The greatest thing happened on Mother’s Day. No, Henry didn’t propose. But we were on our way to the cemetery and Chooch piped up from the backseat, “Put on ‘Strawberry Swisher Part 3’.”

THAT IS A DANCE GAVIN DANCE SONG IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW. And my kid was requesting it of his own volition. My heart swelled past the size of his mysterious bee sting. So of course I tweeted about it and said it was the best mother’s day present ever, and Dance Gavin Dance retweeted me! Like any other 16-year-old, I freaked out because OMG A BAND ACKNOWLEDGED ME ON SOCIAL MEDIA. Seriously, that’s the best thing ever about twitter and Instagram. I have a collection of screenshots for every time this happens because it excites me, OK? I’m just some dumb mom from Pittsburgh but then Craig Owens likes a picture I posted of him on Instagram and I feel special for 5 seconds. Let me have my moment.

Tiniest bit of donut icing on his lip. I have eight year’s worth of photos of Chooch’s dirty face. No sense in starting to wash it now.

But even better than that was that other people were retweeting it because DGD did and I wound up having a nice exchange with this teenaged girl who told me that I need to know I win the Mom of the Year award for the rest of eternity and that she wishes her mom was cool like me and she hopes she will be that kind of mom to her own kids someday and I was like, “BABE, DON’T LOSE YOUR LOVE OF MUSIC AND YOU’LL BE FINE.” Because really, I can’t imagine how stale my life would be without that.

I don’t really consider myself a “cool” mom because this is just me being myself.

I’m just an awkward girl determined to find balance between being a mom and staying true to who I am, and that meant not putting music in the background, but keeping it a prominent fixture in my life where Chooch can experience and love it too. He asked me to put Spotify on his phone and now he finds himself falling into those magical wormholes and it makes me so excited for him because we all have those songs that we vividly remember discovering for the first time. Anytime I hear songs that I loved when I was his age, it’s like I’m suddenly sitting in my mom’s old Pontiac Grand Am with the McDonald’s sweet and sour sauce stain on the backseat. I wonder if it will be like that for Chooch, too.

God knows our car has enough stains in it.

Music is even more fun when you get to share it with someone. And it’s even better when that someone is your kid. But you can swap that out with so many different things: sports, movies, art. I think it’s so important to have that one thing to bond over where your kid is seeing you not as a parent, but as a PERSON WITH INTERESTS.

We don’t always have to be in parent-mode. See? Being a parent is not always lame, you guys! Except for when it’s VIP day at school. Which it was today. I have a feeling there will be several bullet points devoted to that later on.

OK, you’re dismissed. Now go listen to music with someone you love today!

It’s pretty rare that I get to pick Chooch up from school because of my work schedule, but since I was off on Friday, I got to stand awkwardly in front of the school with all the parents who like to stare at me because I must have some blinding aura emanating from my body, alerting them to my motherfucker ways. I mostly just ignore it and pretend like something really interesting is happening on my phone. Make them think I’m important!

Chooch was really excited for two reasons: he didn’t have to go to the after school program (which he actually likes but who wants to hang around school any longer than they have to?) and he knew that Bill, Jessi and Tammy were en route from Detroit(-ish area).

He gave me a hug (for show, trust me), and then immediately started with the inquiries and whininess.

“ARE THEY HERE YET? WHEN? ARE THEY BRINGING ME PRESENTS!?”

“Don’t be rude!” I snapped, because while Chooch is surprisingly pretty good at not being a total spoiled brat, he does sometimes focus too much on “presents” and “things” and “money” which I know is probably normal for an 8-year-old but motherfuck, that shit is grating.

We were still on school property when this conversation began to escalate, and just as we rounded the corner by the crossing guard, he stopped dead in his tracks, puckered up his face, and burst into tears.

“Oh my fucking god,” I hissed. “Don’t you even start!” thinking that he was being a crybaby because I wouldn’t tell him if he was getting presents or not. I mean, his birthday party was the next day, and the last time I checked, presents are given at those things, so STFU.

But then I noticed that these weren’t crocodile tears. He was slightly slumped over, hugging himself like he had just been punched in the gut. What did I miss?! We were walking and everything was fine until it inexplicably was no longer fine. I had no idea what was happening, but I made sure to raise my hands up in an “I didn’t do it!” motion because there were parents and teachers EVERYWHERE. I’m slightly afflicted by something that I like to call the Stonick Syndrome, which was ingrained into me after an entire childhood of hearing my grandma cry, “What will the neighbors think?!” over any tiny thing that might chip her porcelain perfection (babies out of wedlock, a fat granddaughter, weeds in the garden, a car more than three years old, etc.). No matter how hard I try to stay chill and maintain a “who gives a fuck” veneer, I can’t always fight the Stonick in me and my synapses are secretly firing “HEADS UP: PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT YOU” warnings into every lobe of my dumb brain. To be honest, I don’t really think that very many people were rubber-necking. I mean, Chooch was doing a good job of not getting full-on Erin Rachelle Kelly with the histrionics, so aside from his tears and beet-red face, he wasn’t exactly drawing a crowd of gawking bystanders. Except that in front of us was this mom who reminds Chooch of Antoine Dodson, the Bedroom Intruder guy, so every time he sees her, he starts quietly singing, “He’s climbing in yo’ window, snatching your people up….”

She was definitely looking.

I had no idea what was going on. I kept asking Chooch but he just stared back at me with this awful look of anguish twisted upon his face. Then I saw him pull his shirt away from his chest and swat at something which whizzed away in response.

A bee. OK, he was stung by a bee and not assaulted by something that the Winchester’s are hunting. But then I remembered that he had never been stung by a bee before.

So instead of taking my child into my arms and soothing him with my maternal embrace, I froze. He’s standing there in so much pain that he can barely talk, and I’m like, “Fuck, I wasn’t prepared for this.” And then flashes of My Girl go through my mind and I’m like, “Fuck², please don’t be allergic!”

(Which is kind of funny because Anna Chlumsky had a small role in “Hannibal”, which I was catching up on last week and thought to myself, “I totally forgot that My Girl broad existed.” Touché, UNIVERSE.)

I tried not to panic in front of him and kept robotically saying things like “It.is.OK.child.” and “You.are.not.going.to.die.” and “Beep.beep.Mom.Powers.Activate.” while frantically dialing and redialing Henry’s stupid number because I CAN’T HANDLE THIS OMG IS MY KID GOING TO DIE!? Honestly, I was freaked out. If I was smart, I would have just pushed him right back inside the school and made the damn nurse deal with it, but instead, I forced my Jello-legs to walk and gave him flat pep talks for the three blocks back to our house. Meanwhile, Henry finally answered and calmly asked me questions that I couldn’t answer because my brain was swelling inside my head and pouring out of my ears because if any one is allergic to anything, it’s me and parental responsibility. Oh, the horror of having to actually put on my mom jeans and save my kid with whatever that shit was in the bathroom closet that Henry told me to spray on the bee sting. So now, in the eyes of the pitch-forked parents that are always holographed in my imagination, it appears like I’m walking down the sidewalk while my son is very visibly suffering from some sort of trauma that I definitely inflicted with my own hand and don’t mind me, I’m just over here ignoring him while casually talking to my girlfriend on the phone about our stories. “OMG and then Hope found out Bo is actually her brother who is actually a little person living inside of an animatronic body cavity….”

Because that’s totally how it looked. NOTHING TO SEE HERE, CARS DOING 10 MPH PAST US IN THE SCHOOL ZONE.

Somehow we made it home without falling into the jaws of a shark or being twerked on by Miley Cyrus, but not before walking past our neighbor and getting the hairy eyeball from her because yes, I pushed my kid into a bee hive. I can’t help it! It’s what I do.

See? Stonick Syndrome. It’s always waiting to surface. WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBORS THINK.

“Did you get the stinger out?” Henry asked in a follow-up phone conversation because I had hung up on him after I got the initial info I needed. There is no need for exit salutations. It’s “end call” for me and that’s it. You want a “goodbye I love you”? Go get it from your mama, Henry.

“The what now?” I asked dimly. And he explained to me that it was important to get the stinger out but I didn’t see anything jutting out of Chooch’s flesh so one less thing for my fake-Mom persona to do, I guess.

Please don’t think Chooch had quieted down during his visit with Half-Assed Nurse Erin. No, he was wailing “WHYYYYYY?!” over and over as I spritzed him with whatever that shit* was that Henry made me dig around the bathroom closet for. OK, Nancy Kerrigan! A little louder in case the neighbors didn’t hear.

*(It started with a b….bleach? No, that’s not it.)

By the time Bill, Jessi and Tammy got there that evening, the bee sting had swelled to the size of Jonny Craig’s left hand tattoo. Oh my god, you guys are so stupid, JUST FORGET IT. It had swelled to the size of A SAUCER, ok? Is that better?! Should I sketch it out for you? I would post a picture but I’m not trying to get child services sicced on me again, and also, I didn’t take a picture.

In addition to being the size of Jonny Cra—-a saucer, the wound was deep maroon with raised edges. It looked totally deadly and I was like, “Are we sure he’s not allergic?” while waiting for a legion of baby spiders to burst out of the center. Henry, who had apparently asked Google, assured me that we would have found out immediately if he was allergic.

We talked about stingers some more and Tammy told us that you can use a potato slice to draw the stinger out and for some reason, this home remedy tip irritated Bill, who apparently only believes in the miracle of modern medicine and not Granny’s pantry, so now I hope he gets stung by a bee and the only one there to save him is Tammy and a good ol’ Idaho tater.

It was even bigger the next day (I don’t know, salad plate-sized) and Chooch said it was actually painful to be too active, so I was worried about his birthday party. But he still ran around like a feral dog and took great pleasure in showing his battle wound to all of his friends. And then he spent the rest of the weekend obsessing about bees and bee stings and Googling other insects that sting and watching YouTube videos of people getting stung by things and basically becoming hyper-aware of every single thing around him. We went to the cemetery on Mother’s Day and he straight up whimpered when he saw something flap past his face. It was a fly.

He’s even reached a point where he’s psycho-analyzing the situation, wondering why the bee chose to sting him. Why didn’t the bee like him? What did he ever do to the bee? I told him that I used to save bees from drowning in my Pappap’s pool when I was a kid so they never sting me and he was like “Oh, aren’t you a peach. Shut up.”

It seems like it’s always Chooch and me versus something, isn’t it? Anyway, I would be remiss not to chronicle this totally dramatic tale here, because it’s a first and isn’t that what parents do? Keep a log of their kids’ firsts? First bee sting: Friday, May 9, 2014. Boom. Done.

Do people still do Wordless Wednesdays in blogland? I was never very good at those things because I just can’t help myself when it comes to splooging words all over the Internet. However, I’m worn out today. Physically exhausted because I’ve got Shaun T and Jillian Michaels tag-teaming me every morning. Mentally exhausted from work and brainstorming cat themes. Emotionally exhausted because the Penguins shit the bed again this year in the Stanley Cup playoffs, but I think we all saw that coming. So here are some pictures that are (mostly) unrelated to the Dance Gavin Show, Chooch’s birthday party, or hanging out with my Michigan peeps (because they deserve a post of their own).

Marcy, watching her garden grow. This is some “strange plants” kit that I bought Chooch for Christmas two years and then he promptly lost in Hoarder Central, aka his bedroom. He accidentally found it the other day and now there’s weird shit growing. I’m excited for some reason!

One of Bill and Jessi’s gifts to Chooch was getting Gerard Way (My Chemical Romance, duh) to give him a shout out on Twitter. One of Gerard’s good friends is a regular at their comic book shop so they asked him if he could make it happen, and HE DID! And then Twitter exploded, haha. Of course, there were all of the kids replying to that, begging for their own birthday shout out (Gerard, I am so sorry!), and then there were all of the retweets and favoriting, and the occasional “Why is an 8-year-old going by the name douche cup?” But the funniest part to me is that now all of these people are following Chooch, who only used twitter once ever, in December 2012, when he said, “There. I tweeted.” He had gotten a Kindle for Xmas that year and I made him a twitter account so that he could talk to Bill, mostly. But he had no interest in it. Anyway, his twitter account is linked to one of my email addresses that I don’t use very often, and it is absolutely stuffed now with notifications of people who are still retweeting, favoriting and following Chooch, five days later. I wonder if people think that Chooch has parents in the music industry. I WISH.

Twitter is so funny.

Side note: the name “douche cup” comes from one time when Bill and Jessi were visiting, I think this was 2009, and Chooch didn’t like the way Bill was putting together a Lego set, so he called Bill a douche cup. There’s a whole book about it!

Anyway, thank you Gerard for making Chooch’s day!

Corey and I went to Coffee Buddha last week (ugh, it’s been one week since the DGD show already!) and I wanted to bathe in my maple curry latte. I wish I had one right now, while watching DGD perform in front of me. Sigh.

I have been obsessed with maple coffee ever since I had it for the first time last June when we visited Alyson in New Hampshire, but I have not had it since. (Thanks for nothing, Peet’s. You motherfucker.) I walked past two of my co-workers talking one night and when one of them mentioned that she was thinking about visiting New Hampshire, I spun around and cried, “THEY HAVE GOOD MAPLE COFFEE!” and then walked away before getting dragged into a conversation. (I needed to go back to my office and listen to the hockey game! Like it really matters now. MORE SIGHS.)

Brookline: Behind the Scenes.

When I was growing up, my dad would always yell “You make a better door than a window!” any time one of us would be blocking the TV. After awhile, it got shortened to “door than a window!” and we would know what he meant. I say this ALL OF THE GODDAMN TIME IN MY HOUSE.

Chooch’s LOLCat Party Attendees:

• Bill, Jessi and Tammy (all the way from Michigan for the meowtivities!)
• Corey
• Chris and Monica
• John, Jenn, Abby and Gavin
• Kara, Harland and Theo
• Christy, Claire, Anthony and Julia
• Kristy and Sarah
• Danielle, Cory and Ean
• Lisa and Gigi
• My dad
• My sister Amy, Dick and Brooke
• Kari and Katelyn
• Patty, Tim, Tim’s mom Sue and sister Kaylie
• Angie and Rachel
• Wendy
• Judy
• Red Sticky Hand
• Missy, Jim, Jemma and James
• Janna
• Owen
• Liam
• Lucy
• Sharyn
• Sophia and Olivia

I’m going to try and keep this short and sweet since there are so many pictures, but Chooch’s 8th birthday party went off without a hitch! Well, mostly. It rained the entire time. And I don’t just mean a light drizzle. It poured, and there was the occasional clap of thunder too, which was fantastic. So, OK, I guess that counts as a hitch, whatever a hitch even is. But the kids gave no shits about the spring downpour and ran around like maniacs, getting all disgusting and muddy. Their moms didn’t seem to care, so I decided that I shouldn’t care either. Which is hard for me, relinquishing care.

Decorating was super easy this year because I have finally surrendered to streamers. We just don’t get along, and it’s OK. No one cares about streamers anyway. I would like to add though that Henry had absolutely no hand in decorating because he so conveniently took an entire hour to pick up the cake and grab “odds and ends” at the dollar store. I interpreted this to mean that he parked his Faygo van in an alley somewhere and listened to the Frozen soundtrack.

Thank the lord I had Jessi, Tammy and Bill here to help. They are heaven sent! (Or “Michigan sent.” Whichever.) I can’t believe I just used such a cheesy description, but I am just THAT thankful for their extra helping hands, I guess. Get off my back.

Bill blew up balloons, which Tammy and Jessi hung with great care and precision. They don’t fuck around with balloon-placement.

Tammy and Jessi helped me decorate cat cookies the night before the party. It was actually a lot of fun (there was wine involved)! The cookies didn’t last long though—they were a big hit with the kids and approximately zero were left over! Pretty damn happy about that. Even though Pillsbury actually made them.

Originally, I wanted to make Grumpy Cat donuts using bakery donuts and then decorating them the rest of the way on my own, but it ended up being so humid on Friday night that it was a failed effort from the start. All the icing was dripping down the sides plus Henry bought the wrong kinds of donuts and if we hadn’t had company in the house, I probably would have used one as a boxing glove and sucker punched Henry in the mouth.

So, that’s what’s up with the Grumpy Cat sign up there.

These were my idea! PB&J cat heads in the house! Henry made them though because what do I know about Rice Krispie treats? Not a damn thing. It was so hard not to put them all in my mouth though when I was helping Henry press them into cat heads Saturday morning, because they smelled so goddamn good!!

I just wanted a reason to have a Marcy lookalike saying “Balls!” The kids ate the shit out of this jug like they’ve never seen a damn cheese ball before, and it was nuts. At first, they were using a serving spoon to fill cups with cheesy crack balls, but after awhile, it became a snack-fisting free-for-all. There was a little bit left in the jug by the end of the party, but I made the executive decision to pitch it, because—gross.

Every year, I get all nervous about the kids from Chooch’s school because I suck at talking to parents. But Bill reassured me that I was doing a great job after I talked to Owen’s mom in a (what felt like) effortless fashion because thankfully Chooch had gotten stung by a bee the day before on his way home from school, so I had something to talk about. “Thankfully.” You know what I mean!

Anyway, three cheers for being relatable for once.

And just as people started to arrive, Henry decided that it was time to start grilling, which he impressively dragged out into a three-hour task. HOW CONVENIENT.

I know, Gigi. That’s how I feel when I look at Henry, too

Here is where I was too tired to use the real camera anymore and relied entirely on my phone.

Thank god we had the foresight to buy these stupid cat things and provide crayons and markers because this kept the smaller kids happy and the bigger kids occupied when the rain started to fall too hard.

Meanwhile, Henry was grilling.

I think the children responded well to my sarcasm all afternoon.

My old office-neighbor, Angie. I MISS HER!! :( Also, she just ran the Pittsburgh Marathon, you guys. THE WHOLE THING.  She’s a beast.

Where was Henry? Oh, yeah: grilling.

FAMILY! I was so excited to have so much of it there. Here’s Henry’s mom and my cousin Cory. Not shown: Cory’s mom Danielle and brother Ean, my brother Corey, my dad (yay!), my sister Amy and her family. I was bummed that Henry’s sister and her kids couldn’t make it. It was really weird not having them there! But even still, this might have been the most family I’ve had under one roof in more than a decade, I’m not even joking right now. I know Chooch was too busy splashing around in the rain with his posse to care, but someday when he’s older he’ll get to look back on this and see that there are lots of people who love him. And for me, it showed that there is still hope for my side of the family. Maybe we all didn’t get to grow up together, but we’re together now and that’s pretty fucking cool. SORRY TO GET ALL SERIOUS AND HALLMARK CHANNEL. I’ll add more swears to my next blog post.

Chris and Monica sat at the kids table and loved it.

No sign of Henry! Must be grilling! I didn’t realize we even bought that much to grill so if your burger tasted weird, perhaps it was one of the guests who mysteriously didn’t show up.

Or just a squirrel.

Squirrel, why do you have to be so challenging to spell? I want to type “squireel” every single time.

OMG the cake. The goddamn cake. Those kids WOULD NOT STOP TOUCHING IT. And then someone  closed the lid because they were tired of the cake collecting fingerprints and no one told that person that the box wasn’t supposed to be closed because the cake would get smashed. OK THAT PERSON WAS ME, GOD! Sorry for ruining the cake! (Also, this is the first time I’m admitting it so now I’m starting the countdown to when Henry finds out.) SORRY SORRY SORRY!!

Anyway, when we decided on the cat theme, I knew right away that we had to get the cheeseburger cake from Bethel Bakery. It’s pretty legendary, but I never had a use for it before. Especially because I’m a vegetarian. (Although I guess we could pretend it was supposed to be a Boca Burger?) My plan was to order the burger cake and then print out the I Can Has Cheezburger cat to stick into the top of the cake, and it seemed to be a pretty big hit, so thank you Bethel Bakery and your novelty cake offerings.

“I always wanted the cheeseburger cake for my birthday!” my brother Corey sighed.

“Aw,” I deadpanned. “I guess your parents didn’t love you enough.”

And then we laughed because it’s true!

So then we all sang Happy Birthday and I had to fight my way to the front like I was at a Jonny Craig show, wtf he’s my kid, MOVE OUT THE WAY! MOM WITH A CAMERA COMING THROUGH! Kids get so clingy and possessive at birthday parties!

Henry was there long enough to light the candles and then disappeared. So everyone was standing there, about to riot because they wanted cake and they wanted it now, but no one was there to cut it! I started to panic and made eye contact with Sharyn’s grandma, who started cracking up.

“Where did he go?!” I cried, and she pointed over to the grill. (AGAIN WITH THE GRILL!) He does this shit to me every year, I fucking swear to god. So I had to do the bottom lip-jut and ask my cousin Danielle to take the cake by the reins, and she did just that! Thank god for Danielle! My mom was such an astute cake cutter, but she never thought to pass those skills on to her dumb daughter, I guess. One time, I had a birthday party for Lisa and was so frustrated when it came to cutting the cake, that I threw down the knife and started plating fistfuls.

Meanwhile, Corey somehow fell into the role of a babysitter while Christy went to pull her car down closer to the pavilion and he was panicking about it because he’s about as fluent in childcare as I am. Then when she came back, one of her kids was sitting at an entirely different table and had a piece of cake. I think Corey should start a nanny service as a real estate side gig!

Kristy’s wrap-job was one of my favorite parts of the day! AND SHE BROUGHT ME A PACK OF PEE WEE’S PLAYHOUSE CARDS. Later the weekend, Henry saw them sitting on the table and asked, “Who got Chooch the Pee Wee—–”

“THOSE ARE MINE!” I snapped before he could finish.

Here’s Bill making sure no sticky red hands try to take off with Chooch’s presents. He had a lot of fun interactions with the under-10 set that day and I think he should dust off the ol’ LiveJournal to tell us all about it.  Meanwhile,  the gift opening segment of the day was basically the only time Henry stepped in so I could actually talk to my friends for a hot minute. Apparently, Lucy and one of the twins had Chooch flanked and were assisting him, because deciding which present to open next is apparently rocket science.

I wasn’t there when this happened, but Henry supposedly made some comment about how nice it must be to have TWO girlfriends to help when he can’t even get ONE girlfriend to help and then Monica said something that he didn’t hear and I’m willing to bet it was hilarious so Monica, if you’re reading this and you remember this part of Rain Fest 2014, please tell me!

Corey was so excited to tell me that Lisa’s baby threw up on Janna.

“See that wet spot on Janna’s leg? THAT’S WHERE THE PUKE WAS!” and then we just started laughing uncontrollably. I was so excited about it that I high-fived him. This was the highlight of the day for me and I didn’t even get to see it!

One of the girls started crying near the end of the party (not because of me! She was scared because her grandma left) and I honestly was so awkward and uncomfortable about it. Only I’m allowed to cry at parties, you guys, come on now. Unfortunately, “go go, maternal instincts!” is not something that actually works for icy broads like me.

I should have just told her to go sit with Corey.

We only had one game planned, because there’s a playground next to the pavilion and anytime we’ve had parties in the park, the kids seem fine with free-form play. Plus, I don’t know how to do the whole “structure” thing. Can you imagine me being all, “Children! Children, come now! Time for ring around the rosy!” No, you can’t. But then we decided that in lieu of a litter box cake, which is overdone and just disgusting anyway, that we should have a game involving a litter box. So we filled this pan thingie up with sand (Henry bought the wrong kind and it was damp and sooooo gross to touch, which I guess is a good thing in this case) and then numbered a bunch of Tootsie Roll poop.

I spent ALL WEEK painstakingly wrapping dollar prizes with corresponding numbers written inside of cat heads. Just like the rubber duck game that pretty much all carnivals do. PRIZE EVERY TIME. Just not good prizes. But one of the prizes was more annoying than the other prizes.

I almost forgot about the game, so some of the kids had already left by this point (again: structure what now?), but I hurried up and made the rest of them sift around for poop, and then of course they all fought over the prizes they won and some of them kept begging to go again and asking if they could trade. Finally, I was like, “DO WHAT YOU WANT I DON’T CARE OMG” because kids, amirite? I can actually still hear them hounding me. AND WHERE WAS HENRY? Where indeed.

I don’t think Wendy kept her stupid prize. How insulting!

Everyone started heading out around 5. Lisa asked me to throw away a napkin that she had wrapped in plastic. “Be careful, Gigi’s puke is on that,” she warned. As I was walking toward the garbage can, I saw Janna sitting at a picnic table with Henry’s mom and I COULD NOT RESIST, HAD TO DO IT, NEEDED TO OR I MIGHT HAVE DIED.

“Hey Janna,” I said sweetly. “WANT SOME MORE OF THIS!?” and then I pretended to shove the pukey wad of napkin in her face, but it FELL OUT OF THE THING LISA HAD WRAPPED IT IN AND LANDED ON JANNA’S CHEST!

Holy shit, new highlight of the day!

This is what Chooch looked like by the end of the party. So damn disgusting. Aside from Bill throwing one of the guests out, it was a pretty drama-free party! Can I retire now?

When we settled on a LOLcat theme for Chooch’s party this year, there was only one thing that I knew we had to do. At the risk of being one of your typical Pinterest Moms, I wanted to have a photo booth-type set up where everyone could choose their own feline accoutrements. I was going to buy cat ear headbands on Etsy, but apparently those sons of bitches are infused with Jesus’s bone marrow and I wasn’t trying to bleed out any more money on this damn party. So Henry and I bought some plastic headbands for 49 cents and a few sheets of felt. Voila, cheap ass cat ear headbands. Go fuck yourself, Etsy.

But then I was like, “OMG WHAT WILL THE BACKGROUND LOOK LIKE?!!?” And of course at the last minute, it occurred to me to just use the image I designed for the back of the party invitations. Duh. And then Henry waited until the day of the party to print them all out and glue them to cardboard, because Last Minute is the only way we know.

I love this thing and hate it all at once.

Before the party started, I practiced on Jessi (who thankfully loves having her picture taken!). Ideally, I wanted to have the backdrop facing out of the pavilion so that everyone could stand/sit in the natural light, but it poured all afternoon without letting up once. We had to keep the backdrop inside the pavilion and if you’re like me and struggle with lighting and camera settings because you’re a fauxtographer, this is bad news bears. I really liked how this picture turned out with my real camera, but I knew that children at a birthday party were not going to be as patient as Jessi, so I just used my dumb iPhone for the rest of the pictures. And once I took my invisible OCD pills, it was fine. Really!

These are the things I stress out about. Honestly. Some days I can’t wait to be old and in a nursing home where all the things are planned FOR me.

OMG I GLUED THOSE WHISKERS ONTO THOSE STICKS ALL BY MYSELF!! Also: Chooch and I wore matching Warped Tour shirts and it made me really happy even though he was like, “I don’t really care, can I open presents now?” There were actually quite a few guests wearing cat shirts and it was so much fun!

I’m being smart and not posting pictures of Chooch’s school friends. It took 10 years of blogging to finally drill that through my thick skull.

Jesus, my friends and family are good sports! I wasn’t able to wrangle everyone, but I tried! My friend Elaine pointed out on Facebook that there isn’t one of Henry and FUNNY YOU SHOULD MENTION IT because that motherfucker somehow made grilling hamburgers and hot dogs into a 3-hour-long affair and was conveniently not involved in basically anything. Thanks for feeding me to the wolves, er, children.

Anyway, I know it’s not that big of a deal, but I really want Chooch to have good memories of his childhood, and memories are even better when they come with photographical evidence. These things are important to me.

More later! This broad is goddamn exhausted and having a terrible Monday.

Mother’s Day is always so bittersweet to me because of my strained relationship (and that’s being generous) with my mom. So many friends post beautiful photos of themselves with their awesome moms on Facebook, but I can’t hate them for that. They’re lucky to have a bond with their moms and I’m happy for them.

What I’m lacking on one end is more than abundant on the other: Chooch does a good job reminding me that he’s not mad about having me as a mom. I mean, look at his acrostic poem up there! Does that kid know me or what? All the way down to my love for “ovocados.”

So whatever kind of mom you are: bio, step, pet, foster or just the type of broad with natural maternal instincts that kick in when dumbasses like me are trying to cut/peel fruit at work, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY! I hope you’re getting some extra respect today.

ETA: Chooch asked me to put on Dance Gavin Dance’s “Strawberry Swisher Part 3” in the car, which obviously made my heart swell, so I mentioned it on Twitter because that’s where I put all of my emo updates, and then Dance Gavin Dance retweeted me. Happy Mothers Day to me, indeed! God, I love them so much.

It’s crunch time. Totally stressed out trying to get everything done (piñata’s not gonna make it, guys). Decided that stuffing treat bags is its own ring of parental hell and Henry and I have already had 87 fights while Chooch does NOTHING to help! Oh my god, we get it—a bee stung you on your stomach today. God, cry about it some more, why don’t you?

OH AND IT’S SUPPOSED TO STORM TOMORROW, THANKS “GOD.”

Anyway, I’m so agitated that I had to put on the Never Shout Never YouTube channel to chill me the fuck out. How can you be mad when your house is full of twee-ness?

We still have a million cookies to decorate and donuts to turn into Grumpy Cats, FUCKMYLIFEEEEEEEEE.

If Henry and I ever break up, I’m putting some sort of birthday party clause in the custody agreement. It’s all yours, dear HenHen!

And now you know what’s going on. Go Pens.

Special? Not really. But I thought it would be fun to do a Dance Gavin Dance show edition of the bullet point posts which have somehow turned into a weekly thing. My apologies, Internet colleagues. But yes, it really does make more sense to write about the show in bullet points because my mind and emotions were all over the map Wednesday night. But I woke up the next day feeling more refreshed than I would have after a day at the spa, sorry I’m not sorry but I actually am sorry that I typed out “sorry I’m not sorry.” OK, onward, fat girl. (Points if you know that.)

Henry being unhappy standing in line to get in.

• This show was May 7th at Mr. Small’s, which is my favorite venue in Pittsburgh and I haven’t seen DGD play there since 2009 when Kurt Travis was their singer (I’ve seen them numerous times since then, but just in different places), so I was really excited. Henry? Not so much. See above picture again if you need a visual.

• I remembered my ID this time so once we got inside, we went right for the 21+ area. The bartender informed us that the balcony was open for the night and Henry was like YES and I was like NO. Old people sit in the balcony. :(
• Henry whined a lot about being up since 3AM while I giggled and smiled at all of my DGD brethren.

Frowns for DGD.

• I was trying to remind Henry of the time we saw DGD last year because these shows all blend together for him. “Were they with these same bands?” he asked. “No, they were with A Lot Like Birds, remember? You hated them.” “There’s a lot of bands I hate,” Henry said dryly. “And I have to go see all of them.”
• I randomly got angry at Henry for not being a sound guy.
• Something came over me and I decided we could sit in the dumb balcony since Henry was tired and there was a lot of shit I needed him to do over the next few days for Chooch’s upcoming birthday party. It was kind of cool though because we essentially had the whole balcony to ourselves and there were no moms up there writing out shopping lists or reading Better Homes & Garden. Plus, I could actually see now, yay!

SOME LOCAL BAND

• Some local band that wasn’t on the bill ended up coming out first and I’m not going to say that they sucked because, you know, kudos to them for getting up there and doing their thing, but my god the singer NEVER STOPPED TALKING. They might as well just be a spoken word band. I got the impression that this was the first time they played somewhere other than Aunt Jackie’s garage, because during sound check, they were taking pictures and filming the crowd, and their enthusiasm was kind of embarrassing. But then the mom in me came out and I remembered that these are someone’s kids so then I felt bad.
  • “It sounds like they’re all playing all different songs. Why did they come out like they’re the headlining band?” Henry asked with concern.
  • One of their choruses sounded like “Make a crump mess.”
  • During one of the singer’s many monologues, he asked the crowd if any of us have parents who (indecipherable hoo-haa), to clap. I did not clap because I had a feeling  that the indecipherable hoo-haa had something to do with parents being supportive, and…no.
  • UGH TALKSOMUCH!
  • I started clapping and cheering REALLY LOUD at one point, but it was only because I was following along with the Pens/Rangers game on my phone and MALKIN SCORED, MOTHERFUCKERS. (Got to see the replay later and holy shit, Geno.)
  • They dedicated the last song to the Pens so I love them now.

Here is a picture of Henry sleeping during the local band, something Project.

• Henry realized that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. NOT MY PROBLEM.
• The crowd would sporadically bust out into “Let’s Go Pens!” cheers between bands and it made my heart swell. I don’t often love that community feeling, but when I do it usually has something to do with hockey. (NEVER THE STEELERS THOUGH.)
• Even after I let Henry sit in the balcony, he had the audacity to complain that the seats were uncomfortable. I posted this on Facebook, because I wanted the 25/450 people who haven’t hidden me yet from their newsfeed to see that Henry is an ungrateful cockface. Sandy commented and said that she has a portable seat cushion he could borrow for next time. “There won’t be a next time,” Henry muttered.
• Bleach Blonde was the next band. They were good. The singer reminded me of Adam Lazarra. Henry fell asleep again.
• But then Palisades came on and WOKE HENRY THE FUCK UP. I got really excited because I started putting two and two together and I realized that I watched one of their videos a few months ago and loved them immediately but then forgot about them, probably because I got distracted by Jonny Craig again. Anyway, I’m in love.
  • By the second song, I had totally lost my fucking mind and kept beating on Henry’s arm and screaming.
  • “I FEEL LIKE TAKING MY SHIRT OFF!” I screamed in Henry’s face, which turned into the perfect expression of horror, disgust and “Grow the fuck up.”
  • OMG DID I INGEST MOLLY?! THIS BAND IS SO FUCKING GOOD I WANT TO SCREAM!
  • Made a note to add 30 minutes of Palisades-inspired cardio to my fitness challenge total for the day.
  • AND THE SUTTER GOT A SHORTY SO I THOUGHT I THREW MY ARM OUT SOCKET WHEN I SHOT IT UP WITH ALL OF THE FORCE.
  • The singer Lou (WHO I AM NOW IN LOVE WITH OK) yelled, “Have you ever been judged for the clothes you wear (etc etc)? Then put your motherfucking hands up!” I kept trying to get Henry to put his hands up but he wouldn’t budge. “Put your fucking hands up, Henry, I fucking judge you all the time!” I screamed.
  • I posted a video of them on Instagram and THE SINGER LIKED IT OMGGGGGG SOCIAL MEDIA MAKING ME FEEL IMPORTANT AGAIN.
  • Yesterday at work, Barb said she watched my Instagram video of Palisades and it made her feel stressed out, LOLOLOL.

• Capture the Crown was next and Henry was like “Y SO MANY BANDS UGH” and then immediately hated his life once the singer started screaming. And it was my favorite kind of screaming too! Th ekind that gets real high like a screaming eagle and then super low and guttural like SATAN. So, I loved the screaming parts of this band, but I was otherwise bored and besides, it was the third period by then so I was pretty much 100% invested in my phone.
• PENS WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Henry went to the bathroom so I decided to hide from him under a table. I waited until I saw him down below, getting ready to come back up to the balcony, before taking my place. As soon as I saw legs enter our empty section of the balcony, I jumped out only to see that it was some broad instead. OF COURSE someone would pick that moment to come to our area after it had been empty all night. Henry was right behind her and was like, “Good. Good for you.”
• Motherfucking DANCE GAVIN DANCE YOU GUYS UGHHHHH!!!! Henry was like “PLEASE STOP!” because I was losing my shit and doing these weird screams that I have no idea where they were coming from and I was just going completely spastic while he sat very calm and still next to me.
  • They opened with The Jiggler which was perfect. I love this song so much because it reminds me of a circus:
  • Obsessed with Jon Mess. (If anyone wants to buy me one of his paintings for absolutely no reason at all, I wouldn’t be mad about it.)
  • Several other people came up the balcony at this point and some drunk hippie dropped his beer bottle on Henry which I totally missed and didn’t find out about until later.
  • TILIAN WAS ON POINT. He was even singing the Jonny Craig-era DGD songs so much better than the last time, but he totally killed it on the songs from the new album.
  • LEMON MERINGUE TIE!!!!!!!! UNEASY HEARTS!!!! CARVE!!!!
  • Honey Revenge is a song from the perspective of a stalker and Tilian made it even creepier live by making these precious faces when he would sing the lines “Oh, can’t wait to get you all alone.” He can stalk me any fucking day, dear god.
  • Crying right now. This band is so entangled with memories and emotions from 2008 that sometimes it feels like my heart is on fire when I listen to them.
  • I have stuck with DGD through three singers, the departure and return of Jon Mess, and various other line-up changes. But after that night, I have decided that this current DGD is my new favorite DGD. They just sound so cohesive and smooth together now. They will always be in my Top 5. I’m just sorry that more people don’t get how talented they are. Matt Mingus and Will Swan are extraordinarily underrated musicians.
  • On the way home that night, Henry said the next best thing to a marriage proposal: THAT HE LIKES DANCE GAVIN DANCE AND HAD A GOOD TIME. What world am I living in!? After 9 years, he has finally accepted that he has to share my heart with a bunch of dudes from Sacramento, I guess.
  • HASHTAG BLESSED ALL THE WAY HOME.

Anyway, last night Henry and I stayed up late watching DGD videos (he willingly did this!). “You can tell Tilian is a lot more comfortable now. He isn’t trying to sing like Jonny Craig anymore, he’s singing all of those old songs like himself,” Henry said in full seriousness and I almost died. Henry is making Dance Gavin Dance observations? I am so in love.

“I don’t like how Tilian dances, though,” he went on to say, killing the mood.

STFU, Henry.

Wendy texted me about a month ago because she saw a Groupon for some Pittsburgh ghost walk thing. She bought it and then told me I was going, because that is how my friendship with Wendy works: she fills my non-existent planner. We needed two other people for our group, and our friend Evonne was an immediate yes because paranormal is her thang. Finally, I was able to coerce Jeannie, which even Wendy was shocked when I presented her with Jeannie’s positive confirmation. Jeannie is a hater of all things that Wendy and I would possibly like, so we thought for sure her RSVP would be a “Fuck no.” But instead I got a reluctant “Fine.” I’ll take it!

Evonne picked me up and we were the first to arrive at the Omni William Penn downtown, which is haunted itself, but we were only just meeting the tour group out front because I guess the Omni doesn’t appreciate ragtag amateur ghost hunters scurrying through their fancy hallways.

That didn’t stop Evonne and me from utilizing their facilities,  though. PRE-GHOST TOUR THING SELFIE, WHADDUP UNWASHED HAIR. Then we went  back outside to try our best to not look like street walkers while waiting for Jeannie and Wendy to show up. Finally, I pointed to a small group of people standing next to the hotel entrance and said that they looked like they could be part of our tour. My clue was that one of the ladies was wearing tennis shoes, “like she’s prepared to do some walking,” I explained to Evonne. I’m a SLEUTH. We walked past them slowly, not at all suspiciously, and heard one of them say, “tour.”

And that is how we were acquainted with our tour guide, Andrew, with whom I felt an immediate kinship even though I fail at guiding people and have no clue what landmarks to point out when I’m showing visiting friends around. I found myself SMALL-TALKING with him and again I will ask you, my five Internet friends, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH ME? I think I might be outgrowing my surly, stand-offish years, god help us.

There’s this building I randomly stumbled upon last week when I was lost during one of my breaks at work, and the most I got out was, “I don’t know. I was walking down that Strawberry thing and then it was like bam, this brick apartment-looking this with a courtyard—-”

“The Harvard Yale Princeton Club,” Andrew answered without needing to know one detail more. “It’s actually right there,” he said, turning slightly and pointing down the street. I felt like the biggest Pittsburgh fraud ever. How have I lived here my whole life and worked in town for 4 years yet know so little? I guess because I just don’t give a shit.

Still waiting for Jeannie and Wendy, Andrew gave Evonne and me a brief run-down of what the tour was going to involve, which was mostly walking in a giant loop around part of the city and then concluding in the cemetery.

“Ironically, I just found out like two weeks ago that there’s a cemetery down here,” I word-vomited at Andrew and Evonne. “One of my co-workers was like, ‘What do you do on your break everyday, go sit in the cemetery?’ and I said I totally would if there WAS a cemetery down here! And that’s when I found out that I’m a dumbass.” I mean, I knew already I was a dumbass. But everyday I need a reminder. I honest-to-god walk past the cemetery EVERY DAY on my way to work and had no idea it was there.

Finally, our entire group was accounted for. In addition to the Wendy Party of 4, there was a family of 6: an older couple, their two daughters, and the daughters’ husbands (or husband and boyfriend, who knows, who cares). Because I can’t help but judge people instantaneously, I thought for sure the younger daughter was going to get on my nerves, but she was surprisingly quiet and inoffensive.

Andrew briefly introduced himself and gave us the condensed version of his credentials. He has a degree in art history, architecture and Pittsburgh history and is currently working on his Masters in parapsychology so I felt pretty confidently that we were in good hands. Also: HIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED.

When the tour officially commenced, I asked Jeannie if she was scared. “Should I be?” she asked dourly. God, Jeannie! I won’t go into extreme detail about the things we learned, mostly because I already forgot or was just straight not paying attention at times, but basically we would walk a block and then stop while Andrew told us about what Pittsburgh was like in the 18-somethings, with some actual accounts of ghost sightings thrown in here and there. One of the husbands was an extreme skeptic so Andrew made sure to explain that there were actual police reports backing up some of the weird shit people have seen in the Courthouse and the old jail. Or something like that.

We crossed lots of streets. I was glad that I had an entire entourage to buffet me because even though I might have recently boasted about suddenly being really good at crossing the street, I stepped out in front of a bus last week during my break at work, but my friend Natalie was thankfully there to pull me back onto the curb. I guess I just get overzealous sometimes, I don’t know.

“This building here used to be a brothel,” Andrew informed us, giving us some back-story about steel workers while I was hoping for something more brothelly. “And now it’s a law firm, as you can see.”

“So, people are STILL getting screwed in there,” one of the husbands said, and it even made me laugh kind of.

“Let’s hope there aren’t any lawyers in our group!” Andrew laughed.

“Oh, just two of us,” Jeannie chimed in sweetly, and we all laughed harder. (I don’t think Wendy heard though.)

Jeannie did seem genuinely stoked about getting to walk through a part of town that she never really goes to, so I made sure to make a mental note of that in case she tried to say later that it wasn’t worth her precious time.

We were on this one street where you could see things across the river and Andrew was like, “Do you guys see that big black shape in front of the Hard Rock sign?” and everyone was like “duh…what now?” but I knew what he was talking about!

“You mean that furnace thingie?” I asked and he was like, “Yeah sure” because I guess “furnace thingie” isn’t the right name for it. But the point is that back during the steel workin’ days, those things were filled with molten steel and if a person were to fall into it, their body would actually vaporize and then the steel workers would have to shave off a layer from the top to present to the widow so the family would have something to bury. Anyway, there was a particular story he was telling us about this happening to some dude and afterward I whispered to him, “Wait…I’ve climbed into that thing before. Am I OK?”

“Oh, you’re fine! That story happened in a different one, down there,” he said, waving down the river.

OK. I hope he wasn’t patronizing me. SOMETIMES IT’S HARD TO TELL.

Anyway, Andrew told us that he has actually come across some of those death tainted slabs of steel at estate sales and has had to tell the owners that they need to bury that shit post haste. Now I want to go looking for some!

The further we delved into our historical walk, the more annoying the other daughter got. For instance, we were reminded a number of times that they were here for her stupid birthday. And then when Andrew mentioned the date 1978 in one of his stories, she butt in to dramatically inform all of us that OMG THAT WAS THE YEAR SHE WAS BORN. Can you even believe it?! What does it MEAN!? 

I think it means all 35-year-olds on the tour need to think about shutting the fuck up.

A few minutes, we were standing on a corner near an SUV at a red light. Andrew was annoyed because he wasn’t able to talk to us over top of the SUV’s thumping bass line.

“It’s Wiz Khalifa!” the annoying broad screamed. At first I thought she meant the music, but then she said, “Because he’s from here, you know?” and then I realized that no, she was just being an asshole, because of course a random black guy driving an SUV with tinted windows would be Wiz Khalifa. God, STFU so hard! It was starting to feel like I was walking around with my 20-year-old self.

Dear Friends From 14 Years Ago,

I am so fucking sorry.

Love,

Slightly-Toned-Down Erin

By the end of the tour, we had almost made a full loop back to the start, but first we had to stop at the cemetery. Andrew and I walked together and he asked me if I was OK.  I had briefly explained to him earlier in the tour that while I’ve never actually been slimed or seen an apparition, I do spend a lot of time in various cemeteries and sometimes even the ones that are like home to me leave me feeling a bit uneasy and paranoid. There have been times when I’ve rolled up, gotten out of my car, felt that old familiar skin-prickle and then promptly turned around and left. There’s one cemetery in particular that I just don’t even bother going to alone anymore, where I have actually shivered and felt cold on 90 degree summer days. I’m not sure if I necessarily believe 100% that anything will ever happen to me, but I also know that I don’t want to tempt fate or fuck with any dead shit.

Especially after Andrew told us that one time he didn’t close the circle or something and someone was pushed down the church steps.

It was a little after 10PM when we got to the church that I pass every single day on the way to work. There were several homeless people all set up for the night and it was kind of awkward. Like, “Hey, I know you just fluffed your cardboard slat, but we’re going to tromp all over it right now and stand in a circle. Sweet dreams.” I don’t know, I felt like maybe we shouldn’t have been there at all. I’m sorry, homeless church dwellers :(

Some of us took a moment to take some pictures of the church. Birthday Bitch held up her phone at my group and, I’m not fucking joking, bragged about what an unbelievable picture she had just taken and that, “I can totally text it to all you, you’re welcome!” So Evonne held up her own phone and showed BB that she had basically gotten the same shot, which was similar to my own (above).

There’s one in every group, isn’t there?

Since I was Andrew’s favorite, I got to hold his hand when we did the circle thing. And Jeannie was to my right so I was sincerely grateful that I didn’t have to hold hands with anyone from the other group because I just didn’t have that kind of humanity left in me at that point in the night.

There weren’t enough dowsing rods for everyone, so Andrew asked for volunteers. I started to raise my hand but Birthday Bitch cried, “ME ME ME IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” and practically cut off Andrew’s hands for them. He gave me a set next, one pair each for Evonne and Wendy, and then BB’s husband.

“This would be a good time to take pictures,” Andrew suggested. You know, the whole orb thing.

“Jeannie, will you take pictures for me?” I whispered, since I was too busy intently holding my rods.

She sighed and brought out her phone.

At this point, Andrew started asking general questions, like, “Is anything with us tonight?” I was hoping that George Washington’s BFF, who is buried in that cemetery OMG, was there. BB’s husband’s rods started to cross, and mine completely went haywire, turning all the way back around onto themselves until they were pointing over my shoulders.

“Hmm,” Andrew said. “Tell it to let it go.” So BB’s husband started singing that dreaded song from Frozen which made his whole dumb family crack up.

“WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO HIM WHEN I’M THE ONE WHO BELIEVES!?” BB cried, until her rods eventually started to cross too, prompting her to BABY TALK the spirits. It was grotesque.

I think she was really started to wear on Andrew, and he gradually lost control of the situation. There were so much commotion among their own private group that no one was really listening when Andrew was trying to ask questions, but when everyone’s rods veered over to my direction, you best believe attention was had.

“WHY ARE THEY ALL POINTING AT HER?!” BB screeched. “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!”

Yes, we know. We’re not calling you Birthday Bitch for nothing! God.

I was just starting to feel like maybe I was possessed and all of these rods were quietly jabbing their accusations at me, when it started to rain.

“Jeannie,” I whispered. “Can you put my hood up for me?”

She sighed again. BUT SHE DID IT.

The rain kept falling progressively harder and ended up killing the circle. So Andrew said. I think he was totally frustrated with Birthday Bitch at that point and just wanted to wrap it up. It was just as well, because all I could think about was the homeless people who had nowhere else to go and I know, me and my stupid bleeding heart, but I hate seeing a person down like that. I already felt like an asshole standing right next to them and certainly would have felt like the world’s biggest douchebag if we got to the point where we started asking the spirits questions.

Andrew said a prayer to close the circle, and we all walked back to the Omni in small clumps, Jeannie and I with Andrew.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he apologized. “Once he started singing that Disney song, it was pretty much over.”

We understood.

“Do you want me to show you the Harvard Yale Princeton Club?” he asked, and of course I wanted to and surprisingly No Fun Jeannie said she wanted to come along as well. So after the other group parted ways with us (Wendy and Evonne had already made it back to the Omni without us; what if we had been overpowered by cemetery spirits? THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT WAS HAPPENING WHILE THEY WALKED SUPER FAST AHEAD OF THE GROUP!), Andrew busted out his ghost hunting flashlight and I’m sure we didn’t look suspicious at all, poking around the dark courtyard of some prestigious club while Jeannie nervously hung back by the gate. I was glad that she was there though because some of my common senses started to trickle in after the fact and I figured it probably wasn’t the brightest idea to go traipsing around in the dark with a stranger. So, thanks for chaperoning, Jeannie!

Andrew finally returned us back to Wendy and Evonne and then we didn’t tip him because we’re all assholes who don’t carry cash. I felt so bad about it that I contacted the person in charge of the ghost walk company on Monday and told them  how fantastic Andrew is and how we felt like cheap motherfuckers for not tipping him except that I said “jerks” instead of “motherfuckers” because I’m trying to be more classy in my correspondence with people.

But let’s be real: if I had any spare cash, it would have gone into the hands of the homeless people first. God, I’m so terrible, I know!

My overall opinion of the tour is that it was a fun way to spend a Saturday night. I enjoyed walking around town at night and learning more about my city so that maybe now I’ll be able to tell my out-of-town friends things when they’re here instead of shrugging like I have a tic. But as far as the ghost-portion goes, I would recommend going on actual ghost hunts with local paranormal groups* because we didn’t really get to much investigating on this one.

*(When I went to an abandoned school with a local ghost hunting group in 2011, that was the real deal and I was legit scared. It was a really interesting experience, to say the least.)

After parting ways with Andrew, the four of us capped off the night with food and drinks at the Omni and it was good, you guys. It was so good that I somehow got drunk off two glasses of wine and then proceeded to puke my head off the next morning. Regurgitated wine or spirit expulsion: we may never know.

****

On Monday, A-ron asked me what I did over the weekend.

“Jeannie didn’t tell you?” I asked, acting appalled. (Musical side note: “Act Appalled” is one of my all-time favorite Circa Survive songs.) “I don’t know why she’s so embarrassed!”

“I guarantee you that she loved it and probably went home and journaled about it,” A-ron reassured me.

Now I want to do shit to make her think her office is haunted.

TONIGHT!!! I requested off work for this show  the minute it was announced several months ago.

So stoked the day is finally here. DGD 4L*, y’all, Jonny Craig or no Jonny Craig. Meanwhile, Henry is walking around today sucking on an imaginary shotgun. Fuck your life, right Henhen?

(I have honestly never called him “Henhen” before but I think it’s going to be my New Thing.

)

If they play this song, I’ll cry. And if they don’t play this song, I’ll cry.

In other news but not-really-news, I still have to write about the ghost tour of Pittsburgh I went on last Saturday with Wendy, Evonne and Jeannie but all I really want to do right now is stare at a wall.

*(It’s only a matter of time before I get that tattooed inside my bottom lip.)

Saturday, despite being full of crazy spring storms, was a really nice day all around. First, we had a birthday party to attend for my cousin Danielle’s mom, Janet.

To quickly back-story this bitch up, I don’t have much of a family. My immediate family (i.e. my mom and her side) pretty much kept to themselves, and because of this, I never had a chance to forge any real relationships with extended family members like cousins and great-aunts and uncles. About four years ago, I somehow saw my second-cousin Danielle on Facebook. We’re related because her dad was my grandma’s brother. He died young, before I was even born, so I sadly didn’t get to know him at all, and because of that, I barely got to know Danielle. I hadn’t seen her since I was probably about 4 years old, and she would have been a pre-teen? Teenager? Possibly we may have attended some of the same weddings in the 80s and 90s? I’m not even sure. But I took a chance and sent her a friend request, and suffice it to say, it has been really nice reconnecting with her over the last 4 years.

When Danielle invited us to her mom’s birthday party, I was hesitant because I don’t think I have ever met her mom and, well, I’m incredibly awkward at parties. But in the end, Henry, Chooch and I went and immediately befriended Ruth, an old neighbor of Danielle and her mom’s. Ruth reminded me of what  my grandma might have been like if she actually wanted to purposely talk to me in public. I liked her a lot. So Henry and I sat at a picnic table, listening to Ruth talk about the different sorts of wildflowers she spotted along the perimeter of the pavilion, while waiting for Janet’s arrival.

Another guest arrived and placed a gigantic potted plant down on the gift table.

“Oh, that’s really pretty,” I cooed robotically. And then to Henry I whispered, “My social cues told me to say that.”

“You don’t have social cues,” Henry sighed.

I’m really improving my small talk game these days. Just this morning, I accidentally struck up a conversation with some broad as we crossed Brookline Blvd together and then got stuck into walking an additional three blocks with her, talking about Pittsburgh weather, camping and my kid’s upcoming birthday party.

I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Finally, Danielle’s son Cory rolled up with the chicken and the lady of the hour. Everyone was like, “Yay!” and I was yay’ing too except that I felt like a fraud, you know? But then, after greeting some other guests, Janet came right over to me, gave me a hug and said, “You look familiar…”

“I don’t really know what this makes me to you, but I’m Valerie [blahblah’s] daughter,” I explained with a slight hesitation. Our family sitch is awkward and complicated—like most people’s, I know. But the amount of “write-offs” over the years have left one dead and ugly family trees on my generation’s hands.

Janet gasped a little bit and exclaimed, “You look like her!” Then she looked at Henry and asked, “And…is this your husband? Boyfriend? No, never mind. I don’t need to know!” she waved it off as my mouth started to form my signature “HE WON’T MARRY ME” catchphrase. And then she sat down with us and we talked about the family and it was pretty amazing, I won’t lie. I hoped that maybe she had some memories of my birth dad (I have a post about him pending), but she said that she didn’t really know much about him other than he gave my mom a real hard time.

I mean, that’s one way of putting it.

Suddenly, the calm Saturday air was disrupted by the cacophony of a fleet of motorcycles roaring down the path to the pavilion. I figured it was a bunch of bikers looking for a place to turn around, until Janet casually said, “Oh, here come the Pagans.”

WAIT, WHAT.

So it turns out my other cousin Skip is a member of the Pagan bike gang and they made quite an entrance. I was terrified yet entranced and did not make eye contact with any of them the whole afternoon because god forbid I should pull some terrible Pee Wee Herman-esque faux pas and wind up being lifted off the ground by a hand around my neck. I knew little to nothing about the Pagans until I Googled them later and then gulped.

When Janet’s sister and brother-in-law arrived, she introduced them to me right away and they were like “OMG” because it seems like as soon as you say the S-word (my mom’s maiden name) around certain people, it’s like RECORD SCRATCH.

“Are you hungry?” Janet asked me. “Go eat!” My favorite words!

What a great afternoon. I got to stuff my face with good food, cookies, and cake made my Ruth’s daughter; take a bunch of photos of Henry looking dumb with food; and get to know a little more about my enigmatic family. I hope I get to see Janet again soon because she is awesome and now I want her to be friends with Henry’s mom.

And I still don’t know what relation she is to me. 6th cousin? Lady person? My cousin’s mom? Great cousin? Great aunt?

It all started out innocently enough. Henry, Chooch and I walked to the Boulevard on Sunday afternoon for some ice cream. Typical.

I got birthday cake and red velvet. I spent the morning barfing (not pregnant, don’t even!) so I earned two scoops.

Usually, there are Young People scooping out ice cream with a moderate dose of disdain, but on this day, it was an old lady who used to make occasional appearances back when Scoops was known as (the beloved) Boulevard Ice Cream. She asked me if I wanted the kids size or regular, and I was like, “REGULAR. I’M A GROWING GIRL, DUH” but my regular scoops looked suspiciously on par with Chooch’s kids sized scoops so I don’t know if I should feel offended, ripped off, or both.

And then Henry ordered the octogenarian delight of Spumoni.

“We’re out of spumoni,” Elder Scooper spat with not even a fleck of remorse.

“OK, um…” Henry stalled, squinting at the chalkboard list of flavors behind her.

“Don’t look at that list!” she scolded. “Look at the cases.”

Chooch and I lost our fucking minds over this. It was the funniest thing ever, Henry being deprived of the one flavor he really wanted.

I don’t even know what he ended up getting. Chocolate almond or something, who even cares.

We sat on a bench outside, enjoying our ice cream, while Chooch openly criticized a man for delivering ice cream cones to his caravan (I’m not joking, he rolled up in minivan that was stuffed to the gills with children) as each cone was made, instead of bringing them out all at once.

“Do you even know how hard that would be to carry them all at once?” Henry yelled, probably thanking his stars that he only has two needy children to serve and not a whole van like Mr. Avuncular Abductor over here at Scoops. “Not to mention, all the ones that were first made would start melting!” But Chooch didn’t want to hear it and continued to run his mouth every time the man walked RIGHT PAST US. Not awkward at all. Finally, we had the bright idea to get up and start walking before a scene was caused.

We crossed the street and Chooch said, “Hey Mommy, I’ll race you to that ATM sign.”

I looked up ahead at the sign and considered it. “No, I don’t want to race. I don’t feel well today.” Then I waited until Chooch wasn’t paying attention and took off. That’s my M.O. and it’s not cheating! It’s being a smart competitor.

So Chooch is all, “Hey wait up!” and I can hear his dumb feet slapping the pavement behind me and then all of a sudden: extreme pain in the back of my right arm and stars in my eyes.

I’VE BEEN SHOT! I heard myself say in that slow-motion, underwater voice I’ve been hoarding explicitly for when I get shot. I knew it was just a matter of time. A list of suspects blew before my eyes: Purple Pants. Cheerleader Girl. Tourette’s. Happy Post Office Worker. Any number of Catholic School parents. And in that same instance, a bottle of Gatorade ricocheted off my arm, coating the sidewalk with a small blue tidal wave as it exploded against the pavement.

I stopped. I assessed the scene. I hadn’t been shot after all. Someone’s asshole son had hurled a bottle of blue drank at me in a vicious attempt to slow my pace. Oh wait—-MY ASSHOLE SON.

“Why would you do that!?” I cried in that scary high-pitched almost-dog-whistle tone that mom’s get when they’re torn between red levels of hostility and wanting to cry fat tears of self-pity. I hesitantly touched my searing, throbbing wound to check for blood or a protruding bone.

“Because he’s crazy,” mumbled an old man who had just happened to be walking over the scene of the crime to get to his apartment. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!

Chooch shrugged. “I just wanted you to slow down.” He had that nervous trill to his voice, like he wasn’t sure if I was going to extract my witch’s broom from my asshole and start beating him with it in public.

Oh, speaking of “in public”: We were in public. There were enough people milling about that I was trying to keep it classy, but I couldn’t help it. I am sensitive! Physically and mentally! He hurt the tender part of my arm right above my elbow and more importantly: he hurt my feelings and my ego, you guys!

With the tender moment we shared when Henry was denied spumoni fading away faster by the second, I hissed, “I hate you! How could you do that to me!?” to him like he had literally stabbed me in the back. I started to storm off before he could answer, while Henry was all, “You shouldn’t say that to him” in a bored “I’m reading this from the book I wrote about all the things you do wrong as a parent” cadence.

I spun around on my heels and glared at him. “HE HURT ME ON PURPOSE!”

“No he didn’t,” Henry sighed in tandem with Chooch’s maniacally defensive squeal, “NO I DIDN’T!”

“YOUR BIRTHDAY PARTY IS CANCELED!” I empty-threatened.

I started to storm off again. We walked past all of the happy people happily eating their happy tacos on the sidewalk at Las Palmas and I hated them and all of their stupid un-Gatorade-injured happy bodies. Then we approached Pitaland and Henry hesitated at the entrance.

“I thought we were going in to get dates?” he asked.

“GO FUCK YOURSELF,” I cried as more people leisurely strolled by. If I could have climbed out of my body at that moment, I think the sight of my deranged woman-on-edge self would have made me die of embarrassment. But basically, it was a good day for fitting in in Brookline!

“What did I do?” Henry asked.

“YOU JUST STOOD THERE AND DIDN’T CARE THAT YOUR SON TRIED TO MURDER ME WITH GATORADE!”

I mean, what if that big, dangerous bottle had hit my head and I got a concussion, or worse: KNOCKED OUT A TOOTH? I couldn’t believe how lightly Henry was taking this terrible situation. Who knows who will be next on Chooch’s list! Hide yo kids, hide yo Gatorade, guys.

“I told him to apologize. He didn’t mean to do it. What else do you want me to do in the middle of Brookline Boulevard!?” So then Henry did that thing that he does where he gets mad at me for being mad at him, and then I get more mad because I was mad first and now he’s trying to encroach on my bubble of madness, so then we were all mad and Chooch was like, “This is stupid, guys; let’s move on” but I hadn’t been able to fully perform my tantrum yet, so I sped up real fast and walked home a full block ahead of those motherfuckers, with my arms crossed and lips in full-fledged pout-position. I might have been crying too, but you’ll never know.

(Unless you were driving on Pioneer Avenue around 3:00 on Sunday.)

I eventually calmed down, maybe it was the sweet Mormon missionaries and their impeccable timing at handing me a prayer card on my walk home. I kept trying to keep up my mean-muggin’, but then I would start to laugh because I can’t stay made at those assholes for long, even after one of them assaults me with sports beverage. But I wouldn’t let those two forget about what they did to me.

“Oh excuse me, but why was it OK for you and Chooch to fall to the ground in laughter after he kicked me in the crotch last week?” Henry cried after my 87th reminder that he failed me as a fake-spouse/parental-partner today.

“Well, that’s different,” I shrugged. “That’s basically part of your life now and it’s not my fault you haven’t accepted it.”

And then he looked at my arm and sighed, “Oh my god, there is nothing even THERE.”

Yeah...yet.

I mean, aside from that and the aforementioned puking session, it was a great fucking day. And most importantly: I won the race. Cheaters always win, y’all.

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

“And somewhere, on someone else’s blog…” was Barb’s response when I was recounting the whole gritty story to her today.

(My arm is BRUISED and it HURTS today, in case anyone not named Henry cares.)

[ed.note: before anyone criticizes my mothering, let me just say that having objects chucked at my person by my child is not standard practice in our house. This was just one of those things, you guys, and he sincerely apologized to me numerous times before I finally accepted, ha ha. OMG bad days happen! Parenting isn’t perfect! Who knew?!]

Enjoy!!

Timeout for frosted marshmallows, y’all!

It’s Friday, motherfingers! (Sorry. I wanted to see what it felt like to not swear constantly. It was…eh.) Anyway, who gives a shit really, but it’s BULLET TIME, WHAT. These free-flow posts have been so cleansing and therapeutic for me. Thank you for being my imaginary team of therapists.

• Here’s a little known fact about me and it will probably really take you by surprise, so prepare thyself: I am able to competently peel hard boiled eggs. Without mangling them, even. Would I prefer someone else do it for me? FUCK YES.
• I’m still going strong with my Simpsons: Tapped Out addiction and I do believe it’s the longest an iPhone game has ever held my attention rapt. The Easter update is still happening, and at first I was super sad about having to squish rabbits for eggs, but then I remembered Rudy (that motherfucker) and suddenly I was stabbing my fingertip against the phone screen.
• “Beverly Hills” by Weezer was on the radio when I walked into my bedroom this morning and I had to turn it. I can tolerate most music that’s played on our alternative station here in Pittsburgh, but I just can’t with Weezer, and that usually makes people angry with me. Because if I say “I like emo” then obviously that means I’m a huge Weezer fan, right? Wrong. When I say “I like emo” I’m thinking of Appleseed Cast, Jejune (<3!!!!), early Jimmy Eat World, Get Up Kids, etc. Not motherfucking “Buddy Holly.” I went through a phase many years ago when I thought that Weezer was an important band to have in a music collection, so I made sure to buy all their dumb albums as they released them (I stopped after that green one though), but then I finally grew up and came to terms with the fact that I don’t have to adore every band that music magazines tell me to. And that is OK, you guys. We can all still play Ring Around the Rosie together! I don’t have germs!
  • What really made me dislike Weezer even more was when Rivers (who doesn’t impress me, sorry) wrote THE WORST SONG EVER for one of my FAVORITE BANDS EVER, Cold. It’s called “Stupid Girl” and it makes me fucking sick. Cold went on tour with Weezer once and had to drop off because all of the shitty Weezer fans were throwing things at them. Assholes. (Granted, what a horrible pairing…but still. Heckling the opening band is such a douche move.)
  • Speaking of “songs I have to turn off”: A few weeks ago, I was on some music forum and someone replied to me, “Do you remember Alien Ant Farm?” I was like, “Dude, I’m from Pittsburgh. Our alternative radio station won’t let us forget Alien Ant Farm.” Seriously, every goddamn day I hear it. (I keep that station on in my bedroom though because it’s the official radio station of the Penguins and I like to hear the hockey bullshit, OK? Get off my back!
  • I have a bunch of Emo Diaries CD compilations that I am going to dust off this weekend. Thank you, Weezer.
• The Law Firm has started using this corporate media site called Yammer, which is basically like the most boring Facebook ever. A bunch of us were being all faux-enthusiastic about it the other day until we quickly realized that the whole Firm could see what we were doing (note: it wasn’t anything unlawful, but still…totally creepy) so now we’re all mute. I’m excited to see how long it takes someone to get in trouble for Yammer abuse. I have learned enough lessons over the last year and a half for that someone to not be me.
• Do you guys watch hockey? This is the best time of the year for hockey fans. I love the Stanley Cup play-offs so much, I can’t even explain it. Sure, I’m sick to my stomach almost constantly (you know, until the Penguins inevitably get knocked out), but there is just so much to see and scream at! Last night was the first game of Round 2 between the Bruins (HATE THEM) and the Canadiens and it was fucking fantastic. However, an incredible 2 OT win by the Canadiens was overshadowed by a bunch of hateful Bruins fans tweeting disgusting racist remarks about P.K. Subban, the Canadien who won the game. There was one time a few years ago when I had my own tweet about Subban, something to the effect of “Get fucked, Subban” after he scored on the Penguins and that’s how I vent: tweet meaningless shit like that or punch Henry in the head. Anyway, I was retweeted a few dozen times by Habs fans, calling me a racist, hashtagging things like #racistPittsburghfans, etc. If you didn’t know who Subban was and you saw my tweet, would you assume he was black? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Because his ethnicity and skin color were not even a PARTIAL factor of why I was ragging on him.  I think when it comes to sports, it’s inevitable that fans are going to get maniacal with their social media blithering, suggesting that perhaps Alex Ovechkin choke on a dick, but to make it a racial thing? Why? What’s the point? These Bruins fans went too far and it makes me sick. Go watch football, you fucking meatheads. Keep hockey classy.
  • I also hate it when people cheer when a player they dislike gets seriously injured. When Sidney Crosby suffered a concussion a few years ago, there were jackass-y t-shirts made to “commemorate” it. So gross. Much trash.
  • Anyway, the Penguins are miraculously still in contention and they have their first game of the second round tonight against the Rangers. God help us.
• I found this group picture of me and some of my friends at Chooch’s third birthday party and it brought back all kinds of fun memories, except that it made me remember the girl in the purple who turned out to be su-hoooooo-per annoying. And it made me miss Alisha, but while I will always care about her a ton, some friendships just don’t last. I want to say something like, “Thank god I grew up and finally accepted that!” but…wah. I have also been thinking about her a lot because she was my #1 hockey-watching pal when the Penguins won the Cup in 2009, so she’s always in the back of my mind during this time of year. God, why can’t we all just be compatible with everyone!?
  • I had to email a secretary earlier about Chrome not being compatible with one of the applications we use here and I couldn’t for the life of me remember how to spell “compatible.” I type “c” and then just stared at the screen with my tongue slightly protruded. Then I figured it out so now I just want to show off about it. COMPATIBLE.

•  If you don’t work with me, you won’t think this is funnay (or funny) at all, but I’m going to talk about it anyway. (In my head, I’m saying these things while I type.) My office-thing-mate is this guy named Patrick. I think he’s about my age, and we get along decently, but sometimes I can’t tell if it’s OK to joke with him. Like sometimes he’ll just be like, “OK *stern stare*” and I slink back to my office-thing. Anyway, I was walking to work yesterday and I thought to myself, “Why is Patrick wearing that hair piece? OMG that’s not Patrick” but you guys, it looks so much like if Patrick were 50 that I didn’t have to say anything to my co-workers about it and they KNEW EXACTLY why I took this picture. (Honestly, A-ron just walked past my office-thing and thanked me again for risking my life for something we can all pee our pants over.) Patrick stands JUST LIKE THAT and had that same face! Just, no pot-belly and no toupee. He has regular guy-in-his-30s hair. I mean, even the director of the department laughed REALLY HARD when I showed her. Finally, Nate backed me up and I showed Patrick the picture. For a few seconds, he said nothing. I squirmed. Then he said, “Ok…so this is how you see me.” I quickly argued, “No, not NOW! This is like, FUTURE YOU!” while Nate and our co-worker Cheryl also chimed in. Finally, Patrick started laughing REALLY HARD and I was able to breathe again. Dude’s been to Iraq, OK? I don’t want to anger him. Anyway, I’m posting it here because he looks like a fucking giant because of the way I took the picture, so even if you don’t know Patrick, it’s still amusing. EVEN HENRY KIND OF LAUGHED.  I want Patrick to use this as his Yammer profile picture, so whenever he’s training a secretary and she wants to follow him on Yammer, this is what she’ll see:

 Future Patrick

 Present Day Patrick

• Henry got me all these pouches of fancy apple stuff the other day and they are pretty good. This picture is sideways and I don’t feel like fixing it:

• My co-worker Barb broke a fifth of vodka all over her office floor last night, so that was exciting. I was Helpful by fetching her a roll of paper towels and then watching her mop it up.
• The Emo Diaries compilations are on Spotify!! So that is what I’m listening to now until the hockey game starts. God, I have to pee just thinking about it.
• Tomorrow night, Wendy, Evonne and me are going on a ghost tour/investigation around downtown Pittsburgh and I’m so stoked that I roped Jeannie into going with us too! I think her brand of dry sarcasm will perfectly balance Wendy’s joy, Evonne’s paranormal sensitivity and my extreme giddiness. Jeannie doesn’t seem stoked about this at all, but she lives downtown and basically just has to step out her building’s front door, so NO EXCUSES!
• You know what is really insane? The Insanity workout. Holy fuckkkkkk. I found some of them on YouTube and let’s just say my body feel likes a slinky this week, but I didn’t give up! Not even after I puked, swallowed it, puked again and spit it out the front door. The things I do for my Fitness Challenge team.
• Chooch’s birthday party is in one week! I’m really excited for this one. I love that he has grown-up friends too so we can have one big bash with them and also his actual kid friends. This weekend, Henry and I are going to be working on a cat-themed photo backdrop and cat-ear headbands for photo props. I might have to use a hot-glue gun. :(
• Here is a picture I took during my walk downtown yesterday:

• Oh shit, something really gross happened earlier today: Glenn and I had a civil conversation. I know, what the fuck. It must be all the Insanity. Anyway, later on, I was over at Barb’s desk when Glenn walked by and, simultaneously, we blurted out to Barb, “We had a normal conversation!” Barb was like, “Ew, why?” And I said, “Well, because he’s the only one here who watches “The Following” and I needed to talk about it.” So now Glenn feels used, which is good because he stole the mix tape blanket that Kendahl made me, which means he was skulking around in my office-thing, ugh! (I have the blanket back, don’t worry Kendahl!)
• Race Car Riot!
• I think that’s all I have to say. If I think of anything else, I’ll come back and add it, which is what I do with every other blog post I write. I don’t know why I bother hitting “Publish” because I am honestly NEVER DONE. I promise you that if you read something right away, there will be eight more paragraphs later on, so you’re probably better off reading immediately. I think a great summation of Oh Honestly, Erin would be ” tl;dr.”
  • Barb, tl;dr means “too long; didn’t read.”

Today is Throwback Thursday and I was going to write about something that requires me to go to a dark recess of my mind, and not that I’m adverse to that, but…time and a place, am I right? And that time and place is late at night, at home, with wine. So instead, since I’m at work, I went for the most vapid topic that popped into my head.

A fight over a phone.

Henry moved in with me a little less than a year after we started dating. (Or, as Henry would say it: “GOYYYYYYNG together.”) Let me just say right there that aside from the occasional house guest overstays, I had always lived alone from the time I moved out of my parents’ house at 18. So here I was, almost 23 and theoretically ready to settle down. Except that I went out of my way to make Henry feel 100% unwelcome. I was so used to being independent, and I didn’t want to give that up. (No really, try to imagine me as an independent person, because that Erin briefly existed.)

For starters, I kicked him out so many times that he kept all of his clothes in garbage bags for at least the first year he “lived” with me. Look, when I was in my 20s, my chemicals were as imbalanced as a J-cup on a 90 pound broad. Like, one time Henry ordered pizza from a place I had never ordered from before (I’m a bitch about pizza) even though I told him, “Hey, here is my list of 2 places you’re allowed to order pizza from.” Anyway, he ordered a pierogi pizza and IT HAD ONIONS ON IT so I flipped over the dining room table.

This was only about 6 months into our relationship, but he stayed, you guys. He stayed. So don’t “Poor Henry” me!

Sometimes, we reminisce about the Early Years and act bewildered over the fact that we made it this long. Granted, we started getting along much better after a while (like, after 6 or 7 years, ha-ha), but it was sketchy there for a time. We both came into this relationship with tons of baggage (who doesn’t though) and I was still basically a kid. So there were a lot of “STOP ACTING LIKE MY DAD!”s being flung around.

Henry had been a resident of Casa d’Erin for a year when we found ourselves in the market for a new cordless phone. According to my 100% fact-based LiveJournal:

I can’t believe I forgot to mention this. When I came home Friday night, Henry was all, “Look at the new phone!” We’ve been in dire need of a new cordless, because the battery kept dying too quickly on the one we have now. I have this thing where I don’t like items being bought for the house until I’m present. I mean, technically, it’s still my house, and I’m really particular with the way things look around here.

The phone he bought was black and red and ugly all over.

I politely asked him to please return it, so that we could both pick out a phone together. (Don’t let him tell you otherwise, either. He likes to portray me as some bitchy domineer who has to have her way. Couldn’t be farther from the truth.)

Back in 2003, I was really into writing myself in the best possible light, so I left out a lot (all) of the *BANG*s *POW*s and *KABLAM*s that you guys totally know burst from my fists the moment Henry introduced some ill-advised purchase to me. I can promise you that the fight we had over a CORDLESS PHONE was explosive, like the phone was a metaphor for another woman. Because sure, I was really concerned about how a PHONE looked in my house. It clashed with my Rugrats clock and The Cure wall-hanging, obviously!

Remember how I told LiveJournal that I wanted Henry to return the phone so that “we could pick out a new one together?” BALD-FACED LIE. Friends, don’t get it twisted: I went ahead and bought a pink Disney princess phone on my own. Is this the one I wanted? NO. I hate Disney shit. But did I want the satisfaction of ridiculing Henry every time he held a pink phone up to his dumb cloth-chapeau’d head, and watched him cringe every time the phone played a different magical tone to announce an incoming call? Magical songs like Bibiddi Bobbidi Boo? FUCK YES.

And it was hilarious to hear Ariel’s sweet, Heavenly harmonies emanating from the pink penis-phone every time Henry’s ex-wife called to roar death threats at him. He was really getting it from all ends, you guys.

That phone was such a piece of shit. Obviously. But at least it was MY PHONE. Thank god I have grown up so much since then. Right, Henry?

This story was dumb. I will try to do better.