Oct 202014

Livermore is a supposedly haunted cemetery in Blairsville, PA. There are so many conflicting stories on the Internet (HARD TO IMAGINE – it’s outrageous how many people think that this is the cemetery from Night of the Living Dead) but I’ll just summarize by telling you that there was a flood at some point and people died. Or they didn’t. You don’t come here for history lessons.


I know you just come here to do shots every time I squirt out a typo.


I thought it would be fun to stop for a quick visit since we were about to drive past it yesterday on our way back from Knoebel’s; it’s been at least 10 years since we were there last. I could tell Henry wasn’t exactly down with the slight detour, but he did it anyway because I own him.

It’s not really all that scary there during the day, because the end of Livermore Rd spills out into a makeshift parking area at the entrance of a bike trail, which is right near the cemetery entrance. In other words, our parked car was wishing running distance in case something wicked happened back there.


First we walked along the old train bridge because we like to live dangerously. BUT NOT TOO DANGEROUSLY! I kept yelling at Chooch for being too close to the edge, I didn’t trust that FLIMSY FENCE.


What a beautiful spot for a family portrait, I thought to myself and then made my puppets jump. This one is definitely a Christmas card contender.


I got suddenly smart and had us face the other way. I’m a good piktchur-taker.



Chooch and I were like WHY ARE THESE KEYS HANGING HERE and then Henry had to go and spoil all of our fantasies by going into a long, dull speech about how someone probably found them and hung them there in case the key-owners came back looking for them and we were like “STFU you’re stupid and boring.”

I’m actually surprised Henry didn’t take them for his gratuitous key collection that he keeps dangling in a clump from his belt like he’s ready to audition for the role of Schneider on a 2014 revamp of “One Day At a Time.”

After about ten minutes of being too close to the river, I quickly tired of all this supposed beautiful scenery and we all walked back toward the car, which was parked near the path that leads to the cemetery.




This gate literally only keeps out truck-sized people.



Henry REALLY didn’t want to do this.



Pretty sure this was written in crayon. Also surprising that “cemetery” is spelled correctly.



Henry wouldn’t come into the cemetery with us, opting instead to loaf (haha, loaf) near the handmade Livermore sign, hands in-pocket, head nervously whipping over his shoulder. He claims he was more worried about townies than ghosts. Oh ok.

As soon as Chooch and I crossed the threshold into the graveyard, I experienced a pretty strong episode of déjà vu and it occurred to me that I was wrong: we have definitely been there before with Chooch. He must have been two and I remember that it was about to storm.




Earlier, I asked Chooch if he had anything to add and he mumbled from the couch, “No. Yeah! Tell them* about the tombstone with my name!”

“I already did,” I said.

“Oh. Then…no,” he mumbled and fell back into his stupid video game.

*(I wonder who he thinks comprises “them.” Cats, probably. My blog is the one all the cats read.)

I thought the trees were making weird noises but Chooch said they sounded like normal tree-speak to him, so maybe I was just being paranoid. But it really sounded like the one tree was trying to spoil the end of The Crying Game.

I don’t know why I thought that but it’s late and I’m writing this in bed with the lights off like I’m telling the Internet a ghost story where the ghosts forget to show up. RSVPs don’t mean shit anymore.
We rejoined Henry after awhile and headed back to the car.

“Look,” Henry quietly said. “A squirrel.”

“WHERE?!” I cried as if this was Jurassic Park and Henry hadn’t just pointed out something that we see 61818293 times a day in our backyard.

Meanwhile, Chooch was walking with such Frankenstein-esque force upon the leaves that it sounded like vertebrae were crunching and cracking beneath his feet. “WHAT? WHO?! WHERE?!” he screamed extra loud to ensure Henry, the squirrel, the squirrels cousins in Pittsburgh, and all of the restless Livermore souls could hear over the sound of his leaf-murdering.

Henry sighed. “Remind me never to take you two idiots on a stakeout.”

And I will now end this with the original post I wrote on LiveJournal after Henry and I first visited this place in October of 2004.


Henry and I decided to try and scope out the Livermore Cemetery yesterday, during daylight. Livermore was once a town about an hour from Pittsburgh, that was flooded in the 1800’s. So of course it’s haunted there. The road that leads to where the town once sat is scary in itself; surrounded by woods with an occasional farm house here and there. The road eventually leads to a gate and you have to walk the rest of the way.

I would have been less frightened if the sun was shining, but it was miserably overcast. We walked along a trail for thirty minutes or so, over two old railroad bridges, with water on either side of us. Supposedly, if the water level is low enough, you can see the foundations of the town. I couldn’t see jack shit, plus I was cranky because the quest to find the cemetery seemed hopeless. Also, I hadn’t fed my fat face in like, two hours! I demanded that we turn around and go back to the car immediately before I died of malnourishment. Even walking proved to be a struggle for me, and I kept falling. My legs just kept giving out on me because I was so hungry. Henry, never picking up on the emergency of these situations, laughed at me and kept walking. Then I thought I saw a skull! But it was only a soccer ball.

As we crossed over the last bridge, Henry happened to look up to the left, and he shouted, “THERE! OVER YONDER!” And there it was, the Livermore Cemetery. A few lone tombstones could be seen on the edge of the hill, between the trees. Maybe it was just the sight of the cemetery itself that heightened my senses, but if I believed in God, I would swear to him right now that the atmosphere around us changed. The wind kicked up and there was a noticeable chill in the air. This is the part that elicited the trademarked Skeptical Father look from Henry: something grabbed my leg. Would I lie to you guys? It’s true, I tried to lift my right leg to continue walking, and something held the back of my jeans onto the ground for around three seconds. When I turned around to look, there was positively nothing that my jeans could have stuck to, and there was nothing on the bottom of my shoes.

From this point on, all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears, and I grabbed Henry’s arm and power-walked him back toward the car, whipping my head over my shoulders every other second. I even made myself dizzy. I haven’t been this lethally afraid since we stayed overnight at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast last year.

My hair was slapping me in the face from the heavy wind. I reached up to swipe a strand of hair from my mouth, causing Henry to go ballistic on me.

Henry: “What did you just do!?”
Me: “Uh, I wiped the hair away from my mouth.”
Henry: “Oh, I thought you made the sign of the cross. I was going to say, if you’re crossing yourself and you don’t even believe in god, we have problems.”

There was a trail to the left of where we parked the car, and it was certain that that was the way into the cemetery. Henry pleaded with me to walk up with him, stating that “nothing was going to happen.” Now, I’ve seen enough movies in my twenty five years for this claim to make me lose control. “DON’T YOU EVER SAY THAT! YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW YOU STUPID ASSHOLE! DON’T YOU KNOW THEY WAIT AROUND FOR SOMEONE TO SAY THAT!? GET IN THE CAR!!” I adopted my ‘hissing through clenched teeth’ way of speaking for this moment; I felt it was the most fitting in my cache of tones.

And so we left. We ate at a restaurant that hosted the weirdest assortment of humanity I’ve ever witnessed. It was great fun, and it made me feel a lot better about myself. I especially felt better after I inhaled a soggy grilled cheese and fries and slurped my way through two cups of coffee. They had Presidential sundaes: Bushberry and Kerryberry (and strawberry for those who are undecided). I thought it would be so cute if Henry and I ordered our respective picks, but he didn’t want to play along. We left after I was becoming dangerously too engrossed in analyzing the differences between the two sundaes. (The Bushberry variety cost more!)

Something about the Valley Dairy restaurant made my courage surge, so I slammed my fist on the dashboard and demanded that we go back to Livermore straight away.

When we got out of the car after returning, we noticed that someone had dumped a garbage bag off the side of the path. Henry, being the curious garbage picker that he is, decided that he needed to have a closer inspection of the contents. Laying on the top was a piece of mail. Who litters a giant bag of garbage and leaves an envelope with their name and address on top? Ironically, the zip code on it was the same as ours. We thought that was rather coincidental considering we were nowhere near home. AN OMEN, perhaps. Livermore is partial to collecting souls from the 15226 area?

After a minute of silent deliberation, I finally heeded and followed Henry up the path. It was blocked off after a few feet, but this was not to deter Henry. He was eager to show off his trespassing prowess.

I’m getting antsy with this, and it also makes me feel kind of creeped out as I rehash it, so I’ll speed it up.

We came across the entrance to the cemetery

and crossed over the threshold. I thought for sure the sky was going to start hailing fireballs at this point, but everything was actually very quiet. From this point on, the time we spent in the midst of crumbling tomb stones was very leisurely and calm. I even started to zone about ice cream sandwiches, so it really couldn’t have been all that bad there, right?

Naturally, we couldn’t leave until we argued over the camera settings, which is customary for us. It certainly lightened the mood a bit. Until, as we began to walk back to the entrance, Henry pointed out that while it was windy everywhere else, it was absolutely still in the cemetery. Shut up, right? His observation made my heart threaten cardiac arrest for the second time in two hours, and I said, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean that it’s haunted, right?” Henry shrugged and kept walking. Shrugging is not a good enough answer for me and I began to tug on his arm, begging him to tell me why it wasn’t windy. The phenomenon didn’t seem to be plaguing him as it was me, and he mumbled some half assed Discovery Channel explanation. I paused, letting it sink in, and said, “No. It’s because it’s haunted. OH MY GOD IT’S HAUNTED!! OH MY GOD THERE’S NO WIND!!! EVERYTHING IS DEAD IN HERE AND WE’RE GOING TO DIE TOO!!!!”

And then we got in the car and left. The end.

And the pièce de résistance:

Ha ha.

I mean, what? You don’t think that’s real?

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Oct 062014


Chooch bought some shitty Leaning Tower of Pisa puzzle at Goodwill. Anyone with a cat knows how impossible puzzle-doing is. Once, way back when, I was so excited to finally put in the last of a 5,000 piece puzzle, only to have asshole Marcy PUSH THE WHOLE THING OFF THE COFFEE TABLE.

She might be 15 years older now, but she’s still a fucking puzzle menace. Chooch found this out first hand Friday night.

Me: She’s just trying to help you!


Marcy: I fucking hate puzzles.

Chooch was so angry that he gave her the finger on his way to bed and I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell him not to do that.


Saturday morning, Chooch and I were watching Youtube videos of The Front Bottoms when I decided to see if there were any from Riot Fest. I found one and immediately said, “WE MIGHT BE IN THIS ONE, CHOOCH” because I could tell right away that it was being filmed by some doucher in the VIP area and we were standing right by the fence that separated Us from Them. AND WE WERE! Well, Henry was. I was standing to Henry’s left so I’m blocked by that dude in the white shirt and hat. (Which is funny, because I was originally standing on the other side of Henry but then hated the people in front of me for god knows what reason, I rarely even need one anymore, so I moved over.)

Anyway, this is basically what went down




Henry: *frown*


HENRY: It’s not that funny.

Here’s the video if you want to laugh about it!!!


Later, I went to my pal Lisa’s house and tried to teach her daughter Gigi how to say HASHTAG SELFIE and then I told Lisa the Front Bottoms video story and she shook her head and said, “You’re so weird. Seriously. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like in your head” and maybe she said other things but I was too busy laughing to the point of tears all over again. OMG what a hilarious Saturday.


Later still, Chooch and I went to Huston’s Haunted Hollow in Somerset with Janna, which meant Janna had to spend 3+ hours in the car with us. This picture was taken when she abandoned us to go inside a gas station, which was really pretty irresponsible of her because who knows what could have happened to us. We’re susceptible to kidnapping.

On the way there, Chooch started talking about Pi and then very seriously asked us, “Well then, what’s Pi + Cake?” Speaking of cake, there was amazing post-haunt cake at a diner in Somerset, but I’ll come back to that later in the week. Because you know how I love to make something small into A Thing.



On Sunday, I let Henry wear my Emarosa “Versus” beanie and I love Henry in beanies in general, but the fact that he was wearing an Emarosa made me have a crush on him, so I kept squeezing his forearm while he was driving because I’m eerily attracted to his forearms (I’m niche, what can I say) and he kept frowning at me. And then I took this picture even though he was like, “Please don’t take my picture, I’m so fucking sick of pictures.”



Chris and Monica had a pickle party! They had other foods too, and tons of homemade wine, and it was just a really great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, even though Monica kept making happy exclamations over the STEELERS game. I actually looked at the TV for a few minutes and allowed her to tell me things. It was OK. I’m still alive.

Chooch was doing his weird baby-talk thing again, and I think it might be a social tic for real, which makes me sad because he never used to seem socially anxious before. Although, I never was before either. That was the only low point to a weekend full of hangouts and haunted houses.

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Sep 282014
  • If you have never been to Chicago, make sure you research the area your staying in. So when you come back the first night someones not jacked up against a police car outside your hotel room window.


  • Make sure you take the proper clothing, ie: Boots, jacket so you don’t have to run out and buy them in a hurry.
  • Find a way to and from the festival that doesn’t put your life in danger by seedy so called “Uber” drivers, only to find out on the last day you could have drove and parked 100 yards from where you needed to go.
  • Learn to dodge and weave between people with minimal damage to you and others.
  • Bring lots of cash, for the girlfriend that wants everything.
  • Bring an appetite, the food is awesome.
  • Do not be so quick to say “yes we can go” before you actually look in to what riot fest is.

BANDS I DISLIKED (hate is a pretty strong word)

Pianos Become the Teeth – not my style. Like I have a style.
La Dispute – they go along with the other one.

I didn’t dislike as much as Erin thought I did. Maybe it’s just more that I didn’t want to be there.

Seeing the Cure.

Nothing. She wouldn’t understand.

I don’t know yet.

I don’t have any.


Cheap Trick.

To summarize, all and all it wasn’t a bad three days, the rain, mud and cold didn’t help me like Riot fest. Though knowing that Erin was the happiest shes been in awhile was well worth it. Will i do it again, too soon to say. I’m sure by January or whenever presale starts ill start getting hounded.

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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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Aug 262014

Guys! Did you know that Glenn is having a baby? Well, his wife is, anyway. So we had a baby shower for him today at work!

There was a group card for everyone to sign, but….come on. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to ridicule Glenn in front of the department once again. So I made my own card.


It’s just too easy sometimes.


And then Glenn had to pose for pictures and pass around my card for further humiliation. In other words: IT WAS A GOOD DAY.

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Aug 242014

Oh boy, has today been a day. Actually, you could say that for the whole weekend. Some exceptionally high points with some shitty lows sprinkled in. You know, for good measure. Keep that shit balanced, I guess. Definitely the highest point of the weekend was Kaitlin’s wedding yesterday! (That gets its own post, though, obvi.) But a low point was drinking waaaay too much for my low tolerant body and then basically laying awake, miserable, from 4AM on. This was my expression at many points throughout the day today:


I had a fight with the neighbor yesterday. A parent fight. Just what I wanted, you know? I’m like, BITCH CAN’T YOU SEE I’M TRYNA TO PAINT MY FUCKING NAILS AND LISTEN TO EMAROSA? STEP OFF. Seriously, one of the worst parts of being a parent is DEALING WITH OTHER PARENTS. This is the same bitch who accused Chooch of punching her son in the face and giving him a bloody lip at school, when their teacher flat out said it DID NOT HAPPEN. And then they expected me to walk their kid to school every day last year?

Anyway, apparently Chooch kicked him yesterday (in the balls, lol) and THIS IS THE SECOND TIME IT’S HAPPENED AND IT’S GOTTA STOP! ONE OF US IS GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE! MY SON IS A FUCKING BULLY! These are these things she was screaming in my face immediately when I opened the door after she was BANGING ON IT seemingly with a sledgehammer. And Chooch was standing next to her, crying.

I’ve seen these two idiots playing together (which I don’t know why they even bother since they clearly don’t like each other) and they both do it to each other. They’re boys. They play rough. Yes, it gets out of hand and they’ll pout separately for a half hour, then go back outside.

So she’s screaming this shit at me without actually even looking at my face and then storms off before I can even really get a word in, which is definitely for the best because I fly off the handle at an alarming pace and I’m much bigger than her meth-addicted, drug-scabbed frame.

She retreated to her house and I called Henry on the phone and started screaming to him about it. I was shaking so bad and he was like, “Don’t stoop to her white trash level.”


I talked to Chooch about it and he didn’t deny it. But then he calmly told me the other part of the story, which is where the kid rips Chooch’s phone from his hands and then shoves him to the ground when he asks for it back. And I believe this because I’ve seen that oaf-kid do these things and there’s not a doubt in my mind. So I asked, “Did his parents see all of this?” and he said no BECAUSE THEY WEREN’T OUTSIDE. But they heard their lame kid do his patented fake cry (honestly, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve scowled at him when he’s pulled this shit in front of me) so his mom came running out and started screaming because that is 100% all the Yinzer bitch knows how to do and let me just tell you how hard it is for a person who doesn’t speak like a yokel to decipher what the hell is being said/screamed.

This was the lowest low of the whole weekend, and I started drinking as soon as I got to Kaitlin’s wedding reception, because NO, JUST NO.

Then today, another mom came over to talk to me and basically sided with me because she spends a lot of time around both kids (her kid is 6, so she makes sure she’s outside most of the time when they’re all playing together) and she said that the bully kid’s mom yells at Chooch A LOT without ever seeing what happened, and she says things like, “You’re not innocent” and has her son spouting off things like, “Your parents think you’re so perfect.”

Yes, we think he is SO FUCKING PERFECT. Bitch, STFU. I don’t think my son is perfect but I think that he’s a boy and this is the shit that boys do, if you don’t want your precious cargo getting nicked, then don’t let him out of his room. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO TELL YOU.

Other Mom also said that she sees a lot of these fights and that—shocker—Chooch isn’t the one who starts them. But god forbid he defends himself. And she also said that Chooch is always the one to try to make up and move on, but the other kid will say things like, “No, you’re stupid.”

He also calls people homos and faggots, so you see the savory sort of people we’re dealing with here. If I had 100% control of the situation, I wouldn’t let Chooch play with him AT ALL. But they are drawn together like destructive magnets.



I felt pretty good after that conversation. And then we went to Station Street Hot Dog for lunch, and I felt even better. And then BILLY OCEAN came on while we were waiting for our hot dogs and I was like, “OH SUNDAY, YOU SEXY DAY YOU.”



Remember my post about Henry on Friday? Yeah, forget that. I have a new boyfriend now. THIS GUY. ^^^^


Also, when I was talking to Nice Mom, she interrupted herself at one point to gush about how much Chooch looks like me and I was like, “LADY YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THAT MEANS TO ME.” Everyone thinks he looks like Henry and not me at all, which makes me sad because I think we look a lot alike. And then later, I was being my typical animated self which involved me pulling faces to get my point across, and she yelled, “OMG I SEE YOUR SON MAKING THAT FACE ALL OF THE TIME!”



I got a vegetarian taco hot dog, yessss.



We took everything to the cemetery for a picnic on rocks.



You know what else Nice Mom told me? That bully kid’s mom told her that Chooch doesn’t talk to her kid at all in school, and if he does, it’s only to pick on him, but then he turns around expects her son to play with him all summer.

ARE.YOU.FUCKING.KIDDING.ME. First of all, Chooch tries to keep his distance from him because that a-hole gets him in trouble all of the time. Every year, the teachers learn that they have to keep them separated. I actually JUST pointed this out to Henry a few weeks ago, how it’s convenient for him to play with Chooch in the summer when he’s got no one else, and he’s guilting Chooch into buying him ice cream from the ice cream man. (THIS HAPPENED!!!! I WAS LIVID!! THAT A-HOLE’S MOM WAS RIGHT THERE TOO AND NEVER EVEN BOTHERED TO OPEN HER FUCKING PURSE, OMG I HATE THIS WHITE TRASH FAMILY SO BAD.) But then I KNOW he’s going to turn around and go back to being a super-dick to Chooch once they’re in school again. HE knocks on OUR door! Chooch never initiates it!

Ugh, I miss the days when Chooch’s only friends were adults.



Henry yelled at Chooch for “getting moss on his pants,” thereby furthering his passionate stance on the fluffy green stuff.

Then we went to the worst Target in the city, which is always full of college kids and hipsters, and Target is usually such a happy place for me, BUT NOT THIS ONE. And then Henry bitched because we spent $100 more than he wanted to and I was like, “OH OK BITCH JUST GO RETURN ALL OF MY STUFF” and he was like, “NO I DON’T CARE, I WAS JUST SAYING” and then I was already still so mad about having to weave and wind through so many hipsters, it was like knowing what a damn Mumford & Sons concert must be like, so I just started yelling incoherent things and then bitched because it smelled in the car AND WHY DOESN’T HENRY JUST CLEAN IT ALREADY OMG.

So then he was like ,”Do you still want ice cream?” and I was like “OMG yes I almost forgot!” so then it was going to be a high point again, going to Oh Yeah! to get ice cream, but there was a long line with only one person working and my Perfect Son was being decidedly Imperfect so I stormed out and marched back to the car and Henry was so annoyed when they finally caught up to me.


But then we decided to just go and get some of these amazing Leona’s ice cream sandwiches but then got into another argument because he was making me look up where we could buy them and I hate when he makes me do that because then he will unfailingly ask impossible questions, such as, “What is the address?” and I’m like “I DON’T KNOW STOP PRESSURING ME!” and then he will yell, “FUCK YOU WE’RE GOING HOME!” and then I’m like, “OH THIS IS TYPICAL, THE ONLY THING I WANTED ALL DAY AND NOW I CAN’T HAVE IT” and he will scream, “THE LAST 457 THINGS YOU GOT TODAY ALREADY WERE SUPPOSEDLY THE ONLY THINGS YOU WANTED TODAY!” and then Chooch will be like, “Does wherever we’re going have wifi?” and we’re all like, “UGHUGHUGH.”

But then we eventually found a market in Lawrenceville that sells Leona’s and also tubs of vegan chicken salad!!!! So we bought that and each got an ice cream sandwich and we were all happy again. Mostly.


Then we came home and I started working on this piece called “People To Watch Over You.”



Chooch goes back to school tomorrow. I’m sad that summer is over, but it was time. Yesterday’s blow-up definitely proves that.

What a fucking bipolar weekend, you guys.

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Aug 192014

Henry’s mom has been staying over a lot this summer to help out with watching Chooch since my schedule changed and Henry’s work is constantly jerking him around. Now, don’t get it twisted, I like Judy a lot. BUT if I have to hear one more second of the Family Feud music, Ruby might make a comeback.

(Ruby is my bi-polar psycho personality, for those who haven’t been graced with her presence.)

Try to imagine how you felt when you were 16 and too many grown ups were around. That’s how I feel. It’s bad enough when it’s just Henry!! Now I’m surrounded!!

Last night, I pouted in my bedroom and listened to Touché Amore REALLY LOUDLY and waited for Henry to come in and ask me what’s wrong so I could cry NOTHING!!! UGH!!!

Judy’s downstairs watching the Bachelor now I think. Sigh.

You guys? My life. This is it. What a fantastic summer this has been.

Tonight, I’ve been replaying the same Emarosa song over and over and crying because I am the ultimate emo song personified these days. Ever since I heard them play this song on the Devil’s Dance tour in May, it has haunted to me. It makes me feel like my heart has been carved and sculpted into a wigwam and I’m curled up inside it. YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I MEAN DON’T LIE, FUCKER.

^ That song title is wrong, FYI.

I salivate every time I think of this upcoming album. Less than a month until it’s released (I preordered it of course)! And then a week later I’ll be seeing them in Chicago at Riot Fest and that will make up for my lame summer.

(Oh boy, now Henry’s here to completely not listen when I try to talk about my FEELINGS.)

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Aug 122014

For months, I had been giddily anticipating a visit from the only Flyers fans I like. Terri and Christian got into Pittsburgh the day after my birthday (WHICH IS JULY 30, PUT IT IN YOUR BOOK THINGS) and came over to hang out that night. Terri baked me chocolate chip cookies, you guys, and they were incredible but CHOOCH somehow seemed to eat most of them because “Those are mommy’s birthday cookies” means nothing to him.

We spent most of the time talking about music (which put me on a Felix Culpa kick, so thank you guys for rejuvenating my love of that band), shows that we’ve been to, bands we’ve met (Terri fucking drove Greg Dulli to his bus one time; how do you even recover from that??) and then Chooch was like, “OK, enough. Now you will all sit here and watch me play Xbox.”

Like myself, Terri and Christian are both vegetarians, so I was happy that I’d get to eat at places that actually offer more vegetarian fare than just shitty freezer aisle veggie burgers, because most of my carnivorous friends would rather than die than throw me a (tempeh) bone and go to a vegetarian restaurant. They’d just point out that I could at least get a salad, even at the meatiest of places. And even on my birthday! Vegetarians get no love.

That being said, Christian and Terri picked me up from work the next day around noon and we went to the OTB Cafe on the Southside, where seitan ruled the menu and we all ate happily beneath a ceiling laden with bicycles. I had a veggie burger with PB&J, go fuck yourself.


Terri ordered fried pickles and seitan wings for us to share and I can’t remember the last time my belly was so happy. Goddammit.

Also? Our waitress looked like a young, bleached blond Mariel Hemingway with tattoos and gauges. And that will probably be the last time I think about Mariel Hemingway’s existence for another 20 years.

Afterward, we pissed around on Carson Street for a little while, because Henry was supposed to meet us but then his work fucked him over (or maybe that really is actually his euphemism for “Sorry, I’m banging my mistress”). Terri wanted to buy some Pittsburgh-centric magnets but we couldn’t find any and the one time I bothered to ask some I was sneered at like I was wearing orange in a city of black and gold (oh shit, I just realized that I actually was, too). When I was a kid, there was a store at the mall that sold a bunch of Pittsburgh souvenirs. It was called—wait for it—-The Pittsburgh Store. I couldn’t think of a single place comparable to that nowadays. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Time to expand my Etsy empire to include tourist-y Pittsburgh magnets.

Magnet-less, I took them to Dave’s Music Mine, where we flipped through bins of used CDs and shared our dirtiest, guiltiest pleasure albums.



If I cared  a little more, I could have gotten my Christmas shopping for Henry out of the way.



On the way out, Terri mentioned that she had the Livin’ La Vida Loca single from back in the day.

I didn’t even have that!” I laughed mockingly, to which she cooly replied, “Oh please, after all the albums you just admitted having? I think you’re way worse.”

And she’s totally right. But I just can’t get rid of my 90210 soundtrack, OK?!

Then it was time to ride the Incline, which is a true Pittsburgh installation. It’s essentially a funicular that goes up and down Mt. Washington, which arguably provides the best view of the my fair city. Anytime someone is visiting from out of town, it’s imperative to take  them for a spin up and down a treacherous hillside. It’s just what we do ’round here and I never really think anything of it.

But this time, I was with rational people who value safety. The plan was to park at Station Square and ride the Incline up, but as we passed the track on the way to the parking lot, Christian piped up from the backseat and said, “THAT’S IT?! No. I’m not riding that.”

I thought he was joking at first, but then I looked out the window and tried to see the incline from his perspective, and you know what guys? That’s some fucking scary shit, for real. I still laughed at him for it, though. Terri was still partially on board, probably because she was driving and didn’t get to really take long, lingering looks at it like Christian had.



So I suggested that we just drive to the top of Mount Washington and then they could decide from there if they wanted to ride it because for some idiotic reason I thought that looking DOWN at the Incline would be so much more convincing. “Yes, you too can ride this super old-fashioned contraption clear down the side of a steep hill!”

“Is that it?!” Terri asked on t he drive up the hill as her car passed beneath the track. “Oh, well now that I’ve seen the underneath it, I’m definitely not going on.” And this prompted Christian to start muttering once again about how terrible of an idea Inclines are and how he can’t believe President Obama hasn’t put an end to this yet and why don’t we just skateboard down the hill, that would be safer.


Alas, being at the top didn’t change their minds. It only solidified to them the fact that Pittsburghers are Sidney Crosby-loving reckless hillside travelers. Oh, how I laughed at them! But then my stomach flopped around like a fish chased out of water by shitty Katy Perry music blaring from a submarine. You know, just like that.

But we stayed on one of the overlooks long enough for me to take a touristy photo of them:


Fuck yeah, Pittsburgh!

After getting some iced coffee at Grand Brew, Terri and Christian went back to their hotel, presumably to “rest” but really they just wanted privacy to watch a bunch of videos of the Incline doing terrible things.

Later that night, we all met up at Page’s Dairy for ice cream, which is just as much of a Pittsburgh-y institution as anything else, so suck it, Incline. I apparently hate the Incline now. PEER PRESSURE.

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Aug 032014

It rained most of the morning and afternoon here in Pittsburgh, so I treated myself to a binge-session of the new (and final) season of The Killing. (This TV series has seriously affected me in some mysterious ways and I am so happy that Netflix revived it long enough for the series to get a proper wrap-up, but also devastated that it’s donezo.)

Then the rain broke, so I made Chooch go for a walk with me to try to balance things out. I hate being even a little sloth-like. This is why, even when I’m sick, I don’t rest. I brought my camera because I’m trying to get back into the habit of taking pictures of Chooch. I’ve been L-Z when it comes to using my camera lately, and then when I’m like, “Henry I want a new camera, buy me a new camera, Henry” he’s like “Why? You barely use the one you have.” True story. So if you’re ever thinking, “Why is she getting worse at this instead of better?”, well, that’s why.

But at least I’m getting a little better at remembering to bring the camera with me. Baby steps!


We walked to the abandoned Bradley School, which used to be a school for deaf kids. (Or blind? I’ve been there often enough, kicking around shards of broken glass, that you would think I would know this.)




This was Chooch’s idea. “Take a picture of me looking evil, and then photoshop a dead girl behind me.”

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Chooch wants me to call this one “I’m Beautiful and Fabulous.” Done.


It occurred to me, halfway through our fauxtoshoot, that no one knew where we were. So I texted Henry and told him “you know, in case something happens to us.” And all he said was “ok.” No “good luck” or “please be careful” or “OMG I”m so afraid for you” or “PLEASE DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS.”

Not even a reminder to be mindful of the “CAUTION: ASBESTOS” signs posted all over the property.

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Don’t worry: we kept out.


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Spoiler alert: we made it home safe and sound and Henry was like “ok.” Then I watched the series finale of The Killing and bawled my little bitchy eyes out. I’ll miss you, Linden and Holder. :(

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Aug 012014

You guys. My friends Terri and Christian are here visiting, so I’m going to take advantage of Flashback Friday and post an older painting, which is available as a print, oh boy.


It started out simply. Two old friends, meeting up in the city for some Milwaukee’s Best and beer nuts.

Paul talked ad nauseum about his new bride, Pricilla. Talked about how she picked up his dirty socks with a broad smile on her face and even wore a skimpy apron while cooking his meatloaf. If he brought her roses and Vodka, she would even make love to his anus.

Samuel, having been single for the last eight years, sulked a bit. He hated hearing about his friends’ good fortune with the ladies, while he was left to sleep alone, with nothing more than his pit bull to spoon. Though it was a step up from the iguana he tried to recruit as a temporary bedmate.

Paul didn’t like to see his friend look so sullen. He thought Samuel had some great qualities that many women would be attracted to. For example, the fact that he was the quietest farter Paul had ever met. (Though, were silent-but-deadlies any better?) And that he didn’t live with his mother. (Mostly that’s attributed to the fact that she’s dead.) And that he had a large weapons collection, with which to keep any woman feeling safe and protected. (Paul still wasn’t entirely sure why Samuel needed a bazooka just for fox hunting, though.)

But still, Paul couldn’t see any reason for Samuel to continue his dry spell any longer and became determined to find him a girlfriend. Or at the very least, a mute with a clean vagina upon which Samuel could practice, maybe get his groove back. So when they left the bar in favor for some totally non-gay window shopping, Paul broached the subject.

“Say, Samuel, what types of broads do you like?” Paul asked as the ducked into an Army Navy store, where Samuel darted straight to a counter displaying knives.

“Well, like I always say: I like my women like I like my ice cubes,” Samuel murmured absently, running a calloused thumb over the blade of a Bowie.

Paul laughed. “Frosty exterior with a piece of fruit in the center?” he asked, curling his fingers into exaggerated air quotes when he said “center,” and recalling that Samuel was really into freezing tiny pieces of nectarines in his ice cubes, which added pizazz to his signature summer Sangria.

“No,” Samuel replied, with a slight scoff. “Frozen in a tray,” he answered, sliding his credit card over to the cashier. “By the dozen.”
This is a print of my original painting The Conversation. It measures 8×10 and does not come framed.

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Jul 302014

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

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

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

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



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

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



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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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Jul 222014


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

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


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

All of those kids were fucking DDDDDDICK HEADS.

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

These are all things that happened.


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


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


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

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

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


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Jul 152014


When I told people I went to a professional woman’s football game last Saturday night, the popular response was, “What the hell. You hate football!”

Truth! I really do hate football, and the only thing I hate worse than football is PITTSBURGH football. Boys or girls, I hate them all the same. No discrimination here. But when my friend Kristy asked me if I wanted to go and explained that she was only going because her friend Katie plays for the opposing team, the New York Sharks, and also that we were going to drink at the Smiling Moose beforehand, I was like, “Fuck yeah, I’ll go.” I get a lot of joy rooting for opposing teams! I’m like a sports hipster, I guess.

Besides, if I was going to go to a Pittsburgh Passion game with anyone, it would be Kristy. I don’t know why, but I stand behind this statement.


Kristy even made this awesome sign to show support for her friend Katie! It was kind of adorable. I want to join some kind of team now or run for Congress so that Kristy will make a poster for me.

When we got inside Cupples Stadium, Kristy decided she didn’t want to sit in the middle of Passion fans, because Pittsburgh sports fans are a special brand of crazy. Like, bath salts crazy. Before we even made it to the stands, we stumbled upon a small group of Sharks fans with some assertive Passion broad who was trying to accommodate their seating needs. And by seating needs, I mean that they were asking to sit as far away from psycho Yinzer sports fans as possible. So we tagged along and entered the field with them, and that’s when I realized that one of the Sharks ladies was actually a part of the organization, so I started to feel really special, because that’s the type of person I am: the type that gloats when mascots or someone on a professional women’s football team payroll spends one extra nanosecond on me than the rest of the kids. It’s because I’m attention starved, OK? I will take flirtatious sentiments from anyone: in a fur-suit, NY Sharks shirt or prison jumpsuit, I don’t give a fuck.

Anyway, the Passion broad explained to us that she was unable to unlock the gate so that we could sit on the bleachers across the field from the Pittsburgh side, some lame excuse about how the Passion organization only paid for half of the stadium to be cleaned so they couldn’t have us getting our filth all over the other side of stands, too. However, what she was able to do instead was bring over extra benches ON THE SIDELINE so that we could still sit far away. There was some grumbling from the other Sharks fans about how they weren’t going to be able to see real well, but I was like, “Fuck yes.” Because if I’m going to have to watch some dumb football game, you better believe I want it to be on the field.

While we were getting situated on our special benches, one of the Sharks ladies felt compelled to beg us to behave. Don’t distract the players, don’t get up and walk off the field during play and basically just don’t breathe. Then she came back with her camera and yelled, “OK SHARKS FANS!” and everyone put their hands up on top of their heads like shark fins, and I had to whip my head around to look at everyone else’s so that I didn’t fuck it up because I’m a hand-gesture dunce.

“I wonder what the Passion sign is?” Kristy wondered out loud, making a diamond over her crotch with her hands. “Do they just like, masturbate?” And I died for the first of 87 times that night.


Seriously, this was our view: a recreational lesbian’s field day. I cultivated no less than 8 crushes in the first five minutes of sitting down. It’s actually kind of surprising that Christina doesn’t play professional women’s football.

“Fair warning, my twin daughters play for the Sharks, so I might get kind of loud,” an older man who bore a mild resemblance to Laura Palmer’s Dad (but enough so that I would run with it for the rest of the night) said cordially as he sat down next to me. “Wow, Pittsburgh’s sure got a big fan base. Look at that!” he enthused, pointing across the field to the home bleachers. I thought he was being sarcastic, because there didn’t seem to be that many people there, but then I remembered that this was WOMEN’S football and we all know that no one cares about women’s sports.



Passion’s Impressive Fan Base.

Did you know that they have to pay for this shit themselves? It’s true! Kristy told me. And they all have to have regular day jobs too, unlike those fat NFL rapist douchebags. So I was able to overlook my hatred of football by convincing myself that I was actually there to support girls doing shit. Because I’m a girl.


I took this picture when we returned after halftime to illustrate how sparse the Sharks section was.

Laura Palmer’s Dad was a pretty laid back guy and I didn’t mind that he was trying to lure conversation from my clamped mouth because was mildly charming. But then 10 seconds into the game, he fucking EXPLODED with rage and bulging forehead veins.


And on and on and on. Kristy slowly looked over at me and we totally lost it. At this point, he was standing on top of the back of the bench, leaning against the fence behind him for balance, and every time he yelled, it sounded like angry jets were being launched from his throat and into my ears. And then another dad on the bench next to us joined in, the two of them volleying disparaging reviews of the ref’s competence back and forth between them in their thick New York accents. Laura Palmer’s Dad kept marching over to the Sharks bench and reaming out his daughter’s, Paige and Jenna, but it seemed like poor, fuck-up Paige was taking the brunt of it. She would just stand there with her head down, shoulders rolled forward, probably wondering when she was going to have time to finish digging her dad’s grave in the woods.

Please, please, please watch this dumb video.

Laura Palmer’s Dad was screaming so hoarsely, that I feared he was going to have a stroke. I was honestly afraid to turn around to see what he looked like while verbally battering the entire Sharks team and officials. I half-expected to catch him deep-throating an entire horse out of unchained anger.


I kept getting misted with Haterade every time he screamed too, so now I can say Laura Palmer’s Dad showered me.

Meanwhile, my brother Corey was texting me because he saw my video on Instagram, so then it became even funnier to me, knowing that it was this funny to Corey. You know who definitely didn’t think it was “that funny”? HENRY. I kept texting him with a play-by-play to NO RESPONSE. He was just jealous because he wasn’t there and he probably knew it was only a matter of time before I fell in love with Laura Palmer’s Dad. I mean, he was totally my type. I bet he has sexually harassed an impressive amount of secretaries in his day.

Or Henry was just sleeping.


Laura Palmer’s Dad in a rare moment where his lips were demonstrating what some people might recognize as “a closed mouth.”


What? You guys don’t take shoulder selfies?

The other angry dad is standing next to the guy stroking his chin, who was actually with Laura Palmer’s Dad but not nearly as loud. Occasionally he would bellow “SHARKS!” but I felt like it was more because he didn’t want Laura Palmer’s Dad to be disappointed in him, too.


Here’s one of the twins getting berated.


And the other.

He reallllly wanted them to “contain it,” whatever the fuck that means. And see, that was a big problem, not understanding the game and terminology. I would have to wait for my Sharks peeps to cheer or clap to know how to proceed, but sometimes I was confused because the Passion fans would also be clapping and I thought we hated each other? Anyway, when one of the Sharks got the ball-thing and started booking it down the field with no one close enough to stop her, I knew to stand up and do jump-y things and yell. And I also knew that when things weren’t going our way, to blame the refs. That’s universal. And if I hadn’t known that, Laura Palmer’s Dad would have taught me real fast.

The Passion scored enough times for the speakers to bleed out Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls,” “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and “Single Ladies.” You know, just in case we forgot we were at a girls football game.

Too bad we were losing pretty good (I guess?) by halftime. I was pissed when we came back from not getting stabbed during our halftime drinks at Jack’s because KRISTY lied to me and we were LATE getting back to a sporting event I don’t even care about, except for when I do, so we had to stand off the field and wait for the quarter thing to end before going back to our dumb bench. THANKS, KRISTY. I was so concerned that we were going to be ostracized from our elite Sharks section. But as soon as the clock turned to 0:00, I speed-walked across the field back to our bend.

“Hurry! I don’t want to get in trouble!” I kept hissing at Kristy. And approximately 3 minutes after I said that, Laura Palmer’s Dad and Other Official-Hating Dad came together to throw a joint temper tantrum so histrionic that the ref literally turned toward us and screamed, “NO! YOU SUCK!” blew his whistle, made a violent motion with his arms, and stomped off the field.

The fucking ref stopped the game and stormed off, you guys. IT WAS FUCKING FANTASTIC!

But….then the Sharks lady (I learned after the game that she is the CEO or CFO or COO or some acronym equally as important) marched over and said sternly, “I told you that you had to knock it off. Ref wants you gone. ALL OF YOU.”

Laura Palmer’s Dad said, “No! You guys stay. I’ll take the hit on this one.” MY MOTHERFUCKING HERO. Oh god, please let me be Laura Palmer’s Dad wife. Oh, who am I kidding. Laura Palmer’s Dad’s penis coozy is good enough for me. He can scream at me to contain the D all night. Yell at me like I’m one of your disappointing twins!

“Ref wants you ALL gone!” Important Sharks Lady repeated. So we all got up and dejectedly walked off the field, Kristy with her rolled-up Sharks poster, basically the entire Cupples Stadium watching.



This is what Womens’ Football Game Ejection looks like.

And just in case one of us was planning on resisting the ref’s request, two cops were sent out to make sure we left peacefully. It was the most ridiculous thing ever and I was so afraid I was going to pee from laughing so hard.

“Womp womp,” Kristy said with mock sadness into her rolled-up poster, and that just made me laugh even harder.


Once we were off the field, we all kind of stood in a cluster, laughing nervously by the concession stand. I was glad to see that Laura Palmer’s Dad was also laughing about it and not snapping metal rods over his legs in fury like I had anticipated.

“Sorry guys,” he said, with a shrug and then he flashed that good old Laura Palmer’s Dad smile at us and I melted. UGH HOW CAN I BE MAD AT THAT.

By then, one of the Passion broads had learned about what happened, so she decided to intervene. I guess because it was the ref who kicked us out and not the actual Passion team, she let us back on the field. They tried once again to get the gate unlocked for us, but then realized no one had the key. So the compromise was to move one of the benches further away from the field and have one of the cops babysit us.

“I feel like a red-headed stepchild,” Laura Palmer’s Dad laughed as he helped drag the bench away from the rest of the benches. Kristy and I opted to sit on his bench rather than return to our original spots, because I wanted him to see that we were IN THIS BITCH TOGETHER.

I just like being a part of things, OK?

Anyway, the game resumed after the ref rubbed the hurt out of his butt, and it didn’t take long for the two dads to get all fired up once again.

“OH NOW HE THROWS A FLAG!” the other dad bellowed, his voice cracking under the weight of the sarcasm.


This was right after the ref called an illegal formation, whatever the fuck that is, and that set off Laura Palmer’s Dad and his Partner-in-Scream-Hemorrhaging all over again, to the point where I thought for sure they were going to cause us to make the 11 o’clock news. FUCK YOU AND YOUR ILLEGAL FORMATION, REF!


Our babysitter.


This lady refused to leave when we got kicked out. I guess that’s her daughter. She popped her shoulder out.


And then, after it was all said and done, Laura Palmer’s Dad STOOD ON THE FIELD, yelling for his daughters’ attention. He was relentless.


During the final minutes of the game, “Girl On Fire” warbled out of the cheap sound speakers, and we just lost it. I wish they had put as much effort into their concession stand offerings as they did with the girl-centric stadium anthems.

Anyway, the dumb Passion beat the Sharks and I’m 99.999999999999999% sure it was fixed. We hung around after everyone left, watching the Passion do some sloppy Electric Slide thing to a really terrible pop song while the Sharks sat in a slumped huddle and cried. For a girl who hates football, I felt surprisingly really sad. Once the Sharks started to mill around on the field, Kristy and I went over to say goodbye to Katie, who hugged me twice which I thought was really nice of her but I think she was really just using my torso as a Shamwow for her sweat.

“What was going on over there?” she asked us, and we got to giddily tell the story of Laura Palmer’s Dad, a story that I look forward to retelling over and over and over again for the rest of my life.



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