Things Can Only Get Better

One of Henry’s co-workers quit last month and the trickle-down effect has made for a pretty bummer summer. Things came to a head on Sunday and Henry and I had a big fight (don’t worry, Chooch wasn’t here). I know it’s probably surprising considering how much of a bullheaded, bipolar Leo I am, but Henry and I don’t actually have many big fights. But we’re both stressed out and annoyed, and beyond ready to wave adios to Sucktown USA. So we were all YELL YELL YELL and DOOR SLAM and then I spent the afternoon alone in the cemetery. I honestly thought, “Is this it? Are we done?” And then it was “Good luck finding someone else to emasculate you on the Internet, you plain-dressed asshole. Because it felt like that, and over something so idiotic which ceased to even matter about 2 minutes into the goddamn argument!

Really, I want to find that guy who quit and punch him in the dick. Motherfucker.

Big huge Canadian sorry if this got too personal, but god forbid anyone think my life is perfectly curated performance art. Surprisingly, my dirty pantaloons swaying in the breeze is relevant to this story.

My main concern was not HOW WILL OUR SON SURVIVE THE BREAK-UP OF HIS PARENTS!? but more ARE WE STILL GOING TO SEE HOWARD JONES TONIGHT?!

Oh, yes we are. I had been looking forward to this all summer!

And it turns out, going to see Howard Jones was kind of just what we needed: it was practically a Date, because Chooch decided he would rather stay home with his grandma (what a loser). Henry even brought a blanket to sit on (ugh) since the show was outside in a park. (And free! This meant that Henry had less stress than he usually does when we go to concerts. Plus, he actually somewhat likes Howard Jones, so this was one of those rare times that Henry isn’t Frown Personified.)

Hartwood Acres is in one of the nicer areas of Pittsburgh, so there were definitely certain types of people converging upon the park that evening, with their folding sporting event chairs and fancy wicker picnic baskets full of stemless wine glasses and mortadella slices. Like who do they think they are? William and Kate?

Henry brought two bottles of water and two packs of nuts: one was almond and one was mixed. HE ATE ALL THE MIXED NUTS WITHOUT ME.

I was going to live blog, but this was as far as I got because I was still being a bitter betty in the beginning:
6:31: At Hartwood Acres for Howard Jones. Hate everyone here. And I mean everyone. Henry got us Italian ice & I’m PISSED because he got me lemon and mango for himself. I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED MANGO. What an asshole.

Henry’s laser pointer was excited to see you. And don’t panic — Henry and I traded Italian ice. He was doing anything possible to keep me happy at this point.

Ha, remember when we used to make pendants of my paintings? I still wear them. Memories.

I was so angry at the people next to us. They had it all and I wanted it. It was Jim’s birthday (Henry saw his name on the present that was sitting there, taunting me, for the first 45 minutes of the evening) and we deduced that Jim wasn’t Dad but Mom’s Boyfriend. They brought a cake for him, candles and all, and the cake looked really good. I just sat there and stared at them the whole time as they shoveled cake into their idiot mouths, no shame.

I will say that Jim got some shitty gifts though. Quite possibly one of the ugliest button-downs I’ve even seen and an “art canvas” with some lame, inspirational saying printed on it. Kind of shitty gifts for someone who is expected to put up with those bitch daughters of hers, I hissed in Henry’s ear and he just went along with it because at least I was bitching about someone else, finally. It was bonding, and therapeutic, for us to hate other people instead of each other for once.

People-watching was at a prime that evening, and it’s a good thing too because we had a lot of time to kill. My favorite parts were watching the adorable airedale-ish dog in front of us. I wanted to steal her. And also stink-eyeing any douchebag who even considered for a second propping up their douchebag folding chairs in front of me.

Bill Deasy of the Gathering Field (a local Pittsburgh band that has been really popular with the older crowd for as long as I can remember) opened and remember in my previous concert post when I blah-blah’d about how now that I’m older, I try to have more patience and respect for opening bands? WELL THAT ALL WENT OUT THE E-WINDOW. This guy just irritated me so bad because I was in a bad mood to begin with and his music was boring and he talked too much and his jokes were only funny to old people.

Everyone around me was eating it up, though. Even the non-yuppies! Probably because they were all buzzed off their hipster IPAs at that point, though. I refused to applaud, even when Bill explained that he was the reason Howard Jones was playing here that night, because they met at some song-writing thing in France in the 90s and became friends, and now Bill is also on some entertainment council for Allegheny County in addition to being in a boring band, but I don’t clap for braggers.

I only clapped when it was over, and that was an exaggerated, forced hand-smack with a matching scowl on my face, like a bitchy hat-and-mitten set.

(There was literally nothing wrong with Bill Deasy. I was just being a witch-bitch. Which is something I’ve never called myself before, but somehow my fingers typed it so naturally.)

Finally, as the sun was setting, Howard Jones came out and the night turned into a giant, open-aired dance party. I wanted to go up by the stage but Henry was being wishy-washy about it, so we stayed on our blanket and “relaxed.” Yeah right — do you know how hard it is for me to sit still on a blanket?!

Even on our dumb blanket, we had a really great, unobstructed view. It didn’t matter after he started singing though, because I was more than content being wrapped up in childhood memories and the pure, unadulterated essence of 80s synthpop. Howard Jones makes me feel so happy and fired up. I didn’t need to bring a growler of Arsenal cider—like the rich, nautical-attired older couple in front of us did—to feel drunk. All that beautiful synth did it for me.

A few songs in, the middle-aged lady with the airedale-ish dog packed up her summer-concert-in-the-park belongings and left.

“Maybe she thought she was going to see Howard Jones from Killswitch Engage,” I said to Henry, with a shrug. I imagine she was sorely disappointed, if that was the case.

I saw Howard for the first time last March in Cleveland, after being a fan since I was a little girl watching “New Song” on Friday Night Videos. I never thought I would be seeing him twice in the same year! And for free this time!? I hope the county paid Howard the big bucks, because he deserves it.

It was the perfect way to calm our nerves, a healing end to a weird, belligerent day. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Henry still complained about his legs being asleep from sitting on the blanket, to which I smugly retorted, “Well, you should have STOOD UP like I wanted to.” Still, we even held hands when we walked back to the car! And when I said, “Wasn’t that fucking amazing?” I waited  for Henry to mumble his signature “No.”

But this time he said, in a non-mumble, “Yes.”

Thank you, Howard Jones, for helping us reconnect.