“Are you ever going to ask me?”

“Yeah,” Henry said, completely immune to my nuptial nagging by now.

“Do you even know when?” I prodded, arms crossed in petulance.

His affirmative answer seemed steeped in honesty, inspiring me to probe deeper.

“Is it going to be sometime in 2011?”

Henry said yes, and I screamed, “OMG ARE YOU GOING TO PROPOSE AT WARPED TOUR?”

He gave me a “don’t be stupid” smirk.

“But that would be so perfect,” I whined.

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “For YOU.”

Um, isn’t that the point?

Then I asked him if he planned on asking my dad for my hand (lol) but Henry reminded me that after we’ve lived together for ten years and spawned a child from our mutual hatred, my dad probably couldn’t care less either way.

Maybe by the time Henry finally puts a ring on it, Jonny Craig’s career will have collapsed upon itself faster than his veins and I can snag him to sing at our reception on the cheap.

I’m taking the day off. (Because I do SO MUCH on here, you know.) So here is an oldie about littering and cops, and cops who litter.

Another Reason to Hate the 5-0

May 2007

It was the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon in Hamilton, Ohio. Christina and I were lounging around her room and I was making her cry by talking about how I hate God. I suppose I should have been penciling in a time for church in my day planner since “He” evidently spared our lives the night before when we got caught in the midst of a hail storm on our way from Pittsburgh to Ohio. It was probably the single most terrifying moment of my life and it took place right after I had been talking about Hell.

Over top of Christina’s mighty exaltation for her love of all things Christ, I heard the squelch of a siren from behind her house. We ran over to the window and discovered that there were two police officers on the street behind her house and they had pulled over a man in a truck. It seemed like it was just a traffic violation and I was quickly becoming bored. Luckily, I hung around long enough to witness the most appalling act of crime I have ever seen with these green eyes.

The officers were beginning to wrap things up and as the one cop made to get into the passenger side of the patrol car, he poured out the remainders of a can of what appeared to be Pepsi and then deliberately tossed the empty can into Christina’s back yard.

“Oh no he didn’t!” I exclaimed to Christina, right before shaping a makeshift megaphone with my hands and shouting “LITTERER!” and then ducking, leaving Christina framed alone in the window looking like the sole perpetrator.

Stomping over to her bed, I grabbed my shoes and sat down hard.

“What are you doing?” Christina asked nervously.

“I’m going out there.” I walked out of the bedroom and bounded down the steps, leaving her pleas in a cloud of my dust. She caught up with me before I made it to the back door and grabbed my arms.

“Look, I really don’t think going out there is a good idea. The cops around here are dicks.” She had thrown herself between me and the door so I knew she meant business. I walked dejectedly back into her kitchen as she explained to me that her neighborhood is kind of bad and that the cops are always looking for a reason to, well, be cops and that she really didn’t want to have to make that call to Henry.

“Henry!” I exclaimed in remembrance of my boy-toy in Pittsburgh. “Let’s call him for legal counsel.” And of course he wasn’t home. I left a message and that dickshitter never called back because he figured it was “something stupid” I was calling about, as I would later learn.

The cops had left by then, leaving me alone with a heightened sense of extreme community failure. I didn’t want it be over yet so I continued pacing and spouting vulgarities until I finagled Christina into calling the police station. “We have their patrol car number! Do it, Christina, for all of us civilians. And the environment. It’s God’s will.” I knew that would clinch it.

Christina finally relented, only because she didn’t want me making the call because supposedly I’m too “hot-headed.” But I would have used words like ‘reprehensible’ and ‘detestable’ to convey to the sergeant how appalled I truly was. And I would have thrown in the words ‘law’ and ‘suit’ somewhere in between mention of dying babies and that our earth is God’s playground (HAHA).

But Christina still wouldn’t hand over the phone; she was eventually dispatched through to Sgt. Ebbing (a man I will never forget, bless his heart). Explaining the complaint, she actually said, “Sir, I know this may seem trivial.”

Excuse me, trivial? Are you kidding? That prick littered in her back yard. He did something that people like us would get fined for. Oh, I was livid. She was being too nice and congenial during the phone call and my body was burning. I started to envision what would have happened if I had managed to get out of her house while the cops were still there. They don’t scare me. Plus, I have big boobs.

This was when I decided that I really, truly, and legitimately hated that littering officer. My ears were roaring with the sound of large, wavering sheets of metal and my heart was pounding like I had just run ten yards after ingesting fourteen fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and an eight ball. I imagined scratching his face (out of malice, not passion) and striking his nose with the heel of my palm in an upward motion, just like Mr. Miyagi taught me. Then I would retrieve his discarded aluminum can and crush it against his jock.

Oh heaven, I have finally reached you through my fantasies.

Christina ended the call and jolted me out of my daydream. She explained to me that Sgt. Ebbing was going to call her back once he reprimanded the officers and that he also informed her that she could go to the courthouse and file for a citation, to which she said would not be necessary (I would have done it – fuck the police). I felt a tiny bit reassured and calmer but Christina was a little leery that Sgt. Ebbing had asked for her full name and address. “I’m a pot head! What if they’re going to be watching me now?”

“What do I care? I live in Pittsburgh.” And then I laughed. And if you know me, you know that laugh, and are probably wanting to bitch-slap me just at the mere thought of it.

In the meantime, we called Henry to fill him in. “You didn’t go out there, did you?” was the first utterance from his fat mouth. I began to feel a complex developing and asked, “No, I didn’t go out there but would it really have been so bad if I had?”

“Uh, yeah!” he answered. “With your temper? I don’t need to be bailing you out of jail.” I have to say I’m a little insulted that I’m not trusted to handle situations such as this one on my own. But Christina was happy because Henry shared in her apprehension.

Sgt. Ebbing called back about two hours later (presumably because he was banging broads in the drunk tank), at which time Christina’s sister Cynthia answered the phone and yelled to Christina, “I don’t fucking know who it is!” The sergeant (I don’t trust him, by the way; I think he’s a cocksucker to be honest with you) relayed the disciplinary action that was sanctioned, and might I add it only entailed asking the officers if it was true and then telling them to come back and pick up the can.

But he lied to us and I know it. Sgt. Ebbing, you’re a lying cocksucker. He told Christina that the officer admitted to tossing the can, which was purportedly an “illegal can of beer” which was confiscated from the man who had been pulled over. In the midst of the confusion while they were making an arrest, it must have slipped the officer’s mind that he had littered.

Except that I didn’t see them make an arrest. I saw the man get back in his truck and leave. What did they say, “Just meet us at the station”? Oh, I don’t think so.

In other words, the sergeant wanted us to think that it was admirable of the officer to be honest about the littering, but at the same time he tried to make us feel guilty or ashamed that these men were in the throes of serving justice and that they should be excused of such a trivial act.

“I’m going out there to wait for them to come pick up the can,” I announced as I ran for the door. Christina came with me and we discovered that the can was no longer there. That asshole sergeant waited for them to come pick it up before calling back because he knew that I was about to get all Firestarter on their asses. I just know it!

I don’t feel like justice was served. And I didn’t get to swear at anybody.

I’m going to pay one of her neighbors to let me slice their baby with a Pepsi can and then pretend it happened on the one in the Christina’s backyard. THIS IS FAR FROM OVER.

[Ed.Note: Obviously, it was over. Christina plied me with pie and the day quickly turned into “Sgt. Ebbing who now?”]

This is my current desktop background on my computer at work, so that every time someone walks past, they will ask, “Oh, who is that fine ginger?” and I will at that point have a chance to yell, “OMG THAT IS JONNY CRAIG” and then proceed to say as many words about him as I possibly can before said co-worker peaces out of the conversation without so much as an, “Oh sorry, I think Grandma Cleavage has some lingerie she needs me to help her knit.”

Because even though he is the douchiest, gingeriest singer in the scene, he is still my favorite and I want to be talking about him all of the time. Last week, I made Barb listen to one of his Emarosa songs.

(Poor Barb. She has to hear me mouth off about this guy prettty much all of the time.)

So far, only one person has asked. He was whatever word is lower than “unimpressed,” I’m sure.

Get fucked.

All the pre-school kids get to bring in treats on their birthday. Since there was no school on Monday, Chooch is bringing shit in tomorrow. I thought perhaps Henry could bake some cupcakes; Chooch suggested cookies.

But Henry went off on his own and decided to make chocolate lollipops. He bought three different sets of molds: pirates, dinosaurs and monkeys. Also procured were bags of white chocolate molding things, food coloring and paint brushes to help aid in a potential murder-suicide situation.

Because solid chocolate is too easy.

Before sitting down to “help,” I considered relisting* myself as “in a relationship with Henry Robbins” on Facebook so that I could re-breakup with him after fifteen minutes, because the two of us working side-by-side on anything involving food and arts and crafts is surely going to end with our home criss-crossed in yellow crime scene tape.

(*Technically, according to Facebook, I’m still single after Henry failed to take me roller skating Saturday night.)

Henry wasn’t even done setting up yet when Chooch spilled a jar of orange food coloring on himself THREE TIMES. This was partly because I was too busy perfecting my Negligent Teen Mom act and partly because no one ever listens when Henry says not to touch something, which would explain why I’ve found myself in so many philandering situations over the years.

So now my child looks like he was sired by Pauly D after a reckless night of beatin’ the beat in Snooki’s kuka with his spray-tanned guido venereal-rod. Have fun selling booty shorts on the boardwalk this summer, son.

Meanwhile, I managed to paint the miniscule crannies of a pirate skull, a pirate ship and two dinosaurs before completely flipping my shit.

“IT WON’T STAY MELTED!” I kept screaming at Henry, who would calmly tell me to “work faster.”

%&*%*^$*^%

Listen here, Wonka. Unless you want to see how fast I work when equipped with a sausage grinder and your dick in my hands, best BACK UP OFF ME.

Fifteen minutes — pretty lofty expectations on my behalf. I only made it ten before rage and a quickly diminishing temper had me demonstrating full-body palsy shakes before launching my paint brush into a death-spiral to Hell and stomping off to pout on the couch.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Henry murmured, hard at work filling his molds with plain milk chocolate and not even bothering to PAINT THE FUCKERS LIKE HE WAS MAKING ME DO, while I yelled a bunch of vulgarity-drenched death threats to the entire institution of chocolate candy and made promises to insert leftover lollipop sticks into Henry’s asshole while he sleeps tonight.

He’s currently in the kitchen, making exaggerated motions of extreme harriedness while I sit here listening to Emarosa, loudly and with my feet up, because I have no obligations to fulfill. Life is good.

Enjoy yourself, bro. This was all your idea, remember? If it were my choice, I would gladly just jam a stick of Juicy Fruit in each of those little fucker’s mouths and be done with it.

God, I hate doing things.

Nothing says Happy Birthday like half-assed chocolate shit on sticks born from rage, dysfunction and pure, unadulterated hate for life. Eat ’em up, kids.

Yay! We’ve managed to make it an entire half decade without killing our son/having him taken away from us! And contrary to popular concern, he actually does know that his real name is Riley and not Chooch. You can put down the fiery spires now.

Thrilled

This morning, after he had been up for about an hour, he looked at me and very seriously asked, “Wait—-so am I five now?”

When I confirmed, he quietly whispered, “Yessssss.”

I told him this means he can finally live alone in that abandoned shed we saw a few streets over.

I think he knew I was joking.

Or was I?

Happy birthday, Chooch! You are one goddamn celebrated kid.

Easter isn’t a holiday we celebrate with much zeal in my family. I think it’s probably because it was the first holiday we had to face post-death of my Pappap. Occasionally, depending on her social state, my mom will suggest having dinner at her house, but it’s usually pretty low-key.

Which is fine. Since we’re still not speaking, this is one of those half-assed Easters. Which is also fine. Chooch got his basket though, and that’s all he really cares about so my job is done for the day.

Earlier, I sent Henry to the basement to look for an old cake pedestal for the lamb cake. While he was down there, he found this old photo album of family pets that I put together when I was a kid. Inside, there was a picture of my brother Ryan and our husky Blitz from Easter ’87 and how apropos, right?

What a weak Easter basket. Mine were always lofty vessels of quality candy and My Little Ponys.

But that was back when my mom still liked me.

Yesterday, I found one of me with the Easter Bunny from 1997. (I’m disappointed that no one coughed any of theirs up as an entry for the eye shadow giveaway.)

I’m on the far right, in case you were wondering.

Easter is pretty lame now. We don’t even hide Chooch’s basket. I’d like to say that I plan on changing that for next year, but I have pretty severe holiday apathy.

But have a great one, anyway!

“Kick him in the nards! KICK.HIM.IN.THE.NARDS!”

For twenty years, my only self-defense tactic was something I learned from the 1980’s horror-comedy classic Monster Squad. So when I heard about the Zombie Self-Defense Course being offered down the street from me at a place called Zomburgh, I enrolled. I figured it might be good to add to my near-empty repertoire of hurtin’, especially if I did find myself contending with a zombie. Perhaps nard-punting wouldn’t work in that situation. Plus, it would give me a chance to meet Kristy in person, a fellow zombie-lover with whom I had become e-friends, who had also enrolled.

(She has a zombie lounge in her house!

This automatically makes her cooler than most people.)

I arrived at Zomburgh a little before class started at 6. Kristy was already there talking to our instructor Josh, who did not resemble a zombie at all. Norm, Zomburgh’s proprietor, came out and had me sign a release, giving me the option to disallow my photo to be taken. I hate having my photo taken almost as much as I hate driving past water towers, but I decided to be a team player this once. If they try tagging me on Facebook, though, I’m lawyering up.

Josh insisted on waiting for a few more minutes because more people were supposed to come. I felt sorry for him, because I think we all knew no one else was coming.

It reminded me of my past parties, where I pace back and forth by the front window with a cheese plate balanced on one hand, and I say in a sing-song tone, “But they RSVP’d! They’ll be here!” while practical Henry is putting away the paté and blowing out seancé candles.

Eventually accepting the fact that he was (shockingly) only going to have us two students, Josh had us kick off our shoes and stand by the purple and green mats laid out in the middle of the room. Meanwhile, Norm ran off to grab his camera, which I hoped had been struck to death by a baseball bat in his absence.

It only took us about 2 minutes to realize that this was essentially just a class to ward off drunk rapists. (Everyone reading this is now shocked.) But I figured it would behoove me to pay attention since I do live with Henry, after all.

Josh asked for a volunteer. I gave Kristy a look which I hoped she read as, “Don’t make me get mean! This was your idea, go!” even though it probably looked more like, “I’m the most unassertive girl you will ever meet, please observe my quivering bottom lip and take one for the team.”

“OK, pretend to be a zombie and walk toward me,” Josh commanded as soon as Kristy stepped on the mat, tossing me a withering glance.

Wait. We had to be the zombies? There was ACTING involved in this shit? Don’t be fooled by all the times people have gone on record saying, “Erin Kelly? Yeah, I know her. She’s a fucking drama queen.” This does not mean I can act. My drama is legit, from the heart — NOT AN ACT! I watched Kristy stagger toward Josh in the patented gait of the undead and tried really hard to pay attention what Josh was saying to us, but all I could think was, “Motherfucker, I’m next. It’s my turn next. I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this. Oh my god, I’m sweating. Maybe I should just plead pregnancy.” (With my gut, that would probably work.)

Meanwhile, Kristy had encroached on Josh’s personal space, at which point he grabbed one of her arms and held it across and against her.

“It’s physically impossible to bite over your own shoulder,” he said, while Kristy chomped at the air. Not something I have ever spent long leisurely afternoons down by the creek trying to accomplish, but now that Josh says I can’t do it, I have a vested interest in defying him.

When it was my turn to play zombie, I was hyper-aware of Norm in the corner, snapping away. I was torn between being the best zombie I could be or hiding my double chin. I tried to make my zombie fall somewhere in the middle of traditional sluggish ambler and the fast-moving breed that zombie purists despise, just so I could reach Josh as fast as possible and bury my undead charade. As soon as I was an arms length from him, he grabbed me by my elbow and forced my arm across my chest, where we then proceeded to fall into a bizarre drunken ballroom number. It was completely awkward and uncomfortable as he forced me all around the room while illustrating to Kristy the control he had over me.

Now that we both had a turn spectating, it was our turn to practice on him.

This guy was not a zombie. He had nary a blood capsule in his mouth, no dangling eyeball, but when he approached me with arms outstretched and mouth all contorted like a stroke victim, my first inclination was to run. RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN. And then run some more. Possibly stop for an Italian ice.

But Josh made me stay in place and go through the motions. I learned very quickly that in the event of an attack, I will lose all situational awareness and forget how to breathe.

It didn’t make me feel very safe, being forced around in sloppy circles while struggling to keep this man’s locked arm taut across his body. He kept breaking character to remind me that I was in control of him, that I should be able to walk into Starbucks and order a latte while keeping him at bay.

I didn’t feel like I could lean an inch to my left and grab a Styrofoam cup of water, let alone be jostled while one-handing a cup steaming with substance hotter than Satan’s jizz.

The ankle-sweep segment was next on the agenda, and just as sensational, only this time Josh got to place his hands on our shoulders.

I don’t even like Henry touching my shoulders. I’m very ticklish there and have been known to pee my pants during the more intense shoulder-touching extravanganzae.

However, I thought I handled myself pretty well. There were a few times I laughed out loud and my instincts had me trying to twist away from Josh’s hands and down onto my knees. (Now that I think about it, this is how I’m tricked into blow jobs nine times out ten.) Josh didn’t seem to approve of my laughter. In fact, he didn’t seem to approve of me at all, with the exception of my knuckles, over which he spent a good minute masturbating my ego. (This happened right after I accidentally cracked them when I pushed my fist against his clavicle, which made me squeal orgasmically about how much I love cracking my knuckles. It was a pretty awkward moment for all involved.)

(But I really love cracking my knuckles. REALLY.)

In addition to his disapproval over my filterless knuckle-cracking g-spot sound effects, Josh also expressed disdain over the fact that I was wearing a sweatshirt featuring Yale’s mascot, when I did not in fact go to Yale.

That’s OK, because I hated his insinuations that I’m a Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus fan (I slammed him down good after he started singing “Party in the USA” to me) and the way he made me want to staple-gun myself shut every time he said the word “rape.”

“Maybe there’s a zombie sex-ed class in the future,” Kristy said after the class.

We also learned a move involving a hardback book (I knew that Bible would finally have a purpose). While Josh was demonstrating, he was talking—as usual—about RAPE. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing as I leaned against the wall, mostly because I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to try these out on Henry, crack his head back with some hard-covered liberal literature. But also because the whole class was so ridiculous.

After the two hours were up, the most valuable piece of information I gleaned was: Run faster than the people you’re with. So in the case of a zombie apocalypse, do not come to me for help. I will sacrifice you faster than MTV renewed “Jersey Shore.” I also learned that Pittsburgh is only 35 miles away from the nearest nuclear power plant, so my paranoia and I have spent all week drawing up plans for a fall-out shelter full of Zebra Cakes, wine and posters of Jonny Craig.

By the time I left Zomburgh, I was 50% convinced rape was my destiny, 49.95% anxious about radiation and .05% empowered.

***

As I walked home in the dark past all the bars on Brookline Boulevard, I didn’t know whether I wanted to pop inside one and instigate the drunk rapists, or just run blindly while screaming, “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!” I also almost got hit by a car. Maybe Zomburgh will offer a street-crossing class so I can learn how to not dart across zig-zaggedly with my hands on the side of my head like I’m in ‘Nam.

Of course I wanted to try everything out on Henry as soon as I walked through the door, but he wasn’t grappling right.

“No! You have to put your hands on my shoulders!” I corrected him after he immediately went for my neck. “Josh always put his hands on my shoulders. This is what all zombie-rapists will do, always.” So Henry would place his hands on my shoulders (any good assailant should change hand-positioning if you ask them), which would only serve to bring me to my knees in a fit of tickle-giggles.

And of course I forgot how to do everything.

Except for the hardback book maneuver! Too bad Henry wrenched the book from me before I could get in proper positioning.

“You’re dead,” he said all sing-songedly.

Even still, that class was definitely the most interesting way I’ve ever chosen to meet an online friend for the first time. Totally worth it.

But I’ll just continue kicking ’em in the nards.

A few months ago, someone was trying to get my work friend Kaitlin to buy a lamb-shaped cake pan that they didn’t need anymore. Included in the email he sent to her was a picture of what the finished product could conceivably look like, so she sent it to Barb and me because it was so horrific-looking.

Of course I took to it immediately and tried to convince her that she really needed this cake pan, in spite of its exorbitant cost.

“Not for that price I don’t!” she assured me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it though and even found one that was much more reasonably-priced. I didn’t buy it though because I figured it would just be another thing to nag Henry about.

“Clean the house.”

“Do the laundry.”

“Cook my dinner.”

“Propose to me.”

“Put this makeup on.”

“Bake me a fucking lamb cake.”

A lamb cake just might be what it takes to break Henry’s back and leave me single and helpless.

Anyhow, I dropped it, but the use I had for it was always still in the back of my mind.

***

For some reason today, I brought up the fact that Henry dropped the ball for my thirtieth birthday. I have some pretty deep-rooted esteem issues, so this isn’t something that I’ve gotten over yet. Probably won’t, either, without a hearty helping of therapy.

“You couldn’t even get me the only thing I wanted for my last birthday, a fucking black forest cake!” I cried petulantly.

“I couldn’t find anywhere to get one!

” Henry yelled back.

“I gave you two months notice that I wanted one! You could have BAKED one, motherfucker.”

I was still bitching about how he didn’t even love me enough to bake me a stupid birthday cake when I arrived at work.

Feeling utterly sorry for myself the whole 10-floor elevator ride, I walked around the corner to my desk only to find a large box with a post-it that said Open Carefully.

“She’s here!” Barb announced, and people started coming out of their offices and crowding around. I couldn’t imagine what was going on.

It wasn’t my birthday.

It wasn’t my workiversary.

Was I getting fired and they were trying to soften the blow?

To throw me off even further, Chris chimed in and asked, “Did you get your hair cut?

” and I found myself bracing for another one of Those Episodes where I slightly modify my appearance and everyone swarms around me with spotlights.

Apprehensive is one way to describe how I felt. There were maybe six people watching me expectantly. I reached for the box lid, because that’s what they kept probing me to do, and we all know I do as I’m told. But then Barb commanded me to wait as she hit play on The Whiffenpoof Song, so now not only did I have a surplus of hungry eyes feasting upon me, my every roboticly awkward movement was to the tune of singing Muppets.

Please don’t let it be a crappy spreadsheet, I thought, as I eventually buckled and ripped the lid off like the proverbial bandaid it was starting to become.

It took a few good seconds for it to sink it, that awesome pins-and-needles sensation of being sufficiently stunned. Then I laughed. Then I almost cried. Then I laughed some more.

Apparently, this had been in the works for awhile. Barb placed an in-house classified ad and found someone who was willing to lend her the cake pan. Kaitlin baked the cake and then some of my friends here helped decorate. Anytime one of the less in-the-know co-workers would inquire about the reason for the cake, they were told it was told for Chooch.

Because everyone here knows my kid is weird. It’s me they think is normal.

This, after the babyish argument I had just instigated in the car with Henry. Fuck you, Henry. SOME PEOPLE are willing to bake this bitch a cake. Even now, I keep pausing to look over at it adoringly. People kept suggesting I wrap it up and I was like “I AM NOT COVERING THIS, EVER!” (But apparently it’s because they thought it was actually going to be eaten. As if. I want this thing to petrify and sit on my fireplace mantel for the rest of ever.)

I’m just so unbelievably touched that my friends here would do this. It has officially become so much more than just a lamb cake, and I’m beyond stoked to put my plan into action this weekend. STOKED BEYOND BELIEF.

Oh Lamb Cake, mama’s got big plans for you.

“THERE IT IS!” Steigy screams as a head crowns in his vagina. We have the worst, most embarrassing announcers.

JAMES NEAL! I think every hockey-watchin’ motherfucker in Pittsburgh called this one.

I have been on his jock since we acquired him a few months ago, even though he hasn’t been really showing his worth (and everyone calls him Raw Deal Neal), but I kept saying, “No.

Just wait. He’s my prom date; he won’t let us down.” Because I obviously know how to pick ’em. (Pretend for a minute I didn’t pick Henry. Or Psycho Mike. Or Christina. Or Big-Headed Gordon.)

Sorry for the annoying hockey post, but it’s been hard to focus on anything else. I have a journal sitting next to me filled with notes about things that I need to write about (like the Zombie Self-Defense Course which was completely ridiculous but fun), but all I can do is watch NHL on the Fly and read hockey blogs.

Today, I will be purchasing some more Rolaid Chewables. Playoffs are like a paper shredder for my stomach lining.

Henry and I went to the Adult Skate two weeks ago alone, kind of like a real life date, I guess. He didn’t even seem to mind when I blasted Dance Gavin Dance on the ride there while pantomiming in his face. (That’s his favorite part anyway, who’s he trying to kid.)

This particular adult skate was way less soul, more cracker because it wasn’t hosted by the Steel City Rollers. They did play my Return of the Mack song, though, which I’ve decided is my all-time favorite skating jam. But still — way too many whites. It was almost embarrassing. And maybe if I didn’t already have knowledge of the Steel City Rollers, I’d have been impressed by some of these Opies, but they just looked farcical out there. Especially the one older man who was fist-pumping aggressively to Queen.

Queen.

I was definitely the best white-girl skater there that night though, so I took satisfaction in that. And Henry even skated with me a lot, even to the tail end of “Rush, Rush,” and even after I admitted that I was pretending he was Jonny Craig. Henry is willing to role-play to keep me.

It became suddenly very apparent during this Adult Skate why Neville Roller Drome isn’t open all year. It was unseasonably warm that Sunday in April, and even at night the rink was trying to smoke us alive. The windows were open, and the exit door at the far end of the rink was propped open (which lured neighborhood children over to watch the grown-ups acting like teens on the rink; I raised the roof to them every time I skated past) but even then my whole body was moist with skate-sweat and I was starting to get scared of passing out. For the first time ever, Henry and I  spent more time sitting off-rink and downing fluids in the snack room than actually skating. That’s when it became apparent that we needed to find a new rink. (Though we’ll still be going to this one just  for the adult skates until the season ends.)

***

And that was the catalyst that led us about 40 minutes out of the city to Donora last Saturday. We let Janna come with us, even though she is A ROLLER BLADER.

Immediately upon entering the building, my tongue was slathered with a horrible taste as a Valley Skate-shirted woman darted around a corner and, in a very condescending tone (don’t listen to Henry’s version of this) asked, “Can I help you?” Her bug-eyes were sizing us up, realizing we were city folk, probably wondering what our motives were, like, why weren’t we at a martini bar?

I continued to stare back at her, making my eyes into slits of intimidating fuck-you-uppery, while Henry calmly told her we were there to skate.

I mean, I understand some people go to rinks to sell drugs to minors and have sex behind the skate rental counter, but bitch please. I have all the intensity of a professional roller dancer, but just to be clear: I AM HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT A DREAM ON WHEELS LOOKS LIKE.

“Oh. Well it doesn’t start til 2.” And with that, we were made to go back out to the stench-laden vestibule, which was muggy as Hell thanks to the rainstorm performing directly outside the doors, where we had to stand with another family for an entire 10 minutes. (This will now be known as The First Thing That Pissed Me Off.)

And you know I was motherfucking that broad up and down, which prompted Henry to release his years-perfected elbow-clench (which, by the way, hurts but never makes me shut up). “She’s right on the other side of that window!” Henry hissed, pointing to the open plexi-glass of the ticket booth. “She can hear you!”

“OH I HOPE SHE CAN! THE DUMB WHORE BITCH!” I replied with my outdoor voice. (Which doubles as my Church Voice.) “LET’S JUST LEAVE! I DON’T WANT TO SKATE HERE ANYWAY, IT’S A DUMP.” (It was not actually a dump.)

“Don’t start,” Henry seethed. And then he tried to block me from taking her picture. NICE TRY, ASSHOLE.

Turns out (or, if this were Henry talking, “Come to find out”) she’s the daughter of the owner and also the go-to girl for purchasing skates, which is what I want to do, but now I’m not sure if it requires talking to her without the aid of a translator. Or a paper bag over my face.

They got the Ode to a 1987’s Trapper Keeper carpet pattern down to a T. I completely approved, even though I tried to act disgusted by it at first when I was still hating the place.

The Second Thing That Pissed Me Off: The kid working the skate rental counter did not put enough attention into assuring that the skates he plucked from the wall were in my best interest. As soon as he handed them to me, I said (apparently to no one, since neither he nor Henry appeared to notice my presence), “I can already tell these are too big.”

And they were too big. So I threw a small fit, which Henry took as his cue to go get me a smaller size. Meanwhile, I decided to utilize the facilities before skating-up.

The bathroom was clean enough, but it was concerning how low the stall doors were. Any adult could have stood on the other side and watched from above as I proudly peed currents of rainbows and the blood of  Christ, which is also rainbow-colored and serves as an astringent for anytime a Katy Perry fan might lay a hand on you.

Which leads me to The Third Thing That Pissed Me Off: getting bested by a motherfucking sink.

A SINK, I SAID.

After lathering my hands up real good (I’m not even so much of a germ freak), I held them beneath what I could only assume was a faucet and hopefully not the piece of farm equipment it actually looked like, and nothing happened. I fiddled around with the invisible knobs on top, banged around a bit with the heel of my hand and felt my face heat up as panic crept in.

I considered walking away, but I had this thick sheath of pink antibacterial soap on both hands and of course there was only a hand dryer at my disposal, nary a paper towel dispenser.

Suddenly, it was 2005 and I was in the lounge of a funeral home, waiting to be interviewed for a job. “Have some coffee while you wait!” I was told. But I couldn’t figure out how the coffee maker worked, which made me light-headed with anxiety. I didn’t really want coffee, but I was told to HAVE SOME COFFEE so I felt that I should do just that. I spent the whole time (at least a half hour, because the interviewer double-booked himself), slamming the carafe against the counter, sweating through my blouse, crying. Oh, I cried. And when I finally figured out its twisted puzzle, I was called back for the interview.

This sink was the new funeral home coffee maker, and I found my eyes were welling up much in the same manner. WHAT COULD I DO?! To my right, I noticed a water fountain. I tried to covertly assess how many people were nearby, and which of them appeared to be noticing this grown woman completely spazzing out in front of a sink (did I mention this sink was located OUTSIDE of the restrooms?)

I could rinse my hands in the water fountain, I thought, momentarily awash with hope. Just as I started casually walking over the fountain (to be clear, the Erin Version of “casually” is suspiciously clod-hopping with unbent knees while furtively glancing over my shoulders and drawing every last bit of attention to my person as single-handedly possible), a young girl skated over and took a hearty gulp from it.

I froze, like a priest caught with my hand up an altar robe, and she and I locked eyes for what seemed like an entire episode of that shitty television program where F-List “stars” pretend to dance. Then I decided to do that thing that people are always telling me about, where one human asks another human for help. So that is what I did.

“Oh! Here I’ll show you,” she said cheerfully, skating over to the trough. “You just step down on this,” and as she did so, glorious streams of water poured forth like a waterfall of promise. “And it’ll turn off on its own.”

I thanked her with way more enthusiasm than necessary, and she was like, “Um, OK,” then left me alone to have what I can only explain as my Virginal Hand-Washing Experience.

Meanwhile, I had been gone so long, Henry probably thought I was giving birth to my Internet Boyfriend’s lovechild in one of the stalls.

“You’ll never believe what happened to me over there,” I wheezed, out of breath from running the length of the building with jazz hands. I explained the situation and Henry, with a bemused smirk, said, “Let me guess—-did you have to step on something?”

“Fuck you,” I sighed in defeat, sitting down to put on my skates. Of course Henry would know! He’s so fucking old, ain’t no sink he hasn’t encountered.

Once Henry scraped the gum off my wheel, I was set free and it only took me .0002 seconds to understand just how perfect the rink was. It was smooth as silk, twice the size of Neville Roller Drome, and even had a small children’s rink off to the side, so the idiots could stay over there and learn how to act like proper human beings.

The Fourth Thing That Pissed Me Off: Really awful music. In a three-song span, I was ear-assaulted with Miley Cyrus, Who Let the Dogs Out and Smashmouth. SMASHMOUTH, REALLY? I almost had an angry-cry session right there on the rink.

“It’s probably just because the session hasn’t officially started yet,” Henry reasoned, like he always does because he’s a professional father. Eventually, the lights went out and the colored track lights came on, at which point the rink was soundtracked by a mix of somewhat appropriate pop (there was only one Katy Perry song, I couldn’t be too hateful), 80s rock classics and a little bit of 70s soul for a little flavor.

An hour into the session, I noticed that there were still really only about 20 or so people on the rink, and most of those were children who actually knew how to skate well. There was only one incident where a boy younger than Chooch decided to change directions and came careening into me. We completely crashed into each other because I have little to no reactionary instinct, though I managed to stay on my feet while he rolled a good five times before coming to a stop.

My heart was racing.

“I COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE RINK REFS?!” I screamed at Henry, because he was obviously responsible for the near-carnage. There are two rink refs at this joint, the one with bleached blond hair was nowhere to be found, and the other (the asshole who gave me my skates) was sitting in the corner of the rink with some kid, yukking it up.

UNACCEPTABLE.

“I’m saying something to that lazy asshole!” I yelled with determination, because it makes me mad when patrons do not abide by the rules of the roller rink. YOU DO NO SWITCH DIRECTION MID-STRIDE. There were literally no more than 15 people on the rink together at any given time, so collisions should not have been a worry.

“Please don’t,” Henry said quietly. So I didn’t, because we were newbies after all, and I guess I didn’t want to get black-listed right after we finally found The Perfect Rink. (It’s where I’m having my birthday party this summer, probably. It will be at the end of July so if you want to come, just tell me. I need all the people I can possibly get to pose as friends.)

After a minute or so, Henry added, “You should just be a rink guard.” (He refuses to call them rink refs like I do.)

“I KNOW RIGHT!” I yelled, even though he clearly didn’t READ MY BLOG a few weeks ago when I wrote about just that.

“No one would come on the rink.”

That’s actually a pretty good possibility.

From some undisclosed location, the voice of Whore Bitch filled the rink and announced that it was Game Time. All fifteen of us gathered in the center of the rink for the Hokey Pokey, at which point we were all instructed by Whore Bitch to sit down for Spin the Pin. “The adults can remain standing,” Whore Bitch went on to say. “I know it can be kind of hard to get back up!” And she laughed, along with Henry who knows all about being old and unable to stand from a seated position. I sat with the kids because I’m not old. Janna and Henry stood like old people.

Spin the Pin was a crock of shit. The bowling pin was clearly about to stop while pointing at Chooch and me, but the tow-headed rink ref did something to make it keep spinning, I fucking swear to god, because he probably wanted a townie to win. So some other asshole got to win a free pass to come back, while Chooch and I sat there with our mouths twisted in the shape of WTF.

It was Katie’s birthday! I don’t know who she is, but she couldn’t skate for shit. She got a fucking purple balloon and I kept cheering and wishing her a Happy Birthday in a very exaggerated fashion, which was really pissing off Chooch because I think he thought I cared more about her birthday than his, which hasn’t even happened yet.

Then we played a game called Corners! How exciting! Along the rink, there were six numbers painted on the walls. Everyone had to split up and stand under a number. I went for 6, which was located above the DJ Booth. Whore Bitch was explaining where all the numbers were located and when she said, “And then number 6 is right above me!” I turned around just in time to make eye contact with her on the other side of the DJ booth glass. I don’t know why, but it hadn’t occurred to me this whole time that she was the DJ. Janna, Henry and Chooch were across the rink, standing under the number 1. Janna laughed when she saw my expression of extreme disdain.

One of the Rink Refs came out with a large felt die and had some asshole toss it. I’m chanting “666!” over and over, like some sugar-fed Satanist, and the die landed on 6! I was like, “HELL YES BITCHES! WOO!” but then Whore Bitch was all, “Oh, sad. Everyone under the number 6 is out! You must now leave the rink! Go stand somewhere over there.”

LONGEST SKATE OF MY LIFE. I had my head hung low, especially when I inevitably had to pass Henry and Janna, who were belly-laughing at my loss.

“I thought I was supposed to root FOR my number,” I hissed at them, before sitting sadly and alone on a blue carpeted bench.

Stupidest fucking game ever.

Chooch got to roll the die and rolled Janna, Henry and himself right the fuck out so I made sure to jeer and heckle them loudly from my spot in exile. Assholes.

AT least they didn’t piss around with Limbo. I hate Limbo.

The rest of the time was All Skate, with an occasional Couples Skate thrown in (I tried to get Henry to twirl me but he was too embarrassed to have to publicly place his hands on me).

By the end of the session, I was a hot mess of frizzy hair and brow-sweat, which is how I look at Warped Tour. That’s how I know it was the best day ever. And I didn’t even find a single skater I wanted to hate! Except for Janna. Obviously.

Henry and I get along best at the roller rink, it’s become quite clear to me. I’m thinking—we have hardwood floors, so maybe if we just go about our homelife while wearing skates, we might actually be able to achieve full-scale Love.

I’ve already bombarded Facebook with these photos, so now it’s your turn, Blog.

We stopped at Goodwill beforehand to snag a plain white buttondown and some dress slacks (which turned out to be a womens pair) for Blake. I found some paisley piece of shit thing that we attempted to use as an ascot. Too bad none of us knew how to tie an ascot.

Immediately after walking into Goodwill, Henry was accosted by some older man (older even than Henry, if you can fathom). Apparently, they knew each other. Their discourse was not interesting enough to massage my eavesdropping gene, so I very huffily scoured the racks on my own.

“Who is that man Daddy’s talking to?” I asked Chooch, who was bouncing back and forth between me and the conversating rejects.

“I don’t know, Outrageous, I think.”

Turns out it was Regis, whoever the fuck that is.

I decided we should take some “safe” pictures at the cemetery before introducing the blood and bones into the mix, just so I’d have something to show one of the boss-types at work, who has no idea what actually goes on around here.

We then went to my grandma’s for the action shots, because, well, it’s gloomy as shit back there now. I had major anxiety being there, though, since my Aunt Sharon is crazy-weird about people stopping by. We parked the car in the upper driveway and prayed for the best, trying to stay as far away from the actual house as possible.

“Try not to get any on my undershirt,” Blake said as we stood near a large tree stump, opening packets of Ketchup procured from McDonald’s. “It’s a vintage Penguins shirt.”

I expressed my approval at his hockey-geared fashion sense.

“It’s from 1991,” he stressed.

BITCH THAT’S NOT VINTAGE. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I felt so old. Perhaps when I was called MA’AM at a Chiodos show. That’ll do it.

“It’s vintage to him,” Henry argued. “It’s from the year before he was born.”

DOUBLY OLD FEELING.

Just another normal day at Grandma’s house.

Blake in any type of animal mask scares the shit out of me. I need to buy more animal masks.

Chooch was getting sincerely irritated by this point. He’s good for the first few minutes, but then the novelty of being bossed around and forcibly positioned in ridiculous and absurd stances kind of starts to piss him off a bit. These are probably the moments he wishes he had a normal mom who just take him to the fucking mall and pay $20 for a regular Easter portrait with a blood-free Easter bunny like all the kids in his class get to do.

I was on the phone today, and mistakenly let it slip  to Chooch that it was Sharon on the other end.

Raising his voice approximately eighty-seven octaves and acquiring an obnoxious lilt, he yelled, “TELL HER WHAT WE DID YESTERDAY AT HER HOUSE! TELL HER!” and I’m trying, one-handed, to use on him the things I learned last night at Zombie Defense Class, but his little-big mouth just kept flapping.

Fucking turncoat. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

The butterfly ring I’ve been wearing on my ring finger since I was 18 broke today. RING FINGER VACANCY! I’m going to hang up fliers everywhere.

Unless Henry wants to do something about it.

Personally, I think it’s a big fat motherfucking sign.

Over on the Instagram app, I participate in this fun little weekly photo assignment called “Homework.” The last assignment’s theme was “Home,” something that makes you feel at home, reminds you of home, etc.

I only had to think about it for .87 seconds before choosing two photos from Warped Tour.

That one day every summer is literally where I leave my heart.

Just thinking about July 22 (this year’s Pittsburgh date! I’ve had my ticket since December!) makes me feel giddy, light, warm in the aorta. I can’t explain it, but on no other day do I ever feel like I’m 100% me.

Warped Tour is home to me. (Fitting that my home, my heaven is Henry’s Hell.)

Audience participation: Where’s YOUR home?