Walked to Dunkin Donuts for an iced coffee and couldn’t resist getting Henry this frou-frou pink lemonade donut. Leaving without some kind of girly donut is against the law. Shove it in, asshole.

Happy Saturday!

Hi. Remember last week when GLENN REPLACED MY SMART ONES WITH A RANSOM NOTE!? Well, aside from  durian candy-bombing his desk, I never really paid him back for the stress and prolonged hunger he caused me.

But then today, the new issue of Us Weekly was delivered literally three minutes before I left for work, and as soon as I saw the now-infamous picture of twerkin’ sensation Miley Cyrus, I tore off the front page, folded it, tucked it into my purse, and giggled the whole way to work.

“Why do you look so happy?” he asked when I walked past him on my way to my office-thing. “That concerns me.”

I just smiled bigger and got to work. And by “work” I mean printing out his stupid face to tape onto another stupid face.

I think he really enjoyed this one, to be honest. I could tell by the way he was trying not to laugh, which is the same thing Henry does when he doesn’t want to admit that maybe, god forbid, something I did was actually mildly humorous.

P.S. Todd is the poor guy who has to sit in front of Glenn.

****

I’m so glad today is Friday. My nerves and patience are twerkin’ in doubletime.

DSC00043, originally uploaded by appledale.

This morning, my brother Corey texted me this picture of him holding an Infant Chooch and I lost it. Awkward baby holding definitely runs in our family, I guess!

Super bad quality photo. I think I actually took this using my camcorder?!

There have been two times in my life when I was so scared I thought I could die, really honestly fucking die:

• In 1998 when I caused an FBI to flip his car over on the highway. I can still feel blood draining from my face when I think of that day.
• In 2006 when I arrived at the hospital for my C-section.

But then on Saturday, August 17, 2013, I went to the Lawrence County Fair and accumulated one more for that list.

Everything was great for the first hour. It was a fair we had never before been to so it was nice to see some new things, like the Grand Wheel, which was beautiful. (From the ground. From the top, not so much.)

I mean, what DOES make Henry smile these days? WHO THE HELL KNOWS.

I was terrified the entire time we were stuck on the Grand Wheel; it just seemed like it went faster than normal ferris wheels, I don’t know. And no, this was not what made it to #3 on my SHIT THE PANTS list.

I approved of the interesting carousel animals.

And then disaster struck. OK, luckily for me it stopped just shy of being a legitimate disaster, but it was still enough to inflict some hardcore emotional damage.

I saw the Vortex before we even pulled into the parking lot of the fairground and got pretty excited because these don’t pop up at the fairs we typically visit every summer. But it was a different midway company supplying the attractions for the Lawrence County Fair, which was one of the reasons I wanted to go. Because I’m a midway dork, OK!? I found this out one night at work when Gayle told me she was going to be selling her jewelry there and I googled, “WHAT MIDWAY COMPANY PROVIDES THE RIDES FOR LAWRENCE COUNTY FAIR?!” because this is what any normal person would do. When I saw that it was the MIDWAY RIDES OF UTICA, I texted Henry and said, “IT IS A MIDWAY COMPANY THAT WE’VE NEVER ENCOUNTERED SO WE HAVE TO GO.”

Anyway, the Vortex was a big pull for me. I hadn’t seen one of those sons of bitches in years and I was pretty excited to ride it. Chooch was 2 inches too short, but he didn’t really give a fuck because there was some stupid bounce-house nearby and he’s still a three-year-old when it comes to that shit. So he and Henry walked away while I stomped up the steps to ride alone.

I should have trusted my gut, you guys. But then again, my gut is usually telling me to eat 5,000 grilled cheeses. The carnies at this fair did not seem interested in their jobs at all. Oh I know, that whole carny stereotype! But actually, even though I poke fun, the fairs we typically go to employ carnies who pay attention to what’s happening on the rides. Their teeth might be falling into your lap when they speak to you, but at least they’re dilligent with safety harnesses, seatbelts, latches.

I sat in my seat and buckled the seatbelt—which was attached to the botton of the shoulder harness—into the thingie on the seat between my legs (NOT MY VAGINA, YOU GUYS, GOD), then pulled the harness down. It sprang right back up, so I thought that probably it just wasn’t time for that yet. The gate to the ride was still open, and kids were slowly trickling in and filling up the rest of the seats. No one ended up sitting in the seat next to me and eventually one of the non-English-speaking carnies came over and pulled down the gate, trapping us into a veritable metal cage. I motioned for the carny to look at my shoulder harness.

“It’s not locking!” I shouted, pushing it away from my body to demonstrate.

The carny gave me the thumbs up sign and laughed. THEN THE RIDE STARTED AND MY HARNESS WAS STILL NOT LOCKED WHAT THE FALALALALALALALALA-UCK!!!!!!!!!

I was like, “YO! WAIT UP HOMIE! DON’T START THE—–”

Boom. Too late. That first revolution around, I honest to god thought to myself, “This is it. This is how I die. OMFG IS THIS REALLY HOW I DIE!?” I went upside down, the harness dropped away from my chest and my body was 100% off the seat. The only thing keeping me from being thrown around inside a cage like a scene kid rag doll was the fact that the seat belt was still fastened, at least. But there was so much slack on it that every time we went around, my head was literally about a centimeter away from slamming into the top of the ride. I kept trying to bear-hug the harness into me, and had my legs spread out with my knees locked in an effort to keep myself as still as possible, but it was futile: every fucking time we went around, the harness dropped and I followed.

After the 14th time, I finally reasoned with myself that I was not going to die, probably. Even if the seat belt were to snap (and I know I’m Chubs City, but somehow I think that seatbelts are built to withstand weight even greater than my own), I wasn’t going to fall out.

Probably.

But then I started to maniacally storyboard all of the different ways I could lose a limb, get concussed, LOSE MY MEMORY, GET SCALPED.

I caught the attention of the kid in front of me. Through the grated partition I called out to him, “SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT, LOOOOOOK!!!” and I showed him how the harness was essentially just flapping in the breeze and that kid’s eyes got all bulgey. Even a kid knew that I was going to perish, maybe!

My heart was beating at a methodical FRIGHTENED RABBIT pace. Then I lost my voice for awhile. I would open my mouth to scream and…nothing. Just a hoarse cry. Like I had lost the will! And what would it matter? Those fucking carnies were probably down there mapping out their rape spots for the night, and definitely not paying attention to the HORROR ABOVE THEM.

And then, oh-ho-ho and then it changed directions and this time, going backward, it was even worse somehow. By this time I was flowing through some fucking mean yoga poses, something that maybe Takasha Shimizu would choreograph if he suddenly decided to leave the horror movie industry and become a Yogi.

Long story ridiculously-lengthed, the ride stopped and my body was freezing cold. And damp with perspiration. When the one carny came over to lift the gate, I shouted at him, “THIS WASN’T LOCKED THE ENTIRE TIME!!!” and angrily threw the shoulder harness up into the air.

HE LAUGHED AT ME.

“No. No, this isn’t FUNNY. That was not a GOOD TIME!” I cried, pointing up into the air at what was now a really sick memory that I get to replay over and over whenever I need to decide whether or not I want to become housebound for the rest of my years.

*****

When I found Henry, I was still yards away and he knew something was wrong. He said he’s never seen me look so white, and I was trembling really bad. I could barely even feel my lips and had some pretty fucking cold sweats going on. I told him what happened and you know it’s a Situation when Passive Henry gets involved. He set off to find a supervisor.

Speaking of carny supervisors, KIRK NEVER WOULD HAVE LET THIS HAPPEN TO ME!

And then I just kind of stood there in the middle of the field, while the rest of the fair swirled around me. I wished I could have went back to ten minutes ago and decided not to go on the Vortex when we realized Chooch was too short. I wished I had trusted my gut, but I didn’t, because my gut is usually always dreadfully wrong. (Because it is lined with paranoia.)

Henry returned with this short fucking troll-lady who made me go back over to the Vortex with her while she shouted indecipherable grunts into a walkie talkie. I did not want to go back over to this ride, but I had no choice. I didn’t want to see someone else get hurt, no matter how much I rant about hating people. She made me point out which seat I was sitting in and then she climbed up onto the ride platform and started yelling at the carnies in Spanish while giving the harness a basic physical.

When she returned to me, she had a laundry list of excuses for me, such as:

• “Well, you must have made the safety latch release by pushing in and out too many times.” (UM, IT WAS NEVER LOCKED TO BEGIN WITH AND IF THAT’S HOW THOSE THINGS ARE DESIGNED, THERE IS ONE REALLY FUCKING RETARDED ENGINEER OUT THERE IN THE WORLD.)
• “You weren’t going to like, fall out or anything.”
• “We actually just had a meeting with the guys this morning about how they need to make sure they check everyone before starting the ride.” (SO IN OTHER WORDS: NOT HER FAULT.)

And then she tried to indulge me by reaching out to give me a half-hug.

I pulled away and said, “Don’t touch me.”

“I know, you were so scared! But honestly, you were safe up there. There are like 4 different brakes that will come on before anything could happen to you.”

And then she said that this happens all the time and then LAUGHED ABOUT IT!

OK, but the main issue here was negligence and I was super pissed with the way it was handled. I was in a major state of shock so at first I said I didn’t want to leave. We walked around for a little bit, me feeling like a ghost, Chooch scolding me for not listening to him when he said I shouldn’t ride the Vortex, Henry hoping to emerge from the fair without hemmorhaging money.

Then Henry pointed out a sign that said “Cowlick Milkshakes, the Best at the Fair” or some other superlative, and I don’t know why, but at that moment I had to have a fucking Cowlick Milkshake. I wasn’t even sure what it was because my brain was still trying to piece itself back together, but I knew that if anything was going to help me heal, it was a Cowlick Milkshake.

Turns out a Cowlick Milkshake is just a regular milkshake in your standard milkshake flavors of chocolate, vanilla or strawberry.

“I thought it was going to be a cowlick flavor,” I said in a pouty tone when we walked away with two chocolate shakes.

“Ew, why would you think that? How could ‘cowlick’ even sound like a good flavor?” Henry asked with a disgusted look wrapped around his moustache.

BECAUSE I WAS NOT THINKING RATIONALLY OK. Maybe I was confusing it with a Cowtail candy thingie. Cowtails are good. I imagine a Cowtail milkshake would be as well. But probably not a Cowlick Milkshake; you’re right, Henry.

About two hours after we left the fair, the shock wore off and I started to cry. I was in total Final Destination mode for the rest of the weekend after that.

Gayle texted me later that night and said that they had stopped running that side of the Vortex, which tells me that this probably happened again to some other dumb asshole!

****

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I had been bench-pressing a car. I had some fucked up Indian brushburn under my left arm, my right shin was screaming, and I had a piercing pain in my right shoulderblade anytime I leaned against something.

I told Henry that I’m done. I’ll never go to another fair or amusement park again. And I HATE that I feel that way. I hate that I’m practically a bubblewrap burrito now, because these were things that were fun for me, and now this one shitty experience could ruin it all for me. What will summers be like without riding shit like this until I get sick? Without getting excited because the Big Butler Fair has a new ride? Without at least one spin on the Zipper?!

I hate this. But I think I might be done riding things, for real. At the very least, I’m DEFINITELY never going anywhere near a carnival or county fair hosted by MIDWAY RIDES OF UTICA. They can suck a fucking dick. MIDWAY RIDES OF UTICA SUCKS, PASS IT ON.

(Um, I might still go on this ride though, if I ever come across it again.)

****

I will now address some FAQs that I have been getting ever since this happened:

Do you actually expect to go to county fairs and be safe??

While I try not to “expect” anything in life, yes, I do go to the fair with some sense of being safe. This is what state laws and regulations are for. This is why rides are required to be inspected. This is why you don’t hear news reports of thousands of people dying at the county fair every summer. Freak accidents can and will happen, but most of this shit can be prevented by the diligence of trained ride operators, which is what I hope to find at these places.

Don’t you know you shouldn’t ride the rides at the fair?! Only amusement park rides are safe!

We aren’t “safe” anywhere. In one weekend this past summer, seven people were injured at Cedar Point when the log flume tipped over while it was ascending a hill and at a Six Flags in Texas, a woman was flung to her death from a roller coaster. Dude, a toddler died after contracting e.coli from a PETTING ZOO at one of the fairs. Last year, some guy was shot OUTSIDE of a county fair. It’s not just the rides. A bitch can get killed pretty much anywhere.

Don’t you think you’re being dramatic?

Look, I was pretty certain after a few seconds that I probably wasn’t going to die, but if you honestly think I’m blowing it out of proportion, well, just pray that something like this doesn’t happen to you someday.

How were you able to squeeze your fat ass into a ride like that to begin with?

An ass-corset made of strategically-placed industrial strength Ace bandages, Spanx and a wreath of tiny elven butt-huggers.

****

On the brightside, before we left the fair, Henry bought me a pretty necklace that some Ugandan broad made out of paper. I wanted two of them, but I guess my near-death experience wasn’t worth $30 to Henry. Oh well, it will be a nice accent for my new bubblewrap suit.

SATURDAY!

• This was the last weekend before school started and even though technically there are still a few more weeks of summer, IT JUST FEELS LIKE IT’S OVER OK. Nothing felt right, wah.
• On Saturday, Chooch and I went to a birthday party for my work friend Colleen’s one-year-old boy, Owen. OMG he’s so cute and makes me want to HAVE A BABY THERE I SAID IT. I was the first co-worker to show up, but everyone there was super nice to us and didn’t make us feel like the “bastard guests” which is sometimes how it feels when you go to parties ruled predominantly by family and close friends. Thanks for making us not feel like redheaded stepkids, Colleen!

Chooch totally got ganged up on by two older girls, haha.

• Later, I met my brother Corey at Blue Flame for some grilled cheese/vent sesh. We hadn’t seen each other in awhile, so it was really nice. He’s pretty much all the family I’ve got so I can’t take that for granted, yo.
• When I came home, we walked to Brookline Boulevard for ICE CREAM because that is what we do on the weekends, apparently, IS EAT ICE CREAM OK. The place on the Blvd usually has red velvet and it’s fucking delicious. Here is a video of our walk to get ice cream, because this is what I do on the trolley: edit videos on my phone so that I don’t have to m ake eye contact with creeps (including myself in the window reflection).

• In the first part of the video, Chooch and I trying to hide from Henry, which is an All American Pasttime for us.
• In the second part, some totally fucking….I was going to say “weirdos” but we’ll just go with “Brookliners” because tomato/tomahto….were having a cow over one of the machines in the ice cream parlor full of those rubbery “eye popper” toys, and the husband LOST FIFTY CENTS trying to get one, and you best believe he complained to the ice cream scooper who was pretty much like, “Frankly, I don’t give a shit.” So then his wife gave him more change and all he got WAS SOME TINY LITTLE PIG-THING!! He was PISSED at this point, but I think whatever slight mental disability he had was preventing him tfrom expressing anger in any capacity other than hilarious whining. He gave Chooch the pig and then his wife was all, “HERE LITTLE BOY HAVE SOME QUARTERS LITTLE BOY TAKE MY MONEY LITTLE BOY” and I said, “Go ahead” because better someone else’s quarters than my own. AND CHOOCH GOT THE SAME LITTLE PIG! Oh, I thought the husband was going to have a shit fit. Him and his long, tiny braid and Rolling Stones shirt. When we left, Henry and I exchanged “WTF” eyes while Chooch said, “That lady was really nice.”
• The third part is actually from Sunday, when Rick Astley’s seminal hit was dripping sweetly from the mall’s inhouse speakers, right after we ate pizza in the food court and HENRY REUNITED WITH SOME GUY HE USED TO “PLAY WITH” IN MIDDLE SCHOOL! Oh my fuck, I get so excited when I see some missing piece from Henry’s clandestine youth-puzzle. And then I found out that they’re actually already Facebook friends, so clearly I don’t spend enough time creeping on Henry’s whopping 78 friend collection.

SUNDAY!

• Chooch had another birthday party to go to on Sunday (this one was for a school friend), but Janna wanted me to go check out an apartment with her so I got out of that one just in the nick of time. (Not that I don’t like birthday parties, but I clench up in fear at the possibilty of hanging out with other school moms. God forbid I should make friends.) Anyway, this apartment is atop of some man’s garage who LIVES ON A GOLF COURSE IN A $500,000 HOUSE. You better believe I told Janna to take it. The apartment itself is tiny but in immaculate condition and the owner was basically like, “YOU ARE FAMILY NOW AND CAN USE THE DECK WHENEVER YOU WANT OK PLEASE USE MY DECK.” I was like, “Janna, you have to use the fucking deck.” He thought we were both 20 and, when describing his nationally-ranked motocross stepdaughter, pointed to me and explained, “She’s real small. About your size.” I LIKE YOU, GUY. Totally colorful character and I have to admit this was a motivating factor behind my decision to encourage Janna to snatch this place up. Here’s hoping this deal doesn’t sour! (Janna if you’re reading, I don’t think it will. JUST DON’T PLAY YOUR ACE OF BASE CD’S TOO LOUD!!!) What a stange meeting.
• After last minute school shoe shopping at the most run-down mall in Western Pennsylvania (remind me to write a mean letter to Journeys; their employees were too busy ironing out social plans to help us find shoes for Chooch’s caveman feet), we went and GOT ICE CREAM AGAIN. Fuck, do we live large.

• And then I had a temper tantrum at the grocery store, because I hate grocery stores.

So, all in all it was a good weekend, but it felt weird. I’ve been distracting myself from summer-mourning by throwing myself headfirst into pie party* planning. I already sent out the official invite on Facebook OMG. This is going to be the best one, I can feel it. Henry and I are doing a bunch of DIY bullshit this weekend in preparation, so LOOK OUT all of you Pinterest hoes: Erin and Henry are going to be spraypainting and gluing shit.

*(This links back to the very first pie party. I had no idea then that it would be become an annual “thing,” but I’m so glad it did!)

P.S. Sorry for being so shouty. I guess I’m acting out because I had a pretty shitty night at work and I couldn’t use this tone toward some of the people who deserved it. (No one in my department! They’re all on my good side. So far.)

I posted this on Facebook this morning and my friend Mindy said, “That’s the exact same face you used to make in high school anytime I couldn’t drive you home from school” and I laughed really hard because it’s true.

:(:(:(:(

This morning was awful, you guys! Neither Chooch nor I am ready to go back to this stupid school routine. The getting up at 7AM part isn’t so bad because I continued to get up that early all summer even though I didn’t have to. But Chooch was like 100% void of any semblance of his usual self this morning. We basically just sat on the couch staring stupidly at some episode of Ridiculousness we’ve seen 87 times already, while Chooch methodically spooned peanut butter Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his mouth.

And then it was time to resume our morning walks to school. Which wouldn’t be so bad except that HELLO THERE IS A NEW CROSSING GUARD ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? I really, really liked the old crossing guard!! I HATE CHANGE!! I DON’T KNOW HOW CHOOCH FELT ABOUT THIS BECAUSE I DIDN’T ASK SINCE IT’S ALL ABOUT MEEEEE.

Anyway, we turned the corner after experiencing this devestating crossing guard-staffing-blow and were met with an undulating wall of students and parents pushing and richocheting around an unorganized “line” into the school. It was so out of control that there were severaly times where I grabbed Chooch by the wrist and line-jumped and it didn’t even matter because NO ONE WAS PAYING ATTENTION.

I hate disorderly lines!!! Whatever happened to “single file”?! I’m bringing it back.

The reason for this veritable mob scene was that no one knew what homeroom they had been assigned to until the reached the lobby of the school, where the principal and several teachers stood there with clipboards, asking everyone for their name. Until Chooch made it up. How the fuckkkkkkkkk does everyone there know his name?! I’m not sure if I should be worried or proud.

Anyway, Chooch got his homeroom assignment and barely tossed me a goodbye over his shoulder. Then I walked home and remembered that I have my mornings back!! So I went to the cemetery for a job, came home and got yelled at by Jillian Michaels, then drank pumpkin spice coffee and watched whatever the fuck I wanted to watch and suddenly I was all, “Woo hoo, school’s back in sesh!!”

Randomly, I googled for upcoming Never Shout Never shows the other night at work and two results came up: one for somewhere in South America, and one, surprisingly, in Latrobe which is only about an hour away from Pittsburgh.

And it’s a Saturday night!

It was a no-brainer. I bought tickets for Chooch immediately because he has been singing this shit in his SLEEP lately. He even commented on one of Christopher Drew’s Instagram pictures that as soon as he gets in the car, he puts on NSN CDs.

I bought him a NSN tshirt and he wore it for three days straight until I finally wrestled it off him and threw it in the laundry basket.

I don’t even think I was this obsessed over a band yet at that age!

So the plan is to not tell him about this until we get there on September 28th, which might just be the hardest secret I’ve ever had to keep.

He’s going to shit himself. And I can’t wait to Instavid it.

#27: 50 Cent Catch.

Took this at Brown’s Country Kitchen after I almost died at the county fair, which I think I’m finally ready to write about, haha. Tomorrow, maybe.

#28: Henry Hates Pigtails.

#29: Obligatory B&W

#30: DONEZO!!

Hey, Face, it’s been real. But let’s give the Internet a break for awhile!

But first, one more thing: My friend Heidi was kind enough to include some of my photos in a blog post she wrote today about the art of self portraiture. She’s awesome and you should go and check it out if you’re feeling particularly read-y right now.

K, bye.

I can’t believe I’m standing in line….

…to see a flower….

…at 11:00 o’clock on a Tuesday night.

Janna and I were dying because this girl was BOOKING IT down the sidewalk, she was THAT excited. That’s probably the fastest she’s ever ran in her whole life.

But that’s exactly what I was doing, thanks to my boss sending me an email last week about the Corpse Flower, which was due to blossom any day at Phipps Conservatory. This was a big deal because these flowers only bloom once every 6-10 years and when they do, it only lasts for a day or two. My boss thought I would be interested for two reasons:

1. When in bloom, it’s supposed to give off a stench similar to a rotting corpse;
2. Because of its power to wake the dead, Phipps lovingly named it Romero, after George Romero.

[Sidebar: I hope you know who George Romero is, but just in case you don’t, he is the mastermind behind the zombie classic Night of the Living Dead. Plus, he hails from Pittsburgh, which is why we are the Zombie Capital of the World, I don’t give a shit what any other city tries to say. COME AT ME, BRO.]

Originally, the flower was supposed to bloom over the weekend, but I ended up being unable to make it. Then Tuesday evening, my boss forwarded me this frantic-sounding “THE CORPSE FLOWER HAS BLOOMED!!!” email which she received from Phipps. They even extended their hours to 2AM that night and the next. I felt like I had to go and experience it at this point, like I was going to be a departmental failure if I passed it up. So I texted Janna and she was like, “Yes, I will go inhale a stinky flower with you.” It was around 10PM by the time we arrived, and the place was PACKED. I had to drive around for awhile before we finally found a parking space. At 10PM on a Tuesday! ALL OF THIS OVER A GODDAMN FLOWER! WTF was I thinking.

Surprisingly though, it only took about 5 minutes once we got inside before we acquired our admission and we were on our way up the curving staircase, which seemed remarkably less crowded than it had right when we walked in. I felt hope.

Then when we entered the main conservatory area, the corpse flower was pretty RIGHTTHERE. I nudged Janna and said, “Shucks, that wasn’t so bad at all!

” Because you all can imagine me saying an endearing word like shucks.

Turns out though that there was a line that wound all the way around that side of the conservatory, through at least three separate rooms, before snaking back around and passing through all of those rooms once again.

It was a line full of college students, hipsters (because this was the “in” thing to be doing in Pittsburgh, you guys. I’m surprised Pitchfork didn’t write a review), giddy botany-geeks, and people who are just generally wet for flowers, I guess. A guy behind us was wearing a Chiodos shirt, so even My People were there! Then I saw my geology professor from Pitt run past us, his face practically droopy and glazed over with excitement, and I just totally lost it.

“What the fuck are we doing here?!” I laughed for the 87th time; Janna responded with the “This Was Your Idea” staredown.

The upside was that at least we had a ton of shit to look at while we were in line. Plus, I hadn’t been to Phipps since 2007 and I’m pretty sure I spent most of the time making fun of people instead of looking at leaves, so it was pretty much all new to me.

Each area is peppered with various art installations, so that kept it interesting for people like me who don’t care about learning the Latin name for orchids. In one room it’s rectangular pillars of stained glass which revolve slowly and depict different Pittsburgh landmarks and neighborhoods. The couple in front of us asked one of the docents a question about the stained glass and she, in a very uncertain tone similar to the one I use constantly at work, replied hesitantly, “Um, I think all of the scenes are like, the artist’s favorite places,” and then when they asked the name of the artist, she was like, “Um, I’m not sure. But you can find it on one of the placards, I think.”

“She’s basically the Erin Kelly of docents,” I whispered to Janna, and oh how we laughed.

Maybe she was only versed in Corpse Flower 101 and now these nerdy flower people are asking her questions about art, can you imagine.

They should have just asked this broad instead. She was wearing an “Ask Me!” pin and you could tell she was chomping at the bit to teach people naughty bits about flora. In fact, I avoided eye contact because I was afraid she was going to make me talk to her.

Surprisingly, there were zero assholes in line with us! Turns out though that this was only because the corpse flower was too far away still. Things changed once we got up there and everyone turned into motherfucking paparazzi.

I emailed this picture to Chooch while we were standing in line. His reply was, “You idiot, you know I hate butterflies!” WHY DO YOU THINK I SENT THIS, CHOOCH. God, he’s so slow sometimes. I kind of wish I had brought him just so I could have shoved him into the butterfly garden.

That’ll probably be the first horror movie he writes.

I don’t know what this is, but the cool college girls in front of us were taking pictures of it and I am a follower. When Janna started analyzing it (“It looks like hands coming out”), I knew we had officially been standing in line for too long. Plus, I was yawning every 10 seconds, which was embarrassing because the cool college girls were probably thinking, “Aw, this poor woman. She probably had a long day at home being a housewife and now she’s here standing in line not understanding art and nature when she should be home darning her husband’s socks. He is surely the breadwinner of the household.”

And then one of the other girls, who earlier didn’t want to give anything away about this amazing(ly boring) art house film she had recently watched, probably suggested, “I bet she is just holding a spot in line for her husband.”

Sorry, I don’t know where this is coming from. But coincidentally, I’m sitting at my desk yawning just thinking about the Great, Long Standing.

“Is it amazing? Of corpse it is!” Oh, Phipps. You punny, you punny.

The closer we got, the more the giddiness inside my belly began to build to a crescendo, and for a moment I forgot I was in line to see a flower. It was the same sensation I get when I’m about to meet a band or get on a roller coaster for the first time! Excitement is contagious, and this damn flower was certainly causing enough of it.

We were still an entire room away when the stench began wafting over, completely overpowering every other odor in that place. Someone could have farted, a big juicy Silent But Deadly, and it probably would have gone undetected. Because the stench of rot was in the air and it was dead set on building an olfactory monopoly. One by one, people started overeacting, covering their faces, dry-heaving, gagging.

“IT SMELLS SO BAD!” rang out like a round of Row Row Row Your Boat.

And well, that would probably be my review if I blogged with a word limit.

Ye Ol’ Corpse Flower, standing at [xx] feet. Three feet maybe? I didn’t measure. Nor did I actually read any of the literature while in line. But it looked pretty solid and tall for a flower.YOU CAN QUOTE ME ON THAT.

Some broad was standing on guard, only allowing about 15-20 people in front of the corpse flower at a time. This is when shit got cray. People were being so goddamn pushy, everyone wanted to take 45 selfies to post on Instagram (ME AND THE CORPSE FLOWER, WHATTTTT #corpseflower #meandthecorpseflower #corpseflower4lyfe #smellslikeshit #omfg #peeyew #instagramflowerhoes #caniget500likes), and then there were the fauxtographers who needed a shot FROM.EVERY.ANGLE. Newsflash guys! Search “corpse flower” on Instagram and literally every picture looks like the one above.

Snap a photo, take a whiff, move on!

It took me a hot while jsut to get this generic shot because elbows kept jutting out as losers were prancing around with their fancy DSLRs like they had Kate Upton spread eagle before them, and not some phallic flower emitting rancid notes of rotten meat, poop and Chooch’s feet.

 (The toe-curling bouquet of which was surpringly non-existent once we stood in front of the flower, go figure.)

Janna and I finally managed to shirk past all of the idiots clumping together for “group photos, OMG!!” to take our obligatory snaps and get the hell out of there.

The best part was actually getting to explore the rest of the grounds. It was only a little after 11PM by the time we made it past Romero, so we definitely had time to look around while Phipps remained open. It seemed like most people bolted once their photo op ended, so the rest of the place was dead. There was something really fun about walking around there at night, pretending to give a shit about flowers and leaves, oohing at the bonsai garden and then hurriedly putting on our “respectful” faces every time a Phipps worker would pop out to make sure we weren’t shitting in bushes.

Afterward, we hung out in the cafe, where I bought the most disgusting drink this side of Kambucha. It was a cantoulope refresher, which I’m sorry but that sounded really refreshing! So I ordered one and newsflash: it was unsweetened and tasted like how the corpse flower smelled. I was so disappointed and whined about it a lot. Janna had a pineapple version and she tried to act like hers was just as gross, but it totally wasn’t so nice try there, Janna!

I bought a commemorative shirt with this same design on it, I couldn’t help it. I was actually kind of glad that I got to experience this! It made me feel like I was part of the community or something. I’m just not sure what community exactly.

****

The next day at work, I was telling Wendy and Sue about it. “Did it really smell like a corpse?” Sue asked.

I started to say yes, but then admitted that I’ve never actually smelled a corpse, so who knows.

“That’s a good thing to know about my employee,” Sue sighed and retreated to her office, but I think she was actually shocked that sniffing dead bodies isn’t what I do when I leave here.

****

And that’s the story about how I stayed out until after midnight and didn’t even come home drunk or shoeless. God, I’m so lame.

I JUST WENT TO GET MY DINNER OUT OF THE FREEZER AND THIS IS WHAT I FOUND.

I searched other freezers around Law Firm Town and can’t find my Smart Ones. I DID NOT RECEIVE A RANSOM CALL. Whoever did this must have forgotten all about it. ALL ABOUT ME AND MY HALFWAY-TO-EMACIATED SELF!

(Haha, me? Emaciated?)

I thought maybe it was A-Ron, but I don’t think he’d misspell entree.

Someone clearly doesn’t think Weight Watchers is working fast enough, I guess.

:(

EDIT: I FOUND IT!! There was some hidden freezer tray thingie and it was stashed up in there.

Everyone can calm down now!

EDIT AGAIN: IT WAS GLENN. BARB JUST TOLD ME.

Been a little disjointed this week, not really in a bad way, just in a jumbled-thought kind of way. So today’s blog post is going to be all bullets, bay-buh.

(Somewhere in California, Andrea is rejoicing with pee-vials in hand. She’s a sucker for bulletpoints, so if you want to woo her, send her some bulletpointed love poetry.)

• I’ve been getting so amped for autumn, you guys! I was just sitting here at my desk when I had a random flashforward to October and I got the giddiest twinge in my gut. PIE PARTY! HAUNTED HOUSES! PUMPKIN-FLAVORED PIGOUTS! HALLLLLLLOWWWWWWWEEEEEEENNNNNN!! Here I was, being all sad about summer’s upcoming demise when I shouldn’t be sad at all because fall fucking rules the world. (Sucks that shit-assed winter follows it though.)
• This weekend, Henry, Chooch and I will be working on oversized paper mache versions of our faces for a family portrait I would like to potentially do. I already agreed that Chooch’s can be a cat face, what the fuck do I care anymore. Cat it up, kid. Cat. It. Up.
• When I was little, my grandma’s friend, Jean Arseneaux, used to buy me purses and stuff them with all sorts of trinkets, Tinkerbell nailpolish, Bonne Bell bullshit. I loved opening up all of the compartments and finding tissue paper-swaddled presents tucked away. Unfortunately, this really spoiled me and made me expect ALL PURSES to come stuffed with presents. I’m telling you this because the other day, a gigantic box arrived from Andrea, full of birthday presents for me! A framed clown picture, makeup, jewelry, a mixtape wallet—it was like the neverending present! Kind of like Mary Poppins tapestry bag, which makes sense because Andrea is the Goth Mary Poppins, after all. She even included a bobcat puppet for Chooch, because he’s spoiled too. Chooch made me name him, so Bobcat’s name is Butt. This is basically a lot of words to say thank you to Andrea for making me feel like a 7-year-old again!
• I’m beginning to think I’ll never be able to do real push-ups.
• My co-worker Cheryl wants to have an employee of the week feature on our department’s wiki page and volunteered me to take candid pictures of everyone, so now Glenn is basically all clenched-up, wondering what I have planned for him. As expected, approximately 99% of the department hates this plan.
• I guess our baseball team has been doing really good. (Our baseball team is the PIRATES, for those of you who don’t know I live in PITTSBURGH, which most of the time I’d prefer you to not know, actually.)
• Yesterday, Chooch and I were driving to pick up Henry’s mom. We started talking about how he goes back to school on Monday and I was like, “You’re going to have so much to tell everyone!” He thought about it and then said, “Yeah, but we did so many fun things that it’s hard to even remember it all.” To which I responded, “And THAT is why I blog.” You could almost see the lightbulb go on as he finally understood why I do this shit.
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  • Which brings me to my next thought turd: This summer has kicked my blogging ass. I mean, I’m glad that I was able to document all the cool shit we did, but my brain is like, “Please don’t make me” every time I open up WordPress now. I have been doing this for 12 years, can you believe it? 12 motherfucking years. When does it end? I mean, I guess I could just stop and it’s not like my life would end. I think about it a lot. I enjoy blogging, but I miss writing and I really don’t think this is “writing” anymore. Most of the time I’m blogging from my fucking phone. What is discipline?! I don’t feel like I have it anymore. I remember back to my LiveJournal days when I was pretty much OCD about proof-reading every last entry before posting, and then I would read it 3 more times. Now, I never proofread! And when I do, it’s 6 months later. I’m a blogging slob, you guys, but I KNOW YOU WOULDN’T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY.
• Henry’s mom and Chooch have been fighting with each other every day. Like really, what could they possible have to argue about!? It’s probably best that we don’t know. But then it made me fight with Henry last night becaue he made some remark about how Chooch has inherited my “psycho laugh” that involuntarily rises up from my body seconds before I rage-break things around the house, so I was all, “OH I SEE IT’S MY FAULT THAT YOUR MOM DOESN’T GET ALONG WITH OUR SON” and then I put myself to bed at 9:30 because that’s what tired cry-babies do, you know. They go to bed early like it’s actually going to hurt anyone else. Henry was probably like, “Yay, now I can watch CSI.” I hate when Henry makes it sound like Chooch and I are such terrible little monsters! So what if we are?! It’s probably because ANDREA SPOILS US!
• Even Marcy has been fighting with Henry’s mom. I know it looks like, “Aw, Marcy wants to be close to her grandma!” But really it’s, “Marcy needs to sit close to her enemies at all times.” Sometimes, Judy will flip a page in Us Weekly, which angers Marcy. Marcy will hiss at her, to which Judy responds with, “Don’t hiss at me, cat.” This picture was taken right after Judy scolded Marcy, so Marcy repositioned herself so that her back was toward Judy.

• I have been reading “Tell The Wolves I’m Home” by Carol Rifka Brunt. It is really good, but also very sad. You have just read a book review by Erin R. Kelly. (I mostly only read it on the trolley because I don’t have much spare time these days. Oh, and I also read some last night when I put myself to bed at 9:30. Take that, Henry, you motherfucker.)
• SOMEONE STOLE MY LEAN CUISINE AT WORK THE OTHER NIGHT, YOU GUYS! I have never felt more betrayed. I still haven’t figured out who did it (GLENN, PROBABLY) but no one is taking my Smart Ones today, that’s for sure. I labeled it as poison. (My first choice was to wrap it in barbed wire, but I must have used all of my stock the last time I reenacted scenes from Suspiria.) Anyway, you can imagine how overly dramatized I made this situation, like I was the first person in the history of offices to have their food thieved. Amber1 and Bridget tried to offer me some snacks they had at their desk, but accepting would have meant I couldn’t sulk and carry on at such a grand scale, so I said NO and went back to walking around with my arm slung across my forehead.
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  I hope whoever dined on shitty Lean Cuisine that night took pleasure in knowing they stole it from the most helpless person in the department.

  • I guess this is karma from all those years I spent stealing candy at MSA.
• I haven’t done a giveaway thingie in a long while. WHO WANTS A GIVEAWAY!? Maybe I’ll have Chooch paint a cat for one lucky winner, who even knows. One of Henry’s old bandannas? Wacky Worm shirt? I want to make this blog happenin’ again and, besides actually putting some “quality” into what I post, this is the best I can do right now!  (Wait…was this joint ever happenin’? I’m picturing you guys dressed for a sock hop now.)
• Henry made a crucial error Sunday night by leaving his phone unattended. I’m pissed that I wasted valuable time sending a tweet to his 8 followers about how he just farted and it was awful, when I should have been asking me to marry him on Facebook. I’m losing my touch. He came downstairs just in time though, because Chooch was going to text Henry’s boss. That would have been interesting, as we’re standing in line at a soup kitchen.
• Chooch was talking about Warped Tour and mused, “I really like We Came As Romans and bands that scream, but I also like the peaceful stuff, too.” It’s good to be diverse, young child!
• There was an ice cream social at work today, except that it was forzen yogurt. I didn’t go because I don’t have time to be social. J/K. I didn’t want to be tempted. I save my ice cream consumption for the weekend. In fact, I’m already looking for a new ice cream place to try! I AM SO EXCITED! This is what happens when you’re pathetic—little things make you giddy. I’m OK with this.
• Chooch told us the other day that he is apparently terrified of butterflies. Ok…”I hate how they pop out of nowhere and fly into my face!” he cried. Where the fuck is this happening to my child? In Minecraft? Because the last time I checked, we don’t walk through any butterfly gardens in Brookline. Of all the things for Hardcore Chooch to fear: pwetty buttelfwies. Awww.
• Janna and I went to see a flower that smells like a rotting corpse and now I feel like I’m smelling it everywhere.
• I’m still on a borderline-stalkerish Eisley kick. I follow every last one of them on Instagram and every time Henry hears a baby crying or laughing on my phone, he sighs and asks, “Which Eisley baby is that, now?” (In case you don’t know anything about Eisley, the band is made up of three sisters, their brother, and a cousin. All three sisters and the brother’s wife were pregnant at the same time and now they all have the cutest fucking babies ever and post Instagram videos of them being cute fucking babies and it is nearly enough to make me want to have a baby. I’m not even joking. The other day I was looking at a picture that the girlfriend of the youngest brother (who is not in Eisley, but he and the youngest sister have their own band called Merriment CAN YOU EVEN STAND IT) posted and, as if this was some grand revelation, said out loud to no one and everyone, “I feel like I’m more obsessed with the DuPrees as people than I am with their music.” Henry was just like, “Yeah, no shit.” (Sherri replied to me TWICE on Instagram and I was like, “OMFG I WILL NEVER WASH MY INSTAGRAM AGAIN!” Which is definitely what Marsha Brady would have cried if Davy Jones had replied to her on Instagram.) Anyway, I guess I like “peaceful stuff” too sometimes, just like Chooch. (See below for: “peaceful music”)

• In TV news: there isn’t a single person on So You Think You Can Dance that I care to see win. Dexter is making me feel “meh” and I never, ever use the word “meh.” I miss Teen Wolf and The Killing so much already. I want to fight 75% of the girls on The Challenge, even Diem. (The only ones I like, really, are Emily and Cooke. Jemmye is not too bad but she’s hard to look at. I’d still bang CT though.) I can’t think of anything else that I watch. Oh, Master Chef. (Fuck that Philly bitch, Krissy, though. Someone give her some linguisitics lessons, please.) Oh wait, Pretty Little Liars, too! But I never know what’s going on with that one and always have to ask Henry, “What’s going on?”
• Chooch wants to go to Tonga because he watched some program with Judy about some Tongan axe murderer. “Just like Lizzie Borden,” Chooch explained with a casual shrug.
• God bless those of you who still read this shit. I mean, for Christ’s sake. What is going on with this blog anymore.

Chooch begrudgingly got his Beckham coif re-shaped today by our favorite hair stylist Lucia (Bella Salon on W. Liberty, holla!) in preparation for BACK TO SCHOOL which is next Monday. Summer’s almost over. :(

I decided Friday night that I wanted to have a picnic at some point over the weekend. This is the process at my house:

• I decide on something
• I tell Henry the thing that I have decided upon
• Henry does everything that he needs to do to make the decision turn into a tangible thing, whether he wants to or not

What I decided was that the picnic would happen on Sunday at Buttermilk Falls, which is a quaint little nature-y thing in Beaver Falls, PA. It’s been a few years since we last pilgrimaged out that way and I thought maybe this time Chooch would be old enough to appreciate it more. And appreciate it, he did. He kept calling it “Paradise Falls” and couldn’t stop gushing about how it was the best place in the world, and I was like, “Wow, this kid has some low standards.” I mean, it’s nice there, sure. But it’s just this tiny waterfall-thing with a very small plot of land upon which to picnic if you so desire. But I  kept my mouth shut because it was nice to see that Chooch was actually outside and enjoying it inside of counting down to Minecraft.

We climbed around a little bit along the rocks along the creek before getting our picnic accoutrements out of the car.

The look of delirium. Henry’s nailed it.

So…I got stuck on a rock. I’m notoriously panicky when it comes to climbing things, even low-to-the-ground things, and I was wearing TOMS which aren’t really known for their rock-climbing attributes. Luckily, there happened to be a couple walking by at the exact moment I wailed, “I FEEL LIKE I MIGHT FALL OMG” so the lady said to who I assume was her husband, “Give her your hand!”

Meanwhile, Henry just stood there and frowned while this panned out.

(I guess I should note that really what was going on here is that I didn’t want to get wet.)

This is pretty much what the area looked like when I was OMG STUCK ON A ROCK. So, not really all that scary. (OK, not scary at all. But I’m sure you already knew that.)

Don’t clap for him, Chooch.

So, in the short amount of time I was stuck on a rock, some large family (people-wise, not weight) arrived and usurped our picnic spot. Granted, our shit was still in the car, but what are the odds?! Anytime we’ve ever gone to Buttermilk Falls, we’ve been the only people there, except once when a nearly-nude man was sitting on a rock meditating. Old Erin would have flipped out, but Current Erin was like, “Oh wellz0rz, let’s just sit over here by this tree, far away from those assholes and mock them from a distance.” Plus, after what happened the day before, I was treating everything with a newfound appreciation. More on that later this week. I’m not quite to the point where I can write about it yet.

White Trash Picnic.

Henry had to make a special trip to the grocery store for picnic staples on Sunday morning. Things like bread and cheese and peanut butter and potato salad and apples and pretzels and other snacks—literally NONE of this we already had. You might as well turn Henry into the authorities you guys because obviously he is STARVING me and Chooch. God, Henry. Try taking better care of us.

Anyway, while Henry was busy assembling sandwiches and whatever, I decided to be helpful and suggested that I would walk to the nearby Mexican market in order to procure beverage despite Henry’s persistent dissuading. I made Chooch go with me because I always feel like I’m going to have a nervous breakdown when I go to any sort of market alone.

Inside the Mexican market, Chooch made sure to yell loudly about how badly it “stunk” in there, because that’s his signature move whenever we’re the only Americans in a foreign store.

After spending entirely too much time pacing in front of the drink cooler, I finally settled on a nice cold bottle of Glucosoral because I liked the picture. I called Henry to see what he wanted and he kept insisting the he was “fine” and “good,” didn’t “need anything.” So I chose a bottle of some kind of mottled juice cocktail called Boing. Chooch decided to be boring and went with Gatorade. Then he bought a pack of cookies at my insistence, which made Henry bitch upon our return because “You never like any of the cookies you get at that damn store!”

Anyway, it turns out my selection was basically Pedialyte for grown-ups. Since I wasn’t currently suffering from diarrhea, I didn’t drink it.

“This was FOUR DOLLARS?!” Henry barked when it was his turn to inspect it with his SERVICE eyes. I just shrugged. I don’t look at price tags, usually. I guess $4 is steep for a non-alcoholic beverage. “This is why I don’t like letting you go to stores alone,” Henry mumbled.

I wasn’t alone! Chooch was with me.

Henry couldn’t drink his Boing because it required the help of a bottleopener, which I assumed he didn’t need since he was in the SERVICE. Isn’t that what teeth are for? Couldn’t he have used a sword?

Mexican cookies that Henry and I both predicted Chooch would not like. And he didn’t.

A so-so PB&J* and some awesome bowtie pasta salad with PINE NUTS. Pine nuts should be in (most) everything.

(*I told Henry that all I wanted was a fancy PB&J but then he went to some low-brow grocery store where high quality food is made by Michelina’s, so what I got was a so-so PB&J on super dry bread with gross jelly and plain, non-fancy peanut butter. Thanks for nothing, Henry.)

Although, I will admit, Henry made some sort of lemon mango compote which he spread on top of chocolate waffles, and that was pretty fucking good.

Then we played several rousing rounds of Boggle. Chooch is really good at those games where you’re given a word or a phrase and have to find as many words as possible out of the letters. When we were at dinner with Matt and Kristen in Boston, that was one of the games on the kids menu and literally the first word he found was “retard.” I think that Matt’s favorite part of our visit.

But Chooch is less than stellar at Boggle. I think it’s because he hates the rules. So he eventually quit playing in order to put more effort into the role of timekeeper. He had to use the timer on his (my old) phone, which caused The Bed Intruder song to blast across peaceful Buttermilk Falls.

(Yes, that used to be one of my ring tones on my old phone. I confess.)

I drank a venti iced coffee on the way there, so of course I had to pee almost immediately upon arrival. Unfortunately, the only option was this disgusting, slasher film outhouse.

So we left. I peed in a Sheetz up the street. It was good.

We couldn’t end the weekend without a trip for ice cream. However, we pretty far from Pittsburgh so we had to rely on Yelp to tell us where to go. We wound up at Witch Flavor? which was OK, but didn’t really do it for us. Maybe I’m spoiled, but I’m used to walking into an ice cream parlor and thinking, “OMG I WANT EVERY FLAVOR HOW WILL I CHOOSE?!” But for the first time ever, I was thinking, “I don’t really want any of these flavors, how will I choose?” I wound up with coconut chip. It was OK. Chooch and Henry were “eh” with their choices too.

I think the problem was that I was really craving soft serve. What I wanted was some kind of soft swirl under a crunchy nut/sprinkle armor.

A so-so ice cream cone.

I also was less than impressed with the girl working in the shop. She was kind of shitty and condescending and I really wanted to walk out. Dude, you work in a fucking ice cream parlor. Get stoked.

Afterward, Henry essentially took me what appeared to be Back to School clothes shopping. (I can fit into clothes in the juniors section again!) I guess all that role-playing convinced Henry that he actually is my dad.

And here’s some boring video I made (with Chooch’s help) of our picnic thing:

I was thinking about how many fun ice cream outings we’ve had so far this summer, and it made me remember this one day in 2008 when Blake came out with us and we took pictures and got ice cream at Bill’s Golfland. It was such a good day. BLAKE, WE MISS YOU!!

Ugh, they were both so goddamn young! Chooch was even wearing an age-appropriate t-shirt, what the fuckkkk.

One of my all-time favorite pictures of Chooch.

Summer + ice cream = GOOD MEMORIES.

Yo. On this day of rest, I am going to share some random photos taken during the week. And then I might read a book or something, followed by a brief pouting session when I remember that tomorrow is the start of the last week of summer for Chooch. :(

You can’t tell but this is totally a lemon Rice Krispies treat and, unless you hate lemon, it was a million times better than the classic, which is hereby too plain for me to ever even think about eating again.

This was the exchange between Henry and myself after I told him one of my co-workers was collecting money for the Wounded Warrior Project. Touché, Henry J. Robbins.

This is how I get Henry’s attention.

He was being a dick later on so I told him I take it all back.

“Oh no,” he said drolly. “Please, don’t take back the clouds and lightning. Not the poop!”

I’m going to miss leisurely weekday breakfasts with Chooch, where we explore Brookline like we’re new to town.

We just had breakfast at Eat n Park on Friday and Chooch stopped talking about kitty videos long enough to shit talk the man behind me for not saying “please” to the waitress.

After I almost died at a county fair yesterday, we ate dinner at Brown’s Country Kitchen, which was nothing really to write home about but the walls were plastered with mildly amusing wooden signs which entertained me and Chooch.

Marcy rejected my flowers. :(

Hope everyone’s enjoying the weekend! I’ll be back tomorrow with all kinds of words about Mexican beverages, carnies and other assorted bullshit.