Chooch had another skating lesson Saturday evening. It’s really fun to be at the rink during non-session hours, mostly because there are so few people there and you would think it would lower the odds of me finding an asshole to hate, when instead it does quite the opposite; the absence of a crowd only makes it easier for me to single out the dickheads.

We weren’t even out of the car yet when a trio of pre-teen girls ran past us and drenched our ear drums in their shrill giggles. I recoiled, then seethed, then declared my hatred for them.

“Why,” asked Henry’s mom, who tagged along to play Chooch Cheerleader. “Do you know them?”

“I don’t need to know them,” I grumbled, making her laugh nervously. It’s been eleven years, but she is still learning about me.

However, it only took me ten minutes once inside to completely forget about the Giggle Hookers and set my sights on another young target.

It all started when I got up to pee. I was walking toward Henry, who was coming back from sucking up to the owner, when he was forced to step over the legs of some girl, who was kneeling in the middle of the walkway while lacing one of the Giggle Hooker’s skates.  Earlier, she had been standing in line in front of us with her grandfather, who looked like Punky Brewster’s dad, and she didn’t seem very offensive at all then. Maybe a little smug, but nothing about her attitude really stuck out.

But now that her grandfather wasn’t within earshot, her true cuntitude came shining through.

Right as I was about to walk past her, I heard her scoff indignantly to her friends and spit, “That man just STEPPED OVER TOP OF ME.”

Well, duh, you dumb bitch. How else is going to get around you when you’re practically setting up camp in the middle of the walkway, soar over you on his Winged Ass Pony?

It wasn’t until I reached the bathroom that I became super bothered. That’s my property she was mouthing off about. It’s OK for me to publicly cheesegrate his masculinity, but when someone else makes an attempt, I turn into a snorting bull. (Which isn’t much of a change from my usual demeanor.)

On my way back to our spot on the bench,  she was bragging to her giggly friends about how she’s taking the ADVANCED CLASS when I forced eye contact with her. She flitted her eyes away from mine in a hurry. Arms akimbo, I stormed over to Henry and began waving wildly as I told him and his mom what I had witnessed.

“I was so angry, I punched the mirror in the bathroom, Henry!” I cried, my fists all balled up.

“You did not,” he said calmly.

“You’re right, I didn’t. But I really am angry!” Seriously, cutting myself all because of Henry? Yeah right.

Meanwhile, Henry’s mom was laughing nervously while watching us verbally volley back and forth: Henry recounting the perils and consequences of a 32-year-old woman starting a fight with a 13-year-old; me cutting him off with desperate accusations, such as, “WHY, DO YOU THINK I’M SCARED OF HER?” and “I DON’T CARE IF I GO TO JAIL, IT’S WORTH IT.”

Just then, she skated past and looked directly at me.

“SHE JUST FUCKING LOOKED AT ME!” I yelled. Henry’s mom, who was originally on Team You’ll Go To Jail,  laughed and then retorted with, “LOOK AT HER, SHE THINKS SHE’S SO COOL” and “SHE DOESN’T LOOK ADVANCED TO ME!”

Henry threw his hands up and said, “Seriously, mom?” and then stalked away to stand alone by the snack room. Every once in awhile, he would wave at me from his stance on neutral land.

While everyone was lining up to prepare for the lessons, I overheard the Whorebitch say, “I’m gonna have to put some ice on my foot.” She’s gonna have to put some ice on her FACE by the time I’M done with her.

AMIRITE HENRY? AMIRITE?

She fell during her lesson, causing me to crack up, point, and then squeal, “SHE FELL! DID YOU SEE HER FALL??”

Henry’s mom started to laugh, but then realized she was being sucked into my demonic vaccuum and quickly shook off her laughter. “Oh, I don’t want to see anyone get hurt!” she exclaimed.

I guess we’re not on the same page, after all.

In other skating lesson news, this old dude (“He’s not old, he’s probably my age!” Henry corrected. Yeah. And that age is “old.”) was taking the beginner class with his son. It was pretty adorable. He was a hot mess on rollerblades.

Whorebitch’s grandfather. He had on really nice quads and Henry said something about wanting to buy them.

“Why, is he selling them?” I asked.

“Well, no…” Henry started. “But it’s not like he’s going to be needing them much longer.”

I’m hoping he meant because the guy was like, 70 but the way he said it was just so foreboding. Actually, it was kind of hot.

Henry eventually came back to me, even though my big mouth and ability “to make something out of nothing” embarrasses him. I continued to make eye contact with Whorebitch every time she skated near our spot on the bench, though.

The “advanced” skating instructor, moments after he had his hand on his girlfriend’s ass which naturally made me react like a 5-year-old seeing people kissing in public.

OH LOOK WHO IT IS, THE WHOREBITCH.

“Mommy, did you even WATCH me skate?” Chooch knows that my attention tends to veer away from him and latch on to people I either hate or have a crush on.

I always forget that I can be recording shit with my phone, so now I am making up for it by recording shit that no one cares about. Look at how emotionally vacant Henry is. :(

If Whorebitch is there next time, I’m going to take lessons too.

Hi, hello. Merry Sunday. Have some photos that I took this weekend.

Someone get me on a Wacky Worm, STAT. (The sleaziness of that statement will never get old.) This is pretty much how I looked all week: morose with a general feeling of malaise. I’m getting better, though. I can almost eat again without feeling seasick! (No, I’m definitely not pregnant, don’t fret.)

Chooch ran into this Star Wars display at Target and is suddenly really feeling Valentine’s Day.

Marcy & Chooch’s Art Class.

Again, I say: fuck off, winter depression! There is too much to look forward to.

***

Coming up: a post (with video!) where I wanted to fight a 13-year-old girl to defend Henry’s honor, and more of Henry’s answers to your questions on the “Harangue Henry” post. Woo, this blog is so full of substance I can hardly stand it. (Sarcasm 101.)

The other day, I gave you the opportunity to shoot some questions at Henry. Facebook really came through with some good ones, so this is going to have to be split into parts, otherwise Henry will flip out about having to talk to me for me too long. So here are the first 5 questions!

Misty’s question is threefold: I want to know who he thinks is the hottest on Jersey Shore: Mike, Vinny, or Pauly D.

Henry, no hesitation: Pauly D.

Also, does he have any strange fears nobody knows about? (balloons, hair brush hair etc.) He probably won’t tell you but you never know.

Henry, making all kinds of confused and constipated faces: Strange fears? I don’t know! Getting cut by metal scares me.

[Pretty sure we covered that already at some point, so good job Henry.]

And also, If he could retire today and spend his life doing manly man activities what would he choose to do?

Henry: Manly man activities? Do you have to go with me?

Erin: Maybe to watch.

Henry, tapping his fingers and then getting distracted by Friends.

[Now we are both distracted by Friends.]

Henry, 2 hours later: I don’t know. I think I would travel and maybe go fishing.

Erin: Fishing for a new girl to not-propose to?

Henry: Sure.

My old school* bud Liz asks: I’d love to hear Henry wax poetic on the Kardashian clan. Who is his fave?

*(Not “old school” in the sense that she slinks around in Adidas tracksuits and Kangol hats with a boombox on her shoulder, but in that I’ve known her since 6th grade.)

Henry, with a crinkled nose and agitated squeal to his tone: I don’t know! I don’t even like the Kardashians! None of them!

[But he’d sure bang any of them in a pinch.]

Terry from Twitter has a burning curiosity: Name two things you love and two things you hate about @ohhonestlyerin?

Henry, using the aid of a toothpick to think: Why does it have to be TWO things I love? [Staring at me for several icy seconds with hate and disdain]

[Still thinking and staring miserably into his grim future. This is obviously a Very Hard One.]

Henry, realizing the faster he answers, the faster it’s over: Two things I love would be sense of humor & sex.

[Fantastic, now everyone knows my Virgin Mary qualities are bogus.]

Henry, on a roll now: Two things I hate are her semi-self-centeredness [Lies.] and that voice she just used.

[I don’t like this game anymore.]

Andrea and Alyson could both kill to know more about the now-infamous Ted Nugent concert.

Answers are in video-form!

Bill of Funny Accent Land inquires: I would like to know which episode of Degrassi is Henry’s favorite.

Henry, laughing in disgust: I don’t HAVE any favorite episodes.

Erin: Not even the one where Paige gets raped by the frat boy? Is that what they’re called in Canada?

Henry: What? Which one is that?

Erin: Well, it’s the one where Paige gets raped by the frat boy.

Henry, pretending like he remembers: Oh. No. I don’t know, I never pay attention to it!

Erin: Then why did you cry when Jimmy got capped?!

Henry: I did not cry.
****
More answers later!

It’s amazing he answered any at all after I fake-broke up with him Friday morning and caused him all kinds of duress.

The Penguins were playing the Capitals on Sunday afternoon and as much as I love skating, I love my hockey more; I made the executive decision to go skating on Saturday afternoon instead, and it turned out to be one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had, next to the creation of America’s most underrated sport (Thingieball), baking vaginal malady cookies, and touring in no particular order: Mystery Hole, Christ in the Smokies, and the Bayernhof Music Museum, which I try to name-drop every chance I get just so Andrea will be reminded of it every time she visits Oh Honestly, Erin.

(I heard Dick the Tour Guide even sent her a post card.)

“Why was it the best idea ever, Erin?” Oh, only because all the assholes stayed home, leaving me with all sorts of open rink space to jam out on.

This may have less to do with it being Saturday and more to do with the fact that there was an ice storm the night before. Either way, I was really feeling my groove that afternoon and made sure to openly gush about it to Henry, which always makes him scowl because he’s allergic to my four-wheeled braggadocia.

It didn’t seem like it was going to be a good skate session in the beginning, when my rentals ended up having two different-sized tongues. And one of them had shorter laces which needed to be tied lower than the other! Two really disconcerting flaws for someone who nitpicks every little thing that is put upon her person.

So for the first time ever, I had to return a pair of skates at the Rollerdrome. The new owner seemed annoyed by this, but I noticed that there were other people returning skates too so, I don’t know, MAYBE IT’S HIS PROBLEM AND NOT OURS.

The second pair of skates had adequate symmetrical properties, but the wheels were all fucked up and making me feet turn out against their will. I kept gliding over to Henry to bitch about it, at which point he would make the audacious suggestion that this was all in my head.

“Just keep skating. You’ll wear them in,” he shouted over Roller DJ’s meticulously crafted Top 40 playlist. This angered me. I wanted Henry to acknowledge my plight, to halt his Opie of Mayberry nerd patrol promenade around the rink and get to the bottom of my wonky wheels. I wanted him to march up to the skate rental counter and demand an oil can and a Billy Joel-approved red paisley handkerchief for him to adequately service his Uptown Girl’s brokedown quads.

But he did none of those things so I skated off the rink in a huff and pretended like I was just going to go home, which made him rant about how I waste money and OK FUCKER I WILL SKATE OUT THE KINKS, HAPPY NOW?!

And I did just that – took my temper, my indignation, my scrappy determination, and my catawampus-wheeled skates back on the rink. The kinks never really worked themselves out, but my desire to hedgeclip Henry’s scrotum did, and I guess that’s the important part.

Usually during intermission, Roller DJ plays a “Grease” medley and I just absolutely can’t stand “Grease” songs, which is weird because I love ONJ. But I mean, if you’re going to go that route, why not tip your hat to “Xanadu” and spin some “Magic,” Roller DJ? Plus, intermission equates “reverse skate,” and for some reason, I lose my bearings going clockwise around the rink, so I usually just sit it out. But last Saturday, Roller DJ dissed all the “Grease” fans and played normal music, which culminated at the end in a riveting romp through “YMCA.” I don’t know why this tickled me so, but I was so hyperbolically animated out there, it was probably embarrassing for all.

Meanwhile, Henry skipped out on his theme song and called all his make believe friends on his make believe phone to tell them about his new hair cut. Goodbye, flowing McNichol-locks, hello Mr. Belvehair.

(It only really bears a loose resemblance to Mr. Belvedere’s ‘do, so I don’t know why I said that other than the fact that Henry actually is the not-as-well-dressed Mr. Belvedere of our house.)

In other rink happenings, there was this stout lady in a purple sweater who was obviously some washed-up competition queen because she was doing all kinds of old school moves, but not the awesome soul skate jam moves. These were more “uptight cracker in a unitard skating a solo to Belinda Carlisle” calculated steps. My personal favorite was when she would squat down real low, prop her elbows on her inner thighs, and glide around the corners like it was some uncomfortable skate dance choreography for child birth. The fact that she was at least my age and fatter than me, and still out there doing her thing made me feel this really weird, awkward sensation. I realized later that it was what you people call “respect.” So while Henry, Chooch and I were sitting out during Backward Skate, I mused out loud that I wanted to talk to her.

“What, you HATE her?” Chooch asked, mishearing me as usual.

“No! NO NO NO, god no. I said I want to TALK to her,” I broke my neck to correct him.

I’ve learned my lesson enough times now to know never to say anything disparaging in front of Chooch because he is a direct pipeline to the National Enquirer. (Sadly, it took me more than once to finally learn my lesson. But you’re not surprised.)

Also during Backward Skate, I fell in love with a ROLLERBLADER. I know, I was just as disgusted with myself! But to be fair, he had on pro blades, not those clunky plastic boots, and he was straight stuntin’. He obviously is a hockey player and as soon as I make sure he’s at least 18, I’m going to marry him. Or at least take him in the alley out back.

Highlight of the day: Roller DJ announced it was Guy’s Choice and I dejectedly skated off the rink. Even if Henry and I were there alone, he would never choose me. I bore his child, and he still won’t choose me. (ERIN, ARE YOU STILL TALKING ABOUT SKATING?) I’m sitting there alone on the bench when a grubby little hand juts out toward me and there’s Chooch, standing there saying, “Come on, Mommy!”

“You choose me?” I asked, all surprised and emotional. He gave me this look that asked, “Are you coming or not?” So I took his sweaty hand and we skated together to Bruno Mars and it was pretty much the most adorable thing ever. Chooch and I get along really well when we’re skating. It’s not until we get in the car that we start bickering like siblings. And he is getting so good at skating! He’s basically out there on his own all the time now and I don’t think he fell at all this time.

I like to think he aspires to be as excelsior as his mother. (Reminder: he was not adopted.)

Then it was time for the Pepsi Challenge! Which is really just Four Corners sponsored by Pepsi, unbeknowst to them I’m sure. I almost didn’t participate because the song was some nauseating Katy Perry joint (the second Pukey Perry* song of the session, I was very displeased) but it’s a good thing I’m trained in blocking out her eye-crossing caterwauls because my corner won, bitches!

*(This is totally what I would have gotten everyone to call her if we were in 4th grade together.)

I think there were 5 of us in all who got a ticket for a free Pepsi in the snack room. Henry skated over to me and with his lips perverted in that signature smirk of his, he said, “Gee, I’m sure Roller DJ choosing your corner as the winner had NOTHING to do with you.”

“Well, duh,” I said. Hey, some dudes are stupid enough to think I’m cute, OK? And if they want to give me free Pepsi products, I’ll take it, because I know my goods are way too damaged to score much better than a paper cup of carbonation.

SO LET ME HAVE MY MOMENT, HENRY.

We stopped in the snack room on the way out so I could cash in my winnings. The owner’s wife took the coupon away from me before I had a chance to take a picture of it, which honestly left me feeling paralyzed because I have to take pictures of EVERYTHING. I guess I’ll just have to try to win again next weekend.

I was sitting at a table with Henry and Chooch, sipping my free Mountain Dew, when Chooch loudly exclaimed, “MOMMY! THERE’S THAT LADY YOU WANT TO TALK TO!” I started to slowly turn around, hoping that maybe she was outside of the snack room, or had ear plugs in, or just had her ears lopped off entirely by Jason Voorhees, but no such luck. She was literally right next to my shoulder. She looked down at me and smiled and waited expectantly. It was the longest, most pregnant pause of my life. I just stared back at her dumbly before finally sputtering some jumbled superlatives at her face, in the same way I do to guys in bands (“YOUWEREREALLYAWESOMETONIGHTTHANKSBYE”) but instead of bursting into tears and running away in the style of Phoebe Buffay, I simply returned to my free drink.

Thank god I was able to convince Chooch that I hadn’t actually said I hated her.

“I should have asked to be my mentor!” I wailed minutes later, when we were already in the car on our way home.

After my skate exchange earlier in the session, the owner (Henry is totally on the “‘Sup, cuz!” level with him now and it’s so irritating) gave me a skate catalogue and in a tired voice said, “Please, just please come talk to me before you buy a pair. I’ll help you.” I think I’m totally getting the purple ones with green wheels. That is, if my fickle feet can even tolerate low-tops.

Someday, I’m going to own my own rink. And I’m going to have bands play there. You just wait and see.

(I was hoping to have a reason to recycle this photo!)

It was so much fun when we did this last year that I decided it was due time to do it again. Ask him anything! What it was like to have a porn wound. How badly he wants to kill himself every year at Warped Tour. Things about being IN THE SERVICE (his favorite topic!).

You ask all the questions and then I will interrogate him and post his answers on Friday. And believe me, I will do whatever it takes to get The Answers.

Here’s what he had to say last time.

[Ed.Note: I know the last few posts have been recycled cop-outs, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m either dying slowly from religiously watching the cast of Jersey Shore poison themselves with alcohol, UV rays & sexual stupidity, or I’m pregnant, as all nauseated females always are.]

My friend Rick and I were talking the other night about things we don’t want to write, but how it’s often a good exercise to force ourselves to it. It got me thinking over the weekend about what the one thing was that I totally did not want to write; I very quickly decided on the essay I wrote for a Creative Non-Fiction class at Pitt.

The assignment was basically to interview a stranger and then shadow them for a small amount of their day. I really, really, really did not want to do this, to the point where I was practically vomiting up fear and insecurity.

I ended up choosing to write about a Mormon missionary; at the time, we had them by the bushels over in Brookline, so I called the church and got it all set up.

It wound up being one of the coolest things I ever got to do, let alone write about, and there are days when I think about lassoing another stranger and pumping them for their story, just for the hell of it.

Anyhow, here it is. It was originally written October of 2007.

****

                “It smells so good! Doesn’t it smell so good? I can’t wait for tonight. I’m so hungry!”  She closes her eyes and takes another long drag of the aroma wafting toward her from the adjacent kitchen, where caterers are bustling around in preparation for the Women’s Conference being held in the gymnasium later that evening. The lobby of the Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints church where we sit is small, but cozy.  Sister McRae casually leans forward across from me on a mauve-cushioned chair. “People just don’t understand what we’re here for; they don’t understand what we’re coming to share because they think we’re selling something, but anything we do is completely for free – books about Jesus Christ and free videos about families – and people just don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense to them that we would come out here and be so happy and have something to share; they say they have enough and don’t want anymore. I don’t even have enough!” Sister McRae gestures a lot with her hands when she speaks, throwing them up in the air and curving her fingers into air quotes; the sunlight streaming in from the front doors makes the two chunky silver rings on her fingers sparkle and the highlights in her long brown hair glow.   

                  Her companion Sister Mordue and I share the cushy tapestry couch. I try not to be too distracted by the larger-than-life portrait of Jesus emerging from his tomb, which adorns the wall to the right of Sister McRae while she tells me that Sister Mordue was just assigned four days prior as her new companion. I’m slightly surprised, what with the way she playfully slaps Sister Mordue’s thigh every time she ends a sentence with, “am I right?” I assumed they had known each other for awhile. Sister Mordue is the perfect portrait of what a stereotypical missionary should look like: frumpy, quiet, and squeezed into a celery-colored button-down blouse.

                 But Sister McRae only looks like this from the waist down. She has little need for makeup, close-set eyes (but not freakishly so) and a narrow chin with a slight cleft; she’s the kind of girl you expect to hate in high school – upbeat, popular, and pretty without trying — but then she shocks you by offering you the seat next to her in the cafeteria. Her long brown hair has a bit of wave to it and is equipped with just the right amount of scrunch. A small front section is clipped back, creating a cute bouffant. Her speech is peppered with “like” and “you know.” She’s wearing a wide-striped navy blue and green fitted polo shirt with sleeves that stop just below her elbows. But below the waist, her attire becomes more pious. Her legs are swathed in what appears to be an entire bolster of wool, stopping just short enough to skim her ankles, and her black thick-heeled clodhoppers look more suited for a femme Frankenstein. Other girls her age might still be home, sleeping off Friday night benders and recharging for another night of whirlwind barhopping and random hook-ups, but Sister McRae doesn’t let bars and current fashion tempt her. When she turned twenty-one last November, it was a no-brainer for her to trade in her life in Highland, Utah in favor of becoming a Mormon missionary.

              “My dad wasn’t a Mormon and you know, in Utah there’s a ton of members, but my mom didn’t want to nag him and tell him to go to church. She was like, ‘Let’s just be a good example.’ So after being a good example, well, my parents were married for twenty-five years and then he knew that it was true and he decided to join the church.

Twenty-five years later! Watching that happen, it was so amazing to see and I wanted to go out and share that with other people, and be able to show that families can be together forever.”

              I want to not like her. She’s one of these people who cement themselves to my front porch, waving Christ pamphlets at me through the screen door. They catch me when I’m in the middle of changing my baby’s diaper and they catch my boyfriend lounging in his boxers. You say “I love Satan” and they say “I love you.” You call them names and they still come back. But Sister McRae  has a slight naiveté about her that makes her charming. She likes Magic Eight Balls and Hershey Kisses and she takes pride in the fact that she’s never wrecked her car; in between repeated outbursts of how delicious the food cooking in the kitchen smells, she complains of Pittsburgh’s signature humid summers and she grew up watching the same television shows as I did: “Family Matters,” “Full House,” and “Step-By-Step.” I start to think that she’s an awful lot like the girls I used to be friends with — in middle school.

               She carries a tan messenger bag with her, bounteous with copies of the Book of Mormons and pamphlets on Tithing and Chastity. Her voice – peppy, confident and sweet – becomes just the slightest bit robotic and artificial when she talks of the Church. At first I think this might be an opportunity to expose her as a fair-weathered Mormon, to corrupt her with my atheist influences, but then I realize that she still believes in what she’s preaching; she’s just so used to saying it over and over that it’s essentially been turned into that loathed spiel that gets front doors slammed in faces.

                 Mormons pay for their missions on their own, and Sister McRae is no exception. Back in Utah, she went to cosmetology school and got a good job as a hair stylist in order to save up the money to come to Pittsburgh for an eighteen-month long mission. (I’m always glad to see a hair stylist with nice hair. It reassures me.) Once here, Sister McRae relinquished all contact with her family back home, save for a phone call on Christmas and Mother’s Day.

                  After piling a mound of pamphlets and a Jesus DVD on my lap, Sister McRae asks, “You are coming back for dinner, I hope?” After sitting with the food’s personal street team for thirty minutes, how could I say no? She has me convinced that it really does smell like the spread of Utopian delicacies.

                  When I return to the church two hours later for the Women’s Conference, Sister McRae is sitting at a yellow clothed table in the back of the gym, and she’s still referencing how delicious the yet-to-be-served food smells. Branches, dried flowers and a ceramic bird candle holder serve as the centerpiece of each table, with cherry cordial Hershey Kisses strewn about. Since many of the women don’t know each other, everyone is assigned to “birthday tables.” This separates Sister Mordue from us, but she’s close enough for Sister McRae to tap on the back repeatedly – her signal that she wants all of the candy Sister Mordue can wrangle from her own table. “I just love candy. I could eat it for breakfast,” she chirps as she concentrates on disrobing a Kiss. “I’m healthy like that.”

                    There are only fourteen female missionaries in the Pittsburgh area, and most of the women here tonight are just regular parishioners so the room isn’t suffocating under yards of wool like I had expected. Non-missionaries are dressed casually in pants and blouses, and I’m shocked to see one woman wearing a denim skirt which put a lot of exposed leg on display. However, one woman in a black jumper stands up at about 6’5” and looks out of place without a plow to follow and another is the spitting image of Chloe Sevigny from “Big Love,” so much so that I give her a good triple-take. She has long blonde hair, the sides of which are pulled back tautly and secured with a metal clip; an ankle-length denim skirt keeps her legs hidden from Satan’s eyes, and the rest of her body is kept chaste and pure by a white, high-collared blouse with short and puffy sleeves. I’m satisfied that at least two women confirm my preconceived notions of what I’d find at this Mormon dinner fest. (I consistently confuse Mormons with Amish, and expected to walk into an oil lamp-lighted corn husking circle.)

                     Before dinner, one of the church women queues up a video for everyone to watch. It’s a Pixar short, something to do with birds, but the TV is small and positioned at an angle that make my eyes throw up their hands in defeat. The rest of the room is enrapt, though; they laugh and sigh in unison and at all the right moments. Sister McRae, however, is not one to forgo conversation for television, so she continues to hold court at our table, speaking in hushed tones.  Mostly, she reminds us all of how hungry she is, and snatches more Kisses from the center of the table. She pops one in her mouth and her lips curve into a devilish smile. Glancing down at her stockpile of sweets, she reconsiders and slams down two next to me.

                       The video lasts only a few minutes, after which we’re given the green light to rush the buffet. Sister McRae gives her hands a childlike clap when the woman in charge suggests that the tables in the back go first.

As we rise together, I’m enveloped in the familiar notes of Sister McRae’s perfume. I don’t know what she wears, but I distinctly remember it from the time I first met her last spring, when the sight of my child in the doorway lured her from the sidewalk to my porch – she said seeing his face was a sign that she had to come talk to me. The aroma reminds me of youth and Sunday school and scented plastic baby dolls. My inquiry is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. I prefer to retain my blissful ignorance by thinking that it’s the scent of some divine marriage between the skin of baby angels and a bouquet plucked from the Garden of Eden, not something that the likes of Lindsay Lohan can walk into a store and purchase.

                       Even though she’s carried on for hours about the severity of her hunger, Sister McRae pauses and lets the occupants of Sister Mordue’s table and our own go ahead of her. I watch from further up in the buffet line as she socializes and doles out hugs to the women she knows. And if she sees someone she doesn’t know? She stops to meet them. I feel like she’s the Prom Queen of the congregation; or at the very least, student body president.

                        I’ve already begun eating by the time she weaves and winds her way back to the table. “Did everyone get something to drink?” she calls out to the two back tables, waving a bottle of water in the air. Not everyone did, so she sets down her food and returns to the buffet table. When she returns for the second time, she makes it as far as sitting down and forking in a few small bites of her salad before finding herself on a new quest after a harried middle-aged woman at our table makes the mistake of trying to share her own plate with her two-year-old son and muses aloud that she should have gotten him his own. Without needing to be asked, Sister McRae and her long wool skirt swish their way back up the buffet table. She comes back with a plate and a married missionary in her sixties. “Look who I just met!” she exclaims, before introducing Sister Mortenson to our table. She’s not from the area and doesn’t know anyone; I’m not surprised that Sister McRae took her under her wing.

                      Throughout the meal, Sister McRae pauses with her fork mid-air to act as the self-appointed go-fer girl and facilitate conversation (I have a sneaking suspicion that the soundtrack of our table would have been the song of needling crickets if it wasn’t for Sister McRae and her melodious voice). When she asks everyone around us if they’re enjoying their meals, it’s as though she cooked it herself from her very own recipe – she really needs the answer to be positive. She’s able to polish off most of her chicken, but the salad in the small Styrofoam bowl has gone limp under the weight of the dressing, and her potatoes have drowned in a sebaceous pool of congealed butter. But there’s still dessert for her to anticipate.

                        I keep waiting for the women I’m sitting amongst to converge upon my blackened soul with their Books of Mormon and Joseph Smith sound bites, but they mainly talk about normal things, like computers and Halloween costumes. I tell everyone of the pageantry-level abuse I endured  as a child from my mom, who insisted on crafting elaborate costumes for me from cardboard boxes, such as a Monopoly game board and a Hamburger Helper box. Sister McRae erupts in giggles and leans forward against the table. “That’s hilarious!” She says this genuinely, and often, to everyone, even when the punch line is only marginally funny; but they believe her, I believe her. She tells us she was always girly things, like princesses. I’m glad, because I can’t imagine her as a hooker or vampire.  

                          She doesn’t know what a blog is, so I, along with several other diners at our table, explain the concept. She shakes her head and her eyes are wide. “I just can’t imagine doing something like that, for any one in the world to see!” But she is current with burning CDs, enough to teach her mother how to do it, also. “Now my mom burns me copies of CDs, which is just so nice. I really appreciate it.” She goes on to explain that as a missionary, secular music is out of the question. “I can only listen to church music,” she says as her nose crinkles.

                       Sister McRae has a plan for life after her missionary work: get a job at a salon and go back to college for Spanish and maybe to brush up on her sign language skills. She’s never seen the show “Big Love,” and doesn’t even flinch while reapplying her lip gloss when I ask her about it. I imagine she has to deflect that question a lot while soliciting. “That’s a different branch of Mormonism,” she calmly explains. “We don’t believe in polygamy. It’s illegal.” I think to myself that I wish it wasn’t.

                        In the center of the room, she spots her friend Sister Tsunoda and rushes to greet her, nearly tackling her with a hug. They talk animatedly to each other and I feel like I’m watching two Sorority sisters, not Mormon sisters. A few minutes later, Sister McRae smuggles Sister Tsunoda back to our table and another of their friends, Sister Davis, gravitates over too.

                      The room gets quiet as the Mormon with the dangerously short skirt announces that they’re going to be scrap-booking before it’s time to watch the national broadcast of the Prophet. Sisters McRae and Davis pantomime exaggerated and over-the-top motions to each other from across the table while the woman is speaking. They roll their eyes and throw back their heads in a silent show of theatrical laughter.  It was an entertaining display, but if this was a high school cafeteria, I’d worry that they were talking about me. And they were, but only because Sister Davis was trying to ask her who the hell the sinner was.

                       “I’m really goofy, I know,” Sister McRae says to me through laughter when we are able to talk again. She has just finished showing Sister Davis the sign for ‘bored,’ which involves her grinding a finger into the side of her nose. Sister Davis opens her mouth and simulates an expression of incredulity, reminding me of a mother interacting with a baby. “That is not the sign for ‘bored’!” she screams. “You’re so making that up!” But Sister McRae insists that it really is the sign, and Sister Davis cracks up and says, “I can’t believe that’s real! It’s so you!”

                      “You sure picked the liveliest one of us to write a paper on,” Sister Davis later laughs. “Did she even tell you her name?” I toss Sister McRae a sidelong glance and admit that I wasn’t sure I was allowed to know. All of the missionaries refer to each other as ‘sister’ without falter, as though it’s a credo bestowed unto them by Jesus himself.

                      “Well, we’re really not supposed to use our real names,” Sister McRae stalls. But as I gather my purse to leave (the broadcast is about to begin, and that’s my cue to bolt), she stops me and says, “It’s Hayley.” Maybe she felt she owed it to me for warning her of the unhinged man who lives down the street from me (“Don’t knock on 3017’s door. I’m pretty sure the man inside is featured in several Psychology text books.”), but in my own little way, I feel accepted.

“I kept thinking our waiter reminded me of someone, like ALL NIGHT, and it just dawned on me: Gionni.”

“WHO?” Henry asked, confused & shocked once he processed my emphasized annunciation of the name and realized this wasn’t Excuse #467 of the Day to reference Jonny Craig.

“Snooki’s boyfriend on Jersey Shore,” I said, an implied “duh” drenching my tone.

“You’re so lame,” Henry sighed.

The 3 Ricks

Yo! This almost never happens, but the lovely Manda tagged me today in a Friday Link Love thingie. I almost feel like a part of the blogging community!

So now I will reciprocate by showing off 5 blogs, aside from Manda, that I read and love, in no particular order.

Makeup Zombie : not only does she post swatches of the hottest indie makeup companies (as does Manda!), she also inspires me with all her Looks of the Day posts (again, so does Manda!) (And they both have hot hair.)

Mrs.Evils : Dude, it’s Andrea and she’s awesome. She loves Lil Wayne, music boxes, and things that are whimsical. She is an avid zombie fan, a Goth Mary Poppins, and she makes her own eye shadow! Go tell her to post more!

Brandy Flash Master Zen : Seriously one of the only gems I found from The Blog Frog (eg., lamest blog community ever). Brandy’s blog is like a buffet of bloggable topics, from DIY projects, thrift store finds, and funny posts about her trials and tribulations in Salt Lake City with her cute and funny husband, Tyrone, and dog-son, Frederick. I love her!

Danielle (of Yeah, I Said It) : I can’t remember how I found Danielle but I’m glad I did. Her posts are funny without trying. She is a wonderful writer and knows how to weave a story without losing her audience. I can’t recommend her enough!

Anika Toro : I am forever getting inspiration from Anika’s blog. She posts some of the most breathtaking photos and you’d be hardpressed to guess that she takes them with her iPhone. I alway learn new tricks from her blog, and I even one of her prints, which is beautiful. She’s a sweetheart!

Go give them some lovin’!

In other news, I think I’m losing my eyesight. I have all this pressure and it just feels weird and I’m having a hard time focusing, especially at work, which is why I haven’t been doing much on here this week. (No excuse for all the other times I do fuck all on the blog.)

I have an eye appointment on Monday so hopefully I can go back to doing nothing on my blog, but with improved eye sight.

Other than that, it’s been all “Friends” reruns. That’s how Henry & I spend quality time together now, because he apparently has just discovered that it’s funny.

Most of you guys that read this thing know me from LiveJournal. Remember my icons? Motherfucker, do I miss them. I wish I could use them on here.

This was one I used for my fake journal about Sam, an amputated leg:

I showed Carey that one at work just now and she said there is something wrong with me, which means she’s jealous that she doesn’t have a friend like Sam, who obviously loved to loaf with rollerskates.

Some of my favorites from Henry’s fake journal:

Henry really loved his ex-Faygo boss, Ted. You know who else he loved? Some goddamn John Black:

Here are some of my favorites from my main LiveJournal. Goddamn, do I miss them.

Jumping B-Listers:

Before Jonny Craig, I had the hots for Danny Bonaduce:

This one makes no sense other than to illustrate my hatred for Angelina Jolie. (TEAM ANISTON ALWAYS):

Not only do I <3 OJ, but I also cure herpes:

Tammy Faye shout out:

This was inspired by a daydream I once had and used to make Chooch cry:

I really liked Bob Uecker:

Keeping the killers close to my heart:

If anyone knows of a way I can incorporate these into WordPress, please holla. I miss them so much and if I had a use for them, I would start making more and more and MORE AND MORE MOREMOREMORE.

(I ate a candy bar a little while ago and my brain is now spinning wildly out of control.)

Took a short walk around the neighborhood today and I feel so much better about my life. Oh, Brookline. Please don’t ever change.

And before you ask, “WTF is a paczki?” I am no authority. I’ve had them once and it’s some weird, seasonal fried dough bullshit that Polish people eat. And there are a lot of Polish people in Pittsburgh. In fact, I think I even might be Polish after 32 years of drinking the water.

I have a real love/hate relationship with my city. Love the hockey team, hate the football team.

Love the blossoming art scene, hate the pathetic music scene. Love the architecture, the history, the quirky independent restaurants and shops, but sometimes I REALLY hate the people and their fucking Yinzer-speak. (Yinzers are Pittsburgh natives who speak Pittsburgh English.

)  I must have grown up just far enough south in the suburbs to escape it (though I know some people who grew up in neighboring boroughs that are practically drowning on the dialect), and for that I am thankful. I do say gumband instead of rubber band; and growing up, I would totally choose “pop” in lieu of “soda,” but now I reject them both and just say “beverage.”

Yesterday at work, some of my co-workers were having a conversation which quickly nose-dived into fake Yinzer-speak. “I officially hate this conversation!” I declared, walking away. Don’t get me wrong, I was laughing about it, not being some overly-sensitive bitch. It’s not like my co-workers are now afraid to talk around me, like I keep shivs with the word “Yinzer” on them taped beneath my desk for that one day where I hear one “jagoff” too many.

And it’s not that I hate the people who live here. I just hate the impression of ignorance that this dialect gives off. It literally sounds like everyone is drunk ALL OF THE TIME. And I know they can’t help it! Their parents spoke that way, and their grandparents spoke that way, etc etc. One of my co-workers has a daughter around Chooch’s age, and she told me yesterday that she is actively working to prevent the dialect from cropping up in her.

Even when people are just mimicking it, while it is pretty funny, it still goes right through me like the cries of a colicky baby.

I was making a video of things around town for my friend who lived in Ireland. One night, I was forcing my favorite gas station work, Mitul, to contribute something to the video. Just then, a drunk man in his late 30s/early 40s came staggering into the Pleasant Hills Sunoco to purchase cigarettes and I knew, I just KNEW, he would agree to be filmed. I was right, and what came next was the most ridiculous, stereotypical “commercial” for Pittsburgh.

First of all, he sported a Pittsburgh mullet and was wearing some random landscaping company t-shirt. LIterally all he said was, “If you like to drink beer and have a good time, come to Pittsburgh!” in the most grotesque, throat-scraping Pittsburghese of all time. I stopped recording and thanked him for being the perfect representation of our city.

I never did send her that video.

When my friend Matt stopped over in Pittsburgh a few years ago during a road trip out west, he teased me mercilessly for days about how backwards Pittsburgh is. That was his perception, in two short days: that people wear Steelers-logo’d Jamz and Crocs to the grocery store, eat nothing but Primantis, and women still wear banana clips in their feathered, frosted manes. And I imagine that this is the general conception for people who don’t spend enough in this city to realize that there is more to it than just Yinzers. In fact, that stereotype probably doesn’t even make up that much of the population, but it’s unfortunately what stands out. Never mind the fact that we have fantastic universities (hello, Annie on 90210 is going to CARNEGIE MELLON so you know it’s elite), museums, cathedrals, HEINZ KETCHUP WAS BORN HERE YOU GUYS. And let’s not forget the goddamn Bayernhof Music Museum!

I guess all I’m saying is that, like most other cities I’m sure, Pittsburgh has some shit working against it, but it really is a pretty charming place. If you can get past the fact that people want to call you “yinz” and verbally assault you for not liking the Steelers.

[Disclaimer: I did not wake up this morning with any intention to denigrate my city, nor do I hate anyone based on how they talk—except for the ones who tell me I don’t belong in this city because I hate the Steelers—but these are just some of the things I was thinking about when I was walking around Brookline this morning. And now you are subjected to it. Thanks! I feel so much better now.]

I’m not really sure what changed in Chooch, if maybe enough time had passed for him to genuinely want to give roller skating another try, or if he was adopting the old If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em mentality, but he is a skating fool all of a sudden. After we returned to the rink two weekends ago after a long hiatus and saw that he was refusing to have his hand held, we decided that maybe a few lessons might benefit him.
“What are you going to do when he becomes better than you?” Wendy asked me in a taunting tone at work last week.

“Um, like that would ever happen,” I shot back, but I have to be honest here and say that I blanched a little. This is a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me!

Lessons are only $4.50 and then everyone gets to skate freely until the Saturday night session starts. I’m tempted to take lessons just so I can take advantage of that beautiful, open rink. And maybe learn how to do spins and twirls.

Before the lesson started, all the kids were permitted to stumble around on their own. I was actually surprised that Chooch took to the rink without even a hesitant glance over his shoulder. Kid completely didn’t give a shit that Henry and I weren’t skating with him. I think I was only surprised because I always project a little bit of myself onto him only to be reminded that my kid has way more confidence than I do.

I call this video Why Henry is Not a Skate Instructor:

This video was filmed pre-lesson. By the time the lesson was over, he had improved by leaps and bounds, was scissoring and doing cross-overs (albeit a little shakily, but the instructor said she was proud of him for trying, since it was his first lesson).

There were some dicks in the group of kids, I’m not going to lie. Henry might yell at me for calling them dicks, but deep down, even he can’t deny that they were totally bastards. This clearly wasn’t their first lesson and their parents clearly knew someone affiliated with the rink, because they were acting like complete elitist motherfuckers and yes, my hate extends to children; I don’t age discriminate. Just being in the single digits doesn’t give you a free ride in my blog of wrath.

Roller DJ was there! He got settled in his DJ booth and then came over and sat with me for the rest of the lesson and at first I was all, “Yes! Now I can sit here and take clandestine photos of him!” but after about 5 minutes of him lecturing me for not coming out enough and how irritating it is to him when kids request songs that JUST AREN’T SKATEABLE!, his follicular mushroom cloud novelty had dissipated and I had resorted to squirming on the bench in awkward imprisonment.

(I would like to take this moment to thank Henry for completely ditching me as soon as Roller DJ sat down. Fucking dick.)

Goddamn, do I love that rink, and now Chooch does, too. Finally. I’m going to start schmoozing* the new owner so he’ll leave the rink to me in his Will.

*(I have ways.)

The U.S. offices of the Law Firm are all closed for Martin Luther King, Jr. day, but our department stayed open with a small staff to cater to all the European, etc. offices. I was one of the suckers who agreed to come in because it’s extra money, and what would I be doing anyway? I’ll tell you what — sitting at home and calling Henry every 15 minutes to see when he’s going to be done with work. So why not give Henry a bit of a reprieve while making some extra money, I guess, right?

The problem is that this special Fuck the Holiday shift starts at 7am. As you may know, I’m accustomed to working 4pm-9pm, so the whole getting here part was kind of stressful and included a lot of whining and whimpering.

The other problem is that Chooch doesn’t have school today. I attempted for a minute to use him as my scapegoat (“But what will I do with the babe?!”) except everyone was like, “WHY, BRING HIM IN!” I figured maybe this would be OK since there are only 5 of us in the office today.

Even though we packed Chooch’s Darth Vader backpack full of activity books and other Kindergarten fare, he declared within 30 minutes that he was bored and requested to go home.

JOIN THE CLUB, KID. THIS IS YOUR FUTURE.

This was all pre-8am, when the novelty of sitting in the empty desk behind mommy was still fresh and made him feel cool. But then he quickly realized that mommy’s job is pretty dry and uneventful, so he started creeping around and scaring my co-workers, which is hard to do when you work in a building full of reflective glass.

My serial killer coloring book kept him occupied for awhile. The middle finger pose is totally unintentional, by the way. This is one of the few obscene things he’s yet to learn. He’d rather just use his words to express his anger and disdain for society.

Oh, and then I lost him for awhile! That was really fun. I searched everyone’s office on my side of the floor before discovering that he was hiding in the small closet attached to the desk behind me the whole time. I wanted to fucking kill him.

However, it did last an entire 2 hours before he tried to color my white desk, so that was pretty impressive.

I just lost half of my donut in my coffee — THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER.

2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go.

****

45 minutes to go. In an effort to keep us distracted & prevent Chooch from potential rubberband burn (he has himself rubberbanded to his chair, don’t ask), I suggested that we look at pictures of Jonny Craig.

“Oh great. Just like we’re at home,” Chooch deadpanned.

So instead, he drew a picture of John Wayne Gacy for Wendy, who LOVES CLOWNS.

(She does not love clowns.)

Now we’re giving ourselves makeovers with office supplies. I currently have a large binder clip in my hair. I am so far ahead of you, Milan. 

Gotta go. Some asshole just flagellated himself with a giant rubberband. DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

My Lame Bio

Lots of roller skating funnery to blog about, but first I got some photos to dump.

Breakfast Brats

Had breakfast with Tommy & Jessy. I’m so glad to have those two around again. It’s nice to have “family days.” Meanwhile, Chooch the Creep took eight pictures of Tommy with my phone.

1 of 8

After breakfast, we went to Trax Farms so I could fawn over the apples. Henry is trying to get me to understand that apple season is over but I still throw tantrums when I go somewhere and I see the same old boring apples.

“I ALREADY KNOW ABOUT GALAS AND FUJIS! I WANT SOMETHING NEW!”

“APPLE SEASON IS GODDAMN OVER! LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS!”

This is really how Henry and I talk to each other in public: emphatic screams.

AN APPLE CONVEYOR BELT! I want one in my house that goes straight to my mouth. Bitch.

And then I ran my hands lustfully over top the waxy bodies of cheese. God, I love cheese so much it’s painful. Literally.

And then and then and then! Chooch bought me the most awesome ring, the end.

Today has been full of languishing on the couch catching up with Jersey Shore eps (you know, to keep current with my pop culture references) & watching Henry fulfill non compos cards serial killer Valentine orders while making him listen to music he hates.

We’re taking Chooch to get skating lessons in about an hour, but other than that, I’ve got nothing for you but these three pictures:

Chooch is REALLY into LMFAO

My friend Terry felt there needed to be a side-by-side comparison of my Henry-inspired nail art.

Chooch pulled a sneak attack on me yesterday before I left for work, which I did not appreciate but am thankful I don’t look like my usual Sloth twin.

Well….on second thought.

Hope everyone’s having a delightful weekend!