Archive for the 'Henrying' Category
A Conversation About Guardians
I was just telling Henry who I would want to help me raise Chooch in the event of Henry’s death. (And by that I mostly mean “fill my man void.”)
“Who would you want to help you with Chooch if I died?” I asked.
“Uh, I wouldn’t NEED help raising him,” Henry said, reminding me in one short sentence that he’s basically both parents to Chooch already.
It’s nice to know that Henry wouldn’t be too crippled by grief and loss.
No need to send any casseroles, ladies!
And if you could’ve seen that frown…
Sick of Man
This is in my Top 10 all time favorite songs, easily; I still get chills when I hear it. Henry suffered through many nights of me crying inconsolably every time COLD played this song live. There were times when I considered not going to their concerts because I wasn’t sure if I was emotionally stable enough to handle it.
I can’t explain it! Most people would just write them off as a nu-metal band and be done with it, but ever since the very first time I saw them in 2000, playing on the smallest stage to a crowd of about 50 at Pittsburgh’s X-Fest, I had the air ripped right out of my lungs and they have been like an aural security blanket to me ever since — every so often I just really need to revisit their music to feel like myself again.
But this song. It was never one of their hits (see: “Just Got Wicked” and “No One.” Ignore: “Stupid Girl.”), and it never even really stuck out to me when I’d play their CD, but then I heard Scooter Ward sing the words live at Nick’s Fat City that same summer of 2000, and I remember looking at my friend Shawn and mouthing the words, “I think I might die.”
2:47 – 3:21 is where I usually hold my breath.
“Gave all the vampires back to God [that day]” is the tag line on the checks for my checking account (“Whoa, Wolfman’s got nards” is on the ones I share with Henry – props if you get that reference without asking the good neighbor Google). I have always been utterly fascinated with that line, and Scooter Ward, who happens to be one of the nicest, modest and sharing frontmen I have ever encountered. Twelve years ago, he gave me a Starburst outside of a venue in Hershey, PA and I still have it; I keep it in the freezer every summer so it won’t melt. Scooter Ward is the absolute antithesis of Jonny Craig – he bleeds on that stage.
And besides, how could I not love a band that used to take the stage to the Halloween theme, their guitarist Terry Balsamo behind a Michael Myers mask?
No joke, I went in the kitchen and hugged Henry while playing this song a few minutes ago. Now I’m going to listen to it 87 more times before passing out in a Puddle of Mud. Just kidding — tears.
6 commentsHenry Eating Slaw
Here is a new blog series about Henry eating cole slaw.
Episode 1: Eating Slaw at Smoke BBQ Taqueria.
Seriously, when I suggested that this be a series, he frowned (no evidence was captured) and said, “Don’t be stupid.
”
In addition to our tacos, we also shared a side of mac n cheese. “This is almost as good as mine,” I said all dreamily and Henry almost vomited from laughing so hard.
It was actually jalapeño apple slaw, i.
e. the only kind of cole slaw I will be eating for the rest of my life.
Dare I say I had a nice Sunday afternoon with Henry?
2 comments.38 Special, FREE at the Rib Fest
Prologue:
Sometime in high school, I made the implausible leap from gangsta rap-lovin’ yo-girl to a classic rock hussy. One particular band I had an intense liking for was .38 Special, of all bands. I would listen to the classic rock station all day with a blank tape on the ready, waiting for “Caught Up In You” to come on so I could dive into some frenzied finger-stubbing “record” action.
My friend Lisa, who was into more alternative music, was probably the happiest of all my friends when I retired my gritty urban flava mix tapes in favor for music that didn’t scare, offend and irritate her. So in 1997, when I asked her to go see .38 Special with me, she was more than happy to agree.
I’m sure it didn’t hurt that my mom was buying the tickets for us.
The day of the show, my boyfriend Psycho Mike came to my house. He didn’t want me to go to the concert and thought that starting a fight with me would suddenly make my head clear so I could understand the error of my ways.
“You’re going to end up fucking some drunk guy!” he yelled, his eyes getting that crazy glint to them, like the time he told me he was going to poke out my eyes and shove them up my vagina. “Maybe even more than one!”
Yes, Mike. You’re right. Foiled again!
He left in a huff. Soon Lisa had arrived and we left for the Rostraver Ice Garden. Not surprisingly, we were the clear winners in the “Youngest Concert-Goers” category, and probably the only one who didn’t have the Harley-Davidson logo somewhere on their person.
During Molly Hatchet and another opening band that Lisa totally loved but I can’t remember anything about other than their wildly crimped and Aqua Netted manes, we took in the sheer fury of shaking mullets, over-sized tie-dyed shirts, and leather-vested bikers showing off prison-quality ink on their forearms. I loved every second of it. It was fun and the energy of the crowd was contagious.
During the bands, we made friends with a completely blitzed cradle robber named Nelson and his slightly sober and calmer sidekick Nick.
Sadly, if I were to revenge-cheat on Psycho Mike, Nelson and Nick were probably the cream of the crop from that crowd. I think Nelson sloshed his beer on Lisa.
Goddammit I loved that shirt. It was metallic! I didn’t love that hair though. I remember I had gotten a horrible hair cut at Fantastic Sam’s of all places (the only time I ever deviated from the fluffy salons I usually go to and immediately learned why I pay so much to get my hair done – so it will look GOOD) and spent the next month and a half pulling what was left of my hair back into ponytails.
Side bar: A few years ago, I was riding in the car with Henry, my mom and Corey after a night of haunted houses. “Caught Up In You” came on the radio and I shouted, “Yes! I love this song!” My mom, ever so casually, goes, “Huh. This is the song that was on the radio when I was driving to the hospital after your father wrecked.” You know, the wreck that killed him when I was three-years-old, no biggie.
Thirteen years later, I had just come home from seeing the Used in Cleveland; it was 3:00 in the morning and I was about to pass out on the couch when I noticed I had a voicemail from Lisa, who was living in Colorado at the time. The message on my phone started out with her humming something vaguely discernible before belting out “So caught up in you, little girl!” She went on to sing for a few more seconds before stopping to add, “So I’m at a supermarket right now and this song came on; I had to call and sing it to you.”
Not going to lie, that kind of meant the world to me.
***
NOW:
Lisa texted me late Friday night and said, “Did you know .38 Special is playing at the Rib Fest this Sunday night for FREE!?” No, I did not know this! And just like that, I now had plans for Sunday night. You’ll never get me to go to something like this unless some relic of the 1980s music scene is going to be spitting forth free jams, like Eddie Money (where I got busted for videotaping, are you kidding me) and Bad Company.
BAD COMPANY!
[A few summers ago, my old neighbor Robin (she’s since moved and life in Brookline just hasn’t been the same) was slinking around her front yard in one of her standard terry cloth tube clothes, to the tune of Bad Company’s Greatest Hits. That was a good day.]
Since Lisa’s husband Matt was going too (an attendance for which he said she owed him), Henry said he would go too so his mom came over to babysit and we actually had one of those date things. Lisa’s friends Carrie and Wes met us down there too, so we had a legit posse which made me feel safe against all of the Steelers propaganda. (It was at Heinz Field, probably the closest I’ll ever get to that place considering my extreme dislike of football.)
At one point, I realized I had meat sweats, which was impressive considering I don’t eat meat.
But if anything was going to convert me, it was going to be the goddamn Rib Fest.
OMG, it smelled so good.
OMG and so many trophies! How can you argue with trophies?!
And then Henry spend $5 on a black cherry old-fashioned soda for me, can you even believe it? I only had to beg him for 10 minutes and then point out all of the other men who supplied their ladies with flavored wets in a tin cup.
Wow, it really was a date, you guys.
And since Henry was surrounded by barbequed flesh, about to see an age-appropriate band, he couldn’t even PRETEND to frown.
Pork samples keep my man placated.
The King of Meat! He was my favorite person there, even after he creepily demanded that Lisa take his picture with me after this. I was like, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—” but then his meat-hand was around my waist and I was all, “Oh! Ok…”
He made me feel like my cleavage was on point, so I made Henry go back and patronize his booth for some mac n cheese and cornbread.
I just don’t eat enough cornbread, and that’s a goddamn shame.
We soon realized that .38 Special wasn’t coming on until 9:00, two hours later than we thought. So we walked down to Rivertown, where Lisa, Matt, Henry and our waiter Mike held my hand as I took babysteps into beer-liking.
In my 33 years, I have not once been able to drink beer without clamping shut my nose. But a co-worker suggested Summer Shandy, which I just had Saturday night (along with a Lemon Berry Shandy), and while it took me 2.5 hours to drink it, I DRANK IT GODDAMMIT. And it was not too bad.
Mike kept pushing me to get the Woodchuck Fall, but hard cider is always my fall-back when I go to bars and all my normal friends are drinking beer like it’s water. So I got some Belgian white thing which wasn’t very bad but I still had to drink it slowly, and then I eventually just gave it to Henry (after drinking more than a third of it!!).
With Matt and Henry shaking their heads in the background, Lisa let me try her IPA; my tastebuds promptly curled up and died, reanimated and gnawed off the back of my throat.
(I am open to your beer-sampling suggestions, my friends. Just remember that I have a very weak and girly ale palate.)
Since I’m not a beer-drinker, that was enough to get me a little buzzed, so I was even more stoked for .38 Special. Plus, this enabled me to better fit in with my beer-breath brethren.
“We’re going to see .38 Special now, aren’t you jealous?” Lisa said mockingly to Mike the Waiter.
“Actually, I kind of am!” Mike said. “‘I Want You To Want Me’, right?” he offered as proof that he knew who we were talking about.
No, Mike. That’s Cheap Trick.
.38 SPECIAL!!! Oh my god, it was so much fun! The crowd was a perfect cross-section of middle-aged couples reliving their youth, from aging biker-babes now with literal saddle bags to 50-year-old men in polo shirts and khaki shorts clinging to their yuppie-youth. Before the show started, Lisa and I were talking about the last time we them in 1998, and how long ago that was.
“The last time I saw them was in 1980,” Henry said dourly, and we all got a good laugh at his age. Oh god, I hope he wore a Confederate flag belt buckle with his bitchin’ Adidas shirt.
(To give you some perspective, Lisa and I would have been 1.)
Lisa and I were so amped for the first 30-45 minutes, even during the medley of songs we didn’t know. Three songs in, I turned to her and shouted, “I don’t remember there being two singers!”
She just shrugged.
Henry even made physical contact with me numerous times, like we were a real couple or something. It was amazing, but then I realized he probably felt more comfortable doing so at a show where he was part of his own generation.
Then a mid-40s drunk couple drunkenly pushed past us and began drunkenly dancing and copulating through their Coors Light-sloshed boat clothes. I guess Southern Rock is the next best thing when there’s no yacht rock shows going on in town. The woman was unattractive, squat like a troll, and dressed like a nondescript mom. The man had on a white polo and jean shorts and looked like he probably worked for an insurance company or sold swimming pools. They were extremely amusing to watch as they staggeredly gyrated against each others’ clothed genitals, and the woman kept doing these washed-up stripper body rolls which was vomit-inducing in and of itself, but when she dragged one sultry hand down the man’s back, across his ass and then IN BETWEEN HIS LEGS, I had to look away. The look in her eyes was crying out, “PORN DIRECTORS! LOOK AT ME! OVER HERE!” and I felt sleaz(ier) by association.
I started to record this lascivious display, but then they moved on, becoming engulfed by the crowd. I thought it was because she caught me taping them with my phone, but I think they just felt it was time to unleash their classic rock burlesque show on fresh eyes.
This sums up the set list:
WOOOOO ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT!
WAIT, THIS ISN’T STILL ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT? OH, THIS IS ROUGH-HOUSING? WHY DOES IT SOUND JUST LIKE ROCKIN’ INTO THE NIGHT?
WOOOOO I HAVEN’T RECOGNIZED THE LAST 4 SONGS THEY JUST PLAYED!
YESSSS, FANTASY GIRL!!!
OMG, PLAY CAUGHT UP IN YOU, ALREADY.
I DON’T KNOW THIS SONG. That’s because it’s Lynyrd Skynyrd. I STILL DON’T KNOW THIS SONG.
OMFG CAUGHT UP IN YOU!
I WONDER WHICH OF THESE SONGS HENRY LOST HIS VIRGINITY TO?!!?
OMFG HOLD ON LOOSELY!
I also learned that Henry knows A LOT about .38 Special and was answering all sorts of questions for us. Like when there was this somber moment in between songs while the one singer was talking about his brother and then we realized, “Wait…his brother was Ronnie Van Zant?!?” and Henry was like, “Um, yeah!” And then when they sang, “Second Chance” and Lisa and I exchanged confused looks and shouted to Henry, “Wait, this is .38 SPECIAL!?” He said yes, but we didn’t believe him. Lisa was even trying to Shazam it at one point, when Henry sighed and showed us his phone. If GOOGLE says it’s so…
I always thought it was a Steve Perry song. I guess I shouldn’t have made fun of the 21-year-old girl in front of me who said, “And ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’!” when John Burnett from KDKA got on stage and rattled off a number of their big hits when introducing the band.
(I’m still dwelling on this a day later. “But it doesn’t even SOUND like them!” I cried just now to Henry. “That’s because it was sung by their keyboardist!” he shouted irritably, ready to close this chapter.)
Then we were subjected to a five-minute drum solo in a song that was written for the Super Troopers soundtrack, and Lisa and I both started to taper off. But they hadn’t played “Hold On Loosely” or “Caught Up In You” yet, so I remained firmly planted in my spot.
Does a song on the Super Troopers soundtrack (appropriately named “Trooper with an Attitude”) really need a drum solo?
Of course, they saved their two biggest songs for the end. When they sang, “Caught Up In You,” I thought I was going to die. Memories of driving around, waiting for the classic rock radio station to fulfill my request.
(I used to call CONSTANTLY asking for it; one time they played “Hold On Loosely” and I was supremely disappointed, but let’s face it, that song is pretty fucking great too.)
Lisa whipped out her hair brush and serenaded me and all of a sudden I was 18 again, with a 47-year-old man pressed up against me. Yep, sounds about right.
The company was quality, the music was fun and nostalgic, and the people-watching was prime. I really needed that night. After Henry came back from taking his babysitting mom home, he admitted on his accord that he had a lot of fun, and even THANKED me for forcing him to go.
You guys: HENRY HAD FUN.
I mean, of course he did. He was surrounded by smoked meat, Southern Rock, and had a girlfriend who was STILL younger (and with better, less reptilian skin) than most of the other women around that stage. What could have possibly been bad about that? Clearly, we need to add .38 Special to the imaginary set list for our Never-Wedding.
Henry’s heyday, reflected upon his eyeglasses. I get the biggest kick out of seeing him in his own scene.
***
I wondered out loud why it was taking Henry forever to wake up this morning.
Chooch said, “Um, he’s probably TIRED. He was with you for a LONG TIME last night, probably somewhere he didn’t want to be.”
For once, son, you are wrong!
6 commentsFrown of the Day
Henry and I took the day off today and while I’m sure he had grand visions of laying on the couch in his underwear all day, I planned his itinerary for him. Here, Henry is pictured frowning at the Jean Bonnet Tavern in Bedford, PA.
“You know, Henry, one day you’re going to wake up and realize you wasted your life being miserable,” I lectured.
“Yeah,” Chooch chimed in. “And having a girlfriend.”
6 commentsFrown of the Day: Project Grease Monkey
The “GTFO, I’m Trying To Fix the Car, Stop Embarrassing Me In Front of Hot Naybor Chris & I Know You’re Only Taking Pictures So You & All Your Little Friends Can Laugh At My Bandanna” frown.
4 commentsMy Day at Warped Tour 2012: By Henry J. Robbins
FML. FML. FMFL.
Was forced to go to Warped Tour again. It was pretty terrible but not as bad as in previous years, mostly because we are only marginally poor now so I was able to buy as many bottles of Coke as I wanted and I even bought FOOD this time instead of sitting under a tree, nibbling on contraband granola bars. (Erin still did this because she is a cheap whore and honestly thought she was going to save money to buy merch; little did she know she was funding my free-flowing supply of COCA COLA.
)
I don’t even like Coke.
It was hot, but not “need to apply Desitin in a bathroom stall” hot.
The first shitty band we saw was Chelsea Grin. They weren’t even on the stage yet and I knew I was going to hate them based on their bleeding eyeball signs. And then they came out and the screamer started screaming and it was like being anally probed by their band name’s font. Then the screamer started to sing and I said, “He should just go back to screaming” and Erin did that thing where she looks at me like I don’t get it. But what is there to get about a band who sound like a satchel of shrieking newborns on steroids. Of course Erin would like that shit because it sounded as schizophrenic as one of her daily temper tantrums.
I got a free beef jerky sample and that was pretty good. Here is a picture of me eating that. I don’t know what stupid band was playing during that though, but I bet there was screaming in it.
Then I ate some wings and fresh potato chips. Here is a picture of me eating that too. Sure, my meal cost about $20, but I didn’t mind so much because that was one less pair of scene kid YOLO booty shorts Erin could buy from some obnoxious merch dick. The fact that some stupid band was shouting on a nearby stage negated the happiness that I felt from the food. At least I got to sit down while I ate, but that was only because Erin was waiting for some other band to start playing so she let me.
And then that band began playing and I got to re-taste my meal.
Everyone depended on me to hold up the barrier during Pierce the Veil. We are all lucky we’re alive. Those kids really act like feral hillbillies when they hear music sometimes. I was hoping one of them would hit me so I could punch them back call my mommy call the cops.
I know, it looks like I am sleeping while standing in this picture. That is because I am.
I’m surprised there was not a terrible band there called Sleeping While Standing.
Ugh, I hate kids and I hate music and I hate kids who love music. And I hate whatever band that is, too.
Sometimes I just walk away because I need to sit down.
Don’t look at the half-naked 16-year-old. Don’t look at the half-naked 16-year-old. Don’t let Erin see me looking at the half-naked 16-year-old.
Oh shit, don’t let the half-naked 16-year-old’s DAD see me looking at the half-naked 16-year-old.
COME AT ME, BRO.
Got to take a nap on the lawn during Breathe Carolina, which was great, but then I dreamt that I was drinking Yoo Hoo out of Jeffree Starr’s mouth with Jonny Craig. Woke up needing a cold shower and pissed that I know who Jeffree Starr is thanks to fucking Warped Tour.
Then the Used screamed some songs and I finally got to leave.
Highlights: beef jerky; avoiding Blood On the Dance Floor; not getting stuck in parking lot traffic on the way out.
Lowlights: Finding Erin after I lost her in the crowd; the existence of Blood On the Dance Floor; everything else.
Music has really gone downhill since I played in that Ted Nugent cover band when I was in THE SERVICE.
(I may have had some or a lot of help writing some or all of this.)
13 commentsBig Butler Fair 2012, Part 1: The Melon Shirt
When Henry came downstairs on the day of the Big Butler Fair, his torso was modeling a brand new nondescript t-shirt in a garish hue of jack-o-lantern.
“Nice orange shirt,” I exclaimed on a rocking bed of laughter and derision.
“It’s not orange,” Henry snapped. “It’s melon.”
As if that was supposed to make me stop laughing.
There are many facets of Henry’s life that I have my thighs squeezed around in a death grip, but his fashion sense is not one. I have made futile efforts in the past to get him to break free from generic, joyless threads mostly purchased from Wal-Mart but eventually I had to concede, wave the white flag, turn my attention to dressing my kid instead. Henry’s dresser full of boring, plain and Faygo-printed t-shirts is pretty much all he has left to his identity and manhood.
(It probably doesn’t help that I was trying to groom him into a singer from a post-hardcore band, swathed in Drop Dead Clothing sweaters and neck tattoos.)
My new friend Seri met us at the fairgrounds that afternoon with her husband Pete and their two sons, Aldy and Max. Apparently, Pete had originally attempted to wear his own nondescript orange shirt to the fair that day, but Seri made him change. So after the obligatory introductions were over, Pete and Henry had a special moment of “I can relate to you.” Henry’s first impression of Pete was probably a confusing cocktail of empathy and pity garnished with a burgeoning bromance twist.
Being plain.
However, when Pete was talking about his own orange shirt, Henry was quick to interject, “My shirt is melon, not orange.” My blue-collared boyfriend has turned into a color-snob hipster overnight. Next he’ll be insisting I call him my “cerulean-collared boyfriend.”
My brother Corey came out to the fair later that evening and when I texted him our whereabouts, I tacked on, “Just look for Henry’s orange t-shirt. It looks like he’s single-handedly promoting Halloween.”
And Snooki’s skin tone.
And Tang.
And the FLYERS.
No Orange Shirts Allowed on the Wacky Worm.
It was easy to spot Henry each time the rest of us lively non-old humans would go on rides; he would lumber around the fairgrounds, toting my iCarly messenger bag and wasting money on all the nearby games that he never wins and even if he did, no one would be impressed.
DON’T DRIP ICE CREAM ON THE ORANGE SHIRT OMG!
When I was on the ferris wheel with Seri, it was fun to seek him out in the crowds below, like Waldo on fire. But then I noticed that quite a few other men were also wearing bright orange shirts, though theirs were advertising plumbing companies, Harley Davidson, strip clubs and guns.
Seri mistakenly referred to The Shirt as “cantaloupe,” which made Henry snap for the 87th time that day, “MELON!”
I always thought cantaloupe was a melon, but I guess not when applied to the Color Wheel.
It’s surprising he would even let me this close to him after 9 hours of ridiculing his orange shirt.
Some day, I’m going to snatch all of his nondescript shirts (or “blank,” as Pete prefers to call them) and screenprint Jonny Craig’s face all over them.
9 commentsFrown of the Day: Monroeville Mall Bloodshed Version
The “I Just Noticed My Arm Is Dripping Blood From A Wound I Did Not Know I Had & Now My Girlfriend Is Making a Big Commotion About It & Drawing Attention To Us” Frown.
Moments before this, Henry pointed a jaunty man with a long & glorious mullet.
“He was in the bathroom with me and Chooch and I was glad I didn’t let Chooch go in alone.”
Then Henry noticed his MYSTERIOUS wound. There was a long crimson rivulet running down Henry’s forearm. I wanted to take a picture but he had scraped the now-dry blood off too quick. All that was left was a tiny little puncture mark. It was actually not very impressive or heroic, but it was probably worse than any casualty Henry suffered while in the SERVICE, except for maybe when his ego was curb-stomped by a Panamanian hooker’s denial.
Meanwhile, Mullet kept pivoting his head around to stare at us while he retreated.
“It just occurred to me that those two things did not happen through coincidence,” I shouted from the backseat of the car on the way home. (I let Andrea sit up front so she doesn’t get tormented by Chooch.) “That man stabbed you in the bathroom!”
“Yeah, Erin. That’s it exactly. He stabbed me in the forearm with a pencil.”
But then there’s always the zombie attack theory.
Frown of the Day
The “I Spent All Day Doing Laundry & Cleaning the House, & Now I Would Like To Reward Myself By Enjoying Some Television Programs About Cute Kittens, So Get Your Phone Out of My Face” Frown.
3 commentsFrown of the Day: Kennywood Edition
The “I’m Trying To Enjoy This Pizza, It Might Be My Only Father’s Day Treat, Get the Phone Out of My Grill” frown.
1 comment
Frown of the Day
The “I Just Woke Henry Up To Show Him My Pedometer After I Paced Back & Forth For 90 Minutes” frown.
1 commentKing Henry for a Day
[Alternate title: I’m Broke So This Is Yr Bday Prez]
Henry, you always put me and Chooch first, so on your birthday, I am going to feed myself (I don’t know what Chooch is going to do) and take the trolley to work (and not even just because I have no choice today).
(OMG you didn’t even leave me trolley fare?
! ….that’s OK. No really, it’s OK. This time.)
(Never mind! I found it. You’re so lucky.)
I’ll even refrain from mentioning Jonny Craig today.
(Starting now.)
And while I’m at work, you can watch all the Criminal Minds your little heart desires. Treat yourself, big guy.
And even though you explaining to me the safety of those things window washers stand on (“NOWADAYS THEY’RE BUILT RIGHT INTO THE BUILDINGS!
“) makes me peace out faster than when you tried to teach me military time, you’re still my favorite person in the whole entire world to be around.
Yes, even when you’re being a nag:
Here’s to many more years of disappointed frowning, know-it-all nature strolling, Kitten Patroling, Warped Tour-hating, Air Force jet-gazing and clandestine Pretty Little Liar fan-boying. Happy birthday to a real Oh Honestly Hero and the best boyfriend/emergency contact anyone could ask for. I’m so glad you picked me all those years ago!
A Tale of Henry & the Kittens
After Speck died in December, everyone’s solution to my sorrow was to get a new kitten, and fast. But I wasn’t ready. Every time Chooch would bring it up, I would lose it and he would mumble, “Aaaaaand, now she’s crying again.” And to be honest, Don really stepped up and absorbed a lot of my grief.
But now with Don gone, too, there is an even bigger void. My two remaining cats are not cuddlers: One hates people and the other—Marcy the Alpha—only has eyes for Henry’s lap. I NEED SOMETHING TO CUDDLE. The Jonny Craig doll works to a point, but I need that furry companion who will be excited to sit with me and watch trashy MTV reality programming. Sure, Henry is furry, but he does not enjoy watching these things.
So I finally decided I was ready. I couldn’t bear to look for a new kitten on my own, so I gave Henry permission to start the hunt. A lot of the shelters we’ve encountered require a copy of our lease and consent from the landlord, which will never happen. (It’s in our lease that pets aren’t allowed, but the landlord I had back when I moved in knew and didn’t care; now he’s dead and we have a new landlord.)
So Henry has been scouring Craigslist. Immediately, he showed me a picture of a bunch of mini-Dons and I started sobbing. What a jerk.
The day we were at Delgrosso’s, he read to me an ad for two male Maine Coone kittens. I had already decided with certainty that this new kitten must be a boy, so I told him to answer the ad. Before we left the park that day, the seller had texted him photos of the kittens and I gave him the greenlight. Henry arranged to go out to their house that Tuesday night while I was at work, so I wouldn’t have to choose on my own. When he texted the person that day to get their address, she was all, “Oops, we already gave them away.” I wasn’t as crushed as I thought I would be, which tells me it wasn’t the right kitten anyway. I told him to stop looking. Don hadn’t even been buried yet at this point and it just didn’t feel right to me.
However, after Don was buried, Henry showed me a picture of this adorable black kitten. I deemed it The Kitten and loaded all of the pressure upon Henry’s shoulders. I WANTED THIS KITTEN. Apparently, he had already inquired (behind my back!!) about this same kitten a few days earlier, but was too late. I guess the buyer backed out, and this lady was once again trying to find a home for the kitten. They had a brief email exchange, and by the time he picked me up from work that night, he said, “Well, that kitten is ours. We can go get him tomorrow.”
Chooch and I cheered!
And then she emailed Henry back to say, “Oh never mind. I gave him to someone else.”
Henry—cool, calm, mild-mannered Henry—totally flipped his fucking lid. I have rarely seem him so fired up, not even when one of our co-workers at our old job called me a cunt. NOT EVEN THEN.
“Good home for the kitten, my ass!” he raged. “All she cares about is who can put the money in her hand the quickest!” Then he sat down at the computer and announced that he was emailing her and it wasn’t going to be nice.
I pointed out that he was acting like one Erin R.Kelly. “Don’t be like that. You’re the good one, remember?” I reminded him gently. (No seriously, I put away the cat o’nine tails for this one; poor guy was furious.) Yes, I was disappointed that the kitten slipped through our fingers, but I really do believe that it will happen when it’s right. Clearly, none of these kittens have been the right ones.
Later that night, it was around 1:00AM and Henry was laying in bed with his back toward me. I knew he was still awake because I could see the glow of his phone, and then I heard the faintest tap-tap-tap’ings.
“Who are you texting?” I asked him, figuring it was his little work-husband Dave.
“I’m not texting anyone. I’m emailing that lady because I’m not going to be able to sleep if I don’t.” He definitely had the tone of a man on the edge, but it was late and I didn’t care anymore, so I left him alone lest he finally get the courage to bitch slap me.
So basically, you guys can call me a cunt and he won’t care, but renege on a motherfucking kitten and say hello to the Incredible Hank.
***
The object of Henry’s hate-missles emailed him back the next day and asked him to never contact her again. He was laughing without mirth and his voice cracked slightly when he read her email to me.
“If I had sent the original one, she probably would have called the cops!
” he laughed psychotically.
Meanwhile, he was beginning to uncover the seedy underbelly of kitten trafficking when his inquiries were met with broken English replies explaining that the sellers were currently in Uganda doing work for God but if we would kindly send them to money, they would promptly deliver the kitten upon their return. He was so deep in it that I considered making him a special hat with kitty ears to wear while writing his kitten scam exposé.
Last Sunday, he answered another ad, and made arrangements to come see the kitten the next day. Twenty minutes later, he got a text saying, “So sorry, but a family who was interested earlier is now interested again.” I moved away from him in case he started windmilling his limbs in a conniption.
Turns out that seller should have stuck with us, because their interested family arrived in a van with a busted out window and tried to pay with a Wal-Mart gift card; they came crawling back to Henry who (politely, thank god) told them that they we were starting to think that this is the universe’s way of telling us we’re just not ready.
Tuesday night while he was waiting for me to be done with work, he texted me: That stupid fucking lady who told me never to contact her again reposted that kitten. By the time I got in the car, he practically had undulating pound signs, asterix, and exclamation marks above his head and started barking about how he wanted to reply to her posting.
(He had to get a physical for work the other day and it’s actually surprising his blood pressure wasn’t off the charts because of this, although he did say that he knew it had gone down because he hasn’t been able to hear his heart pounding in his ears lately.)
I’d like to eventually try our luck at some shelters again, but I’m in no rush. When I got Marcy and Speck, it just happened without me looking, and I know it will probably have to be that way this time, too.
In the meantime, Henry is still nose-to-phone, glasses pushed up, scouring Craigslist. I feel like most guys go on Craigslist looking for car parts and BJs; my man goes on Craigslist for kittens. It’s kind of precious.
8 commentsPages
Archives
Some Ppl Like These Posts, I Guess
