in my blood than my pasty-suburban facade lets on.

I guess it didn’t impress him much (sometimes my flava just can’t be sensed, I guess), because instead of pulling into my driveway, he sidled up on the curb across from my house, leaving me to cross the street with a big ass car seat over my shoulder. It was kind of like the car rental walk of shame, I guess.

Edit: A quote from Henry. “It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

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I’m home from our weekend trip to Commercialized Amish Exploitation, f/k/a Amish Country, or Lancaster, PA.  It was a bummer, but we still had fun because we were with Tommy and Jessy so shenanigans still played out regardless. I was mostly sad for Jessy because she’s really into shopping for country things but nearly every shop was an overblown tourist trap claiming to be authentic but I had suspicions. We did go to some Amish farm though and bought cheese and rootbeer from a cute little tow-headed Amish boy struggling with his English. I wanted to swap him out with Chooch, who was being a big fucking asshole that afternoon.

I have lots more to write about the weekend, but I would like to for now just post the pictures I took of Henry in compromising situations. I spent a lot of time laughing at these. Only Jessy thought they were funny. Henry just frowned a lot and Tommy’s  was like, “WTF is wrong with you?” while making covert signs of the crosses and thanking God I’m not his girlfriend. Meanwhile, Chooch was like, “How many times are you going to make weener pictures, Mommy?

” in an exasperated tone. He is only four, remember. Someday he’ll think this is funny. Unless he decides to just fail me altogether.

This was the one that started it all. I already posted it on Saturday but WHO CARES. Henry, yukking it up in the front seat with his boyfriend Tommy, ooooooh Tommy.

I looked at it and the first thing I thought was, “I need to find a big Swedish dick, sopping with sweat, to enter that gaping maw RIGHTNOW.” Good thing I kept Chooch’s Doodle Buddy app on my phone (I was going to delete it last week!). This made Jessy and me giggle in the backseat for a little while.

Later that night, just Henry, Chooch and I went to DUTCH WONDERLAND OMG. Chooch and I were walking out of the Wonder House (I’m building one in my backyard, just as soon as I learn how to use a hammer. And build things.) and Henry was standing there with Duke the Dino pressed up against his side. Henry looked all awkward, like, “I swear I was just standing here and then this thing started side-humping me for no reason at all! Baby, you know I only like yellow mascots!” I was sad because by the time I got my phone out to take this picture, Duke had set his sights on erotically asphyxiating some 10-year-old boy. Turns out it was kismet, as far as weener pictures go.

Henry Goes COCKoo for Intercourse. We won’t be much schlonger now, enjoy the dicktivities!

On the way home, we stopped in Hershey, PA and ate at the Capitol Diner. Is it sad that the picture I took there was completely premeditated? I had been thinking of it since I woke up that morning and then nearly forgot about it by the time dinner rolled by!

Mmmm, ejaculicious!

I wish making Henry’s life hell was my job. It’s the only thing I’m good at.

If you requested a postcard, look for it this week! Some lucky bastard might just be getting one from Henry’s Eyebrows! Oh, what luck!

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Hi we’re in Lancaster! We just sent a little Amish lad off to cut us some cheese.

Henry and Tommy have been sharing lots of laughs over a map in the front seat.

Now we’re going to a wine gallery! I want to send drunk postcards. Hit me up if you want one: butgavincantdance at gmail.com.

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You guys asked Henry some hard-hitting questions, and he gave you some half-assed answers. I give you my word that I did not alter any of these answers (except for the one where he used a double negative).

Andrea asked, “Did he get those scene glasses that you picked out for him and what is the best thing about being a dad?”

Yes I did and I must say I look good, now if I could only afford them!

Being there for them when they need me.

Michelle wants to know why I don’t have one of those husbands, what’s up with that Henry?

It’s complicated but one day.

What a cop-out.

Sandy wants to know how Henry got the glitter sprinkles to stick on the marshmallows from the preschool Halloween party:

Corn syrup and glue!

I had no idea he used glue. Is that even safe? Though, I guess kids are going to ingest glue either way, so why not just serve it to them all prettified.

Misty wants to know what song Henry would use to describe me and he thinks he can say “Let me get back to you on this one” and I won’t send him to the flagellation chamber when he comes home.

However, Misty also wants to know a story from one of the most exciting days he had in THE SERVICE:

Ok my most exciting day and the one Erin says I had are way different.

Mine would be the first day there; it was a big change from the way I was used to spending my day. I’ve never regretted going in, just regretted telling Erin anything about it!

By “used to spending my day,” he means he didn’t “accidentally” kill someone’s pet duck in Panama and receive Vick’s Vapor Rub hand jobs by Taiwanese hookers before he enlisted. I thought for sure his most exciting day would have been the day he and his buddies took a photo of themselves in their underroos, and Henry  appears to be holding a ball-gag.

Misty also wants to know what his dream job would be:

Stay at home dad, as soon as Erin makes it big. She better hurry I’m getting old!

Good thing I’ve been looking into some trade schools. My future in welding just might make this possible, Henry.

Carrie asks, “Who is your stylist?”

What ever girl is available at Supercuts and myself.

Alyson Hell desperately needs to know his favorite flavor of Faygo and what he actually did do in THE SERVICE when he wasn’t getting denied by street-walkers and struggling to look like Erik Estrada:

Red Pop or Moonmist.

I was a Crew Chief on a KC135 Tanker they refuel other aircraft in the air.

Kristen wants to know what name he’d use if he was a hiphop star so she’ll know to avoid it:

DJ Dung Pile cause I would sound like a pile of S__t

Yes, he actually spelled it S__t because we all know how much I fucking hate to fucking use dick-shitting cuss words on this motherfucking cocksucking shit-covered dildo blog.

Brandy can’t sleep until she knows how many M&Ms he can fit in his mouth and what his last meal would be once he offs me and lands his ass on death row (which would never happen, because that would be the time Henry actually WOULD lawyer-up, child support/divorce what now?):

Probably 1 whole bag, small bag (Now, if these were DICKS we were talking about….)

Pizza & wings.

Fine, the dick part was my addition, but only because he pissed me off this morning and I hate him right now (more than usual).

Edina wants Henry’s ego to have a moment to bloat, so she asks, “What do you love about yourself?”

That I was smooth enough to land such a wonderful girlfriend who would make me do things like this all the time.

Stephenie is like, “Fuck asking a question, I have a goddamned DEMAND.” She wants her circular bread with the dip inside that he promised to bring her for her birthday and never did because he is the proprietor of the Empty Promise Factory.

Will do it for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Finally, the last question is from Kaitlin, who wants to know, “If you were to cook Erin a romantic four-course meal, what would you serve?”, operative word being IF:

The first course would have to be a soup, without all the vegetable left out that the picky vegetarian doesn’t like. Probably a creamy turnip or sweet potato soup

Next would be some exotic tofu, weird cheese concoction then a dish with vegetables  that most people have never heard of and are impossible to get. Lastly a dessert made from fresh fruit

All ingredients and Menu is subject to change at anytime and must have prior approval by Erin. So maybe you should ask her what she would like. I just cook and bring the romance…Ha HA

OMG he actually said he brings the romance? The vegetable part is true – I only like unpopular vegetables, plus I’m supremely picky on top of that. But let’s be honest Henry, your menu would be pretty simple:

Arsenic

Arsenic

Arsenic

Hemlock

I guess that’s it. Pretty anti-climactic. Let’s never do that again.

Shit! I forgot about the ones he answered in the comments, like a dummy.

Kate asked, “I’d like Henry to tell us what he would most miss about you if something happened tomorrow and you were gone.”

So many to list, but as long as she doesn’t read this, I’ll say all the phone calls I get during the day most of which involve her having the “worst day ever!” or barking orders at me(like I actually listen) like a drill sargeant. Aww hell I would just miss her all together!

That’s cute. He’s actually pretending to be cocky. You’re a big shot now, Henry.

And lastly, Tracey asked, “Did he ever get hit on by another man while in the service?”

No, and I don’t know why.

Would you like a list, Henry?

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Last year, I sold a bunch of my mini monster paintings  on Etsy.

Today, the girl who bought them sent me this picture of the paintings on the wall of the playroom:

She painted those frames right onto the wall, and I think it looks so awesome. I’m so happy right now!

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Marcy: 1; Tommy: 0

This happened sometime after I screamed, ran and hid from the pizza guy, but definitely after Tommy and Henry shared out loud a mutual dislike for head.

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Blake was 8 when I met him. Today, he turned 18. I can’t even.

There was a time when we didn’t get along too well, but now I can’t even imagine not having him around. He’s one of the few people I can talk to about music and is pretty much down for any of my weird  ideas.

(“Why yes, I DO in fact want to help you make STD cookies, Erin.

That sounds like a smashing good time.

“) He’s amazing with Chooch (even when he makes me think he’s going to drop him on his head), has way better style than anyone I know, and is my favorite Scattergories partner. Basically, he’s pretty much the coolest person I know.

Happy birthday, Blake! Don’t let your dad take you to any strip clubs, unless you want to spend the whole night checking for Adam’s apples.

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(I was hoping to have a reason to recycle this photo!)

My friend Brandy is having her blog readers ask her husband questions, and I think that’s a really fun-sounding idea and I want to play too! Even though I don’t have one of those HUSBANDS. Besides, Henry owes me for never making good on his promise to guest-post. (I’m imagining Henry flicking open a scroll of my own empty promises.)

Ask him anything! What it was like to have a porn wound. How badly he wants to kill himself every year at Warped Tour. Things about being IN THE SERVICE (his favorite topic!).

You ask all the questions and then I will interrogate him and post his answers on Friday. And believe me, I will do whatever it takes to get The Answers.

Totally go check out Brandy’s blog, too! It’s a smorgasbord of married-life hilarity, DIY-projects and adorable photos of her dog. I’ve been having a fun time getting to know her over the last few months!

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I made my first mix tape when I was four, by thrusting a Fisher Price microphone right up against the stereo speakers. The tape was translucent yellow and had a rainbow arching across the top; the songs on it were muffled and never full-length.  In middle school, I started trading mix tapes with several pen pals I had around the country. One girl from Seattle taught me about Matthew Sweet and the Pixies. Another put Cotton Eye Joe on her mix tape and already I was learning to curl my lip up in music-snobbery.

A few years ago, when I worked evenings as a billing clerk for FedEx, my boss walked in on me talking to one of the drivers about post-hardcore. Afterward, he said, “I’ve never heard you talk so much!”

“Well, you never asked me about music,” I said with a shrug. Music will always be my #1 topic of choice. And not just music, but also the inter-band drama, message-board feuds, the he-said-she-said of band break-ups. It’s all interesting to me. Even if it’s a band I don’t like, if they’re being interviewed by Alternative Press, I will read it. And then I will drone on about it for hours to Henry, poor Henry, who sort of cares sometimes but most of the time not really.

In our house, Rolling Stone magazine is frowned upon. My death row pen pal Greg, knowing that I love music, got me a subscription for it a few years ago and, while I appreciated the sentiment, I could never bring myself to look at any page past the cover. Since the late ’90s, Alternative Press has always been my go-to. It’s kind of like still having those pen pals telling me about bands that I’m sure as shit not going to be hearing on the radio. And from being a faithful subscriber for so long, the names on the cover stories and at the end of album reviews have become more familiar to me than my own family.

So when AP’s editor-in-chief followed me back on Twitter a couple months ago, my heart kind of actually stopped for a second. I called Henry at work to tell him, but I was able to just say “Jason Pettigrew is following me on Twitter!” and Henry, good old Henry, knew exactly who that was. Because this is a magazine that I literally dissect, inhale and discuss. A few years ago, Alternative Press ran a contest to find their #1 fan. I slaved over this essay, cried about it, took it out on Henry, bled a little, because I wanted so badly to find the perfect words. Oh I did, alright! Just about 1000 words too many. So I didn’t win and it was a dark day in this house when I learned that I was beat by some 16-year-old girl from California. Please don’t make me relive that while struggling to find the perfect words again, and let’s just say that Alternative Press is “like Really Important to me, OMG.” And Jason is someone whose words and opinions I have greatly admired throughout the years. He’s been with AP almost since the very start, and I can only imagine the hands he has shaken and the shit he has heard. So on a geeky music-maniac level, this was like the greatest thing ever to me.

And sometimes he would even reply to my tweets!

Then something incredible happened. Jason was in town over the weekend and for some crazy reason, he wanted to meet me, Henry and Chooch. (Maybe now Henry will stop urging me to quit being so obnoxious on Twitter.) However, I knew that if Chooch came along, especially if we were going to any sort of eating establishment and not a park where he could roam free and scare off wildlife with his high-pitched shrieking, conversation would be futile. And bitch, this was about ME! I had nightmares of Chooch monopolizing the conversation, completely usurping Jason’s time and me not getting to hyperventilate while upchucking the laundry list of questions I had been mentally preparing and of course promptly forgot once I was sitting across from him.

We decided to meet at Gullifty’s in Squirrel Hill on Saturday. Henry and I got there a little bit early and sat in the car, listening to Pierce the Veil.

Instead of being nervous and rocking back and forth in the passenger seat like I had suspected, I was actually really, incredibly giddy. Henry kept giving me disgusted looks. He’s not a fan of Giddy Erin.

“Do you think he’ll let me take his picture?” I wondered out loud. “Because my friends will totally be like ‘Pics or it didn’t happen.'”

“What are you, 12?” Henry asked in annoyance. No, but my friends are?

Actually, I can’t picture any of my friends saying that. Never mind.

The next several minutes are a blur. I vaguely remember meeting Jason, who was wearing a My Chemical Romance t-shirt, in front of Gullifty’s, maybe shaking hands? I definitely remember hoping Henry wouldn’t embarrass me. And then somehow I made it from the sidewalk to a booth inside of Gullifty’s without tripping, puking or dying. Things were looking up.

I knew I wasn’t going to be able to eat real food, so I went straight to the dessert menu (I went with some multi-million calorie peanut butter pie). Henry and Jason were discussing the regular food options (they both got soup) and I sat there thinking about all the inhumane, grassroots surgical techniques I would be practicing on Henry later that night if he continued to talk about food when I had 6,879,098 music questions to ask.

And then Jason said that his wife said to say hello and thanks for the laughs and I tried to be all, “Oh cool, thanks” but on the inside I was like, “OMFG.

”

“OK, I’m going to try and not be annoying—” I started.

“You can be as annoying as you want,” Jason said. That gave me great pause; no one has ever greenlit that for me.

“Have you ever met Robert Smith!?” I blurted, which was the #1 question I wanted to ask and I think I said it much more calmly than in all the times I was practicing in front of the mirror. And from there, we talked about bands, Alternative Press, road-tripping for shows, what it was like for Jason growing up in the Pittsburgh scene. Sometimes Jason would try and ask me questions too, like how Henry and I met, but I was like WHO CARES ABOUT US?! TELL ME MORE DIRT! (All of which was off the record. And no, Henry – that won’t work for you.)

“I’m just a dude,” Jason said after I admitted that I was nervous and sort of in awe to be sitting across from him. “Just a dude who hasn’t been to Gullifty’s in twenty years!” he added. I admired that he was humble, and even appreciated his self-deprecation, considering that’s my own modus operandi, but he really isn’t “just a dude” to me! I was trying not to come off as some sort of star-struck sycophant, because I didn’t want him to get some weird impression of me (as if there aren’t a thousand other ways for me to give off weird impressions) but he really has made an impact on my life.

I have so much respect for the guy and the fact that he carved out two hours to spend with us? There is no tangible way for me to express the amount of appreciation I have for that.

Because I guess I feel the same way – just switch out “dude” for “some chick on Twitter,” because I’m not ready to reveal the fruits of my sex-change surgery just yet. I’m just some chick on Twitter, talking shit on Henry, moms, Miley Cyrus and probably you.  And somehow that was enough to make this awesome dude want to meet me.

Maybe my favorite part was when Jason said that if we come to Cleveland, he will go to Melt with us. Melt, the mecca for grilled cheese aficionados, of which I am a big one! It doesn’t take much to please me.

(I’m trying my best to write this as a 31-year-old woman and not a 16-year-old girl. But I keep feeling my maturity sifting through my fingertips as I struggle with the urge to hit Caps Lock.)

“You don’t have any other questions?” Jason asked as we stood outside of Gullifty’s, ready to part ways. “You didn’t really ask me all that much.”

“I’m sure she’ll be going, ‘Shit, I should have asked about—-‘ the whole way home,” Henry laughed, and even though I was thinking, “STFU Henry,” I knew it was true.

Jason told me I could call or text him if I had more questions, and then he joked that when his phone was blowing up with texts and his wife asked who it was, he’d roll his eyes and say, “It’s just Oh Honestly, Erin.”

Then he hugged me!

A few hours later, Henry and I were watching the Penguins play the Thrashers. “Did we really just hang out with Jason Pettigrew today?” I asked, and Henry was all, “He fist-pumped me!” Henry doesn’t get to interact with other men very often.

That was the best peanut butter pie of my life.

Chooch, reading the book Jason brought for him. Thank you so much, Jason! For everything!

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It’s weird, just last Saturday Jessy was over here and I was showing her some of my older photographs.

“This is my all-time favorite,” I said, pulling up this photo I took of Kara in 2008 in one of the bathrooms at Zenith.

Then a couple days later, Kara was like, “Hey let’s go to lunch at Zenith this week.” Almost as if she could sense her picture being shown!

So I met her and her baby Harland there on Thursday for BBQ seitan sandwiches. The best waiter in the world, Keith, was our server! I love that guy; he has this natural charm to him, like he could just pull up a chair and join you and it wouldn’t be weird or awkward at all.  The Gypsy Cafe needs a Keith. They should find a way to clone him so they can get rid of the guy who spills champagne on people’s heads.

Halfway through the meal, Harland reached his arms out to me. Kara laughed and said, “I think he wants you to hold him, Erin!”

Me and babies? Not really so tight. Don’t get me wrong – Harland is a sweetheart and I like to look him, but keeping some distance between us is imperative.

However, I wanted to be a good friend and give Kara some free hands with which to eat, so I took Harland from her and we walked around, looking at the art and antiques strewn around the restaurant.

Kara said Harland doesn’t let anyone keep him from her for more than like a minute or something, but for some reason he was like, “Nah, lady, this is cool. I’m not gon’ cry. Now take me over there so I can fondle some pumpkins.” Kara thought this was funny, me being all uncomfortable with a baby in my arms.

I think Harland can sense that and does this to me on purpose. After all these years, someone has finally come along to give me a taste of my own medicine. That baby is mega manipulative.

Together, we scoped out a painting of a topless broad. He was cool with that.

I finally gave him back to Kara and sat back down. But Harland toddled back over to me, sat on my lap, and stole my roll! What the fuck, Harland?! This is payback for writing that haiku about your mom’s butt crack, isn’t it?!

All joking aside, he’s good for a one-year-old. I never took Chooch out to eat without Henry when he was that age, because he made me a nervous wreck. But Harland is quiet and well-behaved.

Kara and I must have read opposing parenting books.

Before we left, we checked out the bathroom for old time’s sake. It’s green now! But still the best bathroom in Pittsburgh, as far as I’m concerned. I snapped this with my phone, because I felt we needed an updated version now that Harland is around.

I came home from lunch and promptly iced my arm from all the baby-carrying (I’m way out of practice). Henry asked accusingly, “Wait – she took Harland? Then why didn’t you take Chooch?!”

Chooch, eating lunch in an antique shop? Has Henry not met our son?

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