I think I’m pregnant just from watching this. It will always be one of my favorite Emarosa songs, but acoustically it kind of makes me want to faint. I wish Jonny Craig was still in Emarosa, but at least I’ll always have YouTube.

Henry just walked by and said, “Don’t care.”

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All you really need to know about me before jumping into this is that I hate doing shit with kids, so for the sake of my fingertips, let’s just pretend for a minute that there are already four paragraphs written in my usual long-windedly verbose style illustrating my hate for the pumpkin patch/kids/being around kids/riding school buses/moms/being a mom.

I somehow got suckered into being a chaperone for this year’s field trip. Last year it was mandatory that one parent accompany each preschooler, but they only needed 9 Kindergarten parent chaperones. I heard my disembodied voice saying, “Yes,” to the teacher’s aid and then vaguely recall her scrawling “Mrs. Robbins” onto the list of condemned parents.

(Never mind the fact that I am MISS KELLY not MRS. ROBBINS.)

A. The Sweetest Ginger

I arrived at the school in time to be cast out from the other chaperones.  I’m sure I wasn’t missing much there, as I picked up pieces of their extreme Yinzer-garble. Most of the parents just kept their backs turned on me. I was OK with that.

As the kids began filing out of the classroom and ran over to their respective parent, the teachers began handing off the rest of the kids so that some parents had an extra child to be responsible for. I assumed (stupidly) that the teachers are hyper-aware of my utter irresponsibility, but apparently my facade translates to strangers as Put-Together Woman Bursting with Empathy because they paired me up with Nate.

Normally, I don’t know shit about the kids Chooch goes to school with, and I like to keep it that way. But Nate is notorious because his parents died in the beginning of the school year, one right after the other. Totally traumatic and devastating; I actually cried when I read the letter that the school sent home about the mom and hoped it was a mistake when there was another letter a day later about the dad. I never learned the details, but a Google search brought up their obituaries and they died a day apart from each other in the hospital so I imagine car accident is the safest assumption.

Good job giving this poor kid to the most socially awkward mom there, you guys. Good fucking job.

Nate put his pudgy little hand in mine as we walked out to the bus together. Some little girl said, “Nate, sit with us!” but he opted to sit with me and was a friendly little chatterbox for the whole 30 minute ride.

“I think I know where we are!” as we passed a grocery store. “My mom used to shop there!”

I smiled awkwardly, the diarrhea-face kind, hoping that topic would go DOA.

While we compared animal crackers with other (the owls were our favorites), Nate looked at me innocently and, in a way that was remarkably upbeat, asked, “Do you know where my mom and dad are?”

OMFG YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. SERIOUSLY? TO ME, HE’S ASKING THIS, OF ALL FUCKING PEOPLE? I desperately yearned for a can of that liquid rubber shit to plug up my tear ducts.

I didn’t know how to respond to that. If I were my friend Lisa, who went to school to learn how to talk to people about death, I’m sure I would have reacted in such a way that made lilacs spring up from a meadow. But me being me, I just whispered “No…” in a frightened tone and then bit my thumb.

“They’re in heaven,” Nate answered nonchalantly.

I do not hate this particular kid so I acted like that was the most wonderful thing, to have parents in heaven. I was three when my own dad died from a car accident, but I don’t really have much memory from which to draw any life lessons. I don’t even remember when I first really understood that my dad was dead. What did my family tell me back then? Knowing my mom, she acted like nothing happened.

I sat there in silence, trying to process all of this while Nate quietly sipped from his Capri Sun beside me.

We talked about Halloween costumes for awhile (he’s going to be some train-friend of Thomas’s that I don’t care about) and then he dropped this bomb on me:

“Do you think there will be big pumpkins at the pumpkin patch?”

I pretended to consider this. (I think that is what you have to do when dealing with children: pretend. A lot.) “I imagine there will be pumpkins of all sizes,” I said.

“Well, I want to find the biggest one and throw it up to my parents in Heaven.”

WHY. WHY WHY WHY WHY.  The fissure forming on my heart reminded me that, OMG—I have a heart, and I suddenly felt inspired to give up my hateful blogging, love Jesus and adopt 18 orphans.

You guys, this kid kind of made me feel a little bit human.

B. The Worst Best Friend

My own kid sat with the boy who, one week ago, said to me, “I wish there were no Rileys in the world,” in a mean tone, in front of my kid, prompting me to have a little talkie with the principal because I’ll be damned if I’m paying to send my kid to a school where hate is something that kids can get away with. If he’s saying shit like that when he’s FIVE, what’s he going to be doing when he’s FIFTEEN? You can tell me I overreacted, but I’d rather nip that shit in the bud than blow it off and have something worse happen down the line.

(You should know that I’m not one of those moms who get all up-in-arms every single time someone blows a hair on my kid’s head.)

This kid, Anthony, is such a motherfucker that the principal already knew who I was talking about before I even said so. His mom was made aware of the situation (as well as the mom of another kid who appears to be Anthony’s sidekick in hate) and profuse apologies were made all around.

Now Chooch is calling him his “best friend” and wanted nothing more than to sit with him on the bus.

“Sit with Nate and me,” I pleaded.

“Anth is my best friend,” Chooch shot back, sliding into the seat across from me.

Anth? You have got to be fucking kidding me.  This Anthony kid is such an ADHDick. Several times, I was forced to lean over Nate and hiss at Chooch to knock it the fuck off because Anthony’s mere presence was making him act like he was running on Pixi Stix and Starbucks. I really need to get him away from this Anthony kid before he starts verbally denigrading other children worse than I do to Henry.

Anthony’s mom is much older and has a weary face that screams, “I AM SO TIRED OF YELLING AT THIS FUCKING DICK ALL THE LIVELONG DAY.”

I kind of feel for her.

As soon as the bus pulled into the farm’s lot, Anthony was out of his seat and pushing kids out of his way, provoking one of the teachers to open her mouth and blow him back into an empty seat with nothing more than her militant tone.

It was fucking awesome. Everyone paraded past as Anthony (and his sidekick, who actually wasn’t doing anything wrong other than associating himself with this delinquent) sulked in his seat.

Somehow Chooch avoided punishment even though I’m pretty sure I witnessed him being a pushy asshole. It’s obviously because he’s a cracker.

C. Father of the Year

Henry met us out there this year and I was so thankful. Since I had Nate obediently clutching my hand, Henry kept an eye on Chooch, who was following Anthony like a puppy. Several times, Henry tugged Chooch back to us by his hood and gave him low-pitched yet stern talks about how he needed to not worry so much about Anthony.

Kindergarten and this shit is happening already. KINDERGARTEN.

Meanwhile, Henry completely skirted the $10 admission and not once did a farmhand approach him and ask around a straw of hay, “Sir, you ain’t wearing a sticker on your breast. Why?”

D. The Stupid Pumpkin Diorama Tour

I hate this part of Triple B! It is row after row of fictional characters with pumpkin heads. WHO THE FUCK CARES. And then they throw Moses floating downstream in a basket just on the off chance some douchey Catholic school kids happen to stroll on through and all the parents clap and laugh happily and it is so obnoxious.

“OMG Bible shit, you guys!”

This may have happened when I was there.

Nate loves Thomas the Tank Engine, so I took this photo for him. I figured I’d have it printed for his grandparents who bring him to school everyday, adding some shine to my halo. (Or, if I were Barb, I guess you could say my halo might then be all TRICKED OUT.)

It kind of made me sad how few of the dioramas he was able to figure out.

Which brings me to….

E. Aging Hipster Dick

One of the girls in Chooch’s class was behind Nate and me with her dad.  I hadn’t been paying much attention to him until we approached the one diorama that stumps me repeatedly.

“Oh look,” he said to his daughter, “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub!”

I laughed to myself because it was so obvious. Over my shoulder, I said laughingly to him, “I totally could NOT figure this one out last year!”

“Oh,” he said in this tone that was steeped with a bold combination of ambivalence and superiority. “I guess you just learned something then.”

No, this tone just did not sit well with me.

“Yeah….I guess,” I mumbled, and from that point on, motherfucker was on my radar.

From then on, nothing I did could drown out his ridiculously uber-serious reciting of every fucking nursery rhyme diorama we shuffled past.

Every time I was near him after that (which was pretty much always; god, go stand with your WIFE), I had to fight the urge to heckle-cough “Douchebag” in his general direction. Fuck off with your lame short-sleeved flannel. Go sit in your hybrid and listen to some Iron and Wine and leave the pumpkin-picking to the fuckers who care. (I am not one of those fuckers but I assure you I’d rather pick a fucking pumpkin than listen to anything on his iPod.)

On the hayride, he all but SAT ON MY LAP and proceeded to shout over the dirge of the tractor’s engine to his wife who was sitting FIVE PEOPLE away from him about how much he spent on apples at another farm.

“$8 for 8 apples! That’s practically $1 an apple!” he shouted in his deep dick-swallowing voice.

That’s not “like” a dollar an apple; it IS a dollar an apple.

Sometimes his wife would snap, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Because, you know, not everyone is trained to hear bored, husky tones over top of a chugging tractor pulling 35 screaming children.

He was so close to me that I feared I would disembark the wagon with the sudden druthers to wear a belted (vintage) tunic and swap out my photos of Jonny Craig for Colin Meloy. (Whom I do enjoy on occasion, but still.)

(Hopefully I don’t offend my hipster friends who are neither aging nor dicks.)

Meanwhile, I found myself having an enjoyable conversation with Momesis, and considering we also ran into each other at the playground in August and wound up chatting for 90 minutes while our kids played, I suppose I should just call her Amy. Besides, I now have a Dademy to replace her.

***Henry and I had story-time about this later.

“I decided to tell him about how I didn’t know that was Three Men in a Tub last year. I was just trying to keep it light-hearted, you know how I do.”

“No,” Henry said. “I don’t.”

And this is why I don’t often initiate small talk.

F. The 5-Minute Hayride

Just like last year’s 5-minute hayride, now with an Aging Hipster Dick sprouting out of my torso.

Yes, Nate; that is exactly the look of fucking disdain I too would have if Anthony were hugging me into him.

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 “Mommy, can I have a hoodie that says Sinister all over it like Anthony?”

G.The Pumpkin Picking

After sitting through the SAME EXACT program about DIRT put on by Mrs. B. in the School Barn, we finally got to head out to the small, forlorn patch of puny pumpkin rejects that’s there specifically for school field trips. I guess $10 a person only promises the adoption of a pie pumpkin.

This is my favorite part because it means it’s almost time to leave.

Nate was off getting his picture taken by the teacher, and Henry was too busy checking out the other moms bending at the waist of their mom jeans to be of any assistance, so I had to tiptoe through the mud while Chooch kicked disinterestedly at a pumpkin that maybe he might have wanted, who knows, what did he care. He was still sulking because I wouldn’t let him sit next to Anthony during the dirt assembly.

 

Nate came back from the school photo-op and Henry decided to actually pull his eyeballs off the MILFs’ applebottoms long enough to drag Chooch to the entrance while I assisted Nate in choosing a pumpkin. Of course, he picked one whose stem that was still attached to a 10 inch-thick vine and I unfortunately shorted the remote that turns my right arm into a hacksaw. Sorry, buddy.

He picked a comparable gourd and proceeded to immediately break the handles of the plastic bag he was given. I kept offering to carry it for him, but he stubbornly cradled his bag-swathed pumpkin in his arms, dropping it every three feet. It was fine. I wasn’t getting agitated.

No really, it was fine.

Just fucking dandy.

H. THE FINISH LINE

Henry got to drive home in the nice, quiet, CHILDFREE car while I was shackled to my chaperone status for one more bus ride into the horizon. I got to sit alone at least, while Nate, Anthony and Chooch all crammed into one seat.

Nate quietly looked out the window the entire way home while Chooch leaned forward with his forehead pressed against the back of the seat in front of him. They were clearly tired. As were all the other children, except for Anthony, who was practically sitting upside down in his seat, singing “Georgie Porgie*” the entire way while his mom bitched about not having time to shop.

(*Seriously? My kid must be the only one in that class who doesn’t give a shit about nursery rhymes.)

When we got back to the house, Chooch threw up and I was really pissed off because that’s what I wanted to do.

I. Henry’s Day at the Farm

I decided to try and act like I genuinely cared about Henry’s pumpkin patch experience, but he replied to my initial text inquiring of his favorite field trip moment with a misspelled and curiously punctuated: “Your [sic] not interviewing me again?”

“No, just wondering,” I texted back. “Also, what kid did you hate the most and what mom was the most MILFish?”

Henry: “LOL, most MILFish.”

Me: “Seriously, answer me. Which mom-bitch did you want to poke with your pumpkin stem?”

He kept ignoring that particular question, which makes me believe it was Aging Hipster Dick he had eyes for. And he told me later that he “doesn’t hate any kids.” What the fuck is wrong with him?

Me: “When you pick pumpkins, what are things you look for?”

Henry: “Size and color.”

Me: “Like when you’re looking for dicks on the Internet? When you were in the SERVICE, did you ever cut glory holes into pumpkins?”

Henry: “Interview over.”

Me: “Did you leave some of the pumpkin guts inside to give it a nice, squishy vaginal effect?”

No answer. Obviously that means yes.

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My goal for 2012 is to kidnap/marry Jonny Craig. And also buy a better camera and learn how to use it.

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I don’t really remember how it started. I know it was 1995 and something that my mom and I liked to do together, back when we actually liked each other and were able to get along for longer than one half hour at a time. We would get the weekend newspaper and scour it for haunted house ads, mapping out all the ones that were close enough in proximity to ensure we could fit in at least two a night.

It was a sickness. Some of my friends caught the bug from my mom and me and soon we were salivating for weekends in October, piling seven or eight people in Lisa’s minivan and driving down dark country roads to farm fields where we would scream like motherfuckers in the chainsaw guy’s face and horror-flirt with Michael Myers, not letting ourselves believe that it was really some Clearasil commercial douchebag in a cheap K-mart mask. It was an opportunity to play scared, helpless victim around boys I had crushes on and to be one of those obnoxious teens in lines that I want to punch in the face now that I’m a “grown-up” with a low patience threshold.

Fighting with Keri over Jason Voorhees outside of Terrordome (she won and ended up taking him to our high school’s Christmas dance that year, but he ended up being a real motherfucker, so I guess I won after all); peeing my pants inside the claustrophobic fog-machine-stenched halls of Victory’s Haunted School and scream-singing Superdrag’s “Sucked Out” with Lisa in order to be let out of one of the rooms; wrecking into the chainsaw guy’s car at that same haunted house years later and sometimes literally wondering, “OMFG WHAT IF THIS IS REAL & I’M GOING TO DIE TONIGHT?” while having some strange man snarl in my ear and coat my neck with his warm, sleazy breath: These are all some of my favorite memories and why, even as an adult, my stomach does little flip-flops every October. That adrenaline rush of being someone’s horror movie prey for 30 minutes a night and the release of tension when it’s over is what makes me continue to fork over money to this crazy industry year after year. (Though there are some that I refuse to go to because they’re over-hyped and just not good. Keep your animatronics and give me all the old-fashioned garbage bag-curtained VFW haunted halls; it’s the simple things that scare me.)

It started with a scrapbook of sorts, just a regular notebook into which I modpodged ticket stubs, newspaper ads and other haunt memorabilia. (Like a penny I found at the now-defunct Castle Shannon Haunted School. Who keeps shit like that? A future hoarder, that’s who.)

That same year—1995—I was in a writing class in high school and we had to keep journals which would be turned in to the teacher weekly. I would basically write about shit that I did, just as I still do, but when my mom and I went to the Terrordome that October with my best friend Christy and I wrote about it, my teacher particularly loved that entry because haunted houses were something she was scared of, so scared that she refused to go to any. She wrote in the margins of my journal that she enjoyed reading about it because it was her way of being there without having to leave her house. Around that same time, I realized that as much as she liked reading it, I loved writing it. So the following year, even though I was no longer in her class anymore, I continued writing about every haunted house in that same journal until I ran out of room and my friend Angie bought me a new journal.

I still keep hand-written haunted house journals which is why I don’t often write about it over here on my blog; in fact, I’m almost out of room in the Goosebumps journal I’ve been using. There are so many stories (literally tomes-full!) and photos that I should probably start sharing them on here, too; maybe start a series if anyone is interested in it.

Someday, Chooch will be old enough to do this shit with me and I just honestly can’t wait. Because when I think back on my early haunted house experiences, it makes me remember how awesome my mom used to be. I wish this was still “our thing.”

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Usually, if someone suggests to me that I add one of their friends on Facebook, I decline the invitation. Especially if I’ve never met the person, because I have been trying very hard lately to not be a creep. (And it’s not really working out very well, thanks for asking.)

But last year, when my friend Erica was visiting Pittsburgh she suggested to me over lunch that I look up her friend Rick on Facebook because he’s also from the area and big into haunted houses. She mentioned that he used to run his own home haunt called the Haunted Chamber and I recognized the name immediately. I had never gone to it, but definitely remembered seeing ads for it every year.

Figuring Erica wouldn’t lead me astray, I looked him up a few days later, sent him a friend request along with a message explaining why some random broad in his city was wanting to be his friend. He accepted, but we never really interacted very much. Chiming in on a stranger’s status updates can be awkward, especially when it’s me doing the chiming.

Months later, he sent me a really wonderful message. I will never forget it, because it was when Henry and I were in Cleveland and I was sitting on the bed in our hotel room checking my email before the AP Tour show that night. Rick was writing to me about my blog, which is the one thing I always get down on myself about, and his words were just so encouraging and supportive. I sat there crying while I read it and was just really touched by how nice and honest this perfect stranger was being to me. Plus, it broke the ice.

A few weeks ago, we met for lunch and spent the next 2+ hours talking about his history with working haunted houses, my history with going to haunted houses, and I quickly realized that Erica was right — I had a ton of stuff in common with this guy and he is easily one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure of encountering.

He’s friends with the people who run Castle Blood and invited Henry and I to meet him and his wife Tammy out there last Saturday. So with stomachs full of 80 different varieties of pie, that is exactly what we did.

***

Rick and Tammy were talking to one of the Castle Blood denizens when we arrived. He was already a familiar face, after years and years of making the worthwhile hike out to Bealesville for the annual Castle Blood tour. But now instead of Professor Scrye, I know him as Chris and he is awesome. (He just loaned me some fake skin in jars for my Murder Desk at work!)

Awhile back, I had written about taking Chooch to one of the no-scare daylight matinees. I usually only write about my haunted house experiences in my paper journals (because I’m dork-loser and have been keeping a diligent record since 1996), but for whatever reason, I wrote about that one here on Oh Honestly, Erin. One of the Castle Blood girls found it and shared it with everyone else, and it was cool because some of them even commented on that post as their characters.

But I didn’t think anyone there would remember that, so I was surprised when Chris and Ricky (aka Gravely MacCabre, Castle Blood’s caretaker) both brought it up to me.

“You might be a fan of Castle Blood, but we at Castle Blood are all fans of Oh Honestly, Erin,” Gravely said and I kind of wanted to die on the spot. Chris said that they’re always on the look-out for Chooch now at the matinees. Things like this don’t happen often and I usually like to assume that only 4 people read this thing, so whenever I’m in public and someone says, “I read your blog” — well, that’s a feeling that I’m not sure I will ever get used to. It’s cool and I love it, but it’s also very bewildering.

Gravely told me there was a girl inside the Castle named Dawn and that she was the one who found my blog. “You have to tell you’re Oh Honestly, Erin when you see her!” he urged, telling me what room she would be in.

Within 3 seconds, I had forgotten. Tammy and Henry both admitted that they hadn’t heard what he said, so then I was left to internalize my panic while we stood in line, because I can’t ever just be a normal, calm human being. What if I didn’t say hello to her, and then Gravely found about it later and became angry that a subordinate had crossed him? Because clearly this was the most important thing on his mind that night, never mind the fact that he was ensuring the night’s tours went off without any fires, stink bug attacks or gang violence.

While in line, I became temporarily distracted from my plight when one of the denizen approached us with a big basket of commemorative Castle Blood roses. They were only $3 and I really wanted one. Henry and I don’t often go to haunted houses together anymore and I thought it would be really ROMANTIC if he could spare a measly $3 of his blue-collar beverage factory income, but he merely smirked in response.

Then I remembered why I don’t go to haunted houses with him. He’d sooner leave me out for the chainsaw guys than be a man and claim his property. I guess he doesn’t have hero fantasies.

So Rick bought two and I was all happy about that until he said, “What? I bought this one for Henry.” Figures, people always side with Henry within 7 seconds of meeting him. (Sometimes even BEFORE meeting him. That’s because I write him as a downtrodden underdog. If only you guys knew the truth.)

(OK fine, that is the truth.)

Meanwhile,  the lady with the roses had fetched her albino friend and brought him over to inspect me, thinking I would make a good wife for him. I was very enthusiastic about this prospect, because at this point I would like to be SOMEBODY’S wife. Why not a dead albino guy with scary eyes?

He asked me what blood type I am, but then he and the rose-slinger ran off on an O+ tangent that rivaled Who’s On 1st. While those two were bantering, I looked at Henry in horror and whispered, “What’s my blood type?”

“I don’t know!” he said in that shitty, nerve-scraping tone that makes me want to castrate him along with the entire male population.

So then I spent the next countless moments suspended in time with my blood type quandary, until my prospective husband asked me again and I blurted out, “O+.” Henry said that’s probably what it is anyway. Not like he cares about my blood.

God, why can’t he just care about my blood?

Gravely was walking by so I snagged him and asked him to remind me who I was supposed to say hello to.

If someone tells me to do something, my blinders go on and I’m on a pothole-filled track to the finish line, with sweaty palms and shallow breaths, ignoring everything that passes by.

I’m kind of tightly-wound.

A witch with prosthetics was all I could think about the entire time we were in that fucking Castle.

So in every room on the tour, I would hiss to Henry, “Is that her? Do you think that’s her?” to which he would always hiss back, “I DON’T KNOW!” He was too busy nursing a corset fetish to help me not have a panic attack.

I was distracted from my mission once and only once, in the laboratory where I developed a hearty crush on the cute steampunk inventor guy.

I’ll be back for him.

Eventually, I found my contact and after everyone else in our group continued to the next room, I blurted out, “AREYOUDAWNI’MOHHONESTLYERIN” and we shook hands and I think she said something (not once breaking character) but all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears because OMG I had to TALK to someone.

I really should have a perpetual Xanax prescription.

The worst part of the tour is always the end. I mean, yeah—It’s great to turn in the talisman your group has collected and get your vampire teeth prize, but it just means that it’s time to leave. I’ve never had a bad time at the Castle, not even when Henry and I were stuck with a group of disrespectful teenagers who subsequently got thrown out and we were given complimentary tickets for having to deal with that, but going with Rick and Tammy really made it a cool, personal experience. It was really awesome getting to meet everyone there for real and it made me wish my mom and I were on speaking terms because she would have died. Castle Blood used to be our thing to do together. You know, before she went crazy. I will forever associate it with her.

(OMG, that steampunk guy was so hot.)

***

Afterward, we decided to go to dinner.

“I don’t care where we go, just as long as I can get a grilled cheese,” I said, whining about being sick of pie. “I just need cheese, anything with cheese.”

We wound up at King’s and Rick taunted me as we walked past the pie case. I was choking back regurgitated crust every time I even THOUGHT of the word “pie” after eating it all day at the pie party.

However, I did remark that there was not one pumpkin pie to be had at the pie party, which surprised us all. That’s not saying I was desiring pumpkin pie at that point, I was just simply making an observation.

King’s has creamed spinach now as a side, and I kept trying to coax Henry into ordering it.

“Why?” he asked, clearly annoyed at my persistence.

“Because you’re old. And also, because I want to try it,” I reasoned.

He did not order a side of creamed spinach with his burger.

However, when our waitress brought our food, she said to me, “I was told to bring you this instead,” as she slid a slice of pumpkin pie under my nose, followed by a bowl of creamed spinach.

According to my dinner companions, I looked like I was about to cry. I craned my neck to look for my grilled cheese while everyone laughed. The waitress didn’t have the heart to drag out the prank any longer and finally rewarded me with a sparkling plate of God’s Favorite Sandwich and sweet potato fries.

It was a perfect ending to a great night which served as a reminder of why I keep writing in this blog. It has provided me with the opportunity to meet so many awesome and interesting people, and it’s something I think about whenever I feel like throwing in the towel. I’m just really appreciative. (And now I have to go egg an orphanage to balance it all out.)

[If you live in the Pittsburgh area and haven’t ever been to Castle Blood, you’re dumb. But seriously, go check it out! And if you have little kids, they offer  daylight matinee tours on the last 2 Sundays of October. It’s only $5 for that and the kids get to trick-or-treat inside the Castle. Totally worth the drive out to Bealesville, so go and do that now.]

 

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This song is giving me bona fide chills right now. I liked A Lot Like Birds pre-Kurt Travis, but he adds a brand new element of awesome. I’m enjoying him so much more in this band than when he replaced Jonny Craig in Dance Gavin Dance.

I went out for coffee with my friend Evonne yesterday. (Working evenings while having a kid in school has suddenly opened up a world of coffee and lunch dates for me.) She is really into laws of attraction and that whole Secret phenomenon and is always urging me to visualize what I want and open a door to it in my mind. (Mostly this speech is preceded by, “Did you write that book yet?”) I always say, “Yeah sure, I’ll try that” or “No, but I’m working on it” where “working” can be loosely translated into “thinking about it occasionally but then feeling exhausted and watching shows on The CW instead.”

“You just have to think about what you want and put it out there in the universe,” she said. “If you really want it enough and concentrate on it, it will happen for you.

”

Later that night, something clicked. I remembered Tuesday night, sitting at work and rooting through my purse. One of the pictures of Jonny Craig that I had stuck in a cheap frame for our trip to Tennessee was at the bottom of my purse, looking all lonely and rejected.

“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you Jonny,” I said out loud as I taped the picture to my monitor. So then I had Jonny on my mind (Henry loves that) and spent the rest of the night at work listening to Dance Gavin Dance and wishing that they’d go on tour before the end of the year. When I got home that night, I went to their Facebook page, which is rarely updated, just to see if anything was happening with them since they actually weren’t going to be a part of the Rock Yourself To Sleep tour as previously promised throughout the music blogosphere.

The most recent update was from a few hours earlier that day, announcing their new fall tour. So there Evonne, I did it and it worked. This Law of Attraction shit might come in handy when I’m finally ready to take down Katy Perry.

A Lot Like Birds is also on this tour and Henry said we could go to the Columbus show. I ONLY HAD TO ASK HIM ONCE. Either he really fucking loves me lately or he’s just tired of fighting. (Or he has secretly grown to love Dance Gavin Dance, chances are slim.) Anyway, you just know I ran around the house screaming. It’s on a work night but I already requested off. I told Barb if it’s not approved, I’ll quit and she said she’ll quit too. BECAUSE AIN’T NO LAW FIRM KEEPING THIS BITCH FROM JONNY CRAIG.

“I’m not going to eat from now until November 14th,” I said to Henry, all serious-like. “Then maybe I’ll have a chance to run off with Jonny.” (The sad thing is that I was only partially kidding.)

“Yeah, do that,” Henry urged supportively. “Because then when you’re in Western Psych with an eating disorder, I won’t have to go see Dance Gavin Dance.”

In other news: I’M GOING TO SEE DANCE GAVIN DANCE IN A MONTH!

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There are still only about 4 of us who have decorated at work, but I can’t stop fussing with my desk. I know that if I add too much, it’ll just be gilding the lily, but I’m obsessed.

Sandy’s husband Ben was generous enough to give up his mannequin head (affectionately named Head) for the month and Sandy even threw in her uncle’s old rotary phone for good measure.

Both really add a perfect old-time creep factor and I love it!

Leave it to my competitive streak to turn this quaint Halloween decorating contest into a veritable political campaign. Wednesday really brought out the dark side of me because someone (BRIDGET) had the audacity to say I might lose, so I got all up-in-arms and indignant and practically attacked every person who walked past my desk, forcing them to swear their loyalty.  Then I panicked yesterday when Mary texted me and said someone’s  (my competition’s!) decorations were all laying in a heap when she arrived that morning because god forbid someone point at me and start screaming sabotage.

I asked Chris, one of the analysts, if he’s going to vote for me.

“Considering that fucking pig mask scares the shit out of me every day, I’d say you have my vote.”

Another analyst said she’s voting for me based on my framed portrait of meat slabs alone.

I’m about to order macarons from Kaitlin and let the sweet bribery carry me to the finish line. Try to say no to me and my basket of macarons, motherfuckers.

Last night, I worked with Tyler. It was the first time he worked a late shift since all this hullabaloo (Battle of the Network Stars shout out!) started.

“Your desk gets creepier by the minute,” he said. “But you know what you need? A lock of hair!”

“Oh, I have that already!” I exclaimed, flipping open the Diary of Ken Lobe to show him the page it’s taped to.

“Of COURSE you do. Why WOULDN’T you already have a lock of hair?” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “You’re three steps ahead of me!”

That’s because I have no life, Tyler.

Someone asked me what the prize is going to be and you know what? I have mustered up every drop of panache for this that I don’t even care about a “prize.” I just want the title and glory. IT IS ALL I HAVE GOT RIGHT NOW.

(But seriously, there better be a fucking prize.)

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Why do I keep having parties? All they do is stress me the fuck out. And you know, this time, I was trying to be more lackadaisical about it but all that did was make me wake up Saturday morning to a constricted chest and a build-up of pre-party heart palpitations. And it wasn’t like there was a ton to do — Henry just had to make two pies while I roamed around the house, looking at my imaginary Swatch watch and calling him a motherfucker.

“I don’t know why you get so stressed out when I’m the one who has to do everything,” Henry called out from the kitchen, elbow-deep in butterscotch, while I zoned out to Chiodos and buffed my fingernails. Finally, he finished his pistachio pie and deemed the butterscotch pie as “getting there,” so we packed it all up and split for the pavilion; upon arrival, Henry had already written a list of a hundred things he forgot, which meant Chooch and I got to hang out alone in the pavilion while he “ran real quick” to the store.

I. False Hope

While I was chastising my son for being 5 and incapable of using a swingset on his own, a car pulled up the dirt part alongside the pavilion. Chooch and I ran a Special Olympics practice lap toward it just as a man was emerging from the driver’s side. It wasn’t anyone I recognized, but I am never one to turn away a pie aficionado.

“Do you mind if I take some pictures of my wife?” he asked. That’s when I noticed that in place  of a checkered bib fastened around his neck and a pie fork in each hand, he came equipped with his camera, his very pregnant wife, and a young kid.

Oh.

Hopes crushed, I gave them the green light and Chooch and I moped back to the playground with our heads down. Maybe that was just me. It was already past the start of the party and no one had arrived, so what did I care if some weirdos were taking lovey-dovey family portraits over by the porta john.

Then another car pulled down and around the pavilion, so Chooch and I jumped up and cheered just in time for the two strangers in the car to leer at us as they drove back up the road.

“What the fuck?!” I yelled to the party gods, who were clearly angry with me for some reason. Not sending thank you cards fast enough after my birthday party? God, fuck off.

Finally, Henry came back at the same time my brother Corey and his girlfriend Danielle arrived, so they were here for the next fake out, when a pick up truck pulled into the lot across the street but then it turned out to be some assholes bringing their dog to the park for a walk. It was nearly 2 at this point and I started to cry a little.

II. The Horse

The incredibly affectionate family/pie party crashers had taken a break in their photo session long enough to plop down for a picnic in the grass. We were sitting at a table under the pavilion, openly mocking them, when Corey noticed a horse coming out of the woods. Atop the horse sat a poised older woman in some kind of fucking safari hat and chambray shirt. Corey could not stop talking about how poised she was, like she was expecting to be photographed or draped with a champion’s sash.  Everyone (but me) took turns telling her how beautiful her horse was as she clomped off toward the playground.

Chooch decided that he HAD TO GO TO THE SWINGSET at this moment and he would have to RUN AS FAST AND AS LOUDLY as he possibly could because it might not be there much longer. Off he ran like a madman, ignoring Henry’s warnings of “Don’t run near the horse——aw, shit.”

Too late.

The horse got spooked and started to buck. The bitch on his back was suddenly less than poised as she tried to get him to calm down. We all just sat there and stared, and then I had to turn away because I was laughing so hard. We’re all so incredibly irresponsible when it comes to that kid.

At least she wasn’t thrown off the horse, I guess.

III. This Is My Brother, Corey; He’s Color Blind

Since there still wasn’t a party happening, Corey, Danielle and Chooch sat down and colored some Star Wars pictures. Thank god for crayons and coloring books.

“You know I’m color-blind, right?” Corey asked me.

“What? No!” I replied.

“Yeah, I found out when I was like, 7 and got my first pair of glasses. The doctor was basically like, ‘You’re color-blind as fuck.’ I can’t believe you’ve known me for 21 years and didn’t know this!

” Corey said, mock-offended.

Meanwhile, Chooch was chastising Corey for coloring Luke Skywalker totally wrong and I was like, “Dude doesn’t know his colors, Chooch. He can’t help it.” I tried to give Corey a sympathetic smile but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough.

Anyway, the point of Corey’s story is that his color-retardedness is affecting his ability to excel in one of his classes, so his adviser intervened and told the professor about Corey’s “condition,” at which point he was sent to the disability office and had to sit among suicidal students and a guy with one leg.

This was so ridiculously funny to me that I could not stop laughing and talking about it. All day long, whenever someone new would arrive (and yes, people did eventually arrive), I would introduce Corey as “my brother; he’s color-blind.” Show me your weakness and I will mock you relentlessly.

 IV. The Butterscotch Blunder

People were finally beginning to arrive and Henry let me set out the pistachio pie (which was like spooning a cloud from Heaven into your mouth; I bet angels get breast implants made from this sweet fluff) but said that the butterscotch pie still wasn’t ready.

“Don’t touch it!” he barked preemptively when I made to open the weird helium-balloon looking cooler stowing the runny pie. “I just checked it and it still hasn’t jelled.” He tugged on his coller a little and then took another swig of his iced tea jug.

This pretty much went on all day, this dance around the reverse pie-incubator, until finally it was 6:30 and everyone had left with nary a slice of butterscotch pie (which is one of my all-time favorite pies and I haven’t had it in years because my mom doesn’t care enough about me to bake me one, but she’ll still bake them FOR HER EX-HUSBAND WTF). I was devastated. Yes, I had shoveled multiple varities of fruit- and cream-filled desserts between my oscillating lips, but there was a void that couldn’t be filled by any berry or Nutella. I needed that fucking butterscotch.

(Two pies came close though: Kaitlin made a black forest pie and then told Henry to suck it; and Laura’s fiance Mike baked one of the best apple pies with a crust soaked in some sort of sex nectar, I don’t even know but I think I may have broken a few laws with it in my mouth.)

V. The Park

Everyone is always bitching about how hard it is to find park pavilions, no matter what park we’re at, so fuck that: the next pie party will be at a strip club. Maybe then people will actually show up.

And then there won’t be any stink bugs to freak people out. Just crabs.

VI. Where’s the Avocado Pie?

Henry didn’t make the avocado pie this year and of course everyone was like, “Did Henry make the avocado pie?” No, Henry didn’t make the avocado pie because he was too busy fucking up the butterscotch pie.

VII. Pictures of People Eating Pie

Pie Eaters:

• Me me me me
• Henry and Chooch
• Laura
• Corey and Danielle
• Robbie and Karen
• Ron
• John, Jennifer, Abby and Gavin
• Nancy and her baby, Joey
• Jamie and her baby, Crosby
• Barb
• Kaitlin
• Sandy and Elena
• Sean and Kylie
• Joy and John
• Kristen and her dog, Joey
• Blake and Shannon
• Henry’s mom Judy
• Henry’s sister Kelly
• Zac
• Janna

 Henry bought some sort of pie shower caps, except I thought he said they were for vaginas. I was so confused, but figured it was something he saw his ex using one time, so I didn’t question it.

I don’t think these kids stopped moving long enough to eat even a bite of pie.

WHAT WERE THEY TALKING ABOUT? It seems so intense.

Since it was an open house-type of party, people came and went all day. Henry kept trying to make everyone take pie home with them, because the pie:person ratio was totally ridiculous this year. There were some pies that hadn’t even been cut into by the end of the day. Was everyone on a diet this year?

We even considered handing off some pie to the picnicking pregnant family down by the porta john.

Joy’s fiance John asked me what started the whole pie party thing. When I told him that it was basically because I wanted pie and wondered how I could trick people into bringing me some, I think he believed me but I’m not sure. It’s kind of cool how much people enjoy pillaging a spread of pies in a park pavilion on a beautiful autumn day, though.

Probably frowning at Kaitlin’s black forest pie.

Laura actually likes having her photo taken, so she doesn’t care when I sneak up on her.

Overall, it was a great day, great weather, great pies, and great people. But by 6:00, I was writhing around and yelling WHY DID YOU LET ME EAT SO MUCH PIE!? because everything is Henry’s fault.

The next morning, Henry finally admitted that he fucked up the butterscotch pie, which had never jelled, not even after a full 24 hours. There goes your spot on the Food Network, Henry, you fuck-up.

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[I have to re-read this every year to remind myself that no matter how caught up in the October spirit I think I am, going to the Apple Fest is a fucking stupid idea. This is from 2008 and I’m reposting it because I can.]

Today we took Captain Vulgarity to the Apple Fest in the ultra conservative farmlands of Western Pennsylvania. One has to park in various fields several miles from where all the apple action goes down and board chool buses doubling as shuttles. Our bus was pretty quiet, and the whole way there I sat with clenched muscles and pinched nerves, praying that Chooch wouldn’t start snarling spontaneous “Asshole“s to the elderly couple adjacent to his seat. The excitement of being on a school bus for the first time seemed to work effectively as a cuss retardant, thank the fucking Lord, so I was able to focus on the adorable lesbian couple in front of me, mouthing along to West End Girls and kissing the top of each other’s heads. Seriously, I wanted to paint a cupcake couple painting for those lucky assholes. (I don’t know WHERE Chooch gets that word.) I tossed a few resentful glares over my shoulder at Henry, who does NOT mouth the words to awesome synthpop songs or kiss me lovingly atop my crown. BUT MY GIRLFRIEND DOES.

If you like kettle corn, the apple fest is a fine place to spend a Sunday. If you like personalized wood-carved toy flutes and crafts made with puffy paint, then the apple fest could potentially complete your mantle collection. Do you like face paint? YOU WILL LOVE THE APPLE FEST. How about the tones of Jimmy Buffet cover bands colliding with whining kids and the grinding horror of chainsaws? Then the apple fest is like one mother of an orgasm contained on one whopping acre.  Is the tied and bound body of your latest victim incomplete without an apple gag? You can buy ’em by the BUSHEL at the apple fest!

For someone who is not interested in any of the above (the last one, maybe someday), my typical I Hate The World venom was sort of tempered. I only said, “This is so fucking lame, ” once. ONCE. (I’m either growing up or someone plopped a Valium in my tea.) I had one goal, and one goal only: Eat some applelicious delicacies.

Keep that pulled pork away from me.

We let Chooch go on some kiddie rides and molest some farm animals. (I saw a retarded man clap after he pet a sheep and I seriously almost died. Between that and the drugfreeworld.

org commercials, I’m wondering what the fuck is going on with my heart-frost and estrogen levels.)

Ninety percent of the apple-humpers there were sporting Steelers jerseys and I felt slightly angry about it. But then I saw THREE WHOLE PEOPLE in Penguins shirts and I felt less alone. Chooch cheered when he saw one of those people, too, and I shouted, “That’s my boy.” Then I looked up to the heavens and mouthed “Thank you” when Chooch didn’t tack a gritty “Asshole!” to the end of his cheer.

We followed some shoddy and ill-placed signs for a hayride, hoping to keep Chooch’s attention masturbated since it was growing close to his naptime and his ornery side was beginning to peak. The designated area for the apple fest just isn’t large enough to hold all the fruity wonders and delights that are to be had, so the activities and vendors tend to leak down onto a nearby street. The hayride depot (I don’t know what I’m talking about) was situated next to a church. Henry pointed to a sign on its steps and said, “Let’s go see that.” Because my eyes are as bad as my ears (if not worse), I read it as “Come see the trans.” I was intrigued that a church would have transvestites on display for us hee-haw apple-folk. “How progressive,” I said out loud.

But it was just some model train display.

In the church’s basement, a bevy of booths were set up. As I walked past a stand of necklaces, I accidentally made eye contact with its purveyor, who flitted her hand and said, “They’re made from paper mache!” I fake-smiled and said, “OH OK” and hurried along before she compelled me with the Holy Spirit and Mod Podge. It stunk really bad in there, like church craft fairs often do. Some kind of horrible odor bomb of cooked cabbage, Avon perfume and shitty diapers. Chooch began acting like an orphan who was force-fed caffeine capsules and then turned loose on the world, so we yanked him out of there in time to go on the lamest hayride ever, where I was seated across from some older God-fearing woman who glared at me every time I looked up at her and her teenage daughter who had a broken foot and chowed on a bag of kettlecorn while staring dispondantly off into the horizon. Chooch only said “asshole” once, but no one heard him over the put-put of the tractor’s engine.

The tractor-driver let the wagon glide to a rest on top of a hill, where our screams would be heard by no one for miles and miles and miles. Slowly, he turned around, and as though he were in some sort of cigar and whiskey-flavored fugue, he slurred, “Six feet of snow….nothing but the moon in the sky….what do you think the view would be like up here?” No one seemed to know what to say, so I looked at Chooch and said awkwardly, “Pretty awesome, huh?” The only other person who humored him with an answer was the God-fearing woman, who curtly replied, “Nice.” I kind of felt bad for that old hick; he was just trying to fire up some camaraderie, after all.

Maybe if he would have added flagellation stations and bleeding Stigmatas to the vision, God-Fearer would have been more excited.

There really wasn’t much to see out there. Several cows, but that novelty wears off pretty fucking fast, especially when Chooch got to pet pigs and sheep on the actual festival grounds. In fact, I’m not even certain the hayride was a part of the apple fest. It was probably just some neighboring farmer trying to make a quick buck because his crops sucked this year.

After that disaster of a hayride, I finally got to have some sugary apple slop. Standing in line, I was certain I wanted apple crisp, but as we got closer to the front, that apple pie looked simply to die for, so I changed my mind. Henry went with the apple crisp and we took our plates of fat and calories inside where some old broads were quilting on a raised platform, watching everyone eating at the tables. Awkward.

After two bites of my pie, I stole a bite of Henry’s apple crisp, deemed it tastier than my pie, and arranged for a switch.

“Good thing I know you so well,” Henry grumbled. “I was going to get pie myself, but I figured you would be disappointed and wish you had ordered the crisp.” It’s a good thing, having someone studying my indecisiveness so thoroughly since 2001. He’s somehow always one step ahead of me.

After that, we got in line  to board a bus back to the lot. Some older gent, who took his job way too seriously, shouted commands at us before he’d let us get on. “THE BUS IS APPROACHING. BEGIN FOLDING YOUR STROLLERS NOW.

GET IN THE BUS AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND PLEASE FILL UP THE SEATS STARTING AT THE BACK OF THE BUS FIRST.” A hearty brow-swipe followed, and then he stepped to the side to let us through. I’m certain he was reliving the good old days of the Korean War.

We were the first ones on and I was determined to follow instructions. That guy seemed like the type to march aboard the bus and throw out the rule-benders by their ears. So I plunked down in the very last seat, just like my friend Rosa.

Five minutes later, the bus was pulling away, and there were only about ten of us on there. An old man in front of me mumbled, “He was so adamant that we fill up the back of the bus, and there’s hardly anyone on here.”

IT WAS FUNNY BUT I GUESS YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

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During the pie party on Saturday, I was able to snap a few pictures of Sandy’s little girl, Elena. I’m looking forward to doing it again, with her Halloween costume, so then she too will hate me like all other kids do (including mine).

Later, I might write real words on here! I was going to last night at work, but I was too busy listening to the hockey game. And um, working of course.

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Killer Ken Lobe’s shopping list. Glenn, the co-worker that Ken is based on, apparently likes cashews.

That’s the only specific food I could get anyone here to tell me that he likes. Metamucil because he’s old, olive-colored shirts because I just made fun of him recently for wearing an olive-colored shirt, lipstick because I picture him slathering it on after he makes a kill.

Bloody latex glove strewn across my desk light.

Hot Naybor Chris let me borrow an old table lamp, in which I promptly stuck a red light bulb. I still need to find an old lampshade for it that I can slash and splatter with blood.

Splattered blood is kind of the theme around here.

On the outside of the glass in front of my desk.

My blog bro Brandy has been posting some awesome DIY Halloween ideas and when she shared one about creepy things in jars, I knew my desk would be amiss without some of that action. Thank you, Brandy!

Once the festivities here at work are done, I’m not going to want to take everything down. I’ll probably just set up a permanent area for it at my house. Maybe in Chooch’s room. I’m sure that will help with the issues he’s having at school.

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I know blogging shouldn’t be a chore, but goddamn—-I woke up today and just the thought of all the stuff that happened over the weekend made me feel so exhausted. I guess that’s a sign that it was pretty successful! So while I have the pie party and an awesome night at Castle Blood with Henry and my new friends Rick and Tammy to frenetically type out, I wanted to first share some photos I took of my friends Lauren and Lindsay’s kids yesterday. I was really honored that they wanted me to do this, because I’m no professional, and even more excited when they suggested a cemetery locale. You know how I love me some boneyards.

We did some regular autumn-ish shots and then they got to change into their Halloween costumes. Some of those ones were shot on my mom and aunt’s street (where Lindsay’s parents also live so we all just parked in their driveway, lest my aunt come flying out of her house with a broom and a shotgun). Oh look, here are some of the photos now.

Dean & Olivia: Any kid with pink streaks in her hair is cool in my book, but now I miss my own pink streaks. I think she was scared of me at first (most kids are) but by the end she was posing and then demanding to see the shot on my camera’s screen. Total diva!

Anthony & Tiffany: Tiffany is Chooch’s female counterpart. She loves horror movies and was all excited for a second when she thought the pond at the cemetery was full of piranhas. She was mad toward the end of the second cemetery shoot because it was supposed to be scary but it wasn’t. I mean, Henry was lurking in the background—wasn’t that creepy enough?

These kids did great. Two hours, three locations, and one wardrobe change and they barely bitched. It was at least 80 degrees and I was sweating my ass off, so I can only imagine how hot they were in their costumes. The only one whining was me, though. (I have a low threshold for discomfort, plus Henry was there and his presence always exacerbates the bitch-baby in me.)

Then I spent the day panicking that I fucked it all up, because that is how someone with low self-worth rolls. (Or stumbles, as it were.)

Now, I have to get back to putting things in jars for my murder desk. Ciao for now.

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With all this desk-decorating hoopla going on, and planning for tomorrow’s pie party (ha-ha, that’s all Henry), I haven’t had much else to write about.

But since the pig mask has been such a popular topic of conversation here at work, I started reminiscing about all the great times Pig and I have had together and decided to share one of those memories with you guys, here, tonight, on the blog.

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My Oinkin’ New Years, 2008

This New Year’s Eve was very significant for me because it marked the first time that I got to spend it with my bestie,  Christina. Usually I end up calling her the next day, crying about how lame my night was. This time, we woke up the next morning and proceeded to laugh about how obnoxious we are. It was nice. We may not have had a party banquet, a free-flowing fountain of Patron, or pulsating club beats, but what we did have was all the makings for an evening of wildin’ out: a pig mask; a Thomas the Tank Engine flash light; a stock of Disaronno, Woodchuck and (cheap) champagne at our gluttonous fingertips; and an arsenal of bitter jabs at Tila Tequila.

Henry started off the festivities by going upstairs to take a nap since he was running on a low tank of energy. (I mean, when isn’t he?) By 10:30, I was a little annoyed and really wanted him to come downstairs because “things were about to get real krunk.” I believe those were my exact words. I turned the bedroom light on and he promptly pulled the blanket over his face.

At this point, I did what any other rational human would: I invited the pig mask to hump my face and then proceeded to stand in the front yard, alternating between calling out a blood-curdling  “Happy Oinkin’ New Year!” at passing cars while thrusting a warrior-like fist in the air, and hurling stones and rolled-up newspapers at the bedroom window.

Suddenly the light went out and I found myself very troubled.

I assumed he had shut the light off and went back to bed, so I was a little surprised when I saw (and heard) the front door slam shut. It didn’t take me long after that to deduce that he had locked us out. My incessant banging and yipping was enough to blackmail him into letting us back in, thank god, but mostly because he didn’t want me to embarrass him in front of the neighbors.

Because Henry is a Grown-Up, he spent most of his new year’s eve on the computer, channeling the patron saint of ear plugs and searching for his reserves of patience to mainline, while Christina and I acted like drunk fools in the living room. (And all over my block.) This is what he looked like, pretty much all night:

[2011 Erin here, chiming in to say OMG WHAT A MOLESTER.] Leaving Henry to sulk at the computer, Christina and I cased the neighborhood, which unfortunately was not so much a hotbed of activity as I had hoped. Several cars passed but no one seemed to notice the piggy asshole gyrating on the sidelines. I even had a gang sign especially for the occasion. It was just the universal fornication sign conveyed by sticking the forefinger of one hand into a circle made by the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. (Wait, which finger is the forefinger? Is that the same as the pointer?) Flashing that sign really added some punch to the rest of my routine. One car beeped and a woman walking down the street nervously turned her head and veered onto a side street.

At 11:59, I frantically pulled my hair back into a taut bun and stuffed the damn pig mask over my face again.

Precisely at midnight, I flew out the front door, duly forgot that sound reverberates underneath the mask, and started shrieking “It’s two thousand fucking double quad ya’ll! Oink oink!” I insisted on saying “double quad” all night and there was a point where Christina was like, “Would you stop saying that?” and Henry echoed, “Yeah, please. That’s stupid.”

Christina dressed me up in her thuggish cash-love hat and we pretended like I was a Jersey Yo-Girl, right down to the streaks of orange across my face. She dropped Blue into my hands for the final touch, because nothing gives a gangsta street cred than a plush dog from a Nick Jr. show.

What’s that glaring red rectangle emblazoned across my ample bosom, you ask? Why that’s my Chiodos hoodie. See, all I wanted for Christmas was a Chiodos hoodie. I’m always pretty specific with these things, yet no one listens. Just in case Christina and Henry might think I forgot what assholes they are for not making sure my torso was buffeted by an over-priced example of my fan-girl love for a band, I fashioned my own Chiodos hoodie with a little bit of ingenuity, Henry’s Everfresh hoodie and a piece of red cardstock. On Sunday, I used a blue sweatshirt and white paper, crudely ripped into a small box just large enough for me to scrawl ‘Chiodos’ with my Sharpie, but it wasn’t as eye-popping as the black one. Both days, I sported my makeshift hoodies with pride. Even though on Sunday my hoodie didn’t even have a hood.

Henry and Christina didn’t seem to feel very bad, though.

My favorite part was later on when Christina and I were on the porch having a smoke break. The mask had been long abandoned by this point (my breath causes condensation to drip down the insides of it and it’s really gross; really fucking gross) but my vocal chords were still begging to be used. (Seriously, you think I like being so mouthy all the time?

I can’t control it.) I can only imagine how much my neighbors appreciate me. So there I was,  still very hyper and buzzed, running all around the yard, when I spied a car coming down the street. As a person who has always yearned to be part of a hit and run, I charged toward the street and started screaming and essentially shaking my body like a schizophrenic with a bit of a skin-crawling affliction.

The car effectively slowed down. Then the car stopped and I noticed it was a fucking taxi. Still a 12-year-old at heart, I laughed hysterically into my hands like I had just cold-called a crush and hung up, and rushed back into the house and left Christina to handle it. She stood out there, waving the cab on, and yelling, “No. No! No one needs a ride. NO! JUST GO! LEAVE!” Then I laughed in Henry’s shoulder about it for a few minutes while he desperately tried to shrug me off.

This New Year’s Eve was much better than the one back in 2003, when I completely flipped my shit at my mom’s house over a stupid game of Trivial Pursuit, lunged over the coffee table at Henry and called him a motherfucker, left all of my friends there while I drove home drunk, and then broke my phone into pieces when Henry called from my mom’s to lovingly tell his bi-polar girlfriend that all of her friends were pissed off at her for having another episode.

This pig mask is the best thing I’ve ever purchased.

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I’ve made it this far without anyone complaining to the boss I guess, because when I came in yesterday, everyone still had their decorations up and there was even a photo floating around of the boss wearing my pig mask. I was so relieved! I haven’t even come close to finishing yet, plus I’ve decided that the “killer” is going to be Glenn (of Wacky Worm fame) so I’ve been dropping some clues to see how long it takes him to figure it out once he returns from vacation.

I’m using an anagram of his last name, which is Ken Lobe. I’m so excited about this twist, it’s stupid.

I clearly have little else going on in life.

Our killer has expensive taste in murder vans.

In other news, life is good, and here’s why: I’m feeling much better, tonight is the official start of the hockey season, and I was summoned for jury duty! Beyond stoked. I hope I get picked.

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Thank god it’s Wordless Wednesday because I’m being tortured slowly by fuckerbitch allergies. Anyway, here is a scan of a photo from when I met The Cure in Canberra, Australia back in 2000.

Someday maybe I’ll tell that story on here.

But not today.

Definitely one of the Top 5 Moments of my life; but right now, at this moment, I’d be happy with just meeting The Cure for allergies.

(I’m the girl on the left with the long, stupid hair; not the man in the doorway, tonguing himself.

)

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