Wendy and I took Andrea to Mad Mex for dinner on Friday evening, while Henry embarked on the covert cake-acquisition. (I literally texted Kaitlin last winter when Andrea first started tossing around ideas of coming back for a visit around her birthday and placed a tentative red velvet cake order; Kaitlin’s cakes are in high demand so I wasn’t about to sit on it.) I even made sure Andrea left some of her shopping bags in my car so she’d have to come back to my house afterward to fetch them; I was so afraid she was going to ask to go to back to her hotel right after dinner since we had such a long, napless day.

And then the first restaurant we were going to eat at turned out to be a taco stand, and the smells coming from it were fantastic, but it was 95 degrees out and none of us wanted to sit outside in that, eating tacos like real Mexicans. So we wound up at Mad Mex, which had a 30-45 minute wait until Wendy (who knew I was panicking and stressing behind Andrea’s back about the time) schmoozed us into a booth and we somehow managed to get out of there and back to my house by 8:30.

What’s the fastest way to ruin a surprise party? Invite Chooch.

As soon as we pulled up, Chooch came bursting through the front door and yelled, “SERI’S HERE AND SHE HAS A BIG PRESENT FOR ANDREA BUT YOU GUYS CAN’T COME IN BECAUSE WE’RE NOT READY YET!”

I tried to play dumb, like I didn’t understand what Chooch was mouthing off about, but it was clear that the jig was up. I went inside and sulked about it, while Andrea stayed outside talking with Wendy. Seri and Henry were in the house, being all calm and normal, while I was pacing back and forth, poking my head out the window to see what they were doing. Chooch kept running back outside, probably to tell Andrea what all of her presents were.

Who needs surprises.

I just wanted her to come inside and see the pinata that I zombified for her and almost broke my fingers trying to stuff. I did this on Monday night, before she arrived, and every day after that Chooch kept suspiciously saying to her, “DON’T LOOK INSIDE THE BASEMENT DOOR! THERE’S SOMETHING THERE THAT YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE!” Goddamn kids!!

I even bought a clown ring toss. Who wouldn’t want clown ring toss at their birthday party?

Finally, she and Wendy came in the house and I have the whole “Surprise!” part recorded, but the video is marred by my sad-sounding voice and heavy sighs. THANKS AGAIN, CHOOCH.

I bought a used Lil Wayne because it was intended to go inside the pinata but I couldn’t get it to fit. I’m not actually that cheap that I buy my friends used CDs. However, I’m glad the Exchange had the Lil Wayne album that kicks off with the seminal hit “Gonorrhea.”

With the exception of my used Lil Wayne CD and Lil Wayne embellished champagne chalice (which is how I like to make “wine glass” sound like a gift you might want), Andrea got good gifts from Wendy (a jeweled perfume bottle), Chuck and Amanda who shipped an art print to my house for her, and Seri who went back to Zenith on Friday and snatched up the courtroom sketch after seeing the picture I posted on my blog of Andrea holding it. I was determined to make her birthday a memorable one, and luckily all of these wonderful people were making my job incredibly easy.

Andrea tweeted a few weeks ago about how she hates being called “Amanda,” so of course I ran with that. When I do jerky things, that’s how my friends know I like them!

Printed out a bunch of inside-jokey pictures to accessorize the cake, such as: a music box, a picture of Creepy Dance Recital Man-Girl, Billy Ocean (the last time she was here, he was playing in my car nearly every time she got in because he was on my Roller Rink Birthday Party Mix, Holla!), Lil Wayne wearing a Free Jonny Craig shirt, and a rarely-seen portrait of her wearing her favorite Etsy sweater.

Pinata guts. Henry was positively tickled to discover that I had finger-fucked the piñata full of confetti for him to sweep up later.

Chooch wore the pinata blindfold first, but he was so sweaty that everyone else politely declined their turn.

Later on, Seri’s husband Pete came over with their boys and Henry got to be all Big Tough Fire Starter by setting off fireworks in our front yard, and it was just really nice to hang out in the grass, drinking, and being entertained by the possibility of a Golden Flower fountain exploding in Henry’s face. One of my perpetually drunk neighbors stopped by with his dog Buttkiss (I’m not sure if that’s really his name, but probably) and I was so happy that everyone out there got to eye-feast on a slice of Brookline.

Meanwhile, Maxton was in the house, watching TV while lounging on the wheelchair. Best investment ever. I want to buy at least 3 more to use as dining room chairs.

I think the biggest surprise of the night was the fact that Seri’s hair stays perfectly straight and shiny despite the 95 degree temperatures and swamp-like humidity. So jealous!

Anyway, it was eventually time for Andrea to go back to her hotel and pack for her early-morning flight. Everyone doled out sweaty, drunken hugs and just like that, another visit with Andrea was over. It was a long week and I was pretty jealous that she got to leave the heatwave (and Chooch) behind. Hopefully we didn’t annoy her too much.

On my way home from CVS on Thursday, I noticed Purple Pants a block ahead of me so I ran (losing steps on my pedometer in the process!) to catch up to her and was able to snag some prime surveillance, which seemed incomplete until I added Xiu Xiu’s “Hi.

”

I’m pretty sure she’s wearing the once-purple pants.

I’m so glad that Pittsburgh decided to have a heat wave in tandem with Andrea’s visit from California. We don’t have a/c in our house, so the poor girl suffered all week. At least her hotel room was air-conditioned.

The cemetery wasn’t air-conditioned either, so she had to endure 90 degree heat & humidity for an hour in a wig and wedding dress while I took pictures on the Fourth of July. (More pictures to come once I can sit at the computer and edit them without sweat dripping into my eyes.)

We spent a lot of this week at the hotel pool, which gave Chooch and me short reprieves from the heat. We are like sweaty twins. Everyone else around us complains of the heat yet appears relatively dry; Chooch and I meanwhile have damp hair and faces mimicking glazed hams.

Some lady at the hotel pool let Chooch use one of her innertubes which I’m pretty sure he punctured.

Saw this at the cemetery. The universe is always throwing out Jonny Craig signs for me!

Bought fireworks.

That night, we went to Seri and Pete’s house to watch the Mt. Lebanon fireworks, which were completely underwhelming, but Seri’s Martha Stewart-rivaling hospitality more than made up for that. Their house is so inviting and she provided a handsome spread of finger food to be stuffed into my mouth. LOOK AT THOSE MARSHMALLOW KEBOBS! Even Andrea was delighted and she hates everything.

Andrea being delighted.

I didn’t want to take a cherry out of the narrow receptacle in which Seri had lined them up because it looked so perfect and decorative, but Andrea was all, “Just take one, stupid. That’s what they’re there for.” And then immediately after I plucked one for my plate, Andrea said, “You ruined it.”

Oh my god, and the sangria. So much delicious sangria! Seri was completely spazzed out all night, worrying that we weren’t having fun, but damn – I didn’t want to be anywhere else but on that couch hugging a red ball pillow that I had formed at unhealthy attachment to, eating food, telling stories, and having their two kids entertain Chooch.

It was a good night with new friends and old friends and even Henry smiled a lot. HENRY SMILED A LOT. And I learned that the key to placating Andrea is boxed wine and Latin music. Thank you, Seri and Pete!

(Also, the truth came out about Henry pushing a girl in a wheelchair at a Ted Nugent show. Will provide a separate post for that.)

After a particularly intense car ride involving mochi and lots of traffic, Andrea and I ditched Chooch with Henry and went shopping. First I showed her Wildcard—the place that used to sell my art when I was an “artist.” I was pretty underwhelmed with everything I saw there, except for the Yee Haw screenprints (I bought one off Etsy for Chooch when he was a baby), but I almost bought this plastic Polaroid frame necklace so I could lay a new picture of Jonny Craig against my chest everyday, but it was $20 so I had to check with Henry since it was a day before my payday and we totally live paycheck-to-paycheck. Henry gave me permission but then I got all pouty and indignant over the fact that I had to check with him in the first place, so I decided I would just go back and buy it after I got paid and without needing to check with Papa H.

Plus, I wasn’t sure I really wanted it anyway. Henry can probably just make me one.

I’m even high-strung about small ticket purchases.

Afterward, we were drinking iced coffee on a bench when I realized I could take her to my favorite place in Pittsburgh—Zenith. It’s an antique store/vegetarian restaurant combo, and I’ve never been there to just browse the merch, but no way was I going to make a connoisseur of exotic meats dine on tofu and tempeh.

Andrea found all these cool courtroom drawings, and I really wanted her to have this one depicting the murder weapons, but it was kind of overpriced for something drawn with chalk on cardboard. If the lady-owner had been there yesterday, I probably could have haggled with her for it since she was so enchanted with me the last time I was there. But instead, some dude was in charge that day, maybe it was her son. I didn’t get bartering vibes from him, though.

I wanted Andrea to get this dress, but she claims it wasn’t her size. Really, I think she knows she’s not hardcore enough to wear a dress with bloodstains on it.

I’m going back for this bathing suit, maybe even the whole ensemble. I don’t care how bad Andrea hates it! When I look like Blanche Devereaux lounging on the lanai, we’ll see who’s laughing then!

I can’t wait until I get a house to fill with doll and mannequin heads.

It will be such an inviting abode!

“Did you see the wheelchair hanging up there?” Andrea asked, pointing above her head. I had been too busy prowling for clown things to look up, so I had not, in fact, seen the most majestic vintage wheelchair dangling precariously from the ceiling.

I literally gasped. It was all I could do. Then I believe I yelled, “OH SHIT I WANT THAT!!” How could someone like me not have something like that to sit upon while sipping coffee and smiling at the melodious birds out the front window? I was so afraid to inquire upon the price, but Andrea prodded me. When the guy squinted at it and said, “Hmmm…$40,” I almost died. That was something I could afford, and not only that but it’s practically an investment. Oh, the photoshoot ideas I have coagulating around my brain right now.

I could use the shit out of something like this.

So I called Henry and prefaced it with, “OK, don’t say no, and also–I didn’t buy that necklace.” I thought maybe that would soften him up a little bit, to know that I showed restraint when it came to accessories. And then I told him about the wheelchair in my signature quick-speak, and while he didn’t actually say no, he did say to wait until next week.

“THEY’RE CLOSED FOR VACATION NEXT WEEK!” I wailed.

“Well, then the week after that,” he was quick to retort.

“SOMEONE IS GOING TO BUY IT IF I DON’T!” I cried, and I’m pretty sure Henry and Andrea both muttered “No one is going to to buy that” in tandem.

I finally got him to agree to let me buy it right there on the spot, with an arrangement for him to pick it up the next day with his van But then I couldn’t find the guy to tell him the great news, so I frantically paced around the racks of muumuus and caftans, sweating and looking like a general fool, while Andrea calmly browsed for a present for her boyfriend. How does she stay so calm?! I was sweating so bad from all the anxiety this wheelchair was bringing to my life, that I had to periodically take time out to stand in front of the floor fan.

Finally, I poked my head into the kitchen and asked the girl doing food prep if she knew his whereabouts, and she pleasantly abandoned her vegetable-cutting in favor of fetching him for me. (I think his name was Richie? Unless his name was Wheelchair, I didn’t really care.)

And that is how I became the proud owner of a wheelchair that’s probably infested with the spirits of expired psychiatric patients. Henry should consider himself lucky: a haunted wheelchair or neckwear that will force him to look at Jonny Craig’s face everyday? I think he’ll agree that he got the better deal.

Now I just have to add  sipping coffee while smiling at the melodious birds out the front window into my daily routine.

Andrea’s mom thought it was hilarious that I almost took my own life the last time Andrea and I crafted together, so she sent Andrea here with more projects: tissue paper art, to be exact. The sole consolation was that it didn’t involve glue guns or reading instructions.

The glue that came with my kit was all jacked up, of course, so Henry had to involve himself which he was really trying to avoid. (Andrea’s mom sent a tissue paper kit for him too, and when Andrea pointed that out, Henry mumbled from the couch, “I’m eating.” Plus, Criminal Minds was on! Jesus!) Meanwhile, I figured if I was going to be miserable, everyone had to be miserable, so I put on Jonny Craig.

Chooch ran out of glue before he was finished, which is one reason why I rarely craft with him – kids and glue make me nervous! However, I just found out that my friend Seri likes to do craft projects, so he can just go to her house and splash around in Elmer’s from now on.

OMG Andrea’s was the worst and she knew it. I couldn’t even figure out what she was trying to achieve, but she left it here in case I ever run into a displaced woodsman looking for kindling.

I hated this project until I realized that I had all the proper hues of tissue to create the most majestic Jonny Craig giraffe. I didn’t use the googly eyes that came with the kit, because I felt that the dots already on the giraffe uncannily resembled Jonny’s beady rodent eyes. Why fuck with that? I added some vomit for good measure, and then made it my Facebook profile picture to further mock the fact that Andrea’s tissue paper giraffe completely shit the bed. She was so irritated that I started out being a hateful brat until Jonny swooped in and gave me the strength to carry on.

I just asked Chooch to give me his review of the craft project and he said, “Boring.”

“Can you give me more information?” I asked, because I’m perpetually unhappy with one word answers, I wonder why.

(Henry?)

“Boring and dumb,” he said and walked away.

That’s just because he’s mad that mine was so much better than his. He threw a fit about it that night, too.

I can’t help it that I win at everything, even gluing tissue paper. I guess it helps to have a ginger muse.

The “I Could Be Buying Back Issues of Bronies Weekly & Watching Criminal Minds, But Instead I Have To Buy Fireworks For These Assholes” Frown.

Even Andrea was like, “Yikes, Henry is mean” and stepped away from him.

The “I Just Noticed My Arm Is Dripping Blood From A Wound I Did Not Know I Had & Now My Girlfriend Is Making a Big Commotion About It & Drawing Attention To Us” Frown.

Moments before this, Henry pointed a jaunty man with a long & glorious mullet.

“He was in the bathroom with me and Chooch and I was glad I didn’t let Chooch go in alone.”

Then Henry noticed his MYSTERIOUS wound. There was a long crimson rivulet running down Henry’s forearm. I wanted to take a picture but he had scraped the now-dry blood off too quick. All that was left was a tiny little puncture mark. It was actually not very impressive or heroic, but it was probably worse than any casualty Henry suffered while in the SERVICE, except for maybe when his ego was curb-stomped by a Panamanian hooker’s denial.

Meanwhile, Mullet kept pivoting his head around to stare at us while he retreated.

“It just occurred to me that those two things did not happen through coincidence,” I shouted from the backseat of the car on the way home. (I let Andrea sit up front so she doesn’t get tormented by Chooch.) “That man stabbed you in the bathroom!”

“Yeah, Erin. That’s it exactly. He stabbed me in the forearm with a pencil.”

But then there’s always the zombie attack theory.

I’m probably going to be phoning it in this week since my friend Andrea is visiting from California and I need to devote as much time as possible to making her question why she’s friends with me. Since I have not had time to collect my thoughts about this past Big Butler Fair (whiplash might have something to do with that, here is a vintage Big Butler post in case you have never put your lives in the hands of a carny and would like to know what it feels like to ride carnival rides.

The morning of the fair, I panicked a little about what to eat for breakfast. I knew that I wanted to ride everything, all of the day, all of the time, possibly two rides at once if Alisha was bringing her cauldron and spell book. But I didn’t want to wind up puking like Blake did that one time. In the end, I eschewed the hemlock-laced trucker’s breakfast Henry was plating inside a tire, and wound up forcing down a small bowl of cereal instead.

“Let’s pace ourselves,” I said as we entered the gates to the fair that day. Ride all day passes were $20 (ours were $15 because Alisha bought them online before July 1, she’s such a savvy coupon clipper) and I wanted to be sure we woke up the next morning with safety-bar grooves indented into our flesh and a gaping anal wound, a good sign of us getting our money’s worth. But that wouldn’t happen if one or both of us wound up disgorging our breakfast and life matter after three rides.

We had our favorites, that’s for sure.

• Mind Blaster: This was more Alisha’s jam, but I think what she really liked were the exaggerated faces of horror I flashed toward her during the ride. I have two things fighting for ‘least favorite’ position: a) it’s too short of a ride, and b) all three times we rode it, I wound up sitting next to an empty seat and getting pelted by the unbuckled seat belt. So instead of bracing myself against the collarbone-cracking oscillations, I was too busy shielding my kneecaps from whipping belts.

• Freak Out: Oh, this ride is a hobofucker! For our inaugural trip, Alisha and I were the only ones riding it. It wasn’t so bad at first! Kind of like riding on a giant backyard swing set. But then I realized it was only swinging back and forth lethargically at first because it was gaining MOMENTUM and suddenly we were shot up into the sky. I guess I didn’t pay much attention when we were spectating from the ground earlier, because I failed to notice the point where it pendulates you up so high that your back is parallel to the Heavens and your face is staring point blank at all these things that seemed so harmless when you were on the ground but now they are nothing more than death instruments and now suddenly you’re wishing there were more concession stands over by the Freak Out to better your odds of landing on a trampoline of Kool-smoking muffin tops.  You better believe I was screaming like I had Bieber Fever while playing keep away from Ben Roethlisberger’s  protruding dick in the bathroom of some shitty Georgia night club. In fact, my screams  were of such Tobe Hooper audition tape  quality that the ride began to slow down. “I think I made it stop!” I laughed to Alisha, who had kept an empty seat between us in case one of us began to bleed out. “What?” she yelled over pulsating club beats of Usher. “I think I made them stopppppppp—-” and then that motherfucker sped up again in a DIFFERENT DIRECTION and let me tell you, the first round was basically when your brave boyfriend is feeling out your asshole with the tip of his cock. There’s pain, but then you’re like, “Well, this isn’t too bad I guess” and then he plunges right the fuck in with the whole goddamn shaft, giving an entirely new meaning to the experience. There was one point, as I was flung backward, where I saw my bowels exit my body and suspend in a frozen Karate move in front of me. I had a cold sweat when the ride was over. BUT IT WAS FUCKING GREAT, YOU GUYS! Just like anal.

The Zipper  is too awesome for bullet points.

Alisha had never been on the Zipper before and I was so excited to corrupt her. I got Henry to go on it once. He wasn’t really paying much attention I guess when we stood in line because he believed me when I swore, “Oh, this doesn’t go upside down.”

Alisha and I hate our lives so much that we rode it three times that day. The first time, I spent the entire ride fucking with the camera, trying to figure out how to get it to record. This meant that I wasn’t holding on. There are two ways I know this:

1. Alisha kept screaming I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE NOT HOLDING ON.
2. I slammed my head off the metal grating of the cage enough times to do some damage, which I think is why I tried to eat my porridge out of the commode the next morning.

And then something absolutely horrific happened. We’re suspended something like A LOT of feet in the air, smashed into a cage that’s spinning faster than Sybil on sugar cubes, when something FELL.

All I knew was that it was orange and it was a vital piece to the safety latch of the cage, thusly, we were frozen Looney Toon-style, mid-air, waiting for Satan to snap his fingers.

I’m screaming, “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE, THIS IS IT! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HOW I’M GOING OUT, I HAVEN’T EVEN EATEN SUSHI OFF A NAKED BITCH YET” and then as I paused to swallow a gulp of Butler County air, I caught the tail end of Alisha yelling, “—my fucking phone! That was  my brand new fucking phone!”

Oh how I embraced life at that very moment. I laughed like Alisha’s phone was a fucking double rainbow and then sobbed a little and then laughed harder.

IT WAS JUST HER STUPID PHONE! Not the world’s orangest bolt. Unfortunately, Alisha didn’t share my same relief because she had just literally got that phone the day before. I was able to clamp it down under my foot to ensure it didn’t get ejected from a carnival ride that makes the Iron Maiden look like a foot massager. So then my trip on the Zipper became REALLY fun and purposeful. My foot actually cramped from the urgency of which I was pinning down her phone.

Alisha said the second time we rode that other asshole ride, Freak Out, the guy next to her was texting the entire time. I don’t think I would have been able to save his phone too.

I like this photo because you can see Alisha holding on for dear life in the reflection of my sunglasses; meanwhile I’m like, “Just another afternoon on the yacht with Brody Jenner and Kristen Cavalleri, ya’ll.” I hate this photo because it was taken with the SHITTY CAMERA, you guys. I promise, I have a nose.  That Leno chin is real, though.

The second time we rode it, I recorded the entire trip. It’s over three minutes of me swearing, screaming, and saying “Oh my God” in a way that was meant to be filled with crisis but came off sounding like I’m orgasming. This particular go-around felt much more violent than the first one! There was one point where our cage somersaulted a good 10-12 times with no relenting.

“That’s what sex must sound like on a crashing plane,” I muttered to Alisha as we stumbled out of the cage and crossed ourselves post-haste.

Alisha, on the swings with her precious phone that I basically died for.

We rode one last time before we left, because KIRK was at the helms and I kept promising we’d be back to bunch up our lives in his hands like cum-covered panties.

Oh my god, this was me after riding the Zipper at the same fair in 1998! And I keep coming back for more torture. There’s a term for that. I think it’s called “Katy Perry fan.”

I was so excited and totally doing the pee dance in anticipation of Andrea’s arrival, that I left my house too early to get her. Rather than circle around the airport like an idiot (because that’s so much different than walking in circles around my house, amirite Law Firm Walking Challenge?), I pulled into the Sunoco that’s conveniently located within the airport grounds, and is therefore peppered with SUNOCO PARKING ONLY NO WAITING FOR AIRPORT PASSENGERS signs.

Because I’m always on OMG AM I GOING TO GET IN TROUBLE alert, I figured I better go inside and buy the right to park here. So I got this curious drink called NeuroTrim which tastes distinctly Asian and verboten. It’s the only way I can describe it and with any luck, it’s chockful of fen-phen and I’ll drop 20 before going into cardiac arrest.

It comes in a pretty cool bottle and it apparently wants to be drank three times a day, before major meals. Look Henry, I found a new fad!

Chooch started nosin’ through some of my old stuff in the bedroom while I was focusing on ruining Henry’s nap, when suddenly he laughed behind me and exclaimed, “What IS this?!”

Oh god, please don’t let it be some archaic vibrator or drug paraphernalia, I thought.

But it was just an old Bobby Brown cassette single, probably purchased at my favorite record store, Waves.

“Oh shit, we have to play this!” I screamed, while Henry was trying to convince Chooch we don’t have a tape player because he didnt want to deal with it. (You know, trying to nap and all.)

So then I spent the next 15 minutes struggling to mend an old tape player while Henry begged us both to just go downstairs. Finally, I achieved success! (And also a large quotient of dust in my nostrils.)

Finally, my bedroom was pregnant with the tinny tones of Bobby Brown crooning about humpin’ around while Henry rolled his weary eyes.

“Mommy, what’s this?” Chooch asked innocently, handing me a holographic bullet-like object, which for a moment I actually did mistake for a lady toy.

“Oh, that’s just a lighter that doesnt work anymore,” I said, but as I absent-mindedly struck it, a flame squirted out. “Oh, shit, it does work!” I laughed, tossing it back at Chooch’s chest.

“Yeah, so give it back to him, that’s great,” Henry mumbled, dragging a hand down his dark eye circles, at which point Chooch chucked the lighter at his face and we died laughing. And by “we,” I of course just mean Chooch and me. Henry has to relearn that function after the accident. And by “accident,” I of course mean out relationship.

There was no point to this, but Andrea is coming to Pittsburgh this week (she arrives after midnight!) and I am hyper! And I have at least three posts to write about my beloved Big Butler Fair but can’t find the time so I’m all stressed out but then I remembered, wait—this isn’t my job and no one cares.

Speaking of my job, I’m off all week!

Quick update to let you know that I’m still walking. My 20,000+ steps a day streak was frighteningly close to be being broken at the fair last night (that’s its own story); Henry and I have almost broken up 87 times (last night was #86); I walked into Wendy’s door trying to leave her office and blamed it on standing still for too long; and I really need to get my hair done but that’s TWO HOURS of being stuck in a chair, not walking.

I’ve been dragging Chooch to the high school track with me everyday. This might be surprising to some, but he’s kind of not really into it. I was letting him bring a ball with him at first, but he kept accidentally-on-purpose kicking it onto the track. A red ball on a red track — now those are two things that go hand in hand. Finally I wised up and made him keep the ball in the car on Friday. Within 8 minutes, he FOUND a ball over by the equipment shed, which he began bouncing in the same lane as a woman running toward him.

Sometimes I get lucky and there are roaming cats on the other side of the fence to distract him.

The last time we were there, he snatched a Santa Claus out of the air so I told him to make a wish.

“I wish we could get the hell out of here,” he mumbling, releasing the Santa Claus back into the air.

July 11, Chooch. July 11.