Jonny Craig came downtown to work with me today!

Everyone was looking forward to meeting him, since he’s such a big departmental name. A few weeks ago, I was thinking about this, about how almost all of my co-workers know of his existence, and I said to Henry, “I bet Jonny Craig never imagined so many attorneys would know who he is—-” and then I stopped myself short as the stupidity of that statement sunk in. Of course there are attorneys who know who he is. He’s a drug addicted* criminal.

(*Sober. For now.)

Carey took me and Jonny to Arby’s for dinner. My Creamcicle shake came close to matching the orange hue of hsi ginger camaro-coif.

Here Jonny lounges next to the Keurig that I broke (and Nina fixed) last week.

Relxing next to the Conflicts puzzle and the rogue banana that I claimed 25 seconds previously from the kitchen table.

Hanging out in a tree, which I learned by accident is real and not fake.

OMG YES CAN I.

Drinking in the nostalgia at MY OLD DESK.

:(

Reflected Mullet.

Balancing on Julie’s yoga ball.

Playing with Lee’s toys.

Chillin’ in a bowl of his #2 fan, Wendy.

Jonny’s happy to see me, you guys!

Commiserating in ginger harmony with That Fucking Orange Ball.

I actually did work very hard today and almost cried at one point because I had so much to do. But I got it all done and thank god Jonny Craig was here to help me decompress, ya’ll.

THANK GOD.

Foreword: Yesterday at work, Lee was lambasting me for stalking the Jonny Craig lookalike at Delgrosso’s and even went as far to say that he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if I grew up to be a serial killer. The whole time he’s talking, all I can think is, “Oh, but I’ve done so much better when it comes to stalking people” and of course the first thing I thought of was JIMMY, the pizza boy I stalked for three whole days back in 2005, during snowy November nights WHILE PREGNANT. I even made a(n extremely poor quality) video, which is at the end of this post, and after watching it for the first time in 3+ years, I STILL get a thrill when I see Jimmy. You should note that most of the video is me saying, “OMG THAT’S HIM!” and Henry mumbling, “No that’s not him,” until the very end WHEN IT’S HIM.

OK go on.

Originally a LiveJournal post from November, 2005.

The Jimmy Set-Up

One night while taking a leisurely stroll with Henry, I insisted that we walk past the pizza place which employs the latest delivery guy that I’m stalking (I have a thing for pizza guys: Exhibit A / Exhibit B). His name is Jimmy. This I know because last week as Henry and I were ambling past, Jimmy was sitting in his car, waiting to pull out when another employee of Pizzarella came running out, yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy, wait!” Alas, Jimmy didn’t hear him and pulled out into traffic with a squeal of his tires, the Pizzarella sign adorning the top of his car. “Huh, there goes Jimmy,” I said as we looked on.

Big deal, right? Well, on our way back from our walk that night, we were crossing the street. All was clear, but suddenly, while we were in the middle of the road, a car came flying up over the hill, forcing me to run the rest of the way. I was clutching my stomach and yelling, “Don’t hit me I’m pregnant!” (LOVE playing that card), when I happened to toss a glance over my shoulder and I saw that it was Jimmy in his dinky white sputtering car with the Pizzarella sign on top. “Aw, it’s Jimmy!” I yelled, as I tugged on Henry’s arm. He didn’t care.

One block over, and it was time to cross the street again. We had just stepped off the curb when another car came barreling at us. I started to yell threats about being pregnant when I stopped and screamed, “Hey, it’s Jimmy again!” His window was down and he clearly heard my zealous exclamations of his name; they were rather orgasmic. Henry was embarrassed. So I decided that it was fate; I mean, obviously. Maybe there’s supposed to be a movie made about us, I suggested to Henry. A romantic comedy!

I began to outline the premise for Henry. Man drives recklessly around town with the intent of running over any and all pregnant women he comes across, because he hates babies and the vessels which bear them. One fateful night in November, he sees me walking with Henry. Henry selfishly dives out of the way, leaving me in the headlights of Jimmy’s car. He hits me, but unfortunately for him, I survive, and so does the baby, which ends up being his, so he spends the rest of his life hunting down me and the kid, trying to kill us with his pizza delivery car.

“How is that a romantic comedy?” Henry asked. Well, maybe it’s more of a thriller. Or it can be a dark comedy and we’ll just have Pee Wee Herman doing something occasionally.

Ever since that night, no matter what Henry and I are involved in, I make time for Jimmy. “Hey, remember Jimmy?” I’ll ask. “No,” he’ll say. Maybe his lack of a Jimmy memory is because he’s trying to trick me into having sex at that particular moment or he’s too engrossed in “Good Eats,” but I know deep down there will always be room for Jimmy’s memory in Henry’s heart. Someday, maybe he’ll be secure enough with his manhood to admit it.

Unfortunately, Jimmy wasn’t at the shop last night. However! As we walked past, a man exited the pizza shop, carrying a precariously-stacked tower of trays. We watched him walk over to his parked Audi and struggle with the opening of the passenger door.

I’ve never seen Henry move so fast in my life. “Here, let me get that for you!” And then an awkward exchange of “No, it’s cool, I got it” and “Are you sure, man?” followed by “Yes, thanks man” and ending with “Oh, OK, bud!” ensued. I was able to hold it in long enough for Henry to rejoin me on the sidewalk, but then it all came tumbling out of the loose cannon.

“Oooooooh! Henry’s new boyfriend!”

He wouldn’t talk to me after that and even tried to walk me into a street sign.

Anyway, I’m going to order from Pizzarella this weekend, but only after I make sure Jimmy is working. Then when Henry is paying him, I’ll be hiding by the window, or maybe behind a bush*, taking his picture. You just wait, Jimmy.

(*I should plant a bush.)

The Jimmy Fake Out

But I don’t even like their food, I thought, after I urged Henry to place an order to Pizzarella that Saturday night. And when Henry brought up that tiny detail, I of course lied and said, “You must be thinking of another place, buddy. I love Pizzarella. It’s like being in Italy. With all that real Italian food. Mmm. Trevi Fountain, holla.” Indigestion brought on by sub-par Brookline Italian fare was a small price to pay in order to lure Jimmy to my doorstep.

Thirty minutes later, Henry began pacing back and forth in front of the window, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Wow, I thought, Henry is nervous too!

Turns out he was just really hungry.

When I heard a car pull up to the house, I lurched for the camcorder and yelled, “Is it him!?”

It wasn’t. It was some worthless piece of shit who could never match up to Jimmy’s talent for pizza slinging.

My pasta tasted like poison. I ate bitterly as I reflected on how Henry refused to grant me permission to cut him earlier that day. Just one little slice across his chest with a box cutter, it was all I asked; a small token of our love, I begged. “Shed your blood for me, you son of a bitch,” I hissed with my fingernails at his throat. If he really loved me, he’d have let me. So now I can add this to the list of his other vetoes: me vomiting in his mouth; him dressing as Michael Myers and raping me (I would have loved to one day tell my child that that’s how (s)he was conceived); allowing me to take a Danish lover; and the list goes on, my friends. The list goes on.

And so I start thinking. I don’t have the money nor the appetite to continue ordering shitty food every day in hopes of drawing Jimmy to my front door; I would just have to go straight to the source. I begged Henry to give the night one more chance by walking with me to Brookline Boulevard, where we would have a real life stake out.

“Either do this or let me cut you”: a proposal in which I win either way. I suggested that we pack a small bag full of sustenance, maybe some crackers and peanut butter, because there was no telling how long we’d be gone.

“Oh, we won’t be gone that long,” Henry mumbled as he zipped up his jacket. I tucked the camcorder snugly into my pocket and pulled my hat down low over my eyes.

It was time.

****

There was no sign of any of the Pizzarella delivery cars as we walked past the shop the first time, me giggling uncontrollably and Henry telling me to shut the fuck up. When I’m giddy, I walk like a drunk, forcing him to grip my arm hard to pull me out of the way of other pedestrians. I hoped it would bruise so I could show the cops, but it didn’t. Damn those cold-weather layers. I plan on battering myself in time for my sonogram next week so all fingers will point to Henry.

We passed this guy Brice who used to stalk me, and his dog took a dump in the middle of the sidewalk. He acts like he doesn’t even know me now, I thought, as my wave and bright smile were met with a vacant stare. I looked at Henry in disdain. It’s all his fault. All of my stalkers retreated with their tails between their legs once Henry came barreling into my life, disrupting the natural order of things. (Gas station grocery shopping, inviting people over from chat rooms, blind dates, roller skating in the house. This list deserves its own entry. Or book.). I walked in silence for a few seconds, shedding invisible tears for stalkers past. Tossing a quick glance over at Henry, I felt a thousand pounds of hatred as I watched the way he scrunched up his shoulders to block the wind; the way he looked like a hoodlum with his hood pulled up tight around his fat face. Look at what he’s done to me, I thought, thinking of all the fun he’s driven out of my life. Maybe he can give me some STDs too, to ice the cake; make sure no one will ever want to stalk me again. No more Brices or Gothic Carls or Johnny Blazes. I’ve been tainted by domesticity. What stalker in their right mind would risk peeping into my window only to catch a glimpse of Henry traipsing around in his underwear? Who wants to stalk a boring quasi-housewife? (If you answered “I do” to that, my address is available upon request. I can also send pics of Henry’s bare legs to requested parties, as well.)

Luckily for Henry and the fate our unborn child, I distracted myself from further thoughts of running away by making zombie noises. The first one I did was the best, but then I couldn’t remember how I did it and I began to try too hard, which resulted in me sounding like I had emphysema. Still, I practiced on and on, relentless, because I’m no quitter. Plus, I wanted to test it out on unsuspecting passers-by.

“Was that it?”

“No.”

“Was that it?”

“No.”

Finally, Henry stopped answering me altogether, but it didn’t matter since we were now across the street from Pizzarella. I dusted off a spot on a retaining wall and made myself comfortable. Cracked my knuckles a few times, blew on my finger tips, punched Henry in the crotch — you know, all the things people do when they’re preparing to undergo some heavy surveillance.

While I was getting nestled, two young kids pedaled past on their bikes, so I hit them with my zombie sounds. And then I laughed about it for a few minutes and kept saying, “Hey Henry, remember when those kids rode by and I made zombie noises at them?” He wouldn’t answer; that happens sometimes. I guess it’s because he’s old.

As luck would have it, right when I got the camcorder all set up (you know, extracted from my pocket and turned on), a drunk old black man came from our right, slightly staggering with his head down. So I taped him, with Henry whispering, “Don’t. That’s not nice. Stop.” See what I mean? I am so oppressed. Too bad Henry then started to laugh. Mr. Fucking Humanitarian. This is the same guy who comes home from work and brags about seeing prostitutes fighting and a woman wearing white pants with a menstrual Rorschach pattern on her crotch.

But I’m cruel for videotaping a wino.

While I was fully immersed in this anthropological specimen, Henry jabbed my arm and pointed across the street. A delivery man had returned. I swung the camera in his direction and began squealing, “Oh my god it’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy!!” The butterflies were ricocheting all over my stomach as my laughter shook the camera, and then Henry said, “Oh wait. That’s not him. Jimmy had a white car.”

What, daddy? There’s no Santa?

I was crushed. Even more so than when I lost the Alternative Press “Number 1 Fan” essay contest last year. (I lost to some cunt in California who wrote something similar to this: “OMG I DON’T HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER BUT THANK GOD I HAVE AP BECAUSE YOU ARE LIKE AN OLDER BROTHER WHO SHOWS ME GOOD MUSIC.” How does that make her their number one fan? I would say that makes AP her number one imaginary friend. Fuck you and your non-brother, you fucking slut. Of course, I didn’t follow the rules and my essay was about three hundred words — give or take a few hundred — too long. In any case, I know that girl’s name and where she lives. And in one of my lowest and darkest moments, I even tried to find her on LiveJournal so I could flame her. There, I said it.)

You see, we don’t actually know what Jimmy looks like; just his car. Still, I really think I’m in love with him.

I really am, I think.

We waited a little longer, huddled together against the wind. “Sweetie, I don’t think he’s working tonight,” Henry said as he patted my head. You know it’s dire when he calls me sweetie.

But then the clouds parted and another delivery car pulled up.

“That’s not him. That’s the guy that delivered to us earlier,” Henry said with authority because he excels in all things pizza and vehicles. But while Henry was shooting me in the face with his smugness, he totally missed the delivery guy emerging from his car. Suddenly, one of his legs completely gave out, like it was made from putty, and he fell back against the side of his car. I laughed, and I mean laughed, with enough volume and zest for him to hear and look over at me. This made me laugh even harder and I’m going to admit something here because I’m honest: I peed. Yes, I pissed my fucking pants, right there, sitting on the wall. Erin urinated. Granted, it was the tiniest dribble, maybe the size of a gum ball at best. But it was enough to feel warm and uncomfortable.

Look, I’m pregnant, OK? This shit happens. And by shit I mean piss.

This was the final straw for Henry and he urged me to get up and start walking home with him. Also, he was pouting because he missed the stumbling delivery man.

“Wait,” I said. “Not until I know for sure. Give me change, I need to make a call.”

And so I walked a half of a block down to the gas station and called Pizzarella from the pay phone, because I’m proud to be part of the world’s 10% without a cell phone. While I dialed the number, Henry stood beside me but I pushed him away because I didn’t want to laugh. I needed privacy for this one.

A girl answered and, while my mouth was wide open, there was this ill-timed delay in my speech. I almost hung up but didn’t want to waste the fifty cents. (Fifty fucking cents to use the pay phone now? It’s been a long time since I had to use a pay phone. Jimmy, my man, you’re raping my pockets.)

I had it all rehearsed in my head. A simple, “Hello, is Jimmy working tonight?” would have sufficed. But instead, I ended up sounding like a head gear-wearing 12-year-old Bobcat Goldthwait making his first prank call at a slumber party.

“HI!!!! [pause to bite back laughter] IS JIMHAHAHAHAPFFFFFFFFT WORKING TONIGHT!?!?!?”

“Who?” She was clearly annoyed. I hoped it wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Jimmy.” I wasn’t laughing now, but rather trying to hold back more spurts of urine.You know how hard it is to manually shut yourself off once you’ve started!

And so I was informed that Jimmy was not working that night.

“THANKS” I yelled and slammed down the receiver. And then I laughed all the way to a stomach ache, while the urine burnt my thighs as it dried.

The next day, at exactly 2:20 PM, I was on my way to Pitt to schedule classes and I totally passed Jimmy and his white car on the road. I made a slight detour on the way home, parked across the street from Pizzarella, and finally captured him for a lifetime of pleasure on video.

HE’S HERE! HE’S HERE!! MAYA MADE ALL OF MY DREAMS COME TRUE! OMG OMG OMG! I can’t wait to ask Jonny Craig to sign his shirt and then say something predictably douchey to make me cry!

Oh Jonny, the places we will go.

Chooch was apparently SO PISSED (and confused) that there wasn’t a “Y.”

I was on a Draw Something hiatus for a bit but now I’m completely immersed in it, ignoring people at work, waking up in the middle of the night to play it again.

My friend Shallie drew this for me and I was so tickled that she I corporated Jonny Craig!

That scored her unlimited points with me.

I love Draw Something. Let’s play: ohhonestlyerin

Being a teenager and going to Kennywood for our school picnic day was A REALLY BIG DEAL. You had to go out and buy a new skanky outfit (I always got mine from Merry-Go-Round, RIP pleather ghetto couture). I mean, you HAD to. Going to Kennywood in last week’s fishnet tank, looking like a cheap hood rat? Unacceptable. How you gon’ hit a home run behind a picnic grove wrapped in a faded B.U.M. Equipment t-shirt?

What I like about Delgrosso’s is that you could step into your basic potato sack, strip your face of makeup and shear yourself a mullet and still look better than most of the people there on any given day. (The employees, however, are young and pleasantly scene. They all probably had at least three Jonny Craig songs on their iPods.) The park is surrounded by nary a big city, but rather rural villages, so imagine Mabel ripping the curlers from her hair and hollerin’, “Earl! I just finished warshin’ the clothes down at the crick, so get the Pinto off the cinder blocks ‘cuz we gon’ to Delgrosso’s!”

(Altoona & Johnstown are nearby, but I’m not sure that really counts.)

You’ll get your fair share of men in suspenders, is all I’m saying. And not the kinds worn with hipster irony, either, but real suspenders meant to hitch a pair of farmer’s pants over a sweat stained-NASCAR shirted beer belly.

So Sunday morning, I threw on some jeans and a black t-shirt, smeared on some light makeup, ran a brush through my hair for good measure, and I was confident that I could still pass for Prom Queen. Even though I’m pretty sure my sweater had a rolled-up Star Wars sticker adhered to it all day.

In the bowels of a Dizzy Dragon.

In front of us in line for the Tilt-a-Whirl was a man in a non-descript blue-gray t-shirt (it had a logo on the front; I’m guessing a local plumbing company), camo shorts and a matching camo bandanna. Knowing what you now know about the closets of Delgrosso’s average demographic, you would think that I wouldn’t even give this guy a second glance. But I did, and then a million more glances followed, which eventually turned into full-blown, open-mouthed stares.

I pulled Henry close. “Doesn’t he look like Jonny Craig?” I whispered on a rocking bed of giggles. Henry gave him a once-over that lasted approximately .00001 seconds and then smirked.

“Um, no,” he said and then went back to looking at maps on his phone. What? That’s what I imagine he’s looking at every time I catch him with his glasses lifted up, nose-to-phone. Map porn.

Seriously, I know this is going to be a real imagination-bender, but try to imagine a white trash(ier) Jonny Craig, stripped of his TOMS, knit hats and music career, wearing Crocs and pro-America t-shirts featuring flags, mountains and moose; now accelerate his age to somewhere around 40, give him an over-weight wife double his size in the aforementioned potato sack and two of the homeliest ginger pre-teen daughters you’ve seen this side of Appalachia.

Could. Not. Stop. Staring.

“This is Jonny Craig’s future unless I can save him!” I cried to Chooch as the Til-A-Whirl flung us around. Jonny Sr. and his Frumpy Missus had chosen the car across from us, so after every other revolution, we would be face-to-face with them. I know he is unhappily married because not once did I see him smile and what kind of person takes a twirl on the Tilt-a-Whirl without cracking a smile? Serial killers and discontent husbands with frumpy wives, that’s who. I inadvertently (OK, totally on purpose) made some hardcore eye contact with Jonny Sr. Suddenly, I was thankful that I at least chose to wear a t-shirt that was tight and low-cut, and not one of Henry’s billowy Faygo Red Pop smocks.

Wait. Why do I care what I’m wearing? I asked myself inside my head, about to have a complete existential crisis on the goddamn Tilt-a-Whirl.

OMG BECAUSE I HAD A CRUSH ON JONNY SR NOW. HE TOTALLY HAD THE SAME, CLOSE-SET WEASEL EYES AS MY JONNY CRAIG.

And thus began an afternoon of old school cat and mouse stalking. Thank god Delgrosso’s is such a small park!

When I saw him in line for the Crazy Mouse, I legit nearly tripped my own child as I sprinted over to snatch a spot behind him. Some other downtrodden family with eighteen box car kids got there before I did, which angered me but really it was probably for the best. I can’t promise for sure that I wouldn’t have done something stupid.

At first, Henry just thought my urgency in grabbing a spot in line was because I was that excited to ride the Crazy Mouse for the third time that afternoon, until he interpreted my throaty giggles to mean, “I am standing five feet away from today’s prey.” He actually left Chooch and me alone in line because he was that embarrassed. But I like to pretend it was because he didn’t want to impede on my game.

Henry runs the gamut of emotions when it comes to this stuff. He starts off mildly amused, then annoyed, maybe a little embarrassed, there’s always a plateau where he is completely worried and concerned, and then it usually ends with him angry.

Chooch and Henry rode the carousel together, while I sat my ass on a bench and took pictures. Every time their horses would buoyantly carry them around to the tune of Liberace’s music box collection, Henry would see me laughing and smiling, so he would laugh and smile, too, like we were having a true 1950’s TV family moment. When they rejoined me afterward, Henry said surly, “I couldn’t understand why you looked so happy until I was getting off the carousel and saw that that guy was on here with us too.” He was! He was sitting on one of the benches with his wife while their backwoods offspring were each dryhumping  a horse, and he totally fell asleep. I HOPE HE DREAMT OF ME.

 Later, Henry was buying us ice cream cones, and Jonny Sr came over to buy nachos! This is him BUYING NACHOS!

Henry kept trying to block me from taking his picture. “HE’S TOTALLY STARING AT YOU, OK?!” Henry hissed at me, running his hand through his non-ginger hair.

“Oh my god, really!?” I cried. “Do you think it’s because he likes me too!?”

“No! It’s because you’re being totally fucking obvious!” And then Henry sighed and said, “Whatever, do what you want.”

I’ll tell you what I wanted to do. I wanted to follow him around the park so he could watch me fellate my jimmied ice cream cone, but Henry deemed that it was time to go. So we all headed over to the park’s entrance when Chooch, bless his heart, started crying about wanting to go on one more ride before we left. So he and I hurriedly downed our cones and rode the kiddie free fall ride that’s next to the Wacky Worm. We rejoined Henry afterward, and I clutched his arm, begging him to let us take one final stroll through the park.

“For what?!” Henry spat.

“Um, I don’t know. I just want to get one more look. You know, before I say goodbye,” I stammered.

“You don’t have to walk through the park for what you want to do,” Henry sighed. I was confused about what he meant, until I turned toward the direction of the park entrance and THERE WAS JONNY SR, WALKING TOWARD US WITH HIS HOMELY WIFE! Instead of basking in his Elder Jonny Craigness while I had the opportunity, I clung to Henry’s arm and burrowed my face in his side, giggling and spitting all over his t-shirt. I was convinced that I was IN LOVE with this man and was about two more furtive glances away from actively seeking a way to go home with him. I really fucking disgust myself sometimes.

Still, this wasn’t enough. I needed to see him again. And again and again. So right before we left the park, I squeezed Henry’s arm and shouted, “Wait! You said you wanted to buy some of that potato salad to take home!” (Our friends Chris and Kari told us that Delgrosso’s is notorious for having the best potato salad of all time, and it’s a good thing I’m the authority on this and was able to confirm that yes, this is true. It was the best and I am right now sitting at my desk at work, remembering the creamy sex of it all.)

I know that Henry really wanted to turn around and go back for a tub of it, and probably he would have if the threat of Jonny Sr wasn’t lurking around like sleazy land mines of infidelity in the park. But instead, he was like, “Nah, maybe next time.” That ginger-hating asshole.

Many hours later, as we were getting ready for bed, I asked Henry if he thought Jonny Sr liked me back in a hyper-tone extremely reminiscent of a 7th grader seeing her crush at the mall and spending the next 6 hours interrogating her friends regarding every nuance of his eyebrow arch. (Not that I could relate to that.)

Henry put his pillow over his face and turned his back toward me.

I leave you with some Jonny Craig for your ears! And possibly a Henry Interview tomorrow!

I spent my entire Saturday moping around, looking at old pictures, and generally stewing in my own brand of self-inflicted malaise. But, I needed that: one full day of letting it all sink in and crying about it to the point of choking. Everyone needs a good cry, and my good cries kept getting getting truncated last week by work and things like, oh I don’t know, having to be a “mom.” So Saturday was devoted to remembering my cat Don, crying over his death, and also mourning other things that happened to come up in the wake of Don’s death, like the summer of 2002, which was apparently a better summer than I gave it credit for originally. (I was openly in love with Henry, according to my old LiveJournal entries!) I guess there were also a little bit of growing pains thrown in there too.

Moving on can feel like torture sometimes.

Meanwhile, Henry cleaned the house and brought me fro-yo with all my favorite weird Asian toppings. And cheesecake bits. He always insists on thinking I like cheesecake bits on my froyo. (For the record, I don’t, but I’ll eat it anyway.)

When I woke up on Mother’s Day, I thought to myself, “No. I’ll be damned if I’m sitting in this house for two days straight and pouting.” So I started looking for things to do, and somehow I ended up on the Delgrosso’s Amusement Park website where I saw that not only were they open for the season, but MOMS RIDE FREE ON MOTHER’S DAY. I couldn’t really think of anywhere else I’d rather be that day than on the Wacky Worm, miles away from heartache and Real Life. Goddammit, if happiness wasn’t going to come to me, then I’d just have to go to it. And it just so happened it was only 2 hours away.

Henry was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I ran in and collided into him, waving my phone in his face.

He smirked at me and said no. “Delgrosso’s is two hours from here! And the weather is shitty. I’m not driving all that way to get rained on.”

So I checked the weather in Altoona and it said it was going to be 70 degrees and mostly sunny with scattered showers. I waved this in his face, too.

He started to say no again, so I forced my eyes to rain salty droplets of despair and disappointment.

“After everything I’ve been through! I just want to be HAPPPPPPY!” I can only imagine how ugly and snot-bubbly that scene was.

Then I sent Chooch in to remind him that it was Mother’s Day and now mommy is crying and wants to kill herself, good job. This all started around 9:30AM. By 10:30, everyone was showered, dressed and in the Delgrosso-bound car.

Henry even let me listen to Emarosa and talk about Jonny Craig for the entire car ride. Like that’s anything new. (And like he even had a choice, Mother’s day or not.)

Right outside of Tipton, the small rural-esque town of Delgrosso’s, I checked the weather again. It had changed from sunny to 60 degrees with clouds of doom and gloom. I quickly hid my phone from Henry so he wouldn’t see and change his mind.

No, the clouds didn’t part and shit on us rays of golden sunlight, but the rain pretty much stayed away for our visit. And it was the best Mother’s Day of all time.

Henry wouldn’t ride the Wacky Worm at first, pretending that he had to pee and urging me and Chooch to go on without him while he killed time in the restroom. (Read: Cried about his SERVICE days of yore.) You might remember that he has a pretty staunch No Fun policy, especially when it comes to amusement parks and making girlfriends smile, but I think the last few weeks have made him feel bad for me, so he actually rode it one whole time without me having to cause a scene!

“This ain’t gon’ muss up my luscious McNichol locks, is it?”

I kept turning around in my seat to better cajole Henry into putting his arms up and holler like a madperson (you know, like me), but all he would do was smirk and give me that, “Don’t be a fool” look that I know so well. But that smirk kept twisting upward into a smile and I KNEW he was enjoying his spin inside that caterpillar’s caboose.

The best part was that Chooch insisted on sitting on by himself, and I didn’t want to sit with Henry, so we all sat separately. Henry was so angry about this; I guess he had banked on Chooch sitting with him to make him look less of a child roller coaster predator.

“For some reason, they put on the brakes right before it goes down the hill,” I pointed out to Henry. “They don’t do that at the Butler County Fair.”

“Yeah, because they don’t care about SAFETY about the fair,” Henry explained in his Dad Voice.

Or! The Mexican carnies just want us to have more fun.

One go-around was enough for the old man and his brittle bones, so he stood by the fence with all the other proud parents for all of our other wormy journeys.

And we finally got the front seat! Oh my god, Chooch and I were so obnoxious about it too. I kept shouting, “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS OUR FIRST TIME IN THE FRONT SEAT AFTER TWO YEARS OF RIDING THE WACKY WORM!” and then Chooch would be all, “It’s not really that big of a deal.” But I was practically crying with joy as I peered at the sky through the caterpillar’s antennae when it began its ascent up the first hill. There is a metaphor in here somewhere.

Something about a metamorphosis.

It’s the little things.

View from the top.

So much more to come.

…from Chooch and me on the Wacky Worm! This was the best Mother’s Day I’ve ever had (which isn’t hard to accomplish considering all of my other ones are filed under Epic Fail: Holiday Edition)!

Me and my other kid, Marcy. This was not taken on the Wacky Worm.

People on Facebook keep posting a link to an article about “Could Your Child Be a Psychopath?” or something similar, but I refuse to click on it because I’m afraid it’s about my own kid.

Chooch was having a really emotional, angry night. He oscillated between being hyperactively fidgety to over-sensitive and touchy to blood-curdlingly fearsome. At one point, he wailed, “You used to be my best mom, but now you’re just the WORST!” before running away from Henry’s soothing pleas to calm down.

I heard him come out of his bedroom long enough to bellow, “STOP TALKING TO ME! I’M STRESSED OUT!” and then he slammed his door.

Boy. That was really great.

He’s not a psychopath. I know. However, he is highly theatrical with a loose grip on his emotions. And then he calmed down and went to bed.

But I still won’t click on that link.

I spent most of this morning re-living 2002 via my LiveJournal. I know it probably sounds like I’m torturing myself, but when I’m in mourning, I like to surround myself with nostalgic effects. Painful as it might be, it’s also comforting to remember the way things were when certain people/pets were still around.

While reading entries from that summer, I found this excerpt which talked about how confused Don and Speck (née Nicotina) were when Henry’s kids (Blake and Robbie) began staying at our house on weekends.

Yes, I’m still sad. Maybe a little morose. I still have crying jags. But I’m functioning. I’m not crying at work (anymore, at least). I know that once we bury Don, I’ll be able to find that peace that I need. (His burial was supposed to be yesterday but was postponed until next week.)

I forgot how much I enjoyed the summer of 2002, and how openly in love with with Henry I was. (Seriously, almost every LJ post went on about it! I was so gross back then.) But then I read an entry about how my rapist co-worker at Weiss Meats called me a fucking cunt and all my boss did was say, “Dean, don’t call the girl names” and then pinched my cheek and said, “See how I take care of you?” in a baby-talk voice and suddenly I was all enraged and remembered that the summer of 2002 couldn’t have been THAT great if I was still working at that hell hole.

The only good thing that came out of that place was meeting Henry.

Don’t worry. I’ll shake this off in time and be right back to being an obnoxiously obscene bitch. And then you’ll miss Grieving Erin.

Earlier at work, Lee said to me, “How pissed would you be if Chooch woke up on Mother’s Day and said, ‘I wish we could have two Father’s Days instead’?”

“I would be so pissed!” I cried. “I’d pack a bag and leave, sleep in my car if I had to.”

Amber chimed in to tell Lee to stop being mean to me, and he defensively said, “I’m not being mean! Chooch just likes Henry better!”

I was already starting to bristle, but then Lee added, “It’s because Henry is a better roller skater” and then I almost died of boiling fury.

Henry, Henry, Henry!

***

In “I Have a Child” news, Chooch has been really been a literate whiz these last few months. His teacher has stopped to tell us multiple times about how much he’s advanced with reading this year and it definitely shows at home. He wants to read EVERYTHING. When Bill, Jessi and Tammy were here for his birthday weekend, they took him to the Pittsburgh Comicon and he came home with several comic books, which he has been devouring ever since.

I can’t even tell you how happy this makes me. He’s already more advanced than Henry!

This morning, I’ve been skimming old LiveJournal posts from 2003 and smiling (albeit bittersweetly) at all the times my cats came up. (I’m still a crazy cat lady, but I was even more of a crazy cat lady before Chooch was born; now I’m maternally obligated to keep the ratio of child : cat blog entries tipped in Chooch’s favor.) I read one post about being busted at my job while calling home and leaving my cats a message on the answering machine, but there was one which made me smile, laugh and cry simultaneously because it involves classic Henry belittling and a Don shout out, so I am sharing it here on my blog. Because this is how I cope. It’s from September 1, 2003.

***
I just asked Henry who his first kiss was. He said her name was Anita. This was instantly hilarious for me. I said, “Was her last name Life? Anita Life? Because if she was kissing you, she must need a life!” I couldn’t stop laughing for a good five minutes.

Henry had his face buried in a pillow and I asked him if he was crying. He said, “No, I’m still trying to figure out what was so funny about that.

” I decided this would make a good number for my stand up routine and he said, “Yeah it’ll be great…if everyone in the audience is you.”

I’m putting this in my journal now because I’ve been kicked out of the bedroom. I can’t stop laughing. Anita Life. Haha.

HAHA.

We bought this stuff called BubbleNip for the cats. It’s just a bottle of bubbles with a wand, like normal, but then it somehow has catnip in it as well.

We brought the fan downstairs and started blowing mass amounts of it all over the house. The cats were going crazy. But not in an excited, let’s-play-with-this kind of way. They actually looked highly pissed off, and the only reason they were chasing the bubbles is because the just desperately wanted to put an end to it so they could relax and enjoy staring at the walls for the rest of the evening. Don hated it the most. He would look so happy once all the bubbles would disappear, and he would go lay down. Then I would start blowing more and he would reluctantly get back up again. They were hating it so bad.

Continuing the effort to stay posi and think happy thoughts, I am reposting this tale about last year’s visit to Kennywood. Because summer is upon us and that is reason enough to smile. I’m about to bust out  my Brady Bunch soundtrack in a hot minute and no I don’t care how many scene points I just relinquished by telling the Internet that I own such auditory garbaggio.

****

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

Janna met us there, and I think she purposely was a little late because she knew the first ride we’d go on was Garfield’s Nightmare, which used to be cool when Garfield had nothing to do with it. Now it’s just this commercial monstrosity that makes me cry tears of nostalgia. Too bad Janna ended up taking Chooch on it twice in a row at the end of the night when Henry and I were in line for the Skyrocket.

Building up a resistance to whiplash.

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

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

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

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

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

The Saddest Father

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

And then Janna, who still had some of her cone left, walked right past the ride attendant and joined us on the bench. This made me laugh even harder, Janna smuggling in an ice cream, and I was trying to smother my laughter into Henry’s arm. He kept shrugging me off him and the other people waiting for the train started to wonder if maybe I had a medical condition because I was crying at this point. Janna sat there, enjoying the rest of her ice cream, waiting for the train.

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

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

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

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

Nah.

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

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

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

Things Henry hated that day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, she’s so stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

$2 down the drain.

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

While Chooch was in school on Monday, I took advantage of Henry’s day off (rarely happens) by making him go to the mall with me. We went to Century III, which is the mall I practically lived at growing up (read: where I stalked Scott Dambaugh). It’s been quite a few years since I actually walked around in there and while I knew (based on the crumbling parking lot alone; it reminds me of when everything falls apart in The Neverending Story) that it had become totally run down over the past decade, nothing could have actually prepared me for the commercial ghost town it actually is. As if I wasn’t depressed enough, now I had to walk around past imaginary tumbleweeds, exclaiming, “Well, I guess I’m not going to get coffee at Gloria Jeans!” “OMG, et tu Orange Julius!?” Basically, the only stores left are PacSun facsimiles, stores that outfit teenage girls in the greatest hits of suburban skanks, and Champs*. The lone remaining book store is now a used book store.

(*I used to hang out at Champs ALL THE TIME in 10th grade because I had the hugest crush on Will, one of the hottest mall employees of all time. One time, I was all sad because my boyfriend had broken up with me and Will said, “Here, call someone who cares” but instead of the dick-move of placing a quarter in my palm, he slipped me a piece of paper WITH HIS PHONE NUMBER ON IT. God, he was so hot. I mean, nice.)

The pet store isn’t even there anymore! Now there’s local high school art on display in that area. I don’t want to look at shitty art, I want to pet a motherfucking kitten, OKAY Century III Mall!?

There’s a good Mexican restaurant in there though. Luckily, it can be accessed from the outside so you don’t have to actually inside the wasteland.

That was one of the worst nostalgia-drunken stumbles down memory lane of all time.

At least we got to walk through Macy’s men’s department, where I picked out ironic outfits for Henry’s imaginary makeover. And I got to use the Hot Topic gift card that Barb gave me at Chooch’s party, so that was a nice little pick me up.

Moustache Therapy!

We ate lunch at Lotus Garden, where I openly (and awkwardly) wept about Don’s death, learned I hate chop suey, and marveled at the exorbitantly-priced 1960’s cocktail list. I expect those prices at late shift happy hours downtown, not at a Chinese restaurant in the South Hills.

Even though I didn’t like my food (and really, I had no appetite anyway so what did it matter), the ambiance made up for it.

My bean cake soup was so good, but I couldn’t even finish that. Chooch, the pickiest eater of all time, actually stole it off me when I reheated it for dinner; he ate every last piece of tofu, snap peas, mushrooms and water chestnuts. EVEN THE SCALLIONS, which tells me he wasn’t born with my prominent aversion to crunchy vegetables in soft food/soup.

Zombie Barf Night Cap

The best thing about Henry and Chooch is that, unlike the people who always say they are there for you until you actually need them and then they conveniently ignore your texts and blow off plans, these two are always there for me. Couldn’t do this without them and my real friends.

While it would be a lot easier to stay laying in the fetal position on the couch, weeping about how unfair life is, I’m just too old to succumb to that emo shit anymore. Who WANTS to feel this way, really? The only thing I can do, while still giving myself time to grieve the loss of my pudgy buddy Don, is to get out and remember the things that I still have that make me happy. Usually, Henry groans every year around this time when I ask him to do this, but last night he said, “Fine” in a good-natured tone when I asked, “Can we drive past Kennywood?” I don’t know why I get such a thrill doing these annual pre-season Kennywood drive-bys; you can barely even see anything from the road, but still – even the slimmest glimpse is enough to put that summertime jolt in my heart.

So, I still have that.

And I also have awesome friends like Kara who get me out of the house on my first morning alone since it happened* and treat me to a breakfast of my favorite cupcakes in all of Pittsburgh. I swear to god, I don’t know where I would be right now without Henry, Chooch and all of my friends.

So, I still got that, too.

(*I came home from taking Chooch to school and literally had this stomach-dropping moment of “Now what?” Typically, no matter where I am in the house in the mornings, Don would be there, sitting on the keyboard and making it impossible to write on my blog, keeping my lap warm while I catch up on CW shows and then acting pissed when I get off the couch. Who’s going to do that now? Certainly not Marcy’s crabby ass.)

How can anyone be sad in a bakery with a paper lantern ceiling? Unless you know someone who had Death by Paper Lantern written on their autopsy report.

And how can you be sad while watching a kid like Hammy Pants inhaling all that sugar? Unless you had a kid who ran away from home and joined a Sugar Cult.

Fuck yeah, grapefruit cupcake!

I listened to “Sussudio” on the way home and that made me feel happy too.

So, I still got Phil Collins.

Before any of this recent tragedy struck, I had commissioned my lovely Etsy’s Darkside Teammate Maya to fashion me a Jonny Craig doll. She has been sending me progress shots since last Friday, and I’m not kidding when I say it was one of the few times I smiled through my tears.

Today, she sent me pictures of the completed Jonny doll and my heart literally burst. Thank you, Maya, for contributing to the Life Goes On psychic fund.

Sometimes we all just need a little reminder that it’s OK to move on. No matter how wrong it feels. But if it’s OK, I’m going to cry about it just a little more. Because even with all the reminders of good things in my life, I still got a little bit of sadness left in me.

Sunday was a continuation of Keep Busy, Keep Distracted. I take any kind of loss hard, but when it’s a pet, it’s on a whole new level. I’m not the type that can be sad for a day and move on. I’ve been jittery, beyond emotional, bellyaching over nostalgia.

All I can hear is that vet saying, “He’s gone” like a record being played at 16 RPM and then wondering who’s going to sit on my lap and soak up my tears when I become ridiculously and abnormally emotional watching Desperate Housewives and Vampire Diaries.

Certainly not Marcy.

After a day spent at the park playing wiffle ball and me ducking from a frisbee, I conned Henry into finally turning off the road on the way home from Target so we could finally check out the Beth Abraham Cemetery that I always admire from the car. He didn’t seem too thrilled about it, but Chooch began chirping him from the backseat and that combined with my impromptu sobbing finally did him in.

Of course, he wound up getting the car stuck. The road eventually fades away to weeds and maintenance refuse, leaving little to no room to turn around. Still, he tried it anyway (anything for the chance to flex his professional driver muscles) but all that did was make our tires bounce off the curb like an oversized bumper car. After swearing at me and telling me over and over again that he hates me, he threw the car in reverse and backed the whole way out.

“Oh, please park in that little lot there so we can get out for a minute,” I pleaded. What good is a cemetery drive through if you can’t get out and plant your feet on the decrepit, moss-covered pathways?

Henry was not happy about this either, but I had Chooch on my side, so Henry swung the car angrily into the tiny lot next to the cemetery office, and Chooch and I happily took off.

Think what you want about our past times, but the truth is that cemeteries are the only places outside of Warped Tour where I feel at peace. Why is it that other people can take solace in church but then I’m crucified for finding my own peace in a plot of land which is, hello, CONNECTED TO THE CHURCH. It makes no sense to me that there people out there who think I’m Satanic for this, or endangering my child. How am I endangering him? For giving him a healthy and realistic outlook on death? For not making up some goddamn fairy tale?

The fact of the matter is that Chooch and I have some of our best conversations in cemeteries.

And that includes when he was still in utero. This time we talked about the Jewish tradition of leaving stones on the graves.

I let him add one to a bare headstone, but only after he said a few nice words to the person buried there.

Henry and I both have the day off work, since we originally were technically supposed to be coming home from Philly today. I’m glad he’s home, because I can’t bear the thought of being alone in the house just yet.

The last five months have taught me that I love animals too hard and I should probably never get another pet again. It’s just too much on my heart.