Apropos egg fillers.

I have to admit — this Easter Glenn Egg thing wasn’t as legendary as I had hoped, only because this week ended up being kind of busy for me at work. THE NERVE, amirite? But people still seemed to have had fun with it, and that’s all I really wanted to accomplish anyway.

There are still some eggs floating around out there, but here are the new Glenns that we have on our relocated Glenn wall.

Mary Magdaglenn, Burning Bush Glenn, Cain & Abel Glenn, Fish & Loaves Glenn.

Jonah and the Whale Glenn, Law Firm Lamb Cake Glenn, Wall of Glenns, Shopping Mall Easter Bunny Glenn.

Last Supper Glenn! Featuring: Mitch, Debbie, Cheryl, Chris, Derek, Wendy, Jesus Glenn, A-ron, Angie, Barb, Sandy, Bridget and Nate. Shout out to Bridget’s stilt-shoes and Faygo.

Abraham and the Sacrifice Glenn, Glenn Parting the Seas, Eve Glenn, Baby Moses Glenn.

Sarris Chocolate Easter Bunny Glenn, Leper Glenn (I was busted looking at pictures of lepers last night because of this), Glenn the Baptist, Goliath Glenn.

The story is that my co-worker Marlene found an egg in the fridge this morning and thought, “That’s odd. Why would someone be chilling a plastic egg?” but then moved on with her life because this is The Law Firm, and weird things go on every day there. But then Debbie told her in passing that there was an Easter egg hunt happening, so Marlene went back for the chilled egg. She told me later that she enjoyed the Tootsie Roll, but did not enjoy the fact that Leper Glenn was in the fridge of all places. I didn’t even intentionally place him there, so that made it even funnier to me.

Glenn and the Amazing Technicolor Coat, Pharaoh Glenn, Delilah Glenn, Jesus Sandal Glenn.

“You really know a lot of Bible stuff,” one of my co-workers said.

I nodded my head, but then said, “Welllll, Google helps.”

We arrived in Lancaster, PA around 3:30 and since the crappy Ramada check-in time wasn’t until 4PM, we decided to go get some motherfucking shoo-fly pie.

SHOO-FLY PIE!

Someone asked me at work WTF is a shoo-fly pie anyway, and all I could really say was, “Very gooey pie.” I mean, read the sign. Duh.

My family went to Lancaster when I was a kid, in some elementary school grade, and all I remember was eating at family-style smorgasbords—literally sharing a table and bowls of food with other restaurant patrons, passing the corn and butter for real, Amish people of course, and that sweet fucking shoo-fly pie. Years later, my mom found some mail order (pre-Internet, remember) shoo-fly pie place but it just wasn’t the same. You can’t eat that at home unless there is the stench of fresh cow shit in the country air and Amish fuckers giving you the hairy eyeball.

Everybody knows that. God!

Anyway, there are days when I DAYDREAM about shoo-fly pie. It’s not even that it’s the Best Pie In the World, but it reminds me of childhood.

And my immature obsession with the Amish community.

And Intercourse, PA.

And fucking someone through a hole cut in a sheet.

(What? That’s called Amish-style. Read a fucking sex book every once in awhile and you might learn something.)

We passed the hotel and drove straight to Dutch Haven, a local gift shop shaped like a windmill (not the kind I hate, but a real Holland-kind of windmill!) that sells all kinds of Amish crap and SHOO-FLY PIE. Bitch, best warm a slice up, Mama’s comin’.

OMFG you can’t even see the pie beneath that double-D whipped cream bosom. I would gladly drive 6 hours every Saturday for this to be my Weight Watchers splurge item. (Or have Henry drive me.)

They have other pies there too, but who needs that shit.

Chooch opted for a plate of chocolate chip cookies, because he has poor taste. This picture was taken right as he was coyly asking, “MOMMY WHAT DOES THAT SHIRT SAY!?” because it said something witty about Intercourse, PA and he wanted to hear me say it out loud, presumably so he could then ask loudly, “WHAT DOES INTERCOURSE MEAN?” when he clearly damn well knows, or else he wouldn’t have been asking me in that creepy, fake-innocent tone of his.

Masticating Amishly. (He’s so lucky that I was too distracted by Pierce the Veil to make any Weener Photos this time around.)

God, this place just injects me with joy-sperm! SO MUCH OF THE JOYFUL PENETRATION.

I wanted to eat at Jakey’s Amish Barbeque (even though I don’t do meat; I had my heart set on potato salad, yee haw) but it was CLOSED. Henry didn’t seem to care, but I was all bent out of shape about it.

“Over what? Macaroni and cheese?” he spat over top of my ad nauseum whining.

Potato salad. POTATO SALAD. P-O-T-A-T-O S-A-L-A-D.

I can’t tell you how many times during the six-hour car ride I said, “Gee willikers, I can’t wait to grind into some sexual, creamy potato salad at Jakey’s Amish BBQ.”

NOT MACARONI AND CHEESE.

This is proof that Henry doesn’t listen to me. At all.

We settled for Jennie’s Diner, mostly because it was:

• right down the street
• open
• not an overpriced smorgasbord with a parking lot full of tour buses carrying religious people

Henry immediately liked it because it boasted an Air Force wall clock. That’s the SERVICE that Henry was in back in the 80s, you guys! (1980s, not 1880s.) I didn’t actually check, but I bet Henry left the waitress a big tip.

(She actually was a really good waitress and even told Henry the best way to order his burger to save money. I bet she also likes Pierce the Veil. I’m good at stereotyping.)

Chooch deduced that our waitress’s boyfriend was sitting at the counter and kept speculating loudly about it. He had a neck tattoo so I asked Chooch to kindly STFU before he interpreted Chooch’s concern to mean that Henry had the hots for his woman.

I know, I know — like anyone would be threatened that Henry would steal their woman. But go talk to my ex-boyfriend Jeff. I’m sure he has a lot to opine on that topic.

Pre-Pierce the Veil fuelage.

We had about an hour to kill after we checked into our hotel, which was conveniently situated directly across the street from a very closed-for-the-season Dutch Wonderland, thanks for that, Henry.

Since Henry was unloading in the bathroom, Chooch and I decided to go exploring, which is the best part of staying in a hotel when you’re six and/or Erin. The game room was right down the hall from our room, so we scoped that out but there were lots of d-bag kids in there at the moment (plus, Henry gave us zero dollars for tokens), so we retreated. When we got to our room, I said, “Watch this, Chooch.” Knowing that Henry was definitely still pooping, I rapped on the door and yelled, “Room service.”

Then to Chooch, I screamed, “RUN!!!” So we ran like escaped orphans through the halls of the Lancaster Ramada, hugging corners and panting at the thrill of potentially being chased but really knowing that Henry was probably still sunk into the Room 306 commode and even if he was post-poop, he’s still a 47-year-old man who would rather turn on the Canadian DIY show “She’s Crafty” than search a stinky hotel for his missing child & faux-spouse.

Speaking of Canada, there was a Canadian-themed* hotel down the street and while I wasn’t quite sure what it could possibly have to offer other than poutine and cheap Nickelback CDs on the pillows, I was still pissed that Henry didn’t book us a room there. There were maple leaves all over the signage!

“It didn’t come up in the hotel listing!” Henry cried defensively.

THAT’S WHAT THEY ALL SAY.

(*Maybe Canadians are a hot commodity in Lancaster, who the hell knows.)

While Henry was doing God only knows what in the hotel room (as if God even WANTS to know), Chooch and I had taken our tour of terror up another level — to the fourth floor, bitches.

It looked exactly the same as our third floor layout, but I noticed that one of the room number signs on the wall had rooms that started with a 5.

It became our mission to find the fifth floor and we were so confused because the staircase stopped on the fourth. We found a small ramp and door at the end of the hallway and realized that the fifth floor was really the four and a half floor. Still, it didn’t stop us from blowing through the door and barreling down the hall like heavyweight tumbleweeds.

There were a few rooms in that hallway, a random table and lamp and an elevator. And then we reached a dead end. On our walk back to the 4th floor ramp, a middle-aged, rotund little Asian man in a blazer walked through the door. My paranoia immediately prickled. I didn’t like his shifty gait and I didn’t like the way his one hand kept disappearing beneath the side of his blazer, like he was REACHING FOR SOMETHING.

“Chooch,” I whispered hoarsely. “I don’t trust this guy.”

“Can we get stuff out of the vending machine?” Chooch responded, not yet grasping the severity of the situation.

“DON’T MAKE EYE CONTACT,” I coached him. When we passed him, me all stiff-limbed and Chooch walking like a normal human, I barked out a hollow, “HELLO.”

(I always hope that if I am friendly to someone who is considering assassinating me, it might change their mind.)

He smiled congenially and then stopped in front of the elevator. I kept trying to covertly shove Chooch along—he walks so slow, like he doesn’t know that we’re being HUNTED—and dared to look over my shoulder once. The man was still waiting for the elevator and didn’t seem to be paying attention to us anymore. Probably because he is THAT GOOD of an assassin.

When we reached the door at the end of the 5th floor ramp, I yelled, “RUN!!!!” and we sprinted all the way back to the stairwell and to our room, where we collided with Henry who did NOT look happy.

“Some Asian guy was going to kill us!” Chooch informed him and Henry just sighed deeply and I’m sure the idea of finishing Asian Guy’s job for him crossed Henry’s mind at least twice.

In case I haven’t mentioned lately how much Henry sucks, he got us a room with two double beds. DOUBLE BEDS.

Post-Assassination Attempt.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, en route to the Chameleon Club for the Pierce the Veil show, I said, “Hey Chooch, remember when that Asian guy was trying to kill us?”

And Henry mumbled, “You two are fucking idiots” for the 87th time that day.

“Mommy told me to put the icing on first,” I overheard Chooch telling Henry.

“Wait, what did I tell you?” I said overtop of Henry groaning, “That’s just great.”

“To put icing on the toaster streudel first,” Chooch answered.

“Oh shit, is THAT what you were asking me yesterday while I was exercising?

” (Seriously, he waits until I’m in the middle of Bodies in Motion* to expect me to start parenting him.)

“Wonderful,” Henry sighed. “Did you do it?” he asked Chooch.

“No! I didn’t think I should, so I put the icing on after,” Chooch said, sounding appalled that Henry even had to ask.

“Thank god,” Henry said. “That would have been a nice toaster fire.

Chooch, if you ever have questions about cooking, please call me. Don’t ask your mother.”

*I enjoy working out to exercise programs where people are wearing LA Gears.

Last Thursday, I was on the stupid trolley en route to work, when suddenly I thought to myself, “Easter Glenn Hunt!” Because I don’t have enough shit on my plate right now, let’s add another dollop!

I ran the idea past some of my work friends, who agreed that this needs to happen. So I started making Glenns that night. Obviously, we’re trying to include as many Easter and Bible-themed Glenns as possible, but there are some random ones in there, too.

It’s uncanny how much Glenn really does look like Sue Sylvester from Glee. My work buddy Nate was walking past my office last Friday, singing the McDonald’s Fish McBites song, and interrupted himself to say, “OMG! Fish McBite Glenn!” Nate, your wish has been granted.

Henry was supposed to get me plastic Easter eggs but decided it wasn’t his “priority,” so I only have the 4 eggs that Debbie brought in from her attic. I decided Glenn, who was previously unaware of this activity, should get the first egg. So I placed a pink one on his desk and even put the BEST Glenn inside — the Jesus’s Tomb Peekaboo Glenn. It was taking him too long to notice it was there so I walked over and instead of talking like a normal person, I did that mentally-stunted throaty giggle that I do when I’m up to no good. (Which is often.)

Sean, who sits in front of Glenn, knew what was going on, so he started laughing too. Glenn initially asked me what I wanted, but when I responded with more weird laughter, he brushed it off because he’s used to this.

Finally, I blurted out, “DOESN’T ANYTHING LOOK WEIRD OVER HERE?” waving my hands around his desk area.

“No,” he said dryly. “Not until you walked over.”

I had to actually point at the egg and he still wasn’t going to do anything!

“Oh, do you want me to open it, I guess?” he asked. When he moved aside all of the Mini Eggs (which I stole from behind Debbie’s desk because Henry didn’t buy me any candy, either) and found his Jesus Glenn, he said something to the effect of, “Oh, good. This again.”

This might be my Mona Lisa of all Glenns. Glenn is the head processor in our department, so it seemed like a no-brainer to put doubles of all of the other processors on the ark with him: Sean, Amber¹, Lee, Gayle, Todd and Amber².

This is what I did during my break on Monday. One of the analysts came in to ask me a question and said, “OMG, you’re coloring” and then laughed.

“Not just coloring,” I said with contempt. “Making Glenns.” And then she got all excited because people like collecting Glenns, OK?

I hid my four pitiful eggs Monday night before I left. I was off yesterday because I needed the entire day to panic and puke before going to see Jonny Craig last night, and I didn’t hear anything about people finding eggs, so this might be a flop.

[If you weren’t around for the Halloween Glenn Defacement Project, please click here!]

The sky, somewhere in Laurel Highlands. Reminded me of something you’d see in the Sistine Chapel, so I took that as a good omen.

Back in December, it seemed like a Really Great Idea to buy Chooch a ticket to see Pierce the Veil in Lancaster, PA. Never mind that it’s on the other side of the state and Chooch is only 6-years-old, and never mind that Henry really did NOT want to go, and never mind that we have never been to the venue (the Chameleon Club), so this was kind of a blind trip for us. But I was still so fucking excited! And so was Chooch, until he realized after the first 25 minutes in the car that perhaps this was going to be a long drive.

Henry was NOT excited. He was worried about the car and that this whole “taking Chooch to a concert” idea was going to blow up in our faces, and most of all he was worried about having to take care of two children for an entire weekend, hundreds of miles away from home.

(Chooch and I are kind of high-maintenance in that we need lots of special care.)

I had grand plans of leaving the house at 8AM, but it was not to be. Planning never gets us anywhere. Chooch and I were ready bright and early, and wound up waiting for Henry who was still packing. This might have something to do with the fact that all Chooch and I did to get ready was put our clothes on; Henry had to pack for all three of us. (Though I did put my makeup in my overnight bag all on my own.)

Then we had to wait for Henry to walk around the house, making sure everything was shut off and locked. God, it was so annoying. By the time we stopped at the McDonald’s down the street, Advanced Auto Parts for oil and then back to our house TWICE when I realized the Vic doll wasn’t in my purse (the first return to home proved fruitless, but I made Henry go back a second time after Vic wasn’t found in the parking lot of the car part place — it was a disaster that saw us progressing less than five miles away from home in an hour), it was nearly 10AM. We rule at road trips.

(Vic ended up being in Chooch’s room. He must have falled out of my purse when I ran up there at the last minute to grab Chooch’s sketch pad. Thank god he wasn’t stolen by some random scene kid going into Advanced Auto Parts for scene car parts!)

We took the scenic Rt. 30, eschewing the turnpike for a more leisurely drive through WIND TURBINE CENTRAL. God, I hate those fucking things. They’re so disgusting! LOOK AT THEM!!! And the worst part is that my jerk kid knows of my aversion to these things and water towers (ugh) so he LOVES to very sweetly say, “Oh Mommy! Look out the window, it’s so cool!” and every time it’s some disgusting thing that I hate and I fall for it.

And then Chooch lets loose with this gutteral giggle. He is  my nemesis. Just like THOSE WIND TURBINES, AHHHHH.

There was one instance where I happened to look out the window just in time to notice that we were on a BRIDGE passing over the Susquehanna RIVER with WIND TURBINES to the right and a WATER TOWER ahead. Fucking kill me.  (The capital letters mean THINGS THAT ERIN HATES. Just in case you didn’t know.)

In full disclosure, we only took the scenic route because we apparently have a bent wheel on our car and as soon as we go over 60 MPH, the entire car shakes and vibrates and maybe the wheel will fling off, who knows. So a 4-hour drive took us 6 hours, but it was worth it because there were tons of taxidermy & church signs to look at.

Rt. 30  goes through lots of mountains, so I got to yell at Henry a lot for being a shitty driver, and then he would yell back, “I’M DOING THE SPEED LIMIT!” but I really felt like were going to plunge over a cliff and I’m sorry, but I left my hobo-bag of night vision glasses at home.

Meanwhile, Chooch spent most of his time playing Minecraft on his Kindle, sleeping, and only occassionally asking us how much farther, to which we would both just mumble the answer because it was always TOO M ANY HOURS.

Henry and I actually kind of got along, which is amazing considering that taking this roadtrip was pretty much the last thing he wanted to be doing.  Except that we had a mild argument over the fact that I always want to stay in Supernatural motels, but then we end up somewhere plain, like a Ramada.

“In reality, you would never stay in a place like that!” Henry countered. And sure, he’s probably right, because he knows I’m a former Silver Spoon kid, but sometimes I just really want to rest my weary head on a pillow in a roomwhich hasn’t been remodeled since 1971, and think about how Sam and Dean Winchester might have stopped  there in between collecting rings from the Four Horsemen and fighting the Yellow-Eyed Demon if Sam and Dean Winchester were real people and not just characters on the CW.

We didn’t stop anywhere other than a thousand gas stations on the way there (Henry promised we could do all of my Roadside America bullshit on the way home), but that didn’t stop me from checking the app every five minutes anyway.

“OMG we’re going to pass where Abe Lincoln meets Perry Como!” I shouted as we crawled through downtown Gettsyburg.

“That’s great!” Henry exclaimed sarcastically. “Let me know when we’re going to pass Sheetz With Bathroom.”

Seriously, all that man does is piss.

Halfway to Lancaster, I put on Dance Gavin Dance and Henry started to wish that we had careened over that cliff 100 miles ago.

The “I’d Rather Be Doing Anything Else But Driving to Lancaster to see Pierce the Veil” frown.

I’m sure he’ll be fine once he gets to drink flat Amish root beer.

In other PTV news, Chooch drew this for Vic. He said he’s going to write “Vic, you’re the best singer” on it & I almost cried a little. <3

Even on the days when I hate Henry with the burning passion of a million Snooki’s kookas, I can listen to this song and all of a sudden it is 2001 and I’m falling in love with his dumb ass all over again. Ugh. I used to listen to this album all of the time when I was with the Boyfriend Before Henry, and while I always loved this song the best, but it never meant anything until I met Henry.

Too bad we will never get TO DANCE TO IT AT OUR WEDDING. It’s OK. I’m getting used to the idea of being the pedestrian Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell of Pittsburgh, PA.

(Henry said they broke up, but I swear I just saw a picture of them in US Weekly, swimming with dolphins. The closest thing to swimming with dolphins I’d ever get from Henry would probably be wading furiously amongst dead Yinzers, syringes and car parts in one of our crappy rivers. You know, because Henry spoils me so.)

Staring contest ends in 3…2….tears

Trying to get some new paintings done for the craft show thingie I’m doing next weekend. I rarely paint anymore (usually just customs and presents for my buddies) so this has been very trying. When I painted A LOT, I was vacillating between a period of sinking depression and circus-level mania. I’m a little more evened out now and I find that makes it difficult to tap into that part of myself. I was pretty sad last week though, so that helped me get some shit done.

I don’t foresee myself ever getting back into this regularly again though. Plus, I never paid my Etsy bill for the Somnambulant shop and it has been SUSPENDED, you guys. Etsy ain’t playin’.

Those shit-stained tentacles are actually gold, but you can pretend they’re really shit-stained if you want. Who knows what these octopi have been doin’ to each other. IT IS NOT OUR BUSINESS.

Resurrected the old bathroom plaques, too. Holy Shitter was always a hit, and hopefully it will be next weekend, too. When I used to sell shit at this local shop called Wildcard, they sold every last one of my bathroom plaques during their grand opening, and that has always been one of my coolest achievements, I guess.

Chooch’s first pottery project, which he did NOT take to school for his teacher because I put my fucking foot down. I believe my exact words were, “Did she pay $99 for these goddamn pottery classes? NO, I DIDN’T THINK SO. WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH MORE THAN ME!?!?”

A throatpunch to the motherfucker who invented these belt buckles, for fucking real. There are two pairs of jeans that Chooch can’t wear to school because neither of us can unbuckle the belts in order for him to put them on. (He takes them off by yanking them down his body so he doesn’t have to piss with the belt, which is how we get into these predicaments in the a.m.!)

Fathers, this is a cheap alternative to chastity belts. Planned Pregnancy-endorsed, probably!

It doesn’t matter how mant times Henry has demonstrated, WE CANNOT COMPREHEND THE WAYS OF THESE BUCKLES ONCE HENRY ABANDONS US. I have BLED myself trying to work these things. And it never fails to result in World War What Number Are We On Now? between Chooch and me. Good morning, motherfuckers!

Anyway, I posted this on Facebook & Instagram and it was amazing how many people chimed in via comments and straight up text messages, offering instructions and even suggesting that I bring the pants into work because someone could probably use their law degree to wedge it loose.  That’s great guys, but unless you are sending me the hand of motherfucking Hulk, your advice is of no use.

Because the truth is, I don’t care if you make me a Power Point presentation, a YouTube tutorial, or have Jonny Craig sing a song about it, WE JUST DON’T GET IT.

Fuck Henry for never being there in the morning to handle this for us. God, what a fucking deadbeat.

On a lighter note, here is a picture that Henry sent me from Chooch’s pottery class tonight. Apparently, they also made masks. Guess what kind of a mask Chooch made? A scary devil mask painted with his own testosterone!

Just kidding. It was a cat.

I have other things to rant about, but I don’t have pictures to go with them and since this is a post about pictures,  I guess I will just save those rants for another day. Like probably tomorrow.

The last couple of apples Henry has bought have been downright horrific. I’m talking so bad that I have THROWN AWAY more than half of each 7pm work apple. They taste hard and like the ground, similar to raw potatoes. Total fucking fruit foul. WHAT IS GOING ON!?

So I asked Henry just that: “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

“It’s not apple season,” explained Henry.

I didn’t like that answer, so when I was whining to Debbie and Barb about it at work today, I wailed, “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

“It’s not apple season,” explained Barb.

OH OK, HENRY JR.

Later, I sidled up to Barb’s desk with my “I AM A VERY SWEET GIRL” smile on my face, while palming a Gala apple behind my back.

“Can I feel your apple?” I demanded. And of course Barb let me feel her apple, because I’m Erin Rachelle Kelly.

In response to Barb’s curious expression, I said, “I just know that my apple is going to suck, and if that’s the case, then I would rather you eat it.”

“OK. So, do you want to trade apples?” Barb is so good at reading between the lines.

And that is how I turned my Gala into a Pink Lady. I don’t know yet if it sucks. If it does, I’ll be interofficing Barb some hate mail.
———————–
Speaking of apples, Henry’s mom Judy was singing the praises of grapples a few weeks ago. She told me that they are apple and grape crossbreeds and that they are REALLY JUICY. This sounded good to me, so I asked Henry why he never buys any.

“Because they’re 4 for $4!” he cried. I always forget that we are peasants living in Shantytown, wearing sardine cans as shoes, and that we cannot afford such extravagant and superfluous foodstuffs. I guess I’ll just have to make do with the vittles I scavenge while playing wildberry roulette in the forest.

Finally, Henry bought a sleeve of grapples and by George those motherfuckers are some fine ass produce. They reek of grapes but taste like really moist apples! No wonder all these other apples taste like overripe garbage.

Grapples or gtfo!!!!
———————-
Henry and I had time to kill while Chooch was at a birthday party on Sunday, so I suggested that we walk up to the local Mexican market in Brookline. I went there with Chooch in December, but that was before I cared about fruit, so we only looked at candy and rosaries.

At first, I was so excited. This place had all kinds of non-American fruit!

But then I realized that it was just regular fruit with the names written in Spanish.

There were cactus petal things that Henry refused to buy, and these long ass weapons that were apparently aloe. Henry said no to those too. He did let me get these dwarf mango things, like I’m supposed to get down on my knees now or something.

“Ow! What are these?” I asked Henry about these grapefruit-sized balls of pain.

“I don’t know,” Henry answered.

“Ow!” I yelled again.

“Yeah. Keep touching it,” he muttered.

I made Henry buy tomatillos because I thought they were what fried green tomatoes are made from, but apparently fried green tomatoes are made from green tomatoes. But now we have a shit ton of tomatillos so Henry made salsa which is better than stupid fried green tomatoes anyway and now no one has to get hit by a train.

Henry also added some of my midget mangoes to the salsa. It was OK, but kind of tasted like a garden. I guess because that is what “fresh” is supposed to taste like.

Henry turned around after buying chorizo from the meat counter to find me standing with my arms full of scary religious candles, which is all I really wanted to go there for anyway. Truth comes out.

——————–

In other ethnic market news, Henry went to Pitaland (right next to the Mexican market; I hope they don’t decide to feud anytime soon because I walk past both of them A LOT) to get pita (surprise!) for his mom. He also came out with a bag of fresh dates. I love dates, but these dates were DESIRABLE. Super plump and soft, I couldn’t believe it.

SIDE NOTE: When Henry and I went to Coachella in 2004, visiting a date farm in Indio, CA was the highlight of the trip for me, probably because we fought so furiously—enough to make Sid and Nancy blush from their Afterworld drug den—that I literally blocked out most of that trip from my memory. But that date farm I will never forget. We watched some video about dates having sex, and they have always had a sleazy connotation for me ever since.

And we had date milk shakes.

Motherfucking milkshakes made from dates.

I would do unspeakable things to have one of those gyrating down my gullet right now.

(Apparently, it is a date garden.)

That milkshake alone makes up for the stripper shack in San Bernadino in which Henry put us up, and the 113 degree heat during the weekend-long concert in the desert, not to mention the fact that I was there with Henry.

“What are dates made out of, anyway,” I asked Henry, closing my eyes and obscenely sucking face with a fat ass date.

“Um…..dates?” Henry said, in his typical snide Professor Henry von Fuckstick tone.

I ate one of those sexual dates while I was writing this. I probably looked like a muted porno, just so you know.

• Today in Pittsburgh, it is raining some sort of disgusting snowman shit, which affects me greatly now that I have to take the fucking trolley every day to work. (There is no end in sight to my bitching and whining about that, I’m sorry. You can mute me by clicking that “x” up in there in the corner though. I probably won’t even know you did it.) Anyway, today on my walk to the trolley, I was splashed with REALLY COLD WINTER WATER by some motherfucker who was BLASTING Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue.” Really, god?Who blasts that shit? Some motherfucker who is reliving his prom night in 1983 where he date-raped his hand in the backseat of his dad’s Pinto.  Next time, make it a real Electric Avenue and strike me with lightning or gtfo, god.
• Goddammit.
• I have so much to say about this whole Steubenville rape debacle but right now, all I can do is foam at the mouth and shake uncontrollably when I think about it. Two of my favorite things: complete & utter denegration of women and HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL PLAYERS.
• Yesterday, Chooch very seriously referred to a lamp as a “lightbulb holder,” which made me wonder if I ever even taught him the word “lamp” since I usually just say, “Hey, turn off the light thing.”
• Also yesterday, Chooch went to a birthday party at some ceramics place. One guess what he chose to paint.
• Jonny Craig got a private audition for NBC’s “The Voice” back in December and was all cocky about it. It was just revealed over the weekend that, after a background check, the producers of the show decided not to have him on the show because he is “too controversial.” Understatement, check. I laughed so hard about this, but then Henry of all people defended him and said, “This could send him into a tailspin!” I guess Henry is really hoping he doesn’t lose money on those tickets to next week’s show.
• In my dream last night, I was on a bus (like THAT would ever happen — um, KNOCK ON WOOD) with my friend Octavia, who gave me an apple and a citron, which I had to Google as soon as I woke up and Jesus, now all I can think about is some hardcore citrus mastication. Anyway, it’s also noteworthy that the bus was taking us someplace parallel with Hell and that there was no floor in front of me and I kept almost-falling out, which I think speaks volumes of my lifestrong resistance to taking public transportation.
• During the summer of 1999, I took bartending classes. I was partnered up with a wishy-washy middle-aged man named Milt. Really nice guy, but wasn’t very quick with picking up on mixology. A young, stocky Asian frat boy in our class, whose name I can’t remember (though I do have a video somewhere of him making a complete ass of himself), pulled me aside during one of the classes and told me that Milt was also the word for fish sperm and that was all I could think about every time I looked at Milt after that, like he was some undulating mound of fish jizz in the shape of a dowdy, slunched-over man with glasses and a saliva-crackling chuckle.
• • Milt didn’t graduate.
  • I play the SHIT out of his name in Ruzzle.
• Remember that one time I told you a story about when I was in bartending class? I graduated top of my class and never got a job.
  • That is probably because I only “kind of” looked for one.
• Can you imagine me as a bartender?
• Henry got all pouty yesterday because Chooch and I opted to stay in the car instead of going into Lowe’s with him. “That’s the Land of Sad!” I cried while Chooch simultaneously yelled, “That place sucks!” Good thing too, because Henry ended up almost running into his ex-hag. “Almost” because  the sound of her alcoholic voice completely activated his Duck & Run senses (and probably also simulated a burning sensation in his dick), so he was able to avoid any awkward scenes. Now imagine if Chooch and I had been there. You can’t slink away quietly from ANY situation when we’re tagging along. We might have made the evening news!
• I was supposed to be eating some sexual vegetarian food tonight with my friends but our reservation was canceled at the last minute due to poor communication at the restaurant. I’m very upset about this but we were promised a table at the next seating (god only knows when that will be) plus $25 off for each of us. I guess that is a consolation prize that’s worth taking. And now Henry won’t have his head explode trying to update my Weight Watcher points.
• Speaking of, I’ve lost 20 pounds since January, no big deal. I’m nearly ready to trade in my burlap sacks for some hot flea marketed muumuus.
• Chooch flipped out on our waitress at Eat n Park for not being able to fulfill his wish for a side of grapes. She laughed at him, and she’s lucky she didn’t get a fork in the hand.
• Speaking of! I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and here’s why. But I hope you all had a great time and that no one choked on green vomit.
• I am supposed to write a guest post for some Pittsburgh blogging thing which is hysterical since I can’t even write anything of worth on my own dumb blog.
• We are going to Lancaster this weekend to see Pierce the Veil and my crush Sam Link will be there, so “god” willing, I might be coming home with a new boyfriend. Merry Tate!
  • What? I’m on the market. Henry can’t WAIT to unload my supposedly high-maintenance ass.
    • Fuck. I’m going to be single forever.
• I went to Blue Flame on Saturday for lunch with my buddy Lisa, who is 12 weeks pregnant. My internal dialogue went something like this: “Hahaha, better her than me!” and “OMG I AM SO JEALOUS! I WANT A BAYBAYYYYYY!” Guess I should start looking for some man milt.
• I have some pictures to post too but who even cares anymore really.

This. All weekend.

Paramore always makes me feel sad, but hopeful.

Two very awesome things happened to me today.

First, I woke up this morning and saw this blog comment, which was left on a 2011 post about the Westmoreland County Fair:

Yes! You guys have no idea how excited I am about this! A carny hasn’t paid that much attention to me since 2010 (because Henry made me fat).

“I can’t wait for that meeting,” Henry typed on Facebook, which is basically the new Post-It Note communication tactic of the millenium.

Neither can I! I want to have my picture taken with him.

The biggest shock to my friend Bill when he saw this was the fact that carnys know how to use the Internet. I think some of them might have dial-up. I’m not sure.

Anyway, I have received my share of blog backlash in my time (I know you’re totally shocked that my sweet and innocent way with words and opinions could anger ANYONE), but this one actually made me so excited to the point that I was gloating about it.

“Only you would be excited that someone called you a dick fuck,” Debbie said today at work.

“But it’s WHO called me a dick fuck!” I explained, doubled over in laughter all over again.

Peewee (who Henry is convinced is not actually a peewee) must not have continued on to Part Two: Carnies, the Sentinels of Death Traps, because I haven’t heard back from him today.

It might just take him a long time to read though.

(Why do I have a feeling he’s going to be waiting for me in August with a wrench?)

Then, the Motorboating Guy was on the trolley again today, and he was really tired. I know this because, after every yawn, he would let out an orgasmic “aye yi yi” and moan, “Boy, I am really TIRED today!” He eventually fell asleep, but then I worried I would have to make physical contact with him in case he was still sleeping when our stop approached.

Luckily, I didn’t have to save anyone’s day. (Thank god. I’m a pretty under-achieving savior.)

I saw Motorboating Guy last week on the trolley, too, and that was definitely when something switched inside me. Instead of being totally paralyzed with fear around him, I started to feel that thing that normal humans call empathy.

Noticing another passenger on her cell phone, he began making calls on his cell phone, too, and then leaving really vague messages. “Hi.” [Long pause.] “I have no heard back from you in a long time.” [Long pause, looks at phone.] “Um, OK. Hi. That’s all. Bye.” [Leaves phone to ear for another 5 seconds, looks at phone, hangs up.]

I was convinced that he didn’t really call anyone, and it made me wonder if he has any friends. I started to think about inviting him to have Easter dinner with us at the Chinese restaurant, but then worried that he would expect us to pay for him too and my charity only extends so far depending on when you catch me.

One more note: Henry texted me a little while ago and said that Chooch walked over to him crying because some song made him feel sad. “He’s just like you,” Henry added at the end. I was so excited! My heart swelled a whole bunch and a million different songs started running through my head. Maybe it was The Cure or Emarosa, Eisley or PHIL COLLINS.

No. It was some motherfucking Minecraft song.

I get to leave a half hour early tonight because my boss REALLY likes St.

Patrick’s Day and said so.

Most people know Chooch as the trucker-mouthed, acerbic-witted kid obsessed with The Walking Dead, Ju-On, cemeteries and ghosts, but he also has a much softer, cat-loving and stuffed animal-cuddling side.

I like to cultivate his sunnier side every now and then to keep a safe balance. Currently, his favorites are Fox and Rabbit, both puppets. Fox was a Goodwill find and Rabbit was Chooch’s purchase at the Magic Mob economy boost two weeks ago.

My friend Steph has a plush monsta-making company called Frankenstitch. She posted a picture of her new Easter-inspired peepers last week on Facebook and I immediately clicked over to her Etsy shop because I thought it would be the perfect addition to Chooch’s Easter basket this year, plus I had been wanting to buy something from her for a really long time but I am always so annoyingly distracted.

Then I got to her shop and had a complete meltdown because THERE IS JUST SO MUCH MONSTERLY CUTENESS TO BE HAD.

And I have never been the best at making decisions.

But then I saw him. Wolfie Maximus. The only monsta in the whole shop that wasn’t brightly colored, but still—he spoke to me and I could totally see him in Chooch’s arms. Bam, ordered.

He arrived yesterday.

Not the greatest picture because I was on my way out the door for work, but I had to open it and cuddle with him! He is BIG (bigger than I thought he was going to be), sturdy and his wolfish pelt is so soft and fuzzy that I considered stuffing him in my purse and showing him around downtown.

(You know, the whole three alleys I’m familiar with. And the trolley station!)

Marcy dislikes.

When I came home from work last night, I couldn’t help it — I gave him to Chooch right then instead of waiting until Easter.

“OMG YOU’RE THE BEST MOM!” Chooch screamed, nearly tackling me with a hug. This kid is REALLY into stuffed things. And yes, I realize how that sounds.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” Henry sighed in the kitchen, after hearing Chooch erupt in giddy jubilation.

WOLFIE IS TOO CUTE TO KEEP HIDDEN, OK.

I planned on taking a better photo today, but then this morning, Chooch asked to take Wolfie to school. “I have to show my friends! They won’t believe how awesome he is!” And then he gave me ANOTHER HUG, you guys.

If that’s how it’s going to be, maybe I should just sign up for the Monsta of the Month club.

——————–

If you’re looking for a fun and colorful present for a kid (or grown-up! I want all of them!), I can’t recommend Steph’s plushes highly enough. These would also be good gifts for:

• people with a mood disorder which requires them to squeeze colorful, stuffed fabric;
• blind people you hate (they’ll never be able to figure what they’re feeling);
• serial killers who need something to hold after their moms reject them;
• your local anthropomorphism support group in need of a mascot
• Erin Rachelle Kelly

Frankenstitch Production’s creations are top-notch quality — totally worth the price. Chooch is totally getting another one for his birthday in April.

(And my birthday is July 30, you guys.)

Henry just doesn’t get it sometimes. AND WE ALL KNOW I’M DRAMATIC, THANKS HENRY.

Chooch bought this Saturday night. It was only $5, and giant, even. Plus, it has all of the cats.

Chooch: No dumping? No dumping WHAT?

Me: Dead bodies, obvi.

Shit, my kid is so fucking dense sometimes, I can’t stand it. Reminds me of the time I told him he missed the boat and he ran to the window and yelled, “BOAT!? WHERE?!” Granted, he was only like two and a half then. Which means the word “asshole” was probably peppered in there somewhere too. That was his favorite word back then.

Purple Pants in my rearview mirror! We were just coming home from the cemetery on Saturday and there she was, walking past our house, which is an interesting side note: Every time Henry comes home, there is ALWAYS someone walking past our house. This infuriates him because he has to, god forbid, wait to pull into the driveway. It is endlessly hilarious to me because he will furiously bark, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? JESUS CHRIST!”

You know, it’s really all pedestrians that gray Henry’s McNichol-locks. When he used (operative word: “used”) to drive me downtown to work, he would get so outraged at all of the jaywalkers.  The one time he shouted, “I DON’T CARE IF THAT ASSHOLE IS IN A WHEELCHAIR!” which would have been kind of hot if it was anyone but Henry making such douchey declarations. The best is when he threatens them with the car windows up. They’re shaking, Henry.

I made this just now on my break so people walking past my office were probably like, “Oh wow, Erin is actually working.”

I took this by accident when I was trying to have an impromptu photoshoot with my cat, Marcy. I think I was trying to re-situate myself so she would be behind me, but then she skulked away because she knows better. Anyway, I liked this picture for two reasons:

• Tammy Faye Bakker eyes in the house
• I look sad, which is apropros because [SEE BELOW PICTURE]

HENRY BOUGHT ME A BOOKLET OF TROLLEY TICKETS WHICH MEANS I’M GOING TO BE TAKING THE TROLLEY FOR THE REST OF EVER.

However, there is a girl with a pink mohawk who sometimes rides the same trolley as me and in my fantasies, she comes over to me and says, “You look like a Jessica Simpson fan, but I bet you are way more cooler than that. Do you like Xiu Xiu and cemeteries?” and I’ll say, “OMG yes!” and then we’ll playing start playing Ruzzle together.

YOU NEVER KNOW.

But then I remind myself of my uncanny ability to attract sociopathic whore-liars (at least one a year!) and I go back to silently staring out the trolley window.

I had these grandiose plans to go to both of these amusement parks for my birthday weekend this summer, but then Henry gave me a lesson in geography. Now I think we’re going to Holidayworld and King’s Island, and I guess I’m OK with that.

I still don’t understand why Henry can’t just charter a jet. Cheap ass motherfucker.

Spring made a sneak peek this weekend, and I could not wait to get the fuck out of the house. The one good thing about the way my job has been going lately is that it makes me savor every last motherfucking second of the weekend. I cling to it like you would not believe, and then feel crippling sadness on Sunday evenings. (It doesn’t help that The Walking Dead depresses me so badly this season! I feel more emotionally connected to every character now more than ever.)

So anyway, all I could think about when I woke up on Saturday was eating a hot dog. And not some stupid veggie dog that I explode in the microwave, but a veggie hot dog made by godlike hands and gilded with insane toppings. I was allowing myself one splurge over the weekend, and a Station Street hot dog was it.

“I don’t like hot dogs!” Chooch pouted.

“Yeah, because usually they’re made in the microwave by me,” I pointed out. Kevin Sousa, the best chef in Pittsburgh (I have a sickening chef-crush on him) not only owns the joint, but he was there that day, grilling up the hot dogs himself like it was no big thang. I almost died.

“I can’t believe no one is bothering him!” I hissed to Henry, who was not as impressed as me, but that is only because he hasn’t experienced the edible sex this man can serve on a plate*. I mean, really.

*(Kara, Janna and I are doing a reprise of the infamous Vegetarian Beer Dinner next Monday night and I guarantee it will be the only thing that gets me through the work week.)

“No one here probably even knows who he is,” Henry said with that typical “you’re so lame” smirk. And that made me start judging everyone in the hot dog shop, eating their bun-hugged meat logs unbeknownst that they’re smearing their lips & chin with mustard and siracha in the presence of culinary greatness.

I got the veggie Devil Dog, which comes with a large plop of egg salad and a potato chip helmet and was so fucking worth it even though I panicked for the rest of the day about gaining all of my weight back. While eating inside and staring dreamily at my chef-crush was tempting, we wanted to take advantage of the pretty weather so we drove a few minutes to one of my favorite places — Homewood Cemetery.

Chooch ended up really liking his hot dog and actually ate the whole thing which was a small miracle because that kid never eats the whole thing of anything that isn’t made with ice cream and/or Cheez-Its.

Nnnryghhhhhhh.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of effect this will have on Chooch when he’s an adult, this whole cemetery thing. It’s really normal for us and we spend a ton of time at graveyards, and Chooch doesn’t really know any different. I’m not saying it’s going to ruin him or anything, but I can only hope it’s molding him into the next great horror film director.

Henry was teaching us about frogs and turtles. SNORE. (Don’t you just want to push them in? Or maybe you want to push ME in. It’s OK. I know Henry is the favorite.)

Ugh, it just felt so good to be out there! I turned on the Sucre Spotify station on my phone and then we pissed in the mausoleum. Chooch made me pretend to pray after that. It was uncomfortable.

And then fox took an unfortunate spill and perished.

OH NO, FOX!

Poor Fox. I told you you should have waited in the car. Dumbass.

On our way back to the car, some young jogging woman ran over to two elder-yuppies and panted, “Can you tell me where the entrance is!? I have been stuck in here for hours!”

She was all harried about it, but to me that sounds like A Good Time.

—————–

Later that night, Janna came over to watch the Pens game. The official plan was that Henry and I were goingt o make pendants at the same time, but Henry was being a big bitch baby about that and sat in front of the computer alone most of the night because he sucks.

Meanwhile, Chooch was playing Minecraft on his Kindle.

“I’m not wasting a diamond on a hoe!” he midlessly exclaimed at one point, not realizing the golden double entendre he had masterfully woven.

“That’s what Henry says when people ask him why he won’t propose,” I blurted in a very frantic “That’s what she said!” fashion, like I was in some sort of punchline race.

And then! This is the worst part of the whole weekend. I just happened to check my Instagram feed during a commercial (Janna was too busy mentoring Chooch in Minecraft to entertain me)  when I saw the WORST THING EVER. Jonny Craig posted a picture of a Jonny Craig doll in his tour van. THE SAME JONNY CRAIG DOLL I HAD MAYA MAKE ME LAST YEAR! Turns out Christina’s Native American doppelganger found it on my blog and ordered one from Maya and then FUCKING GAVE IT TO JONNY because she’s some cuntwiping sycophant. Now that means when I see Jonny at the end of the month, I can’t show him my doll because he HAS HIS OWN.

You guys, I was so upset about this that I started storming about the house. Finally, I had to drink a glass of wine to calm down. Janna and Henry just laughed about it.

“He’ll have that doll shooting silk in no time,” Henry commented on Facebook. (God forbid he should just say it to my face — I was sitting right there!)

When I read that, I started laughing so hard.  “I didn’t know silk was slang for heroin!” I cried, the wine settling in at this point. “Is that what you guys called it in THE SERVICE!?”

“What? No. I meant silk as in silk,” Henry explained.  “Because he’s a doll?” he elaborated, upon seeing the question marks undulating above my head.  “Never mind. People who sew would get it.”

“No, I get it. It was just funnier when I thought you and your SERVICE buddies did ‘silk’ in the 80s.”