Eating a sopapilla at El Campesino. He’s obsessed with sopapillas ever since the time I randomly started shouting,”SOPAPILLA” in an Italian accent. Yes, I know sopapillas are Spanish, thanks.

• There is this lady that we see every morning on the walk to school and she is just the worst. Really miserable and rude to us, so we have ceased trying to eke a “good morning” from her. This particular lady walks with a cane, though it remains to be seen if she actually needs it (Henry thinks that she doesn’t). Chooch always wants to say something disparaging when we pass her, like the day when he overheard her talking to another parent and just about lost his mind because she won’t talk to US but she’ll talk to someone else? (Someday, he will understand it’s because we are the Brookline pariahs.) Anyway, I decided that we needed a nickname for her, because up until then we had just been calling her Cane Lady, which just isn’t nice, even though she is a Lady with a Cane. So I decided we should call her Candy, short for Candy Cane. It’s ironic because she is THE OPPOSITE OF SWEET, YOU GUYS. We had an encounter with her the other day, so Chooch said loudly, “THE LADY WITH THE CANE THAT WE CALL CANDY IS OVER THERE BY THAT CAR!” I had to smother him with my mittened hand and explain to him that HELLO that negates the whole point of a nickname. Later, I was telling Henry about this and how I chose the name “Candy” so we wouldn’t be obvious. “Yeah,” he said in a sigh steeped in sarcasm. “Because you two are NEVER obvious.”

My new favorite My Pretty Zombie eyeshadow: Celery & Bile!!

• There are two people from Australia being trained here at the Pittsburgh office for a few weeks, so that’s exciting. Whenever new people are hired in our department (which has a branch in Melbourne now), one of the managers will send an email telling us a little bit about that person. That’s how I learned a few weeks ago that the one Australian apparently was in A BAND and toured BRAZIL. Naturally, this appeals to me. When I saw the two Australians for the first time on Monday, I thought to myself, “Wow, the boy one really looks familiar” and then it occurred to me that this was because I had Googled him extensively to find out if he was in a cool band or something dumb (I didn’t find out, but I did see a picture of him drumming with long hair). I can’t wait to ask him if he likes Hands Like Houses (they are Australian!)! But that requires “talking to someone new” and I’m not sure I’m up for that.

There was a truck idling in front of our house and Marcy was trying to send it to Hell with her eyes.

• My friend Brandy is on her way to a Foreigner concert as I write this, and it inspired me to listen to them tonight at work, because I do love a good Foreigner jam. However, the volume was all the way up on my phone, so when I turned on the Spotify playlist, Foreigner came rocketing out of the speakers with no warning and I got all flustered and almost fell out of my chair as I struggled to turn it down even though it’s late shift at The Law Firm and no one is even around my office. I initially felt embarrassed for listening to Foreigner, but then I got over it because maybe I AM waiting for a girl like you.

Kendahl made me take a picture of my nails with candy. She’s going to be making her own nail polish and I can hardly wait!!

• My brother Corey and I are planning a trip together for late 2014/early 2015 and I’m beyond excited but also a little nervous because it’s me and Corey. The furthest we’ve ever gone on a trip together is Philly and we had to call Henry a thousand times for directions. I can’t believe Henry is “letting” me do this. He even found my passport for me. Wait. I think I see where this is going….
• Tomorrow I’m going to attempt to ice skate for the first time since I was 15. I sucked at it when I was 15, so this should be extremely dangerous and painful.

• A security guard just walked past my seemed pleased to hear “Jukebox Hero” playing. A live version, no less.
• The apples I’ve had this week have only been so-so.
• Today when Henry was driving me to work, he was forced to stop kind of far out at a red light. It was either stop with the front end of the car jutting out into the cross walk or run the light. Of course this happened just in time for some dumb bitch in a stupid white parka to cross the street in front of us and then make this dramatic “Now I have to walk a few inches to the right to get around your car” motion with her arms, followed by a “pushing back your car” mime. Then she SMILED AT US AND WAVED AND IT WAS TOTALLY SARCASTIC. Friends, the blood rushed to my face. I wanted to jump out of the car and charge after her, tackle her and smear mud on her shitty white parka. “LOOK AT HOW SMUGLY SHE WALKS!” I screamed at Henry, who had already moved past the incident and was trying to find Ted Nugent on the radio. It honestly ruined my afternoon. Especially because that’s totally the type of pedestrian I am, too. Ugh. I hate myself.
• Another Fitness Challenge is going to be happening here at The Law Firm in a few weeks and I am so stoked! My team this time is Debbie S., Chris and Nate and we are going to kill it. I hope.

I painted this today and Henry said when he saw it on Facebook, he thought it was a picture I got from the Internet because he has no faith in my artistic disabilities. I was offended for about 5 minutes until Andrea was all, “I WANT TO BUY THIS BEFORE SOME OTHER ASSHOLE DOES” so there, Henry. I have prints of it available on Etsy just in case anyone cares.

• Apparently my threshhold for Foreigner is 20 minutes so now I’m listening to my beloved 1980’s darkwave channel.
• Somehow soap got in my Smart Ones.
• You guys, I really have nothing else going on. This winter has been terrible as far as “doing things” goes and my mental stamina is at an all time low. And it’s going to get worse before it gets better, apparently. I have a ton of shit lined up for March, and none of those things better get fucked up by snow, that’s for sure.

Peace out, Girl Scout.

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This is kind of a weird Throwback Thursday for me because I’m not actually reposting anything, but finally posting something for the first time that has been mildewing in my drafts folder for almost a year.

Last April 15th, I went to a vegetarian dinner thingie with Janna, Kara and Chris. Usually, I would get around to writing about it within a week. But that happened to be the same day as the Boston Marathon bombing. And it just didn’t feel right to be all, “Yay, this is what I did several hours after a devastating situation rocked the nation!” I was so caught up in reading and watching everything I could about it for the next several weeks, obsessing over the whole boat situation (SERIOUSLY THAT WAS ALL SO FISHY TO ME) that I just quit caring about this dumb blog entry.

Does that make sense?

And then so much time passed that I started to forget a lot of what I wanted to say, and I lost the menu so then I was forgetting what I had even eaten. But I don’t like leaving things unfinished, so I went back and tried to fill in the blanks to the best of my ability.

It’s not that I’m some sort of epicurious, wannabe gourmand or even some pretentious food blogger who uses the words “epicurious” and “gourmand” (too many sex analogies), but ever since I attended one of Pittsburgh chef Kevin Sousa’s vegetarian dinners at Alchemy in 2007, that tattooed food whisperer has been on my radar.

Chef Kevin’s newest venture, Harvard and Highland, presents a vegetarian table once a month and seats only eight people.

At the same table.

JUST LIKE THE AMISH.

I really liked the intimacy of this, though I still chose a seat on the end, forcing Janna to sit next to a strange lady. However, I wasn’t interested in what the other two couples were talking about (running, running, running, marathons, running). That is, not until I overheard an older woman at the opposite end of the table talking about dragonfruit and it was all DUMBO EARS: ACTIVATE. Usually my skin burns at the mere idea of small talk, but I had to interject. I just had to, because that very day, do you know what I ate? FIRE DRAGON. You guys, it’s dragonfruit that is bright fuschia and utterly amazing. It’s like art fruit. So I had to tell the rest of the table this and they were like, “Ok” followed by a silent but implied “who cares?” and then the token Pan Asian at our table started bragging about all the exotic fruit he grew up on since his parents are from Thailand or somewhere else that I can’t locate on a map, and he went on to talk about durian while I quietly vomited in my mouth at the thought of that horrid fruit, and he was all, “But you can’t find that anywhere in the States” and I was like, “OMG you ignorant fruit fan, yes you can” and automatically counted off at least three places in Pittsburgh alone.

Except this part of the conversation happened inside my head because I hated that guy and didn’t want to waste my breath on him.

This was my least favorite. It was too salty. But it came with a flower, so I ate that.

To my delight, our plates were paired with craft cocktails instead of disgusting beer like the last vegetarian thing I went to. Every single cocktail was amazing and because of them, I forgot everything I wanted to write by the time I staggered back to Janna’s car. If I were a real food blogger, I’d have brought my dichtophone and notepad (and inflated sense of entitlement) with me.

Since Kara is pregnant, she only allowed herself petite sips of each cocktail and then Chris got to chug the rest of hers on top of his own. Lucky son of a bitch.

Men — find a way to make your semen taste like this creamy puddle of molten feta and you will have to knock people off your jocks all day long.

OMG I think this was the breakfast plate? It had fake egg things (nettle scramble, whatever the fuck) and some kind of French toast impersonator and more foam stuff because that must be really fun for Kevin to make so he just puts flavorful foam on everything. (Kind of like how I put wonky eyes on all of my paintings.) We all basically ate this in the fashion of having our wrists tied behind our backs.

Halfway through the night, I realized that the Durian Dick was friends (or maybe just in his own mind) with Chef Sousa and kept hinting around about wanting to go pick mushrooms with him or something and I wished I had a durian or two and the sock of a giant. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

(If you don’t, I mean that I wanted to fill the giant’s sock with the durians and beat the smugness out of him. But now you ruined it.)

And Kevin himself served every goddamn plate to Mrs. Durian Dick. Every single time! I kept hoping that the waitstaff would switch it up and maybe we would each get our turn with Kevin, but no. He catered specifically to her every time and that is how I know they’re having an affair.

A pond of molten Christ on wood, with mushrooms and stuff on top. It was such a religious experience that my tongue was involuntarily spelling out the rosary. Janna didn’t eat all of hers because it didn’t come with preservatives.

I was trying to get a photo of my chef crush but JANNA moved her stupid head. GOD, JANNA.

Ahhhhhh desssssert! It was stuff that tasted amazing in a truncated Mason jar! And there were more flowers to eat! It was paired with some creamy (the theme of the night, obvi) sarsparilla drink that I will be requesting by the jugfull if I ever go back.

The loud lady at the end of the table (next to Durian Dick) had a vegan version of the dessert and asked EVERYONE BUT ME AND CHRIS if they wanted a taste. Everyone said no and I actually really did want to taste it but I’m too proud to beg. (Sorry, TLC.)

Beverage aftermath.

After dinner, we all kind of sat around waiting for the go-ahead to leave and everyone seemed OK with continuing the strange act of Conversing with Strangers, but I wasn’t interested. I was becoming increasingly annoyed and anxious, because I lack the social wherewithal to successfully survive an evening of eating food and, as my friend Alyson would say, “expelling air” with people I do not know.

However, we didn’t eat until 9PM and I had gone there straight from dumb work, plus I’m on a diet and subsisting on leaves and carrots for the most part, so I was pretty irritable and ready to masticate the FU-HAHAHAHA-UCK out of some meatless spreads.

Or I’m just a people-hating asshole. Take your pick.

My favorite part of the night was how they filled us up with liquor and then made us walk down a dangerously steep staircase afterward. Surprisingly, there were no casualities.

What is an acceptable way to show a chef that you are in total appreciation and awe of the edible gifts he bestowed upon you that evening? Because I’m not above asking him to autograph my tongue.

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Oh hey guys! I’m so excited because I got Etsy to reactivate my original Somnambulant shop and I didn’t even have to get on my knees. It’s funny how two years ago I was like, “I DON’T EVEN CARE, SHUT DOWN MY STUPID SHOP!” because I was just so over it. But having it back again and seeing all the old stuff that I sold and my Somnambulant banner and all the typos in my shop info…well, it was like being home again. Seriously, it was like being back at my mom’s house. The only thing missing was the audio of her screaming at the dogs.

I have most of my current inventory listed already and I’m working on adding more real soon because I’m really in the zone, you know? All of the Twin Peaks-binging has definitely helped and I can already sense a new collection being born from that since pretty much all I listen to in the morning is its soundtrack.

If you’re interested in a custom painting of monsters spelling out names of loved ones, pets, celebrities, political candidates from the 1800s, Ross & Rachel, what have you, then by all means, hit me the eff up. These are $40 for an 8″x8″, but Oh Honestly Erin readers can use Etsy coupon code BLOODCAKES for 20% off, whaddup.

Your basic parade of prehistoric jubilation.

These photos aren’t the best. I took them with my iPhone just to have something to show, but I plan on getting better pictures with my real camera later this week. Also–I’m bringing back the bathroom plaques!

BABY! I’M SO GLAD TO SEE YOU AGAIN!

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to lately, a whirling dervish of paint and idiocy. I plan on having another giveaway soon too, because why not?

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Every now and again, Henry will mention this one broad from the corporate office of his dumb juice job. She’s an admin assistant, I guess, so sometimes Henry will have to talk to her about invoices or other office-y bullshit (and probably things of a SEXUAL NATURE as well, knowing Henry). And he’ll off-handedly say something like, “I had to talk to Shanice today—-” and then I stop listening to the rest because all I hear in my head is “Do doo do do doo doodle doo” and I start laughing so hard because SHANICE. And then Henry is like WHAT.

This has been going on for years. Literally—years.

And then yesterday, Henry was taking me to work when one of his little work palsies called him and Henry was all, “I don’t know, you’ll have to call Shanice—” in his Official Work Tone and my cheeks were near-bursting as I tried to swallow back the laugh lava, but finally I erupted in a hysterical wheeze, “DOES SHE LOVE YOUR SMILE?!” He was still talking on the phone, so I just kept repeating it and laughing even harder.

Henry did that thing he does where he curls up one side of his lip and silently shoots me judgmental daggers from behind his serial killer eyeglasses. When he ended his phone call, I was still giggling like a 12-year-old.

“Please make that her ring tone,” I cried.

“Make WHAT WHOSE ring tone?” he asked, mostly in disgust, but I also detected the tiniest slice of curiosity.

“‘I Love Your Smile’! Make it Shanice’s ring tone!” I yelled incredulously. I mean, duh.

And here is where I learned that after 8 years of my “Does she love your smile!?” jokes, Henry had no idea that Shanice was a singer in the 90s who enjoyed relative success with her R&B jam “I Love Your Smile.”

“Who WOULD know that?!” he cried in defense after I explained it to him. So then of course I had to find the song and play it for him on my phone. It triggered approximately zero memory for him, probably because that was back when he was too busy being the Every Parent while his Ginger Nightmare stepped out with all of the men (and sometimes women) and sorry, but he didn’t have time to know what songs the urban radio station was spinning back then. And then I played one of her slow jams (TURN OFF THE LIGHTS, duh) and he told me, and I quote, “Get away from me.” So, what, I guess we’re not shadow-dancing to Shanice at our Never Happenin’ Wedding?

And then somehow I started playing songs from the Boomerang soundtrack (the Toni Braxton/Babyface duet “Give You My Heart” amirite?!)  and Henry was about ready to roll me out of the passenger door by the time we got to The Law Firm, probably because I was getting a little out of control (my version of car dancing involves miming the act of face-punching the driver).

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Henry and Chooch both went to bed right after “The Walking Dead” on Sunday, leaving me alone with my boredom. Since I had just finished a custom painting for my friend Alisa, I was still in my fake art state of mind. So I decided to just paint a bunch of Henry’s faces, because how much would he love/hate that?! I got as far as the first photo before finally getting tired; I tried showing Henry the picture on my phone, which involved me having to awaken him first, which always goes over super well. Much like earlier that night when I woke him up to show him that the new singer of Emarosa had favorited one of my tweets, he rolled over and went back to sleep without saying a word.

Chooch, however, was still awake and gave me validation on the picture I posted of it on Instagram. Thanks, son.

I finished it yesterday, just in time for Henry to come home and take me to work.

I call it “Faces of Henry (Frowning, Yelling At Us, Frowning, Sleeping, Frowning, Frowning)”. I laughed so hard the whole time I made this that it’s actually amazing it didn’t turn out more fucked up than it did.

Henry of course sighed when he saw it.

“DO YOU LOVE IT?!” I cried.

“Yeah, it’s great Erin,” he mumbled as he threw together a sandwich, shrugging my hyper, bouncing self away as he went along.

“Where should we hang it?”

“The closet,” he said around a mouthful of his meat sandwich. (Literally just a sandwich filled with deli meat, not multiple blow jobs performed in tandem.)

Wendy has big plans for Henry’s face.

“You know who would LOVE this? TOKYO. Henry could be the next Hello Kitty!” she cried in her office yesterday. “You’ll have to make shirts and toothbrushes with his face on it! AND HATS! HATS LIKE HE WEARS!”

Hello Henrys? He would would fucking kill me. (All the more reason to do it!)

UPDATE: Henry came home from work and insinuated that I don’t like him, so I threw wild gesticulations toward the painting on the wall, at which point he made a series of “Yeah, exactly” noises.

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After what seems like months of ice, snow and doom, we had a beautiful springlike Saturday here in Pittsburgh. Most of the snow had melted and the sky was this crazy color that I think I heard people calling “blue”? So, of course we spent he afternoon in the cemetery. And it felt incredible to have the sun hit my face and not the usual 80 pounds of knitted winter protection that’s been wrapped around it lately.

I took a ton of pictures in the cemetery that day, because: SUN. Considering the next day was back to being devoid of color, it was nice to go back through my phone and cry smile at the memories.

Not-Snow Boots!

FUCKING SUNSHINE, WHAT’S THAT?!

“I’m going to stick this pinecone in daddy’s buttcrack.” Seriously, why does Henry even let any of us walk behind him?

There wasn’t much snow left on the ground, but never fear—Chooch found enough of it to terrorize us with.

“Don’t worry,” Killjoy Henry responded sarcastically to our constant gushings of how nice it was that day. “It’s supposed to snow tomorrow.”

“I know, and that’s sad,” Chooch sighed. “That’s just sad.”

*******

Spent the rest of the weekend painting, re-watching “Twin Peaks” and crying over Team USA hockey. It didn’t snow on Sunday like Weatherman Hank predicted, but it was still dreary and 50 Shades of Pittsburgh Gray, which is pretty much just as shitty. How was your weekend!?!

Henry, walking alone after Chooch and I got distracted by a mausoleum with a busted-out window.

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Chooch’s godfather Brian and I have been out of touch for awhile, but we were messaging each other on Facebook the other night; I got all nostalgic (who, me?) and started reading old LiveJournal bullshit. I found this post from when Brian, Henry and I took Chooch to Kennywood for the first time and wanted to share because it was clearly an awful time for Henry. And those are my FAVORITE times!

****

Originally posted August 2006

All summer long, I have been itching to go to Kennywood, Pittsburgh’s amusement park. I kept begging Henry, telling him that it would be the long overdue present for bearing his son. My loins have burned so bright for thrill rides that I would have been happy even going to a county fair and scraping myself on the rusty bolts holding together the death traps.

Two weeks ago, I made Henry drive past Kennywood at night. There’s not much to be seen from the road, but the few glimpses of blinking lights I caught peeking from the tree tops was enough to make tears stream down my face. Henry didn’t even care.

Finally, after trying numerous times to plan the trip, only to have my mom (who proposed back in May that we should all go to Kennywood and she’ll push the baby around in his stroller while we ride) bail on us every time, Henry decided that if I could find someone stupid enough to go with us, he’d be the designated Chooch Pusher. I asked Brian, who in turn canceled a meeting and un-RSVP’d to a fiftieth birthday party.

I asked him if he would ride everything, because that was my greatest concern. Evidently, once my friends entered their twenties, they all became spinny ride-impaired. Janna once nearly puked on me at a carnival and the ride wasn’t even that thrilling.

“Oh yeah, I ride everything!” Brian insisted.

So we picked him up at his apartment at 4:30, after nearly getting creamed by a large thug in a car fleeing a fleet of cops in a high speed chase. It was so scary that it made my scalp twinge. And then Henry, a.k.a. Professional Driver, took a “short cut” through various city ‘hoods to avoid rush hour traffic. What should have been a twenty minute drive at best turned into an hour stuffed into a sedan with a crying baby in a car seat, Brian bitching, me whining from the back seat, and Henry massaging his temples.

But we finally got there around 5:30 and parked in the upper lot because we like doing things for free. The only problem with this is that there is a steep escalator that transports people to the bottom lot and I was worried about the stroller. I begged Henry to take the path that wraps around down to the bottom of the hill, but he jabbed a fat finger at the escalator sign and said, “It doesn’t say that strollers are prohibited. I’m going down!” And he did, with the back wheels of the stroller perched on a step and the front end of it teetering precariously into the air. I rested my hand on my heart and chanted, “Oh God. Oh God. Be careful! Oh God. Oh God.” I mean, I wanted Chooch’s first trip to be thrilling, but not as thrilling as fucking free falling from an escalator. I panicked with even more intensity when the man in front of Henry and Chooch reached the bottom and walked off.

“There goes our buffer!” I sighed. I figured if Henry’s stupidity sent the stroller plummeting, hitting the back of that man would soften the blow. We made it to the bottom and my blood pressure started to go down.

Most people, upon crossing the threshold of an amusement park, find themselves smiling like mainliners. I fall into that category. My chest was positively surging with excitement. I was giddy and making fun of people and bouncing on my toes. Henry and Brian looked grim.

Henry paid for all three of us to speed things along. Brian seemed touched and said, “You didn’t have to do that! I have money.” Henry gruffly answered, “I know. You can pay me back when you get change.” But you know Henry, always speaking so gruffly.

Brian noticed a sign for the Fall Fantasy Parade. Kennywood does this at the end of each season. Basically, they find the high schools with the worst bands and portliest majorettes with the eye-hand coordination of a 6-month-old and blend them all together into a giant pelvic-thrusting caboodled clusterfuck, making it nearly impossible to get anywhere in the park while it’s undulating along with the speed of a caterpillar. Brian was not happy about this. I laughed.

Chooch will be able to look back on the day when he’s older since I brought the camcorder along. He will surely hug his sides and smile at the memory of Henry barking at me to watch where I’m walking, me retorting with my signature hateful sass, and Brian oozing sarcasm from every orifice of his business casual-dressed body. Seriously, who wears a long sleeved button down shirt, slacks, and Italian leather sandals to an amusement park? BRIAN, that’s who.

As we entered the tunnel that spills you out into the park, “Straight Up” was playing over the sound system. “Oh goodie, you mean I get the Fall Fantasy Parade, Henry’s asshole haircut, and Paula Abdul all for only $9?” Brian enthused.

It was at this point that Brian decided to point out all the rides he would not be partaking in. “I won’t ride that. Or that. Oh hell nah, I’m not riding that!”

The first ride we rode was a Garfield-themed shit fest. There was a camera set up at the end, and I threw my arms up to illustrate properly my jubilation for being at Kennywood. Brian’s face sagged into a bored scowl. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get close enough to the kiosk which was showing all the pictures on monitors, because a bunch of assholes in wheelchairs had thrown their chairs into park and were just idling there, blocking the counter like a gimp armada.

Brian quickly set the mood for the evening after that ride by briskly informing me that “While your asshole boyfriend is pissing, I’m going to get food.” I stood alone, with Chooch and his stroller, looking like a lost lamb until Henry returned from the bathroom.

“Where’s Brian?” he asked. This was going to become the question of the night. “Getting food,” I gave him what was going to become the answer of the night.

.

Literally, Brian and I rode about five rides, maybe six, and spent most of the night standing around like assholes, getting in everyone’s way. Every time I turned around, Brian was in line to get a cheese steak or a corn dog or soft serve, and when he wasn’t in line, he was sitting at a table eating Henry’s and my cheese fries. Henry spent our rent money losing at games all night while Chooch stared at passers-by with a pissed off look.

 

Not amused on his first Kennywood train ride.

I was the only one in a good mood for once.

At some point, when I took over pushing the stroller, Brian joked that people likely thought he and I were the parents and Henry was the grandfather. We laughed about this sporadically through the day, and Henry would respond with a derelict “Oh, ho ho ho.” But then I also suggested that some people might have thought that Brian was our manny.

 

On every ride, even the train, I hugged my abdomen and wailed, “My incision! Oh holy shit, my incision!” Yes, it’s true that my C-section was four months ago, but I’ve experienced phantom incision pains ever since I healed (or have I?). It feels like tiny bees are stinging me along my battle wound. Those tiny sweat bees.

Actually, my incision neuroses run so deep that I would have to make a separate entry just for that topic alone, so let’s move on.

Things took a turn for the worse in line for the Racer when I mistakenly told Brian that Henry had said we were fucked up. See, Brian and I are weight-obsessed and we bought into the whole ephedra revolution with our entire bodies and souls. You can’t put Brian and I together without one of us eventually lamenting the ban on ephedra. “All because one asshole baseball player had to go and die because of it!” we’ll scoff in disgust. So Brian came up with a solution: We will live in Japan for six months and lose weight on their legal ephedra and then come back home and point and laugh at all the people who buy ephedra-free diet pills. Seriously, you don’t hear about the Japanese OD’ing on ephedra, do you?

Naturally, Henry’s response to this plan was, “No wonder why you and Brian are friends–you’re both fucked up.”

When I told this to Brian, he became really bothered. “Oh, I’m fucked up, am I?” I couldn’t tell if his surly disposition was in jest or if he was really hating on Henry, because we were in line for a roller coaster and he suddenly blurted out, “Where’d that motherfucker go?”

“Who?” I asked, confused.

“Your asshole boyfriend. You know, someone ought to tell him to shave that beard. He looks like shit. That motherfucker.” And so for the next three hours, every time Henry would suggest something, like walking to another part of the park, Brian would retort with, “Why, I don’t know Henry. I might be too fucked up to walk over there.”

Brian eludes Kennywood’s spell of enchantment and slouches in misery. Also, I think he burned through all his cash on food by this point..After exiting the Thunderbolt later that evening, I saw the buffer guy from the escalator standing there. I excitedly tugged on Brian’s arm and whispered, “Look! It’s Buffer!”

“Who?!” Brian asked, looking around wildly. I tried to suppress giggles as I reminded him who Buffer was. “Oh. That guy. I wasn’t aware that we had labeled him.” I ran over to where Henry and Chooch were waiting and pointed out Buffer to Henry, too.

“Who? Oh.”

And then I saw him later when we were seated at a picnic table and I had the perfect opportunity to stalk him through my camera.

I wanted to go on the new ride (the SwingShot), but Henry and Brian laughed when they saw it. “That’s obnoxious. You can go on that while I go on the swings,” and with that, Brian left me standing there dumbly. I was so mad because I didn’t want to ride alone, but it was too late for me to ride the asshole swings with Brian. I stood there with my lip out and became even more outraged every time Brian swung past us. “He’s not even smiling or laughing! Look at him, he’s expressionless!” He just sat there in his swing, staring vacantly. “He probably just went on it because of the bar that goes between your legs,” Henry laughed, continuing on the path of unfunny.

After sulking over missing out on the new ride, getting Indian brush burn on both arms on another ride, and riding the Pirate Ship with a hard core man seated behind me who was reduced to screaming like a girl once the ride started, I duped Brian into riding the Wipe Out with me.

“What does it do?” he asked. The ride wasn’t in motion when we approached it; only one kid was seated on it and the operator was waiting for more riders to come before starting it.

“It’s kind of like the Music Express,” Henry lied.

“Yeah, except it doesn’t spin as fast,” I added.

Brian shrugged and we got on board. He knew as soon as it started accelerating that he was in for it.

“You fucking bitch!” he yelled from the seat across from me. “‘Oh, it just spins around in a circle.’ Then what the fuck is this shit?!” he shouted as the entire circle of seats rose from the platform and began tilting as it spun simultaneously. We could see Henry standing near the gate, laughing and pointing. “And fuck your boyfriend, too!” Brian screamed.

When we got off the ride, I wiped away tears of laughter and said, “I forgot it did all that other stuff!”

“You forgot nine tenths of what it did, you bitch.”

The park was about to close within thirty minutes, and I had yet to ride the Jack Rabbit, which is a wooden coaster boasting a double dip. Brian tiredly raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t give a shit about the Jack Rabbit. You and Henry can go on it and I’ll stay with the kid.” Of course Brian waits until Chooch is practically in a sleep coma before offering to relieve Henry.

So I basically exchanged Brian’s Henry-bashing-in-line antics for Henry’s grumbling of how badly he had to go the “bathroom.” By bathroom, he meant that he had to poop. I learned of his anguish after I punched him in the stomach and he acted like his ass was going to start grinding out poop logs like a sausage machine. I didn’t care of his misfortune, as long as he didn’t crap his pants on the ride (those seats are tight quarters!) and as long as I didn’t catch any whiffs of a rotten bouquet.

Also in line, I informed Henry why Brian kept calling himself fucked up, and Henry was all, “Oh. It’s true You both are and I’m not retracting it. You’re also both juvenile.”

We left after that. My whole body was arrested with giddiness and at one point I came down on one knee in the middle of the parking lot because I was laughing so hard. Henry walked far ahead of us with Chooch and the stroller, while Brian ranted about being fucked up and juvenile.

Brian called me the next morning and said, “God, my feet are killing me today! Maybe if I wasn’t such a fucked up juvenile, I would have worn more sensible shoes last night.”

He never did pay Henry back, either.

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Well, that mushy Hallmark holiday is done-zo and I hope everyone survived being sufficiently glutted on chocolate hearts strewn about the workplace. Henry and I aren’t exactly a walking example of a Nicholas Sparks “novel,” so it’s kind of nice to have an option to celebrate Valentine’s Day without needing to make reservations at a crowded restaurant or relying on Henry to suddenly sprout a romantic notion and surprise with some glittery romantic bullshit.  So for the second year in a row, we pretended to somewhat like each other at Castle Blood’s special VD event.

I know I have virtually clung to Castle Blood’s jock numerous times over the years, but it’s because it is a fantastically imaginative haunt produced by talented people who pour their blood, sweat and costume makeup-stained tears into it, their Gothic lilts never wavering; the whole experience has given me so many beautiful Halloween memories since I was 16.

And now that they’ve officially nested in their Monessen location, Castle Blood is not just your standard October pop-up haunt anymore. With a set-up way too creepy to waste, Castle Blood is the only Pittsburgh-area haunt that reworks their story for Christmas, Valentine’s Day and even a special Midsummer’s Nightmare, which is just enough to keep us horror hounds pacified until the official Halloween season without completely stripping itself of that original autumn novel.

Of course we brought our spare limb Chooch with us, just in case the urge to openly love each other conquered our carefully-built cinder block wall of mutual disdain. (Not likely, but you never know. You’re welcome, people of Monessen.)

This year’s theme was “Love & Death,” and it revolved around one of the Castle denizens, Vapor, and her bloody trail of dead husbands. She greeted us in the first room of the Castle, which was full of placards featuring the names of all of her dead husbands. She told us to pick three and Chooch was absolutely beside himself, raising his hand and “Ooh ooh”ing like a rabid teacher’s pet because one of the cards said “Henry.” I mean, this kid was in anguish, hopping from foot to foot, squealing through clenched teeth, ready to projectile vomit the word “Henry” all over Vapor’s bloody face. I wonder if he’s like this in school, too…

However, there was a young couple in our group, probably high school-aged and totally adorable; Vapor chose one of them to answer before Chooch and he acted like his head was going to explode, like some punishable crime had just been committed before his eyes.

(I’m sorry that my son tried to disembowel you with his mind, Vapor.)

Finally, Chooch got his turn and instead of just telling her which name he wanted, he practically choked on his tongue while shouting “Henry!” and then walked over and grabbed the card, too, completely ignoring Vapor’s insistence that being handed the card wasn’t necessary. He just REALLY wanted to make sure she knew he chose “Henry” and not “Ivan,” I guess.

Now I can’t even remember the story of Husband Henry’s demise because I was too busy trying to keep Chooch from having a seizure. He gets so excited to participate, but sometimes he forgets that there are other people with us and they too would like to play along. So then I have to hiss, “LET OTHER PEOPLE HAVE A CHANCE” because I may or may not have approximately 7 entries in my Haunted House journal where I’m whining about getting stuck in a group with attention hogs.

After Vapor told us the story of three of her husbands’ untimely deaths, we were set off into the Castle with an order to find a fractured heart, a fluffy, and a flame, which Chooch happily screamed when we were acquainted with our guide for the evening. She asked if Henry and I were married, which delighted me greatly because it gave me a chance to emit my patented Harumph of Disgust. I guess she liked my response, because I was rewarded with a plastic ball and chain to carry around through the castle. Chooch kept trying to pry it from me; Christ, kid, let me have a thing or two every now and again!

We paused in a small room outside of the library, where our guide encouraged us to check out the art work on the walls.

“I think you’ll like the one behind you,” she said to me. It was a painting of a lady being attacked by an angry mob. She explained that it was Lady Bordella, and apparently she did some things that some people did not appreciate, which automatically made me think of myself and the Catholic School Incident and I was like, “OMG DOES THE GUIDE KNOW ABOUT THAT!?” So then I was paranoid and looked over my shoulder only to find myself face to face with a werewolf, which made me scream and then Chooch did the “Parents are so lame” eye roll. I get no love from him in haunted houses.

In the gypsy room, I got another chance to verbally articulate my disdain for Henry by answering “pffft” when asked if anyone in our group was in love. The cute little high school couple were the polar opposite of Henry and me and they tended to cuddle up on each other in response to these types of relationship status inquiries. It was adorable and sickening all at once, but they seemed like some kind of scene kid offshoot, so I decided to go with the “adorable” judgment. Anyway, we scored the fractured heart in this room, which was given to the scene kid for safe-keeping.

Next up was the lab, which was lacking a considerable amount of dorkiness and at first I just couldn’t…put…my…finger on it. But then I realized it was because Professor Scrye wasn’t there for the first time since, I don’t know, practically the beginning of the Castle. But his new assistant Zap was there and immediately made Chooch blush.

“Shut up,” he whispered, ramming his elbow into my ribs when I tauntingly fluffed his hair.

Professor Scrye’s fill-in tried to put the fractured heart back together for us, but failed. As he handed it back to the scene kid, Chooch made a swipe for it because god forbid if he doesn’t get to touch every single talisman. Scene kid let Chooch keep the heart and you would have thought it was cold hard cash (or…a stuffed cat) what with the way Chooch rejoiced and hugged it to his chest.

Before our guide took us through the mausoleum, she turned to Chooch and asked, “Do you even know what a mausoleum is?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “It’s like a building in a graveyard where they keep dead bodies.” Like, duh.

“Hmm, this is surprising,” she said, her mortal-hating tone softening a bit. “How do you know this? Does your mommy let you play in graveyards?”

“Yeah,” Chooch answered with a shrug, because this is Normalcy in our household.

One of my favorite parts of the tour was when the creepiest, most Peter Steeliest-looking vampire emerged from a corner and demanded that the scene kid in our group sing him a love song.

“What genre?” the boy asked, and I so badly wanted to scream, “POST HARDCORE!” because you know me, stereotyping people everywhere I go. (But seriously, I want to believe that on their way home later, that cute couple put on some Emarosa.) Anyway, the kid tried to pass the buck, so Vampire Peter Steele went down the line, asking each one of us to sing him a love song, and let me just tell you that Henry is lucky I suck at coming up with a medley on the spot because mine would have been a fucking 87-verse funeral dirge about how I wasted 13 years on a blue-collar d-bag who won’t marry me so I stabbed him in the eye socket with an icicle, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, love is an enema for the heart, tra la la.

So then it was back to scene kid, who blurted out Itsy Bitsy Spider and was awarded a small fluffy pillow for his effort. Chooch was like, “OMG FLUFFY WE GOT FLUFFY!” (I’m telling you, there’s nothing like an interactive haunted house to make a seven-year-old feel important.)

In the end, we wound up with all of our talismans (talismen?) and walked away with honorary vampire fangs, a Hershey Kiss, and a satisfyingly non-mushy Valentine memory. I deemed this trip to Castle Blood as one of my favorites yet; the whole “going to a haunted house in February” brings back some of the novelty and I even found that I was more jumpy than usual. Castle Blood doesn’t focus on scares, but they do have an occasional “boo!” moment, and every last goddamn one of those made me jolt. I guess I’m just much more stoic in October.

Chooch and I spent the rest of the night making fun of Henry for being one of Vapor’s murdered husbands. Obviously.

———————

I started writing this a few days ago, before the news of Castle Blood’s eviction was announced. For the second time in as many years, they will be looking for a new home and I can’t tell you how much this breaks my heart, knowing how much work goes into this (OK, Henry knows more about that part that I do, since my definition of “work” is “standing around in everyone’s way”). This is so much more than “just a haunted house.” For a lot of us, this is a standing Halloween tradition. I’ve been going to Castle Blood since I was 16, and we started taking Chooch when he was two. Some of the people involved in bringing this place to life every year have become my friends, and I know that they won’t let this ruin them.

So, here’s hoping that Castle Blood v.4 will be the best one of them all.

(Seriously. They have to come back because I WANT TO HAVE MY BIRTHDAY PARTY THERE.)

 

 

 

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Considering that Emarosa is done recording their new album and have already announced tour dates, it’s safe to say that I won’t be jinxing anything by posting this video of their new singer’s old band, Squid the Whale. When it first leaked that Bradley Walden was going to FINALLY fill the spot that Jonny Craig left in…2011—has it really been that long since Emarosa was royally fucked?

—I was so fucking excited but also incredibly wary because rumors are always flying when it comes to this shit. But ironically, it was Jonny Craig himself who let it slip that Bradley was taking the reins as the new Emarosa frontman.

You guys. Bradley is an incredible vocalist and my mind has been spinning out with a million ideas of how he is going to sound with Emarosa behind him. I LOVE EMAROSA SO MUCH IT HURTS, so I have so much faith in them, and the fact that this upcoming album (which Rise Records keeps teasing us about on Facebook, those fuckers) is going to be magnificent, a fucking diamond in the post-hardcore rough.

Bradley’s tone reminds me a little of Lorene Drive-era Daniel Murillo and Matt Geise of Lower Definition, so I’m on board. I am so much on the fucking board. I MIGHT actually have a heart attack when I get to hear it for the first time.

Be prepared to send a medic to my house.

In related news, Chiodos released another new song yesterday and I sat at my desk crying and then texted Henry about it, begging him to care.

His response? “Lol.”

It’s not easy being a 34-year-old scene kid.

ETA: Henry just told me he doesn’t like Bradley Walden. Probably because he feels threatened already.

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It’s Tuesday. Here is a blog post of no importance or actual substance. So basically, the usual.

• Went to Eat n Park with these dum-dums on Saturday, after patronizing the Castle Blood Valentine’s show (more on that later this week). I was watching Chooch at the salad bar and it was cracking me up so bad. Obviously he skips the lettuce and essentially every vegetable, because he’s 7 with horrible parents, but observing his serious concentration over the other offerings was almost too much. After piling his plate full of plain pasta, croutons, and chick peas, I watched as he dumped three heaping servings of shredded cheese on top of it all. And then, when he thought no one was looking, he went back for fourths. (Henry was too busy at the other end of the salad bar, loading up on pickled shit.)

Chooch sings Katy Perry songs because he knows how much I hate her and he is just that mean. We were cracking up in unison over something that Henry deemed inappropriate (could have been anything, really); Henry was trying to silence us with his Dad Eyes (yeah, good luck), and this of course made Chooch nearly vomit, so he excused himself to run off to the bathroom. When he came back, he said, “And by the way, I laughed so hard in the bathroom, that I puked.”

“Was anyone else in there!?” I laughed.

“No,” Chooch said wistfully. “I wish.”

And so we started cracking up all over again, which made Henry sigh and my stomach ache.

• Henry’s mom, back when she was in Van Halen. I cannot stop laughing at this picture! Henry said it was from around 1983, before he went to THE SERVICE. She is probably not smiling in any photo taken of her during the time he was IN THE SERVICE. She still recounts those days as though he had gone off to Vietnam.
• It snowed again last night/this morning so Chooch’s school was closed.
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  This is how I felt earlier today thanks to More Snow:

• But then this happened:

And I died at my desk. I DIED AT MY FUCKING DESK. Those are three of my favorite bands, on tour together. Cleveland, I will be all up in you on May 21st. (Already requested off work since my proposal of working a normal shift was denied and I will apparently just have to continue to request off every time I plan on going to a show.)

2014 might suck already for a plethora of reasons, but at least there are some good goddamn shows in my future. (Dance Gavin Dance is also going on tour in May!) I’m so excited to hear the new Emarosa album, that it is almost consuming my thoughts.

Hope comes in small doses sometimes.

• And with that, I leave you with a picture of some paper Chooch filled out for school.
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  It seems that I have lost a large chunk of my memory in which Henry married me and then I gave birth in Rome. Not shown: Chooch’s desire to fix the future (“Free iPads for everyone”) and his favorite food (“almond Hershey Kisses,” which is news to me).

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If you’re friends with me on Facebook, you’re probably totally annoyed by all of this painting bullshit by now. Time to utilize the ol’ “hide” function, I guess? So, sorry if you’ve already seen these but I wanted to do some ‘splaining.

I started Somnambulant Art back in 2007 after accidentally falling back into the whole art thing thanks to Blogathon. I was reminded of how therapeutic and cathartic art is, so I kind of went with it, and surprisingly, some people seemed to actually like it and even asked to give me real life money for my paintings. So I opened my first Etsy shop, Somnambulant, and had so much fun making monsters and cute things with totally fucked-up stories. And I kind of even built up a following! But the best part was that this was how I met Andrea—we were (are) both members of the Etsy’s Dark Side team.

Then I was out of work for awhile. And the funny thing about being out of work is that you don’t have any money anymore. I mean, we had SOME money because Henry still had a job, but we kind of needed to eat and pay rent, so I couldn’t buy supplies anymore. And let’s face it, when I’m selling art for $10-$40 a painting, I’m not really making enough profit for that to be my actual day job. And that’s fine, because I liked where I was at. I was selling at a comfortable, realistic volume, and there was even a local shop (Wildcard) that was selling my pendants and bathroom plaques. It was really fun, until I couldn’t do it anymore, both financially and mentally. Shit went down in my personal life (Christina, obviously; it always goes back to Christina, lol) and then I got a new job (my current one) and instead of being all, “Yay now I can buy supplies again!” it was more like, “Fuck, I’m too emotionally drained for this garbage.” Christina was my #1 supporter and now I didn’t have her. At the time, I didn’t think I could do it without her constantly praising me like the quasi-invalid that I am.

And it went on and on like that for three years. Etsy even deactivated my shop because I couldn’t pay the bill. I was pretty resigned into thinking that this part of my life was over. Now I have the cash for supplies, but I also have a full-time job that has kind of made me lose a sense of who I am, while zapping every drop of creativity from me like a dog sucking the marrow out of a bone. One of those goddamn Catch-22s. I did that Crafts from the Crypt thing last year at Castle Blood and unloaded some of my old paintings, but when I tried to paint new ones, I was almost paralyzed, like I couldn’t remember how. But I ended up selling a lot of my paintings that day and people seemed to respond positively to them, way moreso than my pendants or serial killer cards. It kind of sparked something, but then that light went out just as quickly as it was lit. It’s hard to explain, but I was in this rut and actually even convinced myself that I hated painting.

But wow, this winter, you guys. This winter has been hazardous to my mental health. (And everyone else’s too I’m sure!) I just got tired of being snowed in on the weekends, unable to go out and do things, that I picked up a paint brush just for the hell of it. First, it was just supposed to be a one-off: I was making a custom painting for my friend Alyson. But then it was like something clicked, FINALLY. It felt fun again! And I want to start doing it as a side gig again, because I’m tired of Henry saying NO WE HAVE TO PAY BILLLLLZ when I want to buy weird Asian fruit and when I sold art, I had my own bank account just for that. I’m also trying to save up some money for a sort of pilgrimage that my brother and I want to go on, and I thought maybe this would be a good start. I suck at saving money.

Custom “just engaged” painting.

Until I get things squared away with Etsy (I don’t want to open a new shop with a different name; I’m forever-attached to Somnambulant), I’m going to post finished paintings on my blog and Facebook and whoever wants one can claim it and I will do the whole Paypal invoice thing like we did last year with my Crafts from the Crypt rejects.

“Eat Shit.”  12×5.5 I think? (I love this one but Henry hates it, which makes me love it more.)

“Tools.” 12×5.5 I think? (This one was inspired by Andrea. <3) SOLD!

I freehand my shit, no stencils or whatever.

“Drop Dead.” 5×7 (I’m really into cute things with mean messages.)

“Puke.” 5×7

“Brock” 5.5×5.5  — SOLD

“Snacks.” 5×7

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

So, that’s what I have so far. I will try not to be too annoying about it, but until I find an alternative, this is the best I’ve got. And sorry if you think that because this isn’t “fine art,” that it’s just stupid finger painting. This is my style and it makes me happy.

If you DO like it and want anything, let me know! I’m going to do some customs again too, but nothing on a large-scale for now. Probably 10″x10″ and smaller, because I know realistically I don’t have the patience or time for anything bigger than that. I know how much I can handle (and it’s not much, haha)!

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I haven’t posted any RIP Glenns since last October, so here is some somber Saturday filler for all of you Glenn enthusiasts out there.

(And if you’re like WTF is a RIP Glenn, please see here.)

Enjoy…?

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I don’t necessarily hate this day, but I don’t really care much for it either. (Although I really am a sucker for glittery pink and red heart accessories.) I think it all stems back to the time in high school when I spent $toomuch on a coffin-shaped Misfits boxed set for Psycho Mike and even did the whole pathetic rose petal thing, only to get taken to Donut Connection where he bought himself a donut and coffee with a coupon, but I had to pay for myself because he only had the one coupon.

However, it’s better now that I have a kid, because I get to give him all kinds of cheesy heart-boxed chocolates and novelty Peeps and make him inside joke-laden cards. This morning, he was all excited to give me Godiva chocolates and a Valentine card with, of course, a kitten on the front. If HENRY has chosen to participate in this day, he has not shown any signs yet.

(Although, he’s paying for the tattoo I’m getting tomorrow, so I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on him.

)

Tomorrow night, the three of us will be reveling in the anti-Valentine spirit by attending the second annual Castle Blood Valentine’s show, so if you live anywhere near Pittsburgh/Monessen, you should go too. Because Castle Blood is awesome.

And, I will end this with a vintage Valentine’s Day photo of Chooch.

Go eat lots of chocolate hearts (and real hearts, if that’s your thing) today.

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“Did the school call you?” Henry texted me yesterday at work, except it was missing a question mark because schools apparently didn’t teach kids about punctuation way back when Henry attended.

I checked my cell phone and work phone, but I only had a staggering succession of 1-800 numbers in my call log. The usual.

And then of course I panicked, because the school doesn’t usually call to tell you that hey, your kid was exceptionally well-behaved today and literally no incidents occured and we’re going to have him tested for Absolute Brilliancy because we’re pretty certain he has it.

It’s usually something terrible.

After I told Henry no, I didn’t receive any calls, it of course took him about 15 minutes to answer me, 15 minutes in which my blood came to a rolling boil and turned my nerves al dente.

“Jeremy bit him on the arm, through his sweater and broke the skin,” said Henry’s eventual text.

Cue immediate freak-out session at my desk. Lots of “WTFFFFFF?!!??!?!?!”s and “OMG!!!!!!!”s were texted until Henry calmly told me that Chooch was OK and then reminded me who Jeremy is.

A few months ago, Chooch randomly said to me, “You know Jeremy in the after school program? He has a fake leg. I know this because it fell off today.” And then he went back to doing whatever he was doing like it was no big thing.

Jeremy has a few things working against him. The leg, obviously. And he wears a helmet because of some kind of brain injury. He is only 4, in preschool, and very small for his age. I hoped that his parents weren’t bracing themselves for some kind of empty threats of a lawsuit or bullying accusations. Because we’re not like that. Shit happens. Still, I sent Chooch an email to check in on him, and this is how little of a shit he gave about this situation:

Oh, and he beat Guess the 90s because he found a goddamn cheat online.

I told Jeannie and Mean Amber (who isn’t that mean this week considering she saved my spider plant’s life) the story last night, and just hearing the words “fake leg” and “helmet” come out of my mouth made me pause for a second and truly comprehend what a ridiculous story this was. I’m glad Chooch is OK so that we can all laugh about it!

After work last night, Chooch was telling me what happened in greater detail than the bullshit texts Henry was sending me. He’s seriously the worst at relaying any sort of information that doesn’t pertain the kind of porn he wants to watch.

I kept wanting to stress to him that he shouldn’t hold this against the kid; I don’t want him to get into the art of retaliation…yet.

“I know,” Chooch mumbled from the backseat, more interested in the video he was watching on his phone. “It’s because he has mental problems.”

“Chooch!” I cried. “That’s not nice to say!”

“What? That’s what the teacher said,” Chooch shrugged. So, add “mental problems” to that list up there, apparently.

After a little more pressing, Chooch assured me that everything was fine, and that, inspired by Jeremy’s cannibalistic tendencies, all the kids in the after school program played Zombies together afterward.

I wish adult conflicts were this easily resolved.

“I can’t believe he was bit that hard and it wasn’t worse than it was,” I said to Henry that night.

“Well, he was wearing that thick sweater,” Henry pointed out.

Yes, that thick sweater that I MADE HIM WEAR. So basically what we have here is a case of a mommy saving her son’s life.

You’re welcome, son.

(Even though Chooch was fine, the school still urged Henry to call the doctor yesterday. He needs five days worth of antibiotics, but he doesn’t have any helmet rabies or anything.)

ETA: Just now, I looked at the bite wound again and asked, “Jesus Chooch, how the hell did you not cry??”

“Because I’m a survivor,” he casually explained, and then went to bed.

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1. Piano lessons are going surprisingly well. After the second one, he was like, “WTF, I have homework in this now? Fuck this noise”; but then, last Saturday, Cheryl taught him one little part of Jolly Old St. Nicholas (seriously, why) on the black keys and told him to practice this week. He did one better by teaching himself the whole song, on the white keys too, and then MEMORIZED it. And then taught ME! Considering the way he half-asses his book reports and pretty much anything else I ask him to do, this was a welcome surprise. Maybe piano really is going to be his thing? It’s only been a couple of weeks though so I’ll try not to flounce around on Facebook, pegging him as a prodigy.

Even though he practices while kneeling on a wheelchair like some crazy eccentric. THE SIGNS ARE THERE.

2. And then I wanted to try out my new Hipstamatic Sochi-inspired film pack and this happened.

3. Did I ever tell you the story of Janna’s kitten, Newton? I’ll pretend you said no. So Janna got a kitten last October and was all, “Help me name my cat something other than Cat, please” and then proceeded to reject EVERY SINGLE NAME Chooch and I suggested. Chooch was really pissed that she swatted away his suggestion of “Ted Nugent” like some errant fly on a hot summer’s day, and decided he was just going to go ahead and call him that anyway. Except that somehow it changed to “Ted Nugent’s Cat” which I think is way better anyway. Anytime Janna starts a story with “Newtie” (which always sounds like she’s saying “Nudie,” like “And then I was laying in bed and Nudie climbs on my face and puts his wet butt down on me” so then I’m setting myself up for some fantastically skeezy story that never develops), Chooch interjects with “Ted Nugent’s Cat” and Janna just sighs and continues with whatever tale of domestic mischief her cat has inflicted upon her apartment that day.

Here’s an Instavid of one of the many failed nomenclature sessions:

ANYWAY. The point of learning you about Janna’s damn cat is so that I can share the Valentine Chooch made for Ted Nuget’s [sic] Cat as a big Eff You to Janna, and then you can all say, “D’aww!” I mean, if you’ve read this far.

This concludes the Trifecta of Chooch. LATER GATOR*!

*(My blood sugar level is low, I think.)

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