Dear friends,
Please help distract me. I’m bored and restless. Talk to me. Recommend cultural delights. I feel like my fingers want to be dancing but have no music, so ask me things you want to know about me. Yes, let’s have a Q&A session. I need interaction.
This is your chance to ask me about my bra size.
Signed,
This Girl Right Here
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[This is not going to be articulate, and I don't care because I'm crying.]
When Henry and I first started dating, my favorite band was Cold. And by favorite, I mean that I would sob through their sets and be an emotional wreck for days after. The first road trip Henry and I ever took together was to Wisconsin, where they were performing a 30 minute set at a radio festival. It took us two days to get there and it was worth every fucking second, even when I cried for an hour on the way home and fought with Henry because he wouldn’t take me to Wisconsin Dells (this is totally one of those stories that will get passed on from generation to generation). We also saw them in Norfolk, Virginia and a million times here in Pittsburgh. And before Henry, there was my best guy-friend Wonka, and together we saw them together in Hershey, Columbus OH, and Buffalo. I still have the orange Starburst that Scooter Ward gave me before the show in Hershey, where we bonded over Robert Smith and I cried in his face. I keep it in the freezer every summer to keep it from melting.
The last time I had the chance to see them was April of 2004, and I was in a very bad place emotionally. I had written Scooter a letter, thanking him for his words and for always being there for his fans. Cold shows were one of the only times I felt I belonged somewhere, and I needed him to know that. But I couldn’t find the nerve to give him the letter. He was standing a few feet away from me before that show and I panicked. Henry, supportive boyfriend that he is, was so angry with me.
“Just give him the fucking letter! He’s right over there! No one’s even bothering him!” Henry doesn’t get it, that it’s not just some petty star-struck syndrome. It’s something more than that, something greater. It’s about being in the presence of someone who I know gets it, someone who I feel a connection with, even if I don’t know them personally. Someone who, in a strange and inexplicable way, was the only one there for me.
I remember wanting to go home. Doors hadn’t even opened yet and I was ready to surrender and just walk away. I knew that I was going to walk inside that venue, the now-defunct Rock Jungle, and lose my shit like I always did when they took the stage. But Henry convinced me to stay, and once inside, he swiped the letter from me and hand-delivered it to Sam, the drummer. Henry wasn’t happy about it, because it made him feel lame, like he was passing notes in high school. But it made me feel like a weight had been lifted.
The next time they went on tour, I was pregnant and knew it would be a bad idea, so I didn’t go to any of the shows.
Unfortunately, they broke up soon after that, and I had always regretted that I missed what could have been my last chance to see them. I knew that Scooter was going through some shit, and I was worried that he wouldn’t bounce back, that the scene would take away another underrated, amazingly talented and inspirational man.
In October, my friend Jenny texted me, alerting me that they had reunited. I will never forget where I was — in line for Cheeseman’s Haunted Hayride. It was one of the best nights ever.
And that’s how Henry and I ended up in Cleveland last night, watching them live at the House of Blues. For the first time in five years. FIVE YEARS and they still rip my heart right through my fucking ribcage.
I think my favorite part of the night, and the only part where my face wasn’t wet, was when Henry lost his cell phone. We were sitting upstairs, and had switched seats three times because Henry is a fucking retard and kept choosing inappropriate seats. (He was happy to be seeing a band with an older fanbase, where sitting down didn’t call forth the Old Person spotlight.) So in our last seat switch, he reached down and noticed his cell phone was missing. “That’s what you get for clipping it on your belt like an asshole,” I scoffed. Within seconds, people around us noticed that something was amiss, and a small search party had spontaneously formed. I couldn’t call his phone, because I had no service (I found out a few minutes later that it was only in the exact spot I was sitting, and that if I moved my arm to the left, it worked, but owellz0rz Henry), so some dude was all, “Hey bud, I am old too like you so I want to come to your aid. Here, please use my phone to locate your own!” And Henry was all, “OMG thank you, Hot Older Guy!” and then tried in vain to tuck in his Fellow Oldie boner.
Anyway, the man two seats down from me had been sitting on it, so he handed it over and everyone had a good chuckle. I continued sitting there as I had been all along, rolling my eyes. Seriously, there were at least seven to nine people scrambling around, looking under seats, and scratching their temples, but I was not one of them.
Girlfriend of the year!
I know, right – where’s the climax to THAT story?
The opening band -Drama Club – came on around 8. I was a little ambivalent about them. The singer sounded like he was trying to come across way more glam than he was, but then some of the band members looked like they were on the cusp of being scene yet stuck in a decidedly non-scene band. I didn’t mind them, but I wasn’t riveted. It made me miss the energy of younger crowds at post-hardcore shows and this is no joke, there was a fleeting moment when I imagined I was in the middle of a scene kid group hug. I made the mistake of telling Henry after Drama Club’s set and he of course was annoyed.
[Music geek side note: there were several moments when the singer of Drama Club sounded vaguely familiar to me, and then he mentioned that they're from Wilkes-Barre, PA. I thought to myself, "Huh. I wonder if that's the dude from Lifer" because how many bands are actually from Wilkes-Barre, and it totally is; he just dyed his hair black and became fey. The whole way home, I kept bragging to Henry about being a music genius and I think he wanted to dickslap me. Now I'm nostalgic for Lifer.]
The next band was the Killer and the Star, Scooter’s side project which currently features Rocky Gray (ex-Evanescence) and Michael Harris (Idiot Pilot). Scooter sat down at his piano and by the time the second word was sung, my cheeks were salty. I didn’t even try to stop it, I know a thing or two about futility. But sitting there, listening to these beautiful songs, it made me angry that he doesn’t get more respect, that some people think “Just Got Wicked” or “Stupid Girl” is the extent of what he has to offer, when his songwriting weaves the perfect blend of melancholy, angst, and aggression, the resulting product something I can’t even put a label on. Call Cold nu-metal if you want, but there’s depth there in the music and the lyrics. A lot of it. And this new project is the perfect vessel for him to scream “LOOK AT WHAT I CAN DO!” Killer and the Star is still slightly heavy but Scooter’s piano-playing and soulful vocals (he sings differently with this band) bring a bluesy element to the plate, making it impossible to compare it to anything else.
“Hallelujah” was my favorite song, and Michael Harris was amazing to watch on stage. The vocals he provided melted with Scooter’s and I kind of couldn’t handle it. I imagine it’s what church-y people feel like on Sundays – goosebumps, tear-stung eyeballs, and involuntary shudders. The hairs on my arms were erect. (ERECT.)
I really was so unsure that I would ever get to hear this man sing live again, and to have him there, mere feet away, it made me appreciate him so much more. After that set, I looked at Henry and whispered, “I’m not so sure I can handle this.”
“Yes you can,” he said, and gave me a patronizing back-pat. My man.
I distracted myself by hating the Southern drawlers behind me, one of which was wearing some nasty patchouli/ash concoction that buffeted me every time she came back from getting a beer. Then I noticed one of the stage guys propping a bust of Michael Myers on top of one of the speakers and I felt giddy. Terry Balsamo used to come out on stage wearing a Michael Myers mask, but he quit doing that sometime after they stopped touring for 13 Ways To Bleed On Stage. And then he left to play for Evanescence, but that’s all I’ll say about that, otherwise I’ll get angry.
Before Scooter came back out with Cold, there was a little tribute video that was played on the big screen in front of the stage, recapping Cold’s journey to get where they are now, starting in the early nineties when they were Grundig. And even that proved to be a test for my tear ducts.
This is the first time the original 5-man lineup has been back together in something like five years. In fact, the last time I saw them live, it was the new lineup and it felt so strange and unfamiliar, like the first holiday after a family member dies.
I would love to go through every song they played, giving you objective thoughts and reviews based on technical merit and sound quality, but the truth is, I’m still an emotional wreck. Today, I was still crying as I recounted the show to a friend on the phone. I still got choked up when I said, “Scooter seems happier now,” because while I don’t know him personally, I care about him very hard. To see him on stage, in his glory, in his element – it was fantastic. And he is so humble, pausing to thank his fans after every song. A middle-aged woman with spiky red hair and clothes too tight for her age, yelled, “No, thank YOU!” and I thought to myself, “Hey old broad, you might be too old to get away with wearing that studded belt that I know you think you’re rocking, but Amen.” But then I secretly wished she’d fall over the balcony, because fuck, she was annoying.
The show was like being home again.
I didn’t talk.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t move, apart from a few feeble attempts at applause.
I just sat there, motionless, and, with a few friendly reminders to breathe, I let my heart melt. It is agony at times, running this psychotic gamut of emotions, like swishing hot tea over a toothache – painful but it feels so fucking good.
On the way to the car, I looked at Henry and tried to talk but all that came out was audible sobs (Henry’s instinct was to ignore me and ask aloud, “I wonder which way I should go to get out of here” as he left the parking garage, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a greater scope to that question). I felt emotionally exhausted, drained, numb, but 100% willing to do it again, like, right now.
You can make fun of me for crying. You can tell me that Cold is so 2002. You can tell me to get a life. But the one thing I know for sure is that, no matter how much it hurts, I would rather feel this than nothing at all. And if, someday, music stops making me feel that way? Well, why bother.
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*** We are going to Cleveland to see Cold tonight because they reunited and I will probably cry a lot yay!
And the winner of a custom bathroom plaque is:
Jen/jfer76!
Thanks to everyone who entered! I’ll have another contest soon, because contests are fun and make me feel like God. (Not really. I only feel like God when I wear a robe and shoot lightning bolts at people from my window.)
Also, I want to thank my friend Ally over at Onyx & Alabaster for blogging about me! It’s a real ego-swelling write-up so she’s my new bestie. Check out the rest of her blog; it will make your ring finger itch. Usually, after I look at her blog, I sit and stare at Henry in silence, diamond-less and with a droopy bottom lip. And then I think about how my only chance at nuptials at this point is to become a mail-order bride.
FUCK YOU, HENRY.
Little Ollie Leatherstrap loves his lollies. He loves red ones, blue ones, green ones, even anchovy ones. But Little Ollie Leatherstrap’s orthodontist said to him one day, “Little Ollie, when you get your braces on, there can be no more lollies sharing rent with your teeth. Lollies are sticky and will pull the brackets right off!”
After Ollie got his braces on, he was in immense pain. He wore scarves around his face so Wanda Wickendyke wouldn’t see his newly marred gob. He loved Wanda Wickendyke; every time she sauntered past, he’d murmur quietly, “Oh Wanda, I’d like to stick MY wick in your dyke.”
But that would never be a possibility, not now that his teeth were mangled and tangled with wire and metal.
The next night, Ollie lay awake in bed, running the tip of his tongue across his oral trap. He nicked his tongue on a jutting wire, and grimaced as a trail of warm blood trickled down his throat. And then he had an auditory flashback. “Lollies are sticky and will pull the brackets right off. Brackets right off. Brackets right off. Right off. Right off. Right offffffff. Lollies are sticky.”
Shooting out of bed, Ollie collected all the lollies he could find, unwrapping them like an orphan tearing into a loaf of stale bread on Christmas. He gnawed on each one, crunched, ravaged, until one by one the brackets began popping off with a sickening scrape.
The next day, he confidently strode up to Wanda Wickendyke, flashed his maw full of unobstructed enamel, and asked her out on a date. He wouldn’t find out until after he paid for their $100 dinner that Wanda is a Born Again who’s saving her dyke to be wicked for marriage.
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There’s still one more day to enter the bathroom plaque giveaway. Go sign up if you haven’t already! Peace out, girl scout.
(Now I wish I was still a Girl Scout.)
My only experiences with bowling have revolved around birthday parties for childhood friends where sporadic granny-rolls were interspersed with running amok around the lanes, annoying the shit out of the grown-ups who were there to bowl seriously, and wondering when the fuck cake was going to be served. In fact, the last time I ever set foot in a bowling alley was twelve years ago and I didn’t even bowl. Instead, I pretended to know how to keep score for my friends and some wrinkled ho working the counter kept coming over to yell at me for doing it wrong, all wrong.
But for some reason, lately I have been having this strong urge to re-visit the bowling scene. Even if I never actually bowled, I always enjoyed the atmosphere, especially of the dingier, old-school alleys.
After trying unsuccessfully for a few months to round up enough people to join me, it magically gelled. And that is how Collin, Dyanna, Justin, Alisha, Henry and Blake found themselves joining me at Dormont Lanes for THE BEST NIGHT OF THEIR LIVES.
Alisha came over early and I pumped her for info.
“So like, what do we do when we get there?” I excitedly wondered.
“Um, we go up to the counter, pay for the games, and get shoes. I think you will be disappointed with how anti-climatic it is.” Then she briefed me on some bowling etiquette, like how I should never bowl at the same time as the person in the lane right next to mine.
“And probably I shouldn’t be too vulgar, right?” I added.
“Well, that’s just COMMON etiquette,” she said. That Alisha, she always was so smart.
What. I like to be prepared.
It was a nice evening so we decided to just walk the several blocks to the alley. Dyanna and Justin brought a six-pack since I read that the alley was BYOB, but Henry kept drilling doubt into me because I was going by several outdated reviews that I read online. We weren’t even a block away yet and I was starting to worry that this alley wasn’t even open anymore.
So when Dyanna pointed to a house across the street that had decorated its rock garden with bowling balls, I laughed nervously and said, “They probably got them from Dormont Lanes after they went out of business.”
And when we got to the small shopping center that Dormont Lanes is underneath, the parking lot was all but empty and there was a giant FOR LEASE sign under Dormont Lanes.
“Yeah, it’s real crowded, Erin,” Blake sarcasm’d, since earlier I was panicking about that as well. 
Much to Henry’s chagrin, it was a storefront that was for lease, not the bowling alley. However, there was a sign on the alley’s door that advised against glass bottles. I looked at Dyanna and Justin, toting their six-pack of glass bottles, and said, “Oopsies.”
They decided to each drink one outside while we waited for Collin to arrive. Justin had the sense to at least be a little discreet about it, but Dyanna was all, “What? I’m drinking a Mike’s out in the open, ohwellzorz.”
Dyanna and Justin slid the rest of their booze behind the propped-open door, but Henry was really nervous about this. You know, the latent police officer in him and all. After paying for our games and getting shoes, he paced back and forth at the bottom of the steps, waiting for Collin to arrive so he could stash the contraband in his car.
Inside the alley, I clung excitedly to Henry while he paid. I was immediately enamored of the alleys dingy wood-paneled 1970s interior and hoped to see some sideburns and bell bottoms trouncing around. Dormont Lanes even has their own surly lane technician who I’m sure stashes the slumped corpses of his conquests behind the pins after hours.
Ideally, I’d have preferred to bowl in my socks, but Henry goes, “You aren’t a seven year old,” so I settled for those ugly two-toned shoe things. I wasn’t sure if I should get my shoes in a 7 or 7.5, and the sun-ripened broad behind the counter leaned in and said, “You can’t exchange them if they don’t fit.” Then, laughing at my sad face, she followed with, “Oh, I’m just kidding hon!” Look, I was really anxious about this entire process and plus I’m naturally gullible and tightly wound, so it wasn’t funny! Henry laughed, which made me angry. Then everyone was all, “Go pick a ball” and that was a task in and of itself. I wound up with a delightful ball of pink and purple swirls, only to find that Dyanna had previously picked an almost exact replica, that ho!
The teams were picked without me. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I’ll tell you how I feel about having my name entered for me on the scoreboard: APPALLED. I pushed past Alisha and typed the elegant and regal APPLEDALE over top the plain and bourgeois ERIN. The people lucky enough to round out my team were Alisha, Henry and Blake. I’m sure Collin rejoiced when he arrived LATE to find that he could get cozy with Dyanna and Justin on the enemy turf.
I was a little bothered by the fact that it was 4 against 3. I like things to be even. Henry tried to explain a dozen or so times that even though we were on teams, it was still every bitch for themself. And even still, I was bothered.
Collin brought his own ball. It was green. I laughed.
With Alisha’s guidance, I managed to not make too much of an ass of myself as far as form and gutter balls go. (Though Collin and Blake are probably sitting somewhere with raised hands, waiting to interject.) It was my first time doing it the right way, fingers plugging the holes (oh, ho ho ho) and all. I wasn’t able to perfect that cute little kick-thing that you professional/non-Erin bowlers do though, but at least I didn’t fall like Henry almost did. (I missed it and Blake said it was a magnificent moment. Fuck.)
Somewhere during the first game, I got my first ever strike and everyone was pretty much like, “Why? How?” Collin looked especially nauseated, especially when I approached him after my big show and said, “Collin, isn’t it funny how I’m so good at every single thing I do?” I think if I was a boy, he’d have cold-cocked me. Instead, he asked me to please go away.
I was having so much fun that I could barely stop laughing. I’m not sure anyone else was having that much fun, though. In fact, Blake seemed pretty annoyed by me and Henry was off somewhere calling sex hotlines.
The counter lady came over to wipe down the video game I was sitting next to, and struck up a convo with me. I bragged that I hadn’t been bowling in twelve years, and apparently I’m some kind of natural. She praised me, as was expected, and then began talking about how painful Blake’s gauges looked. I was a little turned off, since we were no longer talking about how I’m a secret sensation, but I humored her nonetheless. By the time we both admitted to crying when we had our cartilage pierced, a lifelong bond had formed. 
By the end of the first game, I was tied with Blake for last place, but Alisha and Dyanna said it was still respectable considering it had been thirty years (in Collin’s words) since I last bowled.
The second game is a blur to me, mainly because I was so used to getting strikes by then that it was no big thang at that point. My fans just pretty much expected it from me, you know? Plus, I had found out that the jukebox had free requests and I spent a large portion of my time looking for the perfect jam and then trying to get Blake to give it to the counter lady. Alisha finally grabbed the slip of paper and turned it in for me so I wouldn’t have to talk about cartilage-crunching again.
And then, at the start of every song, Dyanna and Alisha would ask, “Is this your jam?” And it never was.
By the time we started the third game, I noticed that everyone was slinging excuses left and right. “I’m tired,” was the general consensus, but the two bitch-babies — Blake and Collin — were complaining of mysterious thumb ailments, though I’m pretty sure I saw Collin squatting behind a table, self-inflicting a flesh wound with a switchblade to make him look less girly for losing to me.
Oh, I didn’t mention? I BEAT COLLIN AT THE THIRD GAME. In fact, I beat almost everyone, except for Henry who is suddenly gunning for sponsorship. Blake at one point said, “Maybe if I bowl like Erin, I’ll do better.”
I guess he meant “like a professional.”
But yeah, that third round, I totally dominated. I ended up with 120 points, 289 overall. AYO! I guess that means I can buy MY own ball now. Right, Collin? And now I’m completely amped to go back soon, very soon, wish-I-was-there-right-now soon.
On the walk home, everyone was saying things like, “Oh ho, I’m so tired. We’re going to be so sore tomorrow, ya’ll!” But I wasn’t tired at all when we left. I forget who, but someone said, “Probably because you weren’t doing it right.” Or maybe I said that about myself. In any case, it was clearly tongue-in-cheek because I am amazing and very swan-like in my bowling form.
I’m in the process of making t-shirts for my new bowling crew. Except for Collin because I don’t want him to get the impression that he’s included. (We were going to have league until Henry explained that you have to pay for that shit and Collin added that the whole point of leagues is to win, where I thought it was just to hang out, be stupid with matching polyester shirts, and maybe at some point be on TV.)
We never did get to hear my jam. (Omarion’s “Ice Box,” I know you were dying to know.)
When you didn’t come home from work, I called your office. When I got the answering service, I called your friends.
But your friends didn’t answer.
Then I went to the corner pub to see if maybe you had stopped off for a whiskey sour.
But you weren’t there.
I searched all night, peering into roadside ditches and stirring the lake with my toe to see if your body would bubble to the surface.
But you weren’t submerged in earth or water.
I searched all night, inside ripe dumpsters and halfway houses, under the bridge and behind the porn shop.
But you weren’t cavorting with the winos.
And then I saw your car parked outside of his apartment. Should have checked there first, I always knew you were a whore.
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Whenever things go remotely well for me, I panic and wonder what sort of hellstorm is skulking around behind the shanties, waiting to shower me with hot coal, STDs and Jessica Simpson medleys. So my instinct is to do something nice for other people.
And this is where it could benefit YOU. I’m giving away one of my bathroom plaques ($15 value) to one lucky reader. They’re available in a variety of styles and the choice is all yours. All you have to do is comment here on this entry and make sure you leave a valid email address. The winner will be chosen at random using random.org.
The winner gets one custom plaque, in the style of their choosing (boy/girl or little monster guy) and any background color.
The choices for the title are:
Commenting is open right now and ends Friday 3/27 at noon EST.
(For people reading this via a feed, CLICK HERE TO ENTER.)
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Christina and I had been going through a rough patch. I was ready to never talk to her again but then Henry morphed into Meddling Mother Hen mode and reasoned with me. Christina is lucky; I had big vengeful plans in store for her.
So she came to visit last weekend. It was the first time we hung out since November and what better way to torture her than by strapping clown shoes on her feet and forcing her to hike all over a cemetery.
At one point, I had her laying supine in front of a verdigris’d crypt, surrounded by piles of dead leaves, when an elderly woman idled by in her Oldladymobile and the look she shot at us was priceless. Her wrinkled lips were all a-twist in horror and disapproval. And then I almost careened head-first over the top of the crypt so we called it a day. I have more pictures, but my master doesn’t give me enough time to actually go through them.
Even though I hate Christina, it was one of the best weekends ever. Especially because Henry actually hung out with us. Usually he deems us “too gay” and juvenile and heads to bed with Chooch, but this time he came back down, got drunk, dropped his “I’m too mature for this” facade, and proceeded to put on what I can only describe as a public access sketch show. He was hilarious and animated, telling us stories from his drinking heyday and other inappropriate yarns.
In other news, Chooch has been playing one of those Jumpstart games on the computer so I’m allotted even less time on this thing. Stay-At-Home-Hell hasn’t killed me yet, but it hasn’t got much easier. There are some nights where Chooch is just a fucking asshole, like Tuesday night when Dyanna was here and all I wanted to do was hang out and watch the hockey game, but Chooch had other ideas in mind. Like repeatedly punching me in the head and doing a somersault off the couch and landing head first against the coffee table. I deducted some points for the sloppy landing.
But last night, he was like a dream. He even sat in my lap, threw his arms around my neck and said, with sincerity I swear to god, “I wub you, Mommy.” AND THEN HE STAYED LIKE THAT. For like, two minutes, he stayed in my lap, hugging me.
I almost felt bad for Googling adoption agencies the night before.
EDIT: Hours later, I glanced at this entry and noticed at least three words where it quite literally looked like I gave up on typing them out in their entirety. I’m fucking tired.
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It wasn’t so bad at the orphanage after Sister Nutbuster’s interest in birds piqued upon receiving a sign from God.
She had always paused to admire squawking woodcocks and bobbing robins, even as a small leg-braced girl, but now that she knew their feathers were saturated with the holy spirit, she spent hours at a time in the courtyard foraging for loose plumage to rub over her pius undercarriage.
This meant less time for Sister Nutbuster to crack the grubby orphans on their ruddy bottoms for sneezing, missing a bead on the rosary, and communicating with Satan through cracks in the bathroom tile.
Eventually, avian mania reached its apex when God told Sister Nutbuster to steal the money from the chicken pox vaccination fund and build a lavish aviary, one with gilded gazebos and fountains bloated with holy water and fenced with statues of big-titted Greek broads.
Trayvon, a ten-year-old orphan whose broom closet bedroom was stationed next to the aviary, really reaped the rewards from Sister Nutbuster’s obsession. At first, the incessant chirping made it hard to sleep; but after a few days, the birds began telling him important facts like how to build a bomb using pulpit dust and communion wafers. They even cooed lullabies to him every night in the style of Gwar.
For the first time since he was dumped on the front steps of the orphanage, Trayvon felt content, like he finally had a family. He also felt high, and was sure that the angels themselves had stopped by while he was sleeping to sprinkle him with powder from their wings.
A few weeks later, Trayvon expired from bird flu.
Bayernhof Music Museum, Part 1
“We’re going to be so late!” I cried to Andrea, after she had purposely tried to sleep through our appointment at the Bayernhof Music Museum last week. She was against this part of the Pittsburgh itinerary from the get-go, especially after I had Wendy call and make us a tour appointment when we were hanging [...]
I’m not a crafter at all. Give me craft supplies and the end result will be nothing short of a horrific eyesore, with a trail of blood and tears in its wake. But when Brandy gave me her Santa Voodoo doll tutorial to post on my blog, I was inspired to make one myself, but [...]
Field Trip Fuckarow, Symphony Edition: Part 1
It’s really tempting for me to type this whole thing as a CAPSLOCK extravaganza, but I am going to try to write like an adult. (Well, my version of “adult,” anyway. The XXX kind.) “So then stop chaperoning these field trips if it sucks so bad, dumb ass.” Right, that’s what you’re thinking isn’t it? [...]
The Goddamn Field Trip, v.2.0 (feat. a brief Henry J. Robbins interview!)
All you really need to know about me before jumping into this is that I hate doing shit with kids, so for the sake of my fingertips, let’s just pretend for a minute that there are already four paragraphs written in my usual long-windedly verbose style illustrating my hate for the pumpkin patch/kids/being around kids/riding school buses/moms/being a mom. [...]
(These are the companion photos to this post, which I wrote while still in Gatlinburg. I miss Gatlinburg. Also, I have not been able to go back and check out all my horrendous typos borne from a writing-derelict like myself using a PHONE to blog.) In the AM: It was all downhill from here. (Except [...]
When I launch a new obsession, I of course want to share this with my work friends. For example, the Wacky Worm. I was hoping it would become a wide-spread sensation, culminating in a department field trip to DelGrosso’s, which is a semi-local amusement that has A PERMANENT WACKY WORM, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. [...]
Many years ago, when I was friends with that crazy lady Cinn, she was dead set on making her own absinthe. “I found a place on the Internet where we can buy wormwood!” she squealed. She said “we” when she meant “you” because I was the one with mommy’s American Express. I was nineteen, extremely [...]
I wasn’t looking for love at Soul Skate. It was hotter than Snookie’s kooka in that joint and really all I was focused on was not melting into a flesh-puddle while rollin’ to Justin Timberlake’s “Summer Love,” which I never realized just how truly anthemic that song really is until I had quads laced to [...]
Henry’s Worst Idea To Date: Homemade Lollipops
Get fucked. All the pre-school kids get to bring in treats on their birthday. Since there was no school on Monday, Chooch is bringing shit in tomorrow. I thought perhaps Henry could bake some cupcakes; Chooch suggested cookies. But Henry went off on his own and decided to make chocolate lollipops. He bought three different [...]
A few months ago, someone was trying to get my work friend Kaitlin to buy a lamb-shaped cake pan that they didn’t need anymore. Included in the email he sent to her was a picture of what the finished product could conceivably look like, so she sent it to Barb and me because it was so [...]
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