Remember making those stupid cardboard mailboxes so our classmates could slip in Barbie and Hot Wheels Valentines, and then acting repulsed when you got one from the kid you had a crush on? That’s what I had in mind for my non compos cards serial killer Valentines, and last year I finally made some. Three different sheets of 6, to be exact! Each sheet is perforated, so you just tear them apart and pass ’em out to whoever is on your hit list this year. I have several of my own people in mind.

I’m giving away a full set of all 4 sheets to one (un)lucky commenter! Just visit the shop and then leave a comment here telling me what you’re favorite card is. Be sure to comment with a valid email address where you can be reached if you’re the winner. Get extra entries by tweeting, sharing on FB, etc etc. You know how these giveaways are: “I told my church group about it via Google+!” “I pinned it to my ‘disgusting people’ board on Pinterest!” Do what you gotta do, friends. Contest ends Sunday at noon (EST).

I also thought these would be fun to pass out at the office, your AA meetings, church collection baskets. Leave them on the bus for the next person who sits in your seat to find! Stick them in those things called “books” before you return them to that weird place called “the library.”

The possibilities are endless! I just don’t endorse giving these to your kids to pass out at school. Unless their school is super progressive like that one on Victorious. (Don’t they have an app for passing out Valentines now anyway?)

(The backs are set up for printing in this particular photo, so it looks like they don’t match up to the fronts, but they really do, I promise. Blame Henry.)

These are printed on high-quality paperstock in eye-popping ink. I couldn’t be happier with them!

Need a birthday card? Check out the whole line of non compos cards here!

DISCLAIMER: These are meant to be tongue-in-cheek. I do not think murder is cool, nor do I condone it. But what’s life without a little humor?

The weather, while still damp and dreary, was a vast improvement over the sub zero temperatures we endured last week during that weird polar vortex thingie, which sounded like some shitty ghetto ice cream shop’s answer to the Blizzard. I’M SORRY, BUT IT DOES. Fuck a polar vortex.

Unless you can get one made with persimmons. AND SONYA APPLES.

Anyway, the 36 degrees we were #blessed with on Sunday was downright balmy in comparison, so after having lunch with my friend Kristy at some boat house place in North Park where I kept missing my mouth and splashing water all over my dumb face, she took me on a short tour of creepy shit around the park.

First up was the Fountain of Youth, which is this thing that had natural waters springing out of it and then something about a golf course. Ugh, fuck it. Just read about it yourself!

We had to park on the side of the road and then Kristy, somehow the better-balanced of the two of us even though she had marveled several times about the alcohol content in the beers she chugged at lunch, had to take my pathetic hand and patiently pull me down a muddy path while I whimpered because I am so afraid, constantly, of falling.

And then we were standing right in front of the opening of the Fountain of Youth and I was whimpering again because I am so afraid, constantly, of being murdered. I’m really glad we didn’t stumble upon any Hepatitis C-infected vagrants or Congressmen smoking crack rocks inside there, because I’m 99% sure I wouldn’t have been able to run back up that muddy hill to the car.

It was creepy as fuck inside that piece. We could hear the tinny echo of water dripping from somewhere within, and Kristy was all, “I wish I brought a flashlight and a six-pack.

” It reminded both of us of the Goonies, so I kept trying to fixate on that instead of the serial killer who was using the bowels of the well as a human flesh kite-making workshop.

Hey, speaking of great places to fly a flesh-kite. The next stop on Kristy’s Tour of Abadoned Terror was this creepy log shelter elsewhere in the park.

Abandoned beer. Kristy’s immediate inclination was to check what kind it was. God, I hope she can teach me how to drink that shit. She told me that one of the only beers-which-isn’t-really-beer that I have been able to drink without twisting my face in a “I just drank the piss of Satan fresh from an asparagus buffet” manner tastes like Luden’s cough drops to her. So now that is probably what it will taste like to me, because I’m super easily persuaded.

Veritable putty in Manson’s hands.

Kristy is obsessed with old-timey graffiti, which makes me picture her carving weeners and swastikas and “Roosevelt is a limp-dick” on the wall of an orphanage and then hitching a ride on the back of Mr. Bundle’s laundry truck while flicking a switchblade at an outraged Miss Hannigan. Because that’s what went on in the 1930s, right?

Satanic baby stove.

Even with the Evil Dead cabin behind us, it was nice to finally have a day where being outside didn’t compel me to carve a hole in my stomach and climb inside like my body was some bloody disgusting Alaskan igloo. We stood around and talked about cats and horror movies while some asshole woodpecker thing mocked us from a nearby tree.

“I wonder what kind of bird that is, exactly?” Kristy said out loud, surely not expecting me to answer because I never know things regarding nature.

“Oh god, if Henry was here, he’d probably know,” I muttered. One day I’d like to see all of the patches he accumulated with his imaginary Eagle Scout troop.

After getting our fill of nature (and seeing a Christmas tree graveyard) I was driving Kristy back home when I commented on a house that’s for sale on her street.

“Someone died there,” she said gravely. And apparently his dead body was left to rot away for quite some time before being discovered. So that was a really apropos end to a day of being chilled by creepy things in broad daylight.

However, I’m going to go ahead and say that the scariest part of the afternoon was when I almost turned a jogger into a pavement pancake as I was pulling out of the boat house parking lot. Kudos to Kristy for keeping calm and carrying on.

“Joggers are assholes,” she said with a shrug.

***

I was so excited to tell Henry about the bird we saw. It was the first thing I told him when I came barging through the front door. (My entrances are grand.)

“And then I was like—-”

“‘Oh I bet Henry would know! Hurrrrrr!‘” Henry cut me off, using some terrible Corky-esque tone that I hope wasn’t supposed to sound like me.

Because it didn’t. AT ALL.

Shut up, Henry.

For most people, it would have been, “Try this ice cream that I think is bomb” and that would have been the end of it. But not if my dad was the one bestowing ice cream with explosive superlatives. Janna and I had stopped by my parent’s house one night in 2000, probably because I needed to panhandle, and we got stuck in my dad’s garage while he told us his saga regarding Reinhold’s Caramel Caribou, some goddamn ice cream that he was inexplicably obsessed with, wanted to marry, was ordered to stay within 500 feet of, is currently getting its name lasered off his bicep.

I refer to it as solely my dad’s garage because this story is set during the awkward time between my parent’s separation and subsequent divorce, so my dad was essentially living in the detached garage. Don’t worry—he was fine. He had a jukebox, a TV, a couch and a vintage Pepsi machine full of bottled beer. He was just fine.

So this ice cream, Janna and I had never heard of it because we were going through that stage where all we did was basically drink and eat food that could be ordered via telephone, and as far as we knew, there was no Mike’s Hard Ice Cream and the local pizza joints seemed like they were sticking with “just cannoli” as their takeout dessert option. This just made my dad even more excited to tell us about his newfound freezer aisle romance. We were all prepared for him to just give us a goddamn bowl of it, but first we had to listen to A Story.

I guess my dad had fallen in love with Caramel Caribou at first spoonful, and this is the part where we assume it was made from the milk of a crack-addled cow. Too bad for my dad, but going back for seconds was about to get challenging. He told us about all the time he spent looking at the grocery stores, but there was nary a carton of Caribou to be found. God only knows where he ate his first bowl of it. Some black market creamery in Chinatown? What the fuck.

“And then one day a Reinhold’s delivery truck drove past me,” my dad said, getting all excited and I think probably losing sight of how grand of an audience he actually had. I mean, come on, Guy. Janna and I were in a hurry. “So I pulled a U-ey and followed him.”

Like you do when you’re feenin’.

He followed him a few miles down the road until the truck pulled into a school parking lot, at which my point my dad waited for the driver to exit the truck before veritably accosting him for a hookup. (Trust me, I know my dad. I can only imagine the fervor he laid out during this encounter. I equal-parts wish I had been there & am grateful for not being there.)

Now I wasn’t there for the verbatim exchange, but I’ve always believed it for sure went something like this: “Hey palsie, ya gots any of that sweet ass Caramel Caribou back there?” In hushed tones. With my dad shaking him by the collar of his work shirt. Like it’s some kind of new marijuana blend that is eventually going to be the subject of a future Degrassi episode.

Reinhold’s Driver indulges him, but he does not in fact have any on his truck, or on his person, but offers to check the warehouse when he gets back. So they exchange numbers, like you do when you’re stalking someone for ice cream.

And a little while later, the guy actually fucking called my dad. He sounds like a really great guy, but I’m wondering if there was any sort of cash handoff.

I guess the guy’s boss was all, “You can’t sell products from our warehouse to a street-person, fuck off.” So the driver instead gave my dad a list of where he could MAYBE find certain ice creams named after reindeer by total ACCIDENT and not because some Reinhold delivery driver SNITCHED.

Eventually, my dad bought some multi-gallon jug reserved for ice cream parlors and single broads on Valentine’s Day and was finally able to celebrate his Caribou love in the privacy of his own home (garage).

After enduring his story, he served Janna and me each a bowl of what was essentially just vanilla ice cream with Rolos. It was OK.

I thought of my dad’s heroic efforts last week though when I ate my first Sonya apple.

We almost didn’t stop at Shop n Save that day because Henry is a heartless bastard who thought it would be just fine to visit Speck and Don’s graves at the pet cemetery without bringing a floral offering. Who does that? Fucking asshole Henry, that’s who. He also kicks albino puppies and wants to eat seals, not save them.

Anyway, I got all huffy so Henry turned the car around and drove to a grocery store about 10 minutes away from the cemetery because he’s afraid of The Huff. That’s when I saw the glistening bushel of Sonya apples. (Not when he turned the car around, but when we went inside Shop n Save. Don’t be stupid. I don’t eat fruit off the side of the road. Anymore.)

When I saw the Sonyas, I’m not going to front and pretend like some dubstep Hallelujah chorus kicked into effect, because as of that moment, it was just an apple I had never had.

You know how I am with apples. Ever since Barb duped me into falling in love with them all the way back in 2011 (I was a late bloomer), I’ve since been on a mission to try every single “brand” of apple I can get my decorated paws on. Lately, though Henry has only been bringing home the ubiquitous Jonagolds and Galas, sometimes a Honeycrisp if I’ve been good, because apparently it’s slim pickins in January.

But this Sonya apple. My god, it tasted like fucking candy. Like no other apple I have ever had. Literally, this motherfucker was a natural candy apple. I couldn’t believe it. Pornography on my tongue. Can’t type in full sentences.

All I knew was that I needed to eat these gems like, every day. The problem was that Henry, the official grocery shopper of the household, said that he had never seen these apples anywhere in his pantry raids. (Or panty raids.) And the Shop n Save we bought them from (just two because Henry “refuses” to buy a metric shit ton of something he’s not sure I’m going to love or reject) is approximately 20 miles outside of Pittsburgh and Henry just doesn’t love me enough to be making weekly Sonja pilgrimages.

And thus the burgeoning obsession was born. No, I didn’t stalk a farmer a la Erin’s Dad, but I did take to the Internet, where I found the official website of the Sonja apple, which presented me with the opportunity to leave customer feedback. SO I DID.

AND THEN A SONYA APPLE REPRESENTATIVE EMAILED ME!

I was so stoked about this that I of course wanted to shout about it to everyone at work. The blanket response was: “I mean….OK. Good job.” And that’s when it hit me. He might not be my biological father, but holy fucking shit, I am just like my goddamn dad. Casing creepy Asian markets for persimmons, having my BFF mail me cherimoya from California, ingratiating myself with Sonya apple breeders–what is my life??

Fruit is my Caramel Caribou.

Don’t worry about me. The local Shop n Save is also selling Sonyas, so I’m stocked up for now.

For now….:(

I don’t care if you don’t like this band, this video is fucking fantastic and should be viewed by all, even the Mexican milkmaid you’ve got stuffed in that trunk at the foot of your bed. WE ALL KNOW ABOUT HER.

Originally posted February 8, 2008

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.

Dude, I don’t think I’ve been tagged for anything blog-related since 2010, so when Kendahl tagged me to participate in this Friendship Blogger Award I got crazily excited because: Yay! I get to play! Someone picked me!

(It gets really lonely over here sometimes. That’s all I’m saying.)

So the rules are that I have to share 7 facts about me and then tag 7 of my blog friends, but the problem is that I don’t HAVE 7 blog friends. So instead, let’s do this: If you’re a reader and you feel like sharing 7 (or 2 or 15) facts with this dumb broad from Pittsburgh (me), then please do so in the comments! Let’s make friends. Open forum. Humor me.

1. Sometimes I start to get super frustrated with Henry, like am I wasting my time? But then this weird/creepy mind-reading thing happens that never ever happens between me and anyone else, and it makes me wonder if it ever even could. Like, is this the only sign I need that the asshole who has yet to marry me is my goddamn soul mate? For instance, when we were leaving the hockey game on Sunday, we were trying to think of somewhere to go to eat. When I get REALLY HUNGRY, I just can’t even care to be involved in these types of discussions. I mean, seriously, just pull into some food place’s parking lot and feed me. So we’re headed sort of in the direction of home when Henry took a quick right and I asked him where he was going. “You said you wanted to go to Mad Mex didn’t you?” he asked, and I fucking swear on every last ginger pube on Jonny Craig’s groin that I was only THINKING that we hadn’t gone to Mad Mex in awhile and please god don’t take me to Eat n Park. THINKING INSIDE MY HEAD QUIETLY. He was all, “I swear I heard you say it” but that’s clearly because he can hear my thoughts, how fucking lovely. Other examples:
   • The time we were playing Catchphrase at one of my game nights and it was Henry’s turn and all he said was “female singer” and I jokingly yet violently shouted CARLY SIMON and it was motherfucking CARLY SIMON, WTF.
   • The time we both dreamt of cabbages. And no, we hadn’t just eaten cabbages or watched a biography of the cabbage on the television.
2. When I was in elementary school and we were living in our first house in South Park (not the cartoon), I was in the backyard walking along a balance beam / path I had made out of the logs my stepdad had recently cut for firewood; they were still rounded on the bottom but flat on the top which made the logs rock from side to side as I steadily walked across. I eventually fell, because that’s what I do, and I got a pretty nasty splinter in my knee. I of course pretended that never happened because OMG SPLINTER REMOVAL, so I ended up having a scar on my knee for quite some time. It’s not there anymore though. I think now the only scar I have left is the chicken pock scar on my cheek (face not butt) and UGH MY C-SECTION INCISION which I’m actually not sure if there is a scar there since I’m too afraid to look closely.
3. Speaking of tagging people, any time I get a notification that someone tagged me on Facebook, I get all clenched up wondering what it could possibly be that I’m being tagged in, like was my European douche commercial finally discovered? And then, you know, it usually always ends up being nothing embarrassing, so calm the fuck down already E.Kel.
4. Bradley Cooper > Adam Levine.
5. I never, ever used to drink water. I hated it so bad and it would make me gag. But then back in 2001, one of my friends told me that my teeth were going to rot from all the Mountain Dew I would drink, so then I had to force myself to drink water. Nowadays, water and me are your basic bros.
6. I hate that my knee-jerk response to people is, “Really?” and they’re like “No, I just told you for that no reason just that when you ask ‘really?’ I can say ‘No, I just told you that for no reason.'” Like, way to drag out a conversation, stupid. (Me, not you.) Also, I’m really great at saying obvious things. Like the last few days we’ve been dealing with this polar vortex bullshit so the Law Firm was actually shut down yesterday which never happens. But of course, our department stayed open and like 90% of us worked from home. So in my work emails to co-workers, I kept saying shit like, “Stay warm!” like they were outside snow-shoeing in the -25 degree windchill and not all warm and cozy in their PJs like we all goddamn know we were.
7. I don’t have any really good talents, like playing the kazoo real well or being incredible at yo-yo’ing. So I don’t really go to very many parties because I have no good party tricks. Also because I rarely get invited to any. (Unless you count parties where people are trying to sell you shit; in that case, if anyone eyeballed my Facebook event notifications, they’d think I was a goddamn everlasting homecoming queen.)

That was really hard because what haven’t I already told the Internet?! It knows everrrrrrrrything.

YOUR TURN!!

(Seriously typed “you’re” at first. I’m awesome tonight.)

It took three tries before Henry finally dropped his bitchy resting face.

One of the (very) few things Henry and I have in common is our love for hockey. Except that I love it waaaay more. Like, if he talks to me during a Penguins game, I consider back-handing him but I’m trying to move past that phase of my life. I’m all about keeping my hands to myself these days. (It’s a struggle.) And I’m the one who screams at the TV and throws babies at the wall when the refs make bad calls while Henry just calmly looks up from his American Crafter magazine and silently wonders what he missed. I very rarely miss a game even if it means listening to it on my phone at work (ugh) or being That Jerk who constantly checks their phone for updates when they’re supposed to be out with friends or something.

You would think that Henry and I go to hockey games like ALL OF THE DAYS since it’s the only thing we have to talk about late at night when we’re in bed knitting scarves. Well, you’re wrong—we’ve never been to one together ever! (Except for a Wheeling Nailers game in 2010.) Henry actually hasn’t even been to one since like 1991 I think he said, which made me laugh, but then I remembered that I haven’t been to very many more than that. My family used to have season tickets so I was kind of spoiled there for awhile in the 90s, but then my mom decided that having season tickets for hockey AND the Steelers was too excessive and the shitty STEELERS tickets won out. I have so much hate for her because of that. (And, you know, the fact that she all but abandoned me as a daughter, lol.)

Wow. This is quickly going down the wrong path. How about I save that for the memoirs.

Anyway, my Fairy Godmother Barb gave me two tickets to Sunday’s game against the Winnipeg Jets and it was honestly the nicest thing ever. It’s hard enough for me to go to a game because of my shitty work schedule, let alone us both going—tickets are like $$$$ for us blue-collareds and there is always something financially urgent that prevents us from splurging on our one true love. You know, things like rent. Fuck you, rent. So the last several games I went to, it was with friends. Sorry, Henry.

Of course, Barb assumed I would be taking Henry and I let her (and Henry) believe that but really I was monitoring Henry’s treatment of me over the last few days to determine if he had earned the honor to accompany me on such an important date. And he knew it too because he was fucking FAWNING over me Sunday morning. I sighed and let him go with me.

And I was mostly fine with my decision except when he nearly made me FALL INTO A SNOWBANK when we were walking out of the parking lot, ugh I hate you Henry.

Yay, I found a beer I could drink without grimacing! I was practically a Normal American at a Sporting Event! But then my friend Sean gently pointed out on Instagram that it’s not real beer, in so many words.

Chooch would have been pissed because while Henry was trying to pay for my not-beer, the cashier woman was going on and on about my purse and I was giggling because Yay, I’m awesome for buying a purse on the Internet! But, it does serve as a pretty accurate character evaluation, I guess.  Henry just stood there, frowning and trying to shove his money at her.

Even frowns at the hockey game. Fuck you.

I may have cried when the Penguins came out before the game. I JUST REALLY LOVE THEM SO MUCH. :( James Neal kept leaning against the glass straight down from us and I smugly said to Henry, “This is only the SECOND closest he’s ever been to me.” And then, “OMG DO YOU THINK HE REMEMBERS ME?!” Henry just flashed one of those patronizing frown/smirks that he does to wordlessly signify that he thinks I’m stupid.

We were losing 0-2 by the end of the first period and I was in panic-mode because if the Penguins won that day, they were on a home ice win-streak and about to break a record. And it would be all Henry’s fault if they lost, just because, and we would all wear our Blame Henry pins the next day, but I would feel shame too for not taking someone else.

I’m very superstitious.

But luckily, we won 6-5! And my Prom Date James Neal had two of those goals! But really what this means is that Old Man Henry had to stand up SIX TIMES, you guys.

What a great game—thanks Barb! And thanks Henry, for being mostly OK to sit next to.

(I asked Henry if there was anything he wanted to add and he almost sneezed in my face.)

Chooch decided he wanted to have his own game night and I was like, “That’s fine because I don’t feel like having my own. You do it.” So he invited Janna, his cousins Zac and Steph and Aunt Kelly for a riveting night of “Wait, where did we put the games?”

GOD FORBID JANNA was late, so we had a relaxed social hour while waiting for her, a social hour which consisted of Chooch pretending to know how to play his keyboard (I’m 5 for 5 so far with piano instructors not reponding to my inquiries, so that’s rad) and me chanting, “Can we have pizza? Will you order pizza? Did you order pizza? WHERE IS THE PIZZA?” in time with Chooch’s make-believe piano ballads.

Here’s a rough timeline of Chooch’s Game Night for those of you who were not (un?)fortunate enough to receive your own Chooch-emailed invitation.

Around 7:00: Let’s play Apples To Apples Junior! Chooch will be the judge and try to only pick his brilliant mommy’s card, which makes Janna and Zac say things like, “We want a new judge!”

7:20: Chooch cries for the first time of the night because Janna and Zac said they want a new judge and EVERYONE HATES HIM!

7:21: Chooch runs off to his bedroom.

7:22: Flimsy accusations of how he’s “JUST LIKE ERIN” poop out of Henry’s dumb mouth.

7:23-7:35: People try to coax Chooch downstairs, but then he wipes his tears off and says, “Send Janna up here.”

7:36: Janna goes to Chooch’s bedroom and is almost killed. She’s all, “Let’s talk about this” and Chooch is all, “Thanks but I would rather dice you up with my ratchet and eat like a fucking Dinty Moore stew.”

7:40: We play Scattergories without Chooch, and Janna tried to fashion a garrote from the memories of 15 years of surrendering to my impenetrable Scattergories gauntlet.

7:42: I forget how to spell Mary Magdalene. God, who does that?

7:45: I make up a dessert called raspberry ramalade because that is a word I heard once on the Food Network but it’s apparently spelled “remoulade” and is made with pickles and mayonaisse and sometimes anchovies, so clearly I was justified in giving myself 2 points for that dessert. And then I put “rapist” for “Things on a Map” and the room gets quiet. “I can see why Janna hates playing this with you,” Kelly says, laughing nervously.

7:50: I scream at Janna for continuing to write after time runs out. Kelly and Steph learn why I have no friends.

7:55: Give myself a pat on the back for winning another three rounds of Scattergories while being super mature about it for once.

8:20: Chooch and Zac play Twister after us Old Timers explain that adults have been known to break things by playing Twister, and sometimes those “things” are “children.”

8:45: Janna drinks all of my wine and then starts drinking Henry’s beer, too.

9:00: Kelly, Zac and Steph peace out. Wouldn’t you?!

9:05: OMG I drink a beer!

9:10: I remember that we have Old Maid, which just so happens to be the only card game I can play. After downing a lot of wine, this seems like the best idea ever, even better than the time I decided to vaccuum the fridge to “save time.”

9:11: I’m still drinking the same beer.

9:20: We manage to fuck up Old Maid, and then Chooch loses interest.

9:21: We play Story Cubes and Chooch makes me proud by effortlessly name-dropping Lizzie Borden in his story. He is so good at that game! I wish I had recorded one of them.

9:30: Henry participates in approximately zero games, which makes Janna and I reminisce about this one beyotch we used to be friends with (who, incidentally, threatened to kick me out of her wedding party one night after I slapped Janna while playing Scattergories, haha) who would always bring her weird boyfriend/now-husband to my game nights but he would never play so we were certain it was because he was illiterate. I know that Henry is at least partially-literate, so clearly his problem is that he HATES FUN. Shocker.

9:45: I’m almost halfway done with my beer!

10:00: Speaking of literacy, Janna and I talk about books.

10:30: Janna accientally hits Chooch in the face with a chair, WWF-style.

10:31: Chooch cries for ONLY the second time that night and then uses said tears to guilt her into watching him play Minecraft.

11:00: Janna tries to escape and Chooch says, “You hit me in the face with a chair. You’ll do what I tell you to do.”

11:01: Henry draws Chooch/Erin comparisons for the 87th time that day.

11:20: I (mostly) finish my beer!

Great game night, Chooch. You have a real future in hosting. JUST LIKE YOUR MOMMY!

While Henry was cleaning on Saturday, I did what I do best: get in the way, shove my phone in Marcy’s face (she totally turned her back on me!!!), and document Chooch and me being total sweethearts who are too fragile to pick up a broom, so sorry, Henri the Manservant*.

I’ll be back later with a riveting account of Chooch’s first game night. (Spoiler alert: Chooch cries, haha.)

*My friend Christy dubbed him this many, many moons ago and we just don’t use it often enough.

• This isn’t really a resolution, but I decided that I want to try and fulfill some sort of book-reading quota this year like some of my more literate friends do, although I’m striving for a less-lofty number. Like, 30. Which would be a big increase from 2013’s whopping THREE BOOKS. And believe me, it’s not that I don’t like to read. I used to read tons. But I’ve fallen into that “I don’t have time” mindset which is bullshit because that’s what I used to say about exercising too, and now I make sure I carve out time every day for that. My other problem is that I have a hard time staying focused. It took me three weeks to read The Night Circus last month because I kept finding myself reading the same page like five times. Luminosity, here I come! (Or, Adderall if anyone has the hookup.)
  • I’m going to make an honest effort to update my Goodreads thingie diligently and not like, once every two years like I have been. I was scrolling through it the other night, looking for books that appealed to me, when I remembered that one of my friends is always insisting that we should read things that DON’T interest us as well, but you know what? I don’t fully agree with that. My time is valuable and I hate spending it on things I don’t give a shit about. The beauty of not being in school anymore is that we DON’T have to read shit we don’t want to read. Sure, sometimes it can turn out to be a happy accident; for example, I had to read “The Things They Carried” in an English Comp class at Pitt and I hated it for the entire first quarter of it, but then it ended up being pretty good and I didn’t hate it anymore. But where I am now in life, I just don’t have the patience to stick with a book if it doesn’t grab me at LEAST by page 50. Why sit down and force yourself to push through a book that is boring and just not your thing? No thanks, I want to read things that I can get lost in. So on that note, if you want to recommend some books that you think I might like and doesn’t read like a dildo manual and isn’t some dry piece of Brit Lit (because let’s face it, I’m no scholar), then please do!
• My friend Tammy got me this ring for Christmas and I love it so much:

• The other night in bed, Henry aggressively touched my Incision (from my C-section almost 8 years ago, and YES IT STILL EXISTS OK) and I flipped my shit. “That does NOT still hurt,” Henry patronized, because he’s a woman who has had a C-section and has obviously written e-books on it. I promised him that I can still feel pain there and he gave me this big lecture about how people were made to not remember pain and I yelled, “I REMEMBER EVERYTHING ABOUT MY PREGNANCY AND I CAN STILL FEEL IT. IT’S A GIFT!” Henry sighed and said, “You don’t have a gift.” “YOU’RE RIGHT—IT’S A CURSE!” I cried and he rolled over and went to sleep, mumbling something about how thank god I didn’t have a vaginal birth. I know, right? Sexless in the USA!
• I got in a fight on Facebook a little while ago, I forgot to mention that, probably because the rage was so blinding at the time. Some girl was all upset because a substitute teacher called her kid’s friend a dum-dum and most of the comments on her status update were from men in her family telling her to stop being so fucking sensitive, blah blah blah. But it made me think about how I would feel if a teacher called my kid a dum-dum, so I commented and said that I was just wondering what the context was, because I know that I sometimes will jokingly chide my kid if he, say, does something clumsy. Like, I’ll give him a little noogie and call him a dummy, you know? WHO DOESN’T DO THAT?! But I went on to say that kids should feel safe around their teachers, so if this teacher was saying that in a berating context, then yes, I would be pissed and upset too. So this d-bag Yinzer asshole is all, “LOOK AT WHAT YOU JUST SAID. KIDS SHOULD FEEL SAFE AROUND THEIR TEACHERS BUT YOU CALL YOUR KID NAMES? SHOULDN’T THEY FEEL SAFE AROUND THEIR PARENTS TO [SIC]?!?!” and more words jumbled together in nonsensical strands, and this was after he commented and said that she was being ridiculous for being upset with the teacher because “dum-dum” isn’t a bad word, but now that I commented, he clearly changed his mind. I replied and reiterated that when I call my kid “names,” it’s in jest and it’s pretty clear that I’m not trying to insult his intelligence in anger. We have a pretty light-hearted relationship, in case you haven’t noticed. So then Yinzer continued to fight with me, insinuating that I was a shitty parent, and essentially saying the EXACT SAME THING I SAID IN MY ORIGINAL COMMENT about how it would depend on how and why the teacher was saying it, and I was like, “Are you fucking kidding me, THAT’S WHAT I SAID” but I guess it was too hard for him to understand that since it wasn’t written in the style of a Yinzer Hick Motherfucker full of typos and double negatives. God, I hate Facebook.
• On a lighter note, here’s a picture of Henry eating a pretty donut:

• Is there a list of worst TV characters of all time? Is Michelle Tanner on it?

Ciao for now!

Sometimes I get all nostalgic and pick a random year to look at on Flickr. This morning I blindly clicked on the summer of 2007 and, aside from a ton of pictures of an adorably chubby-cheeked 15-month-old Chooch that made me want Henry to inject me again RIGHTTHISSECOND, I was ready to peace out of that particular year. (I think I’m fat now? Yikes. I don’t think I had yet lost even an ounce of my pregnancy weight.) But before I picked a new year, I noticed that there were pictures from that summer’s Warped Tour on the next page—I don’t think I’ve looked at those pictures once since 2007. And even though I was there with Christina and her sister, it was still kind of fun to revisit some of those bands that I haven’t thought of in years. (My American Heart? Monty Are I? Straylight Run?!) And I forgot that Paramore was there that year!

I am infamously picky when it comes to female singers. I don’t know why, but girl vocals usually don’t trigger that part of my brain that makes all of the feelings shoot out of my eyeballs like boy vocals do, but there have been a few over the years: Fisher, old Tegan and Sara, Eisley, Barbara Streisand (LEAVE ME ALONE) and Hayley Williams of Paramore.

The summer of 2007 was not a particularly pleasant one for me and Paramore’s album “All We Know Is Falling” accompanied me on many cemetery cries. (Particularly the song “Conspiracy,” which was even a ringtone on my precious pink Razr.) And when I got that close to Hayley at that summer’s Warped Tour in Cincinnati, I had a major fan girl moment even though I was 27 and she was like, 18 there I think. The music scene I’m into is so male-dominated that usually anytime a female-fronted band starts to make its way up, its time is unfortunately limited. But Paramore was the real deal and I think everyone knew it back then, too. I’m not surprised that it’s eight years later and they have not only proven that their talent is legit, but they have become mainstream darlings without alienating their original fan base. (In my opinion, anyway. I totally don’t think they sold out at all—they’ve just grown up, musically and as people, which makes sense unless you’re Avril Lavigne who’s 30 and still singing about skater bois.)

There really hasn’t been any female-fronted band that has come up in the scene since Paramore that have really grabbed my attention, and it doesn’t help that each subsequent female singer is automatically compared to Hayley. I admit that’s the first thing I thought of when I first saw Automatic Loveletter and Versa Emerge, and that’s not fair.

Paramore also gave me one reason only to be thankful for the stupid “Twilight” movies:

And Hayley can even beautifully & effortlessly pull off the Molly Ringgold look (this song makes me cry every time I hear it, btw; perhaps it makes me think of Henry, who knows):

Seriously, I could fill up this post with every one of their videos, but that would be obnoxious, and that would be SO out of character…

I spent most of this morning listening to old Paramore and it’s funny how much of a time capsule music can be. It brought back some good memories that I had otherwise forgotten, so I guess the summer of 2007 wasn’t really all that bad. Chooch was super cute then, at any rate.

DON!!!! :(

There’s really no point to this post. I just wanted to be a fan girl for a minute. Carry on.

My New Year’s Eve might have been mellow, but it was still pretty fun. I was off work that day, so Chooch and I walked to Tom’s Diner where I substituted tomatoes for potatoes as my omelet side. It pained me, you guys. It pained me. But it was OK, because I like it when Chooch and I get to venture out on our own and I can prove that I’m capable of getting us somewhere in one piece without the aid of a police escort or bread crumbs. We do turn a lot of heads, though, when we’re on foot.

Back home, I made Chooch do some book reports. He has to have 25 of them done by the end of the year and his teacher didn’t tell us this until the middle of October at the parent teacher conference. Apparently, he was supposed to be doing them during free time at school, but hadn’t been, even though he reads books all the time.

So, that was a nice communication breakdown.

Anyway, after he did a report on one of his chapter books, I cut him a break and let him do the next one on a smaller book: Neil Gaiman’s “The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish.” I was telling him that Neil Gaiman also writes books for adults.

“OMG did he write Fifty Shades of Grey?!” Chooch cried in earnest. He is fucking obsessed with these books and I have no idea how he knows about them! (Unless Henry really does have a secret library of mom porn…)

****

Later on, when most normal people were probably just starting their night of wild debauchery at the corner bar, I discovered that a workout video from one my favorite aerobics instructors, Jacki Sorensen, is on YouTube! Thank god we can watch YouTube on our TV, so I quickly changed into my workout clothes (unfortunately, this ensemble does not include belted pastel leotard) and made Chooch and Henry watch me essentially dance like Pee Wee Herman. Because what else could I possibly do on NYE that would be more fun?!

(Fun fact: Frankie Avalon sings this in one of my favorite movies, Back to the Beach, in which Pee Wee has a cameo!)

Chooch and Henry sat on the couch looking positively miserable, eyes glazed over, wishing for a shotgun.

“Why are they all smiling?” Chooch asked in disgust. “Why aren’t they laughing at her?” And then he pointed out every thirty seconds that I was “doing it wrong.”

The worst part for Henry was that the workout video was split into 14 parts, so when one would end abruptly, he would sigh heavily and search for the next one on my phone while I stood there, sweating and screaming at him to hurry up.

Then Henry and I had a mild argument over whether or not one of the exercisers was Morgan Fairchild.

“THAT’S NOT MORGAN FAIRCHILD,” Henry shouted and then laughed without mirth, which is what he does when he finds something incredibly appalling. SORRY if my only brush with Morgan Fairchild was some shitty 1980s Lifetime movie (oh, redundancy!) and “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.”

….I’m sensing a theme here.

I am now wildly obsessed with that man in pink shorts, by the way. Making fun of him (and me) was the only enjoyable part for Chooch.

Then we played this shitty Scooby Doo game that made no sense and I lost, which makes me think it was defective because I never lose.

And then Chooch twerked to D.R.U.G.S. and made up scarily good stories on the spot with these Story Cubes he got for Christmas while we tried to avoid Miley Cyrus on all of the NYE Countdown shows. (We settled for the Carson Daly one—where was MTV’s?!?!)

And as far as resolutions go, I don’t normally get into that, but this year I decided that:

• I want to learn more life skills
  • things like “learning how to cook rice”
  • and “making paper cranes”
• I will put forth the effort to avoid any predicaments which could:
  • find me falling into a hole
  • and/or hearing Mackelmore’s “Thrift Shop.” Other Mackelmore tracks are OK, but that one in particular makes me want to put on ear muffs made of working power drills
• I will finally get Henry to:
  • wear something from Drop Dead Clothing
  • and/or get a throat tattoo

So, that was our banging New Year’s Eve, you guys! Hope yours was just as full of sensational 1980s leotard!Merry 2014 my friends!

As usual, this past year had its ups and downs, but my overall opinion of 2013 is: I’m not mad at ya, 2013. Besides, it was relatively drama-free, because after 30+ years I’m FINALLY learning to walk away from situations and people that just aren’t worth it. That’s not always easy for a stubborn motherfucker like me! The worst parts of 2013 were definitely health-related: There was a really scary health-bomb dropped on someone very close to me this past October, but here’s hoping that will become nothing more than a bad memory in 2014. And then we discovered a tumor on my precious cat Marcy, which the vet thinks is breast cancer. I’m grateful that she has made it through another year, though. One day at a time, right Schneider?

But let’s focus on the good! Because there were definitely some good times. And let’s face it: any year that we manage to get thru alive can’t be ALL bad.

We’ll start with Henry’s Top 5 Favorite Moments of 2013, which also happen to be mine, that motherfucker. “What do you expect when we literally do everything together?!” he retorted when I got all angry that he stole my picks. I GUESS I’LL HAVE TO START DOING MORE THINGS WITHOUT HIM THEN.

HENRY’S DUMB PICKS:

• Lancaster One of my favorites , how could it not be. Chooch’s first roadtrip concert, and unlike me when I go with Erin, he actually liked this band.
• Knoebles: First time at Knoebles for opening day with that group that I’m apparently not a part of this year (that’s a story for another time, Eh Erin).
• New England Road Trip This was one of my favorite vacations ever. Got to hang out with good people (Alyson, Matt and Kristin and met 1 new person Jessa.) and see places that we were at before but I was sick and its a little foggy, except for the part of being tortured while sick.
• Warped Tour because of Chooch (<–Thanks for clarifying, Henry.) It’s getting closer to me just driving through the parents drop off circle and kicking the two kids out.
• Never Shout Never : Surprise Almost didn’t turn out like we planned, all worked out in the end.
• Never Shout Never: Cleveland Besides the snow and not getting any sleep, turned out to be an awesome night.

ERIN’S AWESOME MOMENTS:

• Laura’s Kennywood Picture: Seriously, this whole thing provided so many psychotic giggle fits from me, it’s unreal. I will cherish this picture forever, THANK YOU LAURA!!
• Coffee table DIY: Actually, all of the furniture repurposing that we (haha “we”) have completed over the last half of the year has made me totally not hate my house as much as I have lately. It almost feels like a “home” again, which makes the house “Will we ever be able to buy a house?!” conundrum a LITTLE easier to handle. Plus, you guys know how much I love the fucking Beverage Buffet—it has totally rejuvenated my desire to have parties all the goddamn time like I used to before Henry ruined my life!
• Palace of Gold: This September afternoon with Corey and Janna was so fun that I literally peed my pants when I was trying to tell Henry about it later that day. JANNA LOOK OUT!!!!
• Interviewing the Walrus: Henry frowned at me when I told him that this made my top 5, but it’s so much more than just “Hey, that was a fun day!” for me. It was kind of like finding myself again, I guess. I might post on this blog daily, but it’s not really writing to me. I fell out of love with writing years ago—I don’t even write short stories anymore. Spending a few hours with a stranger, feeling totally uncomfortable and out of my element and taking my own experiences out of it enabled me to accidentally LEARN THINGS OMG. Writing about someone else was also wildly freeing & made me remember why I went to school for English Writing. (Even though my signature writing style these days is Typo Galore, otherwise known as Redneck Message Board.) I loved it.
• ICE CREAM!: It’s the small things, you guys. Having a weekend ice cream ritual last summer helped make the work week a little less stagnant, and it was super fun finding new ice cream joints to hit up. Plus, having enough photos of Henry licking his ice cream cones to create a collage is priceless.

CHOOCH’S FAVORITE THING ABOUT 2013:

• Twerking. (Seriously, he answered with no hesitation.)

CHOOCH’S WORST MOMENTS:

• Getting stuck on a goddamn boat: Screw that day!
• Being forced to dress as an ice cream cone

All things considered, that was a pretty good year. I’m always so afraid to jinx things by posting shit like this, so please please please let 2014 be full of good stuff, but mostly: stability & good health. That’s all I want!