One of the things I love most about spring is that it means the flea markets will be in full effect. Some of them are still open during the winter months, but nothing beats rifling through piles of bootlegged DVDs and bongs next to some old overweight skank in Steelers booty shorts.

I was relatively hung over from a wine party the night before (more on that at a later date), and stupidly left the house without making any coffee under the pretense of stopping at Starbucks first, but then Starbucks was OMGSUPERPACKED (it was Sunday morning, duh) and Henry got all angry about that and then we fought and he turned around THREE TIMES to go back home but then I finally got my fucking skinny cinnamon dulce latte and all was right again. I tried to laugh about it later but Henry gave me the “TOO SOON” snarl and shrugged away from me.

(This literally delayed us 45 minutes. Chooch will probably be referencing it at a therapy session somewhere down the road.

)

These are the sorts of things that bring Henry out to the yard on Sunday mornings: rusty tools…..and…..you know, I actually don’t really know what Henry looks at. Vegetables, sometimes. One time he bought incense off some ex-Dead Head.

Maybe I should start paying more attention to Henry.

I do know that he uses the bathroom there a lot.

OMG he’s totally fucking some old Yinzer skank next to a goddamn shit-clogged commode!!

The Korean “proprietors” of this fine piece of flea market real estate were on  the news last year, having all of their inventory hauled out of their shady house by the police.

But don’t worry, Chooch! They’re back and ready to take your dollars!

Chooch has to touch EVERY LAST STUFFED ANIMAL he passes. And we’re all, “No stuffed animals!!!”

Got stuck behind the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants n’at and wanted to chop them up and stuff them in their stupid wheeled luggage.  I still can’t understand why people don’t clear a path when they see me coming,w hcih makes me seriously consider wearing that skin-mask I scored at Ed Gein’s white elephant last Christmas.

My boo, Wobbling Eye Mole Guy! I think he must know me by now (most likely as “that sucker who will pay way too much for religious shit”) because he said hello to me in an extremely friendly manner and I wasn’t wearing a low-cut shirt, so it wasn’t that.

Unforch, WEMG didn’t have any Christ-like gems tucked away behind vintage Steelers bullshit and stuffed raccoons.

I wonder if he ever had his “operation.”

Anyway, during one of Henry’s “bathroom runs,” Chooch and I stumbled across a pretty cool clown picture and struck up a conversation with the old man selling it. I have a super soft spot for old man flea market sellers. I will almost always give them my money. And this guy was awesome, squeezing my arm and patting Chooch’s head.

Or completely creepy, depending on your sleaze threshhold.

“I gotta get at least $15 for that,” he said and then explained why but I wasn’t listening.

“I’ll be back with my Money Man,” I said with faux importance. He laughed knowingly and molested my arm again.

A few minutes later, Chooch and I ran into a recently-urinated Henry who cut us off by saying, “Yeah, I know. I can already guess what it is you’re talking about. I saw it.” And he really did know! He reluctantly gave me money for another clown picture to add to the clown room in my invisible never-house!

And then he had to carry it around with him for the rest of the morning.

Hoarder Lady! No visit to Trader Jack’s is complete without strolling past Hoarder Lady’s hoard-carnival.  Chooch insists on touching everything and you have no idea what kind of precariously-stacked mound of clutter this is. It’s a life-sized game of Junk Jenga. I have watched Hoarder Lady swoop down on a Happy Meal toy that some asshole shopper left dangling like a participle and stuff it back into the mountain, corking the inevitable avalanche.

This is where Steven Spielberg got the props for the inside of the Goonies pirate ship. True story.

(But don’t quote me. I’m shy.)

“No stuffed animals. No stuffed animals! NO STUFFED ANIMALS! Ugh, fine.” How can I resist a stuffed cat that looks like a Marcy/Don hybrid?

I mean…that face. How can I resist that precious face of my child?

Of course, we had to wait for Henry to return from the bathroom again (“It’s all that iced tea!” he stuttered) and he made the “Oh for fuck’s sake” face before shoving his hand into his money bag. Meanwhile, Chooch struck up a conversation with Hoarder Lady about cats, so now she doesn’t look at him as a human wrecking ball anymore, but someone on her own cat-collecting level.

Henry always acts all bent out of shape when Chooch and I leave the flea market with bounty, but he has nothing. I mean, what did you want, Henry? If you want a rusty hoe so bad, maybe see if your ex-wife will take you back, I don’t really know what else to tell you. But you’re not spending my flea market allowance on yourself.

I mean, at least we let him stop at the pretzel place on the way home. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason he goes to the flea market anyway.

Chooch and I always let him stop at the pretzel place on the way home though. Go on, big guy. Treat yourself.

“Just stay in the car,” Henry barked when we pulled into the Oriental Market parking lot. “Please,” his bark turned into a whine.

Yeah right, and risk missing out on the expensive delicacies that Henry would be sure to pass over?

Chooch and I pushed and shoved our way into the store past Henry, who was rapidly aging right before our eyes. He was also muttering under his breath and I’m certain it probably wasn’t an apology for farting.

The very thing I saw? My elusive MANGOSTEEN, mothafuckas.

“I AM GETTING THIS!” I declared to the entire produce section, but no one paid me any mind because I’m sure crazy white bitches up in the Asian markets are a dime a dozen.

Ignoring us doesn’t actually make us go away, though. Sorry.

You could almost hear Henry’s forehead vein strumming along as he watched me toss a bushel of mangosteen balls into the basket at $9.69 a pound.

Unfortunately, the little market was wax jamboo-less by the time we rolled up, but I made sure to Google that shit and immediately add it to my Must Eat list.

I’m so glad that I decided to buy one of these aroemanis mangoes even though Henry said, “IT IS JUST A MANGO.” Because it tasted much better than a regular mango! Richer, creamier, more expensive.  (And NOT Asian, I’ll have you know. The sticker says that it’s a product of Mexico, what the fuck is THAT, you produce posers!?)

Henry tried to pull the same authority with the Fire Dragon.

“THAT’S JUST A DRAGONFRUIT PUT IT BACK!” Henry yelled. But if it was “just a dragonfruit,” then why did they also have dragonfruits for sale further down!? So I made him buy a Fire Dragon, too.

Chooch always picks out one package of cookies and then promptly makes puking sounds in the backseat of the car after tasting one.

This is Henry’s face after the young girl wearing oversized lensless eyeglasses rang up the small pile of produce and asked him to hand over something greater than thirty US Dollars. We didn’t speak for awhile, but he seemed to be in a little bit of a better mood once he went to Jo-Ann Fabrics. (Seriously, I can verify that Henry doesn’t actually have a vagina, but I can understand why you’d wonder.)

A little later that afternoon, Henry stormed into the family room with one lone eyeball-sliver thing on a plate and spat, “HERE. YOU BETTER PRAY YOU LIKE IT BECAUSE YOU’RE EATING THE WHOLE BAG.”

It was a small piece of mangosteen and maybe it’s the lore and mystique talking here, but it was pretty fucking fantastic. It was like a mild Sweet Tart, with the texture of an eyeball, but the closer I came to the seed, the more its consistency was creamy and buttery like an angel’s nipple—just like my beloved CHERIMOYA. So if you don’t like cherimoya, go fuck yourself. I mean, then you might not like mangosteen.

But it wasn’t as good as cherimoya. That’s still top dawg.

Thank god I bought the Fire Dragon because WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT AMAZING FUSCHIA HUE?! I was worried that it was going to deceive me, the same way that beets fool me with their vibrant chromatics. One of these days, I’m going to eat a beet like it.

I hope.

Henry could shove one of those into a ring and I’d say yes.

This is what the mangosteens look like in their protective casing. I think I should probably keep a bag on hand when I’m riding the trolley. I might need to use it. And by use it I mean forcefully swing it into the balls of a would-be rapist. Those motherfuckers.

I’m eating my 4PM fruit salad right now at work and it feels so good to be back in action, like I could do ANYTHING. There are also grapes, apples and tangerines in my fruit salad, but who cares.

If it’s slow at work tonight, I’m going to check to see if there are any Fruit Clubs on Meetup.com and if so, I’m going to join and be a complete fruit snob. You know, like I am with everything else in life.

Yoga sucks it hurts my back and my spine.

• A few weeks ago, I signed up for this wellness screening thing at work. All I knew was that it had something to do with our health insurance and my grown-up friends here at work were all saying that it was a Good Thing. So I scheduled mine for Thursday. Angie had hers on Wednesday and off-handedly mentioned that there is finger-pricking involved, which gave me TWENTY-FIVE HOURS to overthink, panic and fixate on the split-second pain my fingertip was going to inevitably endure. I carried on like a fucking bitch-baby about this for the rest of Wednesday and picked right back up as soon as I got to work yesterday. Amber2’s appointment was fifteen minutes before mine, and I begged my boss to let me go then too so I wouldn’t have to ride the elevator alone while crying into my palms like some pious robed woman watching Jesus hang on the crucifx. Joy was like, “Uh, yeah. I don’t care” and then made fun of me for being so scared. Glenn stopped by my office before he left for the day (a few minutes before Amber2 and I went up to the screening) supposedly to get one last look at me SINCE I WAS PROBABLY GOING TO EXPIRE. Anyway, even though I yelped pretty loudly and made the nurse laugh, I survived and ended up walking out there feeling like Wonder Woman after the nurse raved about how great my numbers are so SUCK IT GLENN.

• I have a Candy Land band-aid on it now, too.

• My brother Corey stopped over yesterday morning before work to drop off an Easter basket for Chooch on behalf of my estranged mom and aunt Sharon. “Doesn’t Val ever wonder what Chocoh even looks like now?” I asked sarcastically. “Yeah, you’d think,” Corey said. It didn’t really bother me until afterward, but what the fuck. Sending over obligatory holiday offerings is definitely not the same as being a sane and stable figure in my kid’s life and it just pisses me off. And while one could argue that this is my mom’s way of “making an effort,” I’d like to point out that buying “things” is what has always come easily for her. It’s the “love” part she struggles with. Yay, chocolate bunnies, toys and gift cards. FYI, he doesn’t even know who you are. 
• The other day, Chooch said that he dreamt I wasn’t in the house and he looked outside and saw all of my body parts on the road & Henry was laughing. Then a few minutes later he told he actually didn’t remember his dream so it’s good to know that’s the one he thought up on the fly.
• Chooch was going on and on one night about how bad Henry’s mom Judy sucks at drawing. “She’s horrible!” he cried, and then laughed smugly as if he derived great satisfaction from this. “I love that Chooch is just like and heckles people for their inadequacies.” Henry frowned and said, “Yeah, that’s called being a dick.”

• I was over at Barb’s desk a few days ago, talking to her and Nate, when Chris joined the conversation. Then this weird thing happened, where it literally felt like I had floated out of my body and drifted away from the conversation. Chris picked that precise moment to ask me something which I didn’t understand because it sounded like he was talking underwater, and even still, I shook my head “yes.”  I was telling Barb about it yesterday, about how I think I have neurological damage maybe because this isn’t the first time this has happened, and she was all impressed at my overachieving ability to peace out of conversations. MAYBE I’M ASTRAL PROJECTING!? I still don’t know what I said yes to.
• Henry the Foot Barbarian clipped Chooch’s pinky toe with his humungous sledgehammer feet Wednesday night. So now Chooch has joined my Abused Phalanges Club. In the bathtub that night, he took on his Henry-mocking voice and said, “My name is Dumb Henry. I like cooking eggs, stepping on my son’s toes and hurting Erin’s feelings.” INDEED.

• On our trip back home from Lancaster a few weeks ago, we were driving through Breezewood when that “close the window, come alive” song came on (yes! we were able to find a soft rock radio station in the midst of an FM country jamboree!) and these huge tears literally started cascading out of my dumb eye sockets. So then Henry and I had this long conversation about Anne Murray (my Pappap loved her!) but then the DJ told us later that it was actually Rita Coolidge, so I guess that song really isn’t that memorable to me after all.
• “You’re not a writer because you don’t have any books,” Chooch schooled me last week. First of all, duh. Second of all, I lost count of all the friendly reminders like this one that I’ve been doled over the years. My favorite was when I told a “friend” that I was going to school for English Writing and he said, “Why? You don’t write.” And then last year he tried telling me that he has always been one of my biggest supporters. HAHAHAHA. Go fuck yourself.
• I guess I should just stick to keeping a photo blog.
• I sent Henry frantic 911 texts yesterday because I found out my beloved Gilad has a 24:7 streaming workout channel called Gilad TV AND I WANT IT.  When I was in 6th grade and my aunt Susie asked me to be a junior bridesmaid in her wedding that fall, I PANICKED. I was a fat kid. 5th and 6th grade were NOT good years for my vanity. So like any other 11-year–old, I started doing the Slim-Fast diet [yes, my family supported this; what assholes! (not you, Susie)] and a combination of Denise Austin and Gilad’s Bodies in Motion. I lost a ton of weight and even though I still struggled with it, I never really was “fat” again (until I had Chooch, thanks buddy). So now that I’ve been doing Weight Watchers, I’ve revisited my love affair with Gilad. Most of his shows are from the 80s and 90s and everyone wears LA Gear, but if it was good enough for me then, why can’t it be good enough for me now? (I also do some Jillian Michaels videos because she scares me and she’s hot.)

• There are still pendants left if anyone is interested! The nurse who did my wellness screening went on and on about how she liked the one I had on yesterday (it was a Pumpkin Head in a pink filigree frame) and I tried to get her to buy it. She just laughed. I don’t think she believed me, but I was being totally serious.

• I keep telling Mumford and Sons that no really, they DON’T have to wait for me, but they still keep playing that fucking song A MILLION TIMES A DAY like what they’re really saying is that they’ll wait for me to start liking their stupid songs. I don’t know what it is about that band, but they get under my skin.
  • However, I’ll shush a room and pause the world for Band of Horses.
• I want to punch the smell of mulch in the face.
• Some of my photographs were published in a real life magazine! (See below!)

• I’m trying to get Henry to guest post about the Jonny Craig show because I just don’t think my emotions will allow me to revisit that night without hemmorhaging all over the keyboard. At this point, my post would be pictures of Jonny flanked with this: OMGJONNY%^$&^$####&^^%*(!!!!!! <3333333!!! And then my tears would fry the keyboard.
• I bought a ring with a real cavity-inflicted tooth in it and everyone at work is like “GTFO with your gross jewelry.” You know it’s totally haunted. Lee said, “You’re totally going to break that. It’s so cumbersome!” and I reasoned that, “Yeah, but I don’t really do much.” He shrugged in agreeance and said, “And then there’s that.”

• This is about all the fun I can handle for today. Perhaps I will start writing real blog posts again some day even though they won’t be books, so it won’t “count.” Thanks, Chooch!

In our travels from Lancaster back home to Pittsburgh, we stopped at the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, PA. The road wound us all over a rural expanse of undeveloped land. No houses. No businesses. Barely any other cars. Just the three of us, driving closer and closer to a site of tragedy and gloom.

Once we parked, we had to walk a bit to the actual memorial. Only family members are permitted to visit the actual crash site, which is presently marked with a small boulder and a flag. Apparently, there is a monument in development.

Objects of rememberance were scattered across the wall leading up to the memorial. I’m not going to lie — it was hard to even breathe while we were there. It was scary being so close to where such a huge piece of our tragic history was scripted, but mostly just overwhelmingly sad.

At the end of the path, there are tall marble markers etched with the names of the crew and passengers, angled toward the direction in which the plane was crashing.

After visiting Shanksville, I can’t even begin to imagine what the Ground Zero Memorial would do to me.

On Sunday, we went to Round Hill Farm for my work friend Missy’s one-year-old son’s birthday party. I put a Jason Voorhees shirt on Chooch because that’s appropriate.

Missy had little treat boxes shaped like barns for all of the kids. Chooch was STOKED ON THIS. She even let him pick which stuffed animal he wanted, which of course was a vein-bulging decision. He ultimately chose a cow, and then immediately seemed to doubt himself. However, that cow never left his side all day. Except for when Henry was holding it.

Which was actually often, so nevermind.

(Side note: If Barb had thrown this party, she would have had a little barn gift for me, too. JUST SAYIN’, MISSY!)

Farm Frowns.

Sandy’s daughter Elena mimicked Chooch’s every word. He inadvertently taught her to say “derp” and “EAT IT!!!” while tossing bread into the pond. He kept sighing in faux-disgust, but c’mon, Chooch — you finally had the audience you always wanted! You could tell he was relishing this on the inside.

“If she goes home and wants to watch zombie movies, it’s not my fault,” I said to Sandy.

I also loved the contrast between his Jason Voorhees shirt and her pretty pink party dress.

Missy promised Elena a balloon and was trying to pass one off to her without any of the other children seeing because she wasn’t ready to start doling out party decor yet. But of course Chooch, who was probably one of the oldest kids there, saw and was all, “I WANT A BALLOON TOO OMG.” So while Missy was untying a balloon from the cake and present table inside the visitor’s center, Elena let go of her balloon and since Henry, Sandy and I are all under 12 feet tall, it now belonged to the ceiling.

When Chooch came running back to us with his balloon, I nudged him to give it to Elena. “Be the hero!” is what my elbow yelled into his shoulderblade. He did so begrudgingly, but I know my kid and if he didn’t REALLY WANT to give her his balloon, he wouldn’t have.

And then, before we could stop him, he ran back into the party room to hound Missy for another balloon.

\

While everyone was gathered inside the party room, singing Happy Birthday to little James, I momentarily lost sight of Chooch and Elena. Then I saw the only two balloons undulating above the small crowd, like bouncing beacons.

“This is probably why Missy didn’t want any of the kids to have balloons yet,” Sandy observed as their balloons drifted into people’s faces and other children craned their necks to covet the accessory that their hands did not have. The whole scene just made me laugh.

What you can’t see in Missy’s blurry hand is the GIGANTIC CAKE KNIFE she was swinging around like a princess wand, slicing up the air and god forbid any poor gnat that happened to be in the vicinity. My friend Sandy and I kind of just hugged the wall and allowed this to happen because it was entertaining and we were far enough away that we probably wouldn’t have gotten carved up like someone’s Thanksgiving turkey.

You would think that going to a one-year-old’s birthday party at a petting farm wouldn’t have much morbidity going on—and it didn’t, not until my kid took it there, anyway. But while Chooch was hanging off a tree, teaching Elena god only knows what, his balloon popped on one of the branches.

So he decided to have a funeral and bury it.

(This picture is courtesy of Sandy.)

Elena of course chose a stick of a dangerous size and joined in the labor. Some party guests walked by and did a double take. Chooch explained with a shrug, “This is how people used to dig holes in the past.”

RIP Red Balloon.

I promise, this was fake. At least I think so.

After the party, we drove down the street to the pet cemetery where Speck and Don are resting. After visiting with them, we wound up going inside and reserving two plots above theirs for Marcy and Willie, so that one day they can all be together again and not scattered in far apart plots all across the pet cemetery.

You know, cat lady problems.

So, a balloon funeral and pet cemetery plots. But we had birthday cake along the way so it all balances out.

Today I was walking home from taking Chooch to school when it occurred to me that I have officially lived more of my life without my Pappap than with him. It hit me like a load of bricks.

I found this shop on Etsy where this lady transfers photos onto slide film, tucks them into these glass bubbles and hangs them from a necklace. I knew immediately that I had to buy one and I started thinking of all the photos I’d want her to incorporate, and while it’s not some nice, studio portrait of my pappap, I knew exactly which one HAS to be immortalized in glass.

I wrote this in 2008, but I’m reposting it today because it’s one of my all-time favorite childhood memories and because, almost thirty years later, I am still that amused and giddy little girl over the stupidest things, like when the lady who collects the “last mail” from our department came from the opposite direction a few weeks, or finding out Henry was in THE SERVICE and had a door that led to the basement in one of his apartments. (Don’t ask.) So while it seems like nothing has been the same since my pappap died in 1996, I guess some things haven’t changed one bit.

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When you’re a little kid, the smallest happenings can seem like these life-stopping newsworthy events and you sit there with your mouth agape and your eyes so wide and grip the edge of your seat, waiting with bated breath to see what will happen.

Everything is a big deal when you’re a kid.

I was probably around four or five when my Pappap came home from work with the mail. It was a summer afternoon, so I was on the back patio, probably with either my grandma or my aunt Sharon. My Pappap rifled through the mail and noticed that his youngest daughter Susie had a letter.

He called up to her on the sunroof, and she shouted for him to try and toss it up.

I remember sitting on a lawn chair, their lawn chairs had these taut vinyl slats in varying shades of green and white but sometimes the skin on my thighs would graze the scalding metal of the frame in between the slats and I would get tiny welts. I’m sitting on this lawn chair, playing chicken with the fiery metal, and thinking, just knowing, that this wasn’t going to pan out the way Susie would have liked.

I watched as my Pappap tried to toss the letter against the wind, hoping to get enough momentum that it would skim the top of the ledge, but instead it fell back and skidded straight into the gutter.

My Pappap had to throw himself into full MacGyver throttle in order to rescue her precious letter, subscription notice, credit card bill. Who knows what it was. But even after he mounted a patio table and used the aid of scissors to guide the envelope from the dastardly clutches of the gutter, Susie still had to exert a modicum of energy to lean down and grab it.

And I’m watching this, from the green and white vinyl slats of the lawn chair, thinking that I’m a part of something big, something huge, a memory that we’ll all share together and laugh about at holidays. And everyone else went about their day, because things like this, they’re not enough to fill an adult with giddiness. They’re glitches in regularly scheduled programs, they’re “oopsies” moments that evoke a few chuckles but then get lost in the back of the mind while bills are being paid and the news is being watched, until the memory is eventually eradicated altogether. But not kids. Kids retain these things and latch on to them and call upon these tiny moments when they need something to smile about. Kids revel in it and wish everyone had seen it and kids inflate it into something so much bigger, larger than life. It becomes real life Saturday morning cartoons.

I don’t remember what the damn letter ended up being, or who it was that shared enough of my sentiments to treat this as the Kodak moment it truly was, and I don’t think we ever reminisced and hyucked about it over turkey legs and sweet potato pie, but I know that every time I see this picture, I laugh and remember being so small and watching something so big.

There were other things I wanted to do on Saturday, but then I woke up and it was so nice and pretty out that it was pretty clear to all three of us that we were going to prance around in the cemetery. So here, enjoy some photos and some light commentary.

I SAID ENJOY IT.

Nice buttcrack.

This is how much fun we have in cemeteries! Without desecrating graves or sacrificing babies, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?

Roadkill.

God forbid, Chooch had to walk up a hill. He exaggeratedly collapsed at one point because his “spine hurt.”

From walking up a hill.

He’s 6.

SPRINGTIME FINALLY.

I might turn this into a pendant!

Surprisingly, I’m pretty sure this was the first time Chooch has been to this cemetery, even though it’s only separated by a street from the other two we visit. I don’t even really go to this one when I’m alone very often, to be honest, because it fucking scares the shit out of me sometimes. Once, I was even stalked by some asshole in a car in this cemetery.

This maintenance building is one of the reasons. It’s creepy when no one is there, and it’s just as creepy when the maintenance are there.

“I always feel like Leatherface is going to come barrelling out of one of those doors,” I confided in Chooch, who decided he was going to be a hard ass and plant himself down on the retaining wall in front of the building, trying to draw out Leatherface like his own weird version of Bloody Mary, I guess.

“That’s fine,” I called over my shoulder as Henry and I continued to walk. “Have fun with Leatherface!”

He kept sitting there, because he’s stubborn (sooooo unlike me), while Henry and I came to a fork in the road. We took the right, because that would eventually lead us back to the car. We were still well within Chooch’s line of vision for him to see that we turned off the path.

Along the backside of the maintenance building was a dumpster. Because I’m a motherfucker, my mind always goes straight to “LET’S HIDE AND SCARE THE PISS OUT OF [enter victim of the day]!” So I tugged Henry and pulled him behind the dumpster with me.

“You’re such an asshole,” he mumbled, but I could tell by the twitch of his moustache that he was relishing this just as much as me. BECAUSE WE ARE AWESOME PARENTS.

A few seconds later, I could hear the patter of Chooch’s feet and detected the slightest sliver of blond over top of the dumpster’s edge. I had to slap my hand over my mouth like a giggle-dam.

He got a few yards (quarts? pounds?) into the road when he paused and began furtively turning his head left and right. You could actually watch the panic as it slowly slid down his face and pinpoint the exact moment when he realized he was fucked.

Then he spun around and saw us, all hunched over with our shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

[This is the part of the story where we will pretend my child didn’t obliterate us with obscenities and threats.]

We both got punched a few times, but I guess we kind of deserved it.

Hey, at least he had Fox & Bunny with him.

Speaking of Bunny, he got his own seat later that night when we went out for dinner at Tillie’s, where I had an unfortunate stand-off with three old ladies in the rest room. THEY WOULD NOT GET OUT OF MY WAY. I hit one of them with the stall door and she was all aghast, but maybe GO BACK TO YOUR TABLE AND TALK TO EACH OTHER THERE and you won’t get hit with bathroom doors, JESUS.

Totally almost ruined my dinner, which made me feel like a knife fight was underway in my stomach because I’m not used to eating rich foods anymore, but it was so worth it. All these years, I’ve only been ordering gnocchi at Tillie’s, but something made me order grilled salmon from the specials menu, and HOLY SHIT was the best/worst idea ever. It came with a risotti cake.

Chooch was being a compete jerk at dinner and suddenly formed a newfound aversion to the scent of spaghetti.

“Ugh how much spaghetti can there BE?” Chooch bitched. I put that on Facebook and he lost a bunch of fans because Tillie’s is one of those long-standing family-run Italian institutions that everyone but Chooch loves. It’s kind of like me, living in Pittsburgh and hating the Steelers. (Which I do, aggressively.)

I felt like I must have gained 5 pounds just from Saturday night alone, but somehow I made it through the weekend with my weight loss unscathed.

Henry gave Chooch some of his calamari and then we waited an hour to tell him what it was. He wasn’t very pleased with us at all.

Ugh, his pouty face is officially better than mine.

After dinner, we watched the original Evil Dead. He has been hounding me to take him to see the remake (“If you take me to see it, then I don’t want to be your son anymore!” he threatened, which sounded more like A PROMISE, if you ask me) and I’m just not sure I want to be That Mom who takes her six-year-old to what is being helmed as the scariest horror movie of the year. I mean, at least wait for the DVD, Chooch!

Anyway, the original one is so campy, that it didn’t make him flinch one bit. And when Cheryl turns into a flesh-eating demon, Chooch scoffed, “Cheryl? More like SCAREL.” Usually I’m like “STFU!!” when I’m trying to watch something and someone is talking, but his commentary was on point that night. He kept referring to all of the demon deaths as “birthday kills” because all the shit and pus squirting out of the bodies reminded him of pinatas. I mean, way to make it sound festive and fun, right?

Hiding from Chooch in the cemetery, making him think we left him there; bribing him to eat a piece of calamari and then waiting an hour to tell him what he ate; finishing off his impressionable mind with a gory horror movie —- overall, a great day to be parents.

Here is a completely half-assed, unprofessional listing of the remaining paintings from the craft show. Just like with the pendants, if you see something you like and want it, leave a comment with the name of the painting and make sure you use a valid email address in the comment form (which only I will see), and I will send you a Paypal invoice.

A big thanks to all of you who have expressed interest and have been so supportive! <3

NOTE: Please do NOT leave your email address in the actual comment portion. Some lady has been stalking me and is now resorting to contacting anyone who has left their email address here. She has already contacted two of my blog friends in the last two days and I am ready to scream.

Class of ’97 – 6×6

“Blahloons.” (I don’t have the exact dimensions of this one — waiting for HENRY to get back to me on that.)

“Whoever Blinks First” – 5″x7″

The Hob Nob! This is actually one of my all-time favorites. 5″ x 7″

“Birds on a Wire” (a large size?)

“Francis Shakes That Ass” – 5″x5″

” Somnambulant Skullz” – 8″8″

“Frederico in the City” – 8″x8″

“Spectacles ” 8″x8″

“Robotic <3″ – 8″x8”

Shippensburg, PA would have absolutely no value to me if not for Ed Helms and his impeccably-constructed Tiny World, a small village in his yard built for his cats.  Henry seemed pretty ambivalent about this stop on my agenda, and I think he was going to try and dispute it so I made sure to loudly announce, “But it’s a town built for CATS!” which made Chooch’s interest pique real quick, and soon Henry had two children whining and begging to visit Tiny World. Henry glared at me for using the c-word. “Cat” is like the equivalent to smelling salt for Chooch. He can be in the deepest zone, a self-induced pouting coma, but someone casually says the c-word and he’s very much in the present, yelling, “WHERE? WHERE? WHERE IS  THE CAT!?”

Sometimes I don’t even know why Henry bothers to object. His voice of dissent falls on pretend-deaf ears every time.

As Henry wound the car over country roads, he asked, “Um, this isn’t at someone’s house, is it?” I answered him by looking out the window and ignoring him.

Parts of Tiny World can be seen from the road, so I screamed for Henry to pull over the first second I glimpsed a hillside dotted with a doll-sized community. We parked in a small, makeshift gravel lot next to several other cars. At first it seemed like Tiny World was going to be booming with tourists, but we were the only oglers the whole time, so I guess the cars belonged to the family.

I don’t know what I was expecting, just some plywood shells I suppose, but Ed’s attention to detail was impeccable. I read online that he had no formal training in this stuff, just sat down and did it for no reason other than because he wanted to. And you know what, that’s inspiring even to someone like me. If I want to be a brain surgeon, I should just sit down and do it! And boy, have I got just the person to be my guinea pig.

The town was a tiny bit weathered, some of the furnishings had toppled over and cobwebs abound, but it was still pretty surprising that it wasn’t in a greater state of disarray. The proprietor is apparently pretty old and was suffering some health problems according to a Roadside America update from 2011, so it’s hard to say if upkeep is being honored at all.

The attic of one of the larger plantation-esque homes had items all strewn about and I wondered if it was intentionally done to make it look haunted. In either case, I legitimately shivered and stepped away from the window before I wound up accidently staring into the eyes of Bagul.

Dead rooster in the barn’s hay loft.

To be honest, I kind of liked that it had an abandoned tone to it. It made me feel like we were being watched from the nearby woods, hackneyed hillbillies lining us up in the crosshairs of their laser guns, preparing to shrink us down into Tiny World citizens. I already knew which house I was going to move into. (The one with the haunted attic, duh.)

If you like trains, then one might imagine you would enjoy the Tiny World Train Station.

That wallpaper! And look at that tiny box of thread on the sewing machine – even if you’re some joyless cat-hating asshole who thinks that building a sprawling town for feral cats is a waste of time, you still have to give respect to the details that went into this project — it’s a true labor of love.

There was even a relatively hot picture of Jesus Christ on the wall of the church.

Chooch’s succinct review, typed on his own: “It’s cool!  it’s kitty awesome! it’s  really freakin cool as shit.”

Again, the reviews I read online weren’t exactly current, but Tiny World is supposedly a hot commodity for all of the neighbors during the Christmas season. We noticed quite a bit of leftover Christmas lights and decorations peeking out here and there, so God only knows the last time the holiday lights set-up was functioning.

Built into the entrance/exit trellis is a pot for donations which I insisted on contributing. This seemed to prickle Papa Tight Wad’s asshole, but he finally handed Chooch a dollar for the pot.

“I WANT TO PUT MONEY IN TOO!” I cried. “IT WAS MY IDEA TO COME HERE!!!”

Henry sighed wearily and slapped another buck in my opened, whiny palm, which I then happily dropped into the collection hole.

“I’m so glad we came out here! It was totally worth it!” I gushed while Henry tried to find his way back to the highway and a gas station before Chooch pissed his pants. “Wasn’t it awesome?!” I cried, shaking Henry’s arm.

He didn’t answer, just continued to drive while looking like the personification of FML.

Henry, actually SMILING was washing the car windows! It’s a road trip miracle!

We also visited the Flight 93 Memorial in Shanksville, but I don’t feel that it’s appropriate or respectful to include that in this post.

To lighten the mood, we stopped in Bedford for a photo op with a large Coffee Pot, which used to be a lunch stand way back in the day. Like all awesomely tacky roadside attractions, it was in threat of being demolished in the 90s, but was eventually restored and is now used as a landmark.

THANK GOD!

“No, that’s OK,” Henry mumbled when I asked him if he was going to get out of the car and gawk at it with me and Chooch.

After Chooch accidentally knocked off part of the coffee pot (in his defense, that pot has structural leprosy), we both turned into royal motherfuckers. Henry of course knew this was because we were hungry and FINALLY stopped at a Valley Dairy to feed us.

“Hey Mommy, knock knock,” Chooch said after our food was served and we began to return to our non-surly, hyper selves.

“Who’s there?” I begrudgingly went along. His knock knock jokes are the worst.

“Room service!” And then we both laughed our food all over the table while Henry simply frowned at the memory of his stressful experience the night before at the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Chooch asked me as I stared off into the distance while slowly eating a scoop of maple pecan ice cream. (Hello Weight Watcher narcs, I was on “vacation.”)

“Nothing, I’m just thinking,” I answered.

“Oh,” Chooch shrugged. “I always figured that when you do stuff like that, you’re wondering why Daddy won’t marry you.”

HOW ASTUTE.

—————

That night, after we had been home for a few hours, Chooch sighed, “I miss yesterday.”

“What part do you miss?” I asked.

“Uh, Pierce the Veil,”  he answered in that awesomely snotty teenaged tone.

Me too, Chooch. Me too.

So much love for that entire weekend!

Dear blog readers, I was asked to post pictures of what I have left after last week’s craft show which I am more than happy to do because my Somnambulant Etsy is suspended (I never paid my bill lol) & Henry never set up that shopping cart thingie for me to sell my stuff outside of Etsy.

So, if you see anything you want, leave a comment with the pendant number and your email address (second thought–just make sure you use a valid email address when you fill out the comment form so only I will see it, because some lady is stalking me & apparently contacting my friends is her new strategy), and I’ll send you a Paypal invoice. Just make sure you give me your mailing address too, which I think you can do through Paypal.

Each pendant is $10 + shipping (like $1.50?).

#19 was tough to photograph without glare, but that is the picture that goes along with the Signed Sally, Sadly story.

I have a bunch of $5 pendants too but I haven’t taken pictures of them yet.

On the way to LAND CASTER we saw wind meals and big blue puffy things and mommy was so scared! She was like

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiittttttttttttttt! A N D CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

. HINT IF you want to scare Erin give her a gift with a big blue puffy thing in it and a wind meal in it.

[Ed.Note: Big blue puffy things = water towers. Thanks, Chooch.]

So here I am, in my own personal panic because I still have these things I want/need to blog about, like the rest of the shit we did on the way home from Lancaster and HELLO THE JONNY FUCKING CRAIG SHOW OMG, but what am I doing instead? Sharing a glimpse inside my dumb little office at work. Because it’s Friday and I’m all tuckered out after I was almost involved in a shooting that happened downtown a few hours ago. MORE ON THAT LATER.

Here we have a picture of my cat Don (RIP, buddy) and James Neal, my prom date. (Possibly more widely known as a Pittsburgh Penguin, though.)

The elephant thingie I bought at Mr. Ed’s and thought I lost!

A picture of Chooch with the band Chiodos held up by a scene kid magnet by awesome friend Brandy made me!

A picture of a bloody tooth I keep around to remind my co-workers not to fuck with me. (It doesn’t work on many people anymore though, just the n00bs.)

Yay, Amish memories!

Chooch drew that for me on the back of a receipt a few years ago. He probably thought I threw it away.

All the Glenns from Halloween!

St. Rita, Kellin Quinn, Austin Carlile and Marcy, all in a row.

‘Sup, homie. Also, instructions to access my voicemail because I never remember.

I get lots of papercuts. At least now I can decorate them.

Shitty Asian candy that no one is stupid enough to eat. (Except Jamie!)

Light reading.

The best mug in the world (thanks, Michelle!) and the omnipresent Jonny.

Freak flag, Jesus pen, Bayernhof literature.

The scene outside after a shooting, which happened at the exact time I take my break and sometimes I walk on that street! I MIGHT HAVE GONE THAT WAY TODAY if Angie hadn’t come into my office right before 4pm and started telling me a story. She saved my life (or buttock — that’s what was shot at)!

OK. I hope you enjoyed this unnecessary tour of my work digs. Now I’m about to go eat an apple, which I obtained by fruit panhandling around the department because Henry is a motherfucker who is suddenly against buying fruit. (Also scored two Cuties, a bag of light popcorn, some Pop Chips, string cheese and a packet of oatmeal. See that Henry? My co-workers got my back.)

“Who is Jesus Christ, anyway?” Chooch asked me one day last week.

“Um, he’s Jesus,” I said, totally astonished at the stupid question.

“Well, I didn’t know that was his last name!” Chooch cried defensively. So I guess the whole time I had been planning my Pizza Party for Jesus Christ, Chooch thought a real life person named Jesus Christ was coming over to eat pizza with us.

Let me start at the beginning.

Holidays give me anxiety because I don’t want to be alone. I spent most holidays in my 20s alone and even though I have Henry and Chooch now, I need those days to still feel like a holiday, like a celebration. Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Christmas are fine because we have things to do, but Easter is different. Easter is the holiday my family gave up on after my Pappap died. I think over the years, my mom might have had two or three Easter dinners, but it will always be That First Holiday After Pappap Died. The awkward holiday that no one knows what do with because it’s so soon after The Death and no one really wants to go through the motions.

Last year, Henry, Chooch and I ate at a Chinese restaurant. I couldn’t do that again. I needed to have company over, I needed a reason to decorate and have fun. So I invited some friends over who don’t have family here in Pittsburgh, plus Janna who was free after having Easter brunch with her parents. My brother Corey went with his girlfriend, and Henry’s sons also went with their girlfriends, because having pizza in the name of Jesus Christ wasn’t important enough for them, I guess. Pizza heathens.

Jesus doesn’t save pizza for heathens on the other side. Remember that, boys.

Everyone else I invited seemed stoked to have something to do on Easter, and that was all I hoped to achieve. Laura and Mike were on board, as well as my friends Natasha and Bill, whom I don’t get to see nearly enough! I used to work with Bill at one of my old jobs, so I was looking forward to hearing current tales about Eleanor and the job itself, which I still don’t really understand and I worked there for almost two years.

Two years of having no idea what I was doing — it’s a wonder I lasted as long as I did without getting fired, wtf.

(Don’t worry — I understand my current job, I promise.)

Chooch and I had a dance party while Henry cleaned the house.

Without consulting with Henry, I sent out a Facebook event.

“This is the day after the craft show!” Henry bitched. “When am I supposed to clean!?”

I tried to reason that he didn’t have to really go all out because it was, and I quote, “just a relaxing evening eating pizza in the name of Jesus Christ.”

Kind of like a “Welcome home!” and going away party in one.

“And furthermore, where am I going to get pizza on EASTER? There won’t be any pizza places open!” his rant continued.

“Um, maybe a Chinese pizza parlor?” I suggested smugly which only proved to anger him more.

While Henry ran off to the grocery store Easter afternoon, I did my part: setting out some religious candles and Jesus’s head. Happy Easter!

And Easter candy in bat bowls! I even walked to CVS all on my own (OK, with Chooch) to get the candy! Then I realized I forgot balloons (for Jesus) so Henry ended up having to go back out to the store anyway.

I blew up a bag of balloons and then let them float in disarray in our fake fireplace. So yes, clearly it was imperative for Henry to make that special trip to the store to get balloons. (And also crescent rolls and marshmallows for EMPTY TOMBS because what’s a pizza party for Jesus Christ without EMPTY TOMBS for dessert!?)

Michonne was one of the things in Chooch’s Easter basket because we are one of those asshole families that treat Easter like a springtime Christmas and I don’t really care if you judge me for giving the economy a boost. (Chooch and I both got new Pierce the Veil t-shirts from Hot Topic, too! THANK YOU EASTER BUNNY.)

During one of Henry’s trips to the store, he came back with some meat product you people call “pork tenderloin.”

OK. Here is a list of clues I collected during the day, proving that Henry actually enjoyed himself:

• He could have just bought pre-made frozen pizza and been done with it, but instead he came home with some kind of artisan pizza crusts and fancy ingredients.
• He took great pride in serving a variety of pizza, including: mozzarella/basil/tomato, shrimp pesto, chorizo, the aforementioned pork tenderloin, and some kind of fancy cheese thing. Who does that? A man who is having a fun time at a pizza party for Jesus Christ, that’s who.
• I caught him with a pizza hard-on a few times in the kitchen.
• He even stated for the record,”If I’m going to make pizza, it’s going to be good pizza.”

Great hair.

“What a shocker, I got a movie about a cat!”

Laura and Mike. Praying, obviously. (Look at that yellow balloon! I blew that up!)

Chooch and I were dressed like we had just tumbled out of a Crayola box.

Freaking Natasha magically turned away every time I tried to take her picture! God, she’s good.

I let Bill sit in my wheelchair because it was Easter and I felt like being a little nice to my guests.

This pizza’s for you J.C.! (And for once, that’s not a Jonny Craig reference.)

Henry cut all the pizza into awkward hors d’oeuvres shapes but then didn’t walk around serving them along with champagne flutes, which I found to be just plain rude. Henry sucks at hosting.

Right when Henry was finally about to sit down, I yelled, “WHAT ABOUT THE EMPTY TOMBS!?” so he sighed and retreated back to the kitchen.

“OMG so wait! The marshmallow was supposed to be Jesus, and then it melted so that’s what makes it an empty tomb!?” I shouted in my best A-ha! voice.

Chooch during one of his temper tantrums. Sometimes he gets SO MAD when he realizes that people mght actually come to our house to hang out with ME TOO. It’s not always just about him!

Chooch made us play Pictionary Junior which only led to tears. If he’d just accept the fact that I’m the best, maybe we could play games together in harmony someday.

And then we watched the Walking Dead season finale and cried together.

This was hands down the best Easter I had in a long time. Thanks to my friends who came over and spent the evening in our crazy house. Mad respect for pizza and you too, Jesus Christ!

———

The next day at work, Cheryl asked me, “How was your Easter? Do you guys do something weird for that, too?”

I love that my co-workers know me.

Well, you guys. I finally found the one thing that could potentially break up Henry and me: vending craft shows. It wasn’t so much the actual “vending” part, as much as the “getting shit together” part. We had an explosive argument Friday night which culminated in me savagely knocking over a bucket of water AND THEN HENRY LEFT IT THERE ALL NIGHT.

By morning, we had patched things up enough to get to Castle Blood with a little more than 30 minutes to spare. We drove in silence though, with me staring out the window and pouting to the soundtrack of Jonny Craig.

“I didn’t think you were coming!” Gayle said when we arrived. She and her husband Jeffrey were selling prints and jewelry in the room next to us.

“You have no idea,” I laughed without mirth.

“So, I guess you probably won’t be doing any more craft shows?” Gayle jokingly asked, after I ranted and raved about how stressful this was.

“Not with me,” Henry mumbled, walking away.

Then Gravely, Castle Blood’s proprietor, came in and was looking at my stuff  while I whined about feeling like it was all crap and that I didn’t have enough to show.

“It’s fine!” Gravely insisted encouragingly. “You’re going to do fine.”

“I guess,” I whined even harder. I was even annoying myself at this point but I just couldn’t cheer the fuck up.

“There you go, Erin! That’s the attitude that will sell your stuff!” Gravely joked, and then I finally laughed for the first time in approximately 18 hours.

Setting up wasn’t too bad, except that Henry literally only brought me five nails to hang my pendants from the styrofoam heads, an idea I came up with several weeks ago and thought would be fitting for Easter weekend. You know, suspending things from nails. Woo, Easter!

So yeah, FIVE NAILS, wtf Henry!? I sent him away to forage for more nails, and hung up what I could with what was available. My heart was racing with so  much hate-adrenaline, and then a girl (presumably either another vendor or a Castle Blood cast member) walked through my room and asked if I was having an ok time setting up.

Now, normally when someone asks me how I’m doing, I will always say “Fine” even if I just found out I have Snooki’s Kooka disease. That was something my pappap taught me — no one wants to hear some stranger’s dirty laundry, just say “fine” and move along. But I was a woman on the edge and this poor girl caught me at the wrong time.

“Oh it’s fine,” I started. “Except that my boyfriend and I FIGHT A LOT!!” I added with out-of-control huffiness. She laughed nervously, and I went on to say, “It’s going to be a long day with him in such a little room.”

Right on cue, Henry returned and barked, “Here’s your NAILS,” slapping them into my hand with force. Our spectator burst out with laughter and wished me luck  before retreating. I never saw her again that day. I can’t imagine why.

I sent Henry away for coffee and immediately sold $65 worth of merch (two paintings and three pendants!) to my first customer! My outlook on life changed drastically after that.

Obviously.

Henry was so pissed because no one was actually looking inside the cards. We sold approximately zero of them. Tough crowd.  A ton of people got a kick out of the serial killer Valentines though, and my business cards were taken for (hopefully) future reference.

I am cripplingly shy around strangers, ESPECIALLY when there is any sort of attention on me. I just can’t deal with it and the fact that I had to sit there while people filed through my room, scrutinizing my wares, it made me want to fillet Henry so I could crawl up inside his body cavity and strangle myself with his intestines.  I let some people walk through and browse without trying to bug them with small talk, but sometimes I would get brave and blurt out, “THIS IS MY FIRST CRAFT SHOW AND I AM AWKWARD.” The honest/self-deprecation route seemed to work and I wound up having some pretty good conversations with some cool people.

And then sometimes I would resort to the classic “Are you from around here?” line, like I was trying to pick them up in some sleazy tavern.

Of course, there were also the people who would frown at my stuff and then walk into Gayle’s room, where I would hear them carrying on lengthy, jovial conversations. Gayle is fucking good at this shit! Maybe next time (IF THERE IS A NEXT TIME) I’ll just put all of my stuff in her room and go to the nearest strip club for the day.

I had a stack of my blog cards laying out with a sign that said “FREE – PLEASE TAKE ONE” and literally only one person took one (and it was the one with this picture on it — she said it was her favorite and I said, “Funny, that’s my boyfriend’s favorite too!”). God, even for FREE no one wants to read this stupid blog!

I would get so nervous when other vendors would walk through my room for a look-see. I feel like such a fake! My art is so childish and outsider, and even though it means a lot to me, I always feel like a fraud when I’m around real artists. My self-esteem was dry-heaving all over the place last Saturday.

I really am proud of these pendants, though.  TEN DOLLA!

Laura came out to visit (and PURCHASE!) right around the time I started getting really slap-happy. I mean, I had been sitting in the same small room since 11:30AM and had eaten nothing but 20 almonds.  I finally sent Henry to fetch me a chocolate rat pretzel from one of the other vendors, so that was good. But I was really getting out of hand with my giddines and even resorted to spying on Gayle through a crack in the wall at one point.

I think my favorite part of the day was when a couple who had already passed through my room actually had a Castle Blood denizen assist them in fnding their way back so they could buy one of my bathroom plaques. I think they were considering buying one of my octopi paintings, but that was the same time Laura arrived and snatched it off the shelf with purpose — she had claimed that one weeks ago! Now that I think about it, I should have charged her extra. And then had her repeat it each time a new customer walked through to give me the illusion of being a hot commodity.

This is what I looked at all day.

Ironically, I think I met the boyfriend of the girl with the pink mohawk that I see sometimes on the trolley and desperately wish to befriend. He was vending there too and when I spoke with him, all I could think was, “Wow, he looks familiar.” Then he told me where he lives and it’s right near the trolley stop where I’ve seen the mohawk girl get on (you know, as any good stalker would note) and there was one time when she was on the trolley with some dude and I’m pretty sure it was him.

A quick Facebook creep-session later and it all came together. Now if I ever see her on the trolley, I can tell her this entire story and she will either chuck her coffee in my face (she always comes on the trolley with coffee — of COURSE I would know that) or invite me to a round of Ruzzle.

My luck, she will probably have already read about it on my blog and I’ll get the coffee-punch before even saying anything.

GRAMPS. (Ironically, I made all of my sales when Henry wasn’t around.)

Janna and Chooch came out to visit later in the evening, as well as my friend Kristy, who bought one of the hand job pendants! I was really appreciative that they came out to support me. It’s just really hard to get people to take me and my stuff seriously (you know, “Oh, here’s Erin and her cheap crafts again”), so whenever anyone does, I feel even more grateful. (Maybe if it had been a bake sale, more people would have come out — I mean, if Henry was the one baking, haha.) 

Overall, t was a really scary, yet rewarding day. A BIG THANKS to Castle Blood for having me!

(NOTE: Janna did not buy anything!! To be fair, she was pretty busy chasing Chooch around.)