Stumbled across some old photos from my birthday in 2007, where we were fucking around in a cemetery (you know, the usual).

Henry stopped home from work just now to bring me an umbrella and when he saw these photos over my shoulder, he said, “Oh look, back when you and Chooch liked each other.” I laughed, but oh my god it’s so true you guys. We fight like sibs nowadays. (I’d like to note that Henry didn’t even comment on the fact that I have some religious cooking show on in the background. Because ironic viewing of religious programming is just as normal around here as eating cupcakes in a cemetery, I guess.)

I just said out loud, “The summer of 2007 was pretty awesome” but then pieces started rapidly plopping into place and I quickly changed my opinion on that matter.

In other news, I got mostly drunk at NOLA after work last night with Carey and scared the waitress off by shouting about rape. It was a pretty fantastic moment for me. Hopefully someday this week I will write about SOUL SKATE and the ginger bitch who tried to skate-fight me BUT LOST. It has been a crazy week. Crazy-good, but crazy. I need to make my brain stop spinning. I don’t know about you, but I’m about to get my hair all cut-up in TWENTY MINUTES, GOODBYE.

*(Why do I bother trying to be wordless? I mean, really.)

I’ve spent the last several hours at work frantically trying to get ahold of Henry, TO NO AVAIL. Some of my co-workers derived great joy from watching this pan out.

A woman of my stature should never be left hanging with no response.

“I’m about to take this to Facebook,” I said to Lee, who has the pleasure of being on late shift with me tonight. And I did too. I posted this on Henry’s wall, for all of our eleventy-billion mutual friends to gawk at:

WHY DO YOU HAVE A CELL PHONE IF YOU DON’T FUCKING ANSWER IT I HATE YOU OMG REALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111111ONEONEONEONE

Lee pretended to feel bad for Henry, even called me a douchebag, but really I know he’s just jealous that he doesn’t have a girlfriend who treats him like shit.

Finally, after three phone calls, 128372047 CAPSLOCK texts, and one angry Facebook wall posting, the dumbass answered his phone. Of course, by this point, I had a slight worry that perhaps something fatal had happened to him, but all I got was, “WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? My phone was between the couch cushions!”

This means, “My dick was in between some tramp’s ass cheeks.” I AM PRETTY GOOD AT TRANSLATING PHILANDERERS.

“Are we still going to see Sleeping With Sirens on Sunday?” I asked in my most hotheaded whisper. (I am at work after all. These poor people don’t need to see my psycho side.)

“I knew that’s why you were calling,” Henry huffed in agitation. (Um, hello, it could have been the hospital calling to tell him his long-time girlfriend had a vending machine tossed on her.) “I have to go finish making this card.”

“You mean you have to go finish cheating on me!” I said childishly, but he ignored it and said goodbye.

We are totally going to that show on Sunday.

***

Elsewhere, coming in to work earlier has been pretty cool. However, it is apparently confusing and startling to some people.

“I’m still not used to seeing you here this early,” Glenn grumbled.

“It’s like a ray of sunshine!” I exclaimed in a super-exaggerated sing-song tone.

“Yeah,” Glenn droned facetiously. “Something like that.”

And then Mitch said I’m selfish because I’m throwing everything off for everyone. SO GLAD TO BE OF HELP, GUYS.

For my regulars, I was just wondering what means you use to read my blog. Do you use a rss feed, subscribe through Networked Blogs, click through from Twitter, subscribe to the LiveJournal feed, read it covertly from your phone while you’re hiding from your wife in the bathroom, etc, etc.? Maybe you only read it after I hound you, bribe you, make sad puppy faces, or whine, “WHY DON’T YOU READ MY BLOG??” And that is fine, too.

I was just curious, because Google Friend Connect is about to be taken away from non-Blogger sites, which means if you follow me through that, I guess I will no longer count as a blogger in the eyes of Google as of March 1.

So here are some ways to keep up with me, if you want:

1. BlogLovin’

2. LiveJournal feed

3. Networked Blogs

4. RSS feed

5. Twitter (Be warned – this is mostly me talking to myself, being emo, and shouting things like YAY PENS! I LOVE HOCKEY!)

(I don’t do the email subscriptions anymore because HENRY kept breaking it.)

I’m on Google+ too but I never use it and am not smart enough to figure out how to use it for my blog.

I’m really bad at this side of blogging, so if there are any other ways to subscribe to this shit, I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy getting myself stoned at Chooch’s school and listening to Dance Gavin Dance.

Anyway, just let me know how you keep up with this thing. Or don’t let me know. Either way!

Since Kaitlin left the Law Firm last summer, I barely get to see her, so I was really excited when she planned a small get together at her house last night for me, Wendy and Mary. We were all bummed out that Barb isn’t well enough yet because anytime we talked about getting together, Barb was always supposed to be there, too. We miss you, Barb.

Henry was all, “Thank god, a Saturday night to myself!” but what he was really thinking was, “Goddammit, I’m going to be eating a can of tuna for dinner and god only knows what items from Valhalla’s menu Kaitlin is going to be feeding Erin’s fat face.”

Oh, just a gooey baked brie with delicious cookies, grilled cheese and the best tomato soup I’ve ever had in my life, some kind of warm parmesan dip stuff, mini crab cakes, and FRENCH SILK PIE WITH A PRETZEL CRUMB CRUST THAT LITERALLY MADE IT TASTE LIKE A CHOCOLATE COVERED PRETZEL PIE. What’s up, Henry?

I hope Kaitlin makes that a regular offering when she opens her bakery. (WHEN, not IF.)

Grilled Cheese army.

I think this was when Wendy was putting Chooch’s birthday party info into her phone so she doesn’t forget like she forgets everything else I invite her to!

OMG this pie, you guys. THIS PIE. I took a huge slice home and fed some to Chooch this morning, who literally closed his eyes and made the most mature “OMG THIS IS BANGIN'” face I have ever seen him make.

It was so awesome to get to spend time with Kaitlin, but then we were all sad again as soon as we walked down her front steps. Stuffed and sad. :(

Jenny Sodapop was up until 5am organizing her china pig collection when she began to wonder: I would like to know if Henry has any thoughts on comedian Sinbad.

Is he still around, didn’t really care for him when he was.

Jessi assumes that Henry is hip to young people games and wants him to answer: “Kill, Marry or Screw” for Betty White, Wilford Brimley, and Clay Aiken.

Kill Clay of course, Screw Wilford and Marry Betty.

Jessa needs to know for her upcoming young adult novel: If Henry had wings, what would they look like?

Elegant of course, Angel-like.

And what did he want to be when he was little?

I don’t remember. Maybe that’s the problem with me today, no direction.

What was his favorite subject in school?

Shop class of course.

If he could live anywhere in the world, where would he choose?

Somewhere warm that was only accessible by bus, Erin would never come visit me.

Chuck, imagining this is a sleepover, asks: What’s the whole story of when you were first De Flowered?

Very uneventful.

[I imagine sex with a Petroleum jelly-filled crackhead’s palm often is. You know he totally cried about it afterward.]

And finally there’s Kara, who was the only one brave enough to name-drop Jonny Craig in her question: Henry is on Chopped and his basket ingredients are asparagus, cheddar cheese, gummy worms, and Jonny Craig’s pubes. What does he make?

What ever it makes, when you’re done eating you’ll be addicted to heroin and a douche bag for life.

Wait! One last thing from me, your favorite girlfriend. I request an essay on your adventures at the Ted Nugent show. I want to know it all! What did you wear? Your bitchin’ Adidas shirt? WHO DID YOU GO WITH AND DID YOU BANG THEM AFTERWARD? Tell us all of it.

You have made way too much about this concert, absolutely nothing exciting happened. I believe it was before my drug experimenting days so I’m sure nothing happened.

[Ed.Note: Henry and I totally broke up over this.]

You guys get to enjoy (pretend for me, please) a vintage LiveJournal post because I have been working on the second county fair photo book and those things melt my brain and sear my contacts to my eyeballs. I’m not very good with tedium.

For the record, I have been waiting all week for Henry to make good on his Valentine promise, which was to finally finish answering those questions for my blog, but after 11 years, I’ve grown accustomed to what a broken promise feels like. Not that I’m bitter or anything. I mean, I only BAKED HIM A CAKE.

(originally posted June 2007)

Everyday, I like to give myself challenges. Nothing too ridiculous though, like donating to charity or smiling at babies, but moderately attainable goals such as holding the door open for Tina, making a sandwich all by myself, picking up after Chooch rather than leave it for Henry. I mean, this is all on top of maintaining fresh and tight rhymes, which is an every day thing.

(Oh I hear all ya’ll hatas, talking yo’ shit. “This bitch ain’t writin’ no rhymes” — I write raps like nuns finger bang.

That is to say, religiously. Walk it out.)

Yesterday’s challenge was keeping up the facade of a happy family dynamic while lunching at Eat n Park. I did a little self-kicking after choosing this one, because faking a healthy camaraderie in a public atmosphere isn’t one of my strong points. But I reminded myself that this is why it’s a challenge, you see.

After we were served our beverages, my mission began to look grim as Henry launched into mindless blathering, using his hushed Restaurant Voice because he’s convinced that every asshole gives a shit about his feelings and thoughts on very important matters like running out of diapers and paying the electric bill. And of course there’s the confidential job dissertation. “Everfresh, Faygo, Faygo Faygofaygofaygo, Everfresh, Red Pop….” OK, I get it, I got it, Henry.

You work for a beverage company.

Could I possibly endure an entire meal, watching his mustache bristle as he masticated his cheese steak? Could I restrain myself from meat-fisting him square in the jaw and choking him on his own eyeballs?

And then two angels sent from God Himself arrived and were seated in the booth next to us. It didn’t take long at all for me to realize that they would serve as the best form of distraction — the ridiculous “Is this shit for real?” kind.

When the waitress shuffled over to take their drink order, the woman facing me announced loudly that she would like to be enjoying a glass of ice water, go easy on the ice though and that her friend prefers an ice tea, NO ICE!, please bring the ice in a separate glass on the side!

It was that moment that what very well may be one of the biggest decisions of my life was made: I’m going to start ordering for Janna every time we dine out.

I noticed that the skimpy ice woman, who was clearly the harbinger of this pairing, spoke for her friend every time the waitress came back. I thought maybe her friend was mute or retarded, but it turned out she was just being oppressed.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but did you hear that the President has ordered all the doctors in America to kill the Baby Boomers? Oh, yeah. He did. And also the senior citizens, too. You know, three of my kids are Baby Boomers. I told my son and of course he wanted me to tell him how I found out but I told him, I says to him, ‘Boy I can’t tell you, you know that!’ and then I told him he better not let them give him any more shock treatment*. The pills should be enough, you know?”

*(This is not an embellishment.)

Henry and I exchanged wide-eyed glances and then he hunkered down in quiet laughter, leaving me exposed. She looked right at me several times, but this woman was too deluded to realize that I was blatantly laughing at her.

Even when she acknowledged Chooch, it wasn’t with the rosy-cheeked smile of America’s favorite flour-dusted apron-wearing grandmothers, but more of a matter-of-fact bob of her gray-curled head and a firm “Yes yes, hello to you too, sir” like she was brusquely addressing a door-to-door salesman and not a smiling baby eating strawberries at a nearby table. This was not the kind of woman who would serve up sugar cookies and biscuits with marmalade, but more so the type of woman who might purposely mistake a can of Fancy Feast for her Dinty Moore stew every now and again. But really, who doesn’t do that?

When she would pause to sip from her not-too-much-ice water, the table would fall silent; her friend not daring to contribute much probably for fear of saying the wrong thing and having her friend alert the President that she has a senior citizen primed and ready to be snuffed.

In what I mistook for a moment of clarity, Crazy began regaling her silent friend with an update of who I guessed to be her granddaughter. “…and the commencement ceremony is next Thursday, so I had to go out and buy a dress…” A winded description of her dress followed and I lost interest about as fast I do with crushes, so I actually paid a little attention to my kid, can you imagine?

My ears perked again, though, when I heard Crazy casually extend an invitation to her friend. You know, if I was graduating from somewhere, I would really appreciate if my derailed granny brought along all of her fellow nursing home escapees, too.

Why do I have a feeling that this isn’t an academic commencement, but more along the lines of “My granddaughter’s being released from the hospital next week after recovering from her botched suicide attempt, let’s all drink Pine-Sol spritzers and commence!”

Still unable to hear her friend, I didn’t know if she said yay or nay until Crazy retorted with a very agitated, “Oh. I was hoping you would say no because I don’t have any room in the car.” I felt proud to realize that this is the same way I treat my friends, too! It’s nice to know my Crazy Car is puttering down the right path.

As we were getting ready to leave, I overheard her fussing about the tip. “I’m taking this seven cents off the tip. She was a dummy.”

I walked home with a smile, finally knowing the kind of woman whose wrinkled skin I strive to grow into, and feeling good about winning another challenge. For the casual observer, Henry and I appeared to be exchanging loving glances and coy smiles and smirks, like we were in love or something equally as far-fetched, when really we were enveloped in a WTF cloud and growing delirious off the wacky fumes. What the hell, it counts. I think I was mean to Henry again as soon as we walked through the front door, but the statute of limitations had expired by that point.

I hope Henry shrivels into this brand of mentally-razzed prune.

I can already adoringly picture him waxing nostalgic about the days when he fought in a fake war with the Air Force. But people will probably think all of his talk about the Thai prostitutes is the part that’s made up. Only we’ll know the truth.

A few years ago, I bought a 1980’s prom dress off eBay but it doesn’t fit over my rack; it finally occurred to me that I should just dress up Sam and Steph in that and my all-purpose tutu. So I spent yesterday doing just that.

;

I figured Green Man’s Tunnel would be a good location, because it’s grunge-y and abandoned, and hello – The Green Man lives there. Steph’s boyfriend Kian came with us and he really triggered that small “Mom” alarm that’s hidden inside me by doing the sorts of dangerous things that teenaged boys are born to do. Every once in awhile, he would say things like, “Hey, I have an idea” and I would find that I was spontaneously bracing myself.

He was, however, the most polite teenage boy I think I have ever met, and even carried all my shit for me. Good pick, Steph!

Meanwhile, Henry wouldn’t come anywhere near the tunnel with us because he thought the police were going to show up. So he just walked up and down the road looking like a walking sandwich-board for Megan’s Law. I was a little pissed because he’s my designated lens holder.

I lost sight of him eventually and became convinced that he was fishing in the creek across the street.

After I took the first few shots by the creek, I realized Henry was creeping in the background and had to yell at him to leave, which made him hate his life even more.

God, I really needed that.

More later!

Here are some of my favorite photos, which you might be expecting if you read the title of this post. I’m not motivated to do much else today.

Not even roller skating!

I haven’t had time (or available suckers models) to take pictures lately. Hoping to change that tomorrow. I think I’m trying to do too much when I only have two arms.

I’m really whiny today. MY BACK HURTS AND I HAVE A HEADACHE!

THE PENGUINS ARE LOSING TO THE STUPID SABRES! I DISLIKE SUNDAYS! WAH.

Oh, how I love her!!

In other news, I created a Reddit account just so I could reply to this clown who is evidently extremely adverse to iPhonography.

Jesus, what a nozzle.

This has been a pretty cataclysmic week for Oh Honestly, Erin. The terms “scandal,” “infamous” and “OHNOSHEDIDNT” come to mind. So bad that at one point I considered going back to LiveJournal and locking everything down but then I realized that’s a pretty stupid, not to mention hypocritical, move for someone who claims to stand behind everything they write. So I guess the Internet is stuck with me for a little while longer.

And no, I’m not ready to elaborate. It’s been a long week full of shame, panic and confrontations, all of which I faced with my head up when all I really wanted to do was bury mu head in the sand (preferably of the quick variety). Looking forward to moving on, and soon.

Someday we will be able to laugh heartily at this. Maybe. But probably not.

Thank god I have two Valentines or the day would have really been a bust*. Chooch, who put way more thought into than HENRY, didn’t like any of the songs that the Valentine cards played, so he gave me a birthday card instead. He will only choose cards that play music.

*(In all honesty, it really was a sweet night. It was nice coming home to a clean house and good dinner after I SLAVED OVER A CAKE for two days.)

Anyway, I’ve had the birthday card on my desk all week which invites people to ask if it’s my birthday. I just now realized how idiotic I’ve been by saying no. I could have maybe scored a free Starbucks out of it. Or at least spoken to in a nicer tone (or at all) from certain people in the department.

AND CANDY! Which he wanted back after giving it to me. I don’t know WHERE he learns these things.

And he made me another Valentine at school. <3  I try and act like I don’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day, but maybe I sort of do, you guys. It’s fun to draw hearts.

I don’t know what came over me, but two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk at work when the most ridiculously out-of-character idea cloud settled upon my head, and it told me to bake Henry a cake for Valentine’s Day.

There are several things wrong with this:

1. I have never baked without supervision.
2. I have never baked a cake, nor have I ever wanted to. (I do like decorating cakes that other people have made though, usually in a mean-spirited fashion.)
3. I do not like baking. Or cooking. Or being in the kitchen at all.
4. Since when do I ever willingly want to do nice things for Henry?

Natalie happened to stop by to talk to me right after my plan was devised and I eagerly filled her in. She gave me a horrified look and then walked away.

See? Everyone knows this is not an Erin thing to do! And more importantly, HENRY knows this goes against everything I’m all about which means he would never expect it.

Ever. Never ever.

I posted about it on Facebook (I blocked him from that particular status update) and the reactions were mixed, everything from shock and trepidation from the people who know that the only recipe I’m capable of following is one for disaster, suspicion from some who are not used to seeing my sweet side, and then there were all the “You Should”s with their unsolicited suggestions of what I should make instead.

But my mind was made up: red velvet cake, cream cheese frosting. No cake pops or cupcakes or chocolate-covered strawberries. No bakery-bought cake. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it big and do it my way.

A week before Valentine’s Day, I did some subtle recon.

“Why don’t you ever bake cakes?” I asked Henry out of the blue one night, because that’s how I do subtle. “Is it because it’s too HARD?” If it’s too difficult for Henry, then it’s impossible for me.

“Because we don’t have any cake pans,” he mumbled, not seeming to think it was a weird question at all.

The next day at work, I was freaking out about cake pans, which is how I learned that there are many options in acquiring one. For instance, Target sells cake pans! I never would have known. I learn so much about life at work.

But then Natalie said I could borrow hers! So then I had two 8in cake pans in my purse when I left work on Friday and Henry looked at me weirdly when he heard them clanging together.

And then he looked at me even more weirdly, now with a dash of fear, when I told him that I needed something for his Valentine’s gift but Natalie let me borrow hers, like it was her diaphragm and this was 1996.

“I don’t want to know,” he said.

After I took Chooch to school Monday morning, I looked at the frosting and cake mix recipe 45752 times to see what I would need, then I collected all the courage I could muster and set off to the grocery store. A solo trip to the grocery store. Whoever would’ve thought? When I t old Chooch what I was doing that day, he stopped everything and said, “Are you sure you shouldn’t just buy the cake?”

Nice to know my son has so much faith in me.

I was so nervous and apprehensive that I acted like I was on Supermarket Sweep, grabbed what I needed (I even got coffee creamer because I knew I was almost out; I’m suddenly responsible!), checked my heart rate and got the FUCK out. I really hate grocery stores. Unless it’s one of the fancy ones. Then I like to tag along with Henry and increase our bill by $150. Henry really enjoys that too.

The actual cake-baking wasn’t too bad, you guys! I even found the hand-mixer thingie and the whisk-y thingies which were in the second drawer I looked in! Clearly all of these things meant that baking was in my destiny. And you know, in between heaping mouthfuls of cake batter, I smiled to myself and thought about how surprised Henry was going to be that I was doing something selfless for him, because when do I ever do anything for him, aside from making pretty faces for him, filling his days with my warm and sunny disposition, and BEARING HIS CHILD?

Yep, everything was fine until the cake was done and I tried to remove it by flipping the pan upside down and shaking. A huge chunk flopped out, but another huge chunk remained adhered to the bottom of the pan. (Yes, I greased the pan! Why does everyone keep asking me that!?) Thank god for Facebook; I posted this picture with a caption begging for help, and my guardian angels asured me that this wasn’t fatal and that there were ways to piece it back together. And then Kaitlin texted me and said that happens to her all the time and I was like, “YES, I’M ON THE SAME PAGE AS KAITLIN!” Whatever that means!

Parts of the cake appeared burnt while other portions were definitely undercooked. I shrugged it off because let’s be real – this cake was mostly just a symbol at this point. If pieces of it turned out edible, well then that’s a bonus.

Once I dumped out the second cake, I stowed them away in the attic (yes, they were covered! I’m not that stupid!) and spent the rest of my day watching MTV like a person like me should be doing.

The next morning, Chooch was brushing his teeth and admitted to me that he peeked at the cake.

“It looks weird,” he said, his voice full of toothpaste and concern.

“BECAUSE IT’S NOT DONE YET! God!” I was feeling pretty defensive at that point.

After I took Chooch to school, it was time to make the frosting. I waited a whole day to do this because all of my Google research told me that it is best to frost a cake the next day. Plus, I didn’t feel like being in the kitchen any longer on Monday. But I realized I didn’t have enough butter and had to go BACK TO THE STORE which caused me great anxiety. Henry called while I was doing this and all I would tell him was that I was working on the second thing I needed to do but a wrench was thrown into the plan and I had to go back to the store.

Goddamn does it take butter a lot of time to thaw! Jessy texted me some ways to speed up the process but they all involved copious opportunies for me to fuck up. So I just sat on it for awhile instead.

The cats went apeshit when I was using the mixer. They have never, in 14 years, seen me do that before. I started to pretend like I was going to go after Marcy with it but then batter started flying around like arterial spray so I shoved it back in the bowl. God, baking is messy. I still don’t know where the frosting landed. And you know what, that shouldn’t be my concern. I already did enough, Henry can clean up. Right?

Aside from when I dropped the bowl and caught it by slamming it against the cabinets with my crotch (I did all the preparations on the 2 inch slat of counterspace in front of the sink, even though we have an entire table I could have used), frosting proved to be pretty easy to make! I did have to ask Google if confectioners powder is the same as powered sugar, though. (It is, in case you didn’t know.)

OK, I lied. I wanted to see how it felt to be cheery and positive for once. No, it wasn’t easy! It wasn’t easy at all! It took forever to mix, and my arms were hurting so bad, and it was jerking me around and not in a pleasurable way either. And then when it was time to slather it on the cake, my spatula thing kept pulling up parts of the cake and then it was mixing in with the frosting and I was getting so angry that I found myself crying for the eight time since the nigthmare started the day before, and if that shit didn’t taste so fucking good, it was about to get set on fire and chucked at the nearest Katy Perry fan.

And then I was like, “Fuck it. Once he sees I baked him a cake, of course he’s not going to deduct points for it being a hot mess.” Because the whole point is that, hello, this bitch baked him a cake for the first (and last) time ever!

When I first had the idea, I thought it would be cute to decorate it with all the things we share a mutual love for, but then I realized that’s only one thing (aside from our kid, obviously).

So it’s only slightly a wreck! I was pretty proud of myself, to be honest. But the sense of accomplishment was not enough to make me forget the electricutionary feeling of frazzled nerves, so no, I will not be making this a hobby.

Henry was nervous. “This is only the second time in 11 years you’ve done something for me on Valentine’s Day,” he said. It’s true. The last time I gave him an empty ring box which was supposed to hold a key to my house, but I left it in the paper bag from the hardware store.

He said, “I’m going to guess whatever you were doing was something you don’t normally do….which could be just about anything.”

Oh my god, he’s almost smiling! But then he looked at it again and said, “What are all the lumps in the frosting?”

“It’s cake!” I wailed. Ugh!

The more he looked at the cake, the less his lips held the smile-curve. It looked like apprehension was setting in, like he was going to make me taste it first. But he apparently ate a piece while I was at work and lived to tell about it. (I have no evidence that he didn’t force our son to eat it on his behalf, though.)

I only half-considered adding the zest of Hemlock to the frosting, I swear.

That night, after Chooch went to bed, Henry slipped into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. I kept waiting for him to come out with a ring* or at least some vintage porn hidden in a souffle, but apparently my big Vday gift was dinner.

(*You know I would have been displeased if he had proposed on a day as obvious as February 14th. I’M NEVER HAPPY!)

“You ALWAYS cook dinner,” I whined. “I baked you a CAKE!”

He spent the rest of the night kissing my ass and then I let him scratch my back, so all was not lost.

(Wait, this sounds like a regular night at our house.)

I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life smearing this in his face.

While Barb is off work and recovering, I’ve been coming in earlier to help out.

Sure, I’ve been whining about it, but that’s because whining is all I know how to do. But the reality is that I’m happy to help out and even happier to have a nicer paycheck.

In fact, when I was in the boss’s office yesterday for my review, I mentioned that I would be interested in coming on full-time if she would ever see that as a possibilty. (Chooch’s tuition is really vampirizing my bank account; hopefully we can get out of the city sometime soon so he doesn’t have to keep going to Jesus Academy.) My boss seemed thrilled at the prospect and said she would see about making that become a reality, but I know that sometimes things around here are slow to be processed. I’ll be patient. (For awhile!)

However, she approached me later and asked if I’d like to do a trial run by coming in even earlier two days a week and I said yes without hesitating even though this is really putting a damper on my lady of leisure lifestyle.

Today, I got here at 1:30, which really threw everyone for a loop.

One of the analysts (Kristen, I think; things seem to have happened so long ago now that I’m here full days!) said, “Oh damn, I thought this meant it was 4:00!

” And then we laughed because I always joke that that’s the only reason people are so happy to see me around here, because I signify that the workday is almost over for the people on day shift.

“Now no one here is going to like me anymore!” I joked.

Glenn walked into the conversation right around that point and in his typical Work-Henry droll, he said, “They would have had to have liked you in the first place though.”

OH GOOD ONE, GLENN! Looks like someone’s still smartin’ from the Wacky Worm.

In other work news, I passed out Valentines Monday night after everyone had left, which apparently made some people very happy. I like making people happy, which is probably surprising to some people who think I’m Satanic.

All the nice emails and “thank you”s from people passing by my desk made me realize once again how lucky I am to have a job that I don’t dread going to, like I dread going to the eye doctor or taking Chooch to school. It would be so much better if Barb were here, though.

My out-of-town friends are always saying that they’re jealous that Pittsburgh has so many zombie-centric events during the year (we are the Zombie Capital of the World, you know; fuck that Atlanta nonsense). So when I get invited to these things on Facebook, I try to go to as many as I can to support the cause. (The zombie cause and also the jealous friends cause.)

Henry was on the fence when I told him about the Eat Your Heart Out Heart Valentine charity event that was happening at the Oakmont Tavern last Saturday night. Henry doesn’t mind going to the family-friendly things because really, it’s Chooch who’s into zombies the most and he really enjoys getting made up. So then we’re just his plain-faced handlers. But this time it was at a BAR with GROWNUPS and Henry is a big dumb SQUARE who doesn’t like going out past 8pm and knocking a few back. But then I convinced Laura and Mike to go too and Henry felt a little better knowing that he and Mike could stand around being humans together while Laura and I got fake blood and decay all over our shot glasses.

Still, I waited all day for him to use the snowy weather as an excuse, but he didn’t! We actually went out to a real life bar and ran the risk of getting stabbed or, oh my god, having a good time!

Henry, after I pointed out he unwittingly dressed as Freddy Krueger, whose name I consistently spell wrong.

Laura went as a military zombie, complete with camis and dog tag. She was really wound up about her makeup, like, “Where should I put the blood!?” and I was all, “Anywhere you want! Who cares! Have you seen my makeup?” Seriously, I’m OK when I’m doing Chooch’s makeup, but once I do my own, I just look like a battered woman. The best part is when all my makeup starts to slide down my face after about an hour because my skin is so oily. (Clearly, I need to order some become products!)

I was going to make Henry go into the bar first because we arrived right around the time the party was starting and I was adamant about not being the first zombie to arrive. But as soon as we got to the door, a girl in full-on prosthetics arrived and went in before us, so we rode her coattails.

They had all the zombies relegated to the upstairs bar, which was extremely small, but cozy. Like a crypt. So it made sense. The first thing we did though was purchase raffle tickets, the proceeds of which went toward saving the Evans City Chapel, which as some might know is part of Night of the Living Dead history.

Here are some pictures of Chooch and Andrea chilling in front of the chapel last September:

Anyway, as Henry was buying raffle tickets, it dawned on me that I knew the lady ripping tickets off the roll for him.

“I know you,” I said, in a  faux-accusatory tone.

She looked slightly apprehensive, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with me coming off as a sleazy used car salesman.

“We went on a ghost hunt together last year,” I said. “Broughton Elementary School?” I’m not sure if she really did remember me (although I was convinced she didn’t like me because my stomach kept growling during the EVP session we did together and she didn’t look pleased) but she still stood up and gave me a big hug. She briefly told me about some haunts she’s been on since then, and then I focused on arbitrarily picking buckets in which to stick my raffle tickets.

I then had to explain to Henry 27 times how I knew her.

“I CHEATED ON YOU WITH HER, OK!?” God, Henry. Step off.

Anyway, the raffle drawing wasn’t until midnight, so Mr. I Don’t Want To Be Here sealed his fate with that one.

(Staying out past midnight, CAN YOU IMAGINE.)

Shaun of the Dead and the back of a bride.

Ended up seeing Ghost Hunter Chris’s husband Joel inside the bar; I didn’t get a chance to say hello to him, but I did learn that he’s the one who took the photographs that are on the Fix the Chapel website. I always see people I know at these things and it makes me realize just how small and awesome that scene is.

Elfen Zombie? I don’t know. Laura kept going on about how attractive she was, though.

Here you will observe Pete the bartender concocting our Bloody Brains, which I wanted more of but Henry frowned his answer at me. I drank way more than I intended to and I’m pretty sure I was annoying Mike and Henry and everyone else around us who were not as drunk as me.

Pete found out about Whitney Houston’s death after we did and was very concerned about it. I think I was going to console him, but I got distracted by ordering another drink.

I almost died (again?) when I turned around and saw a zombie Robert Smith behind me! I told him he was my favorite, like he was legitimately Robert Smith, and I didn’t even feel stupid for it because I was drunk.

Now I feel stupid for it.

No, I don’t.

Henry’s eating World Famous Wings, what does he care!?

Henry Quote of the Night: “I really hope the blood on the bathroom sink was fake.”

You know what I love about the zombie scene? The people are so fucking decent. Seriously, we never run into assholes at these events. And we’re not even really a part of the scene! It’s like everything else, I’m hovering in the periphery.

I remember last year when I was getting ready to meet my now-friend Kristy at a zombie self-defense course, I was texting Andrea about being nervous.

“Yeah but she likes zombies, and that’s a good indication that she’s going to be fine. People who are into zombies somehow end up being the normal ones,” Andrea advised.

And she was right. Kristy is awesome.

And everyone there that night was awesome and sweet to me when I tapped on their backs like a 6-year-old wanting Richard Simmons’s autograph. (What? That’s whose autograph I would have wanted when I was 6.)

I hate beer, but I kept tasting every one that Henry ordered, which was really irritating him. Apparently, I might kind of like Blue Moon a little bit. Or I was just that drunk.

I commented that I hadn’t seen the proprietor of Monroeville Zombies all night. His name is Kevin and although we have never spoken in person,  he’s the one who invites me to all these events. (Most of the ones we go to are even organized by him as well, but this one was not.) And that at one point, Henry was all, “OMG Robert Smith is Kevin!” So there — I have officially spoken to Kevin of Monroeville Zombie fame.

Henry and Mike were totally infatuated with this guy. God, start a fan club already, amirite.

I promised Laura I would get a picture of the bullethole guy for her and I REMAINED TRUE TO MY WORD BECAUSE I AM A FRIEND-PERSON.

I was in line for the bathroom (I had to go so fucking bad) when someone announced that it was time for the raffle. Henry held up my coat and phone and waved me over to him. I did the universal jig for “Unless you want to smell my urine-soaked panties the whole way home in the car, you best let me keep my spot in line.” But he was all urgently gesticulating for me to follow them downstairs like I’m his goddamn mail order bride or some shit. I was so pissed. Almost literally.

So I get to the bottom of the steps and it’s so congested down there with zombies shambling around in a raffle number-stupor that I physically can’t go anywhere else. I shoved my coat into Henry’s arms and stomped back upstairs where the bride was about to enter the restroom but must have noticed that I was at this point bent over with my fist in my crotch, so she very graciously let me go ahead of her.

See? Zombie fanatics are decent people!

Snooki should have this made into booty shorts at the Shore Store next summer.

We did not win anything for the raffle. Some girl who went into the mens room and peed on top of the collection of pee that Henry kept telling us about all night won something though, and she was very excited about it. Winning, not peeing in the mens room, although maybe that too.

Saved this guy for last because he was my favorite. This picture doesn’t do it justice but he had a cockroach sticking out of one side and fingernails stuck in the other side of his face. He said it took him over two hours.

You know how long it took me? 5 minutes. Always making an effort, I am!

Jesus, it was such a good night. Laura and I were pretty wasted and I don’t think we ever stopped laughing (except maybe when we heard that Whitney Houston had died but then I remembered that I didn’t really care). I want to do more to help so I’m making some new Historical Zombie note cards, the proceeds of which will go the chapel. I’m a sucker for preserving shit. Just not literally shit. I already have an MLK Jr and Abe Lincoln done – just need to make the time to do three more and then I will debut them on here for hopefully someone to care about it.

I haven’t had time to write about skating last Sunday, but then I realized that the only thing that actually happened was that I got stuck skate-talking to Roller Creep during four corners. It didn’t even matter that Chooch was with me; he just kept bragging and bragging about the fact that the rink gives him his own weekly show now (another reason to switch to Saturday sessions). He basically gets one song to do his static routine, while all the little girls who have never seen him before kneel on the carpeted benches and squeal in amazement.

Other than that, Henry’s bromance/rink owner was home sick that afternoon, so he moved on his son instead. The poor kid was behind the skate rental counter trying to tighten up bearings and here’s what appears to be a bear* on skates asking him all kinds of predatory questions.

(*And I don’t mean the animal.)

The one who dubbed Henry “Smiley.”

There was a lot of snow on the ground, with the threat for more, yesterday when we arrived at the rink. But there was still a line.

And people say roller skating is obsolete.

“What? These were cool in 1983!”

My work friend Joy came out with her fiancé John and three other friends, which pleased me. I love that damn rink so much and any time I can persuade people to stop by, I feel like I’ve won a small war on modern activities, like basket-weaving and Botox appointments.

Even Joy said, “This was great! It’s good, clean fun!” AND IT IS, even though some asshole finds ways to desecrate the wholesome family sentiments behind it by calling all the kids she hates dickheads and motherfuckers on her blog afterward, mocks her friends for falling, and has not-so-secret scandalous thoughts about the new rink ref.

I think Joy wanted me to point out that John bit it three times while she remained upright for the whole session. SHE DIDN’T DO THE YMCA THOUGH.

Speaking of, I always get performance anxiety during the YMCA. What if my C is backward?!

There is an adult skate coming up in two weeks and I’m determined to bring new recruits to that, too.

Chooch spent the rest of the day singing the Village People quietly to himself.

Better than Katy Perry.