The first concert I ever went to was Bon Jovi in 1993 when I was 13. I wasn’t a Bon Jovi fan at all, but my Aunt Sharon was and she begged me to go with her. I remember being so annoyed about the whole thing, but this was also right around the time “Bed of Roses” came out so secretly, I was kind of excited that I would probably get to hear that MONSTER BALLAD, lol.

I barely remember anything about it other than the weather was bad (it was February) and Sharon almost considered getting a hotel in town that night so we wouldn’t have to drive home in the snow. I also remember it being so dark and overwhelming in the Civic Arena, and teasing Sharon about having a crush on the creepy man in the long black leather jacket standing near us.

I remember that the Jeff Healey Band opened and Sharon telling me the singer was blind.

I remember being secretly pleased that Bon Jovi played “Bed of Roses.”  (DON’T JUDGE ME.)

I also remember how fucking happy Sharon was to be there.

***

Sharon passed away Monday afternoon. It wasn’t sudden, but that doesn’t make her death any easier. “Easy” and “death” just don’t ever make sense together, no matter what. But, for me anyway, there is a sense of relief. It’s been a roller coaster since March 30th. I’ll spare the details, but we went from being hopeful to hopeless, rewinding and replaying the same tape, until a few weeks ago when a doctor was basically like, “Look, she’s not going to bounce back from this, probably.”

We all convened at the house last night. I gravitated toward Sharon’s room and just kind of stood there helplessly, and that’s when I saw the basket of clothes in a corner, hidden behind a chair full of creepy old dolls. No wonder I never noticed the basket past the porcelain horror-army!

In this basket, I found her signature Bon Jovi shirt and pile of stonewashed denim: some overalls, some with suspenders, one with a pair of giant red lips, but all stonewashed. When I picture the best version of my Aunt Sharon, it’s the 80s, her hair is frosted and teased, and she’s wearing this goddamn Bon Jovi tour shirt with stonewashed jeans. That’s the Aunt Sharon I want to remember, the one I’m mourning. The one who showed me the world, and the one who took me to my first concert. The one in the stonewashed jeans, with the frosted hair.

Posing for the millionth picture of the day — you guys think I’m snap-happy? I learned it by watching my grandma!

***

When Henry and I got in the car to come home last night, “Wanted Dead or Alive” was playing on the radio. Universe, you are weird and wonderful.

With that old, yellowed Bon Jovi shirt in my lap, I started to cry. I hear you, Sharon. </3

We’ve been working on the outside of Gillcrest lately since we’ve reached a point with the interior where actual handymen will need to be hired. There is a ton of overgrowth happening in the backyard plus some felled trees, so today Henry bought a CHAINSAW.

I know what you’re thinking: what kind of man doesn’t already own a chainsaw? Aren’t they like born with one?

I don’t know why I was so excited about this. I knew the moment that Henry fired it up, I would probably pee my pants because HAUNTED HOUSE TRAUMA.

Still, I begged him to let me pick out the chainsaw, but he shouldered me out of the way (!!!!!!) and gruffly said something about “MAN PICK CHAINSAW. YOU NOT MAN.” Then he proceeded to put on this huge show of browsing the chainsaw showcase when we all knew he was just going to buy the cheapest one there.

C’mon now, Henry.

My favorite part was after he determined which was the cheapest, he asked the Home Depot guy, “BLAH BLAH BLAH?”

And the Home Depot guy was all, “BLAH BLAH BLAH.”

And then there was a MYSTERIOUS CAN HAND-OFF.

Followed by more BLAHs and another hand-off of A THING OF STUFF.

You guys missed so much. I’ll  bring the camera crew next time.

Back at Gillcrest, no one was there yet and I was like, “Do I really want to be alone here with a chainsaw-wielding Henry?” But then my mom and Corey were there and I realized it wouldn’t have mattered much because it took Henry FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to get the chainsaw started.

WOW MUCH MAN, VERY TESTOSTERONE.

I helped by throwing crab apples at him while Corey meandered about the backyard, taking pictures of trees.

Us Kellys are notorious for our yardwork ethics.

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Henry was really starting to get extremely pissed off, so I wasn’t exactly sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing when he finally got it started. I’m not sure what the issue was other than Henry just not being masculine enough? The guys at the haunted houses never seem to have a problem getting it started.

Just sayin’.

(Please enjoy Corey’s and my obnoxious gang-laughter in the above video. It really helps Henry deal with stressful situations.)

After about 20 minutes of chainsaw’ing, I noticed Henry milling about quietly so I went over to berate him for being a slacker. He held up his finger to show me that he had WOUNDED HIMSELF ON THE CHAINSAW!!!

“OMG DID YOU CHAINSAW YOURSELF?!?!?!” I screamed, bracing myself for impending faints.

“No, I burnt myself on it,” he said quietly, probably trying to hold back tears while praying that he his penis would eventually come back to him after being engulfed by the cavernous VAGINA that had opened up in its place. God Henry, you’d never know you used to be in THE SERVICE!

“Oh,” I said, disappointed that his injury wasn’t more manly and valiant. So I went back to sitting in the grass

Apparently the reason he burned himself was because the chain was too loose and in his attempt to tighten it, he touched some silver part whatever that means. Once he stopped crying about it, he picked up the manual and sat down for some summer reading.

Then my mom came back with PIZZA which was great because Corey and I had been working very hard, dragging chopped down branches into the woods. My mom said she did a spit-take when she saw me in the yard, working.

I have callouses now, maybe.

Our new tradition is eating pizza in the formal dining room that I don’t think my grandparents ever used after the year 1983, while blasting the soft rock station over the kitchen speakers. Usually, there is at least one Phil Collins/Genesis jam that plays, but today we were treated to BROKEN WINGS by MR MISTER.

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My mom didn’t understand what was going on and thought that I was filming the pizza because the song goes with pizza (“That song goes with pizza??” she’s incredulously asking in the background of the video) but it’s really just because I needed to focus on something while capturing some glorious notes of Broken Wings, you know? And why not pizza?!

After pizza, Henry casually announced that someone was there, and we all fucking lost our shit because it’s been HAUTE TENSION since March 30th, OK? Turns out my mom had recently renewed the insurance on the house and it was just some dude from the insurance agency who was there to take photos for the file or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t the one talking to him.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go and put that Mr. Mister record on right now. KBYE.

PRO TIP: If you see that a band I like is coming to town and you know that I don’t know about it, don’t tell me about it and then expect to just casually walk away from the conversation without getting sucked into going with me.

You would think that Henry would understand this by now?

Granted, they could have been playing at a myriad of other local venues and I would have gladly gone alone, but nope – this show was at Diesel and I for certain didn’t want to go without Henry because that place creeps me out. The last show I went to there was Thrice in 2009 and I ended up getting in a fight with some doucher (surprisingly not Henry) and before the show even ended, all these sleazy nightclub people were filing in and the vibe was so whack, I absolutely hated it. It just wasn’t my scene.

That memory was almost enough to get me to pass on this show but I love Hotel Books and have never seen him/them — it’s a spoken word project of Cam Smith and I know what you’re thinking – “Wow, Erin, you don’t seem smart enough to understand how to enjoy such things” – but somehow, I’m able to expand my narrow mind wide enough to let it all in, my friend(s). It’s a trying process for this high school drop out.

The real kicker is that this band is faith-based and I’m practically a devil worshiper, but I just have enough emo juice slurping through my veins to not render into a pile of ash as the first word is spoken.

Doors were supposed to be at 7:00 (or 6:30 depending on who you asked). We arrived a bit before 7, after Henry drove erratically around the back streets of South Side, cursing me and every car who was parked where he wanted to park, until he found the most fortuitous spot right on the main street, practically across from Diesel. Anyway, the doors were definitely not open yet.

But at least we got to be serenaded by Phil Collins:

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While waiting outside, a young guy struck up conversation with me. I mentioned that it had been a good 7 years since I last saw a show at Diesel and he told me that actually, the man who runs the Rex Theater across the street has taken over booking shows at Diesel, and they only have been having shows there again since May. I mean, anytime I saw any event listed for that place, it was the likes of Danity Kane or some random DJ – never a band in my wheelhouse.

And somewhere during this conversation it occurred to me that I carrying on like a proper, socially-adept human, OH BECAUSE I WAS TALKING TO SOMEONE UNDER THE AGE OF 25 WHO LIKES THE SAME MUSIC AS  ME.

Fuck my life, man.

Just kidding. I love my life.

Once the doors finally opened, I got to talk to the new guy in charge! He was very nice and eager to know  how we felt about using Eventbrite to purchase our tickets. I didn’t really have a solid answer for him, but I will say that I was extremely excited that the ticket total wasn’t nearly doubled by the time fees and hidden charges with tacked on. Eventbrite can stay.

We right upstairs to the 21+ area to hang out like elderly people during the first couple of bands. Not surprisingly, only two other people came up there. This show was definitely not promoted well (I mean, clearly — if not for Henry, I wouldn’t have even known about it) and therefor, only about 20 people showed up.

And most of those people were friends with the two local bands who were opening.

Pointless low light iPhone picture.

Since I was working late shift the next day, I had TWO BEERS! I live my life so recklessly, you guys. WHAT RULES? Plus, being there again after all this time made me extremely nostalgic for my early 20s when Diesel was a rock club call Nick’s Fat City and my friends and I used to go there to see local bands play all the time, like SOUR (oh man, I was fucking obsessed with them). This was also where I sobbed during many Cold shows, where I met Finger Eleven back before they were known, and where I saw 30 Seconds to Mars for FIVE DOLLARS and barely anyone there even knew it was Jared Leto’s band.

So many good times were had in that place. And then it closed. And then it reopened as some skanky night club and I cried into my Smirnoff Ice.

I couldn’t tell the last time I was there because it was so crowded, but with it being so empty like it was on this night, my senses were better able to pick up the fact that it still smelled and felt like Nick’s Fat City. Even with all the swanky banquettes, chandeliers, and sexy neon lights, I could feel the ghost of Nick.

It was an amazing flashback, and it made my heart feel like it was being kicked out of a plane with no parachute.

Sometime before 7:30, the first band took the stage. It seemed like it was one of their first shows and they were having a ton of technical difficulties which was a shame because they didn’t sound bad! I made sure to clap extra hard for them BECAUSE THOSE ARE SOMEONE’S KIDS, YOU KNOW?!

Ugh, I’m such a scene mom.

I think their name was Archway.

After them was another local band: Logan’s Star Pupil. I liked them a lot too — their Pittsburgh pop-punk emo blend sounded pleasant in my ears and even Henry gave them a lazy thumbs-up. If you’re feeling generous today and want to support some Pittsburgh music, go buy their album on Bandcamp! Treat yourself to some new summer jams. It’s OK – we all need to drive around with the windows down, pretending like we’re 17 again. I mean, I do it all the time.

Except for winter.

Or when it’s raining.

Or when the AC is on.

YOU GET THE POINT. 

I told them on Twitter that I loved them instead of saying something the 3x I walked past them while going to the bathroom/coming back from the bathroom, because I have to pick and choose my small talk. It really is my version of a battle.

Besides, I was saving it up for after the show.

Oh man, the next band was Hearts Like Lions and I fell for them hard. Henry wasn’t surprised at all. They’re signed to Tooth & Nail, so it was pretty inevitable that I would open up my heart to them instantaneously. The music, the vocals, the vibes — I was into it. Go buy their ep. Or at least listen to it 8743298374 times and tell your friends and then buy a shirt.

Tried to convince Henry that we need neon-lit panels on one wall of our future guest room. He finally said yes just to shut me up.

The next band was XXI and I was looking forward to  them because they were recently on tour with Artifex Pereo. But you guys, I didn’t like them. I mean, I didn’t hate them, either, but they just didn’t do it for me and they were so different from the other bands that it kind of killed the vibe for me. Ironically, they were hard rock in the vein of what I would have gone to see at Nick’s Fat City in 2000. The singer even “warned” the crowd that they were going to be a lot “heavier” than the other bands, and it was just a tad condescending.

After their set (which Henry fell asleep during), we closed out our tab and Henry yelled at me for jogging in place to Taking Back Sunday. That’s soooooo Henry, always trying to box me in and clip my wings.

And then: Hotel Books.

Oh for fuck’s sake. I know that spoken word is an acquired taste, but it’s hard for me to imagine anyone listening to Cam’s gut-wrenching words and not being at least partially affected. First and foremost, I respect him as a writer and poet. Anyone who can fold in aspects of their faith into their music and not make me feel like I’m being force-fed Bible passages is a lyrical genius in my eyes. But instead of stopping there, he takes his words and layers them over the most soul-infusing, ambient music and then bam: Hotel Books, ladies and gentlemen.

In between his songs, Cam did some off-the-cuff sermonizing; he talked about growing up in a small-town in California, about the conversations he has with people at his local Starbucks, about not performing some of his more popular songs anymore because it doesn’t feel honest to him anymore….he talked about these things, and about life, and about emotions and people and not being good enough and I realized that I had no idea how long I had been crying.

But my face all wet and I was starting to shake a little bit.

So often, I feel alone in my life. I know that I’m not: I have Henry, Chooch, Corey and now my mom, and I’ve got some really solid friends that I appreciate more than anything. But I am such a stupidly emotional person that I tend to smother a lot of that because who wants to be around someone who is hunchbacked from all the constant navel-gazing. Time and a place, amirite? And my time and place is at shows like this one. Without making eye contact or knowing anyone around me, it comforts me to know these people have got to feel the same way and it’s OK, this is our normal, and we can all enjoy the sad boy music and cry together, and then go our separate ways knowing we’re all gonna be alright.

I mean, except for Henry who just sat on a step with a tight-lipped expression, unable to decide if he liked or hated it. (He told me later that “it wasn’t bad” and we all know that Henry’s Rating Meter doesn’t go much higher than that.)

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After the show, I made Papa H buy me things, and so I got to chat a little with the singer of Hearts Like Lions at their merch table. He was so fucking nice and now I like that band even more.

I am notoriously anti-meeting bands because I get so stupid and trip over my tongue and it’s just humiliating and not worth it in the end, but this time I was determined not to leave until I met Cam. Maybe it was the TWO WHOLE BEERS holding my hand, who knows. A small group had converged upon Cam and as soon as one of the girls mentioned something about her church, I looked at Henry and groaned, “Ugh, they’re going to be here forever!” I mean, they just kept talking and talking and I was considering just ducking past and leaving, but then Cam looked over at me and asked with a smile, “Are you waiting for me?”

Ugh yes! Everyone backed away so I could approach him. I told him that he makes me heart feel so large, and asked if I could hug him. Do you know me? Because I apparently don’t. Erin On a Regular Day shirks human contact. But Erin at the Church of Hotel Books was practically begging for a hug. And so we hugged and it was amazing; I somehow managed to not cry until later that night when everyone was asleep.

PLEASE WATCH THIS VIDEO ^^^^^

And this^^^^

Oh god, I’m crying so hard but smiling at the same time. I want Hotel Books to come back and play a candlelight show at my Pappap’s house. Maybe I’d start opening the door for the Jehovah’s Witnesses if they came at me with ethereal spoken word instead of pushy, pamphlet’d propaganda.

Thank you for telling me about this show, Henry. I owe you. <3

For a brief period of time, way back in the day, I was talking to some guy I used to work with. You know. “Talking.” He was supposed to come over one night, and I had recently scored a new Cure bootleg video (literally on VHS, this was a while ago), so I suggested that we could watch this damn thing together. He made a slew of disparaging comments about the Cure, about how he would rather watch dogs eat their own shit, about how much that band sucked, about how “faggy” they were, and I could actually hear my heart breaking in my ears.

Followed quickly by the sound of the door slamming on this asshole’s opportunity. I just couldn’t imagine being with someone who didn’t like The Cure, or who could at least respect my staunch devotion to them. (Not to mention someone who calls things “faggy”? Ew no.)

And thank god I didn’t give that guy a second chance, because then I met Henry (at the same job! I was such an office ho!) and do you know what the first thing is that Henry ever did for me, way before we even started dating? He made me a screensaver of all of the Cure’s album covers.

That is a fucking good man.

Back then I probably said he was wife material, too, but clearly that material is full of holes.

What is: Cheese cloth.

What is: A handkerchief in some person’s pocket in a coffin underground.

All of this is to say that when The Cure announced their hugely anticipated North American tour last fall, Henry didn’t even question it when I said, “Well, there’s no Pittsburgh date as usual, but we could go to the Columbia, Maryland one…?”

“Buy the tickets when they go on sale,” he said with NO HESITATION.

BECAUSE IT’S THE CURE. And Henry loves me, you guys. Duh.

I sat at the computer and waited for the clock to tick down and then I bought two tickets on the ASAP. Of course with all the presales and ticket reselling schemes out there, every last spot under the pavilion was taken, so I had to be satisfied with lawn seats. And honestly, this being my 6th Cure show, I was content that we were even going at all. Traveling for shows is expensive and we are not rich people. SHOCKER. Plus, we were pretty close to the front two years ago when they headlined Riot Fest so it was fine.

We left Chooch at home with Judy and set off for Maryland around 9:30am. I was acutely aware that my left contact was jacked up, but you have to understand the tolerance I have built over the years to eye woes.  I figured the discomfort would eventually just fade into the background, and then I proceeded to just up my blinking quota during the car ride.

The drive down there was pretty uneventful and quick, by the way. I didn’t even live blog because I was too busy listening to the same Pierce the Veil song over and over, psychoanalyzing it, and feeling depressed. That’s just what I do. Also, I bought a ticket to see PVRIS the moment they went on sale, which was a lot less stressful since it’s just general admission at the Altar Bar. And then we ate at some shitty country cookin’ diner thing on the side of the road, because I was off my game and let Henry choose the lunch spot.

I went in the bathroom there and jiggled my contact around a bit, because sometimes that helps. In this case though, it still felt like someone was applying slight pressure to my eyeball with the tip of the long-nailed finger.  So, normal.

We arrived at our Extended Stay hotel thing around 4 and I got angry because GPS said something about taking the third right at the traffic circle. “IT’S A ROUNDABOUT!” I cried petulantly. “EVERYONE IN AUSTRALIA KNOWS THAT!”

Henry muttered something about this being America and in America, “we” call them traffic circles and I’m like, how about not lumping me in there with all you “we”s, thanks. And then I loudly counted down the rights so that Henry would know which one to turn off on, thereby fulfilling my co-pilot duties.

If I had liveblogged that day, it would be a lot of “AND THEN”s because I was pretty fucking happy.

After sufficiently complaining about our hotel room (because that’s my other duty – reminding Henry that nothing he does is good enough for me), Henry fed me a candy bar (Hershey with almonds if you need this for the case study), and then it was finally time to leave for the Merriweather Ampitheater.

One good thing about Henry is that he booked our room months and months in advance. It was the closest hotel to the venue and completely sold out. The lady at the desk even asked if we were there for the Cure concert, because duh. This happened right before Henry denied ogling some yuppie bitch who was walking two Pomeranian dogs.

It didn’t take us long to get to the venue at all, maybe 15 minutes tops. I was too busy hyperventilating and saying, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod” incessantly to properly keep an eye on the time. Sorry for the inaccurate journalism!

Henry and I had a brief feud before getting out of the car because he didn’t bring a blanket from home and had to buy a blanket from a Target near our hotel and it was sooooo ugly (brown plaid and fuzzy, ew) so first I was like, “I WILL NOT BE SEEN WITH THAT ATROCITY, LEAVE IT IN THE CAR!” I mean, plus it stunk of plastic because he had just unzipped it from the stupid vinyl package it was all cubed-up in.

Not surprising, Henry didn’t bother to fight with me. He knows not to fuck with me when I’m in an emotional fragile Cure-related state. So we left the blanket in the backseat and wove our way through the gravel parking lot to the end of the line. We got there about 45 minutes before the gates open, I would say, and in no time, the line behind us had grown so long that we could no longer see the end.

I spotted someone in line nearby carrying a blanket in the same bracket of ugliness as the one that Henry had purchased. So I succumbed to the Ugly Blanket Squad and told him he could go back to the car and get the motherfucking poop-colored blanket. Whatever. This isn’t the blanket prom, is what my dad would have said if he had been there.

Ugh.

I could only see the first 30 or so people in front of us, because then the line snaked down and around into a forested area. It was making me nervous not knowing how far back we were.

People-watching was splendid and helped pass the time. There were OG Goths, neo-goths, yuppies, hippies, hipsters, Henrys — people of all walks of life had converged upon Merriweather all for the same reason: to bow down before the Cure. Two guys behind me did nothing but quote from Pitchfork the whole time, while the two dads and their respective young-teen sons talked dryly about sports.

Hockey came up.

I inched in closer.

“Yeah, his mom is a huge hockey fan,” the one dad said to the other. “Her favorite team is the Flyers, and then the Penguins.”

I was bouncing on my toes by this point while Henry was giving me the “KEEP IT ZIPPED” look.

“Oh, well she must be happy. The Penguins won the whole thing,” the other dad said and I was SQUEALING now, about to raise my hand and do the whole, “OOOH! OOOOH!” thing that I do when I’m desperate to add to a conversation that does not belong to me.

Henry, that motherfucker, actually grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me back!

I hate small talk EXCEPT when it’s about music or hockey, or if I overhear incorrect information and feel like I could die if I don’t set the universe straight with my infinite wisdom.

But apparently this is “annoying” and Henry doesn’t like to be a witness…or an associate.

The opening of the gates was pretty prompt and we were inside in no time at all. There are several entrances and parking lots and there were less people in front of us than I guessed. We were able to snag a prime piece of real estate very close to where the pavilion seats ended and the lawn started, and I let go of all my high expectations of having the perfect, unobstructed view and instead just enjoyed being there. Sometimes you really gotta just let go.

Henry bought me some kind of beer that he figured I would be able to drink without wasting — Shocktop maybe? I’m still trying to become a beer person but I’m just unapologetically picky. Don’t fuck with my palate. I managed to drink two whole beers! Each one cost less than my $10 pizza, which was actually pretty good but NOT ENOUGH.

“For $10, it’s gonna have to be,” Henry frowned before going off to buy some gross sausage in a bun atrocity for himself.

The fact that you can barely see my left eye in this photo is FORESHADOWING.

The lawn was really starting to fill up and so far, I didn’t find a single person I hated. I wasn’t too startled by this revelation though because Cure crowds have historically been some of the kindest and most fun I’ve ever been in the middle of.

EXCEPT: Coachella 2004. Worst crowd ever. A bunch of rich frat boys screaming “FAT BOB!” and booing when anything other than a radio single was performed. Welcome to America, Robert. Welcome to America, indeed.

Just then, two middle-aged men tossed down two seat cushions in the small section of lawn available between the two couples in front of me.

“And DOWN!” the one announced loudly and jovially as he plopped himself onto the cushion, beer sloshing all around. He looked at us and laughed, but I gave Henry the “I hate this guy” look. When the two women whose blanket they sat down next to came back from getting beer, I thought for sure they were going to be all, “OH HELL NO” but instead, the one lady was like, “LET’S BE FRIENDS” and then everything was happening so fast before my eyes.

Henry went to get more beer, leaving me alone to stew in my depressing solitude while everyone around me was carrying on with each other and making friends with new people, and ugh just ugh.  Never was there a more apropos moment for Robert to come on stage and sing, “Why Can’t I Be You.”

(He didn’t.)

(But he should have.)

So now the people in front of me were introducing themselves. The one who had yelled, “DOWN!” told the two ladies that they were from Pittsburgh.

PITTSBURGH? I’M FROM PITTSBURGH!

I tapped him on the back and was all, “Hey guy, I couldn’t help but overhear you say you’re from Pittsburgh. We’re from Pittsburgh too,” I said in that weird 1920s radio DJ syncopated voice I get when I’m no longer Erin but some weird caricature of a person with a sturdy societal footing.

And that’s when Henry returned to his ugly blanket and found that his girlfriend had made new friends with the boisterous men in front of them. (I never talked to the broads though. Once I heard the one lady say that she was heartbroken that the Penguins won the Stanley Cup, I knew I had nothing left to say to her, except for SUCK IT.)

(J/K, she and her sister seemed like fine ladies.)

Randy was my favorite of the two guys. I can’t remember his friend’s name. He was nice too, but not as hilarious as Randy. I can’t explain it, you guys would have had to have been there.

You know how it is.

The Twilight Sad came out sometime around 7:00. I was already familiar with them and interested to hear them live for the first time. And I mean, they were wonderful, but it’s hard to give a shit about an opening band when you know, and they know, and everyone knows that The Cure is back there somewhere, pretending to jump rope, touching up that blood red lipstick, sipping a spot of tea.

So I can’t say anything other than, “The Twilight Sad seemed good.”

I ran to the bathroom afterward, while there was still a bit of sunshine left. I was immediately cold-cocked by the essence of patchouli and clove.

And it just felt right.

As I washed my hands, I inspected my eye in the mirror. There didn’t appear to be a dagger or any such spiny specimen jutting from it, contrary to how it felt. So I gave it one good, aggressive rub (What Not To Do To Your Eye 101) and stumbled my way back to our blanket, which was now one of many in a sea of throws.

Sold out show, y’all.

As soon as the opening notes of Tape wafted into the air, my face was wet with tears. It doesn’t matter how many times I have seen this band, they make my heart feel so full and I even if I tried, I couldn’t hold back my emotions. I get all snively and trembly and the tears just flow freely – this who I am.

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Aside from the three Instavids above and few Snaps that my brother requested, I didn’t fuck around with recording or taking pictures, because it’s the Cure and I needed to let every last second get into my pores, you know what I mean? Henry even gave me some “there-there” pats a few times.

He gets it.

He didn’t need to see my face to know it was slick with tears, mascara, and whatever poison was seeping out of my left eyeball.

You’d think that all the crying would have washed out whatever was in there, scraping my cornea, but instead it just started burning even more. The joy and amazement of standing before The Cure made it easier to shrug off, though. It was going to take a lot more than an eyeball malady to get me to leave this show early.

SET LIST:

Tape / Open, High, Pictures of You, Closedown, Kyoto Song, A Night Like This, The Walk, The End of the World, Lovesong, If Only Tonight We Could Sleep, All I Want, Push, In Between Days, Just Like Heaven, Bananafishbones, Never Enough, From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea, End

1st encore: Sinking, It Can Never Be The Same

2nd encore: Shake Dog Shake, Burn, A Forest

3rd encore: Dressing Up, Lullaby, Fascination Street, Wrong Number

4th encore: Hot Hot Hot, Let’s Go To Bed, Close To Me, Why Can’t I Be You?, Boys Don’t Cry

I have never heard “Burn” live before so I was freaking the fuck out for sure. FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

It’s unreal to me how solid this band sounds after all of these years. How they can get out there night after night, play for three hours with just as much if not more energy as bands 30 years younger. These guys are living legends, and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame can keep snubbing them all they want because there are millions of screaming fans who know just how brilliant and incomparable they are.

When you can get even someone unmoved and unaffected as Henry J. Robbins to stand for the entirety of your show and also APPLAUD after every song? That’s how you know you’re frizzled hair, shoegazing perfection.

Little Cure fan. <3

Robert seemed to be in very good spirits too, chattier than I have ever seen him, and still breaking out his adorable little goth moves during “Lullaby.” However, he did get choked up during a new song, “It Can Never Be the Same,” which rumor has it is about his mother who passed away last year. When the song ended, he said something along the lines of, “The last song is a new one…. haven’t quite… haven’t learned how to hold back….so…”

</3

He is a motherfucking god. No one will ever replace him in my heart.

NO ONE.

***

As soon as we got back to the hotel, I raced to the bathroom and plucked the contact off my eye, which exacerbated the pain. Now it was like my eyeball was in labor with a hatchet-coated fireball. A thicket of natty homeless person pubes. A briar patch of all the human bones found in Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment.

My eye was so red that it looked like it was bleeding, like it had been CHEESE GRATED. Tears were squirting out left and right, like some completely crude, X-rated, optic money shot.

“I CAN’T KEEP MY EYE OPEN!” I wailed, flapping my hands and hopping from one foot to the other.

I was panic-stricken, screaming about having to go to the hospital; but instead, Henry calmly went out and got me eye drops. I had cried myself to sleep while he was gone, but don’t worry! I woke up in the middle of the night and as soon as I realized that it wasn’t just a nightmare and that there were still flames licking the inside of my eyelid, I started screaming. Henry woke up and secretly pretended he was killing me when he held my head down against the pillow and put the drops in my eye.

In the morning, it still hurt and I felt like a vampire, screaming about the sunlight. As the day wore on, I was mostly OK again, though my eyelid was slightly puffy and I wasn’t even about to try to put my contact back in for the next two days. So I went about life squinting and walking with my arms outstretched. One-contact-wearin’ Erin.

But none of that was enough to tarnish the beautiful memories of the night before. Le sigh.

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The Phil Collins vibes are strong AF at Gillcrest. Every time I turn on the kitchen stereo, there he is. And twice on Sunday!

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It’s all at once comforting and haunting. Absolutely impossible for me to hear any Genesis or Phil jam and not think of my childhood in that house.

I guess that’s why when I couldn’t fall asleep Friday night, I found myself painting a picture of Phil.

When Chooch saw it the next day, he happily said, “Oh, Phil Collins!

I was just thinking about him, too…” Can’t imagine why.

Speaking of my fake stustudio, I finally got this bad boy up on the wall. It was originally hanging in my grandma’s clown room and she always said I could have it. And now I have it, so…

This post is brought to you by late night iced coffee, kettlebell fatigue, and MTV’s Are You the One*.

Coming up later this week: an emotionally disjointed recap of last week’s Cure show, maybe another music video no one will watch, an essay on my political stance (lol no), HOPEFULLY HENRY’S WARPED TOUR VIDEO, and probably some furry love because Anthrocon is this week and I have a date with a walrus!

*(I tried so hard to resist, but it finally sucked me in. I’M WEAK, OK??!!)

(Also, I wonder if Henry and I would be a match if we were on Are You The One. Omg lol that’s a hilarious thought.

I just woke him up to tell him that and his response was muffled on account of his dumb face being buried in his pillow.)

Last Sunday, Chooch and I went to the Pierce the Veil “Misadventures” show at the House of Blues in Cleveland. When they announced that they’d be performing their new album Misadventures in its entirety for this tour, I was all in. I bought tickets for Chooch and myself the second they went on sale (balcony seats because I’m not taking a 10-year-old into the pit for PTV — those girls are aggressive!) and then Henry agreed to be our chauffeur.

Henry likes Pierce the Veil, but what he likes even more is that our kid also likes them enough to be my concert partner and Henry can go off and be an old man somewhere.

Since we had actual seats, I didn’t feel the need to get there hours before the doors opened, but even 45 minutes before-doors, the line wrapped all the way down the block. I just asked Henry how many people he thought were in line when he dropped us off and he said, “Everybody.” It was the longest line I have even stood in for PTV and while it was mildly annoying, I was also really happy for them. They have come so far since the time I saw them playing for 150 kids at an indoor skate park in Buffalo, NY!

Some old man walked by and said, “Wow, this is a really long line. What band is playing?”

“Pierce the Veil,” I said proudly, like I’m their fucking mom.

“Never heard of them. Where are they from?”

I was acutely aware of all the people in line who had turned around to look at me at this point, and I ALMOST blanked! So much pressure! But then at the last second, before any of the dumb kids could steal my thunder, I answered, “San Diego” in a voice quaking with uncertainty.

“I hope everyone fits inside!” he laughed, and as he walked away, I wiped the sweat from my brow. I hate when strangers ask me questions!

However, if I overhear strangers passing around incorrect information to each other, I have NO QUALMS with inserting myself into their conversation. For instance, when the people in front of us where talking about the Stanley Cup Finals and the girl was all, “I think tonight might be game 6 but I don’t know” and her boyfriend was all, “No, I think it’s game 5. The Pens are up 3 games to 1” but I knew the correct answer.

“Excuse me,” I said, holding up a finger. “We’re from Pittsburgh. Tonight is definitely game 6. AND IF THE PENS WIN, THEY WIN THE STANLEY CUP.”

They both mumbled thanks and then turned their backs on the crazed Pittsburgher who couldn’t mind her own business. HENRY HATES WHEN I DO THIS.

It happened later on too, before the show started. We were in our seats (which Chooch found on his own and then an usher came rushing over ready to yell at us for taking seats that weren’t assigned to us and then felt stupid when he checked our tickets and muttered, “Oh, you found your seats”) when the kid next to me said to his girlfriend, “Oh man, I love this song, but I can’t remember who sings it!”

“Do you want me to tell you?!” I leaned over and asked him in this super weird husky voice I get when I’m excited. He was kind of caught of guard, I think, but he humored me by saying, “OK sure.”

“THE USED!” I cried, and he and his girlfriend were basically like, “Cool story, psycho.”

And then I ask myself where my kid gets his know-it-all-ism from.

You wouldn’t know it, but Chooch was saying, “Tampax Pearl!” in lieu of “Cheese.”

There were only two opening bands for this show and while I’m certainly no hater of opening acts, I was secretly happy that this wouldn’t be a super long show. I was way too hyped for PTV and also I was hoping that the show would over early enough that I’d get to hear the final minutes of the Stanley Cup final in the car.

What a conflict to have, you know?

The first opener was Movements. At first, they sounded like your standard Warped Tour-caliber band, but then the SPOKEN WORD happened. Chooch gave me a knowing look because this genre is my motherfucking jam and he knows it.

“Let me guess — you’re going to buy their album?” he said. FUCK YEAH I AM. AND I DID. On vinyl, son. And it sounds glorious.

I the Mighty was next and somehow I have never seen them live. I have no idea how they’ve escaped me this long since they literally roll with some of my scene faves. In fact, they’re touring with Artifex Pereo this fall!

“He looks like Chris Kunitz,” I yelled in Chooch’s ear, pointing to the bassist. And right after that, I got an alert that the Penguins scored the first goal of the game, AND CHRIS KUNITZ HAD THE ASSIST.

“They’re going to win,” Chooch said in a very calm and wise tone. “This is their year.”

And you know what? I felt really reassured and peaceful in that moment, because Chooch knows everything.

Not as much as me. But he’s getting there.

So I will now always associate I the Mighty with the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup.

Chooch made me buy him a soft pretzel with cheese before PTV’s set started. I’m pretty opposed to eating during concerts—it just feels weird to me—but Chooch was in a very good position to ruin my night if I let his hunger get out of hand. A soft pretzel in his pie hole seemed to really do the trick and we were able to coexist peacefully for the rest of the show.

This album is kind of a big deal for PTV fans because it took 4 years to create and it seemed like maybe they had lost a lot of the momentum they had built up coming off their last album.

And for as much as I love PTV (and I’ve stuck with them from the beginning), I didn’t love their last album. I still had fun at their shows but it kind of made me wonder if I was growing out of the PTV scene. Time to move out and buy a Coldplay CD…?

Thank god Misadventures was released and saved me from bland Mom Rock.  I’m back in love, people! This album somehow feels like such a throwback to their first album (my favorite) without making them sound young, regressed, or un-evolved. (You know, un-evolved. That’s a word. You must have been absent the day it was on the spelling test.) I can’t put my finger on it exactly, and I’m not even sure if they did it intentionally, but there are nuances and subtle nods to their past work, almost like secret part 2s or reprises. A “getaway” reference that just can’t be an accident. There were a lot of skippable songs for me on their last album, but Misadventures is fucking solid and I have already come close to wearing out the record.

And hearing them perform it in its entirety was fucking priceless. And for their encore, as the Penguins were watching the clock tick down in the final moments of the third period, PTV came out and played “Bulls in the Bronx” and “King For a Day” — the two songs Chooch was screaming for them to play so of course now he thinks he made that happen, and that’s OK, because I MADE THE PENGUINS WIN THE STANLEY CUP.

PANT PANT PANT.

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This might have been the best PTV show I’ve ever seen. Obviously they sounded fantastic, but that combined with Chooch and me singing our faces off together and the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup—it was a priceless trifecta. So many stars aligned, mood swings remained unswung, not a single douchebag sat near us.

I want to do it all again.

But my favorite part? That Chooch and I got along so magically! Anyone who has ever hung out with us knows this is like some rare familial occurrence. It was really choice quality time, and I’ll tell you, sharing moments like this with my kid is my favorite part of being a parent. He was just a little babe back when I started listening to PTV and now we’re both fans — that’s kind of an amazing thing. The kind of amazing thing that really makes your life feel super rich.

****

Henry was waiting for us in the car across the street from House of Blues when we came charging at him after the show, screaming “PENS!!!!! PENS!!!!!” like drunks. Henry just frowned and yelled at us to get in the car. He apparently spent his time tooling around Target and various grocery stores, which is probably what the other moms did after they dropped their kids off at the PTV show. His frown fluttered into a slight smile when he showed us the limited edition Blueberry Pie Oreos he found. Henry’s life is super rich, too.

i like your starry eyes

they yell SURPRISE SURPRISE

i’m in love but not for long

Yesterday was a good day at Gillcrest, full of productive conversations & planning…just a general sense of optimism. There is still so much to do that it often makes me feel like I can’t breathe, but Henry got the grass cut— so, there’s that.

(Hey, there’s a lot of grass over there!)

Dick in a tree.

Dick on a tractor.

Dick behind a mower.

More Gino Vannelli finds!

And this bitchin’ Winchester shirt that has stains but IDGAF.

I like to turn on the kitchen stereo so the house is full of soft rock. It’s comforting and makes it feel alive in there again.

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One can always count on Chooch for comedic relief.

My mom got a random head lamp thing in the mail as a free gift from Marlboro, so she brought it over for Chooch. But it actually was a pretty handy device for me because I was working on cleaning out some of the drawers in one of the gamerooms that has very limited light.

I haven’t worn one of these since I did that ghost hunt back in 2011!

After we left the house, Henry took us to Page’s for ice cream where I had major ordering remorse. I wanted a maple sundae but I didn’t see the sign for it, so I got the blueberry soft serve instead. And then of course right after Henry paid, I saw my maple queen on the fucking menu.

Dick at the ice cream shop.

“It tasted like ice cream. I never would have thought,” Chooch just deadpanned when I asked him if he wanted to review his ice cream cone.

Seriously, for being my back-up, you can’t really go wrong with soft serve made with real blueberries, you know?

Dick hugging a dick.

Dick with an angel.

Capped off a fine Saturday with “Crimson Peak,” which was way better than I thought it was going to be and felt actual sadness when it ended. JUST LIKE I DID WHEN SATURDAY ENDED.

Never enough Saturday. :(

My awesome friend Kara agreed to come to The House over the weekend and model one motherfucking bodacious wardrobe for me. The 80s were hilarious, and there were definitely some WTF moments as we sorted through the clothes, but there were definitely some HOLY SHIT THIS IS FABULOUS outburst too!

It was really nice to have the house filled with laughter. Even my mom was cracking up!

Anyway, the whole point to this is that while we have donated dozens upon dozens of bags to clothes to charity, we wanted to save the more vintage, unique pieces in order to raise some cash for the repairs that we need to make around the house. I promise that not a single dime is going to concert tickets or, I don’t know, hookers for Henry. This is just my way of trying to be helpful. Let’s see how that goes!

I made an official Instagram for the clothes (@Gillcrest_garments) and will be listing everything in this first lot once I go back over to the house on Tuesday and get the actual measurements of the dresses. Because that might be helpful! Sizes in the 80s were whack.

I’d consider getting a surgery to make this dress fit me. Double-decker sighs for days.

Jean jacket competition!

Pizza prom!

Corey’s wearing a multi-colored cropped leather jacket from Express. I used to beg my aunt Sharon to let me borrow it when I was in middle school. That jacket was the shit, man. I tried it on and now that I have a body ruined by The Child, I just look like an asshole.

(I’m so good at selling clothes already!)

This is a ONE-PIECE POWER PANTSUIT, YOU GUYS. Elastic waist. Totally bitchin’ for the boardroom.

This dress is killer. We also have one that’s sleeveless and navy blue.

ANOTHER PANTSUIT! This one has a sequined sweetheart top and literal MC Hammer bottoms. So fucking sick, and Kara said it was actually quite comfortable!

The pizza dress has a beverage twin! Same brand: Dressy Tessy. This still has the tags on it — can you believe it’s lived in a closet for thirty years, unworn!? That’s a travesty.

Rompers are in again, I think.

There’s so much more, but I tortured Kara enough for one day. (I mean, right down to accidentally snapping her bra with some middle school boy force. Sorry about that again, Kara!)

Don’t forget to follow Gillcrest Garments on Instagram and hit me up on here if you have your eye on something and want to get it before it goes public! I’m going the Instagram route because I don’t want to deal with listing fees, etc. I just want this to be quick and painless!

Everything is either new with tags or has been extremely gently worn. Most of the clothes are from the 80s but we’ve found a few pieces that look like they could be older. I think my grandma must have given most of the really old stuff away long ago.

I come home from work, eat dinner, and go over my Pappap’s house. This is my current normal and I’m not complaining.

My mom was polishing one of the porch light, this wrought iron lantern thing, and I said, “Wow, I never noticed that there’s a dragon on this.”

“There’s lots of things about this house I’ve never noticed before,” my mom said. It’s crazy, all the time spent in that house, how many tiny details slipped away unnoticed. Like the above face on the frame of the dining room mirror!

Never-ending Story vibes.

“I never realized what gothic tastes they had,” my mom said the other day about my Pappap and Grandma. Their interior design aesthetic was definitely niche, that’s for sure.

But again, I grew up around it and it never seemed unusual. So much time has passed since the days when I used to visit regularly that it’s like seeing the house with brand new eyes.

Like a tourist.

Like it’s not a home anymore and I’m just visiting.

Not sure how that makes me feel.

We focused on the various game rooms on Sunday, and I stumbled across this owl in the bathroom that I completely forgot about but the sight of it was so familiar and entirely welcomed. My mom told me to take it but I didn’t.

You never know.

Henry fiddled with one of the jukeboxes and thinks it should be an easy fix….for a professional. Yes, Henry actually admitted that he couldn’t fix something himself!

My mom attempted to teach Chooch how to play pool. Better her than me. I gave up after 6 seconds of him thinking that he knew it all.

He gets that from Henry.

The relics at the bar are so much fun to look at. It brings back memories of sneaking in during high school and drinking root beer Schnapps. Corey told me that he used to do the same thing, but he would break in through one of the game room windows. I was like “Why wouldn’t you just use the hidden key above the garage door and break in like a civilized burglar?”

So many steins up in this house.

HOTTER THAN HELL.

There are so many lessons that I’ve been taking away from this sitch, like learning that it’s OK to ask for help and some people will definitely not be there when you need it and that’s OK because there are plenty of dicks in this world for them to go suck. It’s also made me appreciate Henry even more for sticking by me, helping with all the dirty work, and having my back constantly. (Except when he’s playing Devil’s Advocate, which is like THE WORST and hello STOP MAKING EXCUSES FOR PEOPLE, you know? Tell him that.)

I can’t tell you how many shows I’ve skipped out on, but the progress we’ve been making has been completely worth it. TEAM WORK.

One more thing: where all my plumber/super fucking rich investor friends at?

LOL.

…but you can’t find it and Henry says, “It’s in the basement. I’ll get it tomorrow” and you’re like “WHY TOMORROW?! BECAUSE YOU’RE SCARED TO GO DOWN IN THE BASEMENT AT NEAR DARK??” 

And he doesn’t answer. 

And you’re too scared to go down in the basement at near dark. 

So then you play Flashbeagle on YouTube and beat him the fuck up with your epileptic dance moves while intermittently scream-singing because Flashbeagle is fucking epic. 

JOEY SCARBURY. And some broad. 

My Saturday evening, you guys. 

But also, there was ice cream!

Ice Cream Sandwich with Twinkie underneath. Ice cream tastes so much better when it’s Weight Watchers cheat day!

Churn might be my new favorite ice cream spot. Thank god it’s kind of a hike because this could be dangerous. 

The last time I was at Disney World, I was 10 years old and barely remember anything other than being a permed dork who hounded characters for their autographs while my dad spent the entire time singing “Yo ho yo ho a pirate’s life for me” thanks to one spin on Pirates of the Caribbean.

What I learned is that 26 years later, Pirates of the Caribbean is way more awesome than it was in 1990 and dorky kids are still chasing characters for autographs except that now you need to get a fucking Fast Pass for that shit unless you want to spend half your day waiting in inexplicably long queues for some kid in a costume to forge the signature of an animated character.

And my kid was one of those dorks.

He only wanted to meet Chip and Dale though because he saw a picture of me meeting them in 1984 and he is like obsessed with being just like me because I’m fucking fantastic.

The line was really short because who even cares about Chip & Dale anymore I guess now that all these horribly animated, newfangled characters are on the scene, but there were two high school graduates a few people in front of us who totally monopolized C&D’s time and had them signing like 69 different things including their idiotic graduation caps and then had unlimited photos taken and then danced with them and finally C&D’s handler was like “OK the Stars have to take their break now” so the girls got to SKIP OFF INTO THE SUNSET with them while the rest of us normal people in line with their age-appropriate CHILDREN stood there in disbelief and then the grandma in front of us was screaming at her granddaughter who appeared to be 12 or 13 for having teh audacity to WANDER OFF after she was told to SIT ON THE BENCH OVER THERE and the granddaughter was all, “I WAS SITTING ON THE BENCH” and the mom very quietly said, “OK guys, drop it” but grandma just kept railing on granddaughter and then granddaugter was ugly crying.

I wanted to leave but Chooch was like ITS MY DYING WISH and Henry was like STOP RUINING HIS BIRTHDAY so we continued to wait.

When it was the people’s turn in front of us, I was impressed by granddaughter’s ability to turn off the tears in time to jump in with Chip, Dale, her mom and little brother while smiling brightly for the photographer. What a nice big FUCK YOU to grandma. That old hag ain’t gon’ ruin no granddaughter’s day.

Meanwhile, Chooch whined about not having an autograph book so I dug out a receipt for him to have them sign, hahahaha.  #DisneyN00bs

But when it was his turn, their handler was like “the fuck is this?” and gave Chip and Dale two pieces of actual paper to sign for Chooch. It was pretty embarrassing but I was like “The answer is still no” when Chooch asked again for an autograph book.

There was no way we were wasting anymore time standing in line for this shit.

I probably would have made a concession for Pluto though. Does anyone still even care about Pluto? He was always my favorite. The first time I went to Disney, I was 4 and my DAD wouldn’t let me bring my favorite stuffed animal in the entire world with me, so my Pappap was all, “Haha we’ll show him” and proceeded to buy me any Disney plush I wanted  while we were there because he was the best man to ever exist. Anyway, the Pluto one was my favorite.

I started to tell Henry this story and he sighed, “You’ve told me this story so many times” with an eye roll. Rude!!

My Pappap gave me the greatest childhood ever and if I can give Chooch even a tiny glimmer of that, I’ll feel like I made my Pappap proud.

It’s a Small World is one of the few rides there that I have any sliver of memory of. Funnily, I remember more from my first trip there than the last trip when I was 10; this is likely due to the rage black outs since my brother Ryan was around by then and I was still extremely butt-hurt over the fact that I wasn’t an only child anymore.

OH THE PERILS OF BEING ERIN RACHELLE KELLY.

I really felt that this ride held up. It made me giddy.

Even Henry was choking back a smile or two. Hard to imagine, I know.

The ride that didn’t hold up in my mind was Big Thunder Mountain. I was just OK.

All three of us agreed that Space Mountain was the best though! It wasn’t anything like I remembered.

Mid-afternoon, we were strolling about, probably with linked arms because you know how we stroll, when someone started shouting “Riley! Riley!” In case you didn’t know, that’s Chooch’s actual name that he goes by pretty much just in school and nowhere else, lol. Turns out, it was his friend from school! He was there with his grandma, and they had lost his parents, so the grandma asked Henry if he would please call her daughter so they could be reunited.

So Henry did that and I can’t believe that lady even answered because I NEVER ANSWER MY PHONE IF I DON’T RECOGNIZE THE NUMBER and it’s weird to me that people actually will answer EVEN IF IT’S A 1-800 NUMBER!!! Anyway, Henry explained the sitch and said, “You know what’s funny is that my son actually goes to school with your son” and then it turned out that she was standing not too far away from us….

…IN FRONT OF IT’S A SMALL WORLD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She said to Henry, “Wow, it really is a small world after all.”

And that was our super-touching Disney moment.

I think the lowest point of the day was when this family of fuckers blatantly cut in front of us in line for Pirates of the Caribbean and I couldn’t even believe the audacity. Not only did they cut in front of us, but also a lady who was with her HANDICAPPED MOTHER. I was so outraged by this and Henry was like, “Please don’t.” So instead, I just stared at them non-stop and made loud, passive-aggressive statements about people being rude motherfuckers and Henry just sighed deeply as a new wrinkle etched itself under his right eye.

Here’s a picture I took of them afterward in order to SHAME THEM on the Internet. (The guy with the stroller and blue balls balloons was not a part of their rude family so he can remain shame-free in this matter.

Other things to note:

• Haunted Mansion was way better than I ever remembered
  • So was Splash Mountain
    • My favorite part of this ride was when some dickhead served as a placeholder in line and then suddenly, his entire family came barreling through the line to join him, we’re talking a good 12 additional people! I was so livid about this because HELLO THAT IS NOT THE PROPER WAY TO STAND IN LINE, but then as we were nearing the front of the line, it was nearly those assholes’ turn to ride, when one of the Disney broads called out, “Is there a party of two?” and as luck would have it, Henry was too scared to ride this one so YES, MA’AM THERE IS A PARTY OF TWO! Chooch and I got to jump ahead of those pushy assholes. WHO’S LAUGHING NOW!?
      • My least favorite part of this was standing in line sandwiched between two families of tiny Elsas, UGH to the max. I am so glad my child isn’t into that shit.
• Even in April, it looks like every single person in the country has descended upon Lake Buena Vista, but the lines for the actual rides were extremely reasonable, except for:
  • The 7 Dwarfs Mine Ride, which we got tricked into waiting for a good 90 minutes even though the sign said THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES. And friends, it was not worth it.
    • However, what was worth it was that Henry had to ride with some dad, who said something to him immediately after sitting next to him, and that something made Henry laugh very hard, but he very conveniently “couldn’t remember what it was” when Chooch and I interrogated him afterward.
  • Peter Pan’s Flight, which was always over 75 minutes every time I checked, but then we waited until the parade was happening and literally walked right on.
• Decent vegetarian options, especially at Pecos Bill’s Tall Tale Inn — their veggie rice bowl was a motherfucking dream come true for this meatless mouth.
• The stupid Little Mermaid ride made my heart melt a little bit. I forgot how much I used to love that dumb movie. I even bought the soundtrack (ON CASSETTE) from the Scholastic book order in 4th or 5th grade, doesn’t really matter, I was a fucking dork in both grades. Listening to all of the completely off-base names Chooch was coming up when when he was trying to remember “Ursula” may have been my favorite part of the day. One of them had approximately 8 syllables and the only thing he had right was that it started with a U.
  • Pretty sure Henry slept on this ride.
  • There was absolutely no line.
• We almost accidentally got in line for some story time with Belle attraction which turns out is literally having Belle read you a story. Nope.
• I fucking hate strollers. There were soooooo many strollers. EVERY WHERE. STROLLERS HERE AND THERE. Boooooooooo, babies!
• We had a Dole Whip and I guess I don’t really get the mania over those because I know I have soft serve here in Pittsburgh that tastes pretty much exactly the same…what am I missing!? I actually didn’t even finish mine, but gave it to Henry who had given his to Chooch who had spilled him approximately .0005 seconds after Henry handed it to him. The circle of Dole Whip.
• The monorail is decidedly NOT as fun as I remembered it to be.
  • We took it back to the parking lot that night, and it was mayhem. We didn’t get to sit with Henry, and Chooch said, “I feel bad for daddy. He’s sitting next to some Duck Dynasty guy.” I didn’t get to see though because there were people standing in between us. I told Henry about it later and he said, “I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. I was sitting next to a lady.”

When Henry wouldn’t ride the Barnstormer with us. :( ALSO, HE’S TOTALLY LOOKING AT THAT BROAD.

Overall, I’m glad we went when we did because it turned out to be far less stressful and intimidating than I had imagined it to be. No one got lost (although Chooch and I did leave Henry once by the carousel and then “forgot” to come back) and we didn’t even really spend as much money there as I thought we would. I’m trying to remember if we fought at all and I think that we probably did at some point, but clearly it wasn’t major enough for me to immediately blog about right after unfriending Henry on Facebook.

Henry’s thoughts: I liked Space Mountain. I liked the Haunted Mansion. I would say the park was pretty people-friendly, easy to move around.* It was too expensive.

Chooch’s thoughts: It was way more than I expected. I thought it was just going to be like a couple of rides, a couple of food places, and just. But then when I went there, I saw a FANTASY. It was AWESOME. There was so much to do. There was a lot of rides. But Big Thunder Mountain wasn’t as fun as mommy remembered it so that was a big bummer**. That’s it.

*DISAGREE. SEE: STROLLERS.

**I must have bitched about this more than I remembered that day.

****

My first day back at work last week, I was telling my co-worker Carrie about Disney and how, while it was a fun experience, Henry and I probably won’t ever go back.

“No, you’ll go again. You’ll have to take your grandkid, Emarosa!”

Touché, Carrie!

 I might need a Pod for all the photos I’ve brought home from my Pappap’s house. A lot of the photos are familiar to me but Corey and I have unearthed a ton that are new to us. It’s funny because in my mind, the heyday of that house was obviously the early 80s because hello, HERE’S ERIN. But then we found several photo albums full of evidence of some totally bitchin’ parties that were had in the 60s and 70s it’s like nope, THAT was the heyday. 

“They had a freaking band playing in the game room!” Corey said, thrusting a photo album in my rubber gloved-hands.

You know this intrigued me because BANDS ARE BASICALLY MY WHOLE LIFE. I posted this on Facebook immediately and my Aunt Susie (my mom’s younger sister)  commented and said “Oh, that’s Hausen. Dad had them play at the house every year.” 

#nbd

So for the hell of it, I googled their name and found the bio of one of the members, who still plays in bands with some legit Pittsburgh musicians, but my favorite part of his bio was when he casually mentions that he briefly played in the Urge with TRENT REZNOR. 

I’m so obsessed with this now and want to go to see them and cry TELL ME ABOUT THE TIMES YOU PLAYED AT MY PAPPAP’S HOUSE because I’m sure they’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. It was only 40 years ago. 
   

Meanwhile, my grandma was rocking some COUTURE COIFS. So in addition to hiring Hausen to play at my imaginary wedding, I’m flat out obsessing over how stylish my grandma’s freaking hair was, decade to decade. Seeing all of these old pictures makes me appreciate her so much more, because damn you guys, my grandma was a babe!

I’m also a bit surly that my mom and her sisters were so pretty in their formative years and the universe clearly stepped in after I was born and said, “OK this fam has seen enough beauty so now I present to you this baby who will have 5-6 good years before blimping out and ruining her pretty golden locks with a perm while also having a brief (as in 3 years) battle with facial eczema.”

That happened. 

On top of all this, my mom stuffed my frumpy body UGLY PLAID SKIRTS, KNEE HIGHS AND MOCASSINS. 

Anyway. My grandma’s hair. Let’s look at more of it. 

That’s my mom on the left! I got zero of her looks. :( I apparently look like my birth dad. 
  

The 80s <3

I can’t stand how pretty she was!   

This was her Bahamas look.    

In one of the stack of photos I found, there were no less than 8 photos of the TV, because my grandma wanted the same hair as some broad from “Dallas” and that’s what she would do so she could have a picture to take to the salon. She taught me well, so in the 90s I snapped an entire roll of film during one of Carrie Brady’s scenes on Days of Our Lives and took it to the salon and wound up with nothing like it because I’m not my grandma and spent all of the 90: crying post-salon trips. 

Hashtag Grandma Goals, for real. I need to step up my game in a BIG WAY so my future grandkids’ response to old photos of me won’t be “hnnnnnggggg.” 

Beehive, maybe?

2016 has not been kind to musicians, man. Yesterday, when Glenn mumbled that Prince had died, it kind of felt like time had stopped for a minute, like I was hearing him say those words while drowning in the deep end of a pool.

 The only silver lining to these major celebrity deaths is the brief “coming together” stage of grief. Even if it’s just reading people’s posts on Facebook about the first Prince song they ever heard, or the time they went to one of his concerts—I like knowing these things about people.

So while everyone was sharing their favorite Prince songs on Twitter and Facebook, I’m kind of shocked that my mind didn’t go straight to When Doves Cry, because DAMN, THAT SONG. However, the first Prince-related memory that popped into my head was actually not from my beloved 80s, but the 90s. It was the first album he released after changing his name to the love symbol. I was in middle school and listened to the ever-loving fuck out of that CD on my bad-ass Aiwa stereo.

But most of all, I listened to “The Morning Papers.” It wasn’t a super successful single from what I remember, but there was something about it that resonated with me. Look, I love 80s-era Prince, but his early-90s work was just bananas to my ears and it soundtracked a very pivotal time in my life when I was starting to really piece together my own identity, culminating in my inevitable entrance into the Yo Girl Years. (Junior high was rough, you guys.)

And don’t even get me started on “Love Sign,” his jam with Nona Gaye. So many memories of begging my mom for Karl Kani boots while that song played on the radio.

But of course, I can’t find either of those songs on YouTube so just go buy the albums or make it up in your head if you’ve never heard of them.

Wait! Here’s a live performance of The Morning Papers from Arsenio Hall, lol:

This sucks. Another piece of my childhood shattered. SOMEONE PLEASE WATCH OVER PHIL COLLINS.

Sharing these photos has been really cathartic for me. If you’re still visiting my blog even through all my mopiness and ridiculously embarrassing navel-gazing (yes, I’m aware, but I can’t stop!), then thank you, baes. I like sharing my woes with the world. I’m just a generous kind of broad.

  Chooch inverted that crucifix the other day and I was like, “BOY! NOT WHEN WE’RE TWO DAYS AWAY FROM GOING TO A BIRTHDAY PARTY IN A CHURCH.” Shit, son.

  
The sunset was pastel AF the other night when I was leaving. I miss living on this street a lot sometimes. There is so much wildlife everywhere! Deer and turkey just like, casually stroll down the lane together, like it’s no big deal. And Henry pointed out a possum the other night when we were leaving. When I still lived at home, we used to have sheep as pets, for Christ’s sake. (And a blood-thirsty rabbit.)

I never noticed these faces on the dining room mirror before.

At one time, this porch was entirely open. Corey and I have been shaking Val down for Original House details. (There was a fire at one point and it was rebuilt into what it is today.) She pointed out that in one of downstairs bathrooms, there was a window where a mirror currently hangs, and that’s where she used to sneak out of the house, haha. Also?! Her bedroom pre-house fire was the current clown room! Which actually was never really called the clown room by anyone but me.

It was technically considered the “stereo room.”

I mean, here’s the carpet:

I’d like to curl up and die on that carpet. BIG FUCKING EMO SAD SACK SIGH.

Found a stack of these in a bathroom drawer.
  

Chooch’s new bae. He’s been spending so much time there that now he’s starting to have dreams about the house, which makes me sad, but at least it’ll live on in someone else’s memory now too I guess? He said he’s going to start writing it into his Amethyst story and my heart was basically pumping confetti and smaller, baby hearts into my chest.

Yesterday we made Val order us pizza (lol) and Chooch insisted on eating at the dining room table, which I swear to god probably hasn’t been used since…1983? I remember my grandparents had a really big Christmas dinner one year with lots of extended family, and people sat in the dining room, in the living room at a long table, and also at the kitchen table. There were people everywhere but more importantly, there were presents for me everywhere, too!  #spoiledbrat

#formalpizzaparty #whysoformal #usingthegoodpapertowels

  

This fucking bowling game was always so frustrating, even back when it was new and should have worked properly.

Music was clearly super important in this house. There were speakers all over the house so that you could listen to whatever was playing in the clown room, or the kitchen, etc. There was always music playing in the kitchen when I was growing up and I think that’s a big reason why I always leave the radio on in my bedroom.

I had so many good hangouts in this room during my teen years! This is the largest of the three game rooms in the basement.

Glass guns filled with wine, which Henry discovered in a drawer.

ALONG WITH A PROJECTOR!!

This is the carpet in the game room we always referred to as “the pool room” because, you know, that’s where the pool table is.
  I used to be so good at PacMan, but my Pappap was a champion.

I loved fucking around with the intercom system when I was a kid, making it squawk and being generally annoying which I know sounds shocking.

Corey was fiddling with the one in the den and it still works kind of! We heard Henry and Chooch outside. I never actually knew how to properly work those things, though.

That time Corey turned the corner and didn’t expect anyone to be there.

MORE TOM SELLECK!

This house needs preserved,  you know? Some of the things inside there, you just don’t see anymore. How does that quote go? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. LOL. My life is that quote AF right now.

This post is full of pictures, so if you’re a member of the GET OVER IT camp, you are permitted to peace out now. :) I AM ACCOMMODATING EVEN IN MY EMOTIONAL STUPOR! Anyway, this is one of the walls in the den, featuring some framed baby prints of yours truly. Also my aunt Susie and some old people. The den is one of the only…how do you say…subdued rooms in the house. The wall paper in that room is textured, and I used to always scratch it with my nails, probably while watching HUNTER, who knows. I would be lying if I said I haven’t been sneaking in some gentle wall-scratches lately. Creature comforts, old habits, etc.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pinched my fingers in that goddamn gate!

GIRRRRL, cover up.

Sharon was way into Cabbage Patch Kids in the 80s. She used to fly to Babyland, USA once a year to buy whatever those special ones were, I don’t know. I was never into it, even though she tried to get me to be. She bought me a preemie once (how weird is it now to think that you could get “premature” versions of Cabbage Patch Kids??) and I thanked her by repeatedly bashing its head off the road in front of my old house in South Park. (Sylvania Dr., holla!)

Henry found a drawer with a stash of Cabbage Patch Kids birth certificates the other day and just sighed.

When I was really young, the Christmas tree was in this room and we ate in the adjacent dining room. But then my grandma started inviting less people so we started having more informal Christmases on the porch.  I didn’t care where the tree was as long as there was a veritable toy store wrapped underneath it with MY NAME on it.

#COBWEBS

I’ve really been trying to take advantage of the situation by spending as much time over there as possible. Henry keeps saying that I’m too involved, too immersed, too obsessed…maybe the obsessed part is true, but I firmly believe that this is where I need to be right now, taking the time to go through the drawers and closets, remembering my old plastic bowling set that I used to play with on the indoor porch; the paper mache mail holder I made for my grandma (which is still intact 30+ years later!); the smell of the cedar closet where my old, baby fur coats still hang.

I gotta find that Bruce Willis cassette.

I am grateful for this time I was given, in spite of the circumstances. Plus, Corey and I collected a shitload of new hashtags that mean nothing to no one but crack us the fuck up.#SMELLMYGLOVE #POSTALBINSORGTFO #GOFUCKYOURSELF #DAWNSBLOCKOFCHEESE

Life, AMIRITE?!

But on a happier note, here are some things I’ve brought home and I promise to give them many more years of life.

My Aunt Sharon was apparently really into Magnum PI in the 80s and always had this padded Tom Selleck…art piece (?) hanging on her wall. Henry found it in a closet last weekend and I was like, “I HAVE TO HAVE THIS.” I mean, c’mon. First, Chooch was like, “This is hideous.” Then, Chooch was like, “Can we hang him in my room?”

“DO YOUR FUCKING HOMEWORK OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE ‘STACH, BOY!”

I promised Henry I wouldn’t take every single clown in the house even though he so very sweetly (and smartly) said he didn’t care either way, but there are several that I do want to keep because MEM’RIES.

LIGHT THE CORNERS OF MY MIND.

(This whole thing is bringing out my inner Old Person.)

And this beaut! I’m no doll expert, but Kara put on her Creepy Doll Investigator’s Hat, jammed a cigar in her mouth, and reported back that this is a Little Miss No Name doll, and that the ones with the tears are rare!

She fits in super well in my house.

More later!