Mar 142014

OMG, it’s Friday and I have some shit to get off my chest. TGFB (thank God for blogging?).


My friend Alex is hosting another Pittsburgh Guest Blogging thingie on April 1st and I stupidly signed up for it and now I’m all stressed out because I have no idea what to write, as usual. What should I write about!? My hopes and dreams? Places in Brookline where you MIGHT not find a discarded hypodermic needle? That time I robbed graves? Who even knows. I looked at the list of participants and naturally I only know 1% of the list because I’m a blogging recluse, and that gives me this weird Internet stage fright. Part of me is saying, “Try to be a normal person, Erin. Write something without swearing, Erin. MAKE SENSE FOR ONCE, ERIN.”

So, I’m going to leave it up to you: what should I ramble on about for my guest post on some poor man’s blog? Please, someone tell me before I ask Craigslist or call a party line.


ANDREA had to go and get me all worked up the other night by instigating my hatred for Alaska. She might be the worst BFF I’ve ever had! Now I’m all stressed out again. I feel like the climax of my life is going to be where Henry drugs me and when I wake up, he finally proposes to me then and in the same breath he’s all like, “SURPRISE YOU’RE IN ALASKA!” and then I fall off some disgusting Alaskan cliff into a sea of sickening glaciers because, why wouldn’t I?  That’s my life.




Something happened to Chooch’s finger at some point yesterday. I know this because as soon as I got in the car last night after work, Chooch was basically passed out on the backseat from loss of imaginary blood, whining, “OW MY FINGER” every time the car hit a pot hole. (Which is a lot. This is Pittsburgh.) I didn’t bother to ask what happened because HI I HAVE MY OWN PROBLEMS.

He came downstairs at 11:00PM while Henry and I were watching The Returned (which is a FRENCH TV show so there could be nudity at any given moment) and started whining about needing another Bandaid and I ignored him because Henry was there so…get the fuck up and bandage your son, motherfucker.

This morning, it was apparently still an issue? WTF happened to my kid’s finger?! Apparently not all that much. According to Henry, it’s only a hangnail wound. But you would have thought the entire thing had been blown off by a grenade the way he was carrying on every time his finger touched the water this morning! And then the whole way to school, he was making this anguished face and dry-crying, which is so annoying to me because obviously I’m the only person who can pull that off, and I kept begging him to stop looking like that in case god forbid someone sitting in traffic mistook it as abuse. So I kept trying to put my arm around him to comfort him (OVER A FUCKING HANG NAIL) and he was all, “OW! GET OFF ME! OW!” So I snapped and said, “For Christ’s sake, there is no way that hurts that bad! I get paper cuts almost everyday and I don’t run around acting like that….oh. Never mind.”

I gave him an extra maternal hug when we got to the school, making sure the principal saw, too, because I didn’t maim my kid’s fingertip, OK?!


A short reprieve from incessant bitching. Thank god for teeth to brush.


My friend Wendy is a Stella & Dot…consultant? Stylist? She sells jewelry. It’s a pretty fun line—if not severely lacking in rings with teeth and Jonny Craig’s face beneath resin—and I’ve been promising her that I would host a party, so I’m finally doing that in two weeks. Today at work, we sat down in her office to create the Facebook event thing, which she wrote and I kept saying, “Please don’t write that…everyone is going to know I didn’t write this….”‘redefine her style sessions’? What does that even mean!?” At least the event name is “Henry’s Stella and Dot Trunk Show” and she listened to me when, after she typed the line “my friend Wendy,” I told her to put quotes around the word “friend.”

It was really hard for me to sit there and watch Wendy create this event on my behalf because I’m such a control freak (only over weird things though; nothing important). My style is just a little more biting and derisive than hers; the way she wrote it made it sound like I was actually being nice to my friends and excited to see them, like “come on by and share some laughs!” WTF. I don’t want to share my laughs. Those are mine. Get your own. I kept thinking, “OK, here’s where I would have said something terrible about Janna. And right here is where I would have used some outdated LOLspeak and an obscure pop culture reference. OK, she emasculated Henry at least.”

I kind of wanted to write the party info as a free-style gangsta rap about how there are 99 ways to wear a scarf and around a dead man’s dick might be one.

I’m afraid this could be the gateway into harder hostess parties, like I might wake up one day and crave crudités and Tupperware towers. And you know what comes next. Reading cookbooks. Gross.


CARROT CAKE M&M’S. Big ups to my friends Monica and Chris for the hook-up. Henry and I couldn’t find them anywhere but then Monica was all, “They’re on my dining room table, duh.” She bought an extra bag and gave it to Chris to bring to work for me and I ate almost half the bag right away. IT TASTES JUST LIKE CARROT CAKE. The M&Ms. Not the bag. So now I’m desperate to buy all of the bags before they go away since they’re just an Easter novelty, waiting to go back to heaven with Jesus. :(

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when they’re gone, that’s how empty my life is right now.


Apologies for the capslock abuse, my people. I’m losing my mind. You know how I know for sure? I ALMOST TYPED “LOOSING.”

Jul 312010

In this picture, please find that Stacey is smiling while Alisha frantically checks her phone for the time to make sure I’m not fucking up the agenda.

When I came downstairs on the morn’ of my birthday, I caught a glimpse of a large box perched on the dining room table. I gasped! “For me?!” I said aloud, resting my lovely hand upon my birthday bosom.

It was just the light box, which I forgot to put away the night before.

My heart fell. My stomach sank. My fist plunged through a wall.

But a little while ago, Stacey came to visit!  With he, she brought a birthday present for me! A gift card for Best Buy so I can buy all the things that were in Henry’s invisible box of imaginary birthday presents for me!

Then Stacey got to leave to go to work, and I watched as Alisha’s eyes followed morosely. You’re stuck here, my friend.

So that was something nice that happened today (along with Evonne’s visit as well!), amidst all the technical difficulties, high blood pressure and incessant hair-chewing.

Jul 312010

“That he’s not here is nice,” mused Alisha as I typed the title to this post.

But seriously, I promised my sponsor Rob that I would write something nice about Henry. So here it is.

Before Henry and I started dating, we were just co-workers who occasionally hung out. It was 2001 and I had just met my biological dad’s mother and her sister Charmaine for this first time. Now, for the last 21 years of my life, all I heard was horror stories about how my father’s alcoholism, drug addictions, and the abuse who let loose upon my mom’s face. He was a monster, and not someone I spent a lot of time thinking about.

But sitting there with my grandma and her sister, looking at old photos of him and hearing about the good side that he apparently harbored, I felt really conflicted. Guilty for hating a man I barely had a chance to know, since he died when I was three. I was always thankful that he never had a chance to inflict pain on me, but these women were making me wonder if good things could have come from him being in my life.

I left their house that day and went straight the cemetery, where I sat by his grave and cried. My boyfriend called me while I was sobbing and said, “Oh. If you’re going to be crying all night, then I’m not coming over.”

Then I got a call from Henry, who wanted to know if I wanted to go on a drive with him. When he heard me crying, he said, “Where are you?” I told him and he said, “Stay there.”

He found me in the cemetery and brought me water. We leaned against his car and he let me cry.

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He let me talk about my family and my feelings and quietly made sure I was drinking the water; he would always lecture me for not drinking enough.

Later that night, my boyfriend wound up coming over anyway. We sat at my dining room table while he ate the fast food he brought over for dinner (for himself, nothing for me). And I sat there, watching him eat, and I realized he was totally not the person I wanted to be with.

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I made him leave.

“You still up for going for a drive?” I asked Henry when he answered his phone. We wound up sitting on a big rock in a deserted parking lot by Station Square, talking and laughing and just having a good time getting to know each other.

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And then I broke up with my boyfriend.