Mar 252015

One of the best things I have never done during my blogging tenure (lol, what a douchey thing to call it) was this event called Blogathon. It was a 24-hour blogging frenzy, where you picked a charity, begged people to sponsor you*, and then proceeded to blog every 30 minutes for 24 hours.

*I would bribe my readers by letting them pick stupid things they wanted to see pictures of Henry doing. My favorites were when my friend Lauren wanted to see Henry with a fried egg on his head, and when another broad wanted me to take a picture of Henry with my then-neighbor Robin, who we were convinced had a meth lab in her basement.

It was excruciating.
It was hilarious.
It was stressful.
It was super rewarding.

I participated in it three times and some of my favorite posts were born from it.

The coolest thing, aside from raising a lot of cash money for some bad ass charities, was meeting other insane bloggers. One of them, Heidi, made art for 24 hours, and it was GOOD ART. We became blog-buddies through that experience, and then eventually made our e-acquaintance Facebook official. That’s how you know it’s real, guys.

While Janna and I were waiting for Howard Jones to come out last Saturday, Heidi sent me a Facebook message saying that she was going to be in Pittsburgh the following weekend, and did I have any spare time to hang out. Um, do I! I love meeting my blogging buds even though my social anxiety goes through the roof and into the heavens above.

“Guess what I’m doing tonight?” I said to Glenn last Friday in that snotty, needling tone I like to use on him when I’m about to remind him that I’m awesome and he’s not. “I’m having dinner with a girl I know from the Internet.”

“That’s nice,” Glenn muttered. “Hope you don’t end up in a park, missing a kidney.” BUT SOMEHOW I DON’T THINK HE’D CARE EITHER WAY. Henry didn’t seem too worried either. He casually asked me at the last minute who I was meeting but I don’t think he was listening past the point where he realized it probably wasn’t a frat boy/NFL player/Bill Cosby with a pocketful of Rufies.

Later that night, I determined that Heidi was not a frat boy/NFL player/Bill Cosby when I picked her up outside of her hotel in Oakland around 8:45 and was super stoked and touched when she presented me with a Santa container full of the MOISTEST homemade chai cookies that I wish I was gormandizing right now as I type this. (Spoiler alert: they didn’t even last a full day once Henry and Chooch caught wind of them.)

(Second spoiler alert: I don’t think they were Rufied.)

Originally, we were going to get Indian food, but Oakland is a hotbed of co-ed activity (in case you’re not from Pittsburgh, that’s where the Pitt and Carnegie Mellon campuses are) and parking is a legit nightmare. Add to that my flawed night vision and I was about 87 near-misses away from having my vehicular luck run out. After driving around in the same loop enough times for it to get an honorary Circle of Hell mention, Heidi put an end to the madness by suggesting that we just go back to her hotel room and order a fucking pizza, since the main point was just to hang out and talk anyway. Fuck you, streets of Oakland.

Full disclosure here: I am usually semi-retarded when I meet new people. I never used to be this way, and actually used to meet people online for sport (I called it “Interviewing For New Friends, but my boyfriend at the time liked to call it Cheating). I had no reservations back then, but sometime in my mid-20s, all of the fucked-up relationships (romantic and otherwise) I had endured this far in life caught up and turned me into a self-conscious robot-being. Like, my personality went into a compact little cocoon in the back of my mind and only came out when I was around people I already knew. Otherwise, it would take me multiple hang-outs before warming up to people, but who has time for that? It’s exhausting and I would usually just give up and decline party invitations. And while I feel like I’ve made some progress in my 30s, it’s still murky waters out there for me, socially.

Yet, with Heidi, my gut was all, “Hold up, this one’s good. You can be yourself. She will understand you. Red flags disengage.” And so I was myself. I put my walls down. I opened up. We oscillated between soul-baring tales and cracking each other up. We talked for nearly an hour before realizing we had yet to order pizza.

Which is when we learned that we’re both vegetarians who hate ordering pizza! Yet when I cried, “I’M SCARED YOU DO IT!” Heidi took one for the team and made the scary call to the pizza place.

And then it took another goddamn hour just to get the pizza, but it was worth the wait because the pizza guy was totally into my Silence the City tank top with it’s inspirational message, and he described some inspirational shirt he has, which sounded like some Nike shirt from the 90s, so we were like, “OK guy, cool story, we want our pizza.”

I left around 1AM so that Heidi could get some rest, but not before SELFIE TIME!!



When Heidi was taking this, I was saying that my smile is so fake.

“It is n—–OK, yeah it totally is,” Heidi laughed when she looked at the picture. And even though I look like a fool, this is the one I asked her to send me because it’s the perfect snapshot of one of the realest connections I’ve made in a while. What a fabulous night of learning more about a new friend. Good listeners are so hard to come by, and I felt like we had a nice balance. Heidi is totally cool, has a wealth of stories, is immensely talented and inspiring…but most of all, her eyebrows are fucking perf! LOOK AT THEM!

I am so honored that Heidi made time for me during her Pittsburgh visit. Charleston, WV isn’t too far away, so I’m sure we will meet again. (Besides, her daughter Molly is the same age as Chooch and they both play Minecraft, so….)



(Spoiler alert part 3: I still have both kidneys I think.)

Jul 262009

You guys you guys you guys we did it! You helped me raise $475.00 for To Write Love On Her Arms.

$475.00. $500.00!!

That’s a huge ass deal and I’m very proud. Thank you to everyone who supported me, whether it was by pledging, keeping me motivated with prompts and fodder, reposting my info, or popping in to leave a comment or five. That really helped me make it through. You guys are awesome!

I guess thank you to Alisha who was here for most of the twenty four hours (hello, she didn’t arrive at my house until AFTER NOON so don’t go thinking she’s some shit ass saint). And thanks to Janna for coming over as usual, and Evonne for bringing treats and and and…and Blake too for watching TV, using up all of my oxygen (that canned shit that Alisha wasted her money on), and being mesmerized by one of Chooch’s blocks for thirty minutes. No I’m kidding, thanks for being here Blake!

Even though you fell asleep for like five hours.

Hey, remember when we were going to rap “Fuck tha Police”? That went well.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror a few minutes ago and honest to Christ I didn’t even recognize myself. And not because being charitable gave me the warm glow of an angel, but because I look like I was raped and left for dead in a dumpster.

Pledging is open for the next 48 hours until Friday, according to Blogathon’s website. If you’ve already pledged, you will receive an email from Blogathon in the next few days telling you what to do next. I know in the past, Blogathon has had problems with getting picked up as spam, so maybe watch for that shit. And if you pledged whatever amounts scored you a painting and/or mix CD, email me your mailing info: butgavincantdance [at] gmail [dot] com.

Hey, I feel like I maybe didn’t swear too much during Blogathon!

Also, my sincerest apologies for all those songs I sang sodomized. Andy Gibb was my personal favorite.

And thank you, The N, for playing Degrassi for nearly Blogathon’s entirety. It helped to hear all those “sorey”s and “aboot”s in the background.


Oh and also, I raised the roof 16 times. It was a slow ass night.


Jul 262009

For Bill and Jessi: an interpretive excerpt of NWA’s Fuck tha Police, by a Giraffe.

Blake is very excited because I get so angry at the end. I am tired. My neighbors are black. I hope they don’t want to kill me now.

Jul 262009

I went through a lot of trouble to get this done for you, Kara and Chris. Using a video camera was the only way I could get a decent audio recording but there was no way I was allowing Alisha to actually film me. Not with the death-glaze coating  my face and my hair, slick with stress-grease.

It was exhausting. Alisha said, “Yeah, I imagine mumbling all those words was hard.” But she probably said it much more stupidly than that. I try to re-write her dialogue to make her look smart. I was really excited about the Toronto part (maybe you could tell) because that is where JAY HOGART is from.


Jul 262009

It’s not too late to enter your guess for the amount of times I will have raised the roof during Blogathon’s 24-hour period, my homies. The winner gets a painting. The post where you can leave your guess is here.

I will tell you this much: there have been a few times where I have intentionally raised that bitch just to make Alisha get up and walk over to where she’s keeping her tally. I will also tell you that there was one occasion where I was about to get my raise on but at the last minute swerved into a lazy Cabbage Patch. I will also divulge that there was one instance where I raised the roof with my hands AND one leg. And then attempted to walk while doing so.

And then decided I will do that at the next show I attend (OMG hopefully Set Your Goals next week!

) and all the young people will see a seasoned pro performing this incredibly awesome move and it will become the next big thang. Like the Wave, only more epileptic.

So how’s everybody? WELL-RESTED? We are all tired over here. Well, Alisha and myself anyway, seeing as how Blake FELL ASLEEP for like FOUR HOURS! Alisha is so tired that when that last Degrassi episode ended, she muttered, “I probably would have cried if I wasn’t so exhausted.

Oh – I just “sang” Informer by Snow in its entirety and only 70 seconds recorded. Fucking fab.

Oh hey, I have time to spellcheck this!

Jul 262009

wannabeVote for my rendition!

This is really hard to do when you spent the last half of your life avoiding anything remotely to do with the Spice Girls. Fuck the Spice Girls.  Alisha, after I forced her to help me sing it, was like “which one of your asshole friends requested this?” and I couldn’t remember right then because I sick with idiocy and sleep-deprivation. But then I remembered later and said, “ALYSON!” kind of like when Pee Wee realizes Francis stole his bike. (SPOILER ALERT.)

I am about ready to puke, I’m not kidding. I might do just that once I post this.

I’m making Alisha watch the episode of Degrassi where Jimmy gets capped. It was on last week and I DVRd it just for her.

Jul 262009


Lauren Urban requested a picture of our Henry with a fried egg on his head. He was very grumbly about this one, spewing diatribe about the recession, Obama and wasted food.

“…perfectly good egg….” I heard being mumbled in the kitchen.

Blake smelled it frying and was all, “Yummy, eggies!!” but when he realized there was a good chance he’d be chowing on breakfast fare swaddled in Henry’s black locks, he decided to wait and have a clean one fried up.

He waited until Henry was en route to sleepyland to ask for one.

But don’t worry! The hair-egg was not trashed because Alisha’s dog Bonzi devoured it.

In other news, it is 6:30am now and Alisha were just outside. It’s cold at 6:30am. My leg is shaking very badly and the Degrassi marathon is done-zo.


Jul 262009

I was made for loving youVote for my rendition!

So for this one, I decided, “I should probably stand up and do some kicks, rock from side to side and punch the air. That will probably make me sound better.” And I thought it really did.

But Alisha said I just sounded like a rapist. :(

And then I had to record it again because I forgot to save it the first time, and Alisha wouldn’t stick around to cheer me on.


Mostly because she was too busy being a hobag, taking pictures of me doing my thang, which just happens to be SANGING. As in, “Hoooo girl, you can SANG!”

Jul 262009


Evonne thought it would be dandier than antidisestablishmentarianism to see Henry hang upside down while doing something nice for me.

I wanted him to do a  real headstand. I was willing to help him achieve this.

“Can’t you like do a tri-pod near a wall?

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And then I can pull your legs up and you’ll be upside down. Can you even do a tri-pod?”

“Yeah, when I was SEVEN.”

(Bitch, I can still do one now, no need to shout at me.)

So this was his lame effort at hanging upside down and doing something nice for me. Presenting me with a fake black rose that I kept as a souvenir from a haunted house.

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Afterward, Henry stayed in that position for an alarmingly long amount of time.

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We was startin’ to get worried up in here.

Furthermore, I think antidisestablishmentarianism should be the new mother cuss word. Forget shitfuckcuntassholemotherfuckerhobag. That’s yesteryear’s slur.

Jul 262009

I just wanna be your everythingVote for my rendition!

OK I did this one while Alisha and Blake went to the store and it is now clear to me that they make me suck because THIS ONE IS SO MUCH MORE GOODERER.

Andy Gibb really makes me shine. Especially when I can’t remember how to get back down from all those high note thingers. Apparently this is something that works really well to attract felines, because all of mine were circling my feet with raised fur.

I let Blake and Alisha listen to it when they came home and this is what happened:

Alisha: And who wanted you to sing this?

Erin: My friend Andrea.

Alisha: Andrea is no longer my friend.

[After the song ended] Alisha: Wow, Erin. You took it there.

Anyway,  all you Erin haters should be in schadenfreude heaven right now, throwing confetti and guzzling champagne  because this shit is a bitch and I am crying on the inside.

EDITED TO ADD: After my fourth listen of this, I’m certain I could have a shot at stardom in Muppet Town.

Jul 262009

I was feeling pretty drowsy. And then Alisha made some banging noises so that kind of woke me up. And then she sashayed over here and asked me to open her bottle of Diet DrPepper.

I’m thinking, “What is she, some dummy-turkey? Asking the girl whose fingertips are raw and swollen from all the vigorous typing?” But I felt bad because sometimes Alisha is kind of weak and pathetic. So I stood up and twisted the cap off.

And then I became REAL woke when I was showered with a fountain of sticky sugar. Time stood still for a few seconds as we stood with our arms up and faces twisted, Ju-On style.

“I can’t  believe you did that!” she yelled at the same time I yelled, “Did you know that was going to happen??”

So it turns out that the crash I heard was her dropping the bottle onto the floor which landed on the plate that Henry’s fried egg was on (FORESHADOWING!). She thought I knew that had happened and was joking when she asked me to open it because she didn’t think I’d be that dumb.

She forgot that I am a re-re.

Jul 262009

From the time I was three, I was enrolled in a rigorous and world renown flamenco college. My specialty quickly became el baile flamenco. I’d perform it every year at the county fairs and people would come as far as ten miles away to see me clicking my castanets and twirling the red ruffles of my skirt. I had many suitors, some of them even had entire sets of teeth.

This horrible thing happened to me right when I was on the verge of making it big. My partner was jealous of me because I overshadowed him every time. It was mostly because he had a cleft palate and people just preferred to look at me instead of him so no one ever even noticed how hefty his junk was in his tight black flamenco pants.

One night, right before we were to dance in front of an audience of Alzheimer patients at a local nursing home, he bludgeoned my knee Nancy Kerrigan-style and I will never forget the thought that coursed through my mind as I landed in a decrepit clump on the floor next to a pile of bedpans:


Also: I really wish I was watching Degrassi right now.

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My dancing coach had heard of a very mysterious witch doctor in Toronto who specialized in these sorts of tragic accidents.

I visited him in his mud hut. He was a five year old deaf boy. His translator said, “Rub this guano upon your bum knee every fifteen minutes for a year. It has magical healing properties that will restore your cartilage and make you feel like natural woman. You must always finish by sniffing the residue from your fingertips.

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I did this every fifteen minutes for one hour. And then I was like, “Fuck it, I always wanted to be a singer anyway so I’ll just pursue that now instead.

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Jul 262009

Henry wants everyone to know that his modeling obligations are fulfilled and he gets to go to bed as soon as he finishes cooking eggs for Blake.

I remember way back when Henry and I started “goin’ together” and he would cook me breakfast. I was like, “Dear Diary, this is some hot shit right here. A fucking dude who cooks for me? Like, a real life EGG? In a frying PAN? I didn’t even know I HAD a frying pan. Wait, what’s a frying pan?” and I was determined that I would keep him around.

Trap him with pregnancy if I had to. Because that is the bomb right there, a fucking man who cooks.

I don’t think I even ATE breakfast pre-Henry.

The only thing that would have made it better would have been if he served it on an authentic Star Wars TV tray from the seventies.

Oh, and for someone who has to go to bed, oh my god must go to bed, he’s hovering over me chanting, “Let me see the jump rope pictures.

Let me see my pictures. I want to see my pictures before I go to bed.” GODDAMN, who’s the nag now, bitch.