You know how some people can be together for a decade+ and still want to swathe themselves in sequins and put on matching UNDERGARMENTS for Valentines Day? Henry and I are not that couple. In fact, I can’t remember the last time Henry wore sequins. :( So I don’t even stress over February 14th anymore. Especially after I baked him a cake one year and painted him an adorable ode to our polarizing feelings on music festivals, and he never does anything for me. NOT BITTER. Not even a little bit.

This year, my Valentine is Chooch, and we’re spending it with Never Shout Never at Mr. Small’s.

But then yesterday, Chooch ended up having his own pre-Valentines play date, so Henry was like, “Well, do you want to go to dinner or something?” SUCH ROMANCE!!

I decided that since this was the best he was going to do in the Valentine department, that we should go to Zenith since it’s my favorite and he never wants to go because he has it in his head that it’s a breeding ground for “pale, peaked* vegan hipsters.”

*(Pee-kid, not peeked—don’t get it twisted!)

His exact words. I have rarely encountered this human subset at Zenith, but full disclosure — I’ve never been there for their Sunday brunch so for all I know, that’s when all the vampire-complected Bon Iver fans come out to play, half-decapitated on their infinity scarves.

It’s almost as though I majored in Stereotyping.

We got there sometime after 5 because we’re nearly at earl-bird status, and I was smug to point out that there were only three other tables of patrons there, and none of them were boasting any offensive air of pretension about them.

One Man, Four Cups.

I’m not a big tea-drinker, but one of the things I always have to do at Zenith is order from their extensive tea menu. It’s part of the process! Kara will tell you. She knows. If I had spent half the time studying textbooks as I do that fucking tea menu…well, I’d still be in the same position I’m in now. Never mind. I forgot that I didn’t get far in life because of a different kind of stupidity. Hahahaha. Oh god.

I was torn between the Earl Grey Lavender and Maple Vanilla, so I asked the waitress for her opinion. She got all stressed out and called over to the proprietor, Elaine, for help.

“I don’t do anything lavender,” Elaine brusquely called over, scrunching up her nose. “So yeah, Maple Vanilla.” Elaine is my homegirl so I went with her choice, and it was a smart one because I’m currently chugging my Sunday morning coffee and crying that there’s no maple.

Elaine brought the pot over to our table. “Now, don’t pour this right away,” she said. “I mean it! I tell people all the time that it’s not ready, and then I go back in the kitchen and I can SEE them pouring it! I’m like, it’s gonna taste like crap!” God, I fucking love her.

OMG it’s a salad. You’ve never seen a salad before. Henry had to finish mine because I’m really picky with salads.

“Look at those lamps back there,” Henry casually pointed out, and I gave myself whiplash in my attempt to beat all of the invisible people around us in a race to see it first. Up in the corner, there were two majestic holy lamps dangling like carrots, begging me to buy them.

“YOU HAVE TO ASK HOW MUCH THEY ARE!” I cried, to which Henry responded with his patented “get real” smirk. I mean, why else would he point these out to me if he didn’t secretly desire to furnish our home with them!?

“I bet they’re $100 a piece,” he quietly guessed, before stabbing the rest of my salad with his fork.

“Well, you could be wrong!” I frantically said. “I thought that our wheelchair was going to be $500 and it was only $40!”

“Why would you think that wheelchair was FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?” Henry asked in disbelief. Because I’m an idiot, OK? Is that what you want to hear?! The value of the dollar confuses me.

Meanwhile, on Facebook, Kara was 100% encouraging this purchase. It’s a wonder that Henry hasn’t tried to get me to stop being friends with Kara yet. (Jokes: No man controls my life.)

Our waitress reported back that the lamps were $80 for one, $150 for the pair. Henry thanked her and kept shoveling food in his mouth without giving me a definitive answer and I was losing my mind.

I was annoyed that Henry ordered the Moroccan stew, because that’s what I ordered and I wanted him to get the seitan so we could share. He’s so fucking selfish. He apparently didn’t “feel like seitan and asparagus” on this night. At least he ordered a different kind of vegan cake though, so we could share the chocolate blueberry and strawberry almond. Seriously, there are times when I consider stopping by just for tea and cake. Their actual food is always good, but those cakes. Those goddamn cakes.

Maybe I should have my birthday party there this year.

Meanwhile, guess whose puppy-dog eyes won the war of the majestic holy lamps!? I think once I cried, “IT CAN BE THE FIRST FUCKING VALENTINES DAY PRESENT YOU’VE GIVEN ME IN 10 YEARS,” he was overcome with guilt and decided that $80 was a small price to pay for an evening free of me pouting, slamming doors, and breaking glass objects.

So this guy came out with his ladder and Henry was all upset  because he didn’t want the man to have to do this during dinner hours and kept saying, “I’ll just tell him we can come back for it” but I was like, “You shut your face, he looks very happy to be shoving tables out of the way and untangling wires.”

(He kind of didn’t.)

But I needed to leave with that lamp that night. I had already imprinted with it.

“Where the fuck are we even going to put this?” Henry asked, the regret of pointing the lamps out in the first place rising up in his eyes like mercury in a thermometer.

“In our bedroom, duh.” It’ll be the perfect complement to the crucifix collection I’m starting on the wall behind our bed. Sometimes he just doesn’t think.

Here’s Henry acting like a Big Help by doing nothing more than standing with arms akimbo.

“Now you screwed us all up!” Elaine joked, standing by the kitchen door as Henry walked back to the table with one of the lamps. Now they had to find another lamp for that corner. But that’s what happens when everything in your restaurant is for sale, I guess! Anyway, they said it’s from Woolslayer in Bloomfield, whatever that means.

My favorite part of Zenith has always been the post-meal store perusing. This was way less fun with Henry. He wouldn’t try any of the vintage dresses on for me like Kara does. :(

On again, off again.

I don’t think there has ever been a time I visited Zenith and left without taking a picture in this bathroom.

There were other things that I wanted to buy but Henry had that steely look of DON’T EVEN etched all along his weathered face, so I just figured that I’ll wait for the next time I’m there with Kara.

“You should have bought them both,” I said on the way home, knowing as soon as the words came out of my mouth that it was going to stir the pot in a big way.

“You’re never happy!” Henry cried. “You get one, you want two. If you got two, you’d want three!”

He’s not wrong.

****

I started writing this post last night, but then I was interrupted by an evening of violent vomiting. Henry thinks it was food poisoning since I woke up feeling fine; not food poisoning from Zenith though, because we both ate the same things. “It’s probably whatever you had for lunch,” he suggested with a tinge of accusation in his tone. This is a strong possibility, considering I made my own lunch and god only knows what goes on when I step into a kitchen.

However, what I think actually happened is that I brought something home with that lamp, some type of holy spirit, and it literally was exorcising me last night. Thank you, lamp. I feel less demonic than usual today.

After exploring La Hütte Royal last Saturday, Corey, Kara and I ended our cultural afternoon with PB&Js at Peanut Butter Jelly Time in Bloomfield. 
  

Mean muggin’ apple juice chuggin’

This spot is relatively new and we all felt #soblessed to be there, especially after Corey was almost vehicularly manslaughtered in the parking lot by a man who had even less ability than me to park his damn car. 

Peanut Butter Jelly Time is very tiny (I think there were only six tables?) but the people behind the counter were genuinely friendly and didn’t make me feel like a poser like I oft feel in Bloomfield/Lawrenceville— Pittsburgh’s Little Portland. We took menus back to a table and stressed over what to order for a good fifteen minutes. Corey ended up going with a classic Elvis: PB, bananas and bacon, which came with a story about how one morning before preschool, he was at our grandma’s watching Nick Jr and “Face” was eating a PB&banana sandwich so our grandma made one for Corey, and that was his first foray into the dreamscape of peanut butter sexin’ with the ‘nanas. Cool story, bro.

(No seriously, I really did enjoy it!)

Corey also got a carton of apple juice which was endlessly funny to Kara and me because it JUST WAS OK. It was such a small, child-sized carton and Corey is like a giant. How he made that last for more than 2 sips is beyond me. 

Kara ordered a PB&J calzone which wasn’t even a real calzone, but made on flatbread with a variety of fruit and honey shoved up in there. 

And I ordered something with Princess in the name, because it came with SPRINKLES. Also it was on Cinnabon bread, which was delightful. But dammit, our sandwiches weren’t oversized slabs of Americana like I anticipated, but just standard Wonder Bread-girth. 

Which was fine, but with a side of 10 animal crackers & a bottle of water, my lunch was close to $10. 

And I was still really hungry afterward!

So was Kara!

Corey seemed fine because he’s not forever fat like me or training for the full marathon like Kara. WHATEVER. 

How have I never thought to garnish my sandwiches with sprinkles before? I did go through a phase about three years ago where I sprinkled mini-Cheezits on my peanut butter sandwiches. DONT KNOCK IT. 

But honestly, the best part was just hanging out and catching up, especially because Kara and I rarely get that opportunity! 

Cute concept, friendly PB&J artisans, and it tasted good but this honestly wasn’t anything I couldn’t just walk into my kitchen and make myself. 

“Oh please, like you would ever ‘walk into the kitchen’ and make one yourself,” Glenn grumbled the following Monday when I was reviewing my lunch for all of my SUPER ENRAPT co-workers. 

I mean…true. But if I did, it would have tasted the same because none of their ingredients were like, churned in the basement. Tasted just like Jif and Smuckers to me! AND I HAVE THOSE IN MY KITCHEN RIGHT NOW. 

AND MARSHMALLOW FLUFF. 

I’m going to recreate this tomorrow. Bitch, watch me. (And in that episode, the role of Erin will be played by Henry J.)

Penelope Ann Killer has mostly adjusted to our house. I mean, she plays and eats and poops like her crazy-ass sister Drew, but the moment I try to approach her, she’s on like HIGH ALERT. Sometimes she’ll let me pick her up but she hates it so I try not to even though she’s so FLUFFY AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS HOLD HER AND SQUEEZE HER.

However, every single night, she makes herself comfortable in my bed, usually right between Henry and me, and this is when we’re allowed to pet her. Come morning, though, we’re back to being on a stranger basis with her. So annoying.

Earlier today, I thrust my phone over the glass divider behind me and said, “Look how cute Penelope Ann Killer is!” to Glenn, who looked extremely unimpressed.

“That’s what you named her?” he asked.

“Uh yeah,” I said, like way to pay attention. It was even on our department’s Wiki page! “You know, like Penelope Ann Miller?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Glenn mumbled, nodding off at the sound of his own monotone.

“FROM KINDERGARTEN COP?!” I cried, because hello, is she not a household name in everyone’s wigwam?

“I’ve never seen that,” Glenn gurgled on his ennui-generated drool.

“OMFG, are you serious!?” I yelled incredulously. “Well, what about Adventures In Babysitting?”

“Nope.”

“She was Brenda, the best friend!”

“Didn’t see it.”

“DON’T YOU REMEMBER SHE RAN AWAY FROM HOME AND GOT STRANDED AT THE BUS STATION AND BROKE HER GLASSES?!”

He had pretty much dropped out of the conversation by then. I almost posted on Facebook the simple (YET COMPLICATED) statement that Glenn has not seen Kindergarten Cop but I was trembling with too much rage.

This prompted me for the next hour to share the jarring news with everyone who walked past my desk.

“Well, I can kind of see that,” Michele said, insinuating that he’s too old to understand the critically-acclaimed cinematic game changer of IT’S NOT A TUMAH.  And then Todd agreed with her and I was like, “STOP DEFENDING HIM! STOP MAKING EXCUSES FOR GLENN BEING A LAME. GLENN IS A LAME AND WE ALL KNOW IT!”

Unbelievable.

Anyway, my whole point was that the credits of Kindergarten Cop marked the first time I ever saw the name Penelope spelled out and I distinctly remember laughing, “PENNYLOPE? What a dumb name!” and then shockingly, my mom corrected me instead of letting me go through life pronouncing it that way. Because that’s a thing my mom would do.

  
It might be 18 degrees right now, but the semi-mild weather on Sunday filled me with hope that I’ll be riding roller coasters and having ice cream drip down my chin in no time. 

IN NO TIME. 

I’ve been combatting the blustery blahs by basically ensuring that I have no down time. Last night I stayed up until 1am making work Valentines and cracking up like a lunatic — and it helped!  

I made 19 others because I have no life. 

The Penguins losing this game against the Rangers right now does NOT help.   

Watching these two act like fools? That helps. 

Henry buying me Artifex Pereo’s “Time In Place” on vinyl? Also helps.

The other night, I put on a new jack swing Spotify playlist and lip-synched dramatically in Henry’s face because that’s just who I am, and then I started rearranging the bedroom (again) while laying in bed. I came up with a solution to the lack of storage.

“Here’s something to consider and by that I mean this is what’s going to happen: you’re going to move all of your clothes into the attic. You can share The Man In the Attic’s closet!” 

Henry’s shit is still in my room and it’s been like 3 days since my proposal. (LOL not that kind.)

Yesterday at work, Amber2 brought up conjoined twins and we mused over what it would be like if I was a conjoined twin. “I wonder what my other one would be like?”

“Normal,” Amber said with no hesitation whatsoever. 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Glenn said, like he was a part of the conversation suddenly. He even chuckled, kind of. Shut up Glenn. Then he said my other would probably be a carnivore and we spent way too much time thinking about that.  

  
All Drew and Penelope do is eat and destroy my stuff. 

I recently realized that the Emarosa show we’re going to in Lancaster is on Easter weekend and I’m so relieved because for once we won’t have to scramble for Easter plans this year. I have such a love/hate for holidays because of the whole “nowhere to go, nothing to do” conundrum. But this year we’ll be out of town, woo! And it suddenly occurs to me that we should make Emarosa AN EASTER BASKET. Dumb or amazing???

I’m too full of February to write anything else right now. 

Troy Hill is a neighborhood somewhere on a hill some direction outside of Pittsburgh. You know, over there.  The last time I was there was when Andrea was visiting in 2011 and we went to see the largest collection of relics this side of the Vatican. Right up there on Troy Hill! It was also the first time Andrea got to hear real life Pittsburgh accents, so that is usually when I think of when, if ever, Troy Hill comes to mind.

Those relics are kind of a hidden gem here in the city. I never knew they existed until I took some Christianity class at Pitt back in 2006 (once upon a time, I was going to major in English Writing and minor in Religious Studies—look at me now!) and the professor told us about it and while most of the class looked bored as fuck, I was furiously scribbling the information down in my notebook because BONES.

A few years ago, Troy Hill added another gem into their hidden treasure chest when some art-savvy dude bought an abandoned house and then commission German artist Thorsten Brinkmann to set up shop and turn this average, unassuming Pittsburgh brick house into a gesamtkunstwerk called La Hütte Royal. Kara and I have wanted to check this place out for some time now, but like usual, we get distracted by life and it gets moved to the back-burner. However, last month when I asked her if she wanted to go to the Mattress Factory with Corey and me, she rekindled the idea of La Hütte and Corey was definitely on board for this change of scenery.

Touring the house is free, but an appointment must be made. I was mildly stressed about this because 1. I hate making appointments and 2. I hate having responsibilities. THANK GOD I was able to fulfill these requirements through email, and that is how we ended up with a 2pm engagement on Troy Hill last Saturday.

This is also how I learned, 9 months after purchasing my car, that I absolutely cannot parallel park by relying on the backup camera. Plus, Kara and Corey were heckling me! Finally, I went old school and threw my arm over the back of my seat and successfully parked without the aid of a visual device.

“THIS IS LIKE A TEXTBOOK PARK JOB, TOO!” Corey exclaimed. “Like if we had a ruler, it would be the perfect distance from the curb.”  That made me feel better for the previous botched attempts, so thank you COR-COR!

(That’s what Chooch calls him and it’s incredibly obnoxious.)

Here’s the telephone pole that I did NOT wreck into, no thanks to the backup camera.

I texted the docen, Ryan, to let him know that we were running on time and then the three of us tentatively climbed the steps of a very unassuming brick house on a regular old Pittsburgh street. Kara made herself at home by plopping down on the porch swing while I tried to pee in anticipation of who was going to open the front door. I kept envisioning some stuffy older man like Dick from the Bayernhof, but instead we got a young college student in skinny jeans and a beanie and in my head I was thinking, “LET’S BLOW THIS LA HÜTTE STAND AND GO TO A BEACH SLANG SHOW TOGETHER!”

I mean, I was like, “Oh hello, Ryan. I’m Erin.”

AND I’M SINGLE AND CERTAINLY NOT EVEN CLOSE TO 36 YEARS OLD.

J/K.

We had to wait for two other people, who turned out to be SOPHIE the COSTUME DESIGNER and her plaid-shirted companion. They both seemed to be drowning in each others’ ennui. SOPHIE of course had previously visited La Hütte, but her manpanion had no idea where she had brought him. Another fun date with SOPHIE, he probably mumble-cored to his other lumbersexual bruhs over nitro coffee and poutine the next day.

(I swear to god, I leave the house repeating to myself, “You love people. All people. All people are love” but then I find myself standing on a porch with the likes of SOPHIE and I remember why I often dislike leaving the house.)

Ryan gave us the run-down on the rules, which included twisting doorknobs (all doors that open can be entered), sitting on chair-like objects (everything but the chairs in the tiny dining room could be sat upon), and red-curtained fireplaces (there is only one in the house and that was our cue to get down and crawl). I asked about pictures, because I know Corey’s head was going to blow up in wonder, and Ryan happily said that we could photograph our faces off for all he cared, and we were welcome to share them on any social media sites but that we would need permission from the artist if we want to, you know, put them on a blog or whatever.

I didn’t say anything but the whole time, I was thinking, “Does my zero-revenue-generating blog with 5 followers count?” Like, I didn’t want to ask and be laughed at. So I said nothing and figured OH WELL I just won’t post any. Except for that first photo down there of Corey, because that bell-thing comes up all over the place when you Google search the house so I made the executive decision that this was OK because I don’t really feel like bothering some German artist right now.

Once we were in the foyer, backs slightly arched to avoid Suffocation By Large Hanging Torture Bell, Ryan collected our jackets and sent us on our way. I was relieved that SOPHIE and her downtrodden date got a head start into the basement, leaving us free to explore without judgment.

We started in the basement, which had a boxing ring built in what appeared to be the garage. Here is where I want to start spewing out every single detail of what we saw, but I think it’s kind of worthless to just read the words instead of actually experiencing it. Because putting it here in type makes it seem like it’s someone’s refuse, belongings left behind, that were just strewn about haphazardly and stamped as Art. But it’s not like that — there is a method to the madness, rhyme to the reason…it’s just that I don’t know exactly what those methods and rhymes are because I’m not Thorsten Brinkmann.

The house’s innards have been completely revamped into what the inside of my head looks like, a/k/a an explosion of color, hidden passages, and filth.

The main floor was primarily built around vinyl and I had to really dig deep to keep from lying supine across all of the beauty. All of the “chair-like objects” in the living room had record covers adhered to the surface…so needless to say I came home with new dining room chair projects for Henry.

I lied. Two more pictures. Will I be arrested?!

The upstairs is where shit got real crunk. We had to crawl through a tiny fireplace and along secret corridors built between the floors and it was horrifying and exciting all at once! I am so claustrophobic and hate not knowing where I’m going, especially when tight spaces are involved. I think Chuck E. Cheese’s infamous Cheese Factory ruined me at a young age.

Please tell me you know what I’m talking about. It was the first introduction to trauma for many kids in the early 80s, and it was definitely my first encounter with the crippling fear of being abandoned and left for dead inside a giant wheel of Swiss cheese, inexplicably sound-tracked by ominous outer space bleeps.

This is how I felt about La Hütte, with the added sensation of voyeurism thrown in. There were times when it really did feel like sneaking around someone’s decrepit home.

The tour ended in the attic, when we burst through a door on a wave of Corey’s bombastic laughter to find SOPHIE and her ambivalent beau (ambivabeau?), seated in old beauty salon hair dryers and watching a film of Thorsten himself trying a number of ways to sit in a chair.

Afterward, Ryan (who was sitting in the corner and I didn’t even notice!) was anxious to get some sort of dialogue going but I refused to speak in front of SOPHIE so we all kind of just sat there while SOPHIE talked about being in COSTUME DESIGN SCHOOL and Ryan was like, “There’s a whole school for that?” So yeah, take that SOPHIE. Anyway, we stuck around while Ryan escorted them back down to the foyer and when he returned, we all had a nice chat about the house, the owner (who lives down the street in a really nice house with a black fence), the artist, etc. etc. Ryan told us that Thorsten built the installation around the history of the house and its previous inhabitants, and used most of the things he found around the house.

I was hoping he wouldn’t make us go around and offer our interpretations, because I am really horrible at that. I love art–I love making it and I love looking at it, but I rarely try to “figure it out.” I can only tell you how it makes me feel, and this house made me feel like Alice in Wonderland—like I was somewhere I wasn’t meant to be, and it was at times beautiful and quirky, and at other times creepy and uncomfortable. And in keeping with the Alice theme, I was reminded a lot of how I felt the first time I watched Alice, a stop-motion film by Czech director Jan Svankmajer, who also made Little Otik which absolutely wrecked me during my pregnancy.

While it’s not clear to me what Thorsten hopes visitors will take away from La Hütte Royal (I tried not to read too much about it before we visited), I personally felt like we were in an entirely different world. For most of our time in the house, I had no idea what floor we were even on, because there was so much crawling and climbing. I loved the play on dimensions and how space was completely fucked with—it was basically my dream house. In one room, I’d expect to see the white rabbit, and in the next, Leatherface. When can I move in!?

After a nice discussion with Ryan, we excused ourselves. “We’re going to eat PB&J now at Peanut Butter Jelly Time in Bloomfield,” I explained (IN CASE HE WANTED TO COME, TOO).

“That sounds disgusting,” Ryan said.

Somewhere, PB&J is art, OK Ryan?

Because I lead such an exciting life, I stayed up late Friday night watching old Wildwood, NJ videos on YouTube.

There is something REALLY ENCHANTING and perverted about watching the home movies of strangers and I don’t give a fuck, I’ll do it until I die.

I would say about once a year, I go through heavy Wildwood withdrawals and I need to nourish myself with copious amounts of nostalgia, even if it’s another persons memories.

My family vacationed in Wildwood every summer. It’s one of the few spotty memories I have of my birth dad, and also some of the best memories I have of my mom.

My grandparents came too, every summer, and it was just the fucking cherry on top of the entire year. I can’t think about that beach and boardwalk without being flooded of the best memories and thoughts of my Pappap. Literally, the best memories of my whole life were made in fucking New Jersey, of all places.

I haven’t been back since 1991 and as much as I want to, I’m also terrified because I don’t want to see how much it’s changed.

I stupidly made the mistake about 10 years to look at the Morey’s Piers website and I felt like Morey himself had kicked me in the gut with a steel-tipped boot, that motherfucker.

ANYWAY. Before I wind up just straight up living in the rabbit hole, let me get to my point. One of the videos I watched on YouTube was a clip from a 1994 documentary and now I’m utterly obsessed (what else is new) and going to buy the entire film because how I can not have a chunk of cinema like this in my private collection:

I’m kind of sad that I only ever experienced Wildwood through the eyes of an innocent child, there only to ride some fucking dark rides and eat a goddamn hot dog at Hot Spot B. I never got in a fight with anyone there other than my step dad. And I didn’t even put him in the hospital!

  
I can’t tell you how good it is to see Chooch’s cat void filled with these two fur-brats. 

You already know that I’m a horrible mom. I mean, psychologically horrible. I can’t help it! I live and breathe to punk people and no one is easier and more fulfilling to punk than my own kid. And believe me, he gives it back to me! It’s like our thing. We love to fuck with each other.

Off and on over the years, I’ve made loose comments about the man who lives in the attic. The steps to the attic can only be accessed from Chooch’s room, so it’s my way of nudging him down Night Terrors Alley. He’s always just like, “YEAH OK MOMMY” and then we all laugh and go about our day. But lately, it’s been heating up. My response to almost everything has been “manintheattic” and Henry gives me a disappointed look. Like when Chooch had a fever last week and woke up in the middle of night and dressed himself. He was horrified when he woke up because he never goes to bed with a shirt on.

“And now I have on TWO t-shirts?!” he cried, like call up Scully and Mulder, quick.

“Manintheattic,” I half-coughed. “Sometimes he dresses you during the night. You’re like his living baby doll.”

“YEAH RIGHT!” Chooch scoffed, but I could see that there was a tiny glimmer of doubt in his eyes.

The next night, as we all in our respective bedrooms for the night, Chooch made a fake phone number using one of those free text apps and started prank-calling me. I stupidly fell for it too, and I got so nervous when I saw a call coming in from someone with our area code BECAUSE WHO COULD IT BE, WHAT DID I DO NOW!? Then I realized it was the idiot in the next room over. So I made one too and said, “Be quiet down there, I’m trying to sleep.” And then “Good night.”

“You’re a dick,” Henry mumbled into his pillow when I giddily showed him my work.

The other day at work, I decided to create an Instagram account for The Man In the Attic.

Because these are things normal moms do.

Step 1: Find a good snap of Gary Busey’s mug to use as my user pic.

Step 2: Follow Chooch.

Step 3: Comment on Chooch’s most recent video of the kittens.

“You need to put them in the basement while you’re at school. They’re very disruptive during the day.”

Step 4: Post pictures.

I was crying at my desk over this while several of my co-workers clucked their tongues and made various remarks about Chooch’s future therapy bill.

“He does it to me, too!” I yelled in defense.

Glenn just shook his head at me and Todd struggled to wrap his head around how anyone thought it would be a good idea to have a child with me.

“My mom used to do this shit to me all the time when I was kid,” I explained during one of our daily “Dissecting Erin’s Childhood” conversations at work.

“Oh,” Todd said, attempting to understand how this was normal.

“I don’t talk  to her anymore, though,” I added as an after thought, and then we all started to laugh, because: family.

“I’m going to pay someone to hide in the attic one night,” I said, and everyone groaned.

***

After work, Henry dropped Chooch off downtown because he and I were going to the Pens game. First, we went to get dinner. Over pizza, Chooch learned of the Man In the Attic’s Instagram account.

At first he was like, “Wait. What. How.” But then his brain kicked on and he said, “Yeah OK, I know this is you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let me see that. Oh my god, this is so creepy!” I exclaimed, scrolling through Instagram on Chooch’s phone.

“Whatever, I know it’s you.”

I kept denying it over and over, and then we went to the game, where me made jokes about how Henry was home alone with the Man In the Attic. I thought everything was good. He knew I made the Instagram account and was able to find some humor in it, life goes on, Pens win, etc etc.

But later that night, after we came home from the game and Henry retired to bed after a long night of staying home doing nothing while Chooch and I screamed our faces off at Consol, Chooch brought up the Instagram account.

“Honestly, this is you, right?”

I couldn’t believe this was coming up again because I was certain he knew it was me. I mean, Chooch is a pretty bright kid!

But the sinister side of me saw this as an opportunity to continue the fun, so I denied it. Over and over and over.

“Chooch, like I have time to do shit like that at work, really!” I said with faux-annoyance.

(LOL, this was the biggest lie I’ve ever told.

)

Suddenly, we had a replay of the Doll Episode. He was pissed, and he was also tired: A deadly combination.

He got so angry because I wouldn’t admit to it, that he started sobbing. Like, hands covering his face, body-convulsing sobs.

Since he’s my son, I initially couldn’t tell if he was faking it or not.

Turns out, nope. Thems some real optic-wets right there.

So of course I dropped the gag and hugged him, swearing it was me and apologizing profusely, but he shrugged away from me and shut himself in the kitchen.

When he came out, he spat, “DELETE IT. DELETE THE ACCOUNT.”

I promised I would, and then he retreated up the steps to his bedroom, sniffling and wiping tears with the back of his hand.

I felt like a complete asshole.

“Good for you!” Henry spat with disappointment when I went up to bed later and filled him in. “I’m glad we spent all that money on his new bed, because you’re the one who’s going to be sleeping in it!”

***

The next morning, Chooch was still bitter, but by the time I came home from a day of being scolded for being a terrible mom by my co-workers, Chooch had cooled down. I honestly think that the biggest issue here is that he hates it when I prank him better than he pranks me. But I’m happy to report that Chooch has now accept The Man In the Attic as a part of this household and has even added my newly-created phone number to his contacts as Manin Theattic. One day, we will laugh heartily about this over Christmas picnic in the cemetery with his children. I just can’t help it—I was born with a very dominant Prankster gene. (Or as some might argue—a Bully gene.

)

The funniest part about all of this is that I’m the one who’s actually terrified of the attic.

1.Valentinin’

The serial killer cards have been flying off the shelves this season and I am so happy about that! If I could do this for a living, I would be ecstatic. Designing these things bring me great joy! A few orders came in this morning and I faux-bragged about it to Glenn, ending it with “No big deal.”

“You’re right,” Glenn grumbled. “It isn’t a big deal.”

“Hashtag so what,” Todd chimed in and I lost it. I GUESS YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

Then a few hours later, I received some really great customer feedback.

“Hey Amber,” I called over to her desk. “Someone else thinks I’m wonderful, too.” Because Amber always tells me I’m wonderful just to ruffle Glenn’s plain, boring feathers.

“Hashtag who cares,” Todd chimed in again. “Just trying to keep you grounded so you don’t start coming in here wearing sunglasses.” And then somehow it escalated to the point where Amber2 printed out a sheet of my employee photo and gave it to Glenn! HOW QUICKLY THE TABLES HAVE TURNED! Actually, not very quickly, considering it has taken three years for someone to hand-deliver this idea into Glenn’s lap.

And this concludes the story of how Amber2 re-earned the Mean Amber moniker!

(Seriously though, go get a card or 7!)

In related news, I had all of these Valentines designed in my head, featuring the guys in our department, and they were going to be super hilarious but the rational, job-security-desperate side of me kept whispering, “You could get in trouble for this one, Erin.” I confided in Wendy and at first she was like, “No, I think these are fine. Also, I can’t believe I’m helping you with this.” But later in the day she came over and was like, “OK I’M SORRY BUT I’M PARANOID AND I DON’T WANT YOU TO LOSE YOUR JOB.” And I agree with her that there are certain scenarios where this could become an HR nightmare. So, no Valentines, work pals.

2. GUYS DID YOU KNOW I HAVE CATS AGAIN LOL
  

They’re finally succumbing to their instinctual sisterly napping behaviors and I’m so thrilled! Sometimes, Marcy used to let Speck cuddle with her even though they weren’t real sisters and Marcy hated everyone but Henry and Satan. So this is bringing back some warm fuzzies or whatever you sappy people call that shit.

Chooch has changed Penelope’s name to Penelopiss.

“Get it? Because instead of PeneloPEE, it’s PeneloPISS?”

Yes, son. I get it. I got it. Thanks for ruining my cat’s name.

Such tired.

3. HOCKEY FUCK YEAH!

Barb, my favorite person in the whole entire world, gave me her tickets to the Pens game on Tuesday. It was super last minute, and I still wasn’t feeling entirely well, but fuck it: hockey over everything. Luckily, Chooch is super down with going to to Pens games now because he understands that this is the way of life.

Plus he gets to spend my money on overpriced ice cream bars.

We loved the people in front of us! (No sarcasm.) No one ever wants to high-five me at hockey games, but this guy did! And we scored six times too so that was SIX HIGH FIVES. I used real, old-fashioned math for that one. Not Common Core. I’d still be typing out my answer, otherwise.

OK, not to be all sentimental and MommyBloggy, but when Sidney Crosby got a hat trick, Chooch went ape shit because he totally understood the greatness of it all, and I got all teary-eyed because this was a MEMORY that Chooch and I were making together, and it involved the Penguins! A team he used to hate! Ugh, my heart.

Also, here’s some pictures of Barb’s chili pepper-pants’d boy toy:

I kept texting them to her throughout the game and I can only imagined how annoyed she was.

Anyway, other shit happened but I’m going to save that for Chooch to tell. We’re hopefully going to start a new monthly thing called Chooch Chats where people ask him shit and then he gets to talk his face off. Henry and I are going to try to film the first episode this weekend provided we don’t kill each other and that I don’t lose interest, because I’m pretty whatever about YouTube. I’m sure this will fizzle out just like all of my other sad attempts at series do. (RIP: Frown of the Day; Henry Bombs; Goofus & Gallant, OhHonestlyErin-Style; Freaky Features…..sigh. I have no niche.)

4. CARLY RAE JEPSEN

Literally the only reason I watched that live Grease thing last weekend. Did you know that I have never seen the actual Grease movie? And that I have no plans on ever remedying that? I just have never given a shit about it and I remember DEFINITELY running out of shits to give back in high school when our dumb drama club people performed it one year and if I heard someone say the name “Kenickie”* one more time as I walked down the hallway, I probably would have dropped out then instead of waiting until a month before graduation.

*I had to google how to spell that dumbass’s name.

ALL OF A SUDDEN I’M REALLY ANGRY NOW!?

Anyway, CRJ was beautiful as always. I guess the rest of it was OK? I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to like it or not.

5. The People Vs. OJ Simpson

Obviously I have been chomping at the bit for this series to start. Obsessed since ’94! I’ve referenced my OJ pog story on here at least 87 times so I’ll spare you. Last year, I was inspired to make an OJ painting, and this was before I even knew that a series was being made! Literally, I was like, “What should I paint? OJ shit.” Like the cast of the OJ trial are the new happy trees.

If I still used LiveJournal, I’d be using my Kato Kaelin and OJ icons exclusively right now.

Well friends, that’s all I feel like finger-pounding out right now. Maybe another day, I’ll sing you the song of THE MAN IN THE ATTIC. But right now, my cup of cream of wheat is calling my name. Peace out, Girl Scout!

Party People

• Kara
• Corey
• Chris and Monica
• Blake and Haley
• Aaron and Erica (I think — drinking does not allow me to remember names)
• JANNA – WHO WAS THE LAST ONE TO ARRIVE

In my quest to be more social, and to satiate Chooch’s constant desire to play games, I planned a small game night for January 23rd. The theme was BREAKFAST FOODS, because God forbid I should just have a regular game night and let my friends bring a simple bag of Fritos. I had big hopes and aspirations for this game night: a waffle bar! some type of OJ punch! egg things!

But this before I knew we were getting a kitten(s).

So instead of an elaborate spread fit for the gods of the A.M., Henry half-assedly churned out ONE VARIATION of waffle (PLAIN) and made some crappy chili chicken dip to meet the “savory” quota, leaving me to my own devices to come up with other dips.

I went with the exotic Nutella; the opulent purple Funfetti frosting straight from a can; and a maple fluff worthy to coat the gullet of the worlds most renowned gourmands.

A/K/A maple syrup mixed with Marshmallow Fluff.

Thank god for my back-up plan: CAP’N CRUNCH PARTY MIX. And no I didn’t use a recipe! Instead, I concocted it in my head, at work, and bounced ideas off of Glenn.

“What else should I put in my Cap’n Crunch party mix?” I asked him.

“What all have you got so far?”

“….Cap’n Crunch.”

“……”

A day later, I shouted, “PEANUTS! Peanuts would go good in a Capn Crunch party mix, right?”

“Sure,” Glenn mumbled.

In the end, I went with honey roasted peanuts, pretzels, and then I attempted to drizzle white chocolate over it but newsflash: I don’t know how to drizzle white chocolate, so it wound up hardening very quickly and then I decided to just go with white chocolate clumps.

“I like how some of the pretzels have white chocolate on them,” Chris said in a very complimentary manner which I greatly appreciated.

“Thanks! I did that myself. They’re HAND-CRAFTED.” I literally was so angry at the white chocolate that I started smashing mounds of it against the pretzels as a form of torture. I showed you, white chocolate.

Then I dumped a bunch of sprinkles on it. Then I made Henry go and buy me chocolate chips, and hooray, that shit was happy to be drizzled.

It worked. This shit was teeth-rottening divine.

Keeping with my staunch theme of breakfast foods only, Kara brought delicious chocolate-filled croissants and mini muffins; Chronica brought monkey bread which we were all eagerly awaiting since they texted me a picture of it and my phone promptly got passed around; and JANNA WHO WAS LATE brought a French toast casserole. She was late because the casserole was still in the oven when game night was scheduled to start and I was like, “WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG TO PUT IT IN THE OVEN THEN JANNA.”

Whatever, it was really good even though she was an hour late.

And when Blake arrived with his posse, he was carrying a bottle in a bag and I thought to myself, “Oh my god, Blake is like an actual adult now! He brought something to game night!”

YEAH, A BOTTLE OF MAD DOG FOR HIMSELF!

We played Taboo first, because I forgot until the last minute that our Catchphrase broke a long time ago and we never replaced it, because why would we ever think to replace my FAVORITE GAME NIGHT game. Taboo is basically almost the same game but it just doesn’t feel right in my hands.

Game Night: Round One was kind of utter pandemonium because Janna spiked her casserole with Robitussin and some of us couldn’t seem to grasp the “every other person is on your team” concept and Chooch threw a fit at one point and there were close to four separate conversations going on while the person holding Taboo was shouting out clues and then Corey kept hitting the wrong button and Kara looked like she was about to lose her fucking mind.

However, there was a highlight! And that was when it was Henry’s turn and all he said was, “Erin has one…”

My mind reeled. I have many things! What was a thing that I have?! A complex? An estranged mother?

Meanwhile, Monica was already calmly suggesting, “A blog.”

First guess. And she was right!

This was right before Kara ripped off her face to reveal the Directionator. LISTEN TO HER READ THE DIRECTIONS AND FOLLOW ALONG, PEOPLE. Together, we can all get through it.

This is the first time I didn’t take a picture of my dumb beverage buffet. I made a punch that was supposed to be a screwdriver but it wasn’t (the recipes on Smirnoff’s website are lamer than your average lifestyle blogger) so I changed the name to Good Morning Punch. It was OK. Nothing fancy like you’d typically expect at my ragers.

Corey and I made Janna tell her harrowing tale of Robitussin codependency, like this was a surprise intervention. No one laughed nearly as hard as Corey and I did, if at all.

The last game we played was Likewise, and I was on a team with Erica (really hope that’s her name). She chose wisely because we dominated. If her name really is Erica though, I sincerely regretted naming ourselves the A+ Team when E² was the clear choice. We did butt heads a quick second though when the prompt was “something unusual at the beach” and I wrote down “Igloo” because hello, that’s unusual. We had a slight argument about it but I got way and no one ended up getting any points for that round anyway, soooooo.

The last question was beautiful singer or something and I was trying to send ESP waves to Henry and Corey so that they would write down Robert Smith but they kept smirking at me confusedly, so we ended up going with the obvious choice of Justin Bieber, matched two other teams, and FUCKING WON.

BECAUSE THAT’S ALL I DO IS WIN.

And we all lost at Cards Against Humanity to a nine-year-old*, and then Chris taught Chooch how to crochet while Monica tried to get us to guess “Janna fondling breasts coated with Robitussin” during some late night charades.

*(To be fair, Monica tied with him.)

The end.

That means, here are pictures of cats to cleanse your palate from my recent OMG SO SICK posts.

Drew is a spaz and totally outgoing. Chooch found a Kitkat wrapper in his pocket and she has been running around the house with it clenched in her mouth like it’s the fucking Hope Diamond.

Penelope is still leery of the whole thing. She really only lets us pet her when she’s too tired to run away. I slept on the couch the other night when I was OMG SO SICK and she slept on my legs so that was something. She and Drew are so different.

Chooch has been calling her Penope and Leslie Knope.

SHE’S SO CUTE AND I WANT TO CARRY HER AROUND IN A BASKET OF DAISIES BUT SHE WON’T LET ME, WTF.  

Henry acts like he’s so annoyed that there are two destructive beasts in the house, but he totally loves it. Plus, they’re not nearly as destructive as me and Chooch. So there’s that at least.

Thank god Chooch can wear all of his cat shirts now without feeling like a poser. It was a rough 10 months for him.