The only thing in between me and full-fledged cat lady status is Henry’s weener.

Though, according to Chooch, that’s furry too.

I went through a ridiculous 80s phase in 1999-2000 which commanded me to buy every obscure collection of audio relics that I could find. (I miss the days of Mommy’s American Express card.) I scoured the Internet for all the underground gems, stuff that would never be played on your local pop station’s Flashback Friday. None of that Toni Basil ear-diarrhea, 99 annoying balloons and fuck your walk on sunshine while you’re at it. I really only liked the new wave, goth and synthpop 80s souvenirs. One of the CDs I bought had Cock Robin’s “When Your Heart is Weak” on it and it immediately went on one of the millions of mix tapes that littered the innards of my Eagle Talon. I used to sing this song with such exaggerated relish that my boyfriend at the time—Jeff— eventually banned it from being played in his presence.

My favorite part is when he says he’s going to come without warning. ORLY? I prefer it when my men blow a little trumpet to announce the arrival of their ejaculate, so I consider this to be a threat.

I thought this was the greatest song of all time. Then I saw the video and realized that this is also the greatest VIDEO OF ALL TIME. Yeah, I said it Kanye.

So now I have this sick fantasy of recreating it, which has really made me apply extra pressure on Henry because how great would it be to recreate this AT OUR WEDDING RECEPTION?

I made him watch it the other day while I stifled my laughter into his shoulder. He made it through 30 seconds before his eyes looked elsewhere.

And that’s when the biggest, brightest light bulb to date flicked on in my brain and I shouted, “No, fuck recreating it at the reception. This should BE OUR ACTUAL WEDDING.”

He looked at me dumbly. My inner sense of reality also looked at me dumbly. Don’t worry, I’ll work out the logistics. All you need to know is that by the end of the reenactment, Henry and I will be husband and wife. (For real, not the band husband&wife.)

Henry already has the flaming dorkiness of the singer down pat, and I’m sure I could figure out a way to pop up in front of the camera with a smoldering look that doesn’t at all look like the universal expression for constipation. I can already hit a ball of twine with the best of them, so I don’t have to worry about that part. And whoever I choose to be the drummer should consider himself one lucky motherfucker. That’s the BEST PART!

This song is about two minutes too long. He gets a little carried away at the end, so you can just imagine what it sounded like coming from me. (Jeff always maintained that I sounded like Pee Wee when I sang the “mmm-hmmms” at the end. Which is a great honor.)

Chooch has decided that the theme of his upcoming birthday party is Star Wars, which I suppose is an improvement from “carrots,” because I was having a hard time finding carrot-y decorations.  I have less than two weeks to think of non-gory, G-rated ways to entertain a bunch of fucking preschoolers. However, this is not my area of expertise*; my knowledge of Star Wars is very base at best, so suggestions are welcome.

(*Really, if it’s not inside the covers of Alternative Press, a sport played on ice with a puck, anything horror-related, or a show called Degrassi, I’m definitely not your girl. Go ask Google. I know very little about the world around me.

)

Things would be so much easier if he had just let me plan Zombie Party 2.0 like I wanted, but this is one of the few times I was able to step away from my inflated ego and admit that it’s not always about me, motherfuckers.

(Though it should be.)

“Did you by chance let Chooch put this in the DVD player?” Henry asked in his standard accusatory manner when Devil began to skip and ultimately freeze last night. It was already our second night in a row trying to get to the end of it. I just don’t have the attention span for movies like I used to, and usually something better comes up, for example: things that involve listening to Dance Gavin Dance on repeat and role-playing.

Henry squatted in front of the TV and began the OH SO STRENUOUS task of wiping finger prints from the disc while I sat on the couch eating carrots.

“It smells like cat pee over here,” Henry complained, starting a mild argument in which I reminded him that my cats never used to do such dastardly deeds until he forced me to take in his mom’s cat for two years, a stray who taught my upper crust cats a host of bad habits and I will never forgive Henry for letting that happen.

Somewhere between Henry threatening to kick out the cats and me wishing they’d piss on his fucking mustache, we began arguing over whether our entertainment center is in fact an entertainment center.

Henry said yes.

I said no.

(For the record: it is not. I should know—I’m the one who bought it based on aesthetics, not functionality. But for whatever reason, Henry thinks it’s more than just a white-washed table which accidentally fell into the role of holding a fleet of electronics instead of a Precious Moments platoon, wicker baskets holding sewing sundry and milk-glass vases filled with potpourri and silk flowers. You know, as I had originally intended.)

Henry, determined to turn this fucking heap of synthetic Swedish timber into the catalyst for our inevitable demise (you know one of us is getting jail time when that happens), continued to blabber on and on about it well after I dipped on out of the conversation, choosing instead to stimulate myself by checking in on Twitter, see if everyone else was having as annoying of a Sunday night as I was.

And that is what was going on in my house when we found out Osama bin Laden was dead, which is decidedly less interesting than the Revolutionary War porn I was reenacting when JFK died.

No, we did not finish watching the movie.

It’s been awhile since our hearing impaired friend Manuel gave Henry a call, so I prompted him to do just that this morning. However, I am left disappointed as usual by the laziness of these IP Relay operators! They promise our deaf friends that yes, they will pass on these important messages to the chosen parties, BUT THEY ONLY READ WHAT THEY WANT TO. Today, Operator #RO900730F skipped most of the meat of Manuel’s message to Henry. You may have a skill for slick annunciation, RO900730F, but I’m on to you and your half-ass whoring ways.

Connecting…….
Registering…
Placing call…
Connected at May 1, 2011 11:35:33 AM
IP RELAY RO900730F
Special Instructions:Please leave a message if necessary
PLS HD DIALING
412 605 2143RING 1
2
3
4
5
(ANS MACH)
(recording to relay)

please leave message GA

(what message would you like to leave qq) GA

Henry, you left your email open last night at my house GA
and I saw the pictures. GA

(THK U REDIALING PLS HOLD)

if you really need to have strange men send you images of their genitalia GA

RING 1
2
3
4
5

then I suggest you find a new señor. I will be over later to retrieve my things GA

(ANS MACH)

please have my Justin Bieber shirt laundered and ready GA

(LEAVING MSG)

you can mail me my finger nail clippings GA
goodbye GA

(MSG LEFT)
(ANOTHER CALL QQ) GA

no thanks. I’m in mourning. GA
goodbye GA

Disconnected at May 1, 2011 11:39:02 AM

Now, listen to the recording and join me in my self-righteous court as Manuel pens a letter to the IP Relay company. We are appalled.

Such a shitty, mostly unsafe area, but one of my favorite places to take pictures.

These were both taken and edited with my phone. I feel like that’s the only camera I ever use anymore.

Sorry, Canon. :(

I’m hoping today isn’t a repeat of last Saturday night where I think we’re going rollerskating up until 2 minutes before we leave to actually NOT go rollerskating.

Henry is still paying for that.