Sep 182014

That’s a lot of people. 

You know that feeling you get after you go to a really fucking amazing show, that sinking pit you fall into once the adrenaline and euphoria wears off? That emotionally-crippling post-show depression? If you give even a tiny turd about music, you know what I’m talking about.

This is the hardest and farthest I’ve fallen post-show. All three days of Riot Fest were like a fucking fairy tale for me; and I mean all of the good parts, no poison apples or trolls under bridges.  It hit me really hard this morning. I came into work and slammed my purse down, sighing heavily. Glenn asked me in his standard non-caring monotone, “What’s wrong.” I HAVE POST-SHOW DEPRESSION, I cried. “OK. You can still listen to their music, you know” was his dumb, non-helpful advice.

OMG THAT’S NOT THE POINT UGH. You don’t think I haven’t been obsessively YouTubing Riot Fest performances, GLENN?!


I have so much to write about. The bands, obviously. But just the whole atmosphere, the sketchy Uber rides, the FOOD OMG THE FUCKING FOOD — there is so much I want to tell you guys! I’ve been on the verge of exploding every day at work because I want to talktalktalk about it so much but no one carescarescares!

But before I even get started, there’s something totally painful that I need to do: I need to thank Henry on this space. Because aside from buying the tickets (literally the only thing I did), Henry took care of every last minutia to make this past weekend a reality for me. Even though he hates this shit and hates spending money and hates crowds of music fans and hates standing around all day, Henry did all of this for me and I am pretty overwhelmed by it all. I mean, not that Henry doesn’t normally do anything for me, but this was something that I honestly thought he was going to say “Fuck no!” to. I mean, when I asked him three months ago if we could go, I actually laughed a little bit because it didn’t seem like something he would ever say yes to.

It just meant so much to me. I’m a pretty lucky broad. And even though Henry frowned a lot (like in this picture, where he was frowning because we matched), we barely fought at all (and the few times we did, it was because I missed my last feeding), he admitted on the way home that he had “a little” fun. It’s going to be hard to top Riot Fest.



I mean, unless WE GO AGAIN NEXT YEAR?!?! HENRY?!!??!

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Sep 172014

Chooch, out of the blue: I have lots of pet peeves. Like….booger pickers and hackers.

Chris: What if the booger pickers are picking their boogers in private? Is that OK?

Chooch: Then the cats win.

Chris: I think we’re having two different conversations.

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Sep 172014

Right after Henry and I returned home from Chicago on Monday, Chooch lost a tooth. Not a big deal; this was like the 6th or 7th one to add to my salt shaker of baby teeth. (I collect his teeth in a salt shaker full of fake blood because that’s what the gypsy told me to do 9 years ago after selling me fertility potion.)

Chooch placed the tooth under his pillow and then Henry promptly forgot to swap it out with money, so Tuesday morning started with Chooch stomping out of his room, fists at his sides, bitching about how the dumbass Tooth Fairy didn’t leave him any money. I was like, “Fuck. Think Erin, think.” So I told him that was because Monday was Labor Day for the Tooth Fairies and that they were all off work, duh. I’m really off my game lately when it comes to Creative Lies, but Chooch didn’t say anything to that, not even “Wait, there’s more than one Tooth Fairy?” so I chalked it up to Good Parenting. And also Chooch’s inability to give a shit about things in the morning.

But then he came home from school with another tooth that had fallen out. His teacher put it in an envelope and in pencil, noted the exact time it fell out, like we’re some tightly-clenched scrapbooking assholes or something.

Chooch was just happy that now he was about to get twice as much money.

Except that Dildo Henry shat in his tutu again and didn’t pull through. He claims that Chooch “started to wake up” when he tried to make the switch. So I was like, “Well, where is the cash? I’ll do it myself” and then Henry was all, “In my pocket.” Which wouldn’t have been a big deal if he wasn’t already at work when this conversation played out.

And then my series of texts, surprisingly not in CAPSLOCK, went like this:


Real great.

And of course I’m the one who has to deal with it once again. Thanks.

And you say nothing. Thanks.

Because clearly this was on par with, oh I don’t know, teen pregnancies and drug use. God, I just didn’t want to deal with this. PARENTING, UGH.

“I think he knows there’s no tooth fairy, he’s just playing along,” Henry calmly texted back.


So I tiptoed into Chooch’s room, perched on the edge of his bed, and woke him by gingerly shaking him by his shoulder. A slumbering Chooch is best approached with caution and finesse, because he’s a real bag of bees in the morning.

“Chooch,” I whispered hoarsely. “I have to tell you something.”

“WHAT,” he mumbled, shrugging my hand from his shoulder.

“It’s really bad,” I continued, because I’m great this shit. “Daddy and I have been lying to you for a long time.”

This got him to open one eye.

“ABOUT WHAT,” he barked.

“The Tooth Fairy,” I whispered, trying to sound really serious. “She’s not real.”

“OK,” Chooch mumbled, shaking his head in an “AND?” motion. “Do I still get money?”

“No, because daddy screwed up,” I said. “Blame daddy.”

Now Chooch was beginning to sit up in anger. He flipped over his pillow to confirm that I wasn’t lying, and just as his nostrils began to flare, I blurted out, “BUT HE SAID HE’S GOING TO BUY YOU POKEMON CARDS!”

“THE KINDS IN THE METAL TIN?!” he countered. Because those ones are more expensive. He’s not a dummy.

I was all, “Yeah sure, OK” and then Chooch was like, “OK bye, I’m walking to school by myself” which is when it occurred to me that OMG he’s old now. Thanks a lot, Tooth Fairy.

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Sep 152014


Almost home from Chicago. Brought lots of dried mud with us. No liveblogging this go-around because I’m emotionally drained and too busy jawing off to Henry about all of my favorite parts of the last three days (like, everything) and you guys, he admitted that he had a little bit of fun!

This weekend started with Circa Survive and ended with The Cure. My head is still spinning. This made up for all the unicorns I asked for and never got. I have the best boyfriend ever and I guess I’ll let him be my #mcm. #blessed <–no really, for real this time.

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Sep 142014


“Thinking About How Bad My Day is Going to Suck” frown.

“Waiting For Uber to Take Me to Hell” frown.

“Didn’t We Just See Circa Survive in July?” frown.

“8 Minutes ’til Emarosa” frown.

“Don’t Take My Cheese Fries, It’s All I’ve Got” frown.

“Not Understanding How People Like Bands Like Pianos Become The Teeth” frown.

“I’m Cold & Wet & Standing with this Annoying Person & I Hope My Mustache Doesn’t Get Frizzy” frown.

“Still Hate of Mice & Men” frown.

“Just Started Day 2 & I’m Already Frowning Because Day 1 Taught Me How Much This Will Suck” frown.

“I Paid $7 For This Beer; The Numbing Sensation I Feel Is Priceless” half-frown.
20140914-090146.jpg “Waiting for Rx Bandits; They’re Going To Suck” frown.
This is a collection of Henry-frowns from the first two days of Riot Fest. I’m sure many more will be inspired today!

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Sep 122014


Flashback Friday to when we went to Coachella in 2004 to see The Cure and it was 113 degrees all weekend (no joke), Henry put us up in a prostitute and feral cat-inhabited motel* in San Bernadino, and I had rage blackouts like you wouldn’t believe. But…I got to see The Cure.


Somehow, Henry and I are still together 10 years later and are about to see The Cure this Sunday in Chicago and I am absolutely bubbling over with giddiness!


*(I know, it’s amazing that I wasn’t down with this.)

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Sep 112014

6:54PM: Hi. Henry and I are on our way to Chicago for RIOT FEST, wooo! Supposedly, South Bend, IN is our final destination for tonight, which seems so far away. BECAUSE IT IS. I can’t promise that this live blog installment will be very…lively. But I will give it the old college try! (Which, to me, means half-ass your way through a few semesters and then quit.) Anyway, you know the drill: keep checking back for updates or just wait until tomorrow and binge on the stupidity at once.

7:07pm: We have never been away from Chooch for more than over night so this is kind of sucks but he doesn’t seem to care. I told him I’m going to Skype him during The Cure on Sunday and he was physically repulsed by this notion because he HATES The Cure. (I still don’t know why, other than because I love them so much.) Anyway, Henry’s mom Judy is staying at our house and she’s super pissed because her idiot son waited until TUESDAY NIGHT to ask her to babysit for us for FOUR DAYS. So yeah, I’d be pretty fucking pissed too. Good one, Son of the Year.

7:16pm: CONFESSION! Today I deleted a blog comment and I very rarely do that. But I was having a stressful morning at work and I just happened to check my phone at the exact moment some douche-sausage commented on my I Hate Jonny Craig post from last spring and said that I was clearly boring as fuck (I mean, duh) and that I’m a bitch for spreading made up stories about Jonny and who cares that Jonny tweeted terrible things about women? You’re right, guy. Who cares about that? I mean, other than self-respecting women. So yeah, I was like “I hope Jonny gives your gf herpes in the back of his van” and then deleted his typo-riddled comment because I’m a boring-as-fuck bitch.

8:02pm: Today Sandy found out that one of the guys in our Australia office is the frontman of a METALCORE BAND and I have been obsessed ever since because I watched one of their videos and they are LEGIT. So I emailed him (don’t worry, we have a rapport from when I was working late shift all the time and I would have to email him to tell him that a RUSH was waiting for him, OMG do it now) and gushed for multiple sentences about how much I love his band and please don’t think I’m a creep but I just liked your band on Facebook and here’s a list of some bands I like too and I go to Warped Tour and please some to Pittsburgh because HAHAHAHA YOU HAVE A CRAZY-EYED FAN HERE! Anyway, I didn’t hear back before I left because of that time zone hoo-ha, but don’t worry because I’ve spent the last hour scrolling through the last year’s worth of Facebook updates on their page and THEY OPENED FOR IWRESTLEDABEARONCE LAST WINTER!!! I LOVE THAT BAND! And they have beanies for sale so I’m buying Henry one and Sandy just texted me and said he could probably just interoffice mail one to me and I can’t stop laughing. I HAVE HAD TOO MUCH COFFEE. We’re at a rest stop now, bye

8:29pm: just ate pizza at a rest stop in Ohio. Henry is mad because I took a picture of him, as if this isn’t his norm.


9:08pm: We’re listening to the Riot Fest Spotify station and out of 100 bands, it’s The Used that keeps playing over and over because the universe loves grinding salt into my wounded heart. Fuck off.

9:21pm: I just jumped through all these hoops to show Henry that The Used gives a nod to their old song “Buried Myself Alive” in their new(ish) song “Cry” and after all that, he was completely underwhelmed and just said, “Ok. Yeah, I get it.” FUCK.

10:05pm: Somewhere near Toledo. I heard Henry rustling something and I frantically asked, “What is that!?” “Energy,” he calmly answered. “I WANT AN ENERGY!!!” I cried. But then it turned out to be one of those energy shots. I don’t know what I thought it was going to be. But now he’s mocking me. “I want an energy!” he keeps saying in a whiny voice.

10:42om: Apparently, Toledo has an airport.

11:04pm: Oh great I just saw something on Facebook about some notorious school shooter breaking out of prison in Ohio and I’m freaking out. Henry is trying to explain that this happened on the other side of the state but all I can see is HE IS WANDERING FREE IN OHIO AND WE ARE IN OHIO.

12:17am: Oh don’t worry. We’re still driving. :(

12:18am: I just asked Henry if he was touching his weener and he very defensively cried NO I’M SCRATCHING MY LEG as if we all don’t touch our weeners every now and then and constantly.

12:21am: A cop car with its lights on just sped past us on the other side of the highway and I screamed, “OMG! Maybe they found that kid! The one who escaped from prison!” And Henry yelled, “THAT’S ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STATE!” Except that we’re in Indiana now.

12:47am: oh thank Christ we just arrived at our shady hotel in South Bend. If I don’t post again, I’m either passed out from exhaustion or chloroform.

12:53am: Henry’s all excited because the last checking him in asked to take a picture of his ring finger tattoo. I’m like IDGAF about anything but a bed. Show me the fucking bed.


1:07am: This place actually isn’t a shit hole like I thought it would be! But apparently I’m not supposed to get used to this because the place were staying for the next three nights is apparently going to be a real shack. (Yet hopefully a step up from the HOSTEL Henry originally wanted to stay in. People, can you imagine me, Erin Rachelle Kelly, in a hostel? I didn’t think so. Also, I think Henry is too old for hostels. Unless he’s the murderer running it.)

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Sep 112014


A few weeks ago, back when CHRIS STILL WORKED HERE, the firm announced its upcoming Global Day of Service. CHRIS decided that Lauren and I should join her in signing up for some organization that has to do with trees.

“It’ll be great!” she said. “We can hug trees!” she said. And Lauren and I blindly followed. And then you know what happened? CHRIS LEFT BEFORE GLOBAL DAY OF SERVICE EVEN HAPPENED!

Last week, Lauren and the rest of the people in our group received an email saying that we would be mulching in the business district of Bloomfield (a Pittsburgh neighborhood right outside of downtown). That seemed OK to me. I imagined us sprinkling mulch upon tiny saplings, blowing a kiss at it, and then moving on to the next one.

On my way to work yesterday, I was on the phone with Henry and he asked what it is exactly that I was going to be doing that day.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, even though he wasn’t there to see it. “MULCHING, whatever MULCHING is.”

“Oh my god,” Henry laughed. “Please tell me where you’re going to be so I can come watch.”

Later that morning, I found out that another co-worker volunteered on Monday for the same organization and was so sore, she had to work from home. I laughed about it, because please. I couldn’t imagine any charitable organization expecting law firm slugs to do any heavy-lifting. I mean, when Lauren and I volunteered at the Food Bank last year, we basically just looked at cans of food for three hours and talked about how great Nutella is.

(Seriously, how great is Nutella?)

Clearly this co-worker was exaggerating. I mean, obviously. And she apparently was pulling vines out of a hillside and not mulching, like we would be doing. You know, drizzling down pocketfuls of mulch onto trees like sprinkles on an ice cream cone. Because that’s what I was going to be doing all day, twirling all around beneath the beaming sun, singing Emarosa songs in my head.

But then I started to panic.

“Why am I starting to think this is actually some sort of chain gang?” I cried to Mean Amber, who wants me to write an entire blog post explaining how she’s not actually mean at all, and do you see how bossy she is?!

Lauren was likewise freaking out and we collectively rued the day that we signed our souls away for a fucking ice cream sandwich.

(Albeit, a damn fine ice cream sandwich. Mine was blueberry ice cream inside a snickerdoodle! It was delightful, snickerish, and doodley.)

AND THEN I found out at 11:45 that we were leaving at 12:05 and not 1:00 like I thought (because instead of reading emails, I like to play a game called Guess & Assume), so I didn’t have time to eat lunch! I figured I would be ok though. I’d just eat when we got back at 4, that’s all. I forget to eat a lot of days so it wouldn’t be anything new.


Lauren and I were the first ones on the shuttle bus and I was starting to feel giddy, like we were going on a field day and oh, what sorts of adventures were we about to have? It doesn’t take much to excite me.

The bus loaded up fairly quickly. It was mostly all people from other departments. There were only 4 of us reppin’ the 10th floor, and one of the 4 was missing: Patrick. Finally, I spotted him strolling casually toward the bus, eating a peach like a goddamn farmer.

I lost it, just totally interrupted Lauren with my chuckle-vomit. Patrick was the last one to get on the bus, and he ever so calmly strode to an empty seat adjacent from me, and went right back to eating his peach.

“What?” he asked, catching me laughing.

“Nothing,” I wheezed. “Just the way you’re eating that peach!”

“What’s wrong with how I’m eating my peach?” he asked seriously.

“I mean, nothing. It’s just funny because you’re so casual about it,” I tried to explain, wiping away crumbs of cachinnation from my mouth.

“How should I eat my peach?” he pressed, and I was like OMG JUST FORGET IT.


Patrick and the Peach.

Meanwhile, the shuttle driver was forcing people to get out their phones and put his number in it, because he wasn’t going to be sitting around waiting for our philanthropic assed, ok? Lauren and I just sat there and made no effort to take down his number, but Patrick was ALL OVER IT.

The driver, whose name was either Dale or Gale or Nail, told us that the group of volunteers he picked up for the morning session was too large and they and to get a bigger truck.

So then I started picturing a dump truck hauling all of the law firm volunteers to the site on a bed of mulch. Meanwhile, Patrick was trying to get us to buy his house. He actually lives in the same neighborhood as me, so we spoke briefly of Purple Pants because he knows her too.

Then Dale/Nail/Gale pulled over because he thought he got a flat tire and someone in the front said, “That was just that lady,” and I started cracking up because riding on buses reminds me of going on tours and I get super slaphappy.


Our valiant driver booted us out onto some corner of Bloomfield. At our feet was a mountain of bagged mulch, wheelbarrows, enticing tools, and four people in fluorescent yellow t-shirts.

“There’s a guy in a ponytail,” Lauren said off-handedly. “He’s probably going to be cool.”

And also, a woman.

“Oh my god, who’s THAT GUY?” I sighed dreamily as my eyes fell upon the most beautiful blue collar of them all. “I claim him!” His name tag said Jake.

The leader of Trees gave us a brief rundown of the organization while we all passed around sunblock. I showcased my competency right off the bat by inadvertently squirting too much into my hands. I still proceeded to smear all of this into my skin, looking like I was getting read to go to a costume party as Powder.

“Oh my god,” Lauren laughed, spooning some lotion off my arm with her fingers. Some stranger from another department followed suit and I felt so violated. Then, in a moment of HOW AM I GOING TO RID MYSELF OF THIS LOTION, I slapped some onto Patrick’s arm. Lucas, rounding out our 10th floor quadrant, gave me the universal “I’m good!” motion as I turned my splooge-hands toward him.

I had nowhere else to rub my hands so I just shoved them into my orange work gloves, suntan-splooge and all.



Jake took the reins from whatever the non-hot guy’s name was and gave us a short demonstration of what we were going to do which, newsflash, seemed more like aggressive weeding and less like “mulching.” said since there were 20 of us, he was going to put us into groups of 5. I yelped audibly enough for Jake to hear and pressed myself closer into my 10th floor group. Jake laughed. “OK, some of you have friends here, so you can make your own groups if you want.”

We needed one extra person so a girl named Amy was brave and came over to join us.

“And I guess I’ll just stick with your group,” Jake said, to which Lauren and I exchanged looks of “FUCK YES.” Also, we got to wear neon yellow vests, and I was obnoxiously happy about that. I LOVE NEON.


Aside from feeling self-conscious because passers-by were ogling us, mulching started out OK. In fact, I couldn’t believe how easy it was! We worked our way down one side of the street, picking out trash from tree beds, pulling out the small assortment of weeds poking through the old mulch, and then putting down a new layer of mulch. Sometimes we didn’t have to put down new mulch at all! I was having a lot of fun using my mulching weapon too, which I had silently named Walden. (After Bradley Scott Walden, duh. Google that shit.) I quickly discovered that hacking away murderously at unsightly weeds was almost as satisfying as hacking away at the faces of fake Mexicans from Ohio. Therapeutic. Cathartic. EXHILARATING. If I wasn’t wearing my murder gloves, I would have texted Henry and told him that I was quitting my job to become a landscaper.


While working on one tree bed in particular, we observed that the number of cigarette butts had increased exponentially and then someone pointed out that we were in front of a bar. A nice, light-hearted moment before things went downhill.


Then this guy ^^^ stood around and observed, like what we were doing was any of his business! GOD.


This was before Lauren savagely whacked Amy in the head with the wooden handle of a rake.

After we had worked our way through our designated area, Jake exclaimed, “Wow! You guys are working so fast. Let’s move across the street and help that group over there.” So we were feeling really heroic at that point. I was, anyway. Like a landscaping bad ass. Where’s my fucking cape?

During this time, I made the rookie mistake of wrongly identifying a rose hop bush as a plant full of under-developed persimmons, but don’t worry: Patrick made sure I knew I was an idiot for thinking that. Then Lauren pricked herself on one of the rose hip thorns like this is some goddamn fairy tale and then we had to hear about it for the rest of all time!

I think was after some random lady stopped and asked what we had done to get ourselves put on a chain gang, ugh. WE’RE NOT A CHAIN GANG! WE’RE VOLUNTEERS!

It didn’t take long to finish primping the trees on the next block, so Jake decided that we were going to walk back to home base, load up our wheelbarrows with some mulch, and then continue on down the street to meet up with another group. This sounded great, like maybe we were nearing the end of our service. Then I made the mistake of looking at my phone and seeing that it was only 2:00pm. We still had two more hours?! How could that be possible.

Somehow, I got strapped with one of the wheelbarrows and it was just a disaster, so Lauren traded her armful of rakes with me and I was glad that she hadn’t fallen into an eternal sleep after getting pricked by the rose thorn.

Once we made it back to the Mt. Everest of mulch bags, Jake realized that the other group was too far away for us to transport the mulch via wheelbarrows, so he demanded that we pick up the bags and load them onto the back of his truck and then he would just drive everything down. Physically, I was fine up until this point. I mean, it was hot out so I was sweating a little bit, but it wasn’t like, “OMG I’M GOING TO DIE.” Until I started lifting bags of mulch. Now, I have moderate back problems and I have known this ever since I had to quit playing tennis because of it when I was 16. So I should have been like, “Hey guy, I’m going to excuse myself from this portion of the day’s activities.”

But no. I’m stubborn and lifted like 8 of them in succession because why? For what? Was there a prize? A medal? NO. JUST 48 HOURS OF CRIPPLING BACK PAIN. The day went from leisurely weeding to recreating the goddamn work site scene in The Ten Commandments.


The pain was so immediate that once I lifted the first bag, I knew there was no way I was getting it up into the bed of that damn truck, so I had to pass them off to Lucas.

Thank you Lucas.


In the 4.5 years that I’ve been at The Law Firm, I have had very minimal interaction with Lucas, so I was excited to be tree tenders together. I learned a lot about him, too. Such as: he has a tree in his front yard.

And…he has a tree in his front yard.


One of the other Trees people gave us very sketchy directions which had us crossing over a major intersection and getting trapped on a cement island for an indefinite amount of time. Thankfully, Patrick was there to lead us to safety.


“Don’t cross yet. Wait for the walk sign.”

Once we made it to the other side of the street, it was pretty clear that we were no longer in the quaint business district of Bloomfield anymore, but more so The Shady Garage borough. We somehow accumulated a lady from one of the other groups, and also three rough men in street clothes who were apparently being paid to do what we were naively doing for free and made some comment to Patrick and Lucas about how lucky they were to get to have women on their team and I was like “We’re going to get raped. In our fucking neon vests. That’s the only way this day could get any worse.”

It was a concrete jungle down on this end: the tree beds were triple the size of the ones we had grown accustomed to and the weeds grew tall and dense and had super thick stems and deep roots. I hadn’t recovered from lifting mulch, so when I knelt down, I started slapping the ground with my mulching weapon in a petulant manner. My energy was gone, my back crunched every time I moved, and I HADN’T EATEN LUNCH AND WAS FEELING FAINT.

But I kept going on because I didn’t want to be That Person.

I know, since when, right?

Jake pulled up in his stupid truck and spouted off some obligatory praises, like, “Yeah. You guys are doing great. Woo. Dig those weeds. Spead that much. Go team, go.” You guys. I watched Patrick drop his mulching weapon and begin to shut down at one point.

Patrick has been IN AFGHANISTAN, you guys. Patrick has been IN THE WAR.


“Remember when we had to pick up all those cigarette butts?” I quietly asked Lauren. “Those were the days.”

I don’t even want to think about how many dogs and drunks have pissed on the trees we were tending to.

After about an hour of hacking down the set of Little Shop of Horrors, Jake came back and said we could cross the street and join the other three groups on that side, which is when we discovered that not only were their tree beds way more suburban, they weren’t even weeding the whole thing! Just narrow strips along the tree trunk! It was APPALLING and we were vocal about our irritation, too.

Oh, and those bastards also had the cooler full of water with them the whole time, too. So, three hours into it, I finally got to have a fucking drink. THANKS FOR THE HOSPITALITY, TREES.

“Hey Lauren, remember last year when we volunteered at the Food Bank and they were practically begging us to eat their snacks and drink their coffee?”

I think Lauren’s response to this was a handful of tears.



Fake smiles.

Lucas is thinking about cutting down that tree in his front yard.

Finally, it was almost 4:00 and I have never been so happy to see Dale/Nail/Gale, and the Law Firm, and my non-laborious desk work.

I wish I could go back in time and punch myself in the vag at the exact moment I felt excited when Jake picked my group.


Later that night, when I complained for the 548678th time about how exhausted I was, Chooch rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah we know. Because you had to ‘do mulch’ all day. We get it.”



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Sep 102014

Hands Like Houses redid a bunch of their songs for an upcoming album and I was super happy to find out that they included my favorite song of theirs! I’m all heart-eyes for days over this version. <3

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Sep 092014

Dear Blog,

Today I did some volunteer work with some other co-workers and while I would love to write about that right now, I’m laying on the couch instead, half-dead, because manual labor does not agree with me.

So instead, I will share some of my latest paintings with you.
My friend Elizabeth asked me to paint her something for her bathroom. At first, I was going to do some pink flamingos because she said she was going to hang a Polyester poster signed by John Waters in the bathroom, but then at the last minute I got a different idea and went with that, hoping she wouldn’t hate it.

She said it was terrifying and still wanted to! Thank god! And then Kara wanted one for her friend, so I got to paint John Waters’s mug all over again and it made me laugh evilly because I used to be “friends” with this super annoying boy who worshipped John Waters and man, do I hate that boy now but I bet he would LOVE this painting, hahahaha.


And then last week Katrina suggested that I paint the Golden Girls and I jumped on that one because I adore the G.Girls so much and staring at their faces all last weekend brought back fond memories of sleeping over my grandparents’ house on Saturday nights and watching the Golden Girls, Empty Nest, and Hunter. I literally cry for the 80s sometimes, you guys. It was so much better then.


I also did a portrait of my friend Angie, but she wants to be surprised, so I won’t post that one yet!

Don’t forget to check out my Somnambulant Art shop for other weird crap!

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Sep 082014

All day at work, I kept obsessively checking the tracking info for my Emarosa preorder bundle.

“Out for delivery.”

All day long.

Longest fucking delivery route of all time.

Henry picked me up from work at 5:30 and on the way home, I noticed that the status had FINALLY been changed to “delivered.”

I did an uncoordinated air-pump thing.

“Have you been home at all today? WAS IT THERE?!” I screamed at the side of Henry’s bristled cheek as he steered the car around potholes.

“I was home for a little bit but it wasn’t there,” Henry replied in the calm voice reserved for cloud-watching with kittens and lacking the URGENCY required when one is discussing the status of an Emarosa album delivery.

My heart began its nervous jig inside my chest. A parade of lost packages drove through my memory like a fucking funeral procession, my Emarosa bundle in the hearse.

I checked my email again.

“It says it was delivered at 2:06!” I cried, my wildly gesticulating heart inviting my cheeks to join the panic party by pumping warm blood into them.

“Well, it wasn’t there when I was home,” Henry mumbled.

He pulled into the driveway and I craned my neck to see the porch.


He parked the car in the driveway and Chooch took his good old time getting out of the backseat so I ran around the front of the car, practically knocking Henry back into the drivers seat, and raced up the driveway. I yanked the screen door open to see if my package was laying in between the doors BUT IT WASN’T.

Henry had caught up with me by then and as he was unlocking the door, I was on the cusp of tears.


“It’s not here!” Henry insisted as I pushed my way into the house and ran around wildly.

He’s right, I thought as I looked at the package-less coffee table. It didn’t come. SOMEONE STOLE IT!!

I was eight, thirteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two all over again and not getting what I wanted for Christmas. I was just about to shriek, “THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER AND I WISH I WAS DEAD!!!!!” when I noticed the MerchNow package resting surreptitiously on a dining room stool.

I snatched it and caught Henry laughing at me. And I started to cry.

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!” I screamed, and my whole body WAS SHAKING because that is how much this shit matters to us kids, ok?

And then I proceeded to rip the package open, smash the Versus beanie on my dumb head, hug the CD, kiss the vinyl, put on my Emarosa shirt, and string up the fox ring on the included chain.




Today is a good day.

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Sep 062014

One of the best parts about my new position is that I get to be around people again, and suddenly my co-workers remember that I exist because they can actually see me now! And we have real-life interaction! It’s wonderful. I used to sit in an office in a infrequently-visited hallway, and that really killed my social life, you guys. My work days were long and sad.


Like most offices, it is fucking colder than Sarah Palin’s heart up in that piece. I have, and this is no exaggeration, two sweater-y cardigan things, two shawls*, and a blanket in my work space. On Thursday, I retrieved my black shawl (my favorite one because it has pompoms on it and I like to swing them around) from my closet-thing and as I pulled it down over my head, I happened to catch a whiff of a perfume that is not anything remotely close to what I wear. I took in another hearty drag through my nose and jumped out of my seat.

“Glenn. There’s a problem. My shawl reeks of perfume….but it’s NOT MINE.”

Glenn looked genuinely concerned.

“Someone has been wearing my shawl!” I cried. “I bet it’s GAYLE. She misses me so much now that I’m not on late shift, that I bet she comes over here after 5:30 and wears my shawl just to have a piece of me to keep close to her!”

And then Glenn LAUGHED. Real laughter! And in case I was confused by the sound I was hearing, he verified his laughter by monotoning, “That’s funny.”

So then I went outside on my break and called Henry to tell him about my legit concern and he said I was being outrageous, as though being outrageous, truly truly truly outrageous, is a bad thing.

*(I was already made fun of on Facebook for wearing a shawl, but I bought both of these in the juniors department at Kohl’s and they’re super adorable and probably not even actually shawls but I don’t know what else to call them.)


This week has been pretty hilarious. I guess because Glenn’s due to become a dad for the third time today, he was feeling pretty punchy and his zingers were on point. My favorite was when I said I was going upstairs to get my volunteering t-shirt off some broad, but then she wasn’t there so I stood around and “loafed” (my dad’s favorite word) with Patty for awhile in the copy center. I came back down to my desk after about 15 minutes and when Glenn noticed I was empty-handed, I explained that it took me so long to come back because, “People upstairs in the copy center were talking to me, OK Glenn? I’m a hot commodity up there.”

“What, like a freak show attraction?”


(No really. Good one.)

Then I tried to get him to be stoked for the new Emarosa album by engaging in a Release Date Countdown with me. He refused. Later in the day, I just spun around in my seat and cried “OMG GLENN I JUST GOT SHIPPING NOTIFICATION FOR MY EMAROSA PRE-ORDER!” And Glenn dryly said, “Wow. What a day.”

Later, Gayle came over to show Mean Amber and me the clothes* she bought for her granddaughter and I was like, “GLENN, LOOK AT HOW ADORABLE” because I felt this conversation was relevant to him since his world is about to be full of tiny clothes. So then Gayle and Mean Amber were going on about how they hope he has a girl and he was like, “That’s fine, as long as it doesn’t turn out like Erin Kelly.” DANG GLENN.

I hope he remembers to buy Emarosa’s new album next Tuesday!

*(One of the outfits had an owl on it so I poured out some more of my 40 under my desk for Chris.)


  1. Joan Rivers died.
  2. The lights went out yesterday. (Briefly, but still!)
  3. Wendy’s leg almost fell off but then Patrick told her it was just a bruise so then it wasn’t going to fall off anymore.
  4. My collection of tears has grown and my email inbox has dwindled.
  5. The toilets were flushing with reddish-brown water. (According to Barb’s email to the maintenance, anyway.)
  6. Boss discovered that I’m a fake artist because of the owl painting I made for CHRIS and had me make her a chalkboard sign because she evidently sells meat-stuffs at the farmers market.


(Making that sign was actually pretty fun but I still whined about it because if I didn’t, people would think there was a problem. “I don’t work with chalk!” I even scoffed at one point and then had to google “pictures of roast” because I haven’t eaten that shit since 1996 so what the hell do I know.)


Sandy brought up Waterbreak ’11 the other day on Facebook and then we all had a moment of “Aw, those were the days.”

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Sep 052014

I mentioned my love for the Game Show Network several times on this blog recently, but another thing I really loved about the invention of digital cable was all of the music channels! I’m not talking about MTV, et al, but the ones that are like radio stations for TV. You can listen to music while reading random facts about the music you’re listening to.

I mean, that’s how it works nowadays. But back then? It was literally a black screen. It didn’t even tell you the name of the song and the artist you were listening to! Shenanigans. (a/k/a Salem’s best bar.)

One day, this song came on the alternative channel and I was like, “EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND HEAR, I MEAN REALLY HEAR, THIS SONG.” And for once I wasn’t talking to my imaginary friends, because back then, I actually a ton of real life people who were always hanging around my loft. I had no idea who it was singing this haunting song; it didn’t sound like anything that was being played on the radio, which was odd because there was no real underground thing happening on these channels back then. It was seriously all bullshit you would hear on regular radio stations. But this song 100% was not being played on Pittsburgh’s alternative radio station.

I lunged over and hit “record” on my VCR, because this was pre-DVR days, my friends. I literally recorded a blank TV screen onto a VHS tape, just so I could later record that onto a cassette tape too. I was real tech-savvy in 1998.

Now that I had it recorded, I decided to call the local alternative station and do this: “If I play a song for you, can you tell me who sings it?” This worked once for me, when I first became transfixed and heart-eyed by Huffamoose’s hit single “Wait.” The DJ knew immediately who it was, flaunting his credentials and probably blowing on his finger tips as soon as he hung up the phone.

So I tried this tactic and the DJ was like, “I have no idea. Sorry.”

I waited for the next DJ’s shift and made the same call. Still no dice.

And I kept doing this for days until I exhausted all of my options. I was really big into videotaping every mundane thing I did back then, and I can tell you for a fact that I have legit video of my friends making these calls for me, too. One night, we just went around the room, taking turns calling the same DJ who fucking FLIPPED OUT finally and screamed, “I TOLD YOU I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHO SINGS THIS STUPID SONG!”

You might say that this was the title track to Erin’s Summer of 1998.

I would play it over and over again in my car. I didn’t even care that the beginning was cut off. My friend Heather, who was basically living with me at the time, would subconsciously hum this song while half asleep on my couch. Some of my guy friends would threaten to pull the mix tape apart if I didn’t stop listening to it.

WE WERE ALL HAUNTED BY THIS FUCKING SONG. Friendships were ruined. Sanity was snapped. Local radio DJs were angered. That’s why I slept with so many guys that summer, Henry. It was the song making me do it. Really.

That fall, I met and began dating Jeff; even then I was still listening to The Song in the car, not as obsessively, but it was on several mix tapes. So this fucking song at some point had wormed its way into Jeff’s ears and set up camp in his brain, just as it had every sorry mother fucker that came to my apartment that summer. Flash forward to that spring, and we’re hanging out in my apartment (a different one at this point), and Jeff casually says, “Hey, that band you like was on [some late night show] last night.”

“Which band?” I asked, because hello. There are many.

“Guster,” he answered, and then looked confused when I said I didn’t know any band named Guster.

“Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me? You listen to that damn airport song all the fucking time!” he cried. And then it hit me. The airport song. The song I obsessed over that ended with the line “You’ll be selling books at the airport.”

Jeff unknowingly cracked the fucking code. And yet I still I fucking dumped him. Sorry, Jeff.

I went out and bought their CD immediately. But…I never actually became a Guster fan. I only just liked that one song. The fucking Airport Song. (That’s actually the name of it, too!”

So today, I am going to share this goddamn song with you, because it practically ruined my life and you should know that.

I recently posted this video on Heather’s Facebook wall and she was like, “Thanks. I hate you.”


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Sep 042014

Over the weekend, I decided that I wanted to do a Twin Peaks-inspired series of portraits because I love that damn show so much. So I put Season 1 on Netflix and started with the Log Lady, because why not.

By Tuesday night, Agent Dale Cooper, Dead Laura Palmer and Dr. Jacoby had joined her…and then quickly left her. They were all sold yesterday!


(The Log Lady is still available, if anyone is interested!)

Last night, while Henry yelled at Pretty Little Liars (that show gets him so riled up!), I started on The Man From Another Place. It still needs a lot of touching up, which I’ll get to tonight, but here he is anyway:


There’s several more I want to add, but what kind of series would you want to see next? TELL ME. I’ve been thinking about vending at a local horror convention next winter and I need to build up my inventory, and quick! I’ll be selling my serial killer cards there, but I’d like to have some of my art on hand, as well.

(Hopefully I can also build up my social skills.)

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Sep 032014

When Chris told me she was resigning a few weeks ago, I silently vowed to write her off FOREVER. I might have some slight abandonment issues. Among others.

But then Lauren was like “WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING FOR HER!” And I was like “FINE!!!” So I painted her an owl even though she BETRAYED me.

Chris loves owls. I should have painted her something she HATES so she could experience the same sour pangs in her gut as me.


Today was her last day so Lauren, Nate and I went with her to Sal’s for her last dumb lunch downtown. My grilled cheese tasted AWFUL. Like BETRAYAL and ORPHANAGE MOTHBALLS.



Afterward, our merry band of processors plus some others presented her with the painting, which everyone had signed, and then we had CHAMPAGNE, so suddenly Chris’s Last Day wasn’t so bad after all. But every time I drink champagne at work, I get all weird and wound up, and this time I ended up spilling all of my secret Help Desk crushes and stalking tactics to Glenn and Mean Amber, who were just like, “What the hell?”


Oh sure, I appear to be smiling in that photo, but on the inside, I was the embodiment of Sally Struthers’ whimpering voice. IT FELT LIKE CHRIS’S FUNERAL, OK.

Also, I taped a “Cry Me a River” Glenn to the back of the painting, because come on. I couldn’t send her off without one last Glenn.

Later, A-ron came over and did a stupid dance to cheer me up. It kind of worked. Just a little.

GOODBYE CHRIS. I’m glad you left for something better, but I hope you don’t find a parallel universe Erin over there who also likes weird fruit, Warped Tour, and I can’t think of anything else I like right now because I’m too sad.

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