Friday morning, Chooch had to follow me around the house just to have a conversation with me. Poor kid. But he knows that mommy is trying to win, you guys. So he doesn’t complain too much. Besides, he’s known me for 6 years. If he doesn’t know by now that his mom isn’t normal, then I want a refund because this kid’s defective. And then Henry drove me to work, so since I missed all those crucial steps walking to the trolley station, I made Henry drop me off a retardedly far-away distance from the Law Firm so I could try and make up for some of that. There was a time when I would have been concerned about getting sweaty before work. But then I got this fucking pedometer.

Toward the end of the night, my sanity suffered a schism and I just lost it, completely cracked up alone to the point of tears, and then I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything other than an apple, almonds and air all day. Amber² tried to give me an apple but I turned it down because:

1. It was green
2. The last time I ate two apples back-to-back, I got sick
3. It was green

Henry and Chooch met me downtown after work that night because Chooch wanted to see some furries at Anthrocon; thanks to all the furry-chasing that day, I accumulated 23,000 without even trying,  because in addition to walking to and from the furries, we also had to walk home from the trolley stop. The downside to this was that it was after 10:00PM and I had still barely eaten. I wanted to get something to eat downtown, but Henry kept saying, “There’s nowhere down here to eat!”

Oh. OK.

I guess all those places we passed walking down Liberty Avenue were just selling food-scented oxygen to taunt all the hobos and psychotic girls with walking obsessions.

There’s an Eat n Park down the street from our house, so Henry said we could just eat there since we have to walk right past it after getting off the trolley. By this point, Henry’s face was looking like a fine protein substitute, but I followed him into Eat n Park anyway, where I then ended up sitting for an embarrassingly unacceptable amount of time waiting for one of their lethargic waitresses to take our drink order. Henry knew it was coming, he had to have known, after 11 years of being my lesser half. In a terse, yet highly enraged tone, I demanded that he hand over the house keys, because it was no longer humanly possible for me to sit there another minute without food in my face.

“Please don’t do this,” he begged. “Oh god, not here, please not here.” But then I flew off the handle about how he was trying to control me (three days later, I can now see the absurdity in that claim) so he quietly handed me the keys before everyone in the restaurant became privy to the dysfunction at table 15 and I stormed off, marching like a strung out maniac the whole way home, where I made a sloppy and highly uninspired cheese sandwich which I ate so fast I didn’t even taste it, not even the eight times I choked on it. Then I collapsed into bed and was asleep before Chooch and Henry even came home.  I can’t remember the last time I went to bed before 11:00PM, but I can guarantee it would have had something to do with a fever and/or rufies in my drink. So that is how exhausted I was.

***

I had been anxiously awaiting Day 6 all week because that was the day I was going to hit 30,000 steps.

That morning in bed, Henry reminded me what a bitch I was the night before and said that this walking challenge was probably going to break us up. Then when he went to lovingly spoon me (it happens sometimes), he pulled back and said, “Oh my god, did you sleep with your pedometer on?” after feeling it on the waistband of my pajama shorts.

“Um yeah. What if I had to get up to pee?!” I exclaimed defensively.

“I can’t be with you right now,” he mumbled and got out of bed.

Anyway, what a perfect day it was! Henry and Chooch were gone for most of it, opting to help our Castle Blood friends move stuff to their new location (and by that I mean Henry helped while Chooch drove everyone crazy, I’m sure). I went straight to my favorite cemetery and basically did my usual, pre-walking challenge routine and racked up 10,000 steps by noon. It was really hot out there, which I love, but I figured I should go home and maybe rest for a little bit, since I literally had the rest of the day to do nothing but walk. Honestly, when people at work asked me what I was doing that weekend, I looked at them like they were stupid and said, “Uh, walking.” The standard response to that was a sarcastic, “Oh yeah. Duh.”

I am going to be the loneliest person at the Law Firm by the time this challenge is over.

After about two hours of sporadic and intense pacing around the house while listening to a playlist of Drake and The Weeknd (I pace so hard that it actually counts as aerobic steps), I decided to take my show onto the streets of Brookline. Talked to Christina for a few minutes while I power-walked, and she said she was glad I decided to stop hating her just in time for her to come to my funeral. She knows me way too well.

It was even hotter by then, and of course I picked the parts of town with the steepest hills because I’m a sado-masochist. I murdered the pavement until the number on my pedometer seemed adequate, and then made my way back home. This is where things got weird: I was feeling a little spacey by the time I got to my house, so I decided to sit down on my front steps for a little bit before entering  my un-air-conditioned house. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on my front porch. I’m not sure if I fell asleep or passed out, and there was ringing in my ears, but yay—20,000 steps!

I went inside and drank lots of water. Then I laid silently on the couch for awhile, staring at the ceiling.

Henry and Chooch came home around 7:00PM with dinner. (That’s how you know I’m totally preoccupied with this—I allowed Henry to be apart from me for nine and a half hours on a weekend and not once did I call him and demand him to drop everything and come back to me. I mean, not that I have ever done that. Shit, I’m not that kind of a girl.) At the sight of me pacing, the phrase, “You’re a fucking idiot” came out of Henry’s mouth 87 different ways. Later that night, Chooch was being a royal backseat brat on the way home from Target, so I had Henry pull over about a mile away from home and I walked the rest of the way. Thanks for the motivation, son.

I was so close to reaching 30,000 by the time Chooch went to bed that night, but Henry said he refused to watch Pretty Little Liars with me if I was pacing. So I actually had to be still for a little while. As soon as it was over though, I back to moving frenetically until the numbers of my pedometer finally flipped to 30,000. Henry made me sit down for the last 55 minutes of the night because I was “making [him] nervous.”

I asked Henry if he thought I would lose any weight doing this and he muttered, “Yeah, while you’re in the hospital.”

My grand total that day, thanks to Henry keeping me down, was 30,139. It proved that my ultimate goal of 50,000 might be slightly out of my reach, though. BUT I WILL STILL TRY.

MAYBE.

***

 We were at Kennywood for Day 7 and I was absolutely panic-stricken that I wouldn’t continue my 20,000 streak. That’s really all I’m asking. Henry rejected my plan to “get up super early” and walk around the cemetery for 10,000 steps pre-Kennywood, because he didn’t want me to be a bitch that day.

Do you know how excruciating it is to stand in a line for a ride when your body is not used to being at rest? Oh my god, I had the shakes. I did mini-laps whenever I could, since my Kennywood crew spent so much time milling about and strolling.

STROLLING.

On every ride, I would pat down my right side and scream, “MY PEDOMETER!” before realizing it was still there. On some rides, I even left it in the “Leave At Your Own Risk” box with everyone else’s keys, phones, and glasses. My precious pedometer.

Even during a slight drama-laden glitch in the day, I heard T-Pain’s vocoder-voice whisper in my ear, “Walk it out.” And so I did, 20,053 times.

***

Yesterday, Day 8, I came close to failing. I didn’t have a chance to do much before work, so I didn’t get there with my usual 10,000-11,000 like I had been doing last week.  So once all the day shift people left, I just started doing laps around the department under the ruse of  “Oh, I just want to use the other scanner that’s the furthest from where I sit.” I think my fellow late-shift co-workers  saw right through my subterfuge though, because they all know I’m going insane over this. When people at work ask me questions about my step-collecting, I can hear myself answering in this crazed, hyper voice, but I can’t make it stop.

At one point during the night, Carey asked me if I my computer was running slow.

“No,” I answered. “You know why? Because I walk so fast.”

“Asshole,” she mumbled from her office.

That night, I had to put on my professional walking attire and hit the streets of Brookline. I really didn’t want to because Brookline sucks at night (also see Brookline sucking during: the day, dusk, sunrise, Christmas morning, Memorial Day, summer, winter, fall, spring, your grandma’s cat’s birthday, everyday) but I powered on past loitering teenagers at the heckle-ready, drunk people staggering along the Boulevard’s sidewalk, and someone with a smoker’s voice screaming through his phone at his mom that he was on his way home so shut the fuck up, and when I turned around, I discovered it was actually a boy somewhere between 10 and 12 and not actually my old meth-addict neighbor Robin.

I will only stay on the main drag of Brookline at night, which is still scary in spite of all the street lights and constant witnesses (i.e. traffic), so I still needed about 4,000 more steps when I returned home, which meant it was Master Chef Pacing Time.

Henry came out of the kitchen and said, “Wait….now you’re holding weights above your head while you pace?”

“I wanted to make it harder,” I panted.

Henry sat on the couch for the first 5 minutes, before saying, “I can’t watch this anymore,” and retreating to bed. I made it to 20,000 with 30 minutes left to the day. This shit is not getting any easier.

The “I’m Trying To Enjoy This Pizza, It Might Be My Only Father’s Day Treat, Get the Phone Out of My Grill” frown.

Happy Father’s Day! Now go listen to this song and make more babies!

We’re making our annual Father’s Day trek to Kennywood with Blake, Henry’s mom, Laura and Mike. The Handas might be out there too so I’m going to pretend I have the whitest, honkiest hip hop crew today.

And I have a Law Firm Walking Challenge update, so check back! Or not!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

All this pedometer-checking has me tight-roping on the edge of sanity.

But it’s OK. I got this.

(Also? Team Wheelchair Jimmy 4lyfe. Fuck a Chris Brown.)

I first learned about furries in July of 2004. I had just been forced to go to the Regatta with my friend Stacey, and as if that wasn’t enough, she then forced me to pose for a picture with the Froggy radio station mascot, which somehow in mind was the perfect segueway into thinking about filming mascot porn. I mentioned that on my LiveJournal entry about the Regatta, and someone was quick to tell me that there was actually already such a thing, and it was called “being furry.”

You can imagine how excited I am that my quaint city hosts the largest convention for furries each year, the Anthrocon. It is definitely one of the perks of working downtown, that’s for sure. I was practically salivating to take my half-hour break on Thursday: hunting furries and racking up steps on the pedometer? That’s the dream. Some of my co-workers were lamenting the fact that they had not seen any of these pseudo-mythological creatures when they were out, and I said, “Well, that’s because you have to go to them.” So that is what I did. I power-walked straight into the heart of Furryville: the Westin Convention Center. Halfway there, I began passing seemingly normal people, until they’d turn around and wave a bushy tail at me. The closer I got, the more full-costumed furries I saw. Waiting to cross the street to the Westin, I noticed that the man next to me was wearing an Anthrocon badge, so I started chatting him up to learn the proper etiquette of approaching furries. I had only ever admired from afar in the past, usually from the car window, but I wanted to get all up in it this year, now that I had easy access thanks to my job.

My new friend told me that they preferred to be asked for a picture first, but that most would be happy to oblige. He told me to remember that the masks gave them tunnel-vision, so if it seemed like they were ignoring me, they probably just couldn’t see me. He was very helpful, and as we parted ways, he said in competing gay and nerd dialects, “If you see a walrus later, that will be me!”

I talked to these guys briefly. How could I resist a skunk in scene-kid shades? Anyway, I asked the one in the middle how they got into the furry phenomenon; he just shrugged and gave me a muffled, “The Internet?” Whiskey over there refused to break character. He just kept cocking his head and resting it on his hands. So fucking adorable, I couldn’t stand it.

I got free shrugs AND a high-five from this guy!

Then I saw a furry in a wheelchair but he was moving too fast for me to catch him. When I got back to work, Barb said, “I love how you don’t know where anything is downtown, but you can find the furries.” Well, yeah! Us weirdos will always find each other.

I haven’t dragged Glenn‘s name through the mud in awhile, so I did this later that night. I was really feeling festively furry, obviously.

Yesterday, I went back out with Amber², who had been trying fruitlessly to spot a furry the day before. There is just nothing like walking down the street and getting a high-five from a bear in a fedora. This time, we went inside the Westin and hung out in the lobby for awhile, where we were met with a panoply of anthropomorphic aficionados. It was absolutely thrilling.

We were in the revolving door with this furry businessman poser, who was shouting so ridiculously loud into his cell phone, that I asked Amber² if she thought he was for real. She said yes, that he was just a douchey loud mouth, but I kind of think he was talking on a Fisher Price cell phone and it was all a part of his furred character.

My goal was to get one of them to pose with my Jonny Craig doll. I even carried him in a little purse so Amber² wouldn’t be embarrassed (because you know, a girl carrying a doll is SO WEIRD when there are people in full mascot-attire skipping around the streets of Pittsburgh). The last time I took Jonny out for a downtown stroll, I straight cradled him in my arms. Ask Carey, she wasn’t embarrassed at all.

Anyway, I picked this particular furry because hello, perfect coloring! He’s practically the furry Jonny Craig. So I prefaced my request with, “This might sound kind of weird…” Yes, because that is the only weird part of this whole picture. Having a furry hold my Jonny doll was absolutely exhilarating, I can’t even describe the joy I felt.

My favorites are the ones who dress their furry personae. A bathrobe and eye mask? Fuck yes.

I don’t know who the human is in this picture.

“Will you hold my doll for a picture?” I asked, before noticing the dino’s digit-deficient paws. “Can you hold it?” I added. He gave an unsure nod and then fumbled for Jonny. Oh, furries. We had to go upstairs from the lobby to get his dude’s picture, that is how dedicated Amber² and I are at furry-stalking.

Pittsburgh, for as much trash-talking I do, is actually overwhelmingly accommodating to the furries, which is why they keep coming back here. Most of the restaurants near the Westin had up signs boasting their furry-friendliness, and there is even a place that serves them food in dog bowls. How fucking adorable is that? (Seriously, click that link and read the story; it’s heartwarming.)

When I got back to the office, I was talking to my co-worker Colleen and she was telling me about this walrus she saw two years ago that was dressed to the nines in a tuxedo with tails, a tophat and a monocle, and was literally holding court in the middle of the Westin. I told her about the guy I talked to yesterday and she exclaimed, “What if it was the same guy!?” and a passing-by co-worker added, “Wow Erin, you might have met a celebrity furry!” and maybe that sounds stupid to you, but I was totally excited at the prospect.

Meanwhile, Chooch was all bent out of shape that I got to see furries and he didn’t, so he and Henry ended up taking the trolley downtown while I was at work last night. Anything for the bitchbaby! But seriously, Chooch is just completely enchanted by these guys, as any child would be I imagine. Henry told me that they saw a (not skinny) furry who was completely nude except for her bikini bottoms and body paint and that Chooch couldn’t stop laughing about it the whole time. It was nearly two hours later by the time I met up with them and the first thing Chooch said was, “Did you read Daddy’s text about the nude lady?” and then died laughing all over again.

Oh, the things the city will show a kid.

We walked back down to the Westin and hung out with some more furries before heading home.

This guy was in full character, scratching behind his ears and whimpering to Chooch, who just stood there with a smile mixed with amusement and confusion.

My flash didn’t go off for this picture, but it was some dragon/bat type thing that let Chooch hold his dead plush fish.

I know there are people who do this for the kink of it, and some of the people behind the fur perhaps have some sort of neurological malfunction, but I have to imagine that a lot of people do this because maybe they’re introverts, overlooked at their jobs, and this is their chance to have some attention and just let go of their insecurities. And how can you hate on that? I think it’s OK to not understand how a person falls into this incredibly fascinating (and yes, weird) lifestyle, but making fun of it is kind of “so 2006” isn’t it?

Maybe some of their fur rubbed off on me, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to try and get into their convention next year. Possibly in costume. Look, strapping on a tail and giving blow jobs isn’t exactly beneath me, but I really just want to know what goes on inside that convention! I want to be furry for a day, OK? Purely for research. Don’t judge me.

I almost never read the emails we get from the Firm; they’re usually just missives to make me feel like a guilty asshole for not ever giving blood.

So if not for Amber asking me a few weeks ago if I wanted to join her team, I’d have no idea why half the department is scurrying around with pedometers clipped to their waistbands. We then picked the new Amber (Amber² herein) and Carey to round out our team, which Amber named Team Apple.

(First, she wanted me to name it, but then quickly added, “And nothing with Jonny Craig in it!!” I guess at that point she realized I’d be at a loss, so she made an executive decision. Probably a really smart idea.)

Our pedometers arrived a week before the competition officially started and Nina, bless her heart, saw me struggling to open mine. “Here, let me do that for you, buddy,” she said and proceeded to put the whole thing together for me, and then even programmed it for me.

Thank god for Nina!

Amber and I immediately started wearing ours and it was really fun to take the long way around the department in order to rack up more steps. One night last week, I begged Carey to take the steps with me, instead of the elevator.

“For what?” she asked, probably thinking that her constant loop of Adele made her miss a fire alarm.

“To get extra steps!” I snapped.

“You do realize this challenge hasn’t started yet, right?” she said, looking seriously concerned. “I mean, I didn’t even take my pedometer out of the package yet.”

“It’s called TRAINING, Carey!” I yelled in that sweet self-righteous way I’m known to do. Look—I’m the only fat one on our team. My only goal at that point was to not bring the rest of them down.

How humiliating.

We took the steps that night. It was scary, yet exhilarating in a running-from-Michael-Myers-in-a-hospital-stairwell kind of way.

****

The Challenge officially started this past Monday. Amber and I were totally stoked about it, and she even made a group event on Facebook for us to do laps around the building at precisely 3PM, at which time Amber² and Carey were conveniently MISSING. So Amber and I went out alone. I even went back out later that night and did laps IN THE RAIN, that’s how many shits I give about Team Apple.

Meanwhile, Carey had accumulated approximately 1,000 steps by that afternoon and was seemingly proud of this.

“What the fuck, Carey?” I exclaimed. “Are you wheeling yourself around!?” And that’s when I really began noticing that she doesn’t actually walk, she meanders, and now I picture sleepy Southern scenes scrolling alongside of her, weeping willows and plantations, Kevin Spacey in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. (What? That’s all I know about the South.)

And then our Team Leader Amber didn’t even have her pedometer! She left it at her parents’ house – TWO HOURS AWAY! She had them overnight it to her and had the foresight to use her iPod in the meantime. Because she actually cares about our team, Carey!

Amber² at some point realized that she had her pedometer set up wrong and it was resetting itself at noon. I pretty much knew going into this that our team didn’t stand a chance, not with all the pseudo-professional athletes just in our department alone, but after Day One, whatever hope remained had peaced out.

****

Carey didn’t come into work until 4PM on Day Two. Amber asked me if I knew where she was; I shrugged and said, “Probably not walking.”

Meanwhile, Amber² had concocted some lame excuse about how she didn’t do any walking after work because “Dance Moms” was on. I haven’t been very mean to her about this though because she is still kind of new to our crazy department, but I mean come on – Dance Moms would want her to walk her ass off.

I wound up with a little over 15,000 steps for day one. That seemed pretty good to me. But on Day Two, I didn’t get much of a chance to collect a lot of steps before work, so that night after Chooch and Henry went to sleep, I decided to walk in place while watching Master Chef. Walking in place then turned into pacing, and that then morphed into maniacal marching, back and forth, side-stepping, sometimes even in figure 8s. It was like walking on the longest, most retarded broken tread mill.

My cat Marcy was not amused and gave me menacing glares from her orange chair which said, “SIT THE FUCK DOWN, BITCH.”

90 minutes later, I had surpassed 20,000 steps. It wasn’t even really my goal, but my recessive OCD reared its ugly head and I became absolutely obsessed with the numbers and I’d promise myself things like, “Just round it up to 17,000 and you can be done.” And then 17,000 became 18,000. 18,000 became 19,000. 19,000 became I HAVE TO GET 20,000 BEFORE MIDNIGHT OR THE WORLD WILL IMPLODE!

I was marching so hard that I was glazed in sweat and every step had actually registered as a cardio step. I’m pretty sure I burned more calories that day than I took in. BECAUSE I AM SUCH A SMARTIE.

It’s just that competition is my third favorite c-word. I can’t do anything half-assed. Do I need to remind everyone about Blogathon? Or that fucking Halloween decorating contest last year at work and how it completely consumed my life? I was literally thinking like a serial killer for 31 days. (I know, I know—way to low-ball that number, Erin Rachelle Kelly.) As soon as I told Henry about this challenge, he murmured something along the lines of, “Great, this isn’t going to fuck up my life at all. You’re probably going to end up in the hospital. Now all your co-workers will find out how much of a competitive douchebag you really are.” (I’ve actually kept the douchebaggery under control so far. Don’t ask me how. I mean, I’m the girl who straight slapped a friend over a game of Scattergories.)

****

I was on a high for Day Three. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal that I got 20,000 steps, but it was a big deal for ME. I excitedly told Barb and Amber, and before I knew it, most of the department knew.

I was a little embarrassed about it, but mostly I was paranoid because now everyone else had a number to beat. And news travels fast there. No less than 10 minutes after telling Amber, I was confronted by about 6 incredulous co-workers. Some of them are now calling me a freak (I know, only now?!) and one of them was like, “Where are you walking to?!”

I told her that I just naturally walk fast. I mean, I live in Brookline: I walk like someone scary is always behind me. (Seriously, I walked around town when I got home from work that night and all I kept thinking was how I really didn’t want to be able to say, “Totally got raped in the bowels of Brookline, but at least I made it to 20,000 steps!” Plus, there are entire city blocks here that stink of urine, so that helps me pick me up the pace.)

And then this happened:

****

Yesterday morning, while Henry’s mom was watching Chooch, I went to the nearest cemetery and just kept walking and walking and walking until my pedometer hit 7,000. I felt that was pretty good for 10AM. I came home, possibly staggering like I was on bath salts but really it was because I was still tired from my late night Brookline power-walking tour, and Henry’s mom started lecturing me about how I’m over-doing it and I was like, “OKAY MOM.” I actually was feeling kind of sketchy though. Then later I walked to the trolley, got off a stop earlier to add extra steps to my route and then proceeded to lap around the Law Firm building until it was time to start my shift. I had 11,000 steps by the time I got to my desk. Barb sighed and said, “You’re going to walk away into nothing!” and I said, “Um duh, isn’t that the challenge?” Maybe I read it wrong.

In a hyper-pitched, half-hysteric tone, I tried explaining to Barb that I couldn’t stop, and then I couldn’t stop saying I couldn’t stop. I think that was the first time all week I had started to scare myself.

Later, I was straight cornered by three of my work friends whose opening line was, “We heard you’re walking 20,000 steps a day” and then they tried to draft me onto their team.

Went on a furry search (it’s furry convention time in Pittsburgh! More on that later!) and racked up more steps. I saw a furry in a wheelchair who was moving faster than Carey. By the time I left work at 9PM, I had 19,000.

In the car on the way home, Henry said, “And I’d like to thank you for turning on the bedroom light and pacing last night while I was trying to sleep.”

“I had to! I couldn’t just go to bed when I was 200 steps away from 21,000!” I cried. God, he just doesn’t get it.

(OMG I think I might really have a problem, it’s just now occurring to me.)

I’ve been walking something like 8 miles a day – and not moseying or meandering a la Carey, but really walking like a crazed fugitive. When I’m at home, I’m almost never sitting and it’s making everyone kind of nervous. EYES ON THE PRIZE.

And naturally there are some people who are saying I must be cheating, that I’m probably putting my pedometer on Chooch and setting him loose on the playground*. Oh, it’s because I’m Chubs City, right? No way could a fat girl walk that much, right? Because clearly I go home everyday and have Henry, clad in muddied overalls, push me around in a wheelbarrow while I stuff Little Debbie treats in my fat fucking lazy mouth. CLEARLY.

*(FYI, he has pretty much been with his grandma every morning while I’m out breaking my toes around Brookline).

It’s kind of insulting. I don’t care about the Dick’s gift card or the Kindle (the prizes we are walking for), and putting my pedometer on my kid is not going to get me those things anyway because he’s a little slug. (Forced him to go for a leisurely stroll last week and he legit cried, “My hip hurts!” Um, OK, I forgot you’re 60, not 6. Jesus Christ.) Yes, competition motivates me, but what motivates me even more is besting myself. So if I was cheating, I’d only be cheating myself. When I wind up passing out at work, that’ll prove it.

(But no seriously, I’m clearly doping.)

****

Oh shit, Carey left her diary open on her desk, and look what I found!

****

I just want you to know that it killed me to stop moving in order to write this.

The “Henry Just Learned My Plan to Make a Furry Pose With My Jonny Craig Doll” frown.

I recently just found my old supervisor Kim on Facebook, which brought back all kinds of memories (all of them are good—Kim was one of my favorite people at that job). This is one of my favorites, which I am reposting because this walking challenge is really consuming my life and I have not yet mastered the fine art of blogging while walking (shocking I know). Copy and paste all the way!

Anyway this is from 2008. All you need to know is that Tina and Eleanore were super fucking annoying.

***********

Tina and Eleanore have a perpetual email chain going during the late shift. They will laugh out loud, completely over-the-top Jello-bellied guffaws, as they read each other’s latest (lame, I’m betting) quip. So last night, Kim intercepted me as I left the restroom and, in hushed tones, proposed that we give them a taste of their own medicine.

“Make them think we’re talking about them,” she said, deviously.

“But we really do that,” I reminded.

She ignored me and continued whispering. “When you go back to your desk, laugh, and then I’ll laugh.”

Not one to decline a foray into junior high shenanigans, I accepted the mission. “Just let me steal some tea bags first, and then I’ll do it,” I promised.

In my travels to the other side of the building to forage for tea, I began to overthink my assignment.

I wanted my tittering to sound as realistic as possible but pressure was preventing me from remembering how I regularly laughed. I at least knew it wasn’t a sleazy snortle a la Tina.

I felt like I should have given myself a practice test, laughed out loud a few times while walking back from my tea journey. But it’s already bad enough that I have a rap for stalking the cleaning crew with my camera phone; I didn’t want to add schizo chuckler to my reputation.

By the time I returned to my area, my palms were coated with a clammy glaze. Nervous and guilty, I stomped past a book-reading Eleanore and, in the skittish falsetto of someone who just partied with an eight ball, I shouted, “IS THAT BOOK GOOD?” A normal, non-suspicious person might have first asked her what the fuck book she was even reading, but I was too busy being squashed under an anvil of pressure. Eleanore seemed startled at my near-accusatory inquiry, and replied with a confused, “Uh, yeah, babe. I’m only on page 100 though.” I shouted “THAT’S GOOD” and sat down clumsily at my desk.

And then I did it.

Try to remember back to 1988 when you snuffed that fisherman down on the docks, behind the tower of cargo, and you heard him suck in his last pitiful breath: all raspy and wet-sounding from choking on the blood corked in his throat, and you’ll have a good idea of what my forced laugh sounded like.

Strangulated and weak. Pathetic. Painful. A soul drifting off into the ether.

Kim didn’t even hear it from her cube. If Eleanore heard, and I don’t think she did, she probably just thought I had indigestion.

I emailed Kim and apologized for single-handedly fucking her plan in the ass.

“Idiot.” That was her reply. Succinct, honest, deserved.

The “I Just Woke Henry Up To Show Him My Pedometer After I Paced Back & Forth For 90 Minutes” frown.

Back when I had a corporate AmEx card that mommy paid for (my name was spelled ‘Eirin’ on it, and I had grown so accustomed to signing my name that way that, for years, I would have to consciously think about the correct spelling in all other circumstances), I used to buy CDs like they were going out of style. (Oh!) CD Baby was my all-time favorite online shop of music and I would often order CDs based entirely on the site’s recommendation without even listening to a sample. I added some exceptional albums to my collection that way. (And also some exceptionally terrible ones.)

The Flir was one of those CDs. All I needed to see was that it was categorized as trip hop and in the cart it went without a second thought. The first time I listened to it, it was a muggy summer’s night in 2003 and I was on my way back to Pittsburgh from visiting my friend Moira in Greensburg, few cars on the highway, and I was entranced. The only way I can describe this EP is steamy and aphrodisiacal, a baby-making record with subtle, bass-driven hints of Disintegration-era The Cure. (Though Henry could never hear that.) We took a ton of road trips that summer and the Flir came along every single time. (This was back when Henry didn’t abhor the music I listened to. You know, when he was younger and hipper.)

(No wait, that never happened.)

I’m drawn to this kind of music every summer, and even though it’s technically not summer yet (someone would say it if I didn’t!) I’m sharing this on here today because it’s one of those hidden gems that sometimes you never find on your own. (And also because I’m killing time, waiting for Henry to finally finish his kitten story which he has been writing for approximately TEN DAYS now.) If you like it, you can get the whole EP here for FIVE BUCKS just do it.

And now I present to you a visual tour of my last three days. It is not very spectacular.

My friend Kate suggested that I start a blog of nothing but Henry frowning. I think that is a fantastic idea. But for now, here is the “Erin Just Turned Up Dance Gavin Dance” frown. Coincidentally, right after this happened, I tweeted, “Seriously. How great would I be as an ice cream truck driver” to which Andrea replied, “Blasting Dance Gavin Dance, I would imagine.” Yes! Jonny Pops for everyone!

Totally still fawning over this. My friend Terri was all, “I got two copies sent to my house, aren’t you jealous?” Well, yeah! I still need to get an auxiliary issue to frame.

Speaking of Jonny, I took this photo the very first time I ever got to see him, back in 2008 when Emarosa opened for Pierce the Veil. I cried a lot that night.

Contrary to popular belief, the Cure is actually still my favorite band. Never forget that.

(I can never tell if I post too many pictures of myself. I never know what you guys want, OK!?)

One big eyeball.

Minus that glaring “your,” this is my new favorite text. One day I will regale you all with the story of why Henry is “A Woodhick” in my phone.

Perhaps now Carey will think better of disagreeing with me. Probably not.

In other news, today was the start of the Law Firm walking challenge and I already have words to say about it, but maybe that will be for tomorrow. Right now, I just want to walk five feet, check my pedometer, walk 14 feet, check my pedometer, walk 3 feet, grab a peppermint patty….

Henry stopped the car in the middle of the road to show me a kitten sitting in the grass. “There it is!! There’s that kitten I was telling you about! LOOK AT THE COLORING!!” he exclaimed, blowing my hair back with his sheer exuberance.

Apparently, he saw this kitten Friday when he was on his way to pick me up from work, and then on the way back he circled the block looking for it again, when all I wanted to do was go home and eat dinner, having only eaten oatmeal and an apple that day. The kitten had clearly found better things to do than to sit in the exact same spot for 45 minutes, waiting for the crazy kitten prowler to return.

You can imagine Henry was foaming at the ‘stache to see this kitten again. And then when a car had the NERVE to come up behind us, he got all up in arms and shouted, “There are NEVER any cars on this road!” before calling the driver an asshole AND a douchebag and driving away.

“You should have seen that kitten’s eyes,” he murmured a few seconds later. “They’re like, clear—OH OF COURSE THAT FUCKER ISN’T EVEN BEHIND US ANYMORE!!” he yelled, tilting the rear view mirror.

I have no idea who he is anymore.

Sometime back in April, Nina came over to my desk at work and excitedly told me that her friends were planning a zombie surprise party for their 16-year-old daughter and would I come and do the makeup? Of course, being the anxiety-ridden fool that I am, the thought of putting makeup on strangers seemed terrifying, but I said yes without hesitation because I’m all about doing things that make me uncomfortable. If anything, these situations usually turn out to be memorable in one way or another.

I had to be at their house at 5 yesterday, so of course I waited until 2:30 to go to the party store and stock up on white and green cream and spray blood (though I should note that Andrea’s My Pretty Zombie kit, which I have used at least 6 times since last October, was ample enough to get 15+ people made up; I couldn’t believe it).

I got to bring Henry and Chooch with me, thank god for security blankets, although having them there did me no good while I was doing makeup, because Chooch had already made 4 friends and had disappeared, and Henry instantly had a beer in his hand and was talking to the birthday girl’s dad, Dave, probably about boring Professional Driver things and being in the SERVICE, because those are Henry’s hot topics.

I was a nervous wreck, frantically scrubbing makeup into the pores of strangers—it was your regular zombie assembly line—and that’s pretty awkward, just being introduced to someone and then being all up in their face. Luckily, every single person there was incredibly down-to-earth and didn’t make me feel dumb or like I was hired help. Every five minutes, Dave’s wife Diane made sure I had alcohol in my glass.

These were my kind of people.

I even got to zombify some of the grandparents too, it was incredible. One lady let me spritz her bouffant with blood and then Dave’s dad cut a huge hole in his shirt and had me trace his liver surgery scar with Fresh Scab. All his idea. It was at that point that I had become hyper-aware of the fact that I was in the company of Awesome People.

When Dallas arrived, everyone swarmed her car. She was pretty stunned and I was honored to get to be there to watch!

Zombie Nina. She kept telling me at work that I would be fine and I should have known that if these were her friends, it was going to be laid-back. She did, however, give me copious warnings about Dave’s unfiltered sexual comments, which were incredibly entertaining and definitely made me loosen up (well, that and the unlimited, free-flowing sangria I was swallowing all night). I think Henry really looks up to him.

I was so self-conscious about my makeup job, though. I kept sidling up to Henry and whispering, “I fucked it up, didn’t I? It doesn’t look too good, does it?” I was just trying to get everyone done as quickly as possible and I sure hope they didn’t hate it.

Probably one of the 87 times Dave was warning Nina that he’s going to bang her before she moves. (Side note: Nina is moving out of state in the near future. Dislike.) Yes, that’s her husband sitting next to him. God, that guy was great!

I had my real camera in my iCarly messenger bag the whole time, but I forgot. And then when I remembered, I was too drunk to care. They had a guy taking professional photos all night though (when he wasn’t draping his rats on old ladies’ necks).

Chooch, after 6 hours of sweating.

Morgan and the birthday girl, who I ended up spending the last hour of the party talking to about horror movies and dinosaurs and OMG we have so much in common. I can’t believe I forgot to ask her if she likes Jonny Craig, though. Anyway, that girl is so sweet and I’m really happy that I got to help out a little to make her 16th birthday a memorable one.

Nina was so worried that I wasn’t having a good time, and I was like, “Dude, it’s dark out now and I’m still here, sitting in the backyard with all these strangers. I guess I must be having a good time!” I mean, my phone even died early on, so I had no concept of what time it was, and completely didn’t care. I thought it would be a totally awkward experience, like I was just the hired help, and why is she still here? But everyone was so good about making us feel at home there. And Chooch only pouted in their garage four times!

What a great night. Even though Nina openly mocked me numerous times for having a Caboodle!

• I like to keep the radio on in my room 24:7; there is something comforting to me about keeping it old school, gratingly unfunny DJs and all. Recently, I had to change the station to our local classic rock one, because it is literally the only station aside from sports radio and the urban station which I can’t pick up from the bedroom that doesn’t play that motherfucking Gotye song. I just want to cry “Uncle!” every time I hear it. The downside of having the classic rock station on is that apparently Nickelback is now considered classic rock. However, the odds of hearing any Nickelback song (but really, aren’t they all just the same song?) is still way less than hearing motherfucking Gotye. I wish I could go back in time and delete the master recording of that song, and then for good measure, go back farther and hit him in the face with one of J-Woww’s tits at the precise moment that song started to write itself in his head. Fuck you, Gotye.
• The Stanley Cup is about to be won any day now which means I’m going to grow a beard and mourn the end of yet another hockey season.
• A store in Wisconsin contacted me about selling my non compos cards, which is awesome. I’m sure Henry and I will find unlimited ways to fuck it up. (Having our printer break is a good start.)
• I didn’t mention Jonny Craig once on Henry’s birthday!
• Sometimes I want to kick this blog in its face. I bet if it had a face, it would totally look like Sloth, but a girl. And she would have the ultimate Annie-ginger hair.
• The other night, I dreamt that I was making out with [name withheld to keep my pride in tact] in my mom’s basement. When I told Henry, he scoffed, “All your dreams like that take place at your mom’s house, because that’s when you were the biggest whore” which isn’t even true, it was the first several years after I lived there that I was the biggest whore, so we had a mild argument about that, which wasn’t even the most ridiculous argument of the week; that award goes to the disagreement I had with Carey the other night at work regarding Farrah Fawcett versus Meredith Baxter.
• Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I feel like [name withheld] knows about my dream, or maybe [name withheld] is just playing off the fact that I’ve been acting like a complete headlighted-deer.
• I still cry about my cat Don several times a day.
• Today is my brother Corey’s birthday! He’s 22 and still color-blind!
• I’m at work, eating an apple as I write this. I might also eat an orange too, since I sort of know how to peel those now.
• Some of us have been getting reprimanded for being too social at work and I am totally about to start passing notes just to feed into my new stereotype.
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• Doing makeup at a zombie party tomorrow night!
• I ate a bunch of peppermint patties just now (wherein bunch equals two) and I don’t even like peppermint patties.
• Been spending a lot of time with Henry’s mom lately thanks to his newly-fucked work schedule which leaves us needing a babysitter (and also leaves me taking the trolley to work). She unwittingly presented me with three gems on Monday alone:
• Somehow, the topic of Henry leaving for the SERVICE came up and she was waxing nostalgic about how it was the worst day of her life when he left, etc etc. And how, when she finally got to go down to Texas 8 weeks later to see him, she couldn’t believe how much of a man he had become. I was literally cannibalizing the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing.
• Totally out of the blue (and unwarranted!) she looked at me and said, “My son is going to get back at you one day.” Something in the way she said it gave me quick flashes of meat hooks, Nickelback’s entire discography, and acid-dipped ball gags.
• “What do you call that, when they put the ice cream in a cone?” Oh I don’t know, Judy, but here’s a wild guess: an ice cream cone!?
• I’ve been craving Bonkers which is pretty weird because I don’t think I’ve eaten those since 1988.
• This post is in bullet-points because I am mentally crippled after this week.
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I will end this with a picture of a rainbow and Chooch eating cake from Wendy’s daughter’s graduation party last weekend. That was a good day, and not just because Henry got schooled on cake-cutting.

Chooch usually begins to unravel by the time we’ve snaked our way through vendor alley and reached the Point, which you think he would love because that’s where all the kid-centric stuff can be found. This part of the day usually sounds like this:

Me: Chooch, do you want to go over here to this tent and [insert art medium] some shit?

Chooch, giving it a bored once-over: Not really.

Maybe because everything is so happy and bright and full of Blues Clues fans. Perhaps if the medium was haunted house prop building or painting a nude Bride of Chucky, he’d be all in. However, the guy working the pottery wheel snared my son’s scattered attention. (And mine too, because I was oddly attracted to him, so when he mentioned that the studio gives youth classes, I used that as my launching pad to get closer to him and chat. Too bad the classes are Wednesday evenings and I’ll be working, but Chooch genuinely wants to go so have fun with that Henry. And don’t you dare find some single mom there to get all Ghost with, either, because I WILL KNOW.)

Acting like he had to take an important business call; it was just his mom. 

At the next tent, I forced Chooch to make me an acetate picture because I thought they looked cool. So cool that I haven’t taken it out of my iCarly messenger bag yet.

The bad part about the children’s area is that once you get through it, the river is within child-detection distance; Chooch sniffs it out and takes off like a looter on the lam to get to it, which gives me heart palpitations, and then this is usually where he starts acting like a complete dick because I tell him no when he says, “I want to go on that boat” and points at one of the twenty boats rocking lazily on the river and I have to explain to him in 87 different ways that we cannot just walk onto a boat that we don’t own, and then he acts like I’m like THE WORST and all obedience and Fear of the Hand^TM goes out the window (or into the river, as it were), leaving Henry and me muttering under our breaths different incantations of “Why the fuck do we keep bringing him here year after year?!” and then I got bittersweet flashbacks of when he was a baby and he slept the whole time in his Baby Bjorn.

(And you know Henry was wearing the Baby Bjorn, not me.)

After an hour of Extreme Dick Behavior, we finally had the gumption to inquire as to whether or not our child might have been hungry. It turns out, he was—for a snocone.

Henry was starting to break a sweat at the thought of going through another pressurized snocone-ordering episode, but luckily for him, all he had to do was say, “I want a snocone,” at which point he was given a ($5!!) bowl of crushed ice to take over to a syrup station, where Chooch got to make his own goddamn rainbow flavor.

Disaster in 3…2….

I’m pretty sure this happened last year, too, yet it was still OMG shocking to all involved. The passers-by got to witness an angry soliloquy.

Henry took over, after grumbling something like, “Oh, Jesus Christ, let me do that.” Too bad he wasn’t any more adept. I stood there muttering, “Idiots” over and over, but can you imagine if I had gotten involved t0o? God, the whole table probably would have exploded on us, but probably in an artful manner, since it is the Arts Festival after all.

Next year, the Arts Festival should add a family glazed over in snocone syrup to their people statue collection.

Henry ended up eating it, as usual. $5 for a bowl of ice,  a ruined shirt and a kid whining about being blue and sticky for the rest of the day. What a fucking bargain.

My favorite part of the day occurred right after the syrup splashing when we were crossing the street and Chooch, in a snocone-eating zone, mistook the guy in front of him for Henry. I saw this coming from a mile away (OK fine, five steps away), and when his little blue-syruped hand reached out and tugged on the back of that stranger’s gray shirt, I braced myself for the fallout. The stranger looked behind him, and then down; the two of them had this “Wait a minute….” moment, before Chooch spun around in a panic looking for us. We were obviously right behind him the whole time, but I think he actually thought he had been abandoned there for a second and I was actually a little glad about that because this kid has NO FEAR.

Then the stranger saw his less-stocky, more-nerdy doppelganger (a/k/a Henry) and everyone in our little pedestrian cluster got big laughs at Chooch’s expense. Chooch meanwhile had a stunned smile on his face and his cheeks were flushed from embarrassment.

It was awesome.

You have now reached the end of this post.

I had to make a list of all the different things I do at my job, and I can’t believe I left off “Food styling.”

7 o’clock apple, served with cinnamon and severed hand./em>