Been a little (OK a lot) down lately. You know it’s bad when someone at work asks how you’re doing and you answer them by essentially doing the cartoon tear-squirt.

Then Craig Owens (<33333) posted this new song on Facebook last night and it was like finally getting that warm hug I’ve been craving.

And I got the notification email that my Warped Tour ticket has been mailed. That’s all I have right now, but it’s also really all I need. Music saves, you guys.

If you see me at the grocery store, rubbing elbows with Domesticates and Elderlies sporting open wounds, then you know I have to be there for a very good reason. This girl don’t shop for food otherwise.

On this particular Saturday, the reason was: popsicles. REAL popsicles to be made using the Zoku Quick Pop maker that my aunt Susie got Chooch for his birthday. She said she wanted us to have it because she knew how much fun we had making chocolate lollipops together as one big happy 1950’s TV family and figured we’d also take great delight in preparing our own frozen treats as well.

I’m sure she also probably knew that no way was I going to settle for popsicles made solely of Everfresh juices. I wanted the gourmet shit that I saw on the Zoku website. Henry let me choose two recipes and then we went to the grocery store where I complained the whole time and had panic attacks every time I got too close to meats and people.

Grocery stores are gross, you guys.

Even though the recipes I chose only called for lemons and cantaloupe, I decided we needed many more varieties than just those two pedestrian fruits. I’m a sucker for melons and there was a pile of like, 6 different species. (Brands?) I couldn’t remember which I liked the best. Thank god Henry keeps track of these things (only because he knows better than to ever buy for a second time something I hate) and loaded a Santa Claus melon into the cart.

God those things are like pure, unadulterated candy.

We also needed exotic things, like AGAVE NECTAR, and I complained that the aisle housing these sweetening novelties smelled weird, like a Mexican abortion clinic, which triggered Henry’s official look of STFU Spoiled Bitch. Turns out AGAVE NECTAR is like honey for cooking snobs. (But what the fuck do I know about things that people buy as ingredients. I’m an eater not a cooker.)

(I may or may not have spelled out the word “AGAVE” every time I needed to say it because I don’t know how to pronounce it.)

Henry’s favorite part of having me tag along is when I hold up food products and ask, “Do I like this?”

“Not for $8.99 a pound, you don’t!” he spat when the item my delicate hands clutched was a bag of rainier cherries.

This is how I learned that fruit is expensive. I have no basis of comparison when it comes to these things, especially since I was raised on fine food fare, so I will take Henry’s word for it. Especially after I said, “Wow, that was cheaper than I expected!” when the grand total came to $70-something and he nearly sliced out my tongue with his travel toenail clippers.

“This was all shit for popsicles and like, two frozen meals for YOU. Chooch and I got NOTHING,” Henry argued. Oh wah wah, go order a fucking pizza then. (He did, too.)

The popsicle maker comes with a fun face-maker kit, so I cut some bananas (the only fruit I sort of know how to slice) and started using the shapes to make eyes when Chooch pushed me out of the way and yelled, “I WANT TO DO IT TOO!” which made me yell back, “NO YOU’RE RUINING IT! HENRY, HE’S RUINING IT!” which made Henry yell, “OMG BOTH OF YOU GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!

” Henry was apparently doing the “important” part, which was actually mixing all the ingredients together so we could have something to even put the fruit slices in.

Henry is so smart like that.

I guess our sibling-like bickering was impeding Henry’s ability to properly mix up a batch of girly lemon cream, in which he added LAVENDER because he knows that’s my favorite flavor (not really, but close) and he’s been kissing up to me so I don’t pack a bag and GTFO, which is what I’ve been threatening to do lately. Oh go on, laugh. We’ll see if you’re still laughing when me and my hobo sack show up on your front stoop, asking to pitch a tent in your living room.

OMG I’LL NEVER BUY POPSICLES AGAIN

This Zoku thing is genius. You would think, since I had a hand in preparations, that at least the first few batches would come out looking like molten shit on a stick; maybe some would break off inside the machine; maybe at least one would have hemlock in it, making all of Henry’s wishes come true. But no, the inaugural batch and each one after turned out perfect. (Although Henry will argue that I jacked shit up when I tossed in a handful of Froot Loops to the cantaloupe mint mixture.)

Did I mentioned that after Henry diced it, I pureed that all by myself (after Henry showed me exactly which button to press and then hovered over me to make sure nothing fell in, like my face or a brick of cocaine)? Anything that is Erin-proof is a dream contraption. Go get one.

We had so much fun that I demanded we go to Williams-Sonoma that very same night to buy more sticks for the damn thing. Ours came with four and after making two of the lemon popsicles, it quickly became clear that we would need as many  more as we could possibly get (though Henry said one box of 6 would be fine). I have never been inside of a Williams-Sonoma (what reason would I have?) but luckily, before I could break out into fear-of-cooking hives, Chooch led us straight to the Zoku display. At least he’s good for something.

We didn’t have the ingredients on-hand to make fudgesicles and Henry started bitching about not wanting to leave the house again, so instead he improvised and concocted something akin to frozen Mexican hot chocolate. I approved.

Chooch and I made striped ones today, ALL BY OURSELVES! Literally anyone can use this thing without fucking it up!

But seriously, the grocery store, Willams-Sonoma and then a trip to Home Depot on Sunday? No wonder I feel so suicidally disoriented today. At least my freezer is stuffed full of frozen wonders! (The popsicles, not sperm and phalanges.) The cantaloupe mint is my favorite. I’m going to go fellate one right now.

It’s a My Chemical Romance kind of day. This song just kills me dead.

You know what else kills me dead?

Home improvement.
Working with Henry.
Working with Henry on home improvement.

We’re in the process of painting our kitchen. Mostly just the cabinets and drawers. I wanted orange and green (we have a red countertop so I had to carefully consider complementary colors, which is hard when you don’t really give a shit about the color wheel) but Henry got all bitchy about this selection in the middle of Home Depot so I ended up swapping the green with a yellow and just so you know, yellow is pretty much my least favorite color, right next to puce. I fucking hate Home Depot and I fucking hate Henry and I fucking hate painting. THIS WAS THE WORST IDEA EVER. (And mama ain’t just talking about painting the kitchen. Oh my god.)

(If you’ve ever been in our kitchen, you know it needs a hell of a lot more than sunny paint hues to change it from broke-backed womens shelter to Martha Stewart’s culinary-sex nook.)

Yesterday, we did the “priming” thing and by priming I mean that Henry did most of it and then let me help for less than one minute (no exaggeration) before screaming at me to go sit down and then Chooch bumped me into the door frame, which was the only thing that I had attempted to paint so I got primer all over my stupid black sweatpants and I cried about that for a little while because now how am I going to look to the dead bodies when I’m jogging next to their graves wearing STAINED PANTS.

Why does painting have to be so obnoxious? Surely if all those asshole homeowners on Trading Spaces can do it, I should be able to accomplish more than a few strokes. I mean, my arms are pretty strong from all the far-reaching handjobs I’ve given to boys hanging above me on monkey bars, but just thinking about handling a paint roller makes my biceps atrophy.

I wanted this to be done yesterday. I always forget about that “priming” step, and then we got sidetracked with making popsicles, which I guess will be tomorrow’s post if I come out of the other side of this home improvement episode alive.

(What the fuck—Henry is all nonchalantly talking about “the second coat” and I’m all, “What is this “second coat” you speak of, because it sounds more painful than anal?”)

Creeper gon’ creep. We broke up at least a dozen times during the day so he was pretty free to ogle all the pre-teens sausaged in ill-fitting swimsuits. Go get ’em, tiger.

Henry didn’t smile once all day. Even when I showed him the awesome (and I do mean awesome) Skyrocket photo, his lips sort of twisted around his teeth like copulating worms under a nest of bristling moustache whiskers, but then ended up in a snarly frown.

Things Henry hated that day:

• Being at Kennywood
• Being at Kennywood with me
• My childlike wonder
• The sound of my contagious laughter
• Riding the Log Jammer
• Riding the Log Jammer with Janna
• Getting wet on the Log Jammer
• Getting wet on the Log Jammer with Janna
• Barely missing the senior discount
• Spending money
• Spending money on games
• Losing money on games
• Being a disappointment to his son as he lost money on games
• People in wheelchairs
• Carrying my purse
• Being Henry
• Being alive
• Not being able to listen to Dance Gavin Dance
• My face
• His hair
• Not finding anyone with worse tattoos than his
• Checking me for menstrual stains
• Having all his Potato Patch fries disappear
• Having to sit next to me on two whole rides
• God
• The word “Daddy”
• The word “Henry”

Moments before I took this picture, Janna was staring off into the horizon, smiling a smile similar to the ones I’ve seen on the faces of Mormon missionaries when they’re talking about God and pretending they don’t notice their bodies are enveloped in heavy wool during summer. She gets like that sometimes, all sorts of winsome and benevolent, like a walking flesh vessel of Little House on the Prairie episodes. She’s pure, I’m prurient. For example, earlier that day, when I spotted an albino, I laughed lasciviously to myself and then tweeted about it, whereas Janna’s heart probably exploded with candied compassion as she considered sharing her sunblock with him.

When Janna got on the Paratroopers, she accidentally sat down on the safety latch and cried about it for the whole ride, which made me cry tears of amusement. Janna is so entertaining to me! I’m actually surprised she went on the Paratroopers at all, since it’s kind of hardcore for someone like her. I was able to con her onto ONE thrill ride all day, my beloved Aero 360, but first I had to sit there and watch her (slowly) eat a strawberry parfait. I kind of wish she had puked it up on the ride.

I rode my other favorite thrill rides alone, while Janna sat on a bench like my mother, waving to me while I was in line. I didn’t mind it too much until I was in line for the Volcano (f/k/a the Enterprise) and the ride attendant asked, “Single rider?” like it was so obvious.

“Was that you who was with me when we had to walk down from the top of the hill?” Janna asked as we stood in line for Phantom’s Revenge. Janna had to walk down the rickety, vertigo-inducing steps of a steel coaster and never TOLD ME? I swear that broad has a goddamn secret life. Furthermore, how can she not remember who she shared such a harrowing experience with?

“Um, if that was me, I wouldn’t be standing in this line right now,” I pointed out incredulously. I hold grudges, and I’m pretty sure if a coaster ever broke the fuck down while I was on it, our relationship would be forever done-zo. This created a discussion of what would happen if it broke down in a spot where there weren’t steps.*

“I don’t know,” Janna pondered. “I guess they would call the fire trucks.”

God, she’s so stupid.

“Or a helicopter,” I suggested. “With Punjab hanging down from a rope.” And then I couldn’t stop laughing about that, because Annie always makes me laugh. That ginger trollop.

*(Henry the Rational Bubble-Burster was quick to point out later that it wouldn’t just stop anywhere else other than the first hill. Which has steps.)

Wishing for a new daddy. That’s what Craigslist is for, son.

My new boyfriend! Ruffle-collared is a huge upgrade from blue-collared, and people can still tell me that my boyfriend needs a haircut, except he probably won’t sass me when I stick up for him. Win/win.

Chooch won a stuffed monkey within 20 minutes of being at the park. Of course it became everyone else’s responsibility. He left it on the Whip and didn’t even realize it until a half hour later. Good thing it was one of those few times I rose to the occasion of motherhood and remembered to grab it as we got off the ride. This fucking thing was a germ dumpster by the end of the night. Chooch rubbed him against every garbage can we came across, kicked him on the ground, dropped cheesy fries on him, dropped him on the carousel and made Janna dislodge herself from her horse in order to fetch it (which made me double over with laughter even though it totally wasn’t that funny, according to Henry, who didn’t laugh at ANYTHING ALL DAY).

Anyway, I dubbed the monkey Bane. I should probably throw him in the washing machine. Oh, who am I kidding? Henry will do that shit.

$2 down the drain.

You know it’s been a long-ass day full of ethnically-correct bandaged blisters, hurt feelings and salty regret when the kid willingly leaves on his own.

We go to Kennywood every year on Father’s Day, not because we love Henry, but because it’s been statistically proven to be one of the least crowded days of the season. Chooch and I were so excited that we spent the two days preceding watching Kennywood videos on YouTube. I had Chooch convinced to try some of the bigger rides this time, but unfortunately he was still about a half inch too short, which was devastating (more for me than him, I think). I’m trying to groom him into my future riding partner since apparently everyone else is too old and susceptible to whiplash to ride anything that spins faster than the carousel. Again, devastating (more for me than them).

Janna met us there, and I think she purposely was a little late because she knew the first ride we’d go on was Garfield’s Nightmare, which used to be cool when Garfield had nothing to do with it.

Now it’s just this commercial monstrosity that makes me cry tears of nostalgia. Too bad Janna ended up taking Chooch on it twice in a row at the end of the night when Henry and I were in line for the Skyrocket.

Building up a resistance to whiplash.

I think love for Potato Patch fries is inherent for any child born in Pittsburgh. It’s not something you even have to tell your kid about, they just automatically know that they crave it and eat most of it while your head is stupidly turned.

That and a piece of pizza is all I ever eat at Kennywood.

Oh, and ice cream! These are the best ice cream cones at Kennywood. I always get crushed peanuts on mine, so Chooch has really failed me in that department. The cone comes with a cherry speared through the top by a toothpick and Chooch used to give me his when he was a baby but I guess he’s too big to share now. I didn’t get a cone this year. I feel like every time we go to get one, Henry starts a fight with me so then it ends up with me crossing my arms like a ten-year-old DJ Tanner and saying, “Just forget it. I don’t want one now.” Usually I cave, but this year I was so over it. Plus, Henry told me I was fat, so who wants to ice cream after that, you know? (He will argue that I’m mincing his words as usual, which is why I’m about to invest in a TAPE RECORDER to keep in the pocket of my trench coat at all times.)

While we were eating, Chooch realized that he had a blister on his foot and started whining at appropriate Chooch-levels, which in turn made Henry bitch about how “If your mom was a real woman, she’d have a Band-Aid in her purse” because I never have anything in my purse other than crumbs, pennies, iCarly pocketbook filled with concert tickets, assorted lip gloss, an issue of Alternative Press and a fake finger.  I never have hand sanitizer, tissues, medicine, first aid amenities. That shit’s for grown-ups. In fact, earlier that day, I had to text Janna and ask her to bring me some “just in case” tampons, because I forgot to stick some in my purse.

“You should ALWAYS have them in your purse!” Henry yelled, when I tried to make him buy me some at a 7-11 down the street from Kennywood. Anyway, Janna isn’t a bitch like Henry, so she brought me two and then we had a clandestine tampon hand-off, which wasn’t obvious at all as we stood in the middle of a walkway with people bumping into us.

However, on this particular day, I DID have a Band-Aid. And boy did that ever put a clamp on Henry’s flapping maw when I extracted it from my purse. Except it was an ethnically correct Ebon-Aid that Jason gave me when we were visiting the Alternative Press office last month, and of course we were sitting next to a black family so Henry actually moved Chooch to the other side of the table, I guess so they wouldn’t see that Chooch’s wound was about to have soul. Because I’m sure they would have cared.

The Saddest Father

Chooch and Janna were still eating their ice cream cones by the time we walked over to the train. I wanted to go inside the little station and get in line post haste, but they were eating so slow. The train is literally the lamest ride in all of Kennywood, but for some reason I was jumping around in anticipation like it was really the line to stone Fred Phelps with Gaga CDs. I finally threw my arms up in disgust and went inside by myself. Henry coaxed Chooch to eat faster and they joined me on a bench in the waiting area soon after. But Janna, we all just just abandoned her outside of the train station. I could see her, roaming around, dutifully eating her ice cream, and for some reason, this made me break out into this really obnoxious giddy bray that I do when I’ve lost all grip on reality and just can’t contain it any longer. Henry hates this. He’s 100% immune to laughter, it’s not contagious for him at all.

And then Janna, who still had some of her cone left, walked right past the ride attendant and joined us on the bench.

This made me laugh even harder, Janna smuggling in an ice cream, and I was trying to smother my laughter into Henry’s arm. He kept shrugging me off him and the other people waiting for the train started to wonder if maybe I had a medical condition because I was crying at this point. Janna sat there, enjoying the rest of her ice cream, waiting for the train.

When the train came back to the station, I shouted, “GET THE BACK ROW!” while racing over to claim it. Everyone else who was waiting got up and calmly began to board, because it’s just some stupid scenic train. No one ever rushes for shit like that. Not even church ladies.  There was enough room for all four of us, but Henry opted to sit alone. I can’t imagine why.

I think I just like the train because it goes past the river and allows me the opportunity to make gagging noises and remind everyone how much I really hate the river.

Hold on, I just peed a little.  This was before Janna hit her head. I have no idea what was happening but it brings me great joy.

Then Janna hit her head getting off the train and I sincerely almost pissed myself from laughing so hard, at which point Henry legitimately scolded me like a real life father and reminded me that it’s not nice to laugh at my friends but I really feel like he wanted to laugh at this one too. “That’s enough, child,” I believe is what he said. God, go parent some other girlfriend. I’m laughing right now, actually, remembering the look on Janna’s face, like she hadn’t noticed that she might need to stoop down a little before attempting to exit the train. In fact, the next day, I remembered this at work and started laughing uncontrollably alone at my desk, so then I decided to tell Barb, but I couldn’t stop crying and I’m sure she was like, “I don’t understand why this is funny” along with anyone who is reading this, but it’s like, my cardinal rule to laugh at my friends’ misfortunes. Which might be a reason why I don’t have many friends.

Nah.

Contraband ice cream and head-bumping never seemed so funny.

I don’t normally buy those exorbitantly-priced photos taken at the most inopportune times on roller coasters because they can make even Jennifer Aniston look like her fourth chin is giving birth to an alien flesh-sac with crossed eyes. But after I saw the one of Janna and me on the Sky Rocket, I started laughing so hard that I had to use my thighs as bladder-tourniquets. Janna had this intense look of “Please don’t buy this” in her eyes, almost as if she just knew what was going through my mind.

“I have to have it,” I blurted out to the guy working the photo booth. Suddenly, $10 seemed cheap for a memory that will last a lifetime. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time we waited for it be printed. Janna seemed considerably less amused, but every so often I’d get a nervous laugh out of her.

I couldn’t wait to show Henry when we met back up with him and Chooch. I began laughing all over again, that insane staccato chuckle I’m notorious for when things have reached the Apex of Giddy. I even cried a little; people were looking at this point.

Henry looked at the picture and just frowned. He was probably angry that I had the audacity to spend my own hard-earned money on such frivolties instead of Desitin for his sweaty summer balls.

This picture is so fucking bad, it’s amazing.

1. If I look like this on a ride that isn’t even scary, I can only imagine how I’ll look if I ever find myself hunted in an Alaskan* forest by Michael Myers carrying a boom box that’s a’blast with Katy Perry’s Worst Misses. Coincidentally, this is also what I look like when Henry makes me have sex with him.
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   :(

2. This was taken .002 seconds after Janna cupped Josh Groban’s ballsack and then died of happiness. What a peaceful corpse she makes.
3. Someone once told the guy in the front seat to treat every moment in life like it’s a deodorant commercial.

I have more pictures and shit to say, but this was the definite highlight of my day. I hope that when I’m on my death bed, someone shows me this, because that’s really how I’d like to peace out.

(*Alaska scares the shit out of me.)

Hey zombie fans! Halloween may be a few months away, but if you’re a true lover of the undead, it’s never too early for cemetery-flocking and brain-craving. And just for you guys, I have re-added some zombie-related shit to my Somnambulant shop.

If you’re a real George Romero fanatic, you might be aware that Night of the Living Dead was filmed an hour or so outside of Pittsburgh in the Evans City Cemetery. I’ve turned some of my photos from that very cemetery into pendants, and by that I mean I literally make 4 every six months because this crafting business is exhausting, you guys.

Actual photos, which I am hoping to have available for purchase sometime in the near future over at Appledale Snaps:

And here they are in pendant-form:

They’re $15! Go get one!

Here is what people are saying about them:

Jane from Ass Stew, Arkansas purrs, “I spent my last $10 on this pendant instead of cat food. Now my cat’s dead, but at least I have a cool pendant. And something to eat.”

Timothy from Toenail, Utah writes, “Gave this to my mother for her birthday. She keeps saying it feels like zombies are trying to burst through her chest like it’s a brick of solid grave dirt.

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This makes me happy because I hate my mother.”

Ulysses from PeePoo, Canada signs, “Ever since I bought one of these, pianos keep coming dangerously close to falling on me as I walk through seedy neighborhoods collecting money for the deaf. Clearly this is a good luck charm.”

If you’re in the market for paper goods, maybe looking for some sort of LOVE card to give to the mailman you’re stalking, I have some zombie-flavored note cards over in my other shop, non compos cards:

It’s proven that this card will brainwash even the chastest of priests into falling in love with you. Besides, the zombie was drawn by Chooch!

This concludes my quarterly plea for sales.

Carry on.

We’re going to Kennywood on Sunday and it is literally all I can think about because I’m in third grade. I even bought a new shirt to wear! Janna is going with us and bitch better take some Dramamine because I have no other spinny ride partner.

I take amusement parks very seriously and usually by the time June rolls around, I can be found doing little else but Googling various fairs and theme parks (I may or may not do this at work, as well) and creating a summer itinerary for Henry to fuck up a thousand different ways, causing me to wail, “This is the worst summer ever!”

So this is why I haven’t been doing much on here this week. Every time I sit down to blog, I wind up watching videos of new fair rides on YouTube or reading my old amusement park and county fair blog posts. (And subsequently fixing 87 typos since I never re-read my posts until like, a year later.) It’s just that there is little that makes me happier than waking up on a day when I know there are gnarly rides, terrified shrieking and making fun of moms with really bad tattoos and smoker’s voices in my future. I don’t remember ever having a feeling even close to comparable in my belly on Christmas morning. I AM JUST SO EXCITED, OK?! What gets your belly all knotted in excitement?

As filler, here are some recent photos of my child whose excitement level doesn’t even come close to matching mine. (Hopefully he actually has fun this time and isn’t a crybaby bitch like he was last year. Or maybe that was me.) KENNYWOOD 4 LYFE.

It’s almost my favorite time of the year! COUNTY FAIR TIME. I am absolutely giddy over here, looking through old photos of the fairs. GIDDY.

I am determined to try to make it to all of them this summer. With the exception of the Washington County Fair.

That might have been not only the worst fair I’ve been to, but also the worst day of last summer. Will not be revisiting.

I LOVE FAIR PEOPLE! I LOVE THE RIDES! I LOVE WRITING ABOUT THE STUPID COUNTY FAIR! If any of you locals want to meet up at any of the fairs (NOT THE WASHINGTON COUNTY ONE, THOUGH) let me know and we will make it into a party.

Also known as: HOW ARE THEY STILL TOGETHER?!

A couple of you (literally, two people) expressed interest in seeing this video of Henry and me in Cleveland back in 2004. We were there for Curiosa, but I talked Henry into going a day early so we could do touristy things. And by touristy, I clearly mean drive aimlessly through Cleveland’s ghetto in search of E.99 and St. Clair, the crossroads that Bone Thugs n Harmony commonly rapped about. Most of my high school career was spent being a hyper fan girl for Bone, calling record stores demanding to know when their new releases were going to come out, cutting pictures of them out of Rap Pages and The Source, and trying to con my best friend Christy into taking a field trip to Ohio when she got her license. (She wisely said no.)

When Art of War came out, I made my then-boyfriend, Psycho Mike, drive me an hour away to a certain record store that was promising a FREE COLLECTOR’S MEDALLION with the purchase of the new release. It was totally worth being berated and emotionally denigrated in his car the whole time.

I do not have that medallion anymore. But I loved it dearly (although briefly, I guess).

Anyway, Professional Driver Henry had difficulties finding it (blamed it on Cleveland, not his refusal to LOOK AT A MAP) and we became even more Sid and Nancy than usual. We finally made it to E.99 (aka the double glock, yo) and I should have been dying of happiness but considering douchey Henry was next to me, my joy was clearly negated.

I posted the video on LiveJournal years and years ago, but somehow THE ORIGINAL FILE DISAPPEARED, WHADDUP HENRY. So I made him re-edit it and today he finally finished. He said he would have done it much faster if I had been nicer to him about it. But I think he just wanted to put off the inevitable: that everyone will coo sarcastically over his luscious locks of yore. The quality is super bad. Probably Henry’s fault.

Annoying, right? (Me, not the video quality.) This is why I rarely post videos.

The last time I had this on YouTube, I was barraged with hateful comments from REAL BTNH fans who are neither stupid, white, nor girls. Hopefully that doesn’t happen again.

P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

I bought Chooch some Aquasaurs for his birthday, this intriguing kit of “prehistoric water pets.”  We apparently can’t have normal pets in this house.

The first batch of “eggs” I dumped into the water never hatched. I bitched for awhile about how they were duds, but then Henry tried the second half of the batch and the eggs flourished, so of course it was all my fault and he gloated about it for a few seconds before I kicked him in the stomach.

At first, the baby Aquasaurs were little flecks, the same way sea monkeys start out in this scary world, but after about a week they pretty much began doubling in size overnight.

Every night.

There are some in the tank that are so gigantor, I have to turn away in fear, cupping my hands over my mouth in case the dry-heaving escalates to something more fruitful. (Literally; I have been eating a lot of melon these days.) One is at such a maximum girth that I promise you he casts a shadow over the room when he swims to the front of the tank.

The fact that I’m so freaked out over these bastard sea monsters only makes Henry and Chooch like them even more. Last week when I was at work, Henry emailed me a video he took with his phone. I assumed it was going to feature our child doing something douchey, I mean adorable, but no. No, it was the FUCKING AQUASAURS.

I coughed deeply and violently, swallowed my tongue briefly, and then deleted it.

THEY ARE EVEN BIGGER TODAY. I didn’t believe Chooch when he said, “Mommy they’re even bigger today!” BUT THEY ARE EVEN BIGGER TODAY.

Some of these fucking nasty, slimy, forked-tail pieces of sea-shit are rivaling the size of standard goldfish. (I JUST SHUDDERED AND I CANT EVEN SEE THEM FROM WHERE I AM SITTING.)

MY FEAR AND DISGUST OF AQUASAURS VALIDATES MY USE OF CAPS-LOCK.

The only bright side to this whole pet debacle is that at least this isn’t something that can be extracted from the tank and thrust at my face in a taunting fashion.

I mean, I think Chooch knows that. I HOPE Chooch knows that.

I was in Wendy’s office earlier tonight, trying to explain to her these obnoxious “scientific delights.” She went to YouTube and proceeded to find the most revolting Aquasaurs videos known to man.

Like this one:

Some of my work friends are grossed out by the sea monkeys on my desk but I guarantee, once they watch this video, the sea monkeys will seem like cuddly kittens to them. I very honestly do not even have my feet on the floor right now because I’m so afraid one of them is going to escape and slurp up my leg and turn me into an incubator for a new species and OMG NOW I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT.

I was skulking about Clairton three summers ago with my camera. All my local friends know what a terrific idea THAT is. I saw this guy palling around with some of his friends and he just really appealed to me. I was going to try and photo-stalk him, but ended up opting for the direct approach and asked  if I could photograph him.

“For a school project.”

That’s honestly the best excuse on Earth.

“No really, it’s for a college project and not at all for my blog! I don’t even have a blog! What is a blog!?”

A few weeks ago, Pittsburgh’s urban radio station—WAMO—made its big comeback debut. It went off-air in 2009, money problems I’m sure. You’re probably thinking, “But you’re a music snob. Why do you care about radio?” Look, urban radio is my shit, especially in the summer. I need my summer jams for when I’m carousing the cemeteries. And WAMO was always the only radio station that never pissed me off.

This new incarnation of WAMO, though, I don’t know what’s going on. They play LADY GAGA. BRUNO MARS. That is not r&b nor is it hop hop!

They play that Katy Perry trash. Look, I get that she’s got Kanye in that one song, but that doesn’t make it OK to play it 8 times an hour.

What bothers me most, though, I mean what REALLY gets under my skin, is the motherfucking Black Eyed Peas every goddamn time I turn it on. Fergie’s lucky if she gets to sing two notes before I’m bashing in the radio with the heel of my hand.  I was so incensed about this yesterday that I “liked” WAMO on Facebook JUST SO I COULD WRITE ON THEIR WALL.

Fuck the Black Eyed Peas! Fuck the whole collective with pine cones! THAT IS NOT URBAN MUSIC. That’s shit soccer moms listen to when they’re waiting to pick their kids up from fucking karate. Country fans listen to that shit when they want to feel like a “bad ass.” WAMO is supposed to be for black people and me!

I guarantee you if I went back to Clairton and sought out the dude in the picture above, he’d be all, “SHIIIIIIIIIIIT girl, that’s WHITE PEOPLE music.” CAN I GET A HELL YEAH.

It’s been a busy day/week. I want to tell you guy(s) about my absinthe experience and I also have an old school Henry & Erin video that does not feature any nudity or any acts even remotely resembling fornication, contrary to what Henry’s ex might want you to think, but it’s taking Henry like a month to finish editing it because apparently he has “more important things to do.” Like what? Like watch NCIS on On Demand, is what.

So here are some photos from last Saturday when Henry and I got brave and took our child downtown for the annual art festival, even though we know from past years that this is A Big Mistake because hello, Chooch in a China Store, OK? I’m pretty certain Pittsburgh as a whole hated us after that. Chooch can be such a fucking dick, it’s not even funny.

I’m a fan of juxtaposition.

I call this one: Douchebag with an Ice Cream Cone.

One of those fucking awesome bridges I love so much.

These people are just really fabulous, super-religious, anti-white race zealots with their own show on public access that I enjoy watching when I can’t find any good horror-porn on cable. One night when I was leaving work, they were filming their show on a sidewalk outside of the Law Firm and I had to walk past them. They were hootin’ and hollerin’ about Scripture and waving about Christ signs; it was scarier than an un-inspected ride at the county fair, but I was most afraid of the chance I was going to show up in the background of one of their hostile telecasts.

On this particular day, they were starting race wars in Market Square.

“Don’t take their pict—-” Henry started to plead, but he was cut off by the snapping of my camera.

Afterward, we ate dinner at Mexico City. I checked both Henry and myself in on Facebook, but couldn’t resist adding, “Stuffing Henry’s asshole with satchels of cocaine.”

“Another restaurant we’ll never be able to come back to,” he mumbled when he saw it on his phone.

Burning off pent-up brat-juice at Bessemer Court.

Henry had to literally drag Chooch, kicking and screaming, through the parking lot afterward. It was really fucking awesome, not exhausting or exasperating AT ALL. Five-year-olds are fucking dickheads. Cute, but fucking dickheads.