Here at the Law Firm, there used to be a wall papered with pictures of dead celebrities. It was pretty fun for awhile and featured everything from Tupac to the planet Pluto, but eventually the novelty wore off, and then after two years, our boss took down all of the pictures because new offices were being erected (lol) in that area.

Last night, Amber2 and I were brainstorming Glenn ideas because my wicked streak has been too idle these last few months. If I’m not constantly fucking with someone, then I feel worthless and dead inside. Amber consulted her calender to see if we could incorporate any upcoming holidays, so then at least there would be a theme, and then remembered that Pride is this weekend here in Pittsburgh. While I would love to do a series of gay Glenns, I feel like maybe that wouldn’t go over too well (much like the desire to start a rumor that he’s a lesbian, which still makes me LOL every time to the point of weeping). But then Amber casually suggested that we bring back the RIP wall, Glenn-style, and if I had gotten on board any faster, I’d have capsized the motherfucking boat.

WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!

Still, I sent an email to Sandy and Nate, because they would for sure let me know if this was a good idea for real, and they were like “Yes, we approve” and then Sandy suggested that I start with Jean Stapleton, whom it turns out barely anyone here recognizes. Losers.

Wendy, however, was like, “If you say so….” when I tried to convince her that this was an excellent idea that would bring our department together like the old days. Interestingly, Glenn said that the exact same thing when I told him he was about to be a reluctant star again. (But like Henry, he secretly loves it.)

As you can see, I still excel at photographing my Glenns.

Today is Thursday. Here is a throwback from 2011, because I’m having too much fun using my spare time to compile a list of things I want to do when we go on our New England road trip that has almost been canceled three times now.

You’re welcome, Janna.

******************

I don’t normally buy those exorbitantly-priced photos taken at the most inopportune times on roller coasters because they can make even Jennifer Aniston look like her fourth chin is giving birth to an alien flesh-sac with crossed eyes. But after I saw the one of Janna and me on the Sky Rocket, I started laughing so hard that I had to use my thighs as bladder-tourniquets. Janna had this intense look of “Please don’t buy this” in her eyes, almost as if she just knew what was going through my mind.

“I have to have it,” I blurted out to the guy working the photo booth. Suddenly, $10 seemed cheap for a memory that will last a lifetime. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time we waited for it be printed. Janna seemed considerably less amused, but every so often I’d get a nervous laugh out of her.

I couldn’t wait to show Henry when we met back up with him and Chooch. I began laughing all over again, that insane staccato chuckle I’m notorious for when things have reached the Apex of Giddy. I even cried a little; people were looking at this point.

Henry looked at the picture and just frowned. He was probably angry that I had the audacity to spend my own hard-earned money on such frivolties instead of Desitin for his sweaty summer balls.

This picture is so fucking bad, it’s amazing.

1. If I look like this on a ride that isn’t even scary, I can only imagine how I’ll look if I ever find myself hunted in an Alaskan* forest by Michael Myers carrying a boom box that’s a’blast with Katy Perry’s Worst Misses. Coincidentally, this is also what I look like when Henry makes me have sex with him.
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2. This was taken .002 seconds after Janna cupped Josh Groban’s ballsack and then died of happiness. What a peaceful corpse she makes.
3. Someone once told the guy in the front seat to treat every moment in life like it’s a deodorant commercial.

I have more pictures and shit to say, but this was the definite highlight of my day. I hope that when I’m on my death bed, someone shows me this, because that’s really how I’d like to peace out.

(*Alaska scares the shit out of me.)

Chooch and I had been diligently, and sort of clandestinely, working on a Father’s Day book for Henry. Truth be told, we don’t ever really get him anything on Father’s Day, and the whole Annual Father’s Day Kennywood Trip is mostly for me and Chooch. (Maybe more than mostly.) So I decided that it was time to do something to really show Henry who’s boss.

(Hahahaha, as if.)

Chooch and I took turns illustrating things about Henry that we love, and maybe sometimes also things that we like to make fun of him for. Like his constant desire to point out nature things when we go for walks. Or his ability to identify aircraft, sometimes by sound alone. (Just kidding, he’s not that cool.)

Of course, working with a seven-year-old meant that Henry pretty much knew we were “doing something” right from the get-go. Like when Chooch decided to draw his first picture while Henry was in the other room, and “covered up” by yelling, “I’M JUST DRAWING….UM, A RANDOM PICTURE OF A ZOMBIE. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH FATHER’S DAY.”

It arrived last Friday and I diligently wrapped it in wrinkled, used tissue paper, duct tape, and a ribbon made from the circulars because Henry is OBSESSED with reading the circulars. I hate the circulars because they’re nothing more than superfluous clutter, so I tend to pitch them the moment the mailman delivers them, which sends Henry into a blind rage because he enjoys reading about produce sales at the dining room table while he eats his meat-gruel and bread for dinner.

I wanted him to have mixed emotions: happiness about receiving a gift, and anger that his circulars were reduced to little more than gift-fodder.

The idea was to give it to him the morning of Father’s Day, to maybe soften him up for the rest of the day so that he would feel obliged to spend thousands of dollars on us at Kennywood (maybe I might want to buy a piece of a carousel or a bag of synthetic drugs from some teenaged employee in the arcade, you never know), but we caved the following morning and gave it to him a week early. Besides, it was two days after his birthday, so it was kind of like a duel present.

He didn’t actually cry, but he did have to remove his glasses in order to read it because he’s old.

The Frown Page is the favorite here at work.

Seriously though, Trashcan cookies from Sheetz are the bomb. I don’t know why he doesn’t take it into the bathroom to eat it in privacy.

Chooch wanted to draw Henry nude in every illustration. This was the only one where it made sense though. I mean, I don’t think Henry has ever stood on top of a hill, playing Candy Crush in the nude, while Chooch rides his scooter. I hope not, anyway.

There was even a page of Henry Haikus that some of my friends submitted, which really made it even better. I liked that so many people were involved, and I think he was pretty honored. I wanted to do something more for him other than just throw some pictures in a book and call it a day, I guess because he deserves the extra effort — ugh I can’t believe I’m letting my fingers type those words.

Of course, every time I don’t get my way now, I throw The Book back in his face. It’s almost as good as using the Bible against a Christian.

If you have any interest in seeing the rest of the book, here is a slideshow. I know, right — a SLIDESHOW. This blog just keeps getting richer and richer.

Click here to view this photo book larger

It doesn’t feel like summer in Pittsburgh until the annual Three Rivers Arts Festival commences and we find ourselves in the middle of a herd of sweaty, directionless Yinzers, half-assedly looking at art and thinking about buying pierogies to eat.

Suddenly summer!

We made Janna meet us at South Hills Village, which is the first trolley stop, and the first trolley stop equals EMPTY TROLLEY. We used to make the mistake of just walking to the trolley stop near our house, but by the time it arrives, it is jam-packed with undulating, rowdy Yinzers, biting at the chomp to get dahntahn and buy up some paintings of their fucking skyline n’at, and then I scream, “I CANNOT RIDE A TROLLEY WITH ALL THOSE PEOPLE!” and then Henry calls me a fucking princess-bitch and we end up either driving down or not going at all because NOW MY DAY IS RUINED.

So, the last couple of years, we have managed to avoid this brouhaha altogether by just getting on the trolley at a crowd-controlled location.

It was all fun and games on the way down to the Arts Festival. Henry was still being super-affectionate to me because I had just given him his Father’s Day gift a week early (more on that later, and no — it wasn’t porn) and Janna and Chooch were playing a rousing game of I Spy:

“I spy something black,” Janna mused.

“Oh, Daddy’s dingaling!” Chooch exclaimed.

I don’t know where he learned that word. In my house, we call it “weener.”

The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful, although I was pretty fixated with hating the young, cuddling, eyelash-plucking couple in front of me. Got, get over yourselves.

Meanwhile, Henry kept trying to hold my hand and I was all but tasering him with my eyes. This was approximately 8 minutes after I was whining about how he’s not affectionate enough. It’s a lonely tapdance down Hypocrisy Highway at times.

Maybe I just don’t know what affection is.

The first order of business, after making sure we didn’t lose Chooch when we got off the trolley, was to go see the fountain at the Point. Sitting by the fountain is REALLY FUN because it is loud and mimics the loud crash of the OCEAN, sort of. But then it was taken away from us for the last, I can’t remember, three years maybe? 25? Did it ever even really exist before now?

Henry told me a billion times what the city was doing to it and the park but as you might know, I don’t listen to Henry when he’s attempting to expand my mind. All I know is that it was there and then it wasn’t and now it is.

And judging by all of my Pittsburgh friends on Instagram, EVERYONE IS OMG SO HAPPY THAT THE FUCKING FOUNTAIN IS BACK THANK THE LORD! Seriously, I’m excited too. The fountain reminds me of hanging out downtown when I was in high school and selling pot.

Wait, that’s a different fountain.

We probably could have sat there for hours because we were flanked by gaggles of girls, which just happens to be Chooch’s favorite things to look at this side of Minecraft. But I can only ooh and aah over something non-Jonny Craig for so long before it’s time to get up and start roaming around aimlessly once more.

Henry: a fan not of art, nor fountains.

I kept hounding Chooch to care about the children’s area and to find some stupid craft that he was interested in making. Finally, he acquiesced with a disgusted sigh and set about making a sculpture out of junk, which reminded me of my FAVORITE living artist, Robert Villamagna, who used to be the only reason I ever even bothered going to the Arts Festival. Sadly, he hasn’t been there the last 3 or 4 years, much to Henry’s delight, because otherwise we would have had the “BUT WE NEED NEW TIRES FOR THE CAR, NOT A COFFEE TIN WITH DOLL PARTS GLUED TO IT!” argument in front of thousands of people.

Even sadlier, Chooch’s junk sculpture was decidely unVillagmagna-esque, as were the sculptures of every other child inside that  tent, even the bastard whose tattooed rockabilly parents were doing all the heavy lifting for him.

Chooch’s was basically an old CD on a metal rod with a piece of styrofoam at the top. It was so stupid. (What?! He agrees!)

There was some older girl at the same table as Chooch, struggling to turn two large pieces of trophies into some kind of assemblage tour de force, like motherfucking David constructed of hipster refuse, when she dropped the top part of a trophy that she was retardedly trying to balance on a much smaller trophy, because she’s a fucking moron, and faux-marble shattered all over the ground. I fucking laughed so hard.

Dumb bitch.

That was our queue to leave, and thank god, because I was HUNGRY and on the verge of resurrecting Hitler with my stomach growls.

Naturally, we all wanted different food-stuffs, and even more naturally, food-fetching is one of Henry’s jobs, so Chooch and I sat down by the stage and pretended to be fans of bluegrass while Henry scurried all over the park, trying to procure everyone’s lunch without fucking up because you KNOW we’d verbally emasculate his dick right on down between his legs like the tail that it is.

“Why are we still here? This band sucks.”

Henry came back with my falafel sandwich and then set off again to get Chooch’s pizza, which caused Chooch to pitch a fit because “OMG WHY DOES MOMMY GET HER FOOD FIRST!?” so I had to share my stupid food with him, how fucking inconvenient. Meanwhile, Janna was next to us, eating pizza and telling us things like, “It is supposedly really hard to play the banjo” and I was just like, “OK, Mumford.”

Then Henry came back with Chooch’s pizza and set off for what he naively thought was the last time to get his own food.

While he was gone, Chooch and I decided that we wanted the Grecian delight known to all as Greek Honey Dough Balls or Balls of Dough In Greek Honey, I don’t know, something about balls and it sounded good. We let Henry eat his pretzel and calzone (jokes! we ate most of his pretzel) and then told him to go and get us some balls dunked in honey. He bristled his moustache a few times and grumbled, but then he eventually groaned as he forced his tired Old Man joints into a standing position and lumbered off to purchase a batch of sticky ball-gags.

“I don’t really want those,” Chooch admitted after Henry had firmly planted himself in line. “I’d actually rather have ice cream,” Chooch mused.

“Oh shit, daddy’s going to kill you!” I laughed.

And when Henry came back with a paper dish of honeyed Greek dough testicals, Chooch casually gave him the next food order and I literally thought Henry was going to combust into a mushroom cloud of moustache bristles, hemorrhoids and 12 years of murder fantasies.

But that motherfucker went and got Chooch an ice cream, still!

(Dude, we had just given him the ultimate Father’s Day gift, so he knew better than to say no to us, his masters.)

Some kind of vehicular art installation. I don’t know.

And then we watched some strange breakdancing show, of which Chooch was pulled out of the crowd to assist in one of their stunts. I have it on video, but it’s like 8 minutes of the breakdancers collecting money from all the white people and approximately 7 seconds of actual stunting, so that bitch needs the fuck edited out of it.

They gave Chooch a dollar for his efforts, at least.

Before leaving, we decided to walk a couple of streets over to check out the Jazz festival that was also going on. Approximately 2 minutes after I was bragging about being a professional pedestrian now that I work downtown and take the trolley and can practically cross streets blindfolded, we were standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street, when the people next to us began to walk. I mindlessly followed them, and Janna and Chooch followed suit, but then, halfway into the street, I realized that the Do Not Cross signal was still lit and a car was coming. Granted, this car was still a block away, but my inner Manic Mom engaged and I grabbed Chooch’s hand and gave him a little yank so that he would hurry up and finish crossing.

And then I heard the unmistakable splat of flesh meeting pavement.

I turned around and saw him sprawled out across the road, crying. I KNOW that I didn’t tug Chooch with the aggressive force of an abusive mom, but the way he was carrying on (and I’m sure the way it looked to all of the by-standers), you would have thought I was in the habit of dislocating children’s arms for sport.

I helped him up and quickly ushered him onto the sidewalk. I made eye contact with Henry, who was still across the street waiting for the proper moment to cross. He just shook his head at me.

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!?” Chooch cried. “YOU’RE THE WORST!”

At first I felt really bad, and tried to assuage him by hugging him and apologizing, but he just kept mouthing off and carrying on like a basic drama queen, totally milking the situation.

I promise that I didn’t use that much force and that I was only trying to be a Mom by making sure that my young child didn’t get creamed by a goddamn car.  The horrible, judging sensation I felt was similar to the time we had to take Chooch to the emergency room after he face-planted on the hardwood floor at home and busted his nose up and everyone else in the waiting room glared at us, silently accusing us of being Monster Parents not worthy of having custody over a sea monkey let alone a human being.

After the electronic sign alerted Mr. Boy Scout that it was the proper, legal moment to cross the street, he joined us on the other side of the sidewalk and promptly exacerbated the situation by telling us we were both being idiots, at which point I declared, “THEN LET’S JUST FUCKING GO HOME” and then marched off quickly without them, which I can do now  that I kind of know my way around downtown. (This was mostly because we were close to The Law Firm, so I sort of knew where I was.)

They caught up to me at one point, and Chooch was still trying to make me feel like an asshole so I shouted, “FINE! NEXT TIME I’LL JUST LET YOU GET HIT BY A CAR!” to which he cried, “OH MY GOD WHY WOULD YOU SAAAAAAYYYYY THAAAAAT!?” at which point Pazuza crawled up through my throat and bellowed, “YOU CAN ALL GO AND GET FUCKED BY SATAN’S TRIDENT” and then commanded my legs to power-walk back to the trolley station without them.

When I was walking down the steps to the trolley platform, I heard the distinct pitter-patter of Chooch’s size 1’s clamoring down the steps behind me. When he caught up with me, we made eye contact and then busted out in laughter. We psychically agreed to be on the same side and hate Henry and Janna instead of each other. This was an easy task to undertake because apparently Janna had pissed off Chooch by telling him to “just drop it” and I don’t ever need a reason to hate Henry. So by the time they caught up with us, we ass-fucked them with our sinister glares of ire.

“You two are the same. Exactly the same. I can’t stand it,” Henry muttered, and then we almost got on the wrong trolley.

Everyone had made up by the time we boarded the correct trolley, until Henry mentioned that he took off the WRONG WEEK for our upcoming road trip and then we started fighting all over again.

(Don’t worry, conflict resolved.)

Spent all day downtown at the Arts Festival and now I’m watching horror movies. Good Saturday. Here’s some random photos because no one’s got time to write & read blogs on Saturday, my people.

So this is my new purse.

Chooch’s school had “Fun Day” yesterday and this is what his 8th grade girlfriend wrote on his shirt. Apparently she also had “Kellin Q” written on her face and her friend (Chooch’s other older gf) had “Vic F” on hers so clearly I should be hanging out with them too.

Like most cats, Marcy likes a good pat-down with a doll arm.

Getting ready for the arts festival.

A little confused.

So today is Henry’s birthday! He is 48, which is waaaaay older than me, lest ye forget.  I went the super-personal route and sent him a present via Facebook, which was supposed to be private but instead posted openly for all of his friends to see and the message I included was mildly suggestive about how I still have another present for him IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN so now everyone knows that I bring him fresh corpses to eat.

I mean, now everyone knows that we have sex. 

Anyway! I got him a molecular gastronomy kit, which is sure to collect dust in the kitchen with the unopened cheese-making kit I got him for Christmas. Facebook alerted me the minute he “opened” his present and when he didn’t rejoice immediately, I texted him a sarcastic “You’re welcome.

”

He responded an hour later with, “Thank you….but what is it?”

DEEP HEAVY SIGHS IN PITTSBURGH.

So I had to explain to him that now he can make the brine of feta cheese into foam dollops, or whip beets into jellied cubes, maybe morph sardines into candied cupcake toppers, perhaps turn castor oil into chocolate, or—I don’t know, what would motherfucking Willy Wonka do!? Jesus Christ, Henry, the item description says that the possibilities are endless if you use the imagination that I know you apparently once had because how else were you able to get into bed with any of your ex-lovers without vomiting into their hairy chest-butts.

The best presents to give are ones that you yourself benefit from. This is why I tend to gift people with frosted humps of birthday joy, because 99%* of people are definitely going to twist my arm into partaking along with them.

 I’m really looking forward to getting violently ill from the test tube cheese he concocts in the kitchen.

*(The other 1% are stingy assholes like me who don’t believe in sharing their treats.)

Meanwhile, everyone is leaving him birthday wishes that includes some version of hoping me and Chooch leave him alone. I mean, shit you guys. How insulting! Warranted, but insulting.

I don’t know. You guys are right. Maybe I will just let him sleep tonight instead.

Sike!

Just wait until his 50th. I’m going to make sure this is reenacted, but with a real transvestite:

OMG I was 16, likely “loafing” at the mall (A/K/A stalking Scott Dambaugh) while Henry was getting juicy scabies smeared on his jeans. So sleazy. (I wonder if one of those books on the mantel is his SERVICE YEARBOOK OMG!?)

Maybe I should end this while I’m ahead.

I feel like I may have already introduced my new flower, Rhoda, to the Internet, but my blog has been such a pit of despair lately that I can’t bring  myself to check my recent posts. So, here she is (again, maybe). I made Henry buy her for me at some roadside produce stand because suddenly I’m Little Miss Erin Flower Keeper. The last time I had a flower was right after Chooch was born. I was determined to prove to, who? Myself? Henry? LiveJournal? that I could multitask keeping a newborn baby AND A FLOWER alive.

Well, the flower only lasted about a week. Mostly because Speck kept eating it. And also a little bit because I forgot it was there.

Before that was the Great African Violet Bed Shitting of 1985. First of all, who buys a 6-year-old an African Violet?! Oh, my mom when she’s trying to placate me at Arcadian Gardens. Fuck, I hated that place.

Anyway, I was all excited to take Rhoda to work after Memorial Day. I carried her with me all gently on the trolley. Lots of old people smiled at me. Flowers make old people happy. Then I took her around the office, excitedly introducing her to everyone. “I’m going to raise her all on my own, without Henry’s help!” I kept saying. And that wasn’t a lie, although at the end of the week, I discovered poor Rhoda on my windowsill and thought, “Oh shit, I forgot she was there.” So I ran her over to Amber2, who has A LOT of vegetation on her desk because she understands what plants need to flourish, and she taught me how to water Rhoda.

I was feeling pretty good about myself after that, much like you would after throwing a sockful of peach pits and Chuck E Cheese tokens at an orphan, and promptly forgot about Rhoda’s existence again. Much like you would an orphan after throwing a sockful of peach pits and Chuck E. Cheese tokens at one.

But last night at work, I was shuffling papers at my other desk-thing, which is what I do sometimes when I want people to think I’m busy, when I noticed that:

(a) Rhoda was still sitting there obediently

(b) Her other bud-thing had hatched and now I had TWO!!!

(c) The dirt was dry as FUCK. (Something Snooki probably has never said about her kooka. I just imagine it’s a perpetual swamp down there.)

This was exciting because my work-friend Nate had preemptively named the bud VOLTRON but in my head I was like, “Shit, maybe we shouldn’t have named this yet. Doesn’t the farmer’s almanac say it’s bad luck to name a fetus-flower?” So then I was secretly angry at Nate for aborting my bud before it even had a chance in this cruel world.

Luckily, Nate has been taken off my List.

FOR NOW.

Internet, meet VOLTRON!!

OH I JUST LOVE HIM!

• Janna’s friend Jeremy had a dream of opening a hot dog cart and fuck if he didn’t reach for the meat-stars and make it happen.  Sometimes Janna helps out, so we made a special trip to mock her in her stupid red apron support a dream realized. Chooch got to help make lemonade, which I don’t forsee becoming a career.

• At stupid Pat Catan’s (Henry’s favorite craft store), some worker broad was all, “Do you want to make a CRAFTTTT?” and she said it in your typical cat hair-knitting mole voice. Chooch of course was like, “YES OMG YES MOMMY BANS CRAFTS AT OUR HOUSE OH PLEASE GOD LET ME MAKE A FUCKING CRAFT” and then she looked at me and I just sighed deeply and pulled out a chair. We made bubble wands. Who the fuck cares about bubble wands?! And it was all just a ploy to just and strong-arm me into buying a vat of bubbles. Anyway, this project sucked. I made the Pat Catan lady do most of it for me, expecially the parts that required using pliers to wrap the wire, which was probably about 50% of the project. I didn’t even attempt to try, I just handed it to her and said, “Here can you do this thanks.
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  ” Then I picked out beads and actually put them on without help, if you can believe it. And then as soon as I was finished, and she curled the bottom for me, I immediately had bead remorse.  I wish had put more thought into my bead combo! Chooch’s is all summery and festive — he went with a simple, yet effective, red white and blue pattern. Meanwhile, Henry was hulking around nearby aisles, rolling his eyes at us while checking out macrame kits and jewelry supplies.

• On Sunday, we went to Unity Cemetery in Latrobe to search for Mister Roger’s grave, per my friend Octavia’s request. Of course, we went there blindly, and spent most of the time roaming around aimlessly looking for a grave that may or may not exist. I assumed that it would be easy to find, probably covered with cardigans and puppets and Crayola factory tours (what? people leaves bottles of Heinz Ketchup on Andy Warhol’s grave), but alas — it did not stick out like a sore PBS thumb. Henry finally found some information online that mentioned a private family mausoleum, and we did not see any of those with the name Rogers on the front, so either by “private,” they mean “deep within the forest and also invisible” or the family name is different. Or we just weren’t paying attention, which is entirely possible.  Of course, I had a prime opportunity to scare the shit out of Chooch, which I definitely did not pass up, causing him to totally act like a bitch and then Henry had the audacity to be all, “OMG NO ICE CREAM FOR YOU FUCKERS!” and I was like, “Wha—?? Why!? I didn’t do anything!” and Chooch was all, “I DIDN’T WANT ICE CREAM ANYWAY, I HATE YOU BOTH SO BAD!”

• 15 minutes later, we had ice cream.

• Marcy still insists on sprawling out on top of all of Chooch’s school stuff, so that’s a good sign I think. I’ve always been one to smother my cats, particularly Marcy, but lately I’ve been totally asyphyxiating her with concerned pandering. Yesterday, I followed her around the house on my hands and knees, saying things like, “ARE YOU OK? HOW DO YOU FEEL? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU WANT TO COME LAY DOWN ON THE COUCH?! DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?!” and then I tried to take her temperature by laying my hand on her head and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

• Since I’m a Regular Trolley Passenger now (thanks for nothing, Henry), I have become quite chummy with the trolley driver, who looks like HOLY FUCK Bob Ross is alive and living in the mountains! He says things to me like, “Here we are again, huh? Vicious cycle!” (Monday Greeting^©) and “Happy Almost-Hump Day, huh?!” (Tuesday Greeting^©, although sometimes he jumps the gun and lets this one fly on Mondays) and I’ll let you wonder wildly about the rest. I’m not the only one to whom he’s so salacious with his salutations: this man loves, and I mean loves to a point of compulsion, to beep his trolley horn at all his PAT Transit buddies. He beeps at buses, he beeps at other trolleys, he beeps at fare booth broads trying to enjoy their cigarettes, he beeps at construction people digging up roads. I mean, the entire trip to work is everyday is soundtracked by BEEEEEEEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEP!! BEEP BE-BE-BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP! It was kind of cute at first, until the time we were going through a tunnel and two buses and one trolley passed us, throwing him into beeping conniptions. It was like a full minute of the most obnoxious, we-are-inside-a-tunnel-you-motherfucker horn blaring that I have ever had to witness.
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  It was kind of like being stuffed in a metal tube and thrown into a deep vat of hipsters screaming about Aracde Fire becoming popular, where the degree of screaming becomes more urgent and shrill the further down you tumble until you finally land in a junkyard of unlimited Fran Dreschers laughing to Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I could still hear it, faintly, an hour later when I was at work.  Totally ruined my afternoon. The one day, he saw one of his buddies in a parking lot, operating some sort of crane, so he was straight beepin’ his proverbial trolley dick, but the guy did not reciprocate the love. I’m 99.9% sure that this was intentional, so Bob Ross: New Career rolled the trolley to a halt and laid on the horn again. This time, the crane-operator doled out the most sarcastic hand-wave I’ve ever seen, and I could almost hear him screaming, “OK! I GET IT! MOTHERFUCKING HELLO! BLOW IT OUTCHER ASS!” Henry said that he was pretty sure that the horns on trolleys and buses were meant to be used as a warning, not a Salute Buzzer. The other day, I couldn’t imagine who Bob Ross of PAT Transit was beeping at, when suddenly I saw a squirrel dash across the tracks. So I guess he does occasionally use the horn as the warning siren it’s intended to be. Good for him. Super nice guy though, for real.

• I really hate it when Henry is talking to Chooch and refers to me as “your mother.” It just makes me feel like some old Donna in a housecoat, I don’t know. So I asked him to please stop calling me that. To Chooch, Henry corrected himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant your 13-year-old friend over there.” See? So much better.
• On Monday, I didn’t notice until after I got to work that my pants had a stain on them. Not just any stain, but a translucent white, milky stain on the upper thigh, right by my crotch. Totally looked like a fucking cum stain and I swear to god it wasn’t because it’s been ages since the last time I wore any work pants to the sex club. I showed Henry when I came home and he was all, “Good one, jackass” but I think he was secretly turned on. WHO’S CUM STAIN IS IT!? he probably thought. Maybe that will be his next blog post.

Sometimes I like to go back and revisit songs that I REALLY REALLY OMG REALLY DEFINATELY loved as a young teenager to see if they hold up, like “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins (yes) , “Come Undone” by Duran Duran (YES, GOD YES), “Because I Love You” by Stevie B (I mean….) or anything from the 90210 soundtrack (I mean, I wouldn’t know since I neither owned nor heard that “album”, ever. EVER I SWEAR).

Sometimes these songs just pop in my head. God only knows what triggers them. And this past weekend, I was serendipitously visited by the memory of one Army of Lovers and their strangely exotic song “Crucified.” I was young when this song was played on MTV (I think Kennedy was the VJ who introduced me to them but I could be wrong, and probably am), maybe 13? The song came out in 1991, so maybe I was 12 at the youngest. (God, my blog just keeps getting more and more riveting. How can you guys stand all of this drama!? The suspense?! The total underusage of capitalization?!) But I was captivated, and so I bought the CD single from Waves and tortured my friends with it ad nauseum. (Christy, do you remember this, or have you paid a hypnotist to eradicate the memory from your mind?)

I still have the CD single (I remember it had a minimum of 18 remixes on it, in a variety of languages) floating around somewhere, but I was mostly interested in watching the video again. THANK GOD FOR YOUTUBE.

Does the song hold up? YES. Does the video still make me uncomfortable yet mildy aroused? DEAR GOD, DIARY, YES. Only now I’m watching it and thinking, “THIS IS WHAT I WANT MY WEDDING TO LOOK LIKE!” It’s a good thing I’m never getting married since I can’t make up my fucking mind on the theme. “White Wheelchair Wedding”? “80s New Wave Dance Party”? “Carrie’s Prom”? “Mod Funeral with Waitstaff Wearing Prosthetics”? And didn’t I want to recreate a Cock Robin video in lieu of wedding vows at one point, also? WHO HAS TIME TO CHOOSE. All I know is that no matter what, I’d like to be wearing stilts at some point.

I hope this song plays in your head forever and ever and ever and OMG that fucking cleavage in the beginning of the video, amirite?

Lee left us on Friday to move back home to Baltimore. Of course we’re all super stoked for him, but it sucks to lose another work buddy. I already have major abandonment issues, so now I just feel straight up emotionally abused. SERIOUSLY. I’m going to try and get reimbursed for my future shrink bills.

Let us never forget some important facts about Lee:

• He was the only one who attended the funeral for my sea monkey, back when we weren’t even friends yet!
• He hates Juggalos with ever fiber of his being and would likely risk incarceration for the opportunity to Hulk Smash one.
• He likes to say “Hulk Smash.” A lot.
• He didn’t talk to me for an entire day when I turned him into a Juggalo:

Juggalo 4 Lyfe. Straight Faygo Chuggin’.

• He gives the “best birthday presents” to 6-year-old boys and makes sure no one forgets about it. Ever.
• He was once a carnival freak with his bromance, Chris:

• He HATES THE STEELERS which was awesome for me because I HATE THE STEELERS so I felt less alone at work on black & gold Fridays during football season. One time, I even purposely wore purple along with him, because that is the color of the BALTIMORE RAVENS GOD FORBID!
• He has the best fist pumps ever, which I could never learn. But I always flinched when he would perform them.
• He hates that I love Jonny Craig, but admitted that Jonny Craig “actually has a decent voice.” But he still would punch him. He was so mad when I took this picture of my Jonny Craig doll playing with his toys one night when he wasn’t around:

Tuesday Night Late Shifts will never be the same.

Because it’s never a bad thing to look on the bright side. I think I learned that from my Pappap. Or the Care Bears.

1. This song has been getting me through the week.

It reminds me of the 80s but also, oddly, the fall of 1999 when I was “goth.” It makes me want to dance with black ribbons while being cautiously optimistic.

2. Crossing the precipice of June. This means that county fair season is about to commence, finally! And Warped Tour is just over a month away!

(I just sat here staring blankly at the screen for a good 5 minutes, so I guess there are less things making me happy this week than I had hoped, haha.)

3. Oh! Chooch! I mean, that’s a given, though, right? Ha ha….But no really, that kid makes me laugh harder than anyone. Yesterday, he was sitting next to me, doing god knows what on my old iPhone, when he oh-so-casually asked, “So um, quick question. When’s your birthday? I just want to know for absolutely no reason.” He was leaning across the couch, propped up on his elbow, looking at me all seriously. I saw through his shit right away though and asked him WTF he was signing me up for. A Discover card! Because it would give him 3,000 stars in Draw Something.

4. This picture of Marcy, the Sue Sylvester of Cats:

I’m trying not to be morbid and just enjoy every last day I get with her, but I decided that when the time really does arrive, I would like to have a funeral for Marcy. I think having my friends around to celebrate her life will be the only way I can get through it. I told Henry yesterday and he surprisingly didn’t give me a weird look so I guess he understands. I don’t want it to be sad, I want it to be happy because she has provided me with a lifetime of funny memories and she deserves to be celebrated. (Though some of her victims may disagree.

) Unless I can get one of the Salvatore brothers to make her immortal. I haven’t ruled that out yet.

5. Naked people driving cars with ballgags in their mouths. Because we saw this yesterday in the South Hills of Pittsburgh and it was really great.

6. Nightmares! I had a really bad one last night. I love a fucking nightmare.

7. Finding a prosthetic hand on my supervisor’s desk! But then it turned out to just be a flesh-colored pocket book. ;(

Well, I guess that’s all I’ve got. It feels like the rainforest in my house and the Pens lost last night.

Maybe Henry will buy me something today.