Me: Aw shit, you better make daddy a birthday card. I don’t know, draw something on it that he likes.

Chooch, thinks to himself: Something that he likes….Well, obviously that’s a pile of steaming shit. And a kangaroo but I don’t feel like finishing that.

Chooch clearly knows Henry way more than I do, because I would have drawn Faygo bottles on top of a pile of nondescript t-shirts with a bunch of Henry doppelgängers looking on, eating green onions pulled straight from the ground. (Henry eats that shit with the authority of a goddamn farmer and it makes me sick. Tomatoes too.)

A robot standing on a monster, holding a cake?

Henry’s mom came over to babysit today and wanted Chooch to draw something nicer than a pile of shit, but I assured her that Henry would think it was strange if he got anything sweet.

[Alternate title: I’m Broke So This Is Yr Bday Prez]

Henry, you always put me and Chooch first, so on your birthday, I am going to feed myself (I don’t know what Chooch is going to do) and take the trolley to work (and not even just because I have no choice today).

(OMG you didn’t even leave me trolley fare?

! ….that’s OK. No really, it’s OK. This time.)

(Never mind! I found it. You’re so lucky.)

I’ll even refrain from mentioning Jonny Craig today.

(Starting now.)

And while I’m at work, you can watch all the Criminal Minds your little heart desires. Treat yourself, big guy.

And even though you explaining to me the safety of those things window washers stand on (“NOWADAYS THEY’RE BUILT RIGHT INTO THE BUILDINGS!

“) makes me peace out faster than when you tried to teach me military time, you’re still my favorite person in the whole entire world to be around.

Yes, even when you’re being a nag:

Here’s to many more years of disappointed frowning, know-it-all nature strolling, Kitten Patroling, Warped Tour-hating, Air Force jet-gazing and clandestine Pretty Little Liar fan-boying. Happy birthday to a real Oh Honestly Hero and the best boyfriend/emergency contact anyone could ask for. I’m so glad you picked me all those years ago!

Sorry guys. Sometimes I just REALLY want to post music videos on here!

First, here is an incredibly awkward video of Jonny Craig freestyling with Kurt Travis at one of his post-rehab I’m Back, Bitches shows that he’s been doing in (stupidly far away from Pittsburgh) California. I’m posting this because it’s basically his “pledge” to his fans that he will stay clean and that he “loves” us, but as Henry said while he was watching this: “Thanks guys! Don’t come talk to me after the show.”

We’ll see, Jonny. We’ll see.

And I think I posted this song two years ago, but every time I listen to it, I imagine fake dancing with Henry at our imaginary never-wedding, so I am posting it again, because I do what I want.

Carry on with yo’ Tuesday.

Getting ready to take his show downtown. Apologies in advance, Pittsburgh.

I think I have only missed the annual Three Rivers Arts Festival two or three times since I was sixteen, and I’m sure Henry had something to do with it. It’s tradition, even when I’ve been too broke to afford anything more than the trolley fare it costs to take me there. Before I got a job downtown, it was pretty much the only thing that ever brought me down here—in addition to the urge to randomly dance to Andy Gibb in the middle of Liberty Avenue on a Saturday night, which I still say was one of my finer moments—so that’s why I can usually only find my way around down here if someone gives me directions in relation to the Arts Festival layout. (But it is still best that I walk around with a seeing eye Law Firm co-worker.)

And now suddenly my kid is very much “OMG THE ARTS FESTIVAL! WHEN ARE WE GOING?!” This pleases me. (Also what pleases me is knowing that he can probably produce better art than a lot of what’s down there.)

In honor of the Arts Festival, there are these awesome mannequins all over downtown Pittsburgh. Chooch has seen some of them already from the car when he and Henry come and pick me up from work, and he has been dying to get his pose on. Unfortunately, so was pretty much every other asshole down there, and I literally had to edge my way in front of a group of yuppie and their flock of inconsiderate Benetton-swathed children who, I’m sorry, had totally outwore their photo-op welcome after the ninth completely un-funny pose. Give a working class kid a chance!

Corn(dog)rows, or what corn-breaded hot dog enthusiasts (a/k/a carnies) oft refer to as “breakfast.” I have a picture of Chooch eating his corn dog, but it looks so embarrassingly phallic that I just can’t do that to him. Now, if it were Henry…

Henry got me a falafel sandwich, and the goal was to convince Chooch to sit in the lawn with me long enough to orally pulverize the shit out of that pita pocket but instead he had to play that awesome game that all parents love where their children wander away and try to get abducted. So instead of having my falafel sandwich shit lettuce and tzatziki sauce in one isolated spot, I hansel-and-gretel’d it all over Point Park, my shoes and the depths of my cleavage.

Wishing this was his father. Me too, kinda. This looks like the kind of husband that would buy his wife a plane ticket to California to see Jonny Craig’s solo show at Chain Reaction, probably while copulating with his mistress in his wife’s absence, but what the fuck do I care, I’m going to see Jonny Craig, bitches.

I know, what a fantasy right? Like I’d ever actually have a husband.

Speaking of non-husbands, mine bought me this glorious Jesus print from my new favorite artist Lex Covato (and she’s not just my favorite because she liked my quotation mark tattoos). What a lovely addition to my religious art collection. That room in my invisible house is really coming along!

I do not know if these trees are real or not, and I see them all the time. I guess I could have read that sign.

Or, you know, touched one of them.

After we exhausted all there was to do in the heart of the Arts Festival, we walked down one of the streets that I don’t know the name of and ran smack into the middle of a jazz festival.

There was a large stage in the middle of the street attracting a fairly sizable crowd, and since we were kind of tired from walking around all day, we sat down a curb and pretended to be jazz fans. (Mostly, Henry just scanned the crowd for girls who maybe work at Blush.)

Chooch apparently is a jazz fan, though. At least he was for a few seconds until he started reading the zombie book Henry bought him.

(“Zombies Hate Stuff” – Greg Stones once again had a booth at the arts festival.)

Legit jazz fans.

There were some older broads in front of us who I thought at first were having epileptic seizures, but it turns out they were just REALLY into the music. At one point, I thought to myself, “Hey, I think I know this song. I guess this small potatoes, local Pittsburgh band that I cannot see from where I’ve popped a squat is doing a cover of some other, mildly-popular song that I guess I heard on Lite FM as a kid*.”

(*Or last week. Listening to soft rock is one of those things that makes me a case study in contradictions. Wendy acted all shocked yesterday when she learned that I love Barry Manilow.)

On a whim, I decided to look up the jazz festival line up on my phone.

“Huh,” I said to Henry. “Turns out this is Average White Band. And here I thought they were some cover band.”

“Yeah, covering their own songs,” he said smugly, when he didn’t know it was them in the first place, either!

God!

And then Chooch’s behavior began going downhill faster than Jersey Shore, so we began walking back to catch the trolley.

Putting on a show for the girls sitting behind me.

As I mentioned on Saturday, we took the trolley downtown for the Arts Festival and were fortuitous to sit behind some drunk (and possibly half-retarded) man en route to the Joe Walsh show.  (Henry was like, “Hot damn, how did I not know Joe Walsh was playing in my town tonight? I bet there will be some wheelchaired hussies prime for the pushing, too.”)

Chooch had made friends (in the span of 30 seconds after they swung on a pole together while waiting for the trolley, must be nice) with a three-year-old boy named Jordan so they sat together (much to Jordan’s mom’s chagrin once she realized some disheveled jagoff was going to start slurring to them about science while twirling an unlit cigarette in his shaking fingers.

Here is the video I took, and in true Oh Honestly, Erin-fashion, I accidentally covered the speaker with my big fat sausage fingers. But, you’ll get the point.

Later, Joe Walsh fan accidentally dropped the f-bomb and was all apologetic to us and Chooch (Jordan’s mom had finally come over and snatched up her child after Joe Walks fan started talking about how much he loved him and Chooch; Henry and I remained ambivalent as always), but Chooch just looked at me with this smirk that said, “Um, that guy thinks I don’t say that word I guess.”

When Joe Walsh Fan learned that we were going to the Arts Festival, he told Chooch to pick out something nice for me.

“She has her own money,” Chooch mumbled.

When the trolley brought us to our stop, I started to follow Joe Walsh Fan and his (normal compared to him) friend to the front of the trolley to exit, but Henry hissed, “This way,” and led Chooch and me in the opposite direction to the middle exit.

“But we didn’t even say goodbye!” I wailed to Henry, who answered me with A Smirk.

This weekend has been like a fun-stuffed sausage of awesome.  Can’t get my brain to concentrate on any writing right now, so here — have a collection of links that belong to some cool makeup bloggers. (And hopefully a Henry guest post later tonight. The bribery is out in full effect.

)

Kat Grisaille’s FOTD/EOTD based on a plastic bottle at La Dandyzette.

Isela’s (not-so-sexy) lingerie and make-up post at The Soctopus Speaks.

Claire wears Black Rose Minerals at Claire’s Beauty.

Mass market cleansing item wins big marks with The Velvet Rose Petal.

Henry, Chooch and I are currently on the trolley en route to the Art Festival. Chooch made two friends: a 3-year-old boy named Jordan, and a half-retarded guy going to the JOE WALSH show.

Oh do I have a fantastic video of this guy talking about science.

Will post when I get home!

After Speck died in December, everyone’s solution to my sorrow was to get a new kitten, and fast. But I wasn’t ready. Every time Chooch would bring it up, I would lose it and he would mumble, “Aaaaaand, now she’s crying again.” And to be honest, Don really stepped up and absorbed a lot of my grief.

But now with Don gone, too, there is an even bigger void. My two remaining cats are not cuddlers: One hates people and the other—Marcy the Alpha—only has eyes for Henry’s lap. I NEED SOMETHING TO CUDDLE. The Jonny Craig doll works to a point, but I need that furry companion who will be excited to sit with me and watch trashy MTV reality programming. Sure, Henry is furry, but he does not enjoy watching these things.

So I finally decided I was ready. I couldn’t bear to look for a new kitten on my own, so I gave Henry permission to start the hunt. A lot of the shelters we’ve encountered require a copy of our lease and consent from the landlord, which will never happen. (It’s in our lease that pets aren’t allowed, but the landlord I had back when I moved in knew and didn’t care; now he’s dead and we have a new landlord.)

So Henry has been scouring Craigslist. Immediately, he showed me a picture of a bunch of mini-Dons and I started sobbing. What a jerk.

The day we were at Delgrosso’s, he read to me an ad for two male Maine Coone kittens. I had already decided with certainty that this new kitten must be a boy, so I told him to answer the ad. Before we left the park that day, the seller had texted him photos of the kittens and I gave him the greenlight. Henry arranged to go out to their house that Tuesday night while I was at work, so I wouldn’t have to choose on my own. When he texted the person that day to get their address, she was all, “Oops, we already gave them away.” I wasn’t as crushed as I thought I would be, which tells me it wasn’t the right kitten anyway. I told him to stop looking. Don hadn’t even been buried yet at this point and it just didn’t feel right to me.

However, after Don was buried, Henry showed me a picture of this adorable black kitten. I deemed it The Kitten and loaded all of the pressure upon Henry’s shoulders. I WANTED THIS KITTEN. Apparently, he had already inquired (behind my back!!) about this same kitten a few days earlier, but was too late. I guess the buyer backed out, and this lady was once again trying to find a home for the kitten. They had a brief email exchange, and by the time he picked me up from work that night, he said, “Well, that kitten is ours. We can go get him tomorrow.”

Chooch and I cheered!

And then she emailed Henry back to say, “Oh never mind. I gave him to someone else.”

Henry—cool, calm, mild-mannered Henry—totally flipped his fucking lid. I have rarely seem him so fired up, not even when one of our co-workers at our old job called me a cunt. NOT EVEN THEN.

“Good home for the kitten, my ass!” he raged. “All she cares about is who can put the money in her hand the quickest!” Then he sat down at the computer and announced that he was emailing her and it wasn’t going to be nice.

I pointed out that he was acting like one Erin R.Kelly. “Don’t be like that. You’re the good one, remember?” I reminded him gently. (No seriously, I put away the cat o’nine tails for this one; poor guy was furious.) Yes, I was disappointed that the kitten slipped through our fingers, but I really do believe that it will happen when it’s right. Clearly, none of these kittens have been the right ones.

Later that night, it was around 1:00AM and Henry was laying in bed with his back toward me. I knew he was still awake because I could see the glow of his phone, and then I heard the faintest tap-tap-tap’ings.

“Who are you texting?” I asked him, figuring it was his little work-husband Dave.

“I’m not texting anyone. I’m emailing that lady because I’m not going to be able to sleep if I don’t.” He definitely had the tone of a man on the edge, but it was late and I didn’t care anymore, so I left him alone lest he finally get the courage to bitch slap me.

So basically, you guys can call me a cunt and he won’t care, but renege on a motherfucking kitten and say hello to the Incredible Hank.

***

The object of Henry’s hate-missles emailed him back the next day and asked him to never contact her again. He was laughing without mirth and his voice cracked slightly when he read her email to me.

“If I had sent the original one, she probably would have called the cops!

” he laughed psychotically.

Meanwhile, he was beginning to uncover the seedy underbelly of kitten trafficking when his inquiries were met with broken English replies explaining that the sellers were currently in Uganda doing work for God but if we would kindly send them to money, they would promptly deliver the kitten upon their return. He was so deep in it that I considered making him a special hat with kitty ears to wear while writing his kitten scam exposé.

Last Sunday, he answered another ad, and made arrangements to come see the kitten the next day. Twenty minutes later, he got a text saying, “So sorry, but a family who was interested earlier is now interested again.” I moved away from him in case he started windmilling his limbs in a conniption.

  Turns out that seller should have stuck with us, because their interested family arrived in a van with a busted out window and tried to pay with a Wal-Mart gift card; they came crawling back to Henry who (politely, thank god) told them that they we were starting to think that this is the universe’s way of telling us we’re just not ready.

Tuesday night while he was waiting for me to be done with work, he texted me: That stupid fucking lady who told me never to contact her again reposted that kitten. By the time I got in the car, he practically had undulating pound signs, asterix, and exclamation marks above his head and started barking about how he wanted to reply to her posting.

(He had to get a physical for work the other day and it’s actually surprising his blood pressure wasn’t off the charts because of this, although he did say that he knew it had gone down because he hasn’t been able to hear his heart pounding in his ears lately.)

I’d like to eventually try our luck at some shelters again, but I’m in no rush.  When I got Marcy and Speck, it just happened without me looking, and I know it will probably have to be that way this time, too.

In the meantime, Henry is still nose-to-phone, glasses pushed up, scouring Craigslist. I feel like most guys go on Craigslist looking for car parts and BJs; my man goes on Craigslist for kittens. It’s kind of precious.