Jan 302015
 

Gayle is off today and of all people, GLENN is taking her late shift which sucks because today is also MY late shift day, UGH UGH UGH. In order to make this less painful (for me), I decided to live blog it. Apologies in advance.

11:54AM: Just got here a few minutes ago and was dismayed to see Glenn was already here and not late. I really wanted him to be late. Anyway, I asked him if he was ready for our Big Late Shift and he said he’s heavily medicated so I guess that’s just the long way of saying yes. Then Pregnant Amber turned around and said that this was going  to be the most boring live blog ever because Glenn is boring so I’ll probably just make stuff up if I have to.

11:56AM: Glenn was rummaging through a plastic bag and now I think he might be eating yogurt. Probably some dumb flavor too, like prune.

12:15PM: Just had a semi-civil conversation with Glenn about an audit. It was OK.

12:21PM: Non-Glenn related, but Amber just went to get her glasses fixed. She was supposed to get them fixed yesterday but when she got to the eyeglass place, she realized SHE BROUGHT AN EMPTY CASE WITH HER. Oh, the trials and tribulations of Pregnant Amber! She was telling Glenn about this and said something about how I was laughing about it yesterday or something, she couldn’t remember and Glenn was all, “Basically, you just heard noise, right?” Shut up.

12:38PM: Several people mentioned the live-blogging thing in passing but I don’t think Glenn fully understands what is taking place here. I’m reminded of this time in elementary school, probably 5th grade, when I had this tiny forest green notepad and I decided it would be fun to essentially spy on my classmates—it basically turned into some weird analog TMZ of its time, because my friends started to find out about it and then everyone wanted to read it, especially because there was an entry in it about Mike Harrison calling the lunch lady MRS. GLUMAC a bitch during recess and then HITTING HER IN THE FACE WITH A KICK BALL AND CALLING HER A BITCH! This was a big deal, kids getting to not only hear a swear but also READ a swear all in the same day, can you believe it. I’m going to call Pregnant Amber “Amber GLUMAC” today since she has broken glasses too. I don’t think hers broke in such a violent way though.

1:01PM: Barb just sent an email to the department because the printers are getting switched, whatever that means. “What an exciting day!” I exclaimed, to which Glenn mumbled, “Isn’t it, though.”

1:29PM: Amber GLUMAC is back with her glasses! She said she didn’t check them to see if they’re actually fixed, though, so I’m hoping they sent her on her way with the wrong pair because I really can’t stand to think of this saga being over. Plus I haven’t had a chance to call her Amber GLUMAC enough times. Then we were talking about the Mattress Factory because Corey and I are going there tomorrow and Amber was like, “You should take Glenn too” and then he mumbled something about how terrible of an idea that was and how that place sounded dumb. Because ew culture gross. And then I showed him a picture of the orange juice accident Henry had this morning at work, and Glenn giggled (YES GIGGLED) and said “Oh shit.” I’m breaking through, you guys!

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(Henry’s Orange Juice Accident. Maybe he will guest post about this!)

1:40PM: It appears that Amber1 is getting some sort of advice from Amber GLUMAC and I wish that she would come back and talk to me about it too so that Glenn can pipe up with some type of curt advice in the style of Ron Swanson. OMG GLENN’S CELL PHONE JUST RANG AND HIS RING TONE IS SOME SORT OF METAL-SOUNDING GUITAR SNIPPET and I asked him what it is and he said he doesn’t know?!?!?! I believe it was “Crazy Train.”

2:51PM: Glenn just took care of something work-related before Amber GLUMAC even had to tell him to do it and now she just thinks he’s so great and totally on-the-ball and I’m trying not to puke up my Smart Ones over here. Meanwhile, we have no printers to use thanks to BARB’s boyfriend The Copier Fixer, who decided to come in like gangbusters, no warning, and “switch the printers” which I think I found out literally means he is switching the printers.

2:55PM: I am going to the kitchen to open my orange. Be back in like 20 minutes. (It takes me a while.)

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Jan 292015
 

I listen to the alternative R&B playlist on Spotify a lot when I’m doing write-y things at home and every time this song comes on, I’m like SHHHH SHUSH STFU GODDAMMIT mama’s in a movie right now.

Usually I’m home alone when this happens, but STFU imaginary hostage in the basement of my mind, you know?

This is the jam. I’m going to stare at my reflection in a puddle now. I’ll send you a post card.

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Jan 282015
 

Here is a “children’s story” I wrote on a piece of yellow construction paper when I was 20 & waiting for my boyfriend-at-the-time to get ready. SPOILER ALERT: it is so good.

(It’s not.)

I think this needs a companion painting.

Frannie Goes to the Zoo

One Sunday morning, Frannie’s alarm clock woke her up extra early.

“Geez Louise, Mr. Jerome! It’s only 6:00am!” Frannie was quite perturbed. Sunday was the only day she didn’t have to work at the food preservation material factory!

“Why yes, Frannie, I know it is way early. But I think today you should go to the zoo!” Mr. Jerome was the BEST alarm clock EVER. Without him, Frannie would have virtually NO agenda.

“That’s a great suggestion, Mr. Jerome!” Frannie spent a good forty-five minutes loving and stroking Mr. Jerome before she hopped into the shower.

Frannie, still not fully recovered from the early awakening, could barely keep her eyes open long enough to grab the shampoo. She mistakenly picked up Fred the Sea Monkey’s bottle of Nair instead!

So there stood Frannie, belting out some Engelbert Humperdinck classics, while simultaneously lathering the Nair into a big greasy lump on her head. Mr. Jerome joined in the song fest from the bedroom.

While Frannie was busy rinsing the ‘shampoo’ from her hair, she kept her eyes closed, envisioning what that night would hold for her and her beloved alarm clock. Candle light, unbridled passion and tuna for sure!

Incidentally, she completely over looked the fact that clumps of her green hair were being sucked down the drain.

Finally, Frannie finished scrubbing her leathery flesh with Crisco, and she emerged from the shower.

“Ack!!” Her ear-piercing shriek bellowed throughout the house, and even lingered a bit in her neighbor’s underground sweatshop.

“All of my hair is missing! It must have been the raw egg and pecan soup I had for dinner last night.” Frannie collapsed into a soggy ball of self-pity.

“Never fear! I am a bear!” Fred, the Sea Monkey and owner of the Nair, proclaimed as he popped out of the bathroom drain.

“No, you’re not. You’re a sea monkey,” Frannie said, matter-of-factly.

“Today I’m a bear.”

“No….huh-uh. You’re still a sea monkey.”

“I could be a bear.”

“You COULD be. But you’re still a sea monkey.”

“Tomorrow I could be a cow.”

“No, you’ll still be a sea monkey.”

Frannie and Fred locked eyes for a few minutes, and then Fred retreated to his lair in the drain.

Frannie, now completely over her hair-loss fiasco, got dressed in her best cellophane corset and saran wrap skirt. Working in the food preservation material industry had its perks.

“Au revoir, Mr. Jerome!” Frannie waved her yellowed handkerchief out the window of her Pinto as she drove away.

“Have fun, my love. Tonight we will make babies,” Mr. Jerome whispered to himself, perched atop Frannie’s bedroom windowsill.

After driving through the most monstrous of mountains, stankiest of swamps, and passing 2514 Wal-Marts, Frannie parked her car at the zoo.

“Hello! I am here to see the zoo!” Frannie cheerfully announced to the zoo employee at the gate. The zoo employee promptly turned his back to Frannie, leaning into his walkie-talkie.

“We have a visitor. Prepare the animals. 10-4,” he said, quite hush-hushedly. Frannie then handed him a hunk of muenster and the gates immediately opened.

Breathing in the stale scent of beer and oysters, Frannie whirled around in clumsy circles, her arms extended and head back, taking in the dilapidated, run-down establishment.

Meanwhile, haggard zoo people hustled to inflate all the animals, in preparation for Frannie’s arrival. But much to their chagrin, only the food court piqued Frannie’s interest.

“Amaretto corn dogs! Bonus!!” Frannie skipped amidst the peanut shells and rubber bands to the corn dog stand.

“Hello there, sir. How can I help you?” inquired the teenage employee.

“I’m a ma’am, not a sir.”

“Yes, I know. You’re a man.”

“No, I’m a MA’AM.”

“Right. How can I help you?”

Frannie scoped out the menu which consisted of…..amaretto corn dogs.

“Can I have a minute to decide?”

“Surely.” The vendor resumed painting his eyelids with green nail polish.

After twelve minutes of careful, excruciating deliberation, Frannie placed her order.

“Would you like to move in with me?” the vendor asked, rather nonchalantly.

“Yes, that would be okay,” Frannie agreed as she took the corn dog from his hand.

Frannie raced home after that magical encounter and told Mr. Jerome the news. He pretended to be happy for her, but when she left the room, he slowly pulled his cord from the wall, ending his life.

Fred the Sea Monkey walked out of the bathroom, in full bovine regalia, to bid Frannie a fond farewell.

Frannie glued some leaves to her bare scalp and left.
MORAL: If you’re an alarm clock, in love with your owner, don’t tell them to go to the zoo. Have them re-grout the shower instead.

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Jan 272015
 

Amber1 brought over a Jamberry catalog for me and Pregnant Amber (she said I can call her that!!) to look at. Glenn always has to insert himself in Girl Talk, so he chose a pair of camo nail wraps for his own dumb nails. I asked him if that means he was in THE SERVICE because ew camo. He said that no, he was not.

This inspired me to drag Henry’s name through the mud (as usual) by talking about his SERVICE years.

“Like, all he did was refuel airplanes or something, but his mom acts like he was some Real American Hero, like GI Joe. He didn’t even fight in a war!” I cried.

“It was just preparing him for life with you,” Glenn mumbled. “The real combat.”

“Yeah,” Pregnant Amber joined in. “His war hadn’t yet begun.”

Now that I’m sitting at my desk crying, I’m going to end this by reposting about the time last year when we visited the town where Henry lived while he was IN THE SERVICE. OH YOU GUYS, I’m so giddy today.

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OMG one of my favorite parts of our road trip was when we got to drive through the boarded-up hole where Henry used to live while he was in the SERVICE OMG CAN YOU STAND IT.

I wondered out loud if perhaps Henry had grown children running around Bunker Hill, but he assured me that was impossible, which means that Henry didn’t have sex for like THREE YEARS from 1984-1987.

I was in elementary school then, roller skating and being awesome.

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Henry is sitting next to me right now, against his will, and I’m asking him for information to include with these pictures since he has refused to write anything on his own because he hates thinking of the years of his life that didn’t include me.

Obviously.

He was an aircraft CREW CHIEF. Whatever that means.

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Here is a street that Henry may have walked on! He probably at least drove on it in his GREEN GRAND PRIX. (He just corrected me and said it was blue but last night he told me it was green. Now he’s saying he had both. God, brag much?) He doesn’t recall Brown’s Game Room being there when he lived there in the EIGHTIES. I asked him if there were any whore houses there and he got really impatient and said, “Not in BUNKER HILL. Those were in KOKOMO.” Oh. Sorry.

Henry never want to Indiana Beach while he lived there because he didn’t know it existed. He did, however, go to the fair. Once. He can’t remember if he rode anything, but he knows for certain he didn’t kiss any girls there because kissing leads to SEX and he wasn’t having that in Bunker Hill. That would have ruined his reputation as the Base Eunuch.

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This is the neighborhood where Henry’s trailer was but he claims the trailer isn’t there anymore, but he wouldn’t drive back to where it used to be so I couldn’t get any pictures of the empty pit that remains. He wouldn’t even get out of the car while I was taking these pictures. (Admittedly, there wasn’t much there to photograph and I didn’t want anyone to come running out of their home, spitting Skoal at me, so I was pretty quick to wrap this up.)

Also, Henry has no pictures of his trailer, because he wasn’t in the habit of taking pictures of his non-descript living quarters. He had a variety of roommates, including Les, Tim (WHO HE IS FRIENDS WITH ON FACEBOOK! I’m going to message him soon), and John. He thinks John only lived there for a little while but he doesn’t remember because it’s hard to remember things that happened in the 80s, you guys. He claims that they never brought home any local women and this is just so weird to me. They had lots of porn on VHS though. He mumbled “no” when I asked him if they all watched it together, which means that he wanted them to all watch it together but they were like, “Ew get out of here, Eunuch.”

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HENRY HAS BEEN TO THIS BAR!!! Apparently, he mostly drank at the bar on BASE. What a snob. He told me that he used to drink LONG ISLAND ICED TEAS at the bar on base. You guys, Henry used to drink LONG ISLAND ICED TEAS. Now I know what I’m serving at his 50th birthday party next year, complete with cocktail parasols and fruit on swords. And obviously they will be served in mason jars with paper straws, as an homage to Henry’s Pinterest addiction.

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Henry made me get in the car after this for fear of the homeowners mistaking me for someone casing their house.

Henry used to cook his own food when he lived there and he just said, “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal to you, I cook my own food now, too.” Oh yeah. But for some reason, I keep imagining him in velour lounge pants and a wife-beater, stirring succotash on top of a hot plate. He just told me he cooked Thanksgiving dinner once!! For like 4 or 5 people, he doesn’t remember!

(I AM SO GIDDY AS I WRITE THIS! The notion of Henry having a life prior to me is hilarious and mythical to me all at once. I need to know all of it.)

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I was excited to talk about this picture but Henry yelled, “THAT IS A WHOLE DIFFERENT THING. THAT IS NOT EVEN BUNKER HILL. THAT IS TEXAS.” He didn’t do cool things like this in Indiana. Probably because he didn’t know how.

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This was when Henry first saw the thing and then realized it wasn’t the thing anymore. (You know, that base thing.) It’s a prison now! He said he doesn’t have many feelings about this since it was so long ago. There was a reunion last year that he didn’t attend. He said it was because all of the people who went were people who were there for like a million years and not an early-discharge pussy like himself. I asked him if he had one of those dishonorable discharges and he got really irritated so that means yes. Probably because he was a Eunuch. And back then, that was probably worse than being gay.

He’s laughing right now but it’s not the “I’m having a good time!” kind of laugh, but more of a “Can I please go to bed now because my sanity is starting to come out of my nose” kind of scary laugh.

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Jan 262015
 

Last week, I sold several of my non compos cards to a guy in England named Jack. He then contacted me, explaining that he’s a PhD student in Criminology, writing his thesis on serial killer culture, including “murderbilia.” He asked if I would be interested in answering some questions to help with his research, and at first I was like, “THIS IS A TRAP” because people never think I would ever have anything of worth to say. But even though I am a social shut-in when it comes to talking to strangers, I do have a lot to say on this topic and felt that this could be my chance to force my two cents into someone’s sweaty palm. I have always felt that my point of view on this topic might differ from other people who peddle wares emblazoned with murderer mugs. So I agreed and when he clarified that this was something he wanted to conduct via telephone like the olden days, I Googled him and found that he is a legit student from a real university and even has a blog chronicling his process. So I gave him my phone number and then proceeded to have slight heart palpitations for the next 16 hours, right up until the exact moment of his scheduled phone call because holy shit, talking on the phone, can you even imagine. This is much harder to do now that I don’t smoke anymore.

Thankfully, his docile British lilt calmed my nerves and I found myself bursting with things I wanted to talk about. I was trying really hard not to cut him off and interrupt him every 4.8 seconds, but this is a hot topic for me! Jack is actually a collector of serial killer souvenirs and has even traveled to the US in order to visit various museums on the topic, such as the Museum of Death in Hollywood, so it definitely relaxed me knowing that I was speaking with someone who definitely wasn’t judging me. (In fact, he said he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to send the cards he purchased from me because he wants to keep them for himself!)

Let me explain the origins of my cards, for those who don’t know.

It was December of 2006 and if you were ever on LiveJournal, you may have been dragged into numerous Christmas card exchanges. I was never really big on sending Xmas cards, but this particular year, I was like, “Yes. I will join this traditional holiday exercise in keeping the mail-humans busy.” But then you have to remember who I am. I’m not the type of person who could ever settle on running into Hallmark and buying a box of Thomas Kincaide Christmas cards. I’m an asshole and I wanted to do something asshole-y, send something that people wouldn’t expect. And what is one of the last things you’d expect to find with a poem about trimming a fucking Christmas tree?

The mugshot of a serial killer.

It seemed so stupid that it was perfect, you know? So I handmade all of these idiotic cards, cut out the heads of Jeffrey Dahmer, Ed Gein, Albert Fish, wrote stupid poems and sayings on black card stock with silver gel pens…it was your basic crafting shit show. I had glitter glue every-fucking-where. It was even coming out in Chooch’s poop. (Probably.) But then a lot of the people I sent them to thought they were really funny and unique, plus it inspired dialogue about true crime and I learned that ALL KINDS OF PEOPLE have a sort of fascination with serial killers, not just assholes like me and, I don’t know, goths.

The funniest part to me is that some years prior to this, my grandma went on this kick where she wanted me to get a job writing greeting cards. I guess she saw something about it on a talk show, where there was some online Hallmark college, I don’t know. But I was just like, “Do you even KNOW me, woman?!” Like that would be something I’d enjoy as a career? But because every day is Opposite Day, I went and started making cards, my own way. I never told her about them, but if I had, say it with me, “oh honestly, Erin.”

So I started selling them on Etsy and to be honest, I was actually pretty surprised at how consistently they sold. I mean, not enough for me to quit my day job, but it’s just steady enough where it’s worth it. There’s a certain degree of shock value that comes with sending your mom a Lizzie Borden birthday card, I guess. And that’s what I would want if I were shopping for a greeting card. It’s provocative and controversial, which are things that I like, from the standpoint of a buyer and creator.

But the reason I was happy to talk to this Jack guy is because I wanted to specifically address the backlash. Because of course there has been backlash. When I first started making these, I stupidly thought it was pretty obvious that it was meant to be tongue-in-cheek. I’m not some deranged (well…) broad who is trying to have a prison wedding with the Son of Sam. I don’t think these killers are cool. I don’t idol worship them. I certainly don’t condone violence, which is why I generally include a disclaimer anytime I post about them here on my blog. It’s basically just the dark side of pop culture, and if I really try hard enough, I might even be able to argue that my cards are educational. Two years ago, I passed out my Valentines at work and when one of my co-workers got the Albert Fish one, she was inspired to Google him because she didn’t know who he was. Let’s just say she learned a lot that day.

But from time to time, I do get messages on Etsy, telling me that I’m a horrible person for making these cards and that I should burn in hell. You know, the usual. Everyone gets to have an opinion. It’s OK that people think what I’m doing is wrong. But, the way I see it, and this is what I told Jack, I feel like I’m not making light of someone losing their life. I’m not basing these cards around murder scenes or photos of slain victims. I’m making fun of the actual serial killer. I’m taking these sons of bitches and softening them with vivid colors, corny catchphrases, and cheesy poems for the ultimate juxtaposition. THEY are the ones I’m making light of. Not the victims. You raped and killed a bunch of women and think I’m going to revere you? Fuck that. You’re getting a party hat photo-shopped to your stupid head. Happy birthday, bitch.

Jack asked me why I think there even is a murder culture, and I guess aside from the serial killer sycophants out there, a lot of it has to do with the fact that people are drawn to what they don’t understand, and people like to be SCARED. I know for sure that when I read true crime books or watch the ID channel, I am terrified. I am paranoid when I’m walking alone in the dark, but I still love horror movies and Halloween and haunted houses. With true crime, you get that whole “stranger than fiction” element and as sick as it sounds, I think that it holds some perverse entertainment value. Whether we like it or not, it’s a the dirty underbelly of our culture: songs will be sung about it, TV dramas written about it, art drawn about it.

I guess you would think that this is all I do, read Murderpedia and toss popcorn into my face while watching serial killer documentaries. But it’s not! I might know a little more than the average person, but I’m no expert and I wouldn’t even say I’m obsessed with them. In fact, when Jack asked me about my own personal murderbilia collection, I just laughed because it doesn’t exist!

Well, except for my Lizzie Borden bobblehead…

Sometimes I wonder if my customers imagine me living in a cave lined with Charles Manson tapestries.

Jack asked me if I have considered branching out and making other serial killer merchandise, and I admitted that there was a brief moment I thought about making pendants, but I think that toes the line of the aforementioned idol worship and I don’t want to really cross over to that side. I did do a painting of some serial killers, but I think that’s mostly just because I like painting faces.

By the end of the interview, I was so hyped up on the subject that I kept stalling because I didn’t want the conversation to end. Who knew I had so much to say on the subject? I guess nearly a decade with my toe in these murky waters has afforded me a fair share of observations.

I’m not writing this today to try and say that I’m justified in what I do or that I’m right and everyone else needs to get over it. I just wanted to tell my side, to admit that I have occasional guilt (especially when someone lashes out, and I never argue back because those people are allowed to think that I’m a disgusting piece of shit for making these). Just last week, someone commented here on a random blog post just to tell me that I’m asshole (duh) for making a Green River Killer birthday card, something something, after everything he did to all of those women, blah blah, how could you. I actually deleted that comment simply because how about you don’t call me names on my own blog. But the irony to this is that the majority of my customers on Etsy are women. Yes, some women clearly have a sense of humor!

That being said, we’re working on a serial killer pop-up card. Party time! Going to Hell!

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Jan 242015
 

Henry and I were tooling around town during Chooch’s piano lesson, and then I really had to pee. So Henry made me go in the Allegheny Cemetery mausoleum alone to use their bathroom, which is DOWNSTAIRS.

It was only marginally scary though, because there was some dumb group of hipster fauxtogs milling about, so j wasn’t totally alone. Until I came out of the bathroom and…yep, totally alone. I took advantage of the aloneness by wandering around (fuck you Henry, you can wait) and took my own brand of hipster fauxtographs—I mean, I edited them with VSCO and then posted to Instagram, that counts as hipster right?

I have no idea what I’m talking about. But here are my mausoleum selfies.

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Mausoleum bathroom selfie.

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Mausoleum reflection selfie.

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Post-gospel aerobics tutu lounging selfie, because why not.

Other than that, today has been super chill. I had breakfast at Pamela’s with Jeannie and Wendy, bought some lawsuit* stationery on the off chance that I might ever write a letter again, exercised, painted, and listened to Pvris for the last 76 hours—my like for them has grown into OMG <3. I’m so stoked to see them with Pierce the Veil next month.

*(um, I noticed after the fact that autocorrect changed “kawaii” to “lawsuit.” Now I kind of wish that I had bought lawsuit stationery instead though.)

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Jan 222015
 

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In collecting old photos of my Pappap’s house, I found several that reminded me of how much music has always been a part of my life, and why so much of it naturally reminds me of that house.

I got my first damn cassette player from my grandparents for my third (fourth?) birthday. A year or two later, I upgraded to a Fisher Price tape recorder—it was taupe in color like all electronics were in the early 80s and came with a microphone, which I would hold up to TV speakers in my Pappap’s den, in order to record shit from Friday Night Videos. Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” was on my very first mixtape. That song came on in the car a few weeks ago and I tried to get Chooch stoked on it but he only thought it was just ok.

The above picture was taken on the porch of my Pappap’s house, and anytime I hear the song “Under the Boardwalk,” my mind automatically beams me back to that porch, sitting at the glass table, playing Monopoly and listening to the Bruce Willis version of that song over and over while my grandma babysat me and my brother Ryan in the late 80s. AND THAT WAS MY FUCKING JAM.

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Here we have my grandma holding me in the kitchen, and you can just barely see a stereo system on a shelf to the left. This is how I grew to love Phil Collins, Kenny Rogers, and Gino Vanelli and also grilled cheese sandwiches. SOFT ROCK 4 LYFE. NO SHAME.

(I made my Pappap order me the Time Life “Body Talk” CD collection, and literally every song reminds me of either sitting in that kitchen or my favorite childhood restaurant–the Blue Flame.)

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This is my aunt Susie and me in the clown room. Inside the desk behind us was a record player, and this is how I heard Frank Zappa for the first time ever.

There was always music playing in that house back then. And today, there is always music playing in my house. Sometimes different music is playing in multiple rooms at once (soft rock radio in the bedroom, Spotify on the computer downstairs, music videos on TV); this drives Henry nuts. Especially if we’re watching something on TV and then I scream something unintelligible and clamber up the steps because some cherished song is playing on the bedroom radio and I want to pretend like this is a serendipitous moment, like I can’t just queue it up on my phone, and so I’ll flip down on the bed and listen to “In the Air Tonight” or “Eye in the Sky” like I haven’t heard it in 20 years, while Henry is downstairs mumbling, “How did you even HEAR that from down here?”

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some soft rock to Spotify.

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Jan 212015
 

1. Henry Hearst

Over at Barb’s desk this morning, I was talking about how I was recently blown off by someone who usually traps me in long-winded conversations; it made me feel worthless and for a moment I felt the need to fight to win back that person’s affection. But..only for a second.

Barb and Nate thought this was hilarious that the tables had turned.

“Isn’t that called Nightingale Syndrome? Like when the patient falls for the nurse?” Nate asked.

“Sounds more like Stockholm Syndrome, to me,” Barb laughed.

“That’s basically how could you describe the last 13 years of my relationship with Henry,” I pointed out.

“So…should we start calling you Patty Hearst?” Barb suggested.

“NO, YOU SHOULD CALL HENRY THAT!” I blurted out, desperate to be the first one to say it. Good thing, too, because Barb had just started to say it too, BUT I WON.

“Will he start wearing berets?” Nate asked excitedly.

YES, YES, YES. New Henry graphics coming soon!

2. Henry Robbins, Pat Travers Fan Club Pres.

“Bad to the Bone” was on last night when Henry and I were going to bed. This is one of the casualties one must suffer when listening to the radio, hearing terrible songs. But! I enjoy having this particular radio station on in the bedroom because they play a lot of good shit from the 80s, which some people might argue is an oxymoron, but I’ll tell you what: when “Drive” by The Cars came on right after crappy George Thorogood, I got all wistful and reminiscent because the 1980s have some kind of wicked emotional hold on me that I can’t explain, because I was born in 1979 so it’s not like I have actual romantic connections to that era, but when I hear certain songs from the 80s, in my head, I am 21-years-old for an entire decade and living in NYC.

It’s like having a split personality that actually is stuck in the 80s.

Great. Another one of my psychological disorders, shared with the Internet; someone, reel me back in.

“This song is probably in my Top 10 of most hated songs,” I confessed to Henry as “Bad to the Bone” filled my head with a symphony of crashing pots and pans. I half-expected him to say that this was his wedding song, but instead he admitted that he wasn’t a fan either.

“I used to go to this pool hall called Fat Daddy’s and that song was always playing. That one and ‘Boom Boom Out Go the Lights’,” Henry mumbled into his pillow.

A rare insight into his past life! This almost never happens.

“WAS IT WHEN YOU WERE IN THE SERVICE?!” I pressed.

“No, and this is why I don’t tell you things!” Henry barked. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Then I  made the mistake of saying I had no idea what the fuck kind of song “Boom Boom Out Go the Lights” so Henry unglued his sleep-heavy lids and excitedly YouTubed it for me.

“That sounds like a really shitty song,” I sneered, because everything he likes is stupid (I’d say “Except me!” but do we know that he actually likes me?).

“BECAUSE IT’S A LIVE VERSION, OK?! It’s all I can find.” So defensive. This is how I know that Henry is a huge Pat Travers fan. It is now my mission to find where he keeps all his old ticket stubs hidden.

We the people need to know more about this alleged Fat Daddy’s and if Henry ever tailgated before a Pat Travers show. I think this means it’s time to conduct another Henry Interview. It’s been way too long since the last one. Got questions? Fire away!

3. Housewife Henry

Henry is in the kitchen, bitching about how he has to make everyone dinner.

“Why don’t you do what other housewives do—-” I began suggesting.

“I’m not a housewife,” Henry brusquely interrupted.

“Sorry, ‘working women’,” I corrected myself, making exaggerated air quotes before going on to say that he should make a week’s worth of meals on Sunday and freeze them.

Then I quickly left the kitchen before he turned me into tomorrow’s meatloaf.

[I just dramatically annunciated the title of this post for Henry, who said, “That’s really stupid.”

HHHHHHUUUUUUU-ENRY HHHHHHHHHU—-WEDNESDAY.

Yeah, it’s stupid. I KNOW OK.]

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Jan 202015
 

I will use this random Tuesday in January to show you some things that I made with my own bare hands. (As opposed to the threadbare mitts of a hobo.)

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Here is a loose interpretation of Abe Lincoln! I painted him while watching Penny Dreadful on Sunday, one of the rare moments I could be found sitting and not pacing in nervous boredom, gospel aerobics’ing, or following Henry around the house with a list of things for him to do.

Abe’s up for grabs here.

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I finally finished this Twin Peaks parade that I stated a few weeks ago and then promptly lost interest in, because that’s what I do. I have half-paintings strewn all about the house.

And finally, here at the Oh Honestly, Erin garage sale, I have some Valentines for your consideration. Here we have a perforated sheet of 6, just like the kind you’d pass out in elementary school. Except, you know…with serial killers on ‘em.

These, plus a whole slew of others, can be found over on my card shop: non compos cards. Use the coupon code “garrote” for 20% off!

****

Maybe I should start selling hot dogs with my paintings too, in true Brookline yard sale fashion:

My old neighbor sold hot dogs at his yard sale one time, and business was booming.

And then my crazy ex-neighbor Robin slithered out of her meth lab with her own contributions: shitty Christmas wreaths and the best fucking wicker throne that Henry refused to buy:

God, I miss those neighbors.

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Jan 192015
 

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I met up with Kara on Saturday for lunch at one of our favorite joints in Pittsburgh, The Zenith. We’ve been lunching there since 2008 and I honestly can’t think of a single bad visit. Between the never disappointing all-vegetarian menu, the crazy tea list, the eccentric owner and waitstaff, and the collection of (definitely haunted) antiques and weird shit to peruse after you eat, it’s definitely an adventure every time.

This is where I bought my beautiful, institutional wheelchair and one of the sexiest pictures of Jesus of all time.

Needless to say, Henry positively cringes when I tell him I’m going there.

On this particularly prosperous visit, we sat at a table across from the most handsome clown painting hanging on the brick wall.

“That’s really horrifying,” Kara critiqued, fanning herself with her invisible art history degree.

“I want it,” I said dreamily, flagging down Elaine, the owner. She wasn’t sure offhand how much it was selling for, and said she was going to call her daughter to find out. In the meantime, some dumb hipster couple came slowly skulking through the dining room, presumably in search of vintage mason jars. I didn’t like how long they lingered near my clown, so I started to grip the sides of the table in the anger, preparing to use the Chinese stars I keep tucked into my Tom wedges at all times.

Kara, god bless her, just sat there and laughed but I know what she was thinking: No one else wants that nightmare in a frame, don’t worry.

Elaine came back and said it was $25, which was a lot less than I expected for that prime slab of circus hunk. I had the cash whipped out of my wallet with a swiftness, thanks to my gospel aerobics-spawned flexibility.

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And this is how Abaddon (of course I named him!) wound up joining us for lunch. I had the Seitan Burgandy and Kara had a Malkin Melt, which she gushed about being the best sandwich she’s ever had in her life, and now I regret not ordering that myself. It was my back-up choice! We both got a pot of tea, of course (mocha double chocolate for Kara; mocha orange for myself) and vegan cake, which Paul Eugene and a brisk walk around Brookline helped me burn off later, DON’T WORRY LAW FIRM BIGGEST LOSER TEAM.

Meanwhile, Kara posted a picture of Abaddon on Facebook, which got Henry’s attention:

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Henry came to pick me up and was leaving that comment right as Abaddon and I were walking down the sidewalk toward him. The exhausted smirk on his face when I opened the car door was priceless. And it got even better when I said, “We’re done eating, but not shopping. BRB.” Chooch wanted to come back in with me and I let him, but the whole way back down the sidewalk I kept Army-chanting, “WHAT AREN’T WE GOING TO DO??” to which he would respond, “Touch anything.”

He spotted about 278476 cat things that he wanted, right away. Then he found some old tin yo-yo that Elaine let him have for free, probably because it’s cursed.

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I tried SO HARD to get Kara to buy this dress. She promised that if I set up a photo shoot, she will come back and buy it.

FINE.

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I feel like the one thing my house is missing is a rusty saw collection.

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I was happy that they still had some Christmas decorations up, especially this army of Nutcrackers, which I immediately took a picture of for my friend Kristy, who is terrified of Nutcrackers. That’s just me, being a good friend, is all.

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One of my favorite pictures I have ever taken happened in the owl bathroom back in 2008. I must have 100 pictures of that room, but no selfies! Until NOW. Bam.

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I wish the walls were still blue, but this is still one of the best bathrooms ever, no matter what.

 

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Fake-pooping with cursed yo-yo in hand.

 

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I want everything on this wall so much that it hurts.

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Chooch’s first ever Zenith purchase:

 

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On the walk back to the car, Chooch dragged the yo-yo along the sidewalk, which made a terrible scraping sound.

That was probably some kid’s only toy during the Great Depression, and now look at it.

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Kara vehemently suggested that Abaddon should be hung in the basement, but I made Henry hang him on a wall adjacent to the basement door. Close enough.

In other majestic clown acquisitions, I purchased this hand-drawn plate on Etsy a few weeks ago, which made Henry sigh because he told me to wait to buy it but I was like, “Oops, too late.” I didn’t want some other asshole to get to it first, OK?!

I showed Kara a picture of it when we were still at lunch and she was like, “OMG NO! I’m on Team Poor Henry with this one. That’s just terrifying.” So then I sent her this picture that night, which she mistakenly looked at right before she went to sleep:

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Next on my list is a holy water font for the bathroom. I haven’t found one that speaks to me yet. OK, that’s not true. There was one…but it was $600. IT WAS ITALIAN, OK?!

 

 

 

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Jan 182015
 

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I’m still trying to get pictures together to be framed because it makes me sad knowing how many photos are just festering on the hard-drive.

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I’m really enjoying how these look on the wall! The only problem is that I’m running out of room on our designated gallery wall and I don’t want every single wall in the house to be full of picture frames.

 

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I fear that I’m on the verge of turning to….scrapbooking.

LOL, j/k. I don’t have the time or patience for that.

 

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I’ll probably start making photo books again, but then I’ll just get distracted by making slogan t-shirts about obscure gospel aerobics instructors. Speaking of: I DID APPROXIMATELY 7 PAUL EUGENE WORKOUTS TODAY!  I should probably be medicated. Oh well. BACK TO WATCHING DIE HARD WITH A VENGEANCE! Henry went to bed because he was tired of me and Chooch asking a million questions about it. Action movies confuse me. I’m all WHO IS THAT NOW? and WAIT WHO HAS THE BOMB? and then BUT…WHY? and then I interrupt Henry’s long-winded explanation to state the obvious: BRUCE WILLIS IS SO FUCKING HOT.

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Jan 172015
 

1ST STORY: Walkin’ With My Taco and 1 Cupcake

Once upon a time, There was a Mythical Beast named Henry. He bought a taco and a Cupcake. Mommy and I saw this RARE beast. We followed him home. Once we were in the neighborhood. I screamed “Walkin’ with my taco!” He didn’t care. I did it two more times. The 3rd time he looked Mommy and I laughed. But we kept following. I said “lets Catch Up I Will Run To Him!” Mommy said “It’s Icy!” But ME don’t CARE. Me RAN! I did not FALL! I walked beside this BEAST. I said “Walkin’ with my TACO!” He said back “Walkin’ with my taco and 1 cupcake. He got home we went in his house
he had a mask on it was HENRY! We Died! THE END

2ND STORY: YOUR SON KICKED MY SON IN THE BALLS!

Once upon a time, Me and JOSH were playing. He was mad at me so we fought. He kicked me. So I kicked him in the balls. He started to cry like a wussy. His dad heard and said “WHY ARE YOU CRYING JOSH!” HIS MOM SAID “WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT MY SON!” JOSH SAID “RILEY KICKED ME IN THE BALLS!” JOSH SAID “*CRIES*” HIS MOM SAID “WHAT!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!” I ran home and I saw Josh’s mom running to my house. She said “Oh no you ain’t!” I tried to get in before her. But she BANGED so hard on the door. While mommy was listening to Emarosa and paiting her nails. And just heard *BANG BANG BANG* and mommy opened the door and she just started screaming like “YOUR SON KICKED MY SON IN THE BALLS!” @#!$#! So i just stood there crying. Mommy was mad at me. Even though I did it for a reason. He kicked me and So I kicked back. Like daddy said! THE END

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Jan 172015
 

1. Donuts

There’s this amazing donut shop called Donut Friend, owned by MARK TROMBINO. (If you don’t know who he is, that makes me sad, and also he’s a MULTI-PLATINUM record producer and was also in the band Drive Like Jehu, OMG I loved them.) I’m not a huge donut person, but these donuts look disgustingly perfect and also have names like the S’MORRISSEY, CHOCOLATE FROM THE CRYPT, COCONUT OF CONFORMITY, FUDGEGAZI, BACON182 and of course DRIVE LIKE JELLY.

Their cinnamon buns are called Jimmy Eat Swirls, for fuck’s sake.

You might have guessed that these are brilliant plays on BAND NAMES AND I HAVE TO EAT THEM ALL EXCEPT THE BACON182 ONE BECAUSE — MEAT.

Why would Henry and I fight about this, you’re wondering but probably not because by now you know that we’ll fight about anything.

We fought about it because I have been begging him to take me to LA and he’s like “WE’RE NOT GOING TO LA JUST FOR DONUTS” and I’m like no shit, Amoeba Records too. But then he had the audacity to say, “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IF THEY TASTE GOOD” and I said I DID know, because how could donuts with such perfect names NOT taste good? So then he got angry because the only reason I want to eat the donuts in the first place is because of their names and I’m like yeah so? Why can’t he just be OK with that?

We fought about this in the car after he picked me up from work Wednesday night and he made me so stressed out about it that I had to sit on my hands so I wouldn’t Turn Erin and start clawing his face or pulling his hair.

2. Me Fighting with Chooch

This is a thing that happens pretty much every day because Chooch knows everything which is unfortunate because I happen to know everything, too, yet somehow the things we know are NEVER THE SAME. We literally will fight about anything and everything and it drives Henry mad because he hates how competitive we are with each other and he’s always imploring me to “be the bigger person” but then I have to go ahead and have the last word because I’m ALWAYS THE BIGGER PERSON HAVE YOU SEEN MY THIGHS THEY’RE LIKE TREE TRUNKS. Just let me win!!

“Stop engaging him!” Henry cried Friday night while Chooch and I basically screamed “NO YOU SHUT UP!!!!” back and forth until even Marcy rolled her eyes, to which Chooch sneered, “YEAH MOMMY” and then Henry snapped and said to him, “I can still engage you!”

At least SOMEONE is getting engaged.

3. Paul Eugene

He just doesn’t get it. Every night, I am getting raptured by the joy that is Paul Eugene’s gospel aerobics and Henry leaves the room in a huff. Because Henry hates to see me happy, that’s why! After the hockey game last night, I did a 30-minute cardio celebration routine while Henry pouted in the bedroom. When it was over, I told Henry he could come back down, but in that short period of time, I found a short, 10-minute workout that I wanted to try because Paul was wearing a red t-shirt and red track pants, and I hadn’t ever seen him in red before. So Henry came into the room and shouted, “YOU SAID YOU WERE DONE” and I said, “Well, I guess I changed my  mind, didn’t I?” and then he threw one of his signature little tantrums (you know, because that’s so in character for him) and stomped back upstairs. SORRY if I’m trying to better myself and PAUL is helping me in ways that you CAN’T, Henry.

I got angry at Henry Thursday night because he returned from the store right when I was in the middle of a Paul Eugene dance workout. I was just about to start the “giving an offering” step when Henry WALKED IN FRONT OF ME and totally made me lose my count.

He won’t even respond to my Paul Eugene-related texts during the day, and wasn’t interested when I woke him up late last night to tell him that one of my old high school friends is friends with Paul on Facebook!

Look, right now Henry is enjoying some banal TV program but little does he know I’m about to stop writing after this sentence so I can go and get my motherfucking GOSPEL ON.

[ETA: while I was doing my gospel dance celebration workout, the neighbor knocked on our door so I ran upstairs and let Henry answer it, in his underwear, while Paul Eugene was in the background, praise-walking and screaming about giving thanks.]

4. Music

As in, I want all of it and to go to all of the shows. I finally bought my Pierce the Veil ticket for next month—at the same time my student loans came out of the account—and the CHACHING!! sound effects accompanying the draining of our bank account was muffled by the rumbles and crunches of Henry’s face folding into deep creases and stress lines. And then I had the audacity to make Henry listen to A Lot Like Birds, which he hates, and we fought because he disagreed when I said, “Don’t you think this song is pretty much perfect?”

I think he’s just pissed that he’s not smart enough to come up with lines like “Your body is a howling, haunted petting zoo that I really shouldn’t touch.”

(But on the real though, that 3:54 mark where Kurt Travis painfully wails “You’re already dressed”? It makes tears spontaneously drop from eyes like hydrogen bombs of sadness. Every. Single. Time.)

(Yes, even right now.)

5. Every Little Thing For the Last 2 Hours

I woke up hating him this morning. He probably did something fucked up in my dream, like the other night when he was having an affair with some white trash bleached blond dumdum named Brandiiii and she drove a powder blue car and they can both go suck a dick–PREFERABLY IN SOMEONE ELSE’S DREAM THOUGH. So nothing he has been doing has been OK with me since 7AM and he just thrust a plated omelet at me and growled, “HERE, ASSHOLE” and it was a really good omelet too BUT I WON’T TELL HIM THAT.

I’m praise-walking on out of here. I hope your weekend is one big gospel celebration party!

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Jan 162015
 

 

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I’ve been threatening to have a giveaway for a few months now and today is the damn day. I love giving stuff away! It makes me feel like the poor white trash version of Oprah. Plus, you guys come here and suffer through endless words, in hopes of finding something of value. I fail you a lot with my asinine bulletpoint thoughts, whining, and CAPSLOCK parties. So this one’s for you, fair reader!

(Were you referred here by a friend? This page will tell you all you need to know about this blog! It even has a picture of me, which is like the most important part about a bio, knowing that it’s for an actual human being and not an expired can of split pea soup.)

Here are the details:

One winner.

Three prizes:

1.

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Emarosa is one of my favorite bands (especially now that they finally replaced Jonny Craig!). They released an album in September of 2014 called Versus, after being AWOL for three years, and this album was in my top 5 of 2014. I am so adamant about people knowing about this band, that I have gone out and bought a second copy of the CD just to give away to someone. Please know that I will be nagging the winner for their opinion. “DIDYOULISTEN? DIDYOULISTENYET? HOWABOUTNOW? DOYOULIKEIT? WHATSYOURFAVORITESONG!?!?!?” I live for this damn band.

2. A best friend zombie brain necklace from Canadian artist Beat Black!

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Made from polymer clay, this is basically the best way to consummate a sick, twisted, unhealthy friendship — you know you have one of those! Just make sure you give the other half to someone who deserves it.

3. A custom Somnambulant (that’s just me, don’t get too excited) caricaturish* portrait on an 8×8 canvas:

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Above are some examples of past work of faces. Just tell me what face you want—yourself, your kid or some stranger’s kid, Bobcat Goldthwait, Sarah Palin with horns—-I’m game.

*That’s artist speak for “I’m not a real artist and have no idea what I’m talking about.”

*****

The Boring Details

This contest will stay up until next Wednesday, January 21st, 2015 and I will officially close it down and pick a winner at 9:00pm EST.  Anyone is eligible, even people in jail and…fans of Katy Perry. Please note that because the third prize is something that doesn’t yet exist, I will need at least 2 weeks to get everything shipped out to the winner. So go forth and enter! And please tell your friends to read my blog. AIN’T 2 PROUD 2 BEG.

If you don’t feel like sifting through my heavy-handed blog posts, here are some popular posts (according to my stats, not some imaginary American Blogger contest) you can share:

1. Sunday Lock-Out 

2. Don’t Ask Me About Tofu

3. The Big Angry Blow Me

4. An Old Person’s Perspective of Warped Tour: An Exclusive Interview with Henry

5. How Not to Stalk Strangers in a Cemetery

Here, use this handy form to enter!!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Jan 142015
 

It’s Wednesday, and it all at once feels like “HOW DID WE GET HERE SO SOON?!” and also “WHEN WILL THIS WEEK END?!” Not doing very well as far as “sentence structure” and “cognizant thoughts” go, so let’s bullet point the shit out of today, shall we?

  • I’m still on my P.Eugene kick. Last night, I did a Gospel Celebration workout that involved some light salsa moves and I was doing fine until Paul cried, “NOW GRAB YOUR PARTNER!” and I didn’t HAVE a partner because ASSHOLE HENRY wouldn’t get the FUCK off the couch and be a fucking PARTNER for once in his life, so I had to goddamn shadow dance and I was so pissed. Then there was a step that required me to “pivot” and that is how I learned that I’m not capable of pivoting.
    • This morning, I told Glenn that I salsa’d with Paul last night and for a split second, he looked concerned. “WHERE?!” he asked, like he thought I had tracked down Paul and whipped him until he finally did a one-on-one workout with me.”In my living room,” I answered and then he looked relieved. LIKE PAUL COULDN’T HAVE BEEN IN MY LIVING ROOM I GUESS?
    • Obviously.
  • Also last night, I made Henry watch the premier of Eye Candy on MTV and he is so hooked, you guys. I CAN’T BELIEVE BEN DIED ALREADY IN THE FIRST EPISODE! Oh shit, I spoiled it.
  • Speaking of MTV shows, here is a picture of Henry watching The Challenge last week. It always starts out like, “I DON’T WANT TO WATCH, I HATE THESE SHOWS” and then a few minutes in, he’s making casual observations, like, “I wonder where Evan has been?” and “HOW DOES JORDAN DO THAT WHEN HE HAS A DEFORMED HAND!?” But seriously, this season of the Challenge is painful for my heart. Seeing Diem and Knight on TV was really upsetting, knowing that soon after this season was filmed, they died. Diem says at one point that she wants to win because she needs the money for a surrogate, since her ovarian cancer was preventing her from having children. OW MY HEART.

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  • I was really excited to do nothing over the weekend. Nothing as in: no painting, etc. Kristy and Janna came over Saturday night and it was RELAXING! We laughed a lot and made Henry bring us drinks and then the house almost burnt down because I lit a super ambitious candle in the bathroom and thank god Henry bought new smoke detectors right before Thanksgiving after 15 years of living in a house without them (when I lived alone I thought they were stupid because they were always beeping so I ripped them off the ceiling) because there was enough smoke to set one of those sumbitches off! Henry and I looked at each and then I immediately shouted, “CANDLE! I LIT A CANDLE IN THE BATHROOM!” One of the soap holders on the sink was completely blackened but everything else seemed OK. It was exciting! Come hang out at my house, where it’s always loud and the possibility of getting charred is a real thing.
  • Apparently, we’re doing a Biggest Loser thing in our department and it starts tomorrow. At first I was like, “No” because I don’t want to get weighed in front of anyone (#foreverfat) but then I actually finished reading an email for once in my life and realized that we can keep our weight to ourselves and just use percentages.
    • Whatever that means.
      • There were instructions but I didn’t click the link, so I guess technically I didn’t really read the whole email.
    • I feel bad for the other competitors. Now that I’ve got Paul to the Eug in my life, they don’t stand a chance. Jesus is going to carry me over that finish line. (And probably Henry, too, because I’m sure I’m going to injure myself on the path to the victory.)

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  • I don’t stay with Chooch anymore for his piano lesson (I think I told you this already, Blog) because I apparently was too much of a distraction, so now Henry and I get to run around town for a full hour and do whatever the fuck we want! Except for basically anything I suggest, because Henry is an asshole. But it was OK for us to swing by East End Brewery last Saturday, because it was HIS idea. God forbid a growler sit empty in our house. He tried to sweeten the pot  by reminding me that Commonplace Coffee shares a space with East End Brewery and now that I’m officially Keurig-free, I’m always in need of more hipster coffee to make Henry’s eyes roll. First though, we went to the East End side of the building and while Henry slurped various beer samples into his mustachioed lips, I must have looked pretty bored because one of the guys behind the counter slid a sample of some dark brown, probably-disgusting beer-stuff over to me. “Here, you need this” he said with confidence, and then walked away. At first, I was like, “Oh really? He’s that sure I’m going to love this that he doesn’t even need to watch?” Ugh, beer experts are their own breed. I took a tentative dip with my tongue and when it didn’t melt off, I went off for a second slightly larger sip. “Oh my god,” I side-whispered to Henry, who was busy pretending like he definitely detected the hidden note of Ethiopian warrior sweat in whatever dumb beer he was sampling. “I like this!” I said with bewilderment. “No you don’t,” Henry argued, turning back to his lame sample and pretending like he has some refined palate and didn’t just eat a package of Slim Jims and Moonpies in the car that morning. But I did, and I told the beer guys this, explaining that I HATE BEER USUALLY. The one guy said he was shocked that I liked it then, but apparently it gestated in some wine cask somewhere, so I guess that did the trick for me. Henry, seeing that I had charmed the guys and wanting to turn the attention back on himself, told them that he would take a mini growler of the beer that I liked, which is appropriately named SKETCHY.
    • I felt really guilty about this, though. Like, almost as guilty as the time I mistakenly made fun of Paul Eugene (before I realized that he is actually awesome and I would follow him into the desert, if you know what I’m saying, and if you do please explain it to me because I just lost myself). You see, this one time…years and years ago (it was 2007, so whatever year-count that would be) Janna, Kara, and I went to a vegetarian dinner at the Bigelow Grill, and there was also a beer-pairing presented by the owner of the East End Brewery himself, Scott. Back then, I had even less tolerance for beer as I do now. I didn’t even like wheat beers or shandies then (YES I KNOW THAT’S NOT REAL BEER), so naturally, when it was time for me to write about the experience, I pulled out all of the meanest, nastiest analogies I could muster. Because you know what jerks do when we don’t understand something. We mock it.  Scott ended up finding my blog post and rather than sue me for defamation, he actually said my XXX-rated review amused him and asked if he could post the link in his newsletter. (God, why couldn’t the Catholic school moms have reacted the same?) So I contacted him through the brewery’s website and ate crow. All these years later! He replied and asked if he could put my apology on the website and I’m like, sure why not?! I can think of worse ways to make an ass of myself.
      • The moral of this story is that sometimes it’s OK to gives things another chance and then OMG admit that you were wrong. Scott and I are basically BBFs now.
        • He doesn’t know yet, but he’ll find out when he gets the other half of the best friend pendant in the mail.
    • Speaking of beer and Kristy, when she came over on Saturday, she brought one of those Rogue beers that I always wish I liked because the bottles are so wonderful (I actually bought one years ago at Jungle Jim’s in Cincinnati because the guy on the front looked like Henry). This one was supposed to taste like some kind of lemon donut, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I was swishing a mouthful of Lysol. Two hours later, Henry was like, “JUST GIVE ME THAT GLASS, I KNOW YOU’RE NOT GOING TO FINISH IT” and I was like, “YES I AM BECAUSE I THINK I LIKE IT NOW.” Sometimes it just takes me a long time to like something, OK? Look, it took me 10 years to like Henry.
  • I found this tracklist for a mixtape I made in….1999 or 2000? I haven’t listened to 90% of those songs probably since then. (Totally unapologetic about that Fuel song. That was my JAM. I’m going to put it on right now and I guarantee that I will get choked up. It reminds me of bartending school!)
    • A shocking amount of things remind me of bartending school, which is odd considering it was literally only a 2 week course.
    • Yep. I’m choked up. AND IF I CAN’T FIND MY WAY BACK TO ME…

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  • Chooch has been such a little fucking brat all week and then it dawned on me last night that it’s because he needs a haircut. When his hair gets all shaggy-like, he turns into a FUCKING MONSTER OMG HELP ME (he and Henry are currently arguing as I type this). So tomorrow he’s going to get his hair cut and I’m super stoked about this. TIME TO GOOGLE PICTURES OF DAVID BECKHAM.
    • That’s my go-to hair model for Chooch’s head.
  • In the same tin I found that mixtape tracklist, I also found these old Penguins tickets and it made me feel so warm and fuzzy. My family had season tickets back in the day but then my mom stupidly got rid of them about 10 years ago. BECAUSE SHE HATES ME.
    • There were also a shitload of concert tickets in there, and one was from a White Stripes show we went to in 2002 at Metropol, which I’ll never forget because I was like, “WE HAVE TO GO SEE THIS BAND THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE SO GREAT.” (Clearly this was before they became MTV darlings.) I was bored out of my mind. They didn’t impress me then, and they don’t impress me now.
    • Speaking of the Penguins and Fuel, I can’t listen to “Hemorrhage” without thinking of them losing in the Stanley Cup finals of 2008. We usually keep the X (Pittsburgh’s alternative station and the official station for the Pens broadcast) on in our room during hockey season, and I remember waking up the day after they lost the Cup and “Hemorrhage” was on. I started crying so hard, like I had just broken up with a guy. (Or, you know, Henry.) Jesus, I was WRECKED!
      • You would think I’m a huge Fuel fan after all  this but I swear I’m not. I saw them live once ever, at one of the X Fests, and the singer (Brett) was so awful and obnoxious. Once was enough for this broad.

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  • WHAT AM I TO DO WITH, DO WITH, ME?! LET THE SUN FALL DOWN!!!!
  • I want to have some kind of monthly thing at my house, like a book club but not a book club because I don’t have the downtime to read one book a month (this makes me sad, too). Maybe like…a QUILTING BEE? I don’t know. Local friends, wanna come hang out at my house once a month under the pretense of “doing a thing”? Even if we just gossip about Henry. That could be OK fun. No OMG wait I’m so dumb, the answer was right in front of me—LET’S HAVE A PAUL EUGENE WORKOUT NIGHT!!
  • Hey look, Henry actually framed some of my posters and hung them! But they’re slightly uneven and he still hasn’t fixed that yet.

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Well guys, the Law Firm Biggest Loser challenge starts tomorrow, and PE can’t work my ass out if I’m sitting on it. SO SAY GOODBYE.

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