I don’t even know why I’m posting this, it was such a gross night for hockey. If you’re not a hockey fan, just know that this is not what games look like, pretty much EVER, in modern hockey times. The Penguins went into this game as a team decimated with injuries, fleshed out with a chunk of AHL players, and left the ice with even less of a team. I get that there was the need for retaliation after last week’s game, but only the Islanders could have served it up like this.

I guess this is what you do when you have no chance of winning the Stanley Cup. They are fucking disgusting, classless pigs and an embarrassment to the league and I want to fight all of their beer-swilling, derelict fans.

By the end of the game, I think we were down to 2 guys on the bench, a player and a coach with a suspension, and over 300 minutes in penalties between the two teams.

Crosby and Malkin, I fucking miss you.

I was so stressed out last night that I was considering looking for my own fight, which is probably why Henry quietly slipped away and went to bed.

I’m getting my finger tattoos changed up a bit today and am really craving the pain.

When I broke up with Psycho Mike back in 1998, it was for good. Done-zo. Fini. We didn’t really maintain a friendship, but there were several occasions where we did find ourselves hanging out with each other in the three years that followed.

The last time I saw him was the summer of 2000. We had drinks at some Chinese restaurant for my 21st birthday, and shortly after that he moved to Maryland with his current girlfriend. I never sought him out after that, never even considered it. Just the fact that I was occasionally hanging out with him post-break up was playing with fire. Our relationship was extremely tumultuous, and he remains the one and only guy who ever had the pleasure of controlling me, psychologically and physically. Actually, I attribute to him my extreme dominance and desire to emasculate in every following relationship, because after two years with that guy there was no way I was letting another man tell me what to do or physically bully me. (Sorry Henry – imagine what life would have been like for you had we met prior to 1996. I mean, after you’d have served jail time for statutory rape.)

In early 2006, I started having fleeting memories of Mike (much to Henry’s delight, I’m sure). The memories weren’t of the pining variety or anything, just random flashbacks here and there, such as an instance where Henry and I were driving around and I pointed excitedly out the window at a parking lot and said, “Look, that’s one of the places where Mike kicked me out of his car and told me to have fun walking home, bitch!” And another time when Henry and I were at the grocery store and the song that was playing via the store’s stereo was the same one that played in my apartment the night he tried to kill himself with a butter knife.

You know, little snippets like those.

This went on for several days, these weird memory tuggings, until Henry called me from work and said, “Hey, you know how you’ve been thinking about Mike a lot lately? His mom just died; it was in the paper.”

***

That was five years ago. To be honest, I barely even remembered that happening until I started having dreams about Mike. The first one was about two weeks ago and left me coated in a cold sweat. The dream was subtle, but extremely effective; in it, Mike stood before me, naked from the waist up except for a sinister grin. No words were exchanged; it was just me sitting there, watching him before me, waiting for him to presumably strike.

That tiny vignette stayed with me for days.

Then I found a raunchy love letter he had written me, casually sitting on top of Chooch’s desk. It must have been in a box of VHS tapes that Henry brought down from the attic now that Chooch has inherited a TV/VCR combo. Honestly, I didn’t even think I still had that piece of amateur Penthouse trash, but of course I quickly re-read it and then made Henry read it too; we had a good laugh. But damn if it didn’t give me a little jolt to see that tattered envelope, to have my memory bitch-slapped with his handwriting, to fucking hear his voice in my head as I stumbled through this letter of misspelled words. (Apparently, I used to call his weener “Russell.” I don’t remember that.)

I didn’t go looking for this letter. It was just laying there. In my kid’s room of all places! Thank god he can’t read yet.

The other night, I had another nightmare. This one was more involved, more blatant about the fact that he really did intend to hurt me. Henry and Chooch were in the dream, we were all in my mom’s basement with Mike, but I couldn’t get them to see what was happening; I kept trying to act like I hadn’t picked up on his murderous ruse and would make up excuses to try and sneak away, saying that I was going upstairs to make popcorn, really had to have popcorn, which would only lead to me speeding down highways and trying to get strangers to let me hide in their homes. I woke up with my pulse racing and relieved that Chooch had found his way into my bed sometime during the night. It’s sad when I feel protected by a four-year-old.

Henry and I had a conversation about it later that day, and he said, “Hey, remember a few years ago when….” and the syncronicity all came flooding back. “You’re probably going to run into him,” Henry teased, because IT’S GOING TO BE SO FUNNY WHEN MIKE LODGES A BUTTER KNIFE INTO MY NECK.

“Of all the people I’ve dated, he’s the one I could totally see being a serial killer. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said to Henry in the high-pitched squeal of a woman who fears for her life. I had flashbacks of the times he strangled me and threatened to “poke out my eyes and shove them up [my] vagina.” And that’s a true motherfucking story.

***

I came home this morning around 8AM, having just deposited Chooch across the street at school. I was on the phone with Henry, probably cellularly demoralizing him, when I walked in the house. I noticed it right away.

“Henry. The piggy bank,” I said in a hoarse whisper.

“What about it?”

“IT’S MOVED.”

Chooch has this creepy fucking piggybank, lovingly named Pignaceous, which I like to keep against the wall in the living room for all to grudgingly admire. But when I came home, he was pulled out from the wall and moved to the center of the room, facing the dining room table.

I knew exactly who did it. It was Mike. That motherfucker was in my house, probably come to reclaim his Neil Diamond boxed set.

“You need to come home. Right now.”

Henry laughed. “There’s no one in the house.”

How would he know?

“Then I’m leaving. I can’t stay here,” I shouted, pacing like a crazy lady.

Henry laughed again and asked where I was going to go. “I don’t know! I’ll sit on the front porch until Chooch is done with school!”

More laughter from Henry, then I told him to fuck off and hung up on him.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a steak knife. Together, the steak knife and I stood at the bottom of the steps, where I whispered, “Is anyone up there?” to no response.

The steak knife and I then watched “Vampire Diaries” before taking a shower, making sure to lock the door behind us. I was fully prepared to pull a reverse-Psycho.

Eventually, I forgot about obsessing over a home intrusion and resumed my normal–yet completely glamorous–Chooch-free morning routine.

It wasn’t until Chooch had been home from school for nearly an hour when I remembered the piggybank, which I had nervously nudged back into its rightful spot with my foot.

“Hey, Chooch?” I asked tentatively. “Did you move Pignaceous this morning?”

“Yeah,” he said, very matter-of-factly, popping a Cheez-It into his mouth.

“Show me where you moved it to,” I prodded, wanting to test him.

He sighed in annoyance and stood into the exact spot where I had found Pignaceous that morning.

Relief flooded over me, and I laughed out loud. “Why did you move him?”

“Because I wanted him to say ‘oink oink’ to the cats,” he explained, shrugging.

Maybe Chooch also has a rational explanation for these Mike-centric nightmares. But if I suddenly stop posting here in my blog, know that it’s likely because I came home to find Psycho Mike standing in Pignaceous’s place.

Low budget and it shows, mediocre-to-poor acting, horrible sound quality, but somehow it manages to be extremely effective. Of course Henry didn’t think this was scary at all, but I was very messed up by it, to the point where I was pretzeling my limbs around Henry in bed later (when typically, I’m kicking and punching him for snoring) because I was THAT SCARED to go to sleep.

Trust me when I say I dealt with his animalistic snoring for the night.

I tried to find a picture of this weird wooden box that’s used in the movie. It’s like a small, almost coffin-shaped black trunk of sorts (decorated with a crucifix, of course) which opens up wide enough to fit around a head. At the top of the box, which is the end that is looked out of once it’s being worn, a picture of the murderer’s husband (some sort of pastor) and JESUS is slid inside, so that’s what she’s looking at when her husband is going to town on her, kind of like a full-cranial S&M Viewfinder. I think that was the scariest part of the movie for me.

But now of course I really want one of those fucking helmets. I bet Lady Gaga knows where to find one.

(Totally should not have watched this movie. I’m getting so wussy in my old age.)

Most of my Saturday was filled ghosts. Talk of ghosts. Pictures of ghosts. EVPs of ghosts.

My friend Wendy from work had expressed interest in meeting my friend Evonne, who has had a boatload of paranormal experiences. It runs in her family. So the three of us met Saturday afternoon and had one of the most intense, goosebump-springing conversations I’ve ever had in the back of a Starbucks. At one point, I found myself crying a little. It was overall a really positive meet-up and I left there feeling very calm. Plus, I hadn’t seen Evonne since last July, when she stopped by during Blogathon to ply me with a green tea frappucino and zombie hand sanitizer. (Which never fails to cause a commotion when I use it at work because of the lingering bouquet of marshmallow it sends wafting through the air. That stuff is the shit.) We’re planning on meeting up again soon to work with the Psychic Circle (think Ouija Board but way more positive) in Evonne’s haunted house.

Later that night, I had an after-investigation meet up with the ghost hunting group to go over evidence that was culled a few weeks prior from Broughton Elementary. I was really excited to see everyone again and have more awesomeness to rub in Henry’s face. When I was leaving the house that night, he said something to the effect of, “Have fun with your new lame friends.” BECAUSE HE IS JEALOUS.

Everyone from the investigation, minus Tiny, was at Panera in Monroeville, prepared with laptops to display their blown-up photos of orbs and spectral images and digital recorders containing their EVP treasures. George’s girlfriend Kim (the one who refused to go back to the school after feeling the murder in the parking lot) was also there, along with another member of the group–Dwayne–who missed the investigation because he was drunk at the Steelers game and met some chick to go home with. (Seriously, that’s what he told George.) In order to differentiate this new Kim from my friend Kim, I will refer to the new one as George’s Kim, even though that’s practically setting the women’s movement back fifty years. Oh wellz0rz.

It became apparent to me within the first few minutes that George’s Kim is the brawn behind G&K Paranormal. She’s outspoken, organized and no-nonsense. I was sort of scared of her.

While we waited for Kim, Chris and Jimmy Wenger (who were wining and dining at Olive Garden without me because I had my ringer off all day like a dummy), George passed around his camera so we could all see the image he captured from the bottom of the steps by the gym. At the top, there was  clearly a face peering in through the window of the doors to the second floor hallway. It was eerie enough to make me scrunch my shoulders.

“What does that look like to everyone?” George asked.

“Honestly, it looks like an alien. Like ET,” I laughed, and Joel said that he agreed.

But George’s Kim, along with some others, pointed out that it looked like a miner, and when I looked at it again I could totally see it and got even more freaked out. What I thought was an unusually large ET-cranium actually appeared to be the outline of a hardhat. And miners were killed there, you know!

Once everyone arrived, the first order of business seemed to be staging a coup on the group’s founding organizer, Lynn, who was not at the meeting or the investigation. Chris said that whenever she did attend a meeting, she never spoke and was severely lacking in leadership skills. I have not met Lynn yet, but was still fascinated and highly entertained by the dissent happening right in front of me. I sipped my coffee and sat back.

“I’d like to get her to a meeting so we can be direct with her, rather than make it seem like we’re talking behind her back,” George’s Kim suggested. I liked this suggestion, because that meant CONFRONTATION.

“Well, we don’t want to come at her with torches lit,” Chris said, causing me to flash him a look and say, “Yeah we do. I want that very much.”

“You would,” he sighed.

I want to witness a hostile takeover! I want it to come to blows, like a real barroom brawl. I saw that Lynn RSVPd for the next meeting and I am so amped.

“I think the core of our group is really beginning to gel,” Chris added to the discussion, and I found myself wanting to hug everyone. I have friends now, you guys!

Rather than merge our group with G&K Paranormal, it was decided that we will remain our own entity, with George and Kim’s continued guidance. Then a long and boring treasury discussion went on, and I sat there thinking, “Holy fuck. Things are getting legit. I AM A PART OF A REAL LIFE CLUB, YOU GUYS.” Yes, even in my head, I talk to you guys.

“Erin can be our reporter,” Jimmy Wenger tossed in, causing everyone to look at me. Yeah, and what a reporter I’d be!

“No, he’s just kidding,” I said, waving it off and feeling  my face getting red. Then I turned around and called him a dork for doing that. But then he said he liked my cicada ring, Chiodos tattoo and yellow-striped flats, so he’s back to being awesome in my book.

George uses his fingers as an abacus while Jimmy Wenger, who has a Buzz Lightyear zipper pull on his backpack, looks on.

Finally, Brittany pulled out her recorder and we all listened to the EVP she picked up when she was in one of the classrooms with Nick and Lynette. In the recording, we could hear Nick talking, but behind his voice was definitely the cadence of a child, either singing or chanting. It was fucking chilling, even for a Panera Bread meeting room, with hot coffee in my belly. She played it back, over and over, and none of us could come up with any logical explanation. The rest of the groups were nowhere near that room when they were in it, and obviously none of us sound like a child. (Right now, Henry is sitting somewhere with that smug look on his face, saying, “ORLY? You don’t sound like a child??”)

Christine had picked up quite a few EVPs herself, and most if not all seemed to originate either from the upstairs classrooms or the hallway. In one recording, you can hear someone whisper “I’m sorry.” She confirmed that it was when she, Tiny and myself were exiting one of the rooms. She played it back several times, and Chris even pulled out his headphones so we could have a better listen, and I was relieved to discover that it was not actually me saying it like I had anticipated. But then my relief turned to fear as I realized that some dead person was whispering their apologies to us while we were walking in the dark. WHAT WERE THEY SORRY FOR? Oh my god, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Did they do something to me? Is that why I’ve been spouting off recalcitrant obscenities and bleeding from my eyes ever since that night?

Another EVP presented us with someone whispering “This way,” also from the hallway. It  might have been the creepiest one of them all, with the way the whisper dragged itself out.

There was one from the room where something was finishing Tiny’s succession of knocks on the desk. I excitedly told her that I had captured the same audio when I was recording from my point and shoot camera and as usual, she seemed unimpressed with me. I will win this broad over yet.

Looking at ghostly images. That’s Dwayne in the background. He kind of has an accent.

George’s Kim checking out Christine’s EVPs using Chris’s bigshot headphones.

I’ve been checking around online and there are some other paranormal investigation teams who have EVPs from that school and they are chockful of the sounds of children. It makes me feel like the giggle I heard in that first floor classroom was real.I also found this one recording of an investigator commenting on how some of the rooms have been vandalized and desecrated by kids breaking and entering (hi, Blake). You can hear this faint and gruff voice of a man saying, “Little bastards” right as the investigator mentions it. (Some of the EVPs on that site were really questionable, but that one was almost crystal clear.) A janitor died in that school. JUST SAYIN’.

Anyway, I feel like I’m learning a lot from these people. Plus, Joel is really big into photography so I’m hoping to learn some shit from him about that, too, instead of just bumbling through life completely ignorant to f-stop and aperature.

Before the meeting officially ended, George asked, “Well, would anyone like to have t-shirts made?”

His words had barely made contact with the atmosphere before I found myself lurching forward and shouting, “YES!” Everyone looked at me, and George said, “Ok…” with a laugh.

Fuck yeah, I want a motherfucking t-shirt. I want everyone to know about the awesome club I’m in. It better have my fucking name on it, too.

Then I went home and started word-vomiting on Henry because I was just so overwhelmed by the evidence. He listened, but his lips were twisted in that haughty tight-lined smile of his.

“I feel like it was the missing piece in my life,” I said about ghost-hunting, and my unsupportive, myopic boyfriend tried to stifle a laugh.

***

Last night, I watched “Death of a Ghost Hunter” and I pretty much can say with full certainty that I am scared forever. There was this weird religious helmet in it that I am now obsessed with.

More fun for Henry, delivered today!, originally uploaded by appledale.

I’m so excited about this, I could puke!

Oh wait, I just did!

Our tickets to the Dance Gavin Dance show in March also arrived, and Henry can really barely contain himself.

You should see him. You would probably say, “Henry, get a hold of yourself!

” and then I would say, “Who are you?” because maybe then I would finally get to know who I’m referring to all those times I say “you.”

Hello. I’m reposting this oldie from LiveJournal to remind Henry that, while I may currently have a crush on his old ass, THINGS CAN CHANGE. He could still LOSE ME.

I do crush easily, after all. (Seriously, I’m juggling about three of them right now. One of them might be yours.)

***

At Least It Wasn’t Chucky

October 2007

Last night, Henry and I kicked off the 2007 haunted house season with a VIP treatment at Castle Blood. I’ve been patronizing this haunt for quite literally the past twelve years of my life, so when Henry came home one day and bragged about his company scoring a promotional partnership with them for the season, I exalted on high. He got stacks and stacks of free passes out of the deal, too, which is fantastic because it regularly costs .

This is why I’m always broke after October.

Henry embarrassed me by wearing his Freek Energy Drink t-shirt and managed to succeed in juxtaposing himself with all of the giant Freek ads every chance he got while we stood in line. An employee dressed as a mad scientist came over and slyly said, “Are you the man who dropped 100 cases of love on us?” and Henry puffed out his chest so everyone could see the logo and then the scientist gave him handfuls of Freek swag which made Henry happy.

“Wow! No one ever gave me the tattoos and magnets before!!” he exclaimed. He even wound up with two Freek highlighters by the end of the night. Congratulations! You just got a bunch of shit that you could have gotten from your office.

Then Henry rained free passes on the people in line with us and acted all ass-wounded when one of the little girls didn’t reciprocate by acting like he was Santa. That mustache freaks kids out, I keep telling him. Then the guy who runs the place came over and told the ticket guy to only send us in with the three people in front of us so that we could have a pleasant experience, sans the screaming obnoxious brats who polluted the line behind us. I was smug. Thanks for wearing your Freek shirt after all, Henry.

(You’re still a loser, though.)

I know you all think this post is going to be about how I loved/hated the haunted house or how Henry’s weener ended up in a wall-cranny or how I found the perfect coffin to be buried in, but really this is about the most intense and pure and real human connection I have ever (never?) had.

A guy walked past me as I stood in line. He was short; in his twenties; looked apathetic, like he’d rather be at a Magic tourney. Trailing closely behind him in a cacophonous bubble were two young kids whom he seemed unable to shake. My initial guess was that they were his siblings and he was forced into bringing them there. I didn’t think anything of him after that. A few minutes later, I glanced to my left and saw him again, but this time he was stationed behind his AUTOGRAPH BOOTH BECAUSE OMG IT WAS ANDY FROM “CHILD’S PLAY”!!! No wonder why he looked like he was forced to be there!

And because:

a) I was bored
b) I was standing in line and bored
c) I was with Henry standing in line and bored
d) I have ridiculous crush criteria;

it was only natural for my heart to swell with that intense love that your typical Ed Gein probably felt as he stood above the body of the attractive barfly he snuffed earlier that day and just realized how fabulous her hide would look as a lampshade. I buried my head in Henry’s armpit and squealed as Alex (that’s his real name in case you assholes didn’t know) approached the children behind us and did card tricks for them.

“Oh my god he’s so cute! Oh my god I can’t handle it! Oh my god he’s so close to us right now!” I broke up with Henry a few times so I could run off into the sunset with Alex;  Henry pretended to be good natured about it. Probably because being there was like a business meeting for him and he had to maintain his facade of phony sleazeball salesman.

He did, however, push me off the curb once.

Alex’s autograph booth was set up right next to Castle Blood’s exit. When we came out, there was a teenage girl getting him to sign a photo. She bounced from foot to foot like she was running through tires and talked in a quick high-pitched voice fueled by star lust. “Oh my god I can’t wait to tell my friends! You have to understand, no one ever comes to our town!” (Bealesville, Castle Blood’s locale, is about an hour outside of Pittsburgh and there’s  honestly nothing to do there.) Alex smiled and pushed the photo back to her.

I didn’t want it to be my turn! I wasn’t ready! I tried to get Henry to do it for me, but he shouldered me toward the table.

I made a brilliant first impression.

“Hi can I have your autograph?”
“The colored photos are $15. Black and white are $10.”
“Shit, my money’s in the car. BRB.”

I probably wouldn’t have been back. I’m a tightwad. BUT! As I made to walk away, Alex stopped me.

“So, is it any good in there?” he asked, nodding toward the castle with his REALLY CUTE HEAD.

So I had an opportunity to get into my element and tell him about how fantastic it is and how I want to live there. He remarked about that as I walked away so I laughed along with him, but naturally I have no idea what he said.

On the way back to the car, I completely unraveled. “Oh my god did you see how cute he was? Oh my god, should I really go back? Oh my god, was I worse, better or the same as the girl in front of me?”

Henry told me I talk too much.

I went back after all and bought a black and white photo. I know, there’s little I won’t do for love. I made a big production of choosing between the TWO black and white photos, before settling on one with him and the director. “That’s my favorite one,” he said. “Cool,” I remarked, trying to keep my composure. I wanted to ask him to write “Your blog is the best” or “We made a really cute kid together!” but instead I stood there silently, gnawing on my bottom lip as he wrote “To Erin, Chucky did it!” Then we had a brief exchange about how he spelled my name right and he scoffed at the thought of people spelling it wrong and said, “But then it would be Aaron!” and I’ve always been attracted to people who even say the boy’s version differently than “Erin.” He is an amazing man.

He then asked me if I’m from Beallsville and I yelled, “No, Pittsburgh!” because God forbid he should think I’m a townie. I asked him where he’s from, and he said, “Jersey.” I should have asked him really awesome questions, like, “If you had to have one of your organs stolen, which one would it be?” (For me, it would be any of the ones that I’d die without. ANY of them. Take them all, fuckers. Or my skin. I seem to have a lot of that.) Or, “Where should we go to make this baby?” But instead I was all, “Yo-de-doh, how long are you here?” delivered atop of serving of insane giggles.

I really think though that the only thing preventing us from embroiling in the passionate act of porno-making was that damn table with his seven-year-old mug plastered all over it. He asked me if there’s anything to do around there and I should have said “Yes — me” but instead I rolled my eyes like a disinterested teenager and said, “Ha, no!” and he laughed but what if he was hoping I’d invite him down to the pier for a cock fight? (I’m not sure there are any piers in Bealesville, but if he wanted one, I’d have made Henry build one.)

So that was that. No swapping of spit, no crude genital introductions. Instead, we stuck with just saying goodbye to each other. I rushed back over to Henry, who was talking to the owner of Castle Blood a few feet away from my love, so I had the excruciating chore of remaining in his line of sight. I tugged on Henry’s arm. “Give me your cell phone!” I whispered, like one of those annoying children who have little regard for when their parents are in the middle of a conversation with another grown up. I had one whole friend I needed to call and relay this sorrowful tale of The One Who Got Away! Henry distractedly pulled out his phone, looked at it, then dropped it back in his pocket, too engrossed in his discussion to fully understand what I had asked. I growled like an angry teen.

On the way back to the car, I reiterated what went down. “I really think he liked me back because there was this REALLY STRONG eye contact. I mean, it was intense! But I was so sweaty though.” (It was 90 fucking degrees that day and some of the humidity lingered in the air that night, making the hallways of Castle Blood stuffy and moist.)

“Some guys like sweaty girls,” Henry said encouragingly.

I talked about it the whole way home.

“Can you believe I met him?? Oh my god, I love—-” I had to pause to refer to the autograph because I forgot his name. “–Alex Vincent so much! I really feel like it was the strongest connection I’ve ever forged with someone. Oh shit I should have given him my business card! I could have written ‘KIT’ on it!”

“KIT?” Henry asked.

“Uh, yeah. It means keep in touch. Maybe if people actually signed your yearbook, you’d know that.”

Then Henry changed the subject by ridiculing me for being the only person he knows who consistently leaves her business cards at home.

After the excitement of getting Alex’s autograph wore off, I morphed into full-blown stalker mode. “We’d have an awesome life together I bet. I’d call him and be like, ‘Hey Alex baby, what do you want me to bring home for dinner?'”

This caused Henry to laugh with aneurysm-triggering force. “Oh, that’s funny. You would never ask something like that! Maybe if it started with ‘Could you,’ ‘can you,’ ‘will you,’ it would be more believable.”

I’ll be back for you, Andy. I don’t feel like I got my $10’s worth.

I received a really fantastic Etsy convo on Saturday, full of smiley-faced demands tempered with back-handed compliments:

hello fellow zombie lover!

i wanted to contact you regarding your “i love you like a zombie loves brains” love notecard. i have been using a very similar saying(“i love you more than zombies love brains”) on my work and selling it on etsy and through other venues since 2007 on ceramic dishes as well as screen printed cards. the zombie dishes have been in national publications(BUST, OCT/NOV 2007). i just saw your listing on etsy today for the first time. i’m hoping you would please consider discontinuing this design with this particular text or at least changing the tagline to something else? i saw your other cards with the same zombie drawing (which is AMAZINGLY adorable btw) and they super cute. i don’t have an issue with the image at all, just the tagline.
i did a search for the whole zombies love brains thing today and was shocked* to see all the products. i can’t help but feel like my undead toes are being stepped on a bit. so, i have sent out quite a few convos. but seriously, i really do love your products, they are right up my alley (but trust me – i don’t necessarily love the others i have been convo-ing – haha). let me know what you think about this.

here is my first ever listing of zombies like brains plate – sold on 3.5.07:
www.etsy.com/view_transaction.php?transaction_id=5248301
here is the “love” version that followed shortly afterward – this is a more recent listing:
www.etsy.com/transaction/43136341
the saying in card format:
www.etsy.com/view_transaction.php?transaction_id=7251555
www.etsy.com/view_transaction.php?transaction_id=13581176

i am hoping to resolve this directly with you and avoid contacting etsy because i know we can handle it discreetly on our own. we can co-exist in zombie-land together!

At first, I was like, “Oh shit, am I going to get sued?” I was with my Law Firm co-worker/friend Wendy when the convo was sent to my phone and I immediately read it her. She was basically like, “You’re fine. Fuck that” and waved it off. Then I sent it to my fellow zombie pal Andrea who was like, “She’s high if she thinks she coined that phrase. Eff her in the eye!” Of course, there are a million things I want to say to this broad, but Henry has urged me to just not say anything at all. That has proven very hard, and my patience is REALLY being exercised.

Anyway, this latest convo officially replaces this one I got last year as my new favorite:

I read your profile to confirm what I thought was so obvious … that you must be male. In fact, I was certain, you must be a young male. Your stories & language & interests made my conclusions so obvious.

What I couldn’t understand was that I appreciate the ‘bird art’ of such a person.

Well, I was clearly wrong about your gender. Perhaps even your age. As to my appreciation of your birds, this clearly requires that I consider a bit more about myself!

Thanks, bitches!

[*BECAUSE YOU DID NOT MAKE UP THIS TAGLINE, JESUS CHRIST!]

Nain posted last week about man caves and how her husband is finally going to get one when their house is finished being built.

  I think–ideally–that we all need our own space though, don’t we? In our current residence, no one really has their own space (bedrooms excluded).

All the time, I tell Henry that if (a big if) we ever actually own a house, it is essential that I have my own room. It only needs to be big enough to hold my music collection, a bangin’ stereo, enough wall space to be adequately covered with my music memorabilia, and of course–a big motherwhompin’ bean bag chair. (Though in a perfect world, the bean bag chair would be swapped out for one of those devilishly retro egg chairs.)

“So basically you want a teenager’s room,” Henry summarized.

Yes, and with all the haphazardly strewn used condoms, door slamming and cutting apparati that comes with it.

I won’t lie–I’ve been on a diet. I’m pretty serious about this rollerdance pipe dream and figure I better do all I can to get into good shape so I don’t look like a rotund Liberace in my majestic sequined unitard. (Today, sticking to this diet has proven especially arduous since there was a Dip-Off at work, inspiring my co-workers to wish to ladle said dips into my mouth all night.)

Last night, when I went out to dinner at Mad Mex with my friend Gina and her girlfriend Elissa, I had every intention of ordering a salad. Something sauceless & sprout-like. Maybe just stick to licking the rim-salt off Gina’s margarita. But then I saw that the special was jerk pork tacos with FRIED BANANAS and then all I could think about was substituting the pork for tofu but definitely keeping the FRIED BANANAS.

FRIED BANANAS in a taco. How motherfucking Caribbean. And to think I was just saying the other day that I needed to paste some island flavors upon my palate. (This is all thanks to seeing the same Shabba Ranks video twice in two days on VH1’s Island Soul.)

I had been subsisting on leaves for nearly two weeks, with some rice and yogurt thrown in here and there. Maybe a covert, guilt-covered cough drop when no one was looking. So that is what I ordered, this fucking taco with FRIED BANANAS, and goddamn was I feeling great about it, too. If I’m going to cough up a cheat night, it better damn well have the FRIED BANANAS protruding from it.

As I turned away from the waitress to talk to my friends, I noticed her form hovering in my periphery.

“I just want you to know that it’s really hot,” she interrupted.

“OK,” I acknowledged. This should have been a sufficient response, I felt.

“No, it’s very, very, very hot,” she stressed.

Again, I said that was fine, and she finally retreated.

“Three ‘very’s!” I exclaimed to Gina and Elissa. “Goddamn.” Doubt started to creep in. Doubt and anxiety.

“I feel like I’m about to get a piercing, not a taco,” I joked, but the fact was that I was fucking serious on the inside. My palms were beginning to glaze a little, and I had this bad feeling that I was about to become the first person to expire from jerk sauce, completely killing my Caribbean cred.

Coming back with our drinks, the waitress felt compelled to reiterate again just how spicy this dish really was. She started comparing it to various hot sauces I had never had, assuring me that it was way hotter than these particular fiery juices which had never graced my tongue.

“I LOVE that sauce, but can’t handle the heat of this one,” the waitress put on the table, like that was going to actually serve as some basis of comparison. Maybe if she had remembered to sling her Miss Pennsylvania Pepper Sadist sash across her bulky bod’, her statement might have made more impact.

“You’re scaring me,” I admitted, seeing my FRIED BANANAS all lassoed up in a rope, being wrangled out of my reach by Lisa, Mad Mex’s resident kill-joy.

“How about I have them put the sauce on the side?” she suggested, in a tone that still didn’t suggest an ounce of confidence in my decision, like I’m a fucking albino swearing I won’t perish beneath the sun when I join that Palm Springs nudist colony.

“I wanna see your face melt off,” Gina gushed supportively after Lisa set off to baby my taste buds by segregating the jerk sauce in a ramekin, where it didn’t stand a chance of flooding my food.

Waiting for my dinner to arrive was much like standing in line for that piece of shit carnival ride that killed three Mexicans back in ’08 and definitely is demanding human blood to be poured into the mouth of Hell, so says the shouts of your mother as she begs you to just pitch a fastball at Bozo instead: I mostly knew I was going to be alright, but now had that niggling voice of caution lashing its tongue and waving a spaghetti sauce-coated wooden spoon in my head.

When our food was placed in front of us and I took my inaugural bite, I expected our waitress to pop up between my legs and scream, for one last time, “IT’S REALLY HOT BE CAREFUL!” while braced to dump a freezer of ice cubes and frosted mugs of milk down my gullet.

But she didn’t, and yet it turned out to be fine. Completely anti-climactic. I wound up just dipping my taco in the cup of jerk sauce and accompanying pineapple salsa (WARNING: CONTAINS HABANEROS, OH NOES!), allowing me the perfect sauce control over my food, and in the end, I was very happy with my choice.

Even though it was the most anxiety-laden taco I’ve ever ordered.

That night, the waitress was in my dreams, trying to talk me out of doing everything I wanted to do because it was too hot. I woke up wondering where she was when I needed her fanatical advice, like in 2001 right before I had that one night stand with Henry.

[This little guy was just adopted last weekend, so I thought I’d post his story as a going-away tribute thingie.]

It wasn’t so bad at the orphanage after Sister Nutbuster’s interest in birds piqued upon receiving a sign from God. She had always paused to admire squawking woodcocks and bobbing robins, even as a small leg-braced girl, but now that she knew their feathers were saturated with the holy spirit, she spent hours at a time in the courtyard foraging for loose plumage to rub over her pious undercarriage.

This meant less time for Sister Nutbuster to crack the grubby orphans on their ruddy bottoms for sneezing, missing a bead on the rosary, and communicating with Satan through cracks in the bathroom tile.

Eventually, avian mania reached its apex when God told Sister Nutbuster to steal the money from the chicken pox vaccination fund and build a lavish aviary, one with gilded gazebos and fountains bloated with holy water and fenced with statues of big-titted Greek broads.

Trayvon, a ten-year-old orphan whose broom closet bedroom was stationed next to the aviary, really reaped the rewards from Sister Nutbuster’s obsession.

At first, the incessant chirping made it hard to sleep; but after a few days, the birds began telling him important facts like how to build a bomb using pulpit dust and communion wafers, and cooed lullabies to him every night in the style of Gwar.

For the first time since he was dumped on the front steps of the orphanage, Trayvon felt content, like he finally had a family.

A few weeks later, Trayvon expired from bird flu.

Our roller rink announced a few weeks ago that they’d be hosting a special Sunday night Adult Skate on January 30 and I had glorious montages of taking my wheeled feet on that smooth, child-free surface while perhaps some vintage porn was projected against the back wall. (The rink we used to go to pre-Chooch did that, project images on the wall. Usually music videos and not porn, though.) Henry’s sister Kelly saw this as her opportunity to put on skates for the first time in years without worrying about a rink booby-trapped with adolescent limbs, so Henry and I picked her up Sunday evening and left Chooch in her place (with adult supervision, God!).

In the car, the three of us basked in the rare child-free moment, passed around some joints (yeah right, not with Henry the NARC in the car), and just basically enjoyed having a conversation that wasn’t peppered with incessant and increasingly irate bellows of “MOMMY!”

Because I was so excited to get there, we were 30 minutes early. The car we parked next to had a black man sleeping in it. Then we began to notice that each car that arrived brought more black people, not that we were like OH FUCK, BLACK PEOPLE! RUNNNN! We were just noticing that we were the only crackers.

“Maybe it’s Soul Night,” Henry shrugged, without a hint of irony.

Just then, Roller DJ poked his head out of the entrance. I began waving maniacally and he waved back then disappeared inside.

“OMG ROLLER DJ WAVED TO ME DID YOU SEE THAT?!” When I say that I squealed this, please know that I SQUEALED THIS. I was dying, all bent over in the passenger seat, laughing so hard I was beginning to wheeze.

“It doesn’t take much, does it Erin?” Kelly said.

It wasn’t quite 7PM yet, but I noticed that the entrance was open so I started whining about wanting to go in. Henry opted to stay behind and wait for Chris, because he brought his rollerblades from home for him since Chris isn’t awesome enough to rock the quads. Kelly and I got inside and found that no one was behind the ticket window yet, so I started to panic. I popped inside Roller DJ’s booth (literally his DJ booth, this was not an euphemism for his asshole, thank you), waved my arms a little bit and asked, “Well? What are we supposed to do?”

He explained that they weren’t quite set up yet, and I said, a little too zealously, “OK, but I’m really anxious to get started.”

“I can tell,” he answered, a little worriedly.

Standing in the tiny foyer, waiting for the ticket lady to get her empty Folger’s tin set up, I did my Nervous Pee Jig.

“Are you going to be OK?” Kelly asked with a laugh, yet still managing to look slightly concerned. Kelly and I have not ever really officially hung out before, outside of family functions, so the full breadth of my annoying disposition was made available to her for the first time that night.

“I’m just really excited,” I slurred with giddiness.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

The Steel City Rollers

Minutes later, I was on a bench having  my laces tightened to tourniquet-strength by Henry (filling in as my Skate Boy for Chris, who hadn’t yet arrived with Kim), I had my upper body twisted around so I could ogle the two people already on the rink. A woman in a red sweater was skate-dancing in the middle of the rink and an older man, who had briefly spoke with Kelly in the parking lot on his way to smoke weed around the side of the building, was skate-squatting with one leg extended. I think I’ll call him Lone Dancer, since he was there by himself and I am so awesome at nomenclature.

One by one, the rink filled up with more of these glorious roller jammers, undulating beneath the blaring R&B that Roller DJ was pumping out per request; I knew immediately that this was going to be quite unlike the adult skates that Henry, Janna and I used to go to on Tuesday nights in 2005, where a middle-aged skinny man donned a suit of spandex and showed us up by leaving us in the fruity wake of his white-boy pirouettes, two old ladies skate-walked around the rink while exchanging recipes and bunyun remedies, and a Snape lookalike clung to the walls while his skates attempted to upend him.

Shit was about to get REAL at this Adult Skate.

While Kelly practiced staying upright in the lane by the lockers, Henry and I officially became The Only White People On the Rink. I watched in awe as everyone else skated with RHYTHM, snapping their fingers to Rihanna and moving their feet fluidly in syncopated steps along with the music. I was all at once fascinated, jealous and determined.

“I want to be a part of their group so bad,” I whined to Henry, as Lone Dancer smoked past us (OH DID YOU GET THAT PUN?!), his shoulders alternating with each other in a rising shimmy. Then he shot out his arms to the side, pointed at Henry and did this finger twinkle thing. “Oh shit, he shot you with SOUL!” I yelled and Henry rolled his eyes. I also caught him doing this move where he wound up his hand and cupped it behind his ear. I wondered if he knew he was emulating Hulk Hogan.

“I gotta get that guy to teach me,” I moaned to Kelly.

“Ask him!” she urged.

“I CAN’T HE’S TOO COOL FOR ME OMG!” I’m not annoying at all to go skating with.

There was this older couple, decked out in their Steel City Rollers shirts, skating in complete sync with each other. I watched in envy as they basically slow-danced together without touching.  It was so hot, you guys. True roller romance, and I wanted desperately to get in on this action with Henry.

“OK, I’m going to get in front of you and make up some moves, then you’re going to follow me REAL CLOSE from behind. Make sure you do what I do,” I called out over top of Kanye West and glided in front of Henry.

“You can’t get in front of me and then STOP!” Henry yelled, as we nearly collapsed into a very non-hot, unromantic heap of tangled limbs on the ground. After that, every time I would attempt to re-start our two-person soul train of love, he’d just push me out of the way and skate around me. And I was really coming up with some fantastic moves, too.

Throughout the night, spontaneous parades-on-wheels would develop; they cruised against the outer rim of the rink with high acceleration, literally hooting anytime some asshole skater got in their way (NEVER ME). I kept striving to be the caboose to their roller gang-train. I was able to catch up with them several times, but then I could never mimic their leg motions.  It’s really frustrating, not having rhythm. But at least I didn’t look like Henry out there, skating around with my hands stuffed in my pockets like motherfucking Opie visiting on the white bus from Mayberry.

Later, I was standing by the lockers talking to Henry and Kelly when an old man asked me if I had been there for the last adult skate. He explained to me that his group, the Pittsburgh Steel City Rollers, rent out the rink on the last Sunday of each month. “Basically, any one out there wearing black and gold is part of us. You’ll wanna especially watch that girl right there,” and he pointed at the woman in the red sweater. “She can SKATE.”

The sycophant in me rose up real quick-like and I found myself gushing to him about how badly I wanted to be like them. I brought up the fact that I can barely even skate backward anymore, because I’m so afraid of falling.

“Shoot, girl,” he said, slapping his hand at the air. “You can do it, you just gotta try.” I felt as though his pep talk infused me with a little funk and I shivered as some of the old school Yo Girl Erin surged up within me. (I didn’t actually shiver; I was fucking sweating up in that roller rink.) Golly, he’s right, I thought to myself, fists clenched with determination at my sides. I just gotta try!

I didn’t try. But I did make a mental note to go loot my mom’s house for my old Cross Colours shirts. I think that should be my first step, to dress the part. Then maybe the moves will come naturally.

While I didn’t try to skate backward, or do anything at all that deviated from my mission to skate as fast as possible without rocketing myself to Xanadu, I did partake in some Orange Crush, which seemed like a proper roller rink beverage.

Did I mention Napoleon Dynamite was there? He was, and he took a lot of the caucasian heat off me.  His girl friend was some awkward Dorothy Hamill doppelganger.

The Drug Deal

As I skated one of my many breakneck revolutions around the rink, I couldn’t help but notice Kelly sitting on the bench, chatting it up with Red Sweater. I wondered what they could possibly be talking about, and decided it was obviously a drug deal. Then I couldn’t stop laughing at myself for being SO RACIST.

But later, when I asked Kelly for the 411, she said, “Oh, she was asking me why I wasn’t skating and I said my knee was hurting. So she gave me a pain killer.”

“YOU TOOK DRUGS OFF A STRANGER AT A ROLLER RINK?!” I couldn’t believe that my ignorant assumption was so spot-on.

Kelly’s daughter Ashley, who had met us there with her boyfriend Ryan, exclaimed, “What was it, like a Vicodin?!”

“It was just Ibuprofin you guys!” Kelly cried out, defensively. It’s been 4 days and she’s not out turning tricks for more pills, though. At least, not according to any of her Facebook status updates.

Daryll’s Down, Ya’ll!

Roller DJ had just finished shooting down my request for Bone Thugs n Harmony when it happened.

“HO! HO! HO!” someone bellowed from the opposite side of the rink. Kim and I and everyone else stopped in our tracks. My natural inclination was to either hit the floor and cover my head, tornado drill-style, or find where the line started to sit on Santa’s lap.

“DARYLL FELL!” the same man shouted. Wait – Daryll fell, or Daryll was felled? My mind always wants to go to the worst case scenario, and my heart rate was right there with it.

“DARYLL’S DOWN!” another person screamed.

“Goddammit, someone help Daryll!” (I know this is how he spells his name because I’m pretty sure I saw a YouTube video of him and he goes by Dangerous D Daryll.)

The music came to a screeching halt, replaced by nervous whispers, and on came the lights. Daryll, in his gold shirt and black do-rag, was half-supine on the rink with a crowd of Rollers surrounding him in an effort to help him up.

The culprit of Daryll’s dive was a small piece of plastic, which Red Sweater held in her hand as she skated off the rink. It appeared to have come off of someone’s skate, and Daryll, resting on a bench with an ice pack to his head at this point, looked like he was on a rampage.

“Everyone check your skates!” someone ordered, so we all did, but I had no idea what I was looking for. I had joined Henry and Chris, who were rubbing elbows with hopefully my soon-to-be mentor, the Lone Dancer.

“How do you skate with your skates untied?” Henry asked him, incredulous at the prospect.

Lone Dancer let out a slow, stoned laugh. “Oh, I don’t even notice,” he said. We hung out with him while Red Sweater skated around the perimeter of the rink with a wide broom, hopefully assuring that no one else would fall. (Some white broad fell earlier, but that was just because she sucks and is white.)

Later, Henry bragged that Lone Dancer told him that he and Chris are good. This made me literally bend over and get fucked by my own laughter. Practically had tears in my eyes at the idea of someone telling Henry and Chris that they’re good, let alone this made-up compliment originating from someone made of awesome like LONE DANCER.

“He probably meant you’re good because you were both able to snag amazing girlfriends,” I explained, causing Henry to make some disgusted noise before skating away from me.

More plastic was discovered on the rink, so we were all asked to stop skating and check our bearings once again.

“You’re good, girl,” a woman next to me on the bench said. “This ain’t coming from rentals.”

Someone else added, “I feel like this is coming from roller blades.” I know, lady. I taste the acrid flavor of disgust every time I say that word, too.

But then something clicked in my head and I slid over to Henry, trying not to arouse suspicion.

“What if it’s the roller blades you brought for Chris?” I hissed under my breath to Henry, who, for a split second, seemed to blanch.

“What? No. No, it’s not from those,” he said, but I noted there was a slight stammer.

Meanwhile, Kim had joined us and I filled her in on how I thought there was a chance Chris could be the culprit. I turned around and saw him sitting alone at the far end of the rink, just him and his pathetic roller blades, sitting on the bench, staring into space; I felt a pang of guilt when I thought about how Daryll was going to fuck up his world.

“Oh, I hope it is!” she exclaimed, and she laughed. Then I laughed too, and I couldn’t stop. (In fact, I’m still laughing now too, a real maniacal, devious brand of laughter which just caused my child to back slowly away from me. I  apologized and said, “I just can’t stop laughing!” to which Chooch replied matter-of-factly, “I know. That’s because you’re a jackass.”)

Back at the rink, Henry was chiding, “It’s not funny!”  We still decided to check Chris’s skates anyway, but they were intact.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you guys were going to sell me out!” Chris said, making Kim and me laugh all over again.

Henry hates the snack room girl. She told me she likes my Mark Ryden pendant, so I like her just fine.

10PM was way too quick to approach, and Daryll never did get back on the rink. Goddammit.  I admittedly was a little happy to tug those skates off my feet. Adult skate allows for much more skating to be had since the rink is only half as populated and pretty much everyone out there knows how to skate, and there’s none of those bullshit special skates being announced every fifteen minutes. “12 & under!” “No Girls!!” “Bieber Hair Cuts Only!” and don’t forget the biggest waste of time of them all – Limbo. But the downside to more rink time is that my feet were killing me. They hurt so bad that I had to wear flats to work the next day. In an effort to hopefully alleviate developing more open wounds, I’ve been browsing the Internet for a real pair of quads to buy. That’s how in it to win it I am. Fuck this skate rental bullshit.  I’m looking for a nice pair with flames down the sides and flashing wheels. Then I’m going to shove the coffee table out of the way, turn on VH1 Soul and start practicing.

The best part? There were ZERO Katy Perry songs played that night. Jesus, the Steel City Rollers adult skate ruined me. I’ll never want to skate with regular people again! (And by “regular,” I of course mean “white.”)

Chooch finally exchanged his Christmas gift duplicates. Henry and I kept trying to give him helpful suggestions, but always he’d gravitate right back to the goddamn Mighty Beanz aisle. He has wanted Mighty Beanz for months, but I’m usually able to distract him with something shinier and more useful, but not on this day. It was Mighty Beanz or nothing.

“Just let him get them,” I sighed to Henry. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s whatever.”

What are Mighty Beanz, you ask? Fuck if I know. But I can tell you that I’m very stressed out trying to make sure they don’t become estranged from each other. “PUT THEM SOMEWHERE SO THEY DON’T GET LOST!” I keep shouting to Chooch as my brow becomes dotted with beads of OCD.

In other news, Chooch piped up from the backseat the other day with a firm and decisive, “This is my JAM!” I can’t even remember what song it was now, but he is totally my kid.

You know how you never wished to have serial killer-themed Valentine cards to send out to your loved ones? Well, this is your chance to get FIVE of the things you never wished to have, FOR FREE! Oh believe it, my friends. This could be your year to express your love by sending the mugs of Richard Ramirez, Jeffrey Dahmer, Albert Fish, Ted Bundy and Ed Gein to five lucky people in your life.

Could it be your stalkee?

The cop who had your car towed?

Sarah Palin?

Ed Gein

This card gives new meaning to eternal love, and what’s better than that, except for maybe the possibility of a lover turning your skinned flesh into a lampshade.

Bestow your loved one with Ed Gein’s mug on Valentine’s Day, or any regular old day you want them to know that you still think they’re a fine piece.

Richard Ramirez

This Valentine’s Day, show the object of your obsession that you mean business. Serious, bloody, stabbing business.

Albert Fish

There is something tingly and erotic when someone tells you, “Hey you know I love you right? But I’d love you even more if you let me get all Food Network with your flesh.” It’s like the new anal sex for the reluctant partner.

This card portrays one of America’s most beloved cannibals, Albert Fish. Maybe he can help push your cause.

Jeffrey Dahmer

Treat your Valentine to this lovingly thoughtful card to let them know that not only do you love them, but you bet they’re tasty too. I don’t know about you, but there’s little that can get my libido Jazzercized quite like the threat of cannibalism.

Ted Bundy

[inside reads: …and how great a pair of nylons would look wrapped around your neck]

Let your loved ones know that not you, but TED BUNDY, is thinking of them by sending this very thoughtful card. Sure, they might get some chills, but only because they feel SO SPECIAL.

The winner gets all five cards, made of thick and sturdy cardstock which will be delivered to you with five accompanying envelopes. The bases, they have all been covered.

To enter: leave a comment here, including an email address where you can be contacted if you are the winner. You don’t have to do all that re-tweeting and Facebook-liking shit. A simple comment will suffice. But if you want to fancify said comment with an anecdote, your life story, Degrassi spoiler alerts, that would be just fine also. I am a bored girl; please amuse me.

Entries will be accepted until noon on Friday, at which point the winner will be chose at the whim of Random.org. Once the winner replies to me with a mailing address, the cards will be shipped out post haste. Now go on, fools! Enter!

[These cards plus more are available for purchase over at non compos cards. Peace out, girl scout.]

THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED!

The winner was comment #11: Naomi V. Your cards will be mailed out once I get a shipping address. Thanks to everyone for playing!