Jul 312014


Henry: “OK.”


Henry: “What was he holding? A phone?”


Henry: “Ok. Maybe it really was a battery then.”


Henry: “Wow. You sure have trials and tribulations.”

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Jul 302014

Today is my 35th birthday. Thank you, thank you. Since 35 seems to be an age where things happen (?), I decided that I should commemorate it in live-blog form. And I sure picked a super awesome birthday to live blog, because I have a ton of festivities lined up today, like….going to work and taking Chooch to his piano lesson. Anyway, let’s get this party started in the least Black Eyed Peas way as possible.

7:43am: I just ate an everything bagel thin and I’m drinking coffee and typing in this and keeping track of all the people who wish me a happy birthday without an exclamation point on Facebook.

7:55am: I told Henry he didn’t have to get me anything for my birthday since he’s taking me to Riot Fest and then when he didn’t get me anything for my birthday I pouted and told him to GTFO and that I hate him. BUT HE IS STILL HERE WTF. This just happened. REAL TIME, FRIENDOS.

8:19am: Henry decided to go “religious” when choosing my birthday card this year. GOOD ONE, HENRY:



8:28am: Henry is whisking me away to work in his juice van chariot. He knows how to make a girl feel like a lady.

8:46am: I’m at work now. Surprisingly, Glenn didn’t get me a birthday present. He said if he had known in advance, he’d have left a dead fish in one of my desk drawers. BETTER THAN NOTHING!!!!!



I tried to show Glenn how cute the wrapping paper is and he was like “OK.”




THESE ARE HOMEMADE AND AMAZING! Chris and Monica, you guys are so sweet and I’m going to sit here and cry about it for a few minutes. Don’t tell.

9:07am: Glenn tried to out-do Chris and Monica by giving me a stapler. NICE TRY.

9:55am: Mean Amber offered to get me birthday coffee this morning but I declined for fear of her purposely BURNING me with it. That’s something she would do.

10:09am: There are people laughing in the forbidden section of our department (a/k/a “Forbidden City”) and it’s ruining my birthday. Also ruining my birthday: ETHAN giving me dumb work. Thank god Sandy came over and hung up a Dora the Explorer birthday banner on my desk. That helped.

10:55am: I just made the mistake of defending Mean Amber when she said she didn’t want to throw away her deflated balloon dog because his eyes looking up at her from the garbage can made her feel so sad. So I said that I knew what she meant; for example: when I’m shopping with Henry and go to put the cart back (my favorite thing!), I will never put the cart in an empty cart-return stall because I don’t want it to be lonely. I’ll find one that has others (preferably just one other because then I’m helping save TWO carts from loneliness). Then I can walk away, comforted by the fact that my cart has people to talk to. “Keep it up,” Glenn mumbled. “You’re just reinforcing what we already know about you.” What, THAT I’M A PHILANTHROPIST? Because, duh.

11:48am: Finally broke down and ate one of the vanilla bean macarons and holy fucking shit it’s going to take everything in me not to dump the rest of the box into my panting mouth. I’m such a whore for macarons.

11:59am: MY BROTHER JUST TEXTED ME THE BEST BIRTHDAY GIFT OF ALL TIME! Look at the disgust on my face! And Henry is still in that “Yes! I bagged a youngin’!” stage of delusion.



12:11pm: Here’s random birthday memory. For my 23rd or 24th birthday (they all blend together, really; my 20s sucked tremendously), I had a handful of friends over for birthday cake. My then-friend (as in, no-longer friend) brought some guy with her and said, “I just found him at the gas station. He recently moved here from Italy and can’t speak English. I was like, “YES YOU CAN BRING THIS FOREIGN INTERLOPER INTO MY HOUSE!” because that was back when I lived on the edge and loved me some stranger danger. Henry was like, “frown frown frown frown” about this, but whatever. I rule the roost. Always. So yes, here comes this guy with a bottle of wine that I didn’t like and he’s just standing around and smiling and I’m talking REALLY LOUDLY to him because I kept confusing foreign with deaf. And then finally, after hours of this, my “friend” laughs and says he’s not Italian and he’s not a stranger. He’s actually her friend and has a good strong grasp on the English language. I was really mad because I felt like I wasted my whole birthday trying to find ways to ask this asshole if he wanted vanilla cake or chocolate.

12:53pm: YAY WENDY JUST GAVE ME PRESENTS! She got me a mustache ring-holder and a really cute tote bag. When I brought it all back to my desk, I said, “Look Glenn, Wendy got me a bag to put over your head!” because it’s my birthday and I’m on a roll.

1:19pm: At my birthday lunch with Jeannie, Wendy and Barb but BARB is ruining it with boring work conversation!!!

1:44pm: That time it was my birthday and WENDY spilled her Coke all over my side of the table!!!


2:59pm: Lunch at Las Velas was great, but I had a moment of panic when I thought I was going to have to pay for my own birthday lunch and I still haven’t gotten a new debit card after losing my wallet two months ago. Don’t worry, Jeannie had me covered. Came back from lunch and Bridget yelled at me for saying Las Velas wrong. Also, I learned that Barb basically knows nothing about Mexican food and ordered the most Americanized thing she could find on the menu and then asked Jeannie what cilantro is and I was like, “Jesus fuck, even I know what cilantro is.” I had a tamale. Barb, a tamale is:

  1. a Mexican dish of seasoned meat wrapped in cornmeal dough and steamed or baked in corn husks.
    Mine had veggies in it, not meat.

3:04pm: I just started cracking up at my desk because I let myself actually think the words, “I wonder if my mom will wish me a happy birthday today.” But then I almost started to cry. MOVING ON.


4:48pm: Natalie still hasn’t found the Pizza Roll pilferer. Meanwhile, Henry just told me he canceled Chooch’s piano lesson, but don’t worry: I’m sure it’s not because he has any surprise birthday plans for me. This is Henry we’re talking about, after all.

6:07pm: I’m home now. Sadly, there were no clowns hiding in my house.

6:15pm: I used to look forward to my birthday so much every year because I would typically have a big swim party at my Pappap’s house, and my Pappap would make everyone burgers and hot dogs and he was so damn proud of his grilling skills. I try not to hang on to the past, but fuuuck do I miss those days. My birthdays have always had an underlying layer of sadness ever since he died in 1996. I cry for him at least twice on my birthday, every year. I can’t help it.



6:18pm: Haha, sorry. Henry left to take his mom home so this is the first time I’ve had a chance all day to really think about this day and what it means. :(

7:28pm: My big birthday plans involved coming home from work and finally starting the new season of Teen Wolf but the stupid first episode is already gone from On Demand WHAT. FUCK TODAY. GAME OVER.

8:40pm: I watched Teen Wolf on MTV’s dumb website so all is well in Appledale Hell.

8:41pm: I never said this live blogging event was going to be entertaining. It’s basically the same thing as going to the dentist and calling THAT an event, too.

8:50pm: I’m walking to CVS to return “Noah” to Redbox. Maybe something outrageous will happen!

9:00pm: Walking home behind Mormon missionaries. This is the first time I’ve seen them (same two) that they didn’t give me a prayer card and ask, “Will you read it? WILL YOU?” Happy birthday to me, I guess. They’re no Sister McRae, that’s for sure.


10:37pm: Well, this wasn’t the worst birthday I’ve ever had, so let’s call it a win. Henry could have been a little more accommodating though.

P.S. I almost forgot to include this gem! The envelope of my card from Chooch:


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Jul 292014


It was another shit-storm of a day at work, goddammit. Norm had so many useless meetings and sales pitches to lay on deaf ears, not to mention the habitual hour he spent watching Benny Hill on his phone in the Mothers’ Nursing Room, that he completely missed lunch.

Waiting for the bus, he dreamt lustily of all the foodstuffs he was going to masticate as soon as he got home: fistfuls of Fritos and Spaghetti-Os slurped right out of the can.

His mouth was going to get into a melee with maple syrup and meatballs; his fangs into fisticuffs with footlong franks and french fried frogs; his tongue would tryst with tubes of tooth paste and teriyaki taffy.

He sat, waiting for that bus, feeling the hunger roll through his insides like a Sumo wrestler in a hamster wheel, sublingual glands flooding his mouth with warm saliva.

“Come on, you motherpricking bus! I want to get home and—–”

Norm never got to finish his threat on public transportation and he never got to pillage his mother’s kitchen after work (in all honestly, Norm only had a can of Old Milwaukee and a fruitcake from 1987 in his own kitchen). Because just like that, with one quick snatch and snark, Norm had become the meal of someone hungrier than he, and all that remains of him is a few green feathers littering the ground like crumbs.

Norm is a 5×7 painting on canvas and he would like to hang on your wall in loving memory.

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Jul 282014



If you’ve been to our house at all this summer, chances are, Chooch was shirtless. He’s about to learn the hard way what those “no shirt, no service” signs mean, I guess.



Me: Pretend like you’re an angel.
Chooch (& me): PAHAHAHAHAHA.












For someone who acts like having his picture taken is the equivalent of needles in the eye and Iggy Azalea in the ears, he sure has a hard time NOT SMILING when I tell him DON’T SMILE. You should see all the twisted lips in the pictures I didn’t use.

And for someone who didn’t want “gold shit” on his lips, he still has it on an hour later. So…..

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Jul 272014


For your consideration: a 5×7 acrylic homage to the therapeutic role music plays in our lives. (If you don’t relate to this, then I’m sorry.)




This series of mixtape paintings has been really fun. Get one before my attention drifts and I go back to painting ugly things.

“Music Heals” listing on Etsy. I can also make you a custom one if you hate the colors.

Now go! Enjoy your Sunday!

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Jul 262014


This is what’s happening right now. I’m locked out of the house with Janna and Chooch because dumb Henry took the house key off the car keychain and conveniently failed to mention this during our last house meeting. (Lol, house meetings, yeah right.)

Chooch used to be able to fit through the window but we just learned that he has outgrown that so basically he’s of no use to me anymore. We tried to get Marcy to bring us the keys but she’s like “Y’all can go fuck yourselves, seriously.” Meanwhile, people were walking past watching what they probably thought that was a poor YouTube remake of the Three Stooges trying to burgle a house.

Now Henry’s sister Kelly is here with her kids Samantha, Brian and Zac so our Lock Out Party is expanding. A group of teenagers drove by and screamed at us because this is Brookline and they are teenagers.

It’s been an hour and Marcy is still sitting at the window laughing at us.

OK we’re back in the house! Henry came home, stinking the stench of manual labor (he was helping out at Castle Blood all day) and wearing a backward-facing camouflage hat like he just climbed out of a West Virginia holler, muttered some lies about me being irresponsible and then unlocked the dumb door for us. But not before taking his good old time getting out of his van and crossing the street.

Now he’s taking a shower, like he’s had some tough day or something. If Henry’s mom was here, she’d be outside building a monument in his honor because he’s such a goddamn hero.

It started pouring down rain about 5 minutes after we got back in the house. CLOSE CALL.

“I can’t believe you don’t care that we were locked out for two hours!” I cried to Henry.

“It was an hour, if that,” Henry calmly corrected.

“It was totally 2 hours,” Janna chimed in because she’s always Team Erin. That’s because she knows Team Erin brings home the win every time.

Anyway. Yeah, the trials and tribulations of being locked out. This happens way too often.

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Jul 262014

Another exhausting week in the books. Time to unwind with BULLET POINT TIME!

  • The other day at work, I was reminded of my old co-worker Eleanor and her husband, Pete. The story of Pete—or “Pee Pop,” as Eleanor called him—is that many years ago when he was in THE SERVICE, he got in a bar fight and was hit on the head so hard with a cue ball that he died. Except that when he was in the body bag, the coroner noticed that he was MOVING. So, not actually dead after all. However, he sustained massive brain injuries from the fight and was never able to function properly again. This means that Pee Pop was unable to figure out the TV so he would call Eleanor at work EVERY NIGHT and she would have to walk him through the steps of turning the TV on and then she would have to go online and bring up the program schedule and read to him what was playing on every channel until he found something he wanted to watch and then she would have to slowly tell him how to get to that channel. She would do all of these things very lovingly, but the moment she slammed the phone down, she would hiss, “GodDAMMIT.”
  • Last week, Chooch bought my nemesis a popsicle and I’m still shaking with anger over it. I keep seeing Nemesis on my front porch, deep-throating that fucking popsicle, and smugly saying, “Riley bought it for me.” FFFFUUUUCCCKKK.
  • Henry surprised me the other night with a date! Like, a “going out” date, not one of the most popular fruits of Arabian Peninsula. Although I would have accepted that, too. Anyway, I will spare you the saccharine details, but my whole point is that Henry reached over and took a piece of my pizza and then asked, “Is that a beet?” I shook my head and said that it was just a funny tasting potato. “No, that’s a beet. Didn’t you read the menu?” I admitted that I only scan menu descriptions to make sure there isn’t bacon or other meats hidden under cheese, and Henry just sighed. Apparently, my pizza had potatoes AND beets on it and that’s how I found out after nearly 35 years that I like beets, apparently. It was a good fucking pizza.
  • United Nations is playing here in a few weeks and I might cry. It’s been too long since I saw real, authentic screamo live:

  • Chooch has some keyboard app on his phone that reminds me so much of those little plastic keyboards that were prevalent in the 80s and literally every drug store sold them. I was especially reminded of them when Chooch was reading out loud the list of songs included and one was WE ARE THE WORLD! I got really excited (???) because that song was the plastic keyboard staple—it came with EVERY one of those damn things I ever bought. So I made Chooch watch the video for We are the World and I was giddily shouting the names of every single singer and Chooch, totally annoyed, said, “You think I actually know who these people are?” WELL, YOU’RE GONNA LEARN.
  • Henry had to take the trolley this morning and texted me to complain that the trolley driver yelled at him for paying before asking for a transfer and I was just like “OK n00b.
  • Oh boy, my brother just texted me from New Jersey to tell me he made a drunken impulse purchase on the boardwalk last night and would Chooch like to have a hermit crab. My hermit crab success rate is not very good (here’s to you, Tabasco and Dijon) but hey, why not.
  • I bought some jewelry from Never Take It Off last week and I am especially in love with this ring that was designed by Jess Bowen of The Summer Set. I like how simple bands look over top of my finger tattoo but I lost the one I usually wear on it. And since Henry is likely never going to give me a proper ring to put on that finger, I bought this one for myself and it’s perfect. I also bought the Warped Tour feather bracelet. If you’re into jewelry with meaning, I highly recommend Never Take It Off! (This bracelet benefits Big Cat Rescue, for example!)


  • The other night, Henry and I sat together and perused the line-up again for Riot Fest and he actually mentioned some bands that he “wouldn’t mind” seeing, MY HENRY IS GROWING UP! I seriously stare at that line-up at least twice a day and keep seeing more bands that I somehow glossed over the first 82349837489 times I looked at it and I am actually sick to my stomach with anticipation, you have no idea.
  • We’re having some baseball-themed food fest at work next month so I signed Henry up to make a pie. One of my most favoritest things in the world is dreaming up new pies for Henry to make and I have a pretty sweet idea for this one.
  • About three times a year, I get really serious about my serial killer card shop on Etsy and start churning out new designs like there’s no tomorrow. (What does that even mean.) So my focus on the blog has been pretty spotty because I never learned how to divide my attention. (Which is why I could never have more than one child.) Henry wants to start making his own envelopes to go along with our greeting cards which is hilarious to me because of how much of a faux-emphasis I put on envelopes in my card descriptions. But then when he pointed out I could incorporate my beloved and ubiquitous stripes into the envelopes, shit got REAL.
    • These cards are, hilariously, the only thing that I do in life that I can sincerely say I’m proud of.
  • My mom used to make me go with her to “the fat doctor” when I was a kid and I would have to sit in the dark, wood-paneled waiting room with a water fountain that tasted like vitamins. I had this weird flashback of those days recently, and it’s been driving me crazy because I have no idea what part of town that doctor’s office was, but I know there was a Paper Mart (or some other kind of paper store) nearby that my mom would take me afterward so I could buy stationery because I was really into pen-palling back then. I had over 100 pen pals at one time, and that’s no exaggeration. Whenever I would come back from vacation in the summer, I had so much mail waiting for me that the mail man probably thought I was some child celebrity. I wish I had the motivation to write letters still, but as it is, I’ve promised my friend Stacy a letter for the last 6 months and still haven’t written it because I lost her letter and even though I could just ask her for her address on Facebook, I’m using that as my flimsy excuse. Thank you for following my thoughts on that one.
    • Meanwhile, my mom wasn’t even “fat.” So now you know where I get my body dysmorphic tendencies.
  • OK, if I don’t end this now, I’ll just be sitting at the computer all day because you know how I can go ON AND ON AND ON AND…

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Jul 252014

This was originally posted in 2008 and now it’s back and revised. Because I said so. And also, because I was bored.

“It’s just a little farther, I promise.” My neighbor Christina wears stained clothes and her ratty blond hair hangs in tangled clumps, like twisted tassels sprouting from her scalp. One limp arm swings back, revealing a cigarette clamped between two fingers.

My neighbor Christina is ten years old. I don’t know why I agreed to follow her, but I guess on that spring day in 1998, I didn’t have much else going on. Christina’s mother had a protruding jaw line and once enjoyed a wine cooler that she purchased from me with a handful of pennies and nickels. I told her to just take it, she was embarrassing herself. She only knew her daughter’s whereabouts when there were no soap operas to watch and no crack to smoke. That’s being generous, too.

Behind a row of townhouses in the complex we live in, there is a large field. On the right side of it sits the back of the office. That’s where the mailboxes are. None of this seems worthy of being dragged away from the Game Show Network. (Dude, it’s  late 90s: the advent of digital cable. I don’t think I left my apartment for 6 months.)

I look around. I see trees. I see the apartment manager through her office window. I see a guy kicking a soccer ball on the field.

“What am I looking at?” I impatiently ask Christina, as she summons the boy on the field with one hand. He has red hair. He’s wearing Umbros and a hoodie. He’s running up the small crest to the edge of the parking lot where we’re waiting.

“This is the girl I was telling you about, Chad!” Christina proudly announces. I quickly understand where this is going.

He says he’s seen me around. I say I’ve never seen him once. He says he’s just graduated from Penn State and is living here in a furnished town home. “It’s one of the perks of the job I just got,” he explains.

I tell him I’m eighteen and a telemarketer. I tell him I live in a town home furnished by my mother. “Because I’m spoiled,” I explain. We laugh.

He asks me for my number. I tell him I don’t usually like red heads. But I give him my number. He calls me the next day and invites me over for dinner. I say yes, then feel overwhelmed by guilt.

I call my boss at Olan Mills. Gladys. She doubles as the mother hen of us telemarketers.

“It’s not cheating when your boyfriend is a crazy ass who treats you like crap,” Gladys yells into the phone. Someone takes the phone from her and shouts, “Go have dinner with him!”

No one likes my boyfriend Mike. I don’t like my boyfriend Mike. He leaves a very lasting first impression, like the taste that infiltrates your senses when your tongue accidentally drops down during a cavity fill. That bitter, tangy nightmare that makes your uvula curl up into itself and your eyes water. No one knows Chad yet but he’s got a flag-waving, confetti-sprinkling, horn-honking congregation in his corner. And he doesn’t even know it.

I’m not especially dressed up when I cross the parking lot that night. I’m not especially impressed by his corporate-furnished living space; it looks like remnants from the set of Golden Girls; vaguely comforting except for the fact that I don’t know the guy sitting across from me on a couch printed with giant pink water lilies. I’m not even especially impressed by the pasta with the watery sauce that makes a quiet squirt when he drops a heap of it in front of me, or the obligatory salad that accompanies it.

The conversation must not have been very savory either, over top plates of sub-par spaghetti, because all I remember is that he went to school for architecture. He tells me he sees me getting my mail every day and I guess this is  my cue to bat my lashes and blush because, d’awwww — that boy has been paying me some attention, ya’ll. But I just kind of snort instead. His corporate-supplied dining room table is a plain wooden square with matching chairs. The backs of the chairs are made from that annoying basket-like netting, the stuff that’s so thin and flimsy, like those stupid slats of holy willow the churches give out like candy on Palm Sunday, that any regular person could probably punch their fist through it, the stuff that snags your good sweaters and you keep saying you’re going to get new chairs but you end up getting new sweaters instead.

I’m bored by him but not so much that I’d decline his offer of an after-dinner joint. We sit on the Blanche Deveroux-style couch, boxy and stiff, passing a joint between us. “Can I see your iguana?” he asks breathlessly. My marginal buzz convinces me he said “vagina,” and I can’t stop laughing.

My townhouse is full of cushiony furniture, a blue couch with bright pillows and a dining room table with loudly vibrant vinyl diner-style chairs. I’ve not once sat at that table and ate. My townhouse has fluorescent Slinkies dripping off the ceiling. They glow in the dark. My townhouse would make his Golden Girls cower and shade their eyes. I lead him up to the bedroom of my townhouse, a Crayola box regurgitated by Sid and Marty Kroft.

Templeton, my choleric iguana, looks irritable in his tank. “He doesn’t do much,” I say as we sit on the edge of my bed and watch. My bed is made with cherry-hued jersey sheets. I can remember that, but not Chad’s last name. The only thing I remember about Chad is the red hair and phony toothpaste commercial smile.

Chad asks if I want a massage. I say no, but he still tries kneading me between the shoulder blades with his knuckles.

I shrug him off.

Chad asks if he can kiss me. I say no, I think he should leave.

So he leaves and I contently spend the rest of the night watching sitcoms.

With only a parking lot separating us, Chad and I have a few inevitable run-ins. We’re polite. Sometimes we nod to each other from afar and then walk in opposite directions. Eventually, we just never see each other again.

I think about that night sometimes, and many other one-sided encounters, late-night hitchhiker pick-ups, placing personal ads “just for kicks“, and I feel grateful that I’m still alive. Because, god forbid you say no.

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Jul 242014

Remember when I was so excited to start my new daylight shift at work because it meant that I would get to spend more time with Chooch? WELL THAT HASN’T HAPPENED. I forgot that in summer, kids go AWOL. Every fucking evening, he’s running around with the neighbor kid and then when he finally comes in for the night, like a fucking outside cat who just wants somewhere dry to sleep, he is a total bitch-boy. I know it’s because that damn neighbor kid is rubbing off on him. AND I DON’T LIKE IT.

Anyway, when I was sitting by the river like a homeless person during my lunchbreak today, I got all wistful and nostalgic and started re-watching some of my Instavids starring Chooch, and then I made a compilation and cried over it because I’m a loser who was abandoned by her kid.

I’m sighing so hard right now. So please enjoy these video clips of my son who forgot that he has a mom. :(

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Jul 232014

I’ve written the words a million times on here, but Alternative Press is my favorite magazine in the entire world and I attribute SO MUCH of the breadth of my music tastes to it. They saved me from a stagnant wasteland of 90s R&B (which I still have room in my heart for, but thank god I branched out, you know?).

I even became friends with one of my music critic idols and was fortunate enough to get to visit the AP office twice. It was just as magnificent for me the second time! And through AP, I became friends with Terri and Christian, who are visiting me next week and we’re going to talk and talk and talk about music until Henry is like CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT TED NUGENT NOW, OMG.

Anyway. Monday night, Alt Press hosted their very first ever music awards show at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. I wanted to go in the worst way, but couldn’t make it out. Luckily, it was televised. But we don’t get the channel airing it! I was just about to admit defeat when, FIVE MINUTES before it started, I happened to find some random Panic! At the Disco fan site on Twitter who tweeted a link to a livestream they had set up. Literally, it was a webcam propped up across from their TV, and I laid in my bedroom on my stomach watching the entire four hours on my fucking iPhone, because that is how much it meant to me. This is what it looked like:


But it didn’t matter to me, because I was just so stoked that MY SCENE was getting red carpet treatment for once. MY BANDS were nominated for awards. THE FANS got to vote. And it was legit! Like a beautiful marriage between Alt Press and Warped Tour (Kevin Lyman was one of the producers, even) and then Ice T came out and taught all the kids that if they talk shit, they get shot. It was glorious.

There were so many moments when I cheered and wept openly (Pierce the Veil won Best Live Band, you guys) and the only low-lights for me was the fact that Falling In Reverse* and Attila got to show their disgusting pig-faces on TV at all.

*(Ronnie Radke makes Jonny Craig look like a wholesome potato farmer.)

But the best moment for me, and the entire reason for this post, was when Billy Corgan accepted the Vanguard Award with this speech:

“I know you’ve been out here a long time because you’ve been out here a long time and you want to hear the bands play, as you should. The kids rule, the kids always rule, the kids win, and they should. The kids should always kick motherfuckers like me out of the way, and I mean that. I’m no legend, your favorite song is legend, your favorite band is legend, your favorite concert is legend. That’s what makes it work, you make it work. Every generation deserves its dream, its bands, its artists, its voices, and I’m glad to see you have those bands here tonight, that’s awesome. Let me say one last thing, if you don’t mind, if you’ll indulge me. And by the way let me thank Miss Joan Jett for being here. Incredible artist, incredible career, and yes it’s a career, it’s called a career, it’s okay. It’s okay to make money, it’s okay to sell things, it’s okay to sell t-shirts, nobody gets hurts. Let me say this last thing to you. There’s two paths you take when you first put on that guitar or sing that song: do I want to please this audience, or do I want to push this audience’s buttons?”

“In alternative music, which Alternative Press has been putting across for how many years now, you have to be able to push those buttons. You understand what pushing those buttons means, but most of the world doesn’t, they just see angry people screaming about God knows what. So over 25 years ago I made the decision that I was going to push your buttons, or the people that came before you, or the people that came before you. I like to think that I’m receiving this in humility because I’m willing to push your buttons, because I’m willing to tell you to go fuck yourself. I didn’t start a band to be anybody’s bitch, I started a band to kick your fucking head in. What I love about the bands that are coming up here tonight, is that they’re trying to kick your head in, and they should. You deserve it, you deserve your bands, you deserve your bands to push you, to make you question everything about you, because if they don’t do it, nobody else will, and you do understand that. So God bless you, thank you very much.”

(Thanks to the fine people at Alternative Nation for the transcript!)

Billy fucking Corgan, you guys. Such truth. I know a lot of you can relate to this, and that is why we’re friends.

I am so ridiculously proud of Alternative Press and my friend Jason and every last person involved in putting together such an epic production for a scene that is so often shat upon. I really, really hope this was the first of many more AP Awards. Because if there’s one next year, I’m fucking going.

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Jul 222014


I’m really thankful that my cousin Danielle and I reconnected because now Chooch has a cousin around his age and I just think that’s so important, and not something that I had growing up because my family is so goddamn mental and loooooved to sever ties with entire branches. Chooch has been getting to know Danielle’s son Ean better lately which makes me happy because while he regularly sees Henry’s family, there’s clearly not much left of mine.

Ean slept over on Saturday and they were still getting along when they woke up on Sunday. I mean, assuming they even slept at all!


And then on Sunday, one of our little neighbor kids wanted to come in and I have a pretty strong NO NEIGHBOR SPAWN IN THE HOUSE POLICY because it brings back traumatic memories of when I first moved there when I was 20 and literally ALL OF THE NEIGHBOR KIDS gravitated to me and the next thing I knew, I had 5 kids hanging off the railings of my front porch every single motherfucking day. And then it occurred to me that I had become some unofficial Brooklline babysitter and it was just no good.

All of those kids were fucking DDDDDDICK HEADS.

But this neighbor kid isn’t bad. He was kind of in awe of my house which was hilarious because if you’re most adults, you’re sneering at my juvenile decor. But if you’re a kid (or a cool adult), you’re like IS THAT A PEE WEE HERMAN DOLL?!?! And then running around my house with a pig mask on.

These are all things that happened.


Later, we took Chooch and Ean to a pretty sad mini golf course, where Chooch only cried once so I guess he’s growing up, you guys.


Henry relived his SERVICE days with an ugly camouflage ball. Get a life, Henry.


Intense staring.
HYENA FTW!!! (That’s me, obv. And I WON.)

Anyway, aside from feeling hungover all weekend without having had a single sip of alcohol, it was a good one. That was the most time I’ve spent with Ean, so YAY FAMILY STUFF!

This was basically Marcy’s face all weekend, especially when the extremely high-pitch voiced neighbor kid was over:


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Jul 212014

I’ve had a list of new designs that I wanted to make for non compos cards, but it just sat in my head, collecting dust. I have to be in the MOOD, you know? Well, apparently waking up sick on Saturday was just the creative ass-kicking I needed…who knew nausea could be so inspirational. Some of you have been asking for anniversary cards: YOUR WISH HAS BEEN GRANTED.

1. Amy Archer-Gilligan


Amy Archer-Gilligan was a caretaker and murderer of the elderly, but she also bestowed her services on her first two husbands. Let your babe know that you made it another year of marriage without spiking the supper. Nothing like keeping them on their toes, and possibly getting to eat out more often.

This card is beautifully printed on high-quality card stock and not the back of a sewage bill. It comes with an envelope. To put the CARD in. Anything else is on you. I DON’T NEED TO KNOW YOUR AGENDA.

2. Aileen Wuornos


Sometimes you know on the very first day that they’re the one. Or you have every intention of it being a one-night stand but they JUST WON’T GO AWAY and the next thing you know it’s 13 years later and you have an 8-year-old son.

But if you wanted to know secrets about me, you’d just read my blog.

Anyway. The card! What a romantic “glad we’re still married” paper gift! And it comes with a really special envelope that’s actually just a regular envelope but come on, envelopes need some love too.

And you know, if you and your spouse have that delightful love/hate rapport going on, I can always change this to “I wish I had pulled the trigger on our first date.”

3. John Wayne Gacy


And then you can be all, “Haha, Just kidding!” OR ARE YOU. Nothing like using scare tactics to keep the passion alive, so what are you waiting for? Give this card to your partner-in-wedded-bliss on your next anniversary.

This card is majestically printed on high quality cardstock. It comes with an envelope. Maybe you could rub some dirt on it, you know, like “Oops, sorry honey. I didn’t have a chance to wash my hands after digging…..in the garden.” I don’t know. Just trying to give you some suggestions. God.

4. Jeffrey Dahmer


It’s too bad Dahmer never had time to write a cookbook.

I mean…hey, here’s a great way to tell your spouse they’re still tasty after all these years! And that the thought of digging into their brain with a grapefruit spoon may have crossed your mind once or twice.

This card is printed on NASA-quality card stock, if that’s such a thing. And because I’m a sweetheart, you get an envelope for FREE. They charge extra for that shit in Romania, you know.

5. Dennis Rader/BTK


Let your partner know that even though marriage might be torture at times, you sure are stoked to have made it through another year.

This card is printed on high quality paper and comes with an envelope. Don’t worry, it won’t be too thick to slide under the basement door.

6. Assorted Serial Killer Note Cards


I was getting frustrated because I kept promising my friends* snail mail, but then I never had note cards on hand and who wants to get a letter written on crappy notebook paper? So I designed this set of blank notecards for my own personal use, and now I’m making them available to my fellow true crime aficionados! This is a set of eight (8) note cards. They’re blank inside so you can write anything you want, with whatever you want (pigs blood, crayons, mustard—go wild!). Look at those colors! These are practically the Laugh In of note cards. 

Included, one of each: Albert Fish, Ted Bundy, Carl Panzram, Dennis Rader/BTK, Jeffrey Dahmer, Son of Sam/David Berkowitz, Ed Gein, Lizzie Borden. 

These cards are your standard A-something. Whatever 4×6 is considered. A4? I should probably google that, or research more knowledgeable card shops on Etsy; one day I’ll get my shit together. These come with envelopes too. 8 (eight) of them. I was originally going to only include 7 to be a dick, but then something on my shoulder told me that wouldn’t be good for business. 

PLEASE NOTE: These are eight individual cards, not one sheet. I only combined them onto one sheet for purposes of showing each design on Etsy. 

*Who am I kidding. I don’t have any friends. Just death row pen pals. :(


So that’s it! I’m hoping to make a few more this week, but you know how real jobs get in the way. SIGH.

If you order anything this week, please use coupoRn code “marilynchambers” to get 20% off, just for reading this damn blog!

DISCLAIMER: As always, I’m here to remind you that I do not endorse serial killers, murder, etc. I don’t think they’re “cool” and I don’t “worship” them. I’m just extremely interested in true crime, pop culture and designing tongue-in-cheek greeting cards. 



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Jul 202014


You know how sometimes things just feel wrong from the moment you wake up? That’s how I felt Tuesday morning when I sprung (seriously) out of bed and did my IT’S WARPED TOUR, MOTHERFUCKAS feet-stomp on my bedroom floor. I felt so excited but also kind of disjointed, like something just wasn’t right. And on paper, it had all of the components of being the perfect day, because for the first time in years, the temperature was only going to be 79 degrees! Usually it’s almost 100 and we have sweat rolling down our backs before we even get through the gates.

My plan was to be out of the house by 8am so we could stop somewhere and have a real breakfast along the way, something better than the McDonald’s shit Henry usually plies me with on Warped Tour morn. I wanted pancakes or something, I don’t know. Something that would get me through the day.

But Henry ruined my plans as usual by being woefully unprepared so it was 9 by the time we pulled away from the house. Chooch was so tired that he brought a pillow from the couch and slept on it the whole way to First Niagra Pavilion, which is about 40 minutes outside of Pittsburgh, I guess. We hit all kinds of construction and had dumb Subway for breakfast which I didn’t want and then Henry got me HOT COFFEE from Starbucks instead of ICED COFFEE and the day was ALREADY RUINED, I COULD JUST TELL.


But we finally parked, and gates still hadn’t opened yet so I was starting to calm down. Then Henry and Chooch had to go to guest services so Henry could get his complimentary Parent Ticket, so I stayed back and saved their spot in line. But then they never came back! They got in a different line! And Henry was texting me about how they walked past a camera crew that was potentially filming the next season of Warped Roadies and then he sent me a picture of Warped founder KEVIN LYMAN who happened to be standing near them and I was like “WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO MURDER MY FEELINGS!?”

But standing in that line alone for 40 minutes was about to prepare me for the rest of the day….so, thanks?


The best part, though, was that my line moved faster and I got inside way before they did. If you’ve never been to Warped Tour, the one thing you need to know is that the very first thing you’re going to want to do is run to the Inflatable, which has the day’s schedule on display. You can also buy a paper schedule for $2, which we always do, but the Inflatable will tell me much faster which bands are playing like RIGHTNOW which is important because shit starts as soon as those gates open. The one band I was looking for, The Marmozets, wasn’t listed on either the Inflatable or the paper schedule and I was like WHAT. #WarpedTourProblems.


I met up with Chooch and Henry in time to take Chooch’s picture with the Chunk! No, Captain Chunk! panda. (Pretty good band, too, if you’re into French pop punk and Goonies references.)

(Which I am, so…)

(And true to form, this was the second time in a row that I missed their goddamn set because of scheduling conflicts. #WARPEDTOURPROBLEMS.)


One of the smartest things bands do before the gates open is send someone around all of the lines with a sign that has what stage they’re playing on and when. That’s how I knew without even needing to consult with the Inflatable that To the Wind was playing at 11:15. I excitedly texted my friend Terri to tell her, because she likes them too and I told her I would report back.


I mean, if my WRONG COFFEE hadn’t already woken me up, I could have for sure counted on To the Wind’s set to have me thoroughly caffeinated. Nothing better some gritty hardcore for breakfast.

This was around the time that we started to realize Chooch wasn’t just tired, but possibly ill. He started out standing during To the Wind’s set, but then ended up sitting down Indian-style, right next to a bunch of guys who were hardcore dancing so I had to be Chooch’s human barricade. I thought he was just being a lazy jerk at first, but then as we were walking to another stage, he was like, “My head, throat and stomach hurt really bad” and I’m no nurse, but I was able to piece those clues together and hypothesize that perhaps my son was sick.


Weird, hunched-over gait. Not asking for every single shirt he saw in Merch Alley. Only taking a few timid licks of an ice cream cone and refusing pizza, chicken strips and a cheeseburger. Yep, my kid was sick.



I at least got him to take one selfie with me, but this was during the first hour and he hadn’t yet reached the pinnacle of his plague. Henry was actually going to just take him home and then come back that night to get me, but then we saw that the Summer Set was doing a meet and greet later than afternoon and asked Chooch if he wanted to do it. That sprung him to life a little bit, so we bought a Summer Set shirt and got a skip the line ticket. Then Henry took Chooch to the hillside and let him sleep under the shade of the trees while I ran off and did my own shit.

This was Henry’s view while he sat next to Sleeping Chooch:


I really wish Henry would take some fashion risks like that. But NO: non-descript t-shirts until the motherfucking day he dies.


Obligatory Warped Tour photo of me being blissed-out and Henry hating his life.


I miss this scene already.


A lot of the bands I follow on Instagram were like SERIOUSLY, CHECK OUT K. FLAY AT WARPED TOUR! so I did and she was alright. Kind of like if God changed his mind and made it possible for two men to conceive a child together and Mike Posner and Bizzie Bone decided to give it a whirl and next thing you know, we’re welcoming K. Flay into the world. She had a very laid-back California hip hop vibe going on and it was mildly entertaining, but not enough that I was like, “HOLY SHIT I MUST BUY HER SHIT RIGHT NOW.” Still, it’s always cool to see a girl killing it on any stage at Warped Tour.

Speaking of, some low-tier music journalist wrote a piece about how Kevin Lyman hates women because he doesn’t have enough female bands at Warped Tour and usually I’m all for girl power, but I had to strongly disagree with her in this case. I don’t go to shows based on the gender of bands. I go based on if they sound good or not. Kevin Lyman should definitely NOT pick female bands just for the sake of meeting some imaginary, unspoken quota. Um, remember when he had Katy Perry there in 2008? God, that was just terrible.

The bottom-line is that this is just a male-dominated scene. Not on purpose. I just think that there aren’t a ton of girls who get into playing music and decide that they want to be in a hardcore or metalcore band, and that’s the genre that makes up most of Warped Tour. I think Kevin does a good job seeking out girl bands that he feels sound good and fit the criteria. It’s not his fault that there aren’t a ton to choose from.

In all the years I’ve been going to Warped Tour, the lack of girl bands has never crossed my mind.

THAT BEING SAID, I was really looking forward to seeing the Marmozets, which my pal Jason described to me as “Hayley Williams fronting Dillinger Escape Plan.” I’ve had hearts in my eyes ever since. Anyway, Jason told me yesterday that the Marmozets missed two weeks of Warped Tour because of goddamn Visa issues, so it wasn’t that they were playing on some invisible stage that I couldn’t find; they just weren’t there at all. Super sigh. Another day, Marmozets. #WarpedTourProblems

At one point, I came back from my rounds (which included having one of the YOUNG boys at the Clean Water refill station flirt with me, yessss) to find Henry and Chooch in this state:


That’s how we knew Chooch was definitely sick-sick: he kept saying he couldn’t feel the heat of the sun even though it was beating down on him. He had goosebumps, even. But every time he saw me, he would murmur, “Where’s my Summer Set shirt!?” and I would say, “In my bag” and then he would go back to sleep. He really did get a lot of rest there. I didn’t drag him around and make him do shit.


Soon, it was almost 2pm and I was faced with a terribly difficult decision: SAVES THE DAY OR BEARTOOTH?!?! UGHHH! In the end, I went with Beartooth only because I’ve seen Saves the Day before (god, I love them so much though, and it would have been nice to hear some stuff from their most recent album, UGH #WarpedTourProblems). Turns out though choosing Beartooth was life-changing. No, I’m not being melodramatic. Their set honestly breathed life into me.


Typically, I will stand off to the side because I’m “old,” scared of getting hurt, and Henry is usually with me and we all know Henry ain’t going in no motherfucking pit y’all. But this time I was alone. So I pushed my way further into the crowd, forgetting for the moment that I absolutely hate touching other people, and next thing I knew, I was getting pushed further and further into the pit and it was just what I fucking needed. Not that I generally feel like an old person, but something clicked during Beartooth and I felt like myself. Like the person I used to be a really long time ago before shitty Real Life changed me. I didn’t care what I looked like or who was looking at me or if I looked like a mom or if I was going to get hurt or if I was going to hurt someone. I just went in there and raged and even fought the urge to apologize when I jumped on someone’s foot and then I got to shove someone in a hammerhead shark costume and it was like a fucking awakening, like my own personal version of Cocoon and Caleb Shomo was my Steve Guttenberg. When he screamed, “You guys paid to come to Warped Tour, and it’s up to you to make the most of it, so get the fuck up!” I screamed myself hoarse, because FUCK YES I WANT THIS TO STILL BE THE BEST DAY EVER! Yes, there were some roadblocks, poor Chooch was sick, there weren’t any of my favorite bands there, but goddammit: IT WAS STILL WARPED TOUR. And that was all I needed to have my day saved.

It also didn’t hurt when Davey from Vanna come out to guest-scream. God, he’s fucking hot. Basically, I walked away from that stage wanting 57 different Beartooth tattoos and a membership to their fan club. Do bands still have fan clubs, or am I REALLY being a 35-year-old right now?

Soon after, it was time for me to collect Henry and Chooch so we could get in line for the Summer Set meet and greet, which was a huge cluster and Henry was having a hard time holding himself back from assaulting the throng of fangirls who kept encroaching on us.


I missed Every Time I Die while waiting in this never-ending line with Chooch, so next time he tries to say I’m a horrible mom, I’ll be sure to throw this back in his face. I DID THIS FOR YOU, SON. #WarpedTourProblems


Chooch was able to muster enough energy to stand up and smile with the Summer Set. He adores them so much and knows all the words to their songs. They’re not really my cup of tea, but at the same time, I don’t mind when he puts them on. It could be way worse, you guys. They really pushed people through as fast as possible: you’d get to the front, give some dude your phone, pose, then split. It was like a factory line, but trust me: I’ve seen how long these lines get and they have to do what they can to keep things in control, so it wasn’t like it was overtly rude or anything. However, when it was Chooch’s turn, he went to walk away after the picture was taken, but they called him back over and each one gave him a high-five. I thought that was super sweet, so it made me like them a lot more and I didn’t groan or act put-out when we had to watch their set later. (It was actually pretty fun.)


But first I had to go see my favorites in Of Mice & Men! They were a last minute addition to the Warped roster and I was really happy because they’re always so good.



Here’s an accidental video I took of some dude’s underwear, which I found on my phone the day after and couldn’t stop laughing, so I showed Chooch and he was like “I MISSED OF MICE & MEN?! UGH!” :(

They have played my favorite song by them—”Second & Sebring”—every single time I’ve seen them, but not this time. I was like, “WHAT ARE YOU KIDDING THAT’S IT YOU’RE DONE!?” when they played their last song and said goodbye. *WarpedTourProblems

Chooch was able to hang on long enough to watch The Summer Set, but the poor kid had to sit down in the parking lot through the whole thing.



The struggle is real. #WarpedTourProblems

Here are two different angles of Henry hating his life:





Even though he was feeling like shit, his little lips still moved along to all of the words, and at the beginning of each song, he would look up at me and tell me what song it was. He was especially rejuvenated when they played “Fuck You Over” because OMG a song that enables him to swear freely. We left after their set, around 6:00, which sucked but he wasn’t getting any better. I was torn between Mom and Teenager: I wanted to leave so my kid could get better rest, but the spoiled teenaged brat side of me was like, “I’M NOT DONE HERE!” In all honesty, there was really only one more band that I really wanted to see, so it wasn’t that big of a sacrifice.

The next day, Chooch (feeling much better) was looking at the schedule and lamenting over all the bands we missed. “We missed Crown the Empire!” he cried. If he wasn’t my precious kid, I would have been like, “YEAH AND IT’S YOUR FAULT!” like when Christina’s sister made us leave early in 2007 and I wasn’t done yet and I still complain it 7 years later, clearly. But instead I just felt super bad for him because he really honestly wanted to see some of the bands there. Of all days to get sick.

“I felt so much better during Summer Set,” Chooch said with melancholy. “My throat stopped hurting and everything. But then when they were done, my throat started to hurt again and I wanted to leave.”

And then he asked, “What was that first band we saw?”

“To the Wind,” I replied. “You hated them, didn’t you?”

“No!” Chooch yelled incredulously. “I was really enjoying them! I just had to sit down because my legs were hurting. BECAUSE I WAS SICK.” We’re going to be hearing about that for quite some time, I think. But then we started talking about how one of the guys in To the Wind has a prosthetic leg, so that distracted him from filing his emancipation paperwork.

Chooch wore his Summer Set shirt for the next two days until I finally made him change because have you seen how heavily my kid sweats? Also, I love that he’s not deterred by a shirt with flowers on it.


I still have post-Warped Tour sadness, even though it didn’t go off without a hitch, it was still my Christmas in July and I made sure it was a beautiful day. Like Beartooth preached: Warped Tour is all in what you make of it. I could have sat around and pouted, but I didn’t. I waited all year for that day and fucking hell, I was going to make the most of it. Besides, I know that next year will be better. So let the countdown begin!

(This was probably the best Warped Tour Henry has ever been to because he literally got to sit the whole time and not have his dumb beard bristled by banshee-like bands.)

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Jul 182014

Summer is great because we do so much shit, but then I get all stressed out because doing more shit means having more shit to blog about. And don’t get me wrong: I LOVE BLOGGING. (OK, maybe love/hate is more like it.) But I also like when things are calmer and more slow-paced at home so that I can do stupid things on here. Like post videos of songs that I want you all to like. AND BULLET POINTS! So I’m going to put my Warped Tour post on hold and just go hog-wild on some nonsensical bulleted bullshit.

  • My new job-thing is going well! All of the processors have been very helpful (even Mean Amber, but I think she might save the eye-rolling for when I’m not looking). Glenn and I haven’t killed each other yet, surprisingly. One day he was choking and I asked him if I could NOT get him some water, so that was fun. I have to ask him legit work questions every day now though so I have to make sure I’m not too mean else he gives me the wrong information.
  • Hey speaking of Warped Tour: I have the post-show sadness, you guys, in a big way. My body still aches a little bit and my throat still feels scratchy, and I know it sounds sick but I’m hanging on to those ailments because they’re souvenirs, practically.
  • I was on a Bone Thugs-n-Harmony kick a few weeks ago after we went to Cleveland (because, duh), and it reminded me of how mad I was back in the day when Bone released a different, more easily digested version of The Crossroads and then MTV was playing the video all of the time and it made all of these dumb white people like Bone, and I think that might have been my taste of music elitism. Ugh, I can still picture all of the suburban crackers in my high school acting so cool because they had the Crossroads cassingle.
    • Like I wasn’t a suburban cracker.
  • Can I just take a moment to say that all of a sudden, Henry has turned into the best boyfriend ever and is taking me to Riot Fest in Chicago this September? I cried real tears. And not the saline ones that Duncan Sheik tastes. Also, thank god for layaway ticket plans. WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT LINEUP. It’s like a marriage between Warped Tour and all of the bands I would actually give a shit to see at Coachella. (I went to Coachella once in 2004 and once was enough.) CHI_Admat_Texture_Update-1024x811
    • “all of a sudden, Henry has turned into the best boyfriend ever” <—LOL. Proposal or not, I know I have it good.
  • I can safely say that all of this hullabaloo with Malaysian Airlines has pretty much shelved any future plans to travel anywhere outside of the country. I am so scared of what’s happening in the world. :(
  • The cold press coffee stuff that Henry made worked out and I was able to enjoy a fine glass of iced coffee this morning, you guys! I know those of you read yesterday’s post were really concerned. “Will she get a good cup of iced coffee or won’t she!? THE SUSPENSE!”
  • I still have to work one late shift a week in my new position and tonight is my first one working late shift with Glenn, haha! I keep calling it Glenn’s Big Night but I don’t think he feels the same. I just made him talk about Warped Tour a few minutes ago and I learned that his kids like Of Mice and Men so I got really excited and shot my fist into the air…?
  • Did I tell you guys about the man who was standing across the street from our house a few weeks ago? Our car was parked in the lot across from our house so we were crossing over to take Henry’s mom home, when this older man, carrying several bags from Payless Shoes and looking generally disheveled, started aggressively pointing at our house and saying that his mom’s cousin used to live there. So Henry’s mom stopped and engaged him while Henry was hissing, “MOM. NO. LET’S GO.” But Judy was all, “Wait, I might know his mom’s cousin” because she literally thinks she knows everyone. We finally got her to walk away just as another guy was walking down the sidewalk. So Payless grabbed him and started telling him the whole story about his mom’s cousin. Just then, our neighbor’s kid Josh came out of his house and was shouting across the street at Chooch, which angered Payless, so Payless screamed, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” So Josh’s mom came flying out of the house and yelled, “DID YOU JUST TELL MY KID TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!?” and he was like, “YEAH I TOLD YOUR KID TO SHUT THE FUCK!” I wanted to stay and watch it play out, but the neighbors told us later that the cops came and apparently he had “escaped” from the halfway house thing he lives in so they fined him and told the caretaker that if it happens again, the caretaker will get fined. If you ask me, that kid deserved to be told to STFU. But…you know me and kids.
  • I’m about to turn 35 in two weeks, but I’m OK with it because I have more of a life now than I did ten years ago, so bring it. Besides, my pals Terri and Christian are coming to visit from Philly! And they’re vegetarians too so I get to take them to all of the places that Henry never wants to eat at! And we can talk about bands foreverrrrrrrrr. I’m also excited for them to meet Chooch and Marcy for the first time!
  • Henry texted me last week and it said “I’m downtown, I’m down for you” and I was like, “WTF, Danity Kane?” But it turns out he was using voice-to-text which was making him come off like an R&B singer.
  • Chooch is secretly in love with Minnie Driver because he likes that show “About a Boy” so now when he sees a woman with black curly hair, he’ll casually say, “She looks like Minnie Driver. WELL, SHE DOES.”


P.S. After work, I was checking out the videos on OnDemand to see if anything was added and goddamn “The Crossroads” is on there. So of course I had to be a basic white bitch and watch.

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Jul 172014

One of the things I picked up from my Pappap was a love for coffee. Or, if we’re being honest, an addiction to it. I spent so much time going to restaurants with him and watching him drink cup after cup of what looked like steaming tar, that I eventually forced myself to like it at a young age just so I could be more like him. And it’s a good thing too, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to spend 75% of my high school years sitting in a booth at Denny’s, nursing a bottomless cup until 3am. But I never turned into a coffee snob. Sure, not all coffee tastes great to me, but I’ll probably still drink it. Out of a boot if I have to. BECAUSE I NEED IT. From a gas station? I don’t give a fuck. Made in a Red Roof Inn hotel room? Bring it. Sitting in a cup for so long it needs microwaved for the 5th time? Waste not, want not, or whatever the fuck.

I just have a standard Keurig at home. It gets the job done. I don’t really prefer one brand of K-cups over another (although it gets tricky with some of the flavored coffee; not a fan of mocha), but whenever I get coffee at Starbucks or any other coffee house, it’s almost always iced coffee. And since my stomach wasn’t feeling too proper yesterday morning, I kept trying to get Henry to go out and get me iced coffee because he had the day off (post-Warped Tour recuperation), which basically means he was home to do my bidding. Henry was being incredibly resistent and kept saying things like, “You can just make iced coffee at home!” to which I would scream, “NO I CAN’T BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW HOW.”

I ended up drinking a cup of regular coffee because suddenly Henry has a backbone and I didn’t puke like I thought I was going to. BUT STILL.

Last night, Henry was doing stuff in the kitchen and I was like, “What is he doing? I didn’t tell him to do anything, so he must be doing something that’s not for me.” I mean, how dare he, right? Turns out, he had bought a bag of regular, non-K-cup coffee and was doing that cold press thingie so that I could have iced coffee at home! I wonder if he learned that from A Beautiful Mess.

He was trying to explain to me what to do, but I lost interest pretty quickly. Informational words. Gross.

This morning, I was really excited to have iced coffee before work! I went into the kitchen and spotted a pitcher-thing full of murky coffee-esque substance, so I dumped some into a glass. I vaguely recalled Henry saying to just use a little bit and then fill the rest of the glass with milk, but the stuff came out like quick-moving sludge and filled the glass nearly 3/4 of the way. Something about it seemed off, but I smelled it and it was definitely coffee and not like, I don’t know, mulch.

I topped it off with some almond milk and sweetner and did my best to stir it around the ice cubes, but it was real thick and the clumps just wouldn’t go away. I ended up having to drink it with a straw, but even then so many coffee grounds were getting through that I was actually chewing on them like goddamn java-flavored bubblegum.

Um, this just didn’t seem right to me, so I texted Henry to tell him that he’s a fuck up and I hate him.

“I told you last night that it was steeping and it won’t be ready until I strain it,” he replied.

“Oh. I missed that part,” I said. Maybe if he would make his know-it-all soliloquys more interesting, I would pay attention!

By then, I didn’t have time to make a cup of regular, non-gritty coffee, so I just kept drinking my fucked up iced coffee. I had to floss the grounds out of my teeth before I left for work, which actually probably took as long as brewing a real cup of coffee would have. HINDSIGHT.

There was no real point to this, other than my stomach hurts now and the jitters are eating me from the inside out. I KIND OF WANT TO DRINK/EAT SOME MORE.

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