The other day, I was wandering around the streets of downtown on my break. This is only slightly dangerous, as I’ve been learning a lot about my surroundings, i.e. how to find my way back to The Law Firm. I decided that I wanted to check out the Christkindlmarket in Market Square, which is basically a fancy way of saying, “Look, we built tiny store fronts full of European wares.”

Of course, I needed to see if there were any Bavarian-flavored goods being sold, but while I was out there, I noticed that SANTA CLAUS IS THERE! AND HE HAS HIS OWN HOUSE!

I have been around many Santas in my day, but never have I felt so strong a desire to have my picture taken with one.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any money on me, and besides, I was already “accused” of having “no friends” so why get a picture taken proving that? It would be way more fun wrangling some of my work friends, I mean “colleagues,” to join me.

I came running back to work and burst into Carey’s office. After I panted out my request, she promised that she would go with me the next day.

So yesterday I painted my nails all Christmas-like, put on an emerald green silk shirt for extra yueltide flair, and even spent some extra time straightening my hair all nice and un-hobo-like….

…only to get to work and have Carey tell me she was “too busy.”

“But your hair looks really nice today!” she said as a way to compensate for my rapidly falling face.

“Yeah, because I THOUGHT I was getting my picture taken with Santa today,” I said in a huff.

Meanwhile, Barb had left early, Wendy said she was too scared (like I brought my own Santa or something), and Gayle and Amber1 had already taken their breaks. However, Amber2 told me that if I could hold my red-nosed horses until Monday, she would happily go with me. (I should have just asked her in the first place, since she’s also the person who went Furry-hunting with me last June.)

But then today Carey casually proposed that we go get felt up by Santa. At first I was like, “WTF, I look like crap* today!”

*(See also: “normal”)

Whatever. Sane hair or Hobo hair, I was getting my fucking picture taken with Santa’s fat ass one way or another. I was so excited and ran around rubbing it into everyone’s faces (Glenn responded with a blank stare).

But when Carey and I got down there, we found out that it was cash or food donation only. No credit cards. My heart sank—I didn’t have enough time to run to an ATM because my break was halfway over by then.

Carey shrugged and said she had nothing, so I hung my head and we walked away.

As we retreated, I noticed an older black woman up ahead and recoiled at her appearance. But then I thought to myself, “Oh, she has zombie makeup on. There must be a zombie event happening.”

(Pittsburgh is the Zombie capital of the world, so…not unusual.)

But as we got closer, I realized that there was actually something wrong with her. Her face was ashy, about four shades lighter than the rest of her, and she was wearing bright red lipstick.

Her hair? THAT was legit hobo hair.

And then she opened her mouth to reveal a pit full of rotted stubs.

“Excuse me, do you got any money so I can get some dinner?” she asked in a panhandling drawl.

“No,” I replied, walking away and leaving Carey to have her face gnawed off for dinner by Hobo Zombie.

I didn’t really think anything of it. I knew that Carey was going to Chipotle to get dinner and I had to get back to work.

Ten minutes later, I was at Barb’s desk, whining about how once again, I was Santa pictureless, when Carey marched by with her bag of Chipotle.

“Thanks for leaving me with that homeless woman,” she spat. “What a great way to treat your Santa wingman.”

I lost it, totally folded myself in half with giddy laughter.

“Wait, what’s this?” Barb asked. “You conveniently left that part of the story out!”

“And just so you know, when I was in Chipotle I discovered that I actually did have leftover cash, so that’s what you get for deserting me.” And then, as her office door shut behind her, Carey tacked on an effective, “Asshole.”

I walked away, crying with laughter, while various co-workers noted with sarcasm my valiant propensity at having the backs of friends.

Later, upon further discussion, Carey and I deduced that the beggar may have been a black albino.

“How terrible to be TWO minorities,” Carey said solemnly, but I only started laughing harder. Then I returned to my office, where I laughed alone for the next 30 minutes.

In other work news: I used the microwave here for the first time last night and totally fucked that up.

Dear Friend(s?),

It might come as a shock to you, but I really, really, really like amusement parks. Specifically, I like the creepy, old dark rides. The fun houses. The tunnels of love. The park attractions that smell like your Great Aunt Esther’s cedar closet in 1964.

Our Castle Blood friends, Chris and Kari, are members of the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiasts club and convinced me to sign up for the family membership.

Twist my arm, seriously.

(DAFE.org is actually what made me want to go to Waldameer Park so badly over the summer, so it was a no-brainer to finally become a member.)

Anyhow, what perfect timing – Kennywood Park is open for a few weekends this year with a Christmas theme, and not only did DAFE members get free admission the night after Thanksgiving, we also got to enter the park before the general public and take a lights on tour of Ghostwood Estate, which is all dudded up for the holidays.

We met up with Chris and Kari, and their daughter Katelyn whom Chooch pretends to dislike, but we all know better.

I love Katelyn. Not only does she keep my kid on his toes (not an easy feat), but she’s got some scene kid swag! And how can I not love a kid who totally appreciates my style? During the course of the night, she told me that she likes my:

• boots
• rings
• iPhone case
• scarf

If she had said Jonny Craig, I probably would have asked Chris and Kari if they can adopt me.

Ghostwood Estate, all dolled up with yuletide bling.

Chris giving the kids the parental “don’t touch a goddamn thing in there!” speech.

Chooch’s response to authority.

Ghostwood Estate is relatively new to Kennywood. Another darkride, the Goldrusher, was removed to make room for this update on the darkride genre. All the cars are equipped with laser guns, giving it an interactive twist. Hitting the targets makes all kinds of shit explode within the scene, so that’s a fun bonus.

Oh, and it also records everyone’s points, so this isn’t something that Henry and I are wildly competitive with. Not at all.

I realized, during the walkthru, that I didn’t recognize a single thing. And then it occurred to me that it’s because anytime I’ve been inside there, I’ve been so preoccupied with shooting the targets, that I never really gave myself a chance to just enjoy the decrepit scenery.

I really suck at shooting the targets, anyway. We got to ride through after the walking tour, at which point Henry and Kari made Chooch and I look like fucking pacifists. Jesus, our scores were so abysmal.

At least mine wasn’t as bad as Chooch’s.

The tour alone was worth the cost of our DAFE membership, but there was still so much more to do!

I was actually able to pay attention to the rest of the tour now that Andrea’s picture was planted, but shit — I was tired of listening to organ music and Dick’s scripted adages. Furthermore, I realized that there was not a single wheelchair in Chuck’s collection. (Excuse me while I pause here and Google “German wheelchairs.”)

(OMG German Shephards in doggy wheelchairs – abort mission. ABORT MISSION!!)

One of my favorite parts of the tour happened about 2 minutes after I took this picture, and that was when Dick started bitching about his failure to wear suspenders that day while hoisting up his ill-fitting pants.

Classic Dick.

Then we listened to a machine that some fools consider to be a “calliope.” Don’t be an ignorant asshole, OK? It’s a band organ. If you don’t know the difference, then get off my fucking lawn.

Calliope. Morons.

Meanwhile, Shelly was  right behind me, sitting at one of the 87 bars, making me all self-conscious and completely paranoid. So I folded my arms and mimicked the facial expressions of the Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All to make it appear that I was Really Into It and hadn’t just committed reverse theft.

The completely-wasted, superfluous wine cellar. When having a wet bar in every room of your house just isn’t enough.

Dick didn’t point out the bottle of Mad Dog this time,which proves he only did that last December in hopes that Andrea would shout, “Mad Dog? Why, that’s my jam!” and then he could take her (and the bottle) up to his creepy, cordoned-off Bayernhof bachelor pad.

The weird, man-made cavern secret passageway that leads from the basement to the indoor pool area is the money shot of the tour. Talk about saving the best for last.  Fuck all those weird fake Calliope things!

I wonder how many of Chuck’s old party guests fornicated down in there.

Shit, son!

I can’t express how badly I want to swim in this pool. I might even write some poetry about it.

Um, of course there’s a gnome-covered bar in the pool area.

Yeah, that’s what I thought too, until Dick caught me giggling, sighed tiredly and said, “They’re shoeing a horse.”

At the very end of the tour, Dick had Shelly pass out a basket of comment cards.

“And if you’d like to volunteer and do what Shelly does, please leave your contact information on the back of the card,” Dick added, and I practically pushed people into the pool in my mad dash for a comment card.

Like there was going to be any shortage.

At first, I panicked when I realized every single person was filling out a card, but I think I was the only one awesome enough to volunteer my door-shutting, eagle-eyed services.

“You sure you want to do this?” Shelly asked, and I jumped a little, not realizing she had sidled up that close to me.

“Why?” I asked, with a nervous laugh, half-expecting her to clamp some kind of edelweiss-branded handcuff on me and hauling me off for questioning, where I would be forced to admit my picture frame deviancy while fake calliopes blasted out my ear drums from all angles.

“Well, some people can be annoying,” she whispered and then just as I was sure she meant me, she smiled and I realized she was clearly referring to Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All.

But…probably Dick.

Shelly ended up being pretty cool. I know this because I shook her hand and it was pretty cool.

***

Later that night, I was excitedly telling Henry about my dreams of spending more time at the Bayernhof, getting to know the real Dick (his name is apparently Tony, who knew? I guess everyone who was actually paying attention), and just otherwise immersing myself in weird German crap.

“Yeah, until he finds that picture and goes back and watches the tapes,” Henry said smugly, dashing my dreams.

In between bands at the Dance Gavin Dance show and Henry’s ignoring me, so here’s a picture of him hating his life right now.

At least they’re playing the greatest hits of the 70s over the sound system for him.

P.S. I just asked, “What would you do if I grabbed a mic and proposed to you?”

“Leave,” he muttered without hesitating.

Well, shit.

Two years ago, my friend Gayle reunited with Jeff, a man she dated thirty years ago. On Saturday, they got married!

Henry, Chooch and I were all invited, but Henry made us late (see also: Erin read the invitation wrong). By the time we arrived to the church in New Castle, Gayle must have JUST walked down the aisle, because it was quieter than a mime’s funeral up in that piece. So quiet that when the door slammed behind us, people in the back of the church turned and looked. Then Chooch started talking and it was like PING PING PING off the walls.

I clamped my hand over his mouth and pushed him down the hallway, away from the church door, and begged him to sit quietly with me on a bench. No way was I going to attempt to squeeze into a pew with the ceremony in progress, so we listened to it from the hallway, while Chooch spoke (in what he thinks is a whisper but is still totally loud and disruptive) about having to pee but really it was his ploy to get a good look around the church for the playroom that I stupidly told him was going to be available for the kids at the wedding.

Thankfully, the ceremony was seemingly performed by the Micro Machines guy and was over a few minutes after we arrived. Super bummed that we didn’t get to see any of it, but the advantage of being on the other side of the doors meant that we got to be the first people to hug and congratulate them! Chooch kept trying to ask her about that damn playroom, like that’s really what she’s thinking about 2 minutes after becoming Jeff’s wife.

Chooch was interrupted by the rest of the bridal party filing out, with all of the guests pouring out behind them, and we somehow got stuck standing alongside the bridal party, pinned against the wall by the receiving line. Some people seemed unsure if they were supposed to shake our hands too. It was incredibly awkward.

Henry was originally wearing his Freddy Krueger-striped henley but I made him change. He hates dressing nice. He would have worn his Everfresh pullover if he knew I wouldn’t castrate him with my former rich girl couth. But on the plus side, he didn’t frown once all night!

Speaking of appearances, I was super self-conscious about how I looked. (When am I not?) Henry kept saying, “Seriously? No one is going to pay any attention to us with Chooch there.” And he was correct. That little fucker has a permanent spot light on him. The coolest girl at the wedding (her name is Kayla and we’re both friends with the Trundle Manor crew, so Gayle formally introduced us – she has a giant ice cream sundae tattoo on her arm and I totally have a girl-crush on her now) told Chooch he had the best outfit and his cheeks immediately flushed.

We weren’t in the reception room for 10 minutes before Chooch found a rolled-up rug to purposely trip over. I know I shouldn’t be, but I still get mortified when he does shit like this. It’s embarrassing! And the front of his pants were filthy afterward. My greatest fear was that he was going to face-plant into the wedding cake. I saw the way he was eying it up.

And thankfully, the chocolate fountain was far enough back on the table that he couldn’t reach his tongue into it.

We sat with my co-worker Pam and her 18-year-old nephew Dominic who kept Chooch entertained. Mostly by egging him on and encouraging his antics.

And it’s always wonderful when we’re in a church and he’s introducing himself to people as “Devil.” I don’t think Pam was very amused by that, but Dominic started choking.

Chooch kept pacing around, waiting for Gayle. “Where is she!?” he kept asking huffily. And when the bridal party finally entered the room, Chooch acted like he was going to rush at Gayle, so I had to grab him by his blazer.

“Jesus, Chooch — let her sit down!” Henry sighed.

We were the table furthest away from the food, so Pam started grumbling about how we were going to be the last table called. Henry and I agreed, but Chooch, always contrary, said, “Yeah, well, I bet we’re first!”

And we were first. We had to hear about that one all night, and part of the next day too. (“Remember when the whole table was WRONG but I was RIGHT?”)

On the way back to our table, dinner plate in hand, Chooch walked right up to Gayle at the bridal table, interrupted her conversation with another guest, and in a frustrated tone, he asked, “WHERE is the play room!?” She laughed and explained that they still had to clear their stuff out of it, and he walked away completely unsatisfied with this answer.

After we had eaten, we were joined by my another girl from the Law Firm, Patty, and her fiance Tim (they had a friend with them too but I am half-retarded and forgot his name). They’re big horror buffs so I told Chooch this, hoping it would distract him from his play room quest. They asked him what his favorite horror movie is and he said Ju-On without hesitation. I ook their surprised reaction as a seal of approval — my kid doesn’t fuck around when it comes to horror. I don’t know where he gets that.

Gayle came over to visit with us and finally took him to the goddamn play room, in which he spent a whopping five minutes before returning to our table.

“It’s just a room,” he sighed. “With a few toys.”

“Well, what the hell did you think it was going to be?! A water park?” I asked. At least I was able to enjoy my cake after that without having to hear about the mysterious play room.

Anyway, what a fun night! It was great to see Gayle so happy and positively a’glow, and I’m honored that we got to share her big day with her and even made it out of there without Chooch doing anything devastating. I get that he’s amusing to most people, but he makes me so goddamn nervous and I’m hyper-aware of his every movement.

(He did come close to crashing into the Irish-music-playing sound system at one point.)

Chooch’s wedding card. I don’t know what kind of idea the groom is having, but it might have something to do with the bride’s boobs, maybe?

The upstairs is where shit really gets crunk. Taxidermied birds singing in a cage? Random, out-of-place collection of baseball caps? Humongous Hummels and remote-controlled bathtubs?

All upstairs, baby.

Corey, up to his eyeballs in Bavarian sights.

Kristy, procuring decorating tips for her Zombie Lounge.

This guy would rather be drinking micro brews while listening to Gaslight Anthem.

The balcony from which Andrea contemplated swan-diving last year.

The game room!

This one girl in our group (pictured above) reminded me so much of Andrea because she had the face of a person contemplating suicide. Her male companion was equally solemn, but later I heard them ambivalently mumble to each other about how the Bayernhof was cool, so that was when I realized they were actually just hipsters.

Dick didn’t seem nearly as enamored with the Andrea Knockoff. In fact, he didn’t even force her to take a fortune from the fortune teller machine like he did to Andrea last year.

Speaking of Andrea, in the French-decorated guest room, I pulled the framed picture of her out of my purse and contemplated leaving it on the dresser I was standing next to, but then I made eye contact with Depressed Teenager. Before I had a chance to slip it back into my purse, Dick turned off the phonograph that was holding everyone enrapt, sending everyone’s attention back toward the door, and I was forced to carry the picture with me into the master bedroom.

I noticed a security camera in the corner of the ceiling, pointed right at me, so I was too afraid to put the picture back in my purse for fear of it looking like I was stealing, but carrying it around in my hand looked just as suspicious, if you ask me. I really wanted to leave it on the bedside table, next to the photo of Chuck and his buxom German fraulein, and so I planned it that I would be the last to the leave the room when Dick led everyone into the master kitchen/bar.

However, Shelly the Muscle slinked over to the doorway of the master bedroom and leaned up against it, Roadhouse-style. I was convinced that she had made me her mark, so now I was starting to perspire slightly on top of darting my eyes around in a paranoid fit.

I filled Kristy in on my plan right before we climbed the steep staircase to the Bayernhof observatory. (Corey mentioned later that he felt like he was in a game of Clue and I just can’t imagine why.)

Shelly followed us up to the observatory too, I guess to make sure no one tried to steal the $20,000 (and probably 20,000 lb) telescope. I actually wasn’t aware that she came up there with us until she apparated from nowhere to Vanna Whitely gesticulate at something Dick was going on about.

Her mere presence was making me fidget with the picture frame until I eventually snapped off the flap on the back. I tried to whine to Kristy about it, but it was at the exact moment we were walking past the 87th bar inside the house, so unless I was saying, “Do you want that on the rocks?” I don’t think she was listening.

In the master bathroom, Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All made some kind of racy comment about having a party in the bath tub, and according to Corey, a brief sign of life flashed across Surly Hipster Girl’s face in response. Of course, I missed all of that because I was too busy silently melting down over where to place Andrea’s picture, and HOW.

Meanwhile, Corey got the giggles and I was trying to stave off my innate desire to gang-laugh with him.

After Dick gave us enough visuals of Chuck’s bathtime routine to produce a Kubrick-helmed cinematic saga  in our heads, he pulled on a long floor mirror which opened to reveal the first of several secret passages, which is of course my favorite part of the house and momentarily distracted me from my photo-placing panic.

Chuck’s Nixon-centric office. I don’t remember this lady in the photo, which means she must not have been annoying.

Shelly didn’t follow us down the secret staircase into the office! I thought I heard Dick mumble something about her having to go and pick up her husband, so I became extremely hopeful and even unclenched a little.

I was the lucky one who got to descend the secret staircase from the office into the boardroom right behind Dick’s ass. We entered the room and Dick found that one of the closet doors was open.

“Chuck must have been in here again,” Dick said with a laugh.

Oh shit, I wanted to murder him with ghost questions, but everyone else had filed into the room by then, and god forbid anyone interrupt Dick’s meticulously memorized spiel.

I have no idea what everyone is looking at because obviously I was too busy taking pictures. I do love how everyone has their arms folded accordingly.

After learning about how the boardroom was essentially one collosal waste of money and space considering Chuck didn’t even have a board, we exited through another secret doorway, into the basement bar.

Attached to the basement bar room is a small canning room, full of industrial cooking equipment which Chuch only used once — to make sauerkraut. Dick let everyone pile into the room while he stood near the doorway, rambling on about the specs of the room, yet conveniently leaving out the part about how it was used to butcher people.

With Shelly nowhere in sight, and me being the last one to exit the canning murder den, I figured this might be my best chance to dump Andrea’s likeness. I quickly conferred with Kristy and Corey who agreed that I should just drop it like it’s hot.

So I did, but not without first clanking it against that glass straw holder and fumbling to make it stand without the aid of the little flap I broke off earlier.

When I emerged from the claustrophic canning room, I saw that Shelly had returned. I’m sure that if she or Dick had asked me a question at that moment, the word “Guilty” would have blurted out of me like the “cuckoo” from a clock.

Shelly squeezed past me and headed straight for the canning room. I held my breath, expecting her to come marching out with Andrea’s portrait, shaking her fist in my face, getting Dick so riled up that his suspenders break. When I imagine Dick losing his temper, and I immediately think of the Caterpillar from Alice In Wonderland.

Turns out Shelly didn’t even go inside the canning room; she was just closing the door.

Total adrenaline rush for the rest of the  tour. (Yes, there’s one more part. Sorry!)

Dazed. Annoyed. Harried. This is Henry when he takes Chooch and me with him to work.

I don’t know what it is about the Faygo Factory*, but it makes me and Chooch combust with giddiness.

(*Not actually a factory.)

Ever since touring that slice of Bavarian heaven in Sharpsburg last December, I’ve been determined to revisit the Bayernhof Music Museum.

“I need a picture of Andrea in a small frame,” I said to Henry one night last week.

“Why?” Chooch butted in. “So she can haunt me!?”

No, but now I know how to fill the empty spaces on his bedroom walls.

Actually, I thought it would be a nice homage to my good friend in California to leave a picture of her inside the place she hated the most in Pittsburgh.

My brother Corey quickly agreed to join me on my return visit. I really wanted him to see it, because there are so many elements of the Bayernhof that remind me of our grandparents house (obviously their house was not even close to being that impressive, but it has that same time capsule charm). My Pappap was Austrian, so their house had a similar European decorating style to it.

To tour the Bayernhof, you can’t just show up. Real life reservations have to be made to prove that you’re serious about music box shit. Last year, I made Wendy call on my behalf because I’m a big baby about talking on the phone. But this time, I felt inflated with many brave balls so I did it myself.

Dick answered (who else would, really?) and I had to stave off the giggles.

He had only one appointment open for the upcoming weekend and acted like he was doing me some hearty favor by making room for my party of 2. (We actually had 3 in our party, but I made the reservations before my friend Kristy said she could go because I’m so great at jumping the gun.)

“Erin Kelly,” Dick repeated after me. “I like that. I like that name A LOT. That’s a good ITALIAN name!”

Maybe you should stick with German shit, Dick.

The tour was Sunday at 2:30. Corey and I arrived promptly at 2:15 and there was a decent-sized crowd milling about outside. (Decent for the Bayernhof, so—roughly 6 people.) Dick opened the doors for us shortly thereafter and let us congregate in the den while he made sure everyone was there. I started to panic because Kristy wasn’t there yet and I had forgotten to call and tell Dick to add another to the Italian Party of 2.

He did a quick roll call and deduced that everyone was there and that the tour could start early. My panic began to mount. Dick hates being interrupted and he wouldn’t STFU long enough for me to raise my hand and tell him we were expecting another person. This was actually making me perspire a little.

We were still in the den, getting a quick rundown of the rules (NO TALKING AND POINTING AT THINGS DURING THE TOUR! IT DISTRACTS DICK!), when the doorbell rang.

“Oh, that must be my second person,” he said, quickly mumbling about how the director doesn’t permit such large groups to be alone in the rooms. (“Such large groups” – there was about 13 of us.)

When Dick left the room, I looked at Corey in fear and whispered, “OMG what if it’s Kristy and Dick yells at her!?” It wasn’t even 2:30 yet anyway! She wasn’t late! But I was worried that my reservation faux pas would make Dick blow one.

But everything seemed fine when they came back into the den together. Still, I felt the strong urge to pull her behind us, cloaking her from Dick’s disgust.

I instantly hated the lady in the white (off-the-shoulder, wtf) sweatshirt. There was something about her that reminded me of my Aunt Sharon, the way she’d zealously nod her head and murmur, “Mm-hmm!” like she knows everything. And her reactions to all of Dick’s jokes were totally exaggerated and unnecessary. When Kristy asked me if it was OK to take pictures, I wanted to say, “Well, that lady has her camera strung around her neck, and she knows everything, so I guess so.” But I was too afraid of speaking in tandem with Dick, so I just nodded instead.

I was trying desperately to stay off Dick’s radar in hopes of depositing Andrea’s picture somewhere without being detected. But then, while we were in the kitchen learning about the cooking techniques of Ye Ol’ Bayernhof Baron, Charles, Dick’s “Second Person” arrived. Her name was Shelly, and she was equipped with a magazine.

Dick introduced her and explained that Shelly would be tagging along to make sure no one was left alone in any of the rooms. She also did performed random head counts and always seemed to have her eyes on me, like she could just tell I was up to no good.

Motherfucker, how was I supposed to complete the dare that I had given myself with some ginger music box bodyguard tailing me through the entire house?

Charles’s oven-thing. Henry would probably spontaneously ejaculate at the sight of this.

Oh great, the dining room. Last year, I completely lost my shit when Dick cranked up the first music box of the afternoon.

I was pretty well-behaved this time, but almost lost it when Dick exclaimed, “OK, everyone should know what song this is!” and just like last year, absolutely no one did. I did, because I remember from last year, but I didn’t want to look like a nerd.

Surprisingly, Shoulder-baring Know-It-All didn’t know,  but she was acting like it was on the tip of her tongue. When Dick, shaking with disappointment, told us it was the “Good Ole Summertime,” she practically lunged forward in her mad fit to finish his sentence.

I wish I had counted how many times Kristy raised her eyebrows in mock interest at Dick’s anecdotes. Her head must have been hemorrhaging with commentary.

Corey and the Sad Grandson, trying to get a better look at some organ’s insides. Every time Corey and I made eye contact, we’d start cracking up. Meanwhile, Shelly was sitting on the steps, reading her magazine but I know she was really making sure no one was keying any music boxes. God, her presence was so awkward.

Dick was very upset because not only were some of the music makers covered with tarps to protect them from a ceiling leak, there were others that weren’t performing properly. “This sounds terrible so I am going to turn it off!” he spat in a huff at one point.  I was telling Andrea about this later and she pointed out, “Um, isn’t that his job? To make them sound good?”

Indeed!

Thankful for this guy…

…and this guy.

And for Henry’s family, who stuffed me full of Thanksgiving staples and made me feel more included than my own.

And for true friends who have had my back so much this past year alone.

Thanksgiving 2012 = A+

In an effort to rejuvenate a love for handwritten letters, the Snail Mail My Email project was launched. It’s run solely by volunteers who handwrite and mail letters that are submitted by people through the website. There’s also the option to request a custom doodle.

Because I don’t have enough shit to do, I signed up to be a volunteer. I wasn’t holding my breath, because the FAQs made it sound like they had enough people, but then over the weekend, I received an email telling me I was chosen, followed immediately by 20 emails with the letters that I need to write and mail.

By MONDAY.

Of course, I made this my priority.

The first one I did had a doodle request of an epic battle between a unicorn and a cat in a cave in a deep pocket of a purse. So I made a purse out of a manila folder. It opens up to reveal the epic battle (I modeled the cat after Marcy, who cam sit through an epic battle looking bored as hell, yet still win) and the message they wanted is written on the back of a gum wrapper.

Because all purses have a gum wrapper in it.

WTF happened in Napa?!

(A-ron liked this one so much, he asked me to make a copy before I mail it.  Who wouldn’t love a letter with the word “twats” in it!?)

3 down. 17 more to go!

Chooch wrote this to Corey on the back of his school picture without any coaxing from me. (He did ask me how to spell “uncle”, though. I was going to lie and spell “ulcer” but Chooch is too good at reading to fall for that.)

This was Chooch on Monday morning before school. Shit, I wish I felt that good on Monday mornings. The general consensus is: It must be the pants.

OMG I found this picture last night when I was doing totally 100% work-related shit at work. I loved it so much that I printed it out at home and now I need to make an appropriate frame for it, maybe send some copies to my clown-lusting friend Kendahl.

God, it just fills me with so much joy, like a bellyful of pornographic jam.

To conclude, Henry, Chooch and I went to Eat n Park for dessert on Sunday night. By the register, there was a stack of used books, the proceeds of which benefit Children’s Hospital. Chooch and I lunged for the same book in tandem, some “Things to Make and Do” piece of wonderment from 1970. I wanted it for the illustrations, Chooch wanted it because it’s full of projects for me to fail at.

There was no set price on it, just a donation, but Henry started mouthing off to us about not having any cash, so the manager asked, “Is this for him?” and gestured at Chooch. When I said yes, he waved me off and said, “Then don’t worry about it. I got it.”

I’m always startled when people do nice things.

Anyway, thanks to that Eat n Park dude, I now have instructions on how to make racial puppets and match my shirt and socks to my hair color.

Meanwhile, I’m really getting into the holiday spirit for once! I’m excited for Thanksgiving, which is extremely fun for me because I get to scour the Internet for pretentious, gourmet dishes full of exorbitantly-priced ingredients which will force Henry to rub elbows with yuppies in speciality markets for some tiny rock of $25 French cheese and a spice he can’t pronounce but can read the price tag very clearly.

To me, that’s what Thanksgiving is all about. Putting Henry to work.

Wait…that’s every day.

Oh well, I’ll think of something later.

What’s your favorite thing to eat on Thanksgiving? (Other than turkey; I can’t get behind turkey.)

Blake turned 20 on Saturday. I can’t even believe it. He was 8 when I met him after Henry and I began dating, and it blows my mind to see that this green-haired maniac kid in an over-sized Korn tshirt  has grown up to be such a cool big brother to Chooch. And Chooch just adores him, even though he started crying earlier at TGIFridays because Blake “always hurts [his] feelings!”

Chooch kept threatening to tell our waitress that Blake wanted to dance with her. I think he would have told her too, had she not have been blond. Chooch has a super-hard time talking to pretty blond girls.

Blake agreed to go to the cemetery afterward and take bro-photos because it’s been awhile. I just wish Henry’s oldest son Robbie would have been there too, to make it more legit! Oh well, that gives me more time to find matching outfits for them.

Posing by the “farm of weeners.” Thanks for teaching him that one, Blake!

There was some yuppie bitch there trying to take Christmas photos of her spoiled brat children and I was getting so pissed because they kept popping up in the background of my shots. We crossed paths at one point, and I could tell she was super jealous of my cooperative subjects as she attempting to pick up one of her tantrum-throwing dick kids off the ground.

Amateur.

Their idea.

Chooch HATED this photo because it was one that Blake wanted, not him. I’ve realized over the years that the easiest way to get this shit done is to just let Chooch do what he wants. He gets really into the idea of having his photo taken as long as we’re using his ideas.

Later that day, it occurred to me that at some point during the year, Blake is 14 years older than Chooch, I’m 14 years older than Blake, and Henry is 14 years older than me, but this never happens all at once.

(And yes, I know: Chooch and Blake look so much alike, and Chooch looks nothing like me. You got me! Chooch isn’t my kid!)

Dumdum daddy would not let me go to staples to get sum paper because he thinks he is special and he was to busy watching his favorite* show.

[Mom Edit: This was apparently a super big deal while I was at work, as evidenced by Chooch’s notes to Henry, who was on the phone with his sister at the time. Please also note that for his inaugural post, I discouraged Chooch from using the arsenal of swear words he keeps on hand.

*By “favorite,” he means something more disparaging.

]

Andrea bought a house and asked me to make her a skull painting. I’m technically retired (Somnambulant Art is all but a memory), but I like to hook some bitches up here and there.

This one felt really good to paint!

Apparently, whoever lived in this cell was well-behaved enough to be given his own TV, what the hell?

After getting a load of the maximum security North Hall digs, the cells in the “moderately bad guy” hall almost looked livable. According to Wiki, “[t]he fate of the prison was sealed in a 1986 ruling by the West Virginia Supreme Court which stated that the 5 x 7-foot  cells were cruel and unusual punishment.” Nine years later, the prison peaced out when all the inmates were moved to a larger facility in a nearby town.

Volunteers got to be locked inside the cells. Of course, Chooch was all over this. I only wish they’d have kept him longer.

The guide told us that on one of her tours, a man was taking pictures of his wife and daughter in one of the cells, but every time he looked at the pictures on his camera, the cell was empty.

The guide said she saw the pictures herself and could confirm that his wife and daughter were not appearing in the photos. A girl in our tour group lunged for that cell immediately after hearing the story, but the phenomenon must be particular because she showed up in all of the pictures.

Ghost shit never happens when I’m around!

Another outdoor area where the general population criminals could exercise and, I don’t know, mill about? Lay on their backs and look at the clouds?

There’s a chapel out there, and a bathroom, the wall of which had to be knocked down after an inmate was killed in there.

Entrance to the Sugar Shack. This was an area in the basement where the inmates could go during inclement weather, but they entered at their own risk. They were completely unsupervised down there, and even though there’s no record of anyone actually dying, it’s still considered the most haunted area of the prison, due to all of the violence and suffering that occurred in there. We didn’t get to go inside during our tour, which means I’m going to have to go back and take one of the ghost hunt tours, so if anyone wants to join me, holla atcha girl.

Old Sparky! I think he speaks for himself.

The museum room was fascinating. I think I want to decorate my future invisible house with prisoner art work. I mean, I already have a small collection thanks to my death row pen pal’s penchant for abstract water coloring.

(I shouldn’t be concerned that he painted a nude of me, right?)

Next possible Christmas card in the series…

Chooch seemed particularly interested in the weapon wall. Go figure.

My favorite part of Moundsville is its connection with Charles Manson.

Manson grew up in this area, and his mom was even imprisoned there when Manson was a kid. So he wrote a letter to the warden, asking for permission to be transferred so he could be closer to his childhood home. He also thought he would be treated better there.

The warden’s response was a simple yet effective, “It’d be a cold day in Hell.”

Can you imagine how different Moundsville’s history would be if Manson’s wish was granted? He would have taken control of that prison right off the Aryan Nation and god only knows what would have happened next.

Anyway, I pointed to Manson’s picture and asked Chooch if he recognized him. He looked at me like I was a dummy and said, “Um, yeah. He’s the guy on your cards.”

That night, Chooch watched some of Manson’s interviews on my phone. It was a really awesome bonding moment for us. Thank you, Moundsville!