Trufax: When all of my friends were head over heels in love with Alanis Morissette in high school, I wasn’t impressed. I remember one day on the way to tennis practice, my friend Christy was like, “You should listen to this, I bet you would like it” and I all, “Nah bro, that’s too white for me.” If it wasn’t being reviewed by Rap Pages or The Source magazines, then I wasn’t interested. I didn’t hate Alanis like I hate Katy Perry, it wasn’t like that at all. She just wasn’t my thang.

(She was Corey’s thang, though. I have live footage of him singing a mangled rendition of “Ironic” when he was 4. And hoo boy, was it interesting!)

But then one day in 1998 (my Golden Year), I was in the car with my mom and she cried, “HAVE YOU HEARD THIS SONG YET?!?!” as Alanis’s most recent track began playing on the radio. I rolled my eyes at first because once my mom hit her 40s, her taste in music became way less respectable. That fucking Lonestar song was her favorite song for at least 7 straight years, tied only with Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide.” Ugh, please don’t let that happen to me.

(As if.)

So I expected this song to be pure, homogenized shit.

But it wasn’t. It was fucking haunting and creepy and it made the hairs on my arms stand erect.

I went out and bought the City of Angels soundtrack specifically for “Uninvited.”

***************

Henry and I were just waking up on Easter morning when that goddamn Goo Goo Doll’s song, “Iris,” came on the bedroom radio. I have been waking up in a sour mood lately, the byproduct of a zillion conflicting emotions crashing into each other like blind people in a mosh pit, and because of this, I got very angry at this song.

“I can’t believe that this song is still being played on the radio when it was like, the least best song on the City of Angels soundtrack!” I cried into the side of Henry’s face. “DON’T YOU REMEMBER HOW SICK THAT ALANIS TRACK WAS?

!”

And he sleepily mumbled that no, no he did not remember. So I fumbled for my phone, because that is my favorite thing to do, cull up songs that he apparently has no recollection of. And then I placed in on his pillow, volume maxed out, right next to his ear. It’s his favorite way to fully wake up.

That moment was the first time in probably 15 years that I have heard “Uninvited,” and goddamn if my arm hairs didn’t stand just as erect.

I have obviously fallen down the 1998 rabbit hole and I don’t want to come back. I’ll send post cards. And a Delia*s catalog. And then when I come back, I’m making a Spotify playlist.

Because that year, that whole entire year, was my motherfucking jam.

11 comments

Thankfully, being snap-happy runs in my family, so my bro Corey was always taking Polaroids when he was 8. The day after she died, he texted me this photo he took right after I brought her home in 1998. I’m so glad that he did, even though it made me cry, because it also brought back good memories.

I know I told this story before, but IDGAF. I was working at Olan Mills when I was 18, and one day the proof consultant mentioned that her neighbor’s cat had kittens, and there was one left that they were trying to place. My family was NOT into cats. I had barely ever even been around any cats, so the whole time I’m like, “Erin don’t do it—” but it was too late — my hand had already shot in the air, and I had claimed this kitten.

The next day, this tiny, weeks-old fur ball was waiting for me in a box near my work station. You guys, this is no joke: this might have been the first time I ever got heart-eyes. My boss Gladys wanted me to name her Shaniqua or something equally as dumb, but I knew right away that she was going to be Marcy. I was really into alternative rock back then, and Marcy’s Playground was the shit, y’all. It was Marcy or GTFO.

Though I did have a wide array of “a/k/a”s for her, such as: Mitch, MadgeOla, Smidge, Maybe It’s Maybelline, Pretty Rainbow Sparkles, Jock Strap (???), Plumey (because of her big, full tail), YoYo Berry, Girly SueSue, and Shark Attack. But her full, God-given name was Marciples von Schlugenhusen.

I couldn’t believe that she was the last one in the litter. How was she not the first one adopted?! I feel sorry for the people who opted for the other kittens, because they have no idea that they passed over the sassiest, bossiest, most motherfucking regal feline in all of the land. Their loss, my gain.

My rocky relationship with Psycho Mike was ending around this time, and there’s no way I could have known how much I needed her. Marcy was like a 24-hour therapy session, with bright blue eyes, soft fur, and a propensity for stealing my food right off my plate and taking up most of my pillow space. The healing process started as soon as she stormed her way into my life.

Janna and I used to take her for drives around town, because I had always had dogs as pets and thought that this was a normal thing. Turns out, nope. She wasn’t really down with that, so we eventually gave up.

Marcy accumulated an eclectic array of interests and disinterests in her 17 years.

She hated: me, laughter, Janna, children, the other cats, the mailman, the gas man (notably the one who called her “that dog”), bubbles, having her tail touched, being pointed at (she would come at you), being tic-tac’d (I would tap her on the back and then turn and pretend it wasn’t me), having yacht rock dance parties, when I would hold her up to the mirror and cry MOMMY AND MITCH IN THE MIRRORRRRR, God.

She loved: Henry, Satan, Frostys, Cool Ranch Doritos, the taste of blood, the smell of fear, destroying puzzles, game board-blocking, going outside with Henry’s mom, yelling at birds through the window, when I would rub an ice cube on her in the summer and say OOOOH, NICE N’ COO! (OK, maybe not the last part), having a reputation, generally being left alone.

It occurred to me the other day that Marcy was in my life longer than my Pappap was. This utterly blew my mind. If you have never had a pet, maybe this seems absurd, but she had as much impact on me as he did. They were both strong, positive constants in my life; two very different beings from which I felt comfort and familiarity. He was my entire childhood; she was my entire adulthood up to this point. And it’s pretty ironic, because my Pappap hated cats with a passion. No one in my family ever even THOUGHT about getting a cat while he was around. So it’s giving me a little bit of peace to think of them together right now, my Pappap trying hard to pretend that he doesn’t like her. You know, like she did with me. <3

 

 

5 comments

Because not only am I cat lady, but a cat lady with waaaaay too much nervous energy in her brain, I used to keep a LiveJournal for Marcy back in the day (one of approximately 12 LiveJournals that I used to ghost write; I was way more insane in my 20s, apparently).

I thought today would be fun to share some tales from her secret life. Because I am mourning, so you all must be sucked into this hole with me. CLEARLY.

(On the real, don’t worry about me. I will mourn and grieve and post pictures and stories about her and then I will be able to accept the fact that she is gone and in peace, and we can all move on with our lives. Just….give me a few decades  weeks.)

Anyway, here are a few entries from the Diary of Marciples von Schlugenhusen.

****************

December 9th, 2004: Marcy Has a Necklace

I would like to share a photograph with you mortals. I think it will paint a vivid picture of my superiority.

Here, you can see I am modeling exotic bling. How did such fine jewelry come to be in my possession, you ask?

The year was 1923, and Father had presented me with an all expense paid trip to visit Uncle Adolf Hitler while he was imprisoned in Landsberg. I was fresh out of Infernal Boarding School, which was situated in a hidden location in a small Bavarian town. But that’s a tale for another time.

Uncle Adolf was filled with jubilance upon seeing me enter the visiting quarters. We sat at a table and immersed ourselves in deep heated discourse about Jews, Communism, making dolls branded with the swastika just in time for the holidays. Oh how my skin burns when I think of Christmas, but I was always out to make a quick buck back then. I can recollect Uncle Adolf filling my head with ideas and outlines for his book, Mein Kampf. It is a very little known fact that I was his ghostwriter. I am currently in the process of schooling my daughter Wilhemina of all the glorious (some humans may argue that the proper word is ‘glorified,’ but they are ones who were too imbecilic to fully understand the genius of my Uncle) musings procured from that volume.

Before my visit came to an end, Uncle Adolf insisted that I take this jeweled pendant with me, as a keepsake.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have demonic spirits to conjure.

****

August 2005: Where Marcy Gets Sea Monkeys

She gave me Sea Monkeys as a means to teach me “responsibility.” Is she kidding? I thought that apprenticing under Pol Pot in 1976 was an exercise in responsibility.

No? Well, then I suppose staring at a container of swimming parasites will do the trick.

Oh, marvelous! Now I’m barraged with memories of my time with Pol. I’ll never forget the day we sat on a tuft of prairie grass, picnicing on a buffet of Cambodia’s finest examples of cuisine, such as Nim Chow and sticky rice with a succulent mango curry, when Pol mused out loud that he was unable to think of a plan to get his genocide agenda underway. Licking the peanut sauce from beneath a nail, I lazily suggested starvation. That Pol, he went wild for my idea!

Anyway. This lady is crazy if she thinks I can be trusted with this, although there’s not really anything there for me to sink my teeth into–do these floating germs even contain blood?

She keeps pressing my face against the container walls and cooing about how happy I am that I have my very own pets, when really I’m smacking my lips and imagining lounging pool-side, slurping down a mouthful of brisk Sea Monkey water through a twisted straw. Mmm, quenching.

But in all reality, I give it one day before that kid Lucky knocks it off the windowsill. Bye bye, Sea Monkeys. I’m not your baby-sitter.

July 2006: Marcy Reminisces About Her Past 

Oh diary, you which hold the annals of my life, how sorry I am to have neglected you. The days are long and exhausting for me lately; the heat unbearable. It brings back laborious memories of traversing the torrid Sahara, en route to Cleopatra’s abode for holiday. My caravan would parlay to see who would have to attack passing nomads in order to acquire purloined provisions. The taxing journey was worth it, for upon arrival, Cleo would snap her cat o’ nine tails at her bow-legged servants, who would in turn scamper off to draw us a bath of warm milk and urine.

How did you think I kept my skin so supple?

Listen to me, rambling on and on about dear Cleo.

I was inspired to pull out some dusty photograph albums and oh how the memories flooded back when I brushed the dust from this photo:

Julius Caesar himself had commissioned one of his own Roman artists to capture our likeness on that balmy, languid afternoon. I remember it so fondly, as it was mere moments after I fed a baby to Cleo’s pet asp, Spot.

But alas, these are but memories, and then I remember that is the 21st century and am treated as nothing more than a mere house cat.

And for the record, that new half human who lives in my house has very meaty thighs in which I long to sink my teeth.

*****September 2006: Marcy Endures a Post-Baptism PartyThat damn child was — dare I say? — baptized on Sunday. Can you imagine? She and all of her disgusting friends gathered around an altar while a vile priest (I spit!) anoints the small human with stinky oil and holy water (oh, I shudder to think!).

I am quite positive that her friend Brian played a hearty part in this affair, being affiliated with Christ-like things and all. To think I used to let him lull me to sleep with the soothing aural candy which would pour out from between his lips. A pox on him, I say.

And then, after gathering holy dust all amongst the fibers of their clothing, she and all of her cohorts came back to my house to “break the bread,” as the sniveling Catholics say. The very flesh beneath my fur seared from the exposure to the leftover church-y particles being circulated throughout the air I breathe.

Oh, Father in Hell, I cried out your name and plead for mercy.

And then came the despicable display of affection bestowed upon the small human. People waiting their turn to lift the hefty sack of flesh into their arms, pretending that they do not care about the bag of shit in which he was swaddled. Why do humans get such joy in having saliva drizzled onto their clothing, straight from the mouth of another human? It is pure repulsion.

But then an odd turn of events occurred: Attention turned onto myself.

“That is the evil cat!” people would exclaim at random.

“Do not pet that cat! She will hurt you!” others would warn their friends.

I took this as my cue to saunter around the room, tail held up with pristine stature. I would stop at the feet of the oblivious and emit melodious purrs from my mouth, willing them to reach down with one of their flesh-padded palms for me to strike.

And strike I did, with unrelenting zest. Soon, the crowd forgot all about the child, and he retreated to his cage for an afternoon nap while I worked the room, scavenging drops of vittles as I went.

All in all, it turned out to be a good day.

*****

 November 2006: Marcy Is Thankful for Things

Currently, I’m enjoying the serene quiet now that the child napping. I really wish she wouldn’t leave the door to his bedroom shut, because I’d love to go in there and prove the folk lore true. Nothing beats baby breath for breakfast.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, yet another holiday that Father and I do not celebrate because the pilgrims were God-fearing assholes. Yet, there are things in this world that I appreciate.

What am I thankful for, you ask, dear diary? I am thankful for pestilence, poverty, and pollution. I am thankful for denigration, dismemberment, and death. I am grateful for W., war, and wholesale murder. Terrorism, thieving, and Tiananmen Square in 1989.

But mostly, I am thankful for the few hours of solitude I’ll get to lavish tomorrow when that bitch takes her wretched son to her grandmother’s house for dinner. I’ll get some privacy to work on my Nazi mural and some leftover turkey to gormandize once they return.

*****

Marcy’s Album Cover

I am a singer.

Yes, it’s true. My producer has likened me to a demonic Kylie Minogue, but I have moves like Beyonce. The only reason I am telling you this, diary readers, is because over the weekend, my likeness was captured in such a sultry pose, with slats of sunlight showering my fur, that I knew in an instant it would be my album cover.

Behold, Von Schlugenhusen’s Fuck My War, Kiss My Hate.

I have the skeletons of a few songs in demo-form, but I am not willing to share those with you, diary readers, for fear of a world-wide Internet leak. I’m still waiting to hear back from Dimmu Borgir and Mortiis, as I propositioned them for cameo appearances, and Charlie Manson promised he’d record something in the spoken-word vein, of which I can mix snippets into interludes. Then it’s off to Norway to record.

*****

October 2007: Marcy Makes a List

1. A piggy bank

2. A safe for my drugs and medallions

3. Stew

4. Winter parka

5. Stepstool

6. Guitar strings

What are: Things I can use that baby for after I slaughter him.

6 comments

One day last December, I woke up hungry for Howard Jones, as one often does. As I turned on Spotify with my blood-stained unicorn horn, I casually asked myself, “I wonder if Howard Jones is touring?” HoJo has been on my Concert Bucket List for years and years and years. Like Mike+the Mechanics, he represents a good chunk of my childhood, although the emotions behind it are way  more upbeat and cheerful because I associate him almost solely with ROLLERSKATING. It was kind of weird that these two shows happened to fall back-to-back.

He was playing at the Trinity Cathedral downtown Cleveland, and I was totally relieved when Henry did some sleuthing (a/k/a actually reading the church’s website) and found out that there was on-site parking. One less thing for me to worry about! Except he didn’t tell me that parking was $10, which had to come out of my merch fund, ugh!

Janna and I got there about 15 minutes before doors. The line wasn’t long at all, and honestly a quick scan learned me that Janna and I were the youngest fans there so far. I figured the line would be relatively obnoxious BUT I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG. This terrible old couple slinked into line right behind us and proceeded to engage in the most banal banter about nursing home food. The wife had a monotone midwestern lilt and I kept mouthing, “I’m going to fucking kill her” to Janna, who looked like she was being pushed to her limits, you guys, which is saying a lot because Janna works with behaviorally-damaged adults. (Is that a real term? I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S OK TO SAY THESE DAYS.)

Once the doors opened and we made inside the lobby, the wife started FREAKING THE FUCK OUT, albeit monotonally, because the event staff kept telling everyone to have their IDs ready.

“I DON’T HAVE MY LICENSE WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ARE THEY GOING TO MAKE ME LEAVE.” <—This, over and over, even though her husband kept saying, “I don’t know.” Have these people never in their 89 years been to a concert before? Good lord. Maybe you should have stayed home and binge-watched “All In the Family,” Edith.

Then Janna was all excited because she saw some girl trip on her way to the bathroom and play it off by acting like she was just breaking into a sprint.

The line moved pretty quickly and soon Janna and I had our drinking wristbands on since we were smart enough to bring our IDs, Edith. A second line formed after we had our tickets scanned, and this one snaked into a room with a makeshift bar and  the most entertaining bartender who was determined to get everyone drunk, even if they didn’t want to get out of line.

Janna got a $9 mixed drink.

Janna’s $9 mixed drink.

I wasn’t going to drink at first, but then I was like “FUCK IT I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH CASH ON ME TO GET A SHIRT NOW ANYWAY” thanks to Henry not telling me about the NOT-FREE parking lot. So I bought a $6 cup of wine and it was just enough to make me not want to fly home and give Henry a Mexican necktie for ruining my life.

Then some dude in charge was walking around telling everyone that the show was going to be filmed and explained that it was going to be held in the Cathedral itself, which was a happy surprise for me because I just assumed it was going to be in some annex-type thing. When the line started moving again and we slowly made our way into the main part of  the Cathedral, my breath got all caught up in my atheistic throat and memories of when I believed in God came fluttering back. It was good. Just nice little tingles of comfort and familiarity and not the skin-searing sensation of spontaneous combustion that you’d expect from me crossing the threshold of God’s House.

Religion aside, I honestly do love churches and cathedrals for their architectural aesthetics and history. Just being there made the hair stand up like little erect penes on my arms.

The first 15 or so rows were reserved, but we managed to snag good seats — well, my seat was good, but Janna was irritated because some tall broad planted herself in front of Janna and then never moved. I think Amazonian may have kind of clapped once, but it might have been an accident. But from my spot, I was able to see Howard and his hot pink blazer the whole time, in your face JANNA!

The girl who tripped on the way to the bathroom ended up being in the first row, so who’s laughing now, I guess.

The only downside of the night was the opener. It was just supposed to be this singer-songwriter, Cobi Mike, but apparently at the last minute the event organizers snagged some local Cleveland Ashanti wannabe — Nefertiti. Guys, you know I love me some R&B, but this wasn’t the night for it. Nefertiti came out looking like Miss America, with Cobi in all denim accompanying her on guitar. It just didn’t make sense from the start. Luckily, she only sang three songs, two of which were covers. The first one she explained was by “a virtual band who present themselves as cartoons.”

But she never said it was Gorillaz.

“Maybe she thinks everyone here is too old to know who they are,” Janna said. I mean, there were A LOT of old people there.

The second song was one of her originals and get this you guys—it was about LOVE. What a strange theme for a song.

The third was the Beatles’ “Blackbird” and I made a flying-bird motion with my hands when it was almost over, because bitch fly the fuck home. She was a real snooze-fest. Henry probably would have loved her.

After she left the stage, Cobi Mike went on to perform 6 songs and I was INTO IT. Janna said she lost interest after the first two songs, probably because he wasn’t doing any Bloodhound Gang covers. Because that seems like something that would make Janna get out of her seat, I don’t know.

Here’s a Cobe Mike song I found on YouTube to give you an idea of his Hot Angel face, I mean…smooth voice:

When he comes to Pittsburgh, I’m going. Just not with JANNA, I guess, since she HATES HIM.

After Cobi’s set, we went to the bathroom but nothing good happened there aside from two old broads having a conversation with each other over top of my stall. On the way back, we got stuck in some bottlenecked corridor while Nefertiti was doing a meet and greet, but I think it was actually just her family who came out to see her. But Jesus Christ, go somewhere else and tell her how proud you are! I eventually just barreled my way through with no excuse mes given because I don’t like her.

And then Janna saw someone she knows and got all hair-in-face covert about it, so I of course had to text Corey about it on the ASAP because we love texting about Janna’s comings and goings. Then Janna showed me the guys who have recently viewed her dating profile and that was enjoyable. Lots of black men in their 50s.

Right before Howard, the Cathedral’s pastor came out in a bitchin’ leather jacket to talk to us about her vision for the church in the 21st century, how this new concert series they’ve been dabbling in has been so successful, but to please remember that this is still God’s House at the end of the day, so please don’t make a mess. Since this wasn’t a Warped Tour crowd, I figured the church was pretty safe.

BUT THEN IT WAS HOWARD JONES TIME!!!! He came out on the wings of celestial synth and if someone had interviewed me right then, it would have been all, “*SQUEAL! SQUEAL! SQUEAL!*” He walked around the crowd a little bit before joining his band on stage and I was just like, “UGH JANNA!!!” because I wanted him to walk just a little bit further to where we were. I would have pushed the broad next to me aside for one quick touch.

The sound was obviously incredible. I can’t imagine a better venue—it was so intimate and the crowd was great. There were tons of old bitches throwing themselves around in fantastical 1980s prom revisitations. I hope I still have fun like that when I’m old. I’ll probably at least still be heckling Janna, and that’s definitely fun!

He played all of his big hits and I was having synthgasms all up in that ecclesiastical piece. Synthpop is one of my all-time favorite genres of music and to hear it live is always such a dream. It makes me feel such happiness all the way to the core — there was no weeping at this show. It was all sing-alongs and bouncing and screaming. When Henry was “courting” me (lol), he played off this fact about me and made me synthpop mixed CDs and bought me compilations from A Different Drum. Henry was such a catch back then! (Fine. I guess he still is.)

My earliest memory of Howard Jones was in 1984. One of the network TV stations had a show called Friday Night Videos, and my dad used to keep a blank VHS tape in the VCR, waiting to hit “record” when songs he liked would come on. Howard Jones’ “New Song” was one of those videos, and if I knew then what I know now, I’d have cried, “This is the fucking jam!”

When I moved out of the house at 18, I slipped that VHS tape of videos, with its shoddy masking tape label, into one of my boxes. Because that tape was my everything as a kid! Sure, it means nothing now in the age of YouTube, but—there are some 80s commercials on it, and about 8 minutes of Days of Our Lives. It’s a fucking time capsule.

It’s funny: my relationship with my step-dad was strained and dysfunctional, but he inadvertently managed to cultivate my musical tastes. I didn’t get that from my mom.

This should be everyone’s anthem. Throw off your mental chains!

Here is his set list, in case you’re reading this and know who Howard Jones is, and if you still don’t, I linked to some of his most popular videos because I’m thorough like that (sometimes):

• Pearl in the Shell
• Like to Get to Know You Well
• Everlasting Love
• Joy
• No One Is To Blame
• The Prisoner
• Life in One Day
• The Human Touch
• What Is Love?
• New Song
• Hide and Seek
• Hold On To Your Heart
• Things Can Only Get Better
• Things Can Only Get Better – techno reprise

Howard’s keyboard stand changed colors and now I desperately want to get one for Chooch. When I showed it to Henry, he smirked and said, “Good luck with that.” WHY DON’T YOU BE A REAL FATHER AND MAKE ONE, THEN?!

On the way out, I noticed that there were empty cups and other various refuse all over the place. What fucking assholes. Even old people can’t be civilized at shows.

 

And thankfully for Henry’s ballsack, Howard’s merch table took credit cards, so I was able to get a shirt after all.

I still get so giddy just thinking about being in a cathedral with Howard Jones! But I still had a 2.5 hour drive home in the dark, fueled by extreme hyperactivity from the day’s events, and hilarity over the fact that the combined effort of Janna and I nearly couldn’t figure out the headlights on the fucking rental car. I was actually driving a few miles without them on, but then we stopped at Sheetz for coffee and Janna stood in front of the car while I twisted the dial every which way.

Once we were on the road again, Janna said, “I’m glad we have headlights now.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, tearing into my Melt leftovers, and then realized that I had forgotten to turn them back on after I got gas. OH, HOW WE LAUGHED. And then I almost cried because I was tired but giddy. We got back to Pittsburgh around 2AM but then I couldn’t fall asleep until 3:30. I woke up at 6:30AM on Sunday, so that did wonders for  my mood disorders. But, worth it!

You guys, I saw Howard Jones! The only way that night could have been any better would be it was at Spinning Wheels and I was ten-years-old again.

 

2 comments

Earlier tonight, I was inspired to listen to music that makes me want to die, which is Henry’s absolute favorite activity to watch me participate in! After The Used’s “Blue & Yellow” (which I haven’t been able to listen to in its entirety for years), I switched over to Armor For Sleep.

“Why do you torture yourself?” Henry sighed in a rhetorical fashion, because he knows why. He might  not understand it, but he knows the answer.

“I’d give anything—-” I started to say, but my voice got strangulated by impending tears. “—to see Armor For Sleep again.”

Henry just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

I listened to this album A LOT on my drives to Cincinnati in 2005 and it still holds up so well, ten years later. Such a sorely underrated band. You should listen to them. Would it make any of you 30 Rock fans more interested if I told you that the singer Ben Jorgensen is married to Katrina Bowden?

But seriously, if they would get back together for just one last tour….I’d drive to Cincinnati again for that.

Emo forever.

3 comments

HEY GANG. Today have a vintage Erin and Henry post about the first time we went to the flea market together in 2005. This was also back when we hated each other, so read between the lines, I guess is what I’m saying, oh ho ho ho. 

************

I’ve only ever been to a flea market once in my life (I’m a reformed Versace-girl, remember). That was in high school, and it was only a quick jaunt for my friend Jon to pick up some cheap cigarettes. I remember wanting to stay longer so I could look for cool things like slap bracelets and ugly lamps, but Jon reminded me that we had more important things to do, like sit and drink coffee at Denny’s for five hours.

So when Henry pressed his luck and threw “flea market” into the Sunday Morning suggestion box, I shrugged and said, “Maybe.” After learning he would buy me trinkets of affection (and shameless bribery), I hurriedly changed my vote to a yea.

I was eager to experience this so-called bargain circus with my frugal, blue-collared boyfriend, who is no doubt quite familiar with spotting a deal. Hopefully he could show me the ropes. At the very least, maybe it would turn into another social experiment, like when one of my ex boyfriends tried to show me how to grocery shop with coupons.

The flea market we attended was set up inside an old movie theater, with the excess spilling out into the back parking lot. Henry wore a proud look of “welcome to my world” on his face, as he steered the car through aisles of limping elderly and spandexed women. I saw fanny packs and torsos sausaged into crop tops everywhere I turned.

Feeling a swell of excitement as he parked between two Nascar bumper stickered cars, I whipped out my lip gloss for a touch-up.

“Are you kidding me? Did you not see the people we drove past? No one cares how you look! It’s a flea market.” But I like to look nice while I’m shopping! He stood next to the car with crossed arms until I dolefully returned the lip gloss to my purse.

We entered the converted theater and Henry seemed to be harboring some hesitation. Maybe he was regretting bringing me?

Once my eyes adjusted, I scoffed and whispered, “Oh my God, this stuff is so dumb! People actually buy this?” causing Henry to grip my elbow and push me along the aisle.

“Stupid. Ugly. Dumb. Whoa…..what’s that?” On a table to my right sprawled a sparking strand of exquisite black baubles suitable for any good Zsa Zsa Gabor impersonator (I should know — I dressed as her once in fifth grade). I held the necklace in my hand and allowed the coolness of the black gems to sink into my palm. This must be a thousand million dollars, I thought to myself in disdain. My eyes furtively sought the table for some sort of price tag, when they landed on a sign that said “All necklaces, $2.”

Be still my heart, I swooned! Pivoting on my heels, I silently implored Henry with wide eyes, necklace clutched to my heart. He rolled his eyes and passed me two dollar bills. When I looked at him in confusion, he said irritably, “Go give it to that old woman behind the table.” I didn’t know! God.

My first flea market purchase! I skipped back toward Henry and gloated in his face. “That’s great, now watch where you’re walking.” He was jealous, that’s all. This is when it occured to me that perhaps my depression could be attributed to lack of accessorizing. So I embarked on a mission for more gaudy adornments.

Twenty seconds later and Henry had lost me. While he continued to walk ahead, I had been drawn over to a table boasting brilliantly colored wooden necklaces. I fawned over them with glazed eyes until Henry made his way back to my side.

“I’m buying these two. Give me money.” When Henry’s hand failed to move toward his pocket, I made like I was going to cause a scene and he hurriedly slapped a twenty in my hand.

I wore the necklace pictured later that day when we went to lunch and each time the waitress would stop at our table, I would flip my hair dramatically over my shoulder and wait for the inevitable shriek of “Oh my god that necklace is so great! Where did you get it!” Alas, she never noticed (Henry maintains that she noticed, alright, but just didn’t care).

Quickly deciding that I was going to empty his pockets if we stayed inside amongst all the “nice” merchandise, he decided to take me out to the parking lot where all the junk was set up. On our way out there, an old woman careened into Henry with a rolled up rug and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry dear heart.” I made a mental note of calling him that for the rest of the day, but it became a fleeting memory once we walked out the doors and were barraged by blaring country music and the dueling aromas of soul food and teriyaki chicken. What a mix.

I shielded my eyes and took in the sea of slipshod tools, bargain cleaning products, and board games with missing pieces. We flipped through stolen DVDs and crates of cracked CD cases; I’ll never see more Rick Astley CDs in all my lifetime if I try.

People bounded from table to table, like locusts, grabbing up armfuls of batteries, watering cans adorned with giant plastic daisies, and Barbie clothes. Underneath small tents, more people pushed and shoved to get a better look at VHS selections, dollar store Christmas decorations and faded Steelers shirts.

I had grown accustomed to paying only $1-$2 for things that caught my eye, so when I’d see price tags demanding a lofty $5 and up, I’d slap my hand across my chest and say things like “Astronomical!” and “Oh, sister, you’re out of your mind!” I fear that I may be forever ruined by the flea market and all of its remarkable deals.

We trudged our way up and down the aisles, Henry stepping on the backs of my flip-flops and me complaining of the pelting sun. In the middle of a train of snide remarks, I interrupted myself with a breathy “Uh-oh.”

“What does that mean, ‘uh-oh’?” Henry asked nervously. “What did you do?”

“Would you look?” I said, as I pointed vigorously to the stand on our left.

“Yeah, it’s all junk. Keep walking.” And he started ambling away, that Henry. I tugged him back over to the table and pointed again.

“I want that.”

“No, I’m not buying it. Come on.”

“But I need it! Please ask that man how much it is!” You know how when you’re a kid and you just have to have a certain toy and your parents know that you’ll never play with it so they don’t want to encourage you? That’s kind of how it is all day, every day with Henry and me.

Henry stood quietly for a few seconds, staring at the object of my desire. “My loins are burning for it, Henry! Please, it’s my dying wish!” I was yanking his arm and lurching up and down like I had to pee. I scrunched up my face and flung my hand across my forehead.

And so he finally cleared his throat and dejectedly asked the elderly black man behind the table how much the brown nudie mug would set him back.

“One dollar.”

ONE DOLLAR. Oh, my heart soared and I beamed and squealed as I watched Henry make the transaction. The man plunked it into a plastic bag and I wrestled it from Henry’s fist. “I swear to god I’ll use it everyday!” I emphatically vowed.

“Yeah? I wouldn’t,” Henry muttered as we continued along the aisles of clutter.

Still riding the waves of euphoria over my nudie mug, a shiny glint caught my eye. Stopping abruptly, I slowly turned my head to see what was causing such a dazzling glow and gasped as I collapsed back into Henry.

“No, oh no. Keep walking,” Henry’s face was awash with a stew of apprehension and horror.

“But it’s the most beautifulest thing in the world!” I breathed. “I want it. I want it! How much do you think it is?” I had to run to catch up to him, as his pace quickened significantly. “Please?!”

“You act like everything is life or death,” Henry spat as he continued to browse tables for stuff that he likes (which is all stupid stuff).

“I really think that I need this, though. I mean, I love my nudie mug, but this would make me even more happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?” That gets him every time. Every time. I knew that once we made our way back around, he would buy it for me.

What is it? Only the most glorious piece of art you’ll ever see, that’s what it is.

I walked with my head down, body rigid and consumed with panic. “What if someone buys it?”

“Um, doubtful,” Henry uttered while tossing me a fed up face.

Mere seconds later, I was entranced by a glazed ceramic figurine that resembled Big Boy, only he sported frightening lime green eyes. Standing at about a foot tall, I envisioned him perched on my fireplace mantle, keeping watch over my guests. The grizzled old guy manning the table caught me staring at it and warbled in a hoarse mountain man voice, “Anything here catch your eye?”

I wanted to clap and say, “Yes, mister! This right here! How much?” but Henry pierced through my soul with slinted eyes, and with flared nostrils he quickly shook his head “no.” As we walked away, I scuffed my feet and tried to make him understand how much I wanted it.

“That stupid thing was wearing golf clothes and it was carrying a golf bag. Why would you want that?”

“I love golf!” I was offended that he did not know this. When he denied my golfing affectations, I reminded him that I have Phil Mickelson listed as a LiveJournal interest.

“Yeah, but that’s not because you think he’s a good golfer. It’s because you’re weird.” He was still mouthing off about me being a golf fan-poseur, when I saw the most beautiful, gigantic metal bangle bracelet.

I thrust my fist through it and modeled it for all to see. The Asian woman behind the table cooed. “Yes, that’s lovely! Three dollah.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe…I can’t decide.” I scrutinized the heavy bracelet and admired how it mirrored the sun’s blinding rays. I continued to deliberate, peppering the moment with uncertainties such as “Maybe I’ll be back” and “Do I really need such an extravagant piece of jewelry adorning my wrist?” until she said, “OK fine, two dollah!”

As I walked away with my new chintzy bangle, I shielded my eyes from its blazing shine and elbowed Henry in the side. “Did you see what I did back there? Knocking her down to a cheaper price? That’s called bartering, Henry. I learned how to do that in Morocco.” Because I loooove reminding Henry that I had already traveled half the world by the time I was 13 while he was busy coloring his collar blue.

“Didn’t you hear what she said? You could have got three for $5, so wipe the smirk off your face–you were still taken.”

And then there we were, back to the table that housed the diamond in the rough. “Look at it,” I purred. “If that’s not the most beautiful—”

“Do you honestly want it?” I imagine Henry thought I was joking until he saw that my eyes were tearing up. And so he asked the seller how much it was going for and suddenly, I felt a rush of blood to my head, and the sound of crashing drums filled my ears. I braced myself for the ugly truth, willing to wager that my masterpiece was going to be too steep for Henry’s meager salary. I could hear Henry talking, but it sounded long and drawn out, like a record playing on slow speed.

I’ll tell you what, I thought my eyes deceived me, like an oasis in the desert illusion, when I saw him hand over two dollar bills. TWO DOLLARS FOR THIS PIECE OF EYE CANDY.

 

 

 

It’s like three feet long!

“I can’t believe someone bought this the first time,” Henry said disgustedly as he thrust the beauty into my greedy hands. I stared at it in awe. What a dangerous item to be placed into the care of someone as sacrilegious as myself. My mind began to whirl as I imagined all the things I could do with it. Chase Marcy around the house; slice Henry’s wrists and splatter his blood over it; use it as a TV dinner tray.

There was a brief window of fear as I wondered if the picture was so cheap because it was haunted. Like, I don’t know, maybe by the Holy Ghost? I made a mental note of hanging the picture below my devil clock; let him keep an eye out, you know?

Generally, I make Henry carry all the bags when we go shopping, but yesterday, I stingily hoarded them all for myself. Feeling my last supper picture slap against my thigh as I walked caused me great delight.

I’m hoping to shop at the flea market all the time now.

“Hey big spender, do you think it would be alright if I bought myself a hot dog?”

You know what, Henry, go and have that hot dog; I think that’ll be just fine.

[Note from the future: I was reminded me of this when I saw a similar piece to the Last Supper at Flower Child last weekend. It was the same size and made from the same material, except that instead of Jesus & Co., it was fruit and FORTY DOLLARS.]

1 comment

It was all the way back in October when I was getting ready for work and heard on the radio that Mike + the Mechanics were touring America for the first time in 25 years, and Pittsburgh was one of the stops. I freaked the fuck out and texted Henry immediately because I needed to see this.

When I was a kid, my Pappap used to drive me to school (which is probably where my fear of public transportation stems from—I never rode the bus to school!) and he went through a pretty heavy Mike + the Mechanics phase after they released The Living Years. He kept the cassette in his truck and every time the title track would play, he would thrum his fingers along the steering wheel and get real quiet. He told me once that this song made him think of his father, but because I was At That Age, I never actually bothered to ask him questions about their relationship: if it was bad, if there were things he regretted saying or not saying to him, did he miss him. So in a way, this song has always had the same effect on me, as well. And after my Pappap died in 1996, I would sometimes listen to this on purpose, just to make myself even more miserable. Because why not.

I had to go to this show, because I just couldn’t stop thinking that maybe my Pappap would be there. Dumb? Don’t care.

In addition to this, there are the other face-value factors, such as MIKE RUTHERFORD. I loved (and still love) Genesis when I was a kid, and while I got to see Phil Collins, I never had the opportunity to see Genesis. So even though M+M have two new singers who replace Paul Carrack and the deceased Paul Young, being under the same roof as Mike Rutherford was worth it to me. And the other factor is that it’s just a great fucking band with some huge hits that defined my childhood.

Every time I would hear the commercial for the show on the radio, I would tear up. And all last week, I was sick to my stomach with excitement and also anxiety, because I knew it was going to be a rough one, emotionally.

Henry and I had time to stop for dinner beforehand, and because it’s all about me, we went to the Tin Roof, a vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away from the Carnegie Music hall. The food was OK, but I’m so spoiled by Zenith that it takes a lot to impress me when it comes to vegetarian cuisine. I had carrot ginger risotto, which was slightly burnt and served on a roasted portabello mushroom; I feel like Gordon Ramsay would have called the cook a donkey over that one, but I still ate it and it was fine. Henry basically ordered the thing on the menu that had the most cheese because god forbid, No Meat.

I had some wine to calm my nerves. It didn’t work.

Thrilled to be on a date with me!

We arrived shortly before the opener went on, and I was happy to see that Henry got us the same seats we had for Goblin last year. I love balconies! And then we looked on in amusement as more and more people trickled in and Henry realized he was one of the Younger Ones for once. And if that was true, then I was practically infantile by comparison.

I love the vibe at Older People shows. You know I love my scene kid shows, but sometimes it’s nice to experience other things, too! I was about to say that older people are much more respectful and appreciative at concerts, but then I remembered the old hags I was standing behind at Afghan Whigs at Riot Fest, who never shut their fucking Botoxed faces. So we’ll just go ahead and say, “Mostly.”

Daryl Stuermer, also formerly of Genesis, opened the show at 7:30. He played some covers as well as his own solo stuff, but what I liked best was when he would talk in between songs. Especially when he told the story of when his friend urged him to audition for Genesis in 1977, and then Mike Rutherford sent him a cassette of demos.

“You seem like the type of crowd who would be familiar with cassettes,” Daryl joked and I laughed just a tad too hard, because Henry hates that.

Then when Daryl announced he was from Milwaukee, I adopted that weird growling-voice I do sometimes and said in Henry’s ear, “So was Jeffrey Dahmer.” Henry just shrugged me away from him. 

My favorite parts of Daryl’s set was when the man in front of me would pump his fist and cry out, “YES!” and then follow-up with a quieter “Yes.” Also, I enjoyed his cover of “Shock the Monkey.”

It was sometime around this point where I fell into my standard, “What if someone starts shooting?” paranoid thoughts, and then I started laughing out loud at how absurd it would be to start a story with, “That one time I got shot at a Mike+the Mechanics show.”

After Daryl peaced out, Henry and I went to the makeshift bar and I got more wine. Henry got beer or something, I guess.

And then it was time.

Everyone went nuts when they came out, and while I do love to see an old folk go apeshit, my heart was beating so rapidly that I didn’t have it in me to mock any of them for Henry. I know he felt sorely remiss. All I kept on thinking was, “OMG THIS IS HAPPENING YOU GUYS!” because “you guys” are always in my thoughts. Whoever the fuck you are.

The new singers? PHENOMENAL. I was so worried they were going to stink up the classics, but nope. Nope, nope, nope. Tim Howar was my favorite of the two: he reminded me of a young Phil Collins, ironically, vocally and appearance-wise. I fucking swear to god he kept looking up and smiling at me too, and not at the old lady in front of me, so don’t get it twisted, lady. Immediately, I was like, “OMG HENRY I HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM” and Henry was like, “He’s wearing a scarf, so…”

So I was OK, smiling and clapping a lot through the first two songs, just generally being happy to be there, when “Silent Running” happened. Earlier that day, I told Glenn, “I am going to cry so hard when they play Silent Running” because I just love that song so much and my god, the childhood memories. However, I was mostly joking. I figured I would probably tear up like I do at most shows, but what happened that night was so much more than “tearing up.” Before I even knew what was happening, tears were straight SQUIRTING out of my eyes, my face involuntarily scrunched up, and my bottom lip was quivering so badly that I was afraid I would never get it to stop.

I had gone from “Yay this is fun” to “UGLYCRY” before the vocals even kicked in. I went from “OMG TIM LOOK AT MEEEEEE!” to “OMG TIM STOP LOOKING OVER HERE, I’M A MONSTER. A WET-FACED MONSTER!!” It was seriously concerning. I mean, I’m crying right now just typing this.

And then Tim performed the Genesis track “I Can’t Dance” and if I closed my eyes, it really felt like Phil Collins was there. It was SO GOOD that I actually stopped crying for a little bit.

This bimbo in front of me was wildin’ out all night and at first I was all about it, but then After the Tears, I was so pissed off and wanted to punch her in the back of the head because I was miserable and EVERYONE AROUND ME NEEDED TO BE MISERABLE TOO. (Seriously though — she was fine. I was just being a crybaby. Literally.)

And they played “Taken In”! That was one of the many highlights I was witnessed through tear-blurred eyes. It had been a really long time since I heard that one.

But then the inevitable happened: They played “The Living Years” and I couldn’t stop it. I tried. So hard. But I began to absolutely sob and I was actually too distressed and absorbed in my own pitiful cocoon of grief to be even a little bit embarrassed about it. My whole face was spasming and soaking wet with tears, so I can only imagine what a lovely sight I was STOP LOOKING, TIM. I mean, I cry pretty much every day because I’m Erin Rachelle Kelly, but I can’t remember the last time I expelled such pent-up sadness. It was a good old-fashioned bereavement.

Every word of that song slammed against my heart like a mallet and I just felt pain. Everywhere. Like arthritis all over my body. I put my face into Henry’s chest and wailed, “This was a mistake.” Almost 20 years and it’s still like this this gaping wound that time just fucking refuses to heal. And though it was painful, it was worth it in the end. Like honoring a part of my childhood, one of the best parts of my childhood. I think my Pappap would have been happy to know I was there.

“Weren’t they incredible?” I sighed to Henry in that weird, on the verge of hiccuping voice you get when you cry like a little bitch for too long. And my Henbot 4000 blip-bleeped that “they were ok.” And then I cried about it some more in the car, because when you open the floodgates….Shows like this really make realize how much I’m carrying with me.   “You look really tired,” Janna said when Henry and I came home to relieve her of her Chooch-sitting duties. I guess that’s what an hour-long power-weep will do to you.
*********
Coincidentally, the next day Janna and I were en route to Cleveland, and because road trips are the best times to reminisce, we were talking about the stupid shit that’s happened over the course of our friendship, including the time I almost killed an FBI agent and the time I got pulled over at 3AM for going through a flashing red light in a pretty bad area of Pittsburgh and then your basic traffic violation hilarity ensued (a story for another day).

“We were listening to Mike + the Mechanics that night, you know,” Janna pointed out, and I have no idea why I can’t remember that, other than it was probably when I was going through one of my many mental crises.

*********

It felt like losing my Pappap all over again.

2 comments

For Throwback Thursday, I was revisiting old LiveJournal stories when I came across this one from 2004 that sincerely illustrates my relationship with Henry. We are exactly the same! I don’t know if I should be happy that, after 14 years, he still pays enough attention to what I’m doing to feel the need to scold me; or embarrassed that I honestly haven’t matured one tiny smidge. 

The only difference is now that we have a kid, he’s doing twice the scolding. 

Anyway, while I go back to complaining to Henry about my latest workout injuries, please enjoy Our Day at the Homewood Cemetery. 

***************

March 28th, 2004

Today at the cemetery, Henry utilized each and every phrase in his repertoire of scolding verbiage.

“Stop it!”

“Shhh!”

“Put that down!”

“You’re a fucking weirdo.”

“People go to jail for that!”

“Leave the cat alone.”

“Get down from there!”

And let’s not forget the obligatory “Grow up.” I need a new walking partner. Any takers? 

We were in one of the mausoleums and there was this one hallway that was completely dark. I was terror-stricken and started running. That constituted a “settle down” from Papa H. We couldn’t get out the one door to leave and naturally, since I’m prone to panicking, I completely forgot that there was another exit. My heart was beating so fast, and Henry started making references to “Phantasm.” (Although he originally kept saying “Hellraiser” until I corrected him. Because I’m the best.) Anyhow, we made it out safely and I informed Henry that I had chills. He was all, “That’s because it was cold in there.” He’s such a parade shitter.

The cat that I saw, though, I think was a ghost. I chased it all over the place, in spite of Henry’s warnings of rabies. 

There was a guy and girl that were cleaning off this one section of graves, and I was trying to contain my laughter, which resulted in my snorting. Henry hissed, “Some people come here for a reason, you know.” He’s such a hater.

The best is the look that he gets on his face when I randomly let loose an ear piercing shriek. Tormenting him is the best part of our relationship.

2 comments

Otherwise known as: BARB’S LAST DAY, UGH^TM.

I actually dreaded coming into work yesterday, and not just because it was Monday. I know it might seem melodramatic, all the tribute posts last week and me being a general crybaby about change, but the shock of Barb’s resignation has really impacted a lot of us here. I can honestly say that if not for Barb, I’m not sure I would have lasted this long at The Law Firm. I had always been pretty firmly against working downtown and when I was called in for an interview here five years ago, I almost didn’t go.

Seriously. I literally ran back into the house and flung myself on the bed, in full-fledged pout mode. But Henry was like, “YOU NEED TO GET A JOB BECAUSE WE ARE POOR. GO TO THIS FUCKING INTERVIEW OR YOU CAN FORGET ABOUT WARPED TOUR THIS SUMMER!” Ugh, I was so mad about it! And then I set off an alarm trying to get into the department and everyone was staring at me—it was NOT a good start.

But then some lady came around the corner and was all, “Oh are you here for the interview?” (probably what was said, I would imagine; I’m taking liberties here) and then she took me into conference room 10B (which doesn’t even exist anymore) and introduced herself as BARB AND THAT IS THE FIRST TIME I MET BARB YOU GUYS.

So, Barb and Sue interviewed me together that day and it was the first time in years that I actually felt comfortable in an interview, which I mentioned to Barb many months later and she said, “That’s funny because I remember thinking you seemed so nervous!” That’s just my normal demeanor though. I think she knows that now.

Hilariously, I remember being asked what I was doing during the day since I was currently out of work, and I told them I was an “artist.” LOLforever.

Working with Barb was awesome from day one. It didn’t even feel like I was coming to work! And every Monday, I always felt excited to come in and tell her about all the stupid things that happened over the weekend. And holy shit, we would laugh until our faces hurt over the stupidest things.

We were separated in 2012, when I joined a different part of the department (The Dark Side) and was moved to another part of the floor (basically The Saddest Hallway Ever). It was awful. Barb would always try and drop hints to management about how I should be moved back, but we knew deep down that having us split up was a dream for the bosses — we were constantly being reprimanded for talking too much, being too loud, having too much fun, being human. For the next two years, I was so sad and felt like I was rotting away in that glorified office I was stashed in.

Last June, I moved back over to the Good Side of the department, but I was still in another quadrant. And then, halfway through Barb’s Last Day, it was announced that a bunch of us are being moved around–I’M GOING BACK TO MY OLD DESK! ON BARB’S SIDE OF THE FLOOR!

And now she won’t be there. :(

What kind of dumb luck is that?!

She was in Wendy’s office yesterday right before it was time for me to leave, so I opened the door and said, “I just wanted to say—-” and then my words got all  truncated, like “goodbye” was the new “Beetlejuice.” I had to turn around and walk away because I started crying. Then I came back and tried again, and this time I had to stand and face a corner in order to get the stupid words to come out. Then in the span of .05 seconds, I accidentally shut off the lights and poked myself in the eye (an injury which is still plaguing me today, as I type this while wearing only one contact).

JUST AWFUL.*

Ugh.

*Barb leaving. But, also my eye injury. Awful.

***********

Earlier in the day, I presented Barb with her going-away present. I worked on it all weekend and laughed and cried through the whole thing. It’s a painted collection of various Law Firm memories and jokes and she pretty much acted like it was the goddamn Mona Lisa because, duh: it was from ME!

“And I have the only one! No one else has this!” she cried, and I thanked god that Glenn wasn’t within earshot, because I’m sure his kneejerk retort would have been, “And no one else WANTS one.” Although, he did surprise me that morning when I arrived at work with the painting wrapped up protectively in a garbage bag, because I had gone through a mental Rolodex of possible wise cracks he would potential monotone, like, “Pretty convenient that they make actual bags for your ‘art'” or “Oh great, bringing more garbage to work.” But he didn’t! Instead he was like, “That is nice.”

 

Most of these are explained in last week’s quasi-eulogies for Barb. I think I touched upon Last Mail in this post from last year, but this is the biggie, the one that the whole department gets. Last Mail is a beautiful enigma and I love her. Barb used to be her #1 on our floor, but then Barb made the fatal mistake of canceling lunch plans with her in 2013, and Last Mail iced her out. And you know who stepped in as New #1? THIS GIRL. I told Jeannie and Barb once recently that I imagine Last Mail talks about me at her family dinners, and refers to me as “That little angel.”

Here’s her employee ID photo (this is also how I make my Glenns, and they don’t get much bigger, sorry!):

The guy on the left is this secretary that sends in a lot of audits, which Barb then would have to scan and email back to him, and through this, they cultivated some bizarre fake-friendship, so I had to include him:

The other guy is (not) clearly Bill Paxton, whose face is frustratingly stupid to paint and I was so angry all weekend. Fuck you, Bill Paxton. I might be joining Barb’s team on this one.

And then other odds and ends to show Barb that not only do I retain the things she tells me, I WILL ALWAYS FIND WAYS TO THROW IT BACK IN HER FACE.

*******

Today, her name was still on the pane of glass in front of her desk, so I decided that I was just going to pretend like she’s on vacation. But by the afternoon, someone came down and scraped off her name. I CAN’T STAND IT.

7 comments

Today’s All About Barb post is going to be an extravaganza of bullet points, links, and photos. Because there is just so much to remember!

Things I’ve Learned About Barb

• Hates most collars, scarves, and other such fashionable garrotes
• Confuses giraffes and zebras
• Pumpkin Spice Lattes make her cry, “Holla!”
• Proud Functional Fixedness sufferer
• Hates Bill Paxton with the blinding fury of 87 million suns
• Is confused by non-American cuisine and doesn’t even know what CILANTRO is, GOD BARB
• The only thing she likes about the Philadelphia Flyers is the broad who used to sing God Bless America at their games a long time ago
• She “doesn’t do” gum
• She has feelings for Pascal Dupuis (he’s a PITTSBURGH PENGUIN if you didn’t know)

Favorite Barb Memories

• When she was super into watching a live feed of this local eagle’s nest. There were three eggs and the whole city was on “egg watch” basically, but Barb was like a maniac over it, like she’s related to them, like she was waiting for her eagle grandchildren to be born. God, get over it, Barb. Anyway, she was all stressed out because it was predicted that the day that the eggs would start hatching was when she was going to be en route to Toronto to visit her brother. “I just know an egg is going to hatch when I’m not around to watch,” she cried. AND SURE ENOUGH, AN EGG HATCHED ON THAT DAY! I saw it on Facebook and was filled with glee that Barb missed it. I got to rub it in her face when she came back to work and it was DELICIOUS. (I mean, the “in-your-face”-isms, not the eagle egg.)
• The time she admitted to me that she almost prevented me from getting hired here, after telling our boss, “Oh, I don’t know. She has a little kid and will probably be calling off all the time.” You know how many times I’ve called off since getting hired in April 2010? TWO TIMES. IN YOUR FACE, BARB!
• When the first thing she did after getting a smartphone was download a fart app.

• When Barb yelled at Lee (to her defense, he made an ill-timed, insensitive joke about the Paper Clip Situation at work, which I’m not sure I’ve ever explained on this blog, but it’s really stupid and petty and has Barb and I completely up in arms as it’s mostly directed toward us). Because of this, Lee started calling her Darth Rile and asked me to Photoshop a Darth Riley. Barb of course thought this was great and was trying to email it to her brother, but accidentally sent it to one of the Firm partners in Spokane, who is probably in his 80s and his picture tells us that he probably hasn’t laughed since 1959, presumably while watching Leave It To Beaver. Her face was so red, and so was mine — FROM ALL THE HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER HEATING IT UP. I had to actually get up and run away from my desk because I was losing it so bad. She thought she may have been able to recall the email, but I REALLY REALLY REALLY hope he saw it. I actually hurt my back from laughing!
• Last August, when we let Barb out of our sight for like 3 minutes at Kaitlin’s wedding only to have her rush back over to us with her arm hooked around a man. crying, “LOOK WHO I FOUND! JOE MACHI! FROM LAST COMIC STANDING! ON NBC!!!!” Then she practically chucked her phone at me and made me take her picture with him. It all happened so fast, you guys.

• All the times Barb would fuck up the daily Roll Call emails that the whole department counted on her to send. Sometimes she would have the date wrong, or someone would forget to add their name to the calendar if they weren’t going to be in, and then Barb would look like an asshole. My favorite was the time she tried THREE TIMES to send the correct Roll Call and fucked up each one and then everyone had a filed day sending her corrections, so finally she sent this bitter email to the department: “My apologies for the mix up…..I shall strive to do better in the future.  Thank you all for the heads up on my errors.” And, if you know Barb, you can imagine that she probably broke her keyboard after pounding out that reply. I got so much glee out of ridiculing her on her Roll Call inadequacies and even now, imagining her laying awake at night, feeling the pressure to send a flawless Roll Call email, is making me crack up so bad at my desk.
• When Barb started sending my kid anonymous mail.
• The time Carey offered Barb a box of baked goods, to which Barb responded with, “For future reference, always offer stuff to Erin first.” UGH SHE KNOWS ME SO WELL :(
• When Barb was a part of my Halloween Freak Show desk in 2012!

• The time Barb unwittingly kick-started my apple obsession.
• When Barb held my hand during my first Jury Duty summons.
• This could have been any day, really:

OK, I know I’m forgetting so much and GLENN has done fuck-all to help me with this. So, if you’re a Law Firm person and have a Barb memory to contribute, let me know and I’ll add it here under a special “OTHER PEOPLES MEMORIES” section.

:(

2 comments

Today’s Barb-post is two-in-one: two times she masterminded creepy surprises-in-a-box for me because one of her main priorities here at The Law Firm was to keep me happy and placated.

*******

1. Law Firm Lamb Cake

A few months ago, someone was trying to get my work friend Kaitlin to buy a lamb-shaped cake pan that they didn’t need anymore. Included in the email he sent to her was a picture of what the finished product could conceivably look like, so she sent it to Barb and me because it was so horrific-looking.

Of course I took to it immediately and tried to convince her that she really needed this cake pan, in spite of its exorbitant cost.

“Not for that price I don’t!” she assured me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it though and even found one that was much more reasonably-priced. I didn’t buy it though because I figured it would just be another thing to nag Henry about.

“Clean the house.”

“Do the laundry.”

“Cook my dinner.”

“Propose to me.”

“Put this makeup on.”

“Bake me a fucking lamb cake.”

A lamb cake just might be what it takes to break Henry’s back and leave me single and helpless.

Anyhow, I dropped it, but the use I had for it was always still in the back of my mind.

***

For some reason today, I brought up the fact that Henry dropped the ball for my thirtieth birthday. I have some pretty deep-rooted esteem issues, so this isn’t something that I’ve gotten over yet. Probably won’t, either, without a hearty helping of therapy.

“You couldn’t even get me the only thing I wanted for my last birthday, a fucking black forest cake!” I cried petulantly.

“I couldn’t find anywhere to get one!” Henry yelled back.

“I gave you two months notice that I wanted one! You could have BAKED one, motherfucker.”

I was still bitching about how he didn’t even love me enough to bake me a stupid birthday cake when I arrived at work.

Feeling utterly sorry for myself the whole 10-floor elevator ride, I walked around the corner to my desk only to find a large box with a post-it that said Open Carefully.

“She’s here!” Barb announced, and people started coming out of their offices and crowding around. I couldn’t imagine what was going on.

It wasn’t my birthday.

It wasn’t my workiversary.

Was I getting fired and they were trying to soften the blow?

To throw me off even further, Chris chimed in and asked, “Did you get your hair cut?” and I found myself bracing for another one of Those Episodes where I slightly modify my appearance and everyone swarms around me with spotlights.

Apprehensive is one way to describe how I felt. There were maybe six people watching me expectantly. I reached for the box lid, because that’s what they kept probing me to do, and we all know I do as I’m told. But then Barb commanded me to wait as she hit play on The Whiffenpoof Song, so now not only did I have a surplus of hungry eyes feasting upon me, my every robotically awkward movement was to the tune of singing Muppets.

Please don’t let it be a crappy spreadsheet, I thought, as I eventually buckled and ripped the lid off like a Bandaid.

It took a few good seconds for it to sink it, that awesome pins-and-needles sensation of being sufficiently stunned. Then I laughed. Then I almost cried. Then I laughed some more.

Apparently, this had been in the works for awhile. Barb placed an in-house classified ad and found someone who was willing to lend her the cake pan. Kaitlin baked the cake and then some of my friends here helped decorate.

This, after the babyish argument I had just instigated in the car with Henry. Fuck you, Henry. SOME PEOPLE are willing to bake this bitch a cake. Even now, I keep pausing to look over at it adoringly. People kept suggesting I wrap it up and I was like “I AM NOT COVERING THIS, EVER!” (But apparently it’s because they thought it was actually going to be eaten. As if. I want this thing to petrify and sit on my fireplace mantel for the rest of ever.)

I’m just so unbelievably touched that my friends here would do this. It has officially become so much more than just a lamb cake, and I’m beyond stoked to put my plan into action this weekend. STOKED BEYOND BELIEF.

****

Law Firm Lamb Cake went on to inspire my friend Casey to make a song about it, and it also became an Easter Glenn, too!

ALL BECAUSE BARB PLACED AN AD FOR A LAMB CAKE PAN.

****

Malachi

Came into work today to find a large box beside my desk, all wrapped in a candy cane print. It was from Barb and she told me to open it immediately; within seconds, a small crowd of people privy to the box’s contents had gathered at my desk

I opened it and immediately almost pissed my pants. A few weeks ago, I was at the flea market with Tommy and Jessy and took a picture of this creep-factory of a doll. Of course, by the time I got home that day, I was kicking myself for not buying it. I even checked when I was there two weeks ago with Andrea, but didn’t see it and felt extreme sadness and regret.

Barb knew that I was coveting it and went back and bought it for me for Christmas and I can’t even believe it I am dying of happiness right now punctuation what!?

Of course, everyone was like, “That is so creepy! Why do you want that?!” and then it was fun to watch as they realized they had already answered their question.

Sean came over and caught me cradling my new (old) doll. He shook his head and said, “Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Bridget was like, “OMG THAT’S SO DIRTY HOW CAN YOU PUT THAT SO CLOSE TO YOUR FACE!” or something equally as chastising and oh look she just came back and said, “I wouldn’t touch that if you paid me and I sincerely suggest that you anti-bac your hands.”

Nina and Wendy cried a little bit when they saw it. Mitch and Lee seemed to approve. Chris, who was here when I opened it and looked thoroughly flabbergasted, just walks by now and gives me leery motive-questioning looks.

He fits in so well with all my creepy shit and Jesus pen!

He’s coming home with me this weekend for our annual Christmas picnic in the cemetery, but I think after that, he’ll reside here in The Law Firm. I like the reactions he’s provoked.

This just solidifies what I already knew: Barb is the best co-worker ever and most attentive friend.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

• I just learned that Barb bought this the same day I was at the flea market looking for it.
• I have been carrying it around the department with me and it occurred to me that I am holding it with more natural panache than I have ever held a live baby.

1 comment

So this one time in January of 2011, I thought it would be a Good Idea to bring in sea monkeys to work. Some people ended up REALLY LIKING THEM, but no one more than Barb, who I think might have imprinted on the horniest one:

Then I made the mistake of showing her the below sea monkey video, which she became obsessed with and just admitted to me today, 4 years later, that she still has it saved to her favorites.

Today’s Barb tribute is about how, even in the wake of sea monkey death, she remains calm and brave, forever our Law Firm rock.

*********

In Memoriam: Sea Monkey #1

May 2011

I wasn’t at my desk for more than ten minutes when I noticed the dead body. 

I always do a quick sea monkey count when I get to work. There have only been four adults for the last few months now, even though two of them have been furiously fornicating off and on. Maybe it’s not hetero sex that I’ve been spectating like someone completely hard-pressed for office porn.

Anyway, today the count dropped to three. The deceased was lying in the middle of the intersection (my sea monkey tank is a miniature city), looking fragile and completely snuffed out. My heart was banging against my ribcage as I prodded it with the feeding spoon, but it only caused its limp body to ride the waves in a decidedly dead fashion.

“Hit and run?” one of my co-workers asked, and I yelled at him for making jokes. TOO SOON.

Wendy encouraged me to scoop him out. I thought it was because she was going to give him a proper burial, but it was actually because she wanted to sniff it and then taunt passing by co-workers with its dead sea carcass.

I took it off of her before she decided to get all Anthony Bourdain and eat it like its some fucking Toys R Us delicacy.

On a Post-It, I laid out its dead body all nice and gently and immediately realized he or she had no name. Barb kept calling it Sea Monkey #1, so I went with that. Sorry for being generic, #1.

I displayed its body on the ledge next to my desk and promptly forgot about it. One of the analysts, Chris, came over and was talking to us. When he walked away, Wendy shouted, “It moved!”

“It’s been resurrected?” I cried excitedly, thinking I could scrape him back into the tank. But then we quickly realized that he hadn’t moved so much as been SMUDGED by Chris’s elbow when he was leaning against the ledge.

Barb said, “Well, he needs to come back here so we can examine his shirt.” She then called him at his office and told him to come back, that it was serious.

Once he found out what was going on, he was pretty annoyed.

All that remains: a tiny balled-up smudge in the upper lefthand corner.

It was absolutely horrific. It’s still sitting up there, festering in the barbaric ball Chris rolled it in like it’s nothing more than some kid’s booger, ready for a’flickin’. So now when mourners come over to say goodbye and wonder why they can’t see #1 in his true, God-given form (though I’m 99% sure God had nothing to do with the creation of sea monkeys; more like some freak scientist pissing around in his mom’s basement), I have to explain over and over again the brutal act starring Chris’s Elbow. 

What a way to be remembered. What a fucking way to be remembered. Goddamn.

Barb then sent out a department-wide email:

It is with deep sadness that we announce the unexpected passing of Erin Kelly’s Sea Monkey #1. 

#1 will lie in state at Erin Kelly’s desk for the duration of the today and all day tomorrow. A brief memorial service will be held at 5:00 pm tomorrow for those wishing to attend.

#1 was a fabulous pet. He (she) never jumped out of his (her) container when the lid was off, a sign that he (she) was mentally stable and had no thoughts of spontaneous suicide. #1 brought pleasure and laughter to our department, and he (she) will be sorely missed.

Please stop by at some point to pay your respects to our lost friend and also to provide words of encouragement to his (her) remaining bowl mates.

RIP, #1 – we will miss you!

I can only imagine that the next step will be to slap his picture on our department Wall of Death. 

Get your 40s ready, my friends.

[Present Day Side Note: The only person who came by to pay his respects was Lee. You tried, Barb!]

1 comment

This is an oldie-but-goodie from 2011, when Barb practically revealed her secret life as a doula. WHO WILL DELIVER LAW FIRM BABIES WHEN BARB IS GONE? Amber, I guess you’re on your own.

**********************

Waterbreak ’11

It all started around 4:30 on Wednesday. I was REALLY BUSY, working HARD and DILIGENTLY, when Sandy walked over to my desk, looking all pale and scared-rabbit. All I managed to decipher from her hushed tone was “bathroom” and “water broke.

”

I immediately started to panic because we have two pregnant girls in our department, and neither of them should be walking around, breaking water.

But then I heard “travel office” and my compassion dulled a bit, because it was just one of “Those People” who share the same floor as us but aren’t cool enough to be a real part of our department, yet they like to swipe our food when we have parties like that’s going to infuse them with our Awesome.

Sandy, Barb and Sue were all in the bathroom together, probably saying disparaging things about me, when the owner of the broken water called out from behind a stall that she needed someone to get one of the travel office ladies. Right now, I’m picturing the “Fuck off” look that likely had taken over Barb’s face, until she learned that this poor girl was pregnant and splashing around back there in amniotic fluid.

Somehow, Sandy was able to slink back over to my desk to tell me what was happening.

“I’m really bad in emergencies,” she said in a small voice. So now I know that Sandy and I would make the worst superhero team in the history of comic books. In the background of each cell, you’d see Sandy, paralyzed and pale-faced with her emanating fear blending into the gray background, while I’m throwing up all over my cape.

It didn’t take long for a small crowd to form by the bathroom. Kristen stopped by my desk, having just broken through the crowd of birth fans. “I’m the girl you want in an emergency,” she said, all smiles, as if there wasn’t some pregnant lady spilling baby juice all over the department. “But, I’m going to Starbucks!” There’s our third superhero, drinking a latte while the world collapses around her. Sometimes I go out for drinks after work with Kristen and Sandy, and now I’m starting to rethink this. I feel so unsafe!

Meanwhile, Sue was marching all over the floor with her game face on. I’m not sure where she was marching to, but I know it wasn’t to pilfer through Barb’s snack drawer like it usually is. She was going to call 911 but said the girl had asked her not to because she didn’t want to ride in an ambulance.

Sue disappeared around the corner, and I assumed she was going to her office to retrieve her forceps. And Barb was running around, looking for spare clothes to give the girl who was apparently pretty drenched. She was going to steal Wendy’s gym clothes but thought better of it and ended up giving the girl a pair of her own sweatpants.

All this fuss over spare clothes when someone could have just asked Gayle.

 She could have crocheted something right quick with a nice Navajo pattern. She probably would have given the girl matching earrings too, and maybe even thrown in a floral headband for the baby.

DO NOT FORGET THAT SANDY WAS THERE TOO! Barb re-worked the script every time she recounted the bathroom horrors to other co-workers, completely writing Sandy out of it. If you ask me, that’s discrimination against scared people and I don’t think Sandy should stand for it.

I bet when Barb tells her non-Law Firm friends about Waterbreak ’11, it entails her ripping the door right off the bathroom stall and delivering one of “those babies” right then and there with her auxiliary knapsack of obstetric apparati.

Something like an hour had gone by before Sandy finally snapped out of it and realized she had a towel that she could contribute. She walked by later, triumphantly holding up the soggy towel in garbage bag. She was going to take it home as a souvenir, but Sue convinced her to throw it out, which I think is rude because people should be allowed to collect the things they want to collect.

Me? I just sat there and watched all the adults handle business. It was exciting. I’m glad no one asked me to help. I mean, YES—I was a Girl Scout, but the only thing that taught me was how to dance to NKOTB’s “Funky, Funky Christmas” and to Quick! Find a Man to Do Everything For Me. (Couldn’t find a man, but Henry will do.)

Later that evening, the travel lady we dislike the most came over with her scary, soul-piercing eyes to tell us that the girl’s husband had come to pick her up and she was currently en route to the hospital.

“I’m going to have nightmares,” Barb said after the travel lady walked away. She was probably talking about the entire odyssey, but I was still shivering from the icy-penetration of travel lady’s eyes. All I could picture was a stork with travel lady’s head on it, so I told Barb about it in hopes of planting the image into her subconscious and it growing into some gnarly night-terror.

And then, because catastrophes totally wind up my giddy-box, I laughed about this so hard that I started crying at my desk.

[I didn’t want to post this until I knew for sure that everything was OK. Travel Girl had the baby that night; she was 2 months premature, but they are both doing fine. Barb prefaced her email to me about it with: “I know you don’t care, but…” I do care! Kind of!]

1 comment

In honor of Barb’s last full week at The Law Firm, I am going to repost some of my favorite Barb-inspired stories.

Because:

• I can.
• It’s the right thing to do.
• The Penguins would approve.

To start it off, I’m going to share the story about the time Barb had the BEST idea ever.

****

Office Rumors

5-16-2013

Today was shaping up to be a pretty ordinary Thursday. I was in a so-so mood when I strolled over to Barb’s desk around 2:30 today for a visit. Nate and Debbie S. were there too, and what we were talking about wasn’t very note-worthy, just some mild banter.

And then Glenn walked by.

“We should start a rumor that Glenn is a lesbian,” Barb said. I don’t recall any overt hysterics from Nate or Debbie over this suggestion, but I fucking DIED.

I was laughing so hard I had to walk away. Then I realized I had walked into a dead-end, so I turned around and had to find the nearest chair to sit in to keep from showering my co-workers with gleeful urination.

“THAT IS THE BEST IDEA EVER!!” I squealed once I was able to speak again. I can totally picture him in a flannel and skinny jeans at a Tegan and Sara show, can’t you?!

So I was walking back to my office-thing and saw Glenn sitting all lesbianly at his desk and I lost my shit all over again. Amber2 looked concerned because when I get this giddy, it oftentimes appears that I am under some sort of duress, the kind of red-hued scrunched-up face one might put on immediately after learning of the death of a loved one or Corey Haim. Unfortunately, this is also my Ugly Laugh face.

I tried to explain to her what was going on, but this only resulted in my having to SQUAT DOWN and bury my face in my arms. Every time I opened my mouth to talk, I could only manage to vomit out incomprehensible, muffled sounds.

“I’ll just email you!” I wheezed. Even better is that there is a new processor who just started last week and she sits right in front of Amber2, which is unfortunately pretty close to me, so she gets to overhear all sorts of weird things that may or may not have something to do with weird things and me.

This uncontrollable laughing alone carried on for over an hour without reprieve (for me or those in direct vicinity of me). And then I started telling more and more people (most of whom were like, “That is not really that funny”) so eventually, Glenn was all, “Ha-ha, what is going on?”

This only made the remainder of my sanity expire in a mushroom-cloud explosion of tears and laughter and I had to literally run away from him.

Finally, I emailed him and said, “Barb just wanted to know if you like the Indigo Girls” which confused him even more.

I can’t even look at him now without hearing “Come To My Window” in my head. I tried to get my friend Natalie, whose office is right next to Glenn’s desk, to walk by him while singing the chorus but she was just like, “I hate you.”

I printed this out and taped it to his desk.

This is the best rumor ever! Does anyone have an “L Word” DVD I can put on his desk?

5 comments

The bristles of his brush ground hard into the nooks, flicking up suds stained with a subtle rouge, but now Norbert needed a break. He had been scrubbing the same spot in the rug with little relenting. Norbert balanced the brush against the lip of the bucket, stood and stretched his arms over his head.

It was a grand room. A deeply stained parquet floor had a chance to peek through where there weren’t expensive European rugs strewn about. Norbert only admired the beer steins and antique piggy banks decorating the fire place mantle for a few brief seconds before his eyes were pulled upward to a portrait of a resplendent woman.

“That’s my Katherine.”

Norbert spun on his heels to find Mister Williams, his barrel chest cloaked in a silk smoking jacket, framing the wide doorway into the parlor. Four thick slabs of fingers casually gripped a rock glass of scotch, which he subconsciously swirled with slight wrist flicks while his pinkie hovered incongruously. In between inappropriate slurps, Mister Williams slurred, “She was the love of my life.”

Norbert wiped his sweaty palms against his sullied coveralls. “I’m sorry, Mister Williams.

I didn’t mean to snoop. I just needed to stand up for a moment; there’s one area of the rug over there that’s tougher than a nun’s habit to remove.”

“Beautiful, ain’t she?” Mister Williams continued, as if Norbert hadn’t spoke. He belched without apology.

“Why, yes sir,” Norbert admitted. “She’s stunning.” He looked away, not wanting his admiration of the woman in the portrait to appear salacious.

“She could make Hell feel like home,” Williams whispered, having moved in close enough to stroke Katherine’s oil-painted complexion with his scotch-free pinkie. He was standing close enough now that Norbert gleaned he hadn’t bathed in quite some time. Stale cigar smoke, urine, sweat and a mausoleum-quality musk clung to Williams like a protective wrapping.

When Norbert said nothing, Williams asked, “Have you ever really danced on the edge, carpet cleaner?”

Norbert, growing overwrought, shook his head stupidly. “No, but I once had unprotected sex with four and a half Thai prostitutes.”

“Four…and a half?” Williams repeated questioningly, making eye contact with Norbert for the first time. Norbert looked away quickly, embarrassed by the vacancy and loneliness he saw in the gaze.

“Y-yes, sir. You see, there were these Siamese twins, and I, I only did it with the half that had the vagina.”

Williams wasn’t listening. He had set down his crystal rock glass on a chess table and had moved to the other side of the room where he stared catatonically at the wedding ring imprisoned flush against a rheumatic knuckle. “That’s what it felt like to love her: like dancing on the edge. Knowing that at any minute you could fall and nothing would ever be the same again, but the thrill you get?

The thrill that tickles the base of your spine and makes your innards feel like they’re on a roller coaster with naked women to Babylon?” Williams put a cork in his monologue long enough to pinch a cat hair from his lapel and take a drowning gulp of scotch. “That thrill is what keeps you from stopping even when it gets dangerous. Love. She was the love of my life,” he repeated robotically.

“What happened, why aren’t you together anymore?” Norbert asked apprehensively.

Williams shot his head back and laughed uproariously. The scotch on the chess table quivered, and somewhere, something dropped from a wall.

Wiping a viscous sluice of drool from his cleft chin, Williams’ face turned stony as he spat, “Because that’s her you’re scrubbing from my Persian, carpet cleaner.”

8 comments