Henry has one long, errant whisker that extends past his upper lip. I tried to saw it off with a knife and he freaked out on me.

Carey and I have bets at work sometimes to help the night go faster. It’s usually over/under type wagers, like what time we think we will get out of there.

Because I’m the best, I always win. (Except for the one time Carey cheated.) So far, my winnings have encompassed: a box of K-Cups, an issue of Southern Living (with a post-it that said “Because when I think of Southern Living, I think of Erin”), a package of Peeps, and a gumball-shitting chicken which is perpetually empty because Lee can’t stop playing with it.

But this creepy stress doll is my favorite prize of them all. One of my co-workers just won a Rabbit wine bottle opener, and SHE was like, “I would rather have YOUR prize, Erin” because it is universally awesome. And it fits right in with all the other weird shit on my desk.

(Carey wants everyone to know that this wasn’t acquired from a very large drawer of sex toys.)

In other news: JUST BOUGHT MY WARPED TOUR TICKET AT EXACTLY 10AM WHEN THE PRE-SALE STARTED! Here’s a bet: that I was the oldest person who was hovering over the computer, waiting to buy a Warped Tour ticket for herself and not her child.

Pierce the Veil is going to be there again! And the Used! And Sleeping with Sirens and Of Mice & Men and Taking Back Sunday and a good 14 other bands that make me remember I have a heart! Oh, I could just die.

It’s not like I have some vested interest in televisions, but going to the Early Television Museum seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend a chilly, overcast Sunday in March.

Even if it meant driving 3+ hours to the small town of Hilliard outside of Columbus, OH. Nothing weird about that, or the fact that Henry had to keep putting me and my petulant attitude in check, or the fact that nearly every one of my senses was drop-kicking me straight back into the hands of 2005.

I was just there to see some vintage fucking TV sets. Goddammit.

Our current TV is about three years away from being quite at home here.

Andrea would have hated this place because it was an unguided tour. The aging hippie at the front desk took our donation and was basically like, “I don’t give a shit what you do. Touch whatever you want.” And that is exactly what Chooch did — touched every button on every TV. (OK, I did too.)

I can’t remember the last time Jonny Craig sounded so loud in my head, even around the constant hum and squelch of vintage television.

Some buttons actually were off-limits. Thank god there were cameras in every room to make sure that we didn’t touch anything/anyone we weren’t supposed to be touching.

Oh look! It’s Henry standing amongst televisions from his own era!

“I like your shirt.”

“Thanks, I bought it after you quit talking to me.”

When I was five-years-old, there were only three TV channels and I ate sardines straight from the can! Henry to Chooch, who fucked around with his “new iPhone” all day.

For all my clown-lovahs out there.

World’s first clicker aka remote,  I think.

GERMAN TV!

PURPLE TV!

I was worried it wouldn’t be worth it. But it was worth it.

I was so distracted by all the relics from the past, that I forgot to even sign the guest book.

Some fucker at Henry’s work had the nerve to take off Monday through today, which meant I had to take the goddamn trolley to work since Henry had to go make stupid Faygo deliveries.

Everyone is always like, “Riding the T is not that big of a deal, Erin. There’s a stop directly across from your work!” And there really is! It’s super convenient, and the closest t-stop to my house is within walking distance. But for someone as tightly-wound as me, the simple act of riding public transportation is enough to ruin my entire day (not to mention my relationship with Henry).

For example, when Andrea was here last September, she had to take my trolley fare from me because I was sitting on a bench counting and re-counting it like a textbook OCD sufferer and my clammy palms were laundering the money in the very true sense of the word.

Monday, my eardrums were treated to the incessant childish whine of a crackhead who slurred loudly into her cell phone all the way to downtown. Fucking crackheads. Then a man with Downs Syndrome danced onto the T and continued his Soul Train while standing next to my seat. I smiled at him, but I think he was seriously trying to poach my seat; after looking around, I was like, “Get real, bro.” There were unlimited empty seats for him to choose! So finally, he danced his way to the back of the trolley. But then when I arrived at work, I was standing outside the building, talking on the phone, when another mentally handicapped man in a hunter green parka came at me out of nowhere, scooped me up in an airtight embrace, and squealed, “Happy Easter!”

I returned the sentiment (after panicking that I missed Easter) and then had to squat down and duck beneath his arm to escape his kidnapper hold on me. It was intense, and my friend on the phone nervously laughed and then asked, “What the fuck is happening over there?!” Probably the worst part was that immediately afterward, I had to ride the elevator up to my department with GLENN, who laughed demonically at my expense and then said, “No seriously, welcome to work, it’s nice to see you. Wow, I almost said that without laughing!”

I spent the next 2 hours trembling at my desk.

Tuesday was normal!

Today seemed like it was going to be normal for the first 2 minutes until I noticed it for the first time. This abrupt, bark-like outburst from the man sitting across from me in the handicap seat. Following the bark would be a hand-flap, and then a violent shake of his head.

Look, we all make noises sometimes and pretend to be motorboating invisible tits, I know this. However, there was something about this man and the way he was staring at me (I COULD FEEL HIM STARING AT ME) that was starting to make me clench up. And the way he kept inserting his hands into his coat pockets made me close my eyes tightly and pray to Saint Rita.

Probably he just had a nervous tic, maybe something akin to Tourette’s, but all I could think was, “THIS GUY DIDN’T TAKE HIS ANTI-PSYCHOTICS AND NOW HE’S GONG TO STAB ME FOR THE SIMPLE FACT THAT I’M WEARING PINK SOCKS, HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I DON’T KNOW.”

By the fourth stop, I was hugging my arms against my body so hard, I had somehow turned into my own personal straight jacket.

Occasionally, he would talk to no one in particular. Of course, no one would answer. I kept looking away from him, out the window, until it occured to me that his lack of responses might eventually set him off. I didn’t want to wind up with a Mexican necktie because I didn’t acknowledge his trite observation that it was raining in the morning and now it was not raining.

So when he shouted, “The weather is CONFUSED!” I made brief eye contact and shouted back, “I KNOW RIGHT HAHAHAHA” and the sound of my forced laughter made me close my eyes and cringe, but he seemed pleased at my consideration. Everyone else, however, was now looking at me like I was just as fucked up.

This kept going on and on with the weird UNGGGHHs and motorboating and nervous hand-stuffing in his pockets, while I continued to look out the window and think about what it’s going to feel like when a butterfly knife finds its way between my ribcage and how unfortunate it was that I was wearing one of my favorite sweaters, goddammit I didn’t want to get blood on my favorite Lauren Conrad sweater.

And then the T started its course across the river, so now I’m hyperventilating about the T falling off the bridge and into the river, where I will undoubtedly become entangled with dead river bodies, and all of this was making my vision have colorful dots in it.

Suddenly, an electronic beep fluttered from his person. “SHIT!” he spat angrily, and I braced myself for the explosion from the bomb that he accidentally detonated in his pocket. But it wound up just being his watch.

So when the T cruised to a halt at the stop before the one I needed, I bounded up from my seat and ran out the accordianed door, straight onto an unfamiliar trolley station. There were multiple signs pointing out the directions one would want to take depending on which street they were hoping to emerge onto, but I DON’T KNOW ANY STREET NAMES DOWN THERE.

I just stood there, like I was part of a scene from some lame indie movie where the main broad is all in slow motion while the rest of the city speeds past her, except for me what lies beyond is not the Jonny Craig I waited my whole life for (or at least a grilled cheese on a gold platter), but a plethora of ways to get myself lost real good in the city.

And that’s when I realized that my skittish body language probably had me looking a lot like that guy on the trolley; or worse—a tourist.

I chose a man with a purposeful stride and followed him up a set of steps and out into the daylight, where I called Henry, who was technically on my Non-Speaking list since it was all his fault in the first place that I had to ride the T and ALMOST GOT STABBED.

In a hyper-panicked, out-of-breath voice, I relayed to him my horror and then panted, “So now I don’t know how to get to work.”

“Ok…well, what do you see?” he asked, and I could tell he was stifling a laugh, that motherfucker.

“Tulips,” I said confidently. I saw lots of tulips behind a chain-link fence.

“What STREET are you on?” he asked, sighing wearily. And then, “Are you walking toward the river?”

“I don’t know where the river is!” I cried. But Henry eventually figured out where I was without the aid of the river.

To make him feel worse about what he did to me, I lied and said, “And just so you know, some car splashed me when I was walking to the T from the house, so now one side of me is entirely drenched.”

“Really? One entire side of you is wet? I’m going to call Wendy and ask her.” I never should have let Henry become friends with my co-workers.

Once I got to my desk, I was whining to Nina about what happened, who did her best Barb impression and coddled me like I need to be coddled. Carey overheard my woeful account and, after offering to draw me a map of important downtown landmarks, said, “You know, if you lived in the South, I bet people would say ‘bless your heart!’ to you a lot.”

I had to cross countless perilous streets to get to work, but at least it kept my Lauren Conrad sweater from getting slashed.

I was kind of let down by this park in Columbus, because really – the excitement of bush people only extends so far. But surprisingly, Chooch was really infatuated by it and when he saw that there was a house for sale across the street, he wanted to buy it.

I was wildly concerned with the possibility of one of us stepping in dog poop.

There are no pictures of Henry because he was too busy sitting on a bench, chaperoning. And by chaperoning, I mean squinting at his phone with his glasses resting precariously on the tip of his nose.

We stopped here after visiting the Early Television Museum, which I’ll write about later. Putting things in order is so overrated.

Chooch kept wanting to lay down everywhere, which would make me shout, “Hello!

Dog shit!”

For not giving a shit about the topiary people, leaving that place was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

In between playing Draw Something and actually working (I swear*), the subject of Jonny Craig always seems to come up at work.

(I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.)

(*Seriously, I don’t piss around here NEARLY as much as I have at other jobs. I don’t even take a lunch break, that’s how stupidly dedicate I am!)

Today, Lee threatened to tell Henry that I’m going to leave him for Jonny.

“I actually wouldn’t leave him for Jonny, because Jonny won’t do everything for me like Henry does.”

“You’re right, he definitely wouldn’t,” Lee agreed. And then after a pause, he said, “I’m glad you’re smart enough to realize that.”

Then he said Jonny would be too busy hocking my wares for drug money, and then crack-raging on me, but it would be OK because he would probably do it in song.

“Ugh, and he’s a fucking ginger,” Lee said in disgust as he walked past and caught a glimpse of my latest Jonny Craig desktop eye candy.

“I know, that’s the worst part,” I exclaimed. Totally not that he’s a heroin addict.

In other work news, I brought a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. Wendy was all, “No jelly? There’s some here in the fridge—” but I quickly cut her off by saying, “No! I brought Cheez-its to put on it later.”

Today is good because I have a good sandwich and I’m feeling good that this place provides so many good distractions. That last sentence is the new writing style for Oh Honestly, Erin.

Seriously. Who actually LOVES Ohio? In either case, we had a nice day there yesterday. I’m very tired though & ruing the moment I gave Chooch my old iPhone so he can play Draw Something on his own.

Granted, it’s helping him with his reading and spelling, but he is SO HIGH MAINTENANCE about it and gets all pissed of when people don’t drop everything to guess his drawing immediately after he sends it to them. (omgitschooch if you want to play him.)

(He really is getting so good at reading and spelling though. Through the power of “sounding it out,” he was able to spell “piss” the other day. I’m proud and also extremely surprised that he started with such a PG word.)

At one point yesterday, we were at some playground in this small town outside of Columbus when he patted the pockets of his jeans and exclaimed, “Shit, where’s my phone?!”

Dude, you’re 5. Calm the fuck down and play with some Legos. And no, not a Lego app on your iPhone!

Hello hole, meet Erin’s head. My impulses are going to be the death of me.

– My most intimate relationship is with music.

– I like being social to a degree, but I’m super quick to feel smothered.

– I have a compulsion to anthropomorphize things, like: “Oh no, I haven’t used this coffee mug since last week & now its feelings must be hurt.” Sometimes this will drive me nuts with guilt & I find myself apologizing to Chooch’s toys if I chuck them too hard into his toy box.

– I’m talking to someone I shouldn’t be talking to. (No, I’m not cheating on Henry; put your whistles away.)

– Recently I have discovered that I hate people who hum.

– 2011 ended on such a horrible note, & 2012 has been following in those fucked up footsteps. Yet somehow I feel like I’m holding it together better than I ever have in the past when I have had every opportunity to crack open by now.

– I don’t let go of things easily, or at all.

– Obsessing over Jonny Craig is my only little break from reality & the real meaning behind it is something that I couldn’t put into words even if I wanted to, but I will say that it is a classic case of projection.

– I hate change so much that I almost started crying last week at the roller rink when the owner made me try on a new pair of skates, which prompted the rink ref to talk to me in a soft voice about how he doesn’t like change either but sometimes it’s good, & I felt like the biggest loser of all time.

– Over & over again, I attract people who want to possess me, & I quit being friends with Alisha for that very reason. Last year, it was a couple of car jackers. (Well, technically only one of them jacked a car, but isn’t one car jacker in anyone’s life enough?) And yes, it is happening now as well.

– I don’t really care about being “understood” anymore.

– I hate pretty much everything I have my hand in, this blog included.

– The house I live in makes me so upset that I cry about it at least once a day.

– I have not once had any desire to contact my mother since we quit talking on 12-25-10.

– People always say I’m lucky to have Henry, and I get that, but sometimes I wish he felt he was lucky to have ME.

No more drinking alone for this girl.

I haven’t been in the mood to do much with my blog this week. Work has been busy, so I haven’t had much downtime to write while I’m there, and I’ve spent most of my mornings loudly listening to music and generally upsetting the cats’ nap schedule.

However, I did meet two old high school friends for breakfast on Thursday. I’ve seen Stacey since school, but this was the first time I’ve hung out with Mindy since senior year and that was a bit surreal (in a good way). They each brought their small baby-aged daughters, who behaved remarkably well. (I’m used to my kid, who was not always the best baby to take to restaurants; in fact, I never took him unless Henry was with me too. #spoiled) It’s not really a secret that I am horrible around kids, especially babies, so when Stacey said to her daughter, “Stay here with Miss Erin while I go get us food at the buffet,” my heart sort of seized up on me. And then when Mindy left her baby with me too, I squealed, “BOTH of them?!”

SPOILER ALERT: We all survived! None of us cried, even! Though we did all sit there, staring at each other in horror. But Mindy and Stacey eventually came back (I will be honest and say that I considered the fact that this could have been some sick, elaborate Runaway Mom plan) and all was right with the world again.

Until they fixated all of their attention on trivial matters, like feeding their babies, while I was left to sit alone with my coffee. Finally, I whined, “Guys, talk to me too!” And they laughed, but I was totally serious.

Stacey said she was going to go home and sit in fear, waiting for some mean and scathing blog post about our meet-up, but I promised her it wouldn’t be bad. Then after I thought about it for a second, I added, “You know, I think that’s why some people just won’t ever hang out with me, because they don’t want to be on my blog.”

But not because I’m annoying, obnoxious, socially awkward, pathetic and extremely attention-starved.

When we were paying, Stacey suggested that I buy something to take home for Henry. (Because she, along with 90% of my Facebook friends, feels sorry for him.) So I did, because I thought it would be fun to watch his face become awash with suspicion.

“What do you think he’ll say?” Mindy asked.

“Either, ‘What did you do to it’ or ‘What garbage can did you pull this out of?'” I said. But instead, you know what he said? “Ew, a bear claw? Seriously? Are you trying to make me fat?”

JESUS, I JUST CAN’T WIN.

In other news, I got to have breakfast with Barb and Wendy today! It was so good seeing Barb. (And Wendy too, but god, I see her every day!) I don’t know when Barb is going to be back to work, but it sucks there without her. Someone asked me for a post-it the other day, and of course I have like zero office supplies in my desk because why would a secretary-type person like myself actually have office supplies in her desk?

“Sorry, I’m no Barb Riley,” I answered, and Lee thought this was the best answer ever and wants me to tape that underneath my name on my desk now.

It’s true though!

Barb said she’s proud of how far I’ve come in her absence. I mean, sure, I still have to ask for the occasional assistance in opening my Crystal Light packets, and I just learned that the extra faucet in the office kitchen is for filtered water! (Whoever would have thought!?) But I haven’t completely withered away and I’m (kind of) dealing with things like an adult, but only because I’ve had no choice. Who else there will coddle me!? No one, that’s who.

Chooch has another ear infection so we didn’t go skating today. My only plans are to go to Hot Topic to but the new Hands Like Houses CD, sit and watch Henry make some of my non compos cards to sell at the National Haunt Convention in Philly this May, look at pictures of my Ginger King Jonny Craig and continue to block out the bagpipes that are playing at a funeral across the street.

Also, the Warped Tour line-up so far is so fucking sick, I could die. I might try to go twice this summer. (I already requested off work for the Pittsburgh date—IN DECEMBER.) But seriously, Pierce the Veil, The Used, Taking Back Sunday, Sleeping With Sirens, AND Of Mice and Men? Goddamn, this is a 16-year-old’s wet dream. I keep trying to get Henry to say he’s stoked, but he doesn’t reply to any of my texts anymore. Too many Jonny Craig shout-outs, I guess.

Sorry this has been all over the place, but well, so is my brain.

[I have not decided on the theme for this year’s Easter pictures yet, but here are last year’s again.]

We stopped at Goodwill beforehand to snag a plain white buttondown and some dress slacks (which turned out to be a womens pair) for Blake. I found some paisley piece of shit thing that we attempted to use as an ascot.

Too bad none of us knew how to tie an ascot.

Immediately after walking into Goodwill, Henry was accosted by some older man (older even than Henry, if you can fathom). Apparently, they knew each other. Their discourse was not interesting enough to massage my eavesdropping gene, so I very huffily scoured the racks on my own.

“Who is that man Daddy’s talking to?” I asked Chooch, who was bouncing back and forth between me and the conversating rejects.

“I don’t know, Outrageous, I think.”

Turns out it was Regis, whoever the fuck that is.

I decided we should take some “safe” pictures at the cemetery before introducing the blood and bones into the mix, just so I’d have something to show one of the boss-types at work, who has no idea what actually goes on around here.

We then went to my grandma’s for the action shots, because, well, it’s gloomy as shit back there now. I had major anxiety being there, though, since my Aunt Sharon is crazy-weird about people stopping by. We parked the car in the upper driveway and prayed for the best, trying to stay as far away from the actual house as possible.

“Try not to get any on my undershirt,” Blake said as we stood near a large tree stump, opening packets of Ketchup procured from McDonald’s. “It’s a vintage Penguins shirt.”

I expressed my approval at his hockey-geared fashion sense.

“It’s from 1991,” he stressed.

BITCH THAT’S NOT VINTAGE. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I felt so old. Perhaps when I was called MA’AM at a Chiodos show. That’ll do it.

“It’s vintage to him,” Henry argued. “It’s from the year before he was born.”

DOUBLY OLD FEELING.

Just another normal day at Grandma’s house.

Blake in any type of animal mask scares the shit out of me. I need to buy more animal masks.

Chooch was getting sincerely irritated by this point.

He’s good for the first few minutes, but then the novelty of being bossed around and forcibly positioned in ridiculous and absurd stances kind of starts to piss him off a bit. These are probably the moments he wishes he had a normal mom who just take him to the fucking mall and pay for a regular Easter portrait with a blood-free Easter bunny like all the kids in his class get to do.

I was on the phone today, and mistakenly let it slip to Chooch that it was Sharon on the other end. Raising his voice approximately eighty-seven octaves and acquiring an obnoxious lilt, he yelled, “TELL HER WHAT WE DID YESTERDAY AT HER HOUSE! TELL HER!” and I’m trying, one-handed, to use on him the things I learned last night at Zombie Defense Class, but his little-big mouth just kept flapping.

Fucking turncoat. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

Henry couldn’t take me to work yesterday. You know me, of course I got myself all worked up into a sweaty frenzy by the time I made it to the trolley stop, but at least I got to ride the T with these two sweethearts, who would NEVER hit an uncircumcised penis, FOR YOUR INFORMATION.

And by hit, I believe they mean “swaddle with their vaginas.”

The fact that I couldn’t actually see the pink-haired broad’s nips leads me to believe that she didn’t have any, but then someone at work pointed out that her jugs were so big, they could have been ROLLED UNDER. Oh the sting of bile against my esophagus.

She sat down and immediately started taking blatant tit-pics, which she was texting to some perv who obviously has a host of sick sexual kinks. He apparently was texting cock-shots back, which spawned the aforementioned circumcision convo with her friend who has burn marks all over her arms and is pregnant, of course.

Also, Pinkie talks about: chicken and biscuits; being A BIG GIRL (she declared this 9 times with a puffed-out chest; yes, put your imagination on a hamster wheel for that one); the Eat n Park breakfast buffet with such relish &  drool that you’d think it was the east coast sister restaurant of Dan Tana’s; Pinkie is also very forthcoming (& loud) about her private piercings (“Well, when I got my PUSSY PIERCED…”), causing every male head on the T to snap to attention. (But not in a “That’s hot” way.)

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know I can be crass and vulgar at times, but these bitches and their raunchfest were making me feel like a motherfucking nun. I can’t even imagine being that filterless in such an enclosed public space. I don’t even like talking on my phone in public!

And at least I wear clothes that fit me.

The highlight for me, even moreso than when she flashed her whale tail at the last stop, was when Pinkie stood up and started singing SWV’s whiny mid-90’s R&B hit “I Get Weak,” grinding against invisible club goers, who hopefully had enough decency to puke their invisible vomit in her breast basin.

God, I felt like a WASP compared to them. Nothing beats being in a 10-foot vicinity of ghetto white trash to put things into perspective for me. BY GOLLY MY LIFE AIN’T SO BAD YA’LL.

Coming home from roller skating.

Last December, I found the most majestic religious artifact this side of the Vatican: a Last Rites shadow box with a statue of Saint Rita inside. (Coincidentally, this is how my Saint Rita obsession started.) Of course when Henry heard the asking price, he kept walking. Erin and her stupid collector’s quirks, right Henry? You asshole.

Sunday morning was warm and gorgeous, so we decided to kill some time at the flea market before the 12:30 Pens game (no comment on that).  Everything was fine, Henry and I acted cordially to each other, even allowing our hands to graze at one point. Even Chooch was obedient and seemed content with the pack of Pokemon cards and 25¢ Happy Meal toy we let him buy (I would totally not have been content with that at age 5, for the record. – Silver Spoon Girl.)

And then it happened: several rotted-teeth Steeler fans parted at just the right moment to allow a sliver of the most wondrous wood-encased sight to peek through. Henry was the one who saw it first; I almost kept right on walking but he stopped me and pointed to it.

It wasn’t the Saint Rita, but a Pieta; still,  its level of divine beauty paralleled it, for sure. And it was the same man with the dancing eye-mole who was selling it.

“$75,” he told Henry, who then walked away. But not me. I stayed there, lightly running my fingertips down the side, drooling just the tiniest bit and feeling a sense of longing I haven’t felt since I was Scott Dambaugh’s 8th grade science partner.

The man noticed that I was still standing there and he came back over to tell me its history, how it was over 90 years old and belonged to his grandmother who had it built into her wall; he opened it up and showed me the spoon that was used to pour holy water over the foreheads of the sick and dying.

Meanwhile, some man began encroaching on us and I felt myself moving closer to the box, shielding him from its availability, readying my foot for the impending crotch-kick it was about to perform.

Turns out he was only looking at some stupid baseball memorabilia on the table behind it. KEEP IT MOVIN’, BUDDY.

The seller left me alone with my painful materialistic yearning to snatch money off some dummy buying something lame.

Determined, I gave it one lingering caress with the promise that I’d return, then I did my Phoebe-run down the walkway to Henry, who was several tables away by this point, looking at rusty tools and vegetables, which is all he cares about.

“I only have $50!” he yelled when I careened to a halt in front of him, pouty-lip and sad-eyes at the ready. I was really starting to lay it on thick (he still owed me for making me miss the Sleeping With Sirens show at the beginning of the month! I don’t forget this shit) so he sighed and said, “See if he’ll take $50.”

“You!” I wailed.

“This is all you! I don’t want that thing, you do!”

OH REALLY THEN WHY DID HE POINT IT OUT TO ME. I would have probably walked right past it! He just likes seeing me hurt, that’s why.

I snatched the money from him and stalked back over to the guy’s table, stood sentinel next to the Last Rites box and waited for him to finish a much-lesser transaction.

When I proposed the new price of $50, he shook his head, dragged his hand over his eye-mole, and said, “No, I couldn’t. I gotta get at least $65 for this because it’s my sister’s in North Carolina and I gotta send her some of the money. These things are worth a lot of money,” he went on. “Just shipped a really rare Saint Rita one to Philly for $125.” (MOTHERFUCK!!!!!)

And then my lip went out and the tears fell down. I was kicking myself for getting him to spend $2 on cookies moments earlier. Then I’d have $52! $52 might sound more enticing to Dancing Eye Mole than $50. “Oh sure, you can have it for $52! That is so much more lucrative for me than $50!” he’d surely not say.

But when he saw my newly distressed state, all the tears and such, he sighed, looked up at the sky and said, “Get him to give you 10 more dollars and it’s yours.”

“OH THANK YOU!” I said in my best Shirley Temple voice, swiped away the tears and galloped over to Henry.

“No,” he said immediately.

“IT’S JUST TEN MORE DOLLARS!” I screamed. “I have a $20 at home that you can have!” (Of course I had no intention of actually giving him that though.)

“No,” he said, holding firm. “I have other things that need paid that are more important than that.”

“But you OWE me!” I hissed.

He just kept walking though, so I fell back and walked alone with my arms crossed.

“Do you want to get some incense?” Henry suggested.

“…..”

“Do you want to look at the stuff inside?”

“…..”

“Do you want me to throw away your coffee cup?”

“…..”

“Oh come on, don’t do this,” he pleaded.

“…..”

He could have asked me to marry him at that moment and my reply would have been a resounding, “…..”

I made Chooch walk real fast with me back to the car. My plan was to leave without Henry until I realized he had the car keys. By the time he had left the parking lot, I had totally wore him down with my pouting and he angrily drove to the closest ATM and got out $10.

It had started raining by the time we made it back, and as I raced over to the man’s table, he was just starting to pack everything up.

“WAIT! I’M BACK! HERE I AM!” I shouted, huffing and clutching my chest.

As he was removing the candle holders and putting them inside the box with all the last rites accoutrements, he reiterated that it would have been mine for $50 if it was his and not his sister’s. Yeah yeah, just give me my fucking treasure!

He placed it carefully into my arms like a baby, and I whispered to him, “I will give it a good home.” And then I tiptoed back to the car, mouthing the words, “Don’t drop it” over and over.

As we left the lot, the shadow box resting handsome-awkwardly on my thighs, Henry mumbled sadly, “Now I don’t have any money to get pretzels.”

(Don’t worry, he dug up change.)

This is just so aesthetically pleasing to me. I seriously couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. I have always been so smitten with religious art, relics, Jesus depictions, even as a little kid, and sometimes it will move me to tears. (I have cried every time I’ve visited the Vatican.)  I can’t wait for the day when I have my own house and I can fill a deep-blue room with my collection. I just can’t wait. (This room will be separate from my blood-red doll-head room, of course.)

Words cannot describe how happy I am with this flea market find. Henry is totally off the hook! For at least a week!

I have been watching Desperate Housewives since the beginning—I know you’re shocked that I watch something that’s not on MTV, or that I watch something age-appropriate at all.

One of the characters was killed off last week and the funeral/flashback episode was last night. This particular character has always kind of reminded me of Henry because he’s always fixing shit for everyone on the street, not to mention he’s the voice of reason for his flighty wife. He’s basically just the kind of guy everyone should have in their life. So watching these flashbacks and the eulogy, it made me super-depressed to the point where my stomach was upset from all the sobbing, because all I could think about was Henry dying.

And how fucked I’m gonna be.

“Do you have life insurance?” I asked him last night. He said yes (NEWS TO ME), and then I panicked and decided that we need to make our Wills immediately. (We were supposed to do this when I was pregnant, but then I became too caught up in belt-sanding my palate with assorted gummy candy, crying in defeat over stretch marks and the unnerving sensation of being wish-boned, and daydreaming of all the creative ways to castrate Henry for causing me such duress.)

“How will Chooch and I survive?!” I wailed. “We’re going to be eating gas station jerky and wearing soiled burlap sacks as clothes.” And then after a beat, I blurted out, “Your mom will have to come live with us.” Best solution ever.

“It’s nice to know you have me dying before my mother,” Henry mumbled, not thrilled at all that instead of me “repaying” him for that day’s amazing flea market purchase, we were sitting on the couch, me drenched in tears and burrowing into his side, talking about death.

“You should get a work-from-home job,” I said desperately. “I don’t want you going out there anymore!” I waved my arms toward the front door.

I was still rambling on about this as we got ready for bed.

“I mean, I feel like you would protect me from the elements—”

“The elements?” Henry laughed.

“—from life, and you know, myself. But I don’t feel like you’d fight for me.

” (Clearly I was still comparing him to dead Mike Delfino.)

“Really?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Yeah, because you’re not a fighter.”

“Well, no, I’m not going to go out and look for fights—-”

I started cracking up.

“What?” he asked with trepidation.

“Nothing, I’m just picturing you in a red leather jacket, on a dock at night, looking for fights.”

[Laughing Interlude.]

“What if you came home and someone was raping me?” I suggested, always up for a good scenario or two. “Would you fight them?”

Henry sounded slightly offended when he answered, “Um, yeah, I think if I found someone raping you, I’d fight them.”

“WHAT IF THEY STABBED YOU?!”

“I don’t know! Do you want me to shoot them? I’ll shoot them. But then I’d have to go in the basement, get the shotgun, go to the store and get shells, come home, put the gun together—-”

“Wait, you have a gun?!”

MORE NEWS TO ME.

Henry’s going to have to start teaching me things about life, like how to do laundry (I forget, OK?!) and cook things that aren’t from the freezer section, maybe I could stand to learn how to iron clothes….Oh my god, I don’t want Henry to die. I’m going to curl up with Marcy and cry about it some more.

Thanks a lot, Desperate Housewives.

Who else is gonna make sure I don’t drink bleach?! No one, that’s who. :(