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.

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.

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.

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.

:(

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.

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!]

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!]

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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?

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.”

Wednesday, February 11th, fuck yeah! That was the night of the Pierce the Veil/Sleeping with Sirens World Tour here in Pittsburgh. They played here for two nights because Pittsburgh goes HARD for PTV; I wanted to go both nights but Henry was like YEAH RIGHT PICK ONE so we went the second night because everyone knows that the second night is the best. (That’s a thing, isn’t it?)

We went to Rivertown first for a quick pizza dinner and drinks, passing the ever-growing line of kids outside of Stage AE. Worried about not getting a good spot, I lied and said that the show started at 6. “An early show tonight, I guess,” I shrugged, and Henry didn’t question me.  I rushed him out of Rivertown around 5 so we could get in line.

“Are you kidding me?!” Henry cried, double-checking his ticket once we were already firmly planted in the snaking row of scene kids. “It says DOORS at 6, not SHOW at 6!” And I just laughed, because duh. So we stood outside in the cold for the next hour while crackheads tried to get us to buy their black market PTV t-shirts (my favorite was when one of them dropped one on the ground, accidentally stepped on it, and then waved it around in the air, hollering about how great the quality was). The wait in line was mostly OK, the group of kids in front of us were relatively tame, but the one had her mom with her and she got increasingly more showboat-y as the wait progressed. She kept trying to be all self-deprecating about her age (39) but then tried to make up for it by bragging relentlessly about all the shows she’s been to. (BLACK SABBATH. BREAKING BENJAMIN. THE VERY FIRST WARPED TOUR EVER OMG.) And then she was like, “CLUTCH IS SUPPOSED TO BE COMING HERE SOON I WOULD LIKE TO GO SEE CLUTCH I THINK THEY’RE PLAYING HERE NEXT WEEK CLUTCH CLUTCH CLUTCH” and it was like, “OK WE GET IT YOU LIKE CLUTCH.” Personally, I don’t like Clutch, and this bitch was making me dislike them even more. She just kept going on and on about all these old concerts and how she was probably dating herself, because you know, being “old” means you have to go to great lengths to prove that you still like music.

So I kept trying to raise Henry’s arm in the air while obnoxiously crying out, “Judas Priest! Ted Nugent! CHEAP TRICK!” For some reason, this just put Henry in an even worse mood and then he looked like this:

I was going to launch into a rant here about age versus music and why does it even have to be a factor, but I’m trying to live a stress-free life and that topic just makes me angry. I’m sure Henry could offer up a transcript of the rant he had to listen to before the show at Rivertown, if anyone is interested. (Kidding. Henry doesn’t listen to me when I speak.)

Bottom line is you’re never “too old” to be a fan of a band. If I didn’t go to a show because I was afraid of being the oldest one there, or having people mistake me for a chaperone/mom, that would just be a shame. And also, I would probably not go to a LOT of shows then since most bands I like have a young fan base.

Once the doors opened, the line moved relatively quickly. Henry and I got separated at the security checkpoint, and he was extremely dismayed to learn that I made it in first and claimed a prime spot against a railing. I thought this was a Good Thing since he didn’t want to go all the way onto the floor with the children (plus, I wanted to be able to see while still being in the midst of things, so this spot was seriously the best of both worlds because we were raised up just high enough that no one could stand in front of me on the floor and block my view); apparently though Henry had hoped that we could go upstairs with the parents in the balcony. I just laughed, because no. I told him he was welcome to go up there alone, but he always gets scared when I get faux-courteous. Who knows if he’ll get castrated later for taking me up on my trick offer.

Now is the part where I type words about the bands that were there, so you are welcome to peace out.

I. PVRIS

I am notoriously snobby when it comes to girl singers. I always have to laugh when Scene Fems get all up in arms that there are “never enough” females on Warped Tour because why flood the tour with mediocre music? PVRIS is one of the few bands with a female lead that has actually gotten my attention in awhile. I hesitate to describe them as dark electro-pop, because that usually calls to mind something of a more Goth nature, but to me they sound like a glorious collision of synthpop and post-hardcore. They are SO YOUNG and started making waves in the scene before they even had an album out. I like that they’re bringing some estrogen to Rise Records, and I also like that they have essentially been groomed by Blake and Sierra from Versa. It shows.  Lynn’s voice is just what this scene has been missing. Ugh, they are wonderful. This is why I can’t write about music for a living, because it’s all HEART EYES and UGH YOU GUYS THEY PENETRATE MY SOUL. Can’t turn off how I feel, ever.

This is basically the same way I felt when I first heard Paramore back in the day. “Fuck yes, a singer-broad who doesn’t annoy me!” I can’t wait to go see them 934790374 more times. They remind me a little of The Flir, and I fucking loved The Flir so much but then they just kind of….stopped.

Henry said they were “OK” but that “the singing needs worked on.” You can catch Henry on the next season of The Voice, by the way.

I think I’ve posted about them on here before, but here is an acoustic video in case you felt the urge to put something in your hearing orifices.

II. Mallory Knox

They’re from England and this was their first time on tour in the States. So that was cool. I don’t know what else to say. It’s not that I didn’t like them, but my attention was definitely elsewhere during their set. The Penguin game had started and I was frantically checking my phone for updates, etc. and then I saw on Instagram that EMAROSA announced they’re playing Warped Tour this summer so I was basically peaced out of Mallory Knox’s set from that moment on….until I heard what I was sure was about to be a Whitesnake cover and then realized that the singer just kind of sounded like David Coverdale. I shared this observation with Henry, who just frowned and shook his head no.

Maybe I need to listen to them some more, I don’t know.

III. Sleeping With Sirens

Sleeping with Sirens is kind of THE BOY BAND of this scene. Their opening video montage even spoofed off of that, actually. So when Mallory Knox was over and the SWS backdrop slowly began to rise, the girls in the crowd went ballistic. “Take it easy!” Henry spat disgustedly into the general area. “They’re not even coming out yet!”

Truth: I was disappointed when this tour was initially announced and I saw that Pierce the Veil was co-headlining with SWS. My feelings toward SWS have really run the gamut over the years. When I first heard If I’m James Dean, You’re Audrey Hepburn back in 2010, I was all a-smit with Kellin Quinn. Granted, he looked like a little scene fetus, but that didn’t change the fact that this was going to be The Song that Henry and I fake-danced together at our imaginary never-wedding. I even considered having it choreographed. I used to walk the high school track by my house after work some times and I would listen to that song on repeat, with complete and utter disregard to the rest of the album.

But then I saw them live and was like, “Oh.” At first I thought it was just because it was Warped Tour. Sometimes bands just sound better inside grimy venues at night, than on some tiny stage in a parking lot, you know?

But then I saw them several more times, in a variety of settings.

He cannot sing live, you guys. I don’t know what it is. Acoustic, he’s not too bad. But with a full band, up on a stage, it’s like, “No, go home.”

However, I was shocked this time around because he didn’t sound as terrible as he normally does! But then Henry pointed out it was because they turned up everything else. And then I was like, “Oh. That makes sense. Never mind.”

Ew, agreeing with Henry makes me feel itchy.

But this is not to say that the rest of the band sucks! They are actually pretty wonderful have always saved the show every time I’ve seen them. They’ve definitely jumped on the fast track to fame, so their shows are pretty spectacular on the ol’ eyeballs nowadays. It’s all kind of lights and videos and streamers — you know, things to distract you from the vocal flaws!

OK FINE, I totally wear Kellin’s clothing line and keep a picture of him on desk.

The one huge highlight for me was seeing Nick Martin, who assumed the role as their guitarist after Jesse Lawson left in 2013. I LOVE NICK MARTIN SO MUCH! Back in the day, I used to play one of his old Underminded songs over and over in the car and sigh dreamily to Henry, “Isn’t he the best screamer ever?” Of course Henry answered with a frown.

I met Nick in 2009 when he was on Craig Owens’ solo tour. He is such a fucking great guy. He was also in Isles and Glaciers and then Craig Owens post-Chiodos “I’LL JUST START MY OWN BAND!” band D.R.U.G.S. But then Craig went back with Chiodos and basically left the rest of D.R.U.G.S. hanging. So it’s nice to see that Nick got himself a gig with a successful band, playing for bigger than crowds that he was with D.R.U.G.S.

They played “…James Dean” and I was trying to get Henry into it but he had the “Not enough beer in the world” expression on his face.

Streamer Chicken.

IV. Pierce the Veil

I don’t even know what to say about Pierce the Veil that I haven’t already. They have been firmly planted inside my heart for the last eight years and they inspire me so much. I can honestly say that I have never been to a bad PTV show (except maybe the one in Buffalo but that wasn’t their fault) and it’s pretty expected at this point that I am going to be emotionally ravaged for the next few weeks after. So I’m going to be really blunt and say that I don’t think I can write much about it, other than to say it was an amazing night that made me want to paint and write and potentially send an email that maybe I shouldn’t.

They played “Caraphernalia” and I almost chewed off my lip because THAT SONG. So much meaning. What’s so good about picking up the pieces, indeed.

JAIME!!!!!!! Henry was pissed that he missed this because he was off buying me a shirt, LOLforever.

“One of these days, that will be me up there, having my face sung to by Vic Fuentes,” Henry dreams.

Kellin Quinn came out to close out the show by singing “King For a Day” with PTV, which was expected. And good. I’m so happy to see Pierce the Veil playing for so many people now, but I selfishly long for the days when I was standing right in front of the speakers at a skate park in Buffalo with only about 100 kids behind me.

LOOK AT WHAT A LITTLE BABE HE WAS IN 2008!

Really, what I miss the most is hearing the old stuff. One of the last times I saw them, they played “Yeah Boy” but it seems like it’s so rare. I would kill to hear some stuff from “A Flair for the Dramatic” because to me, that is their best. I was whining about it to Terri (thank god for Terri!) and she said maybe they’ll do a 10th anniversary tour for it like so many other bands have been doing lately. I would fucking die if that happened.

***

After the show, we were briskly walking through the frigid night to the trolley station, when Henry said, “Tony cut his hair, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know!” I cried, because sorry, bro, I’m there for the music not the looks.

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. He cut his hair, definitely.”

Oh OK, Henry. For someone who doesn’t care about this shit, he sure has a thing for the post-hardcore coif scene. If Craig Owens from Chiodos even uses the tiniest spritz of Sun-In, Henry is all over that shit.

“Craig’s hair is lighter,” he’s been known to scream in the middle of shows.

So now I’m convinced that Henry dreams about being some kind of Scene Barber, snipping Vic Fuentes’s split ends, pomading Andy Biersack’s pompadour, freshening Jonny Craig’s fade and “accidentally” nicking his jugular. OMG we can call him Scene-y Todd!

Apologies for the shitty ‘shopping on this but I did this quickly on my lunch break at work and had to use PAINT. Ugh!

This song inspired so many paintings and stories in stupid 2008. I still have moments where I crave those days so hard, but mostly I ignore because what’s done is done, it is what it is, what happens in 2008 stays in 2008. Pick an obnoxious idiomatic expression and call it a day.

Today, however, the cravings were practically waiting for me at the foot of the bed when I woke up. And I will feed them, because I’m a moron. Time to bring back my emo side-sweep and brood in a corner with a canvas.

Happy Valentine’s Day, I guess.

It all started with an innocent trip to Eat n Park after work last week. I worked late shift that night, so it was already well past 8 by the time Henry, Chooch and I got there. I couldn’t help but notice that the room we were seated in was full of older couples on dates. I could tell it was a date, and not just a casual “I don’t feel like cooking, let’s go out to eat” because every older person seemed smitten with their older person companion. In fact, one of the older person couples even sat on the same side of the booth and shared a plate from the salad bar. Every so often, male older person would lean over and kiss female older person on her temple. It was all at once endearing and nauseating, and I struggled to take a picture of them, eventually managing a slick under-the-table shot.

Another older couple arrived right before we left, and thank god because otherwise I might have died not knowing the precise way the female older person orders her side of broccoli (a double serving, extra-steamed so the florets are on the threshold of disintegration).

I couldn’t stop giggling about this, all these old people hitting the town (well, Dormont anyway) after hours on a Thursday night.

“It’s like a Boz Scaggs concert just let out!” I texted to some friends, along with the pictures. The responses varied from “I don’t know who that is” to “Is that some old singer, I guess?” to “*radio silence*”.

Was my inner old person showing? Or WAS I JUST IMAGINING THAT BOZ SCAGGS EXISTS? I could hear myself saying his name. Boz Scaggs. Boz Scaggs. Bozzzzzz SCAGGsssss. It was sounding more and more foreign until eventually it just sounded like a frog ribbitting under water.

I tried to defend myself, plead my case by insisting that “if you’ve ever been in a grocery store, you’ve probably heard a Boz Scaggs tune at least once in your life” while willing myself to conjure up in my mind my mom’s Boz Scaggs record that I know I used to play in the basement of my parent’s house, didn’t I? DIDN’T I?! JOJO?!

I mean come on: “Lido Shuffle”? “Lowdown”? “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME”!??!?! That was a staple on all of my soft rock mix tapes when I was in high school! BOZ SCAGGS IS REAL.

And then my music-loving friend Terri rescued me from my self-doubt, because she too, has a space in her heart for his smooth yacht rock tracks. Then after Janna and I went to see Birdman on Friday, I made her listen to Boz Scaggs songs on my phone until she finally exclaimed, “Oh, OK! Yeah, that guy. He’s real.” And then she wouldn’t stop singing “Lido Shuffle” which made Chooch irritable.

***

Sunday morning, I awoke to “Lowdown” playing on my bedroom radio. No joke, there it was, wafting out of the dusty speakers like it was no big deal, just another Boz Scaggs Top 40 hit to stuff a Taylor Swift and Bruno Mars sandwich. I’ve been listening to a variety-type station in my room lately because of my penchant for nostalgic earworms and soft rock’s natural ability to ease me into a sweet slumber, even if it means having to tolerate the occasional current pop hit. How else do you guys think I get to hear Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” approximately twice a week? (Seriously, that station LOVES to play that song for some reason.)

Anyway, I excitedly texted Janna and Terri that “Lowdown”  was on. And laying there in bed, taking in the jazzy trumpets and silky background vocals, I started to draw some comparisons to Steely Dan, another band I loved so much when I was growing up thanks to my step-dad, and even got to see them once about 15 years ago and it was amazing. (I had to choose between them and Yes! It was a hard choice.) So I spent a good chunk of my afternoon listening to Steely Dan, and then Emerson Lake and Palmer, and I really started to feel like I needed to grow a beard, put on a white leisure suit, and steal away into the night in my Chevy Van.

Somewhere during this time, Terri texted me and said that “Lido Shuffle” was on in the grocery store she was in! I started freaking out about this, and Henry was like, “Calm down. It’s not that exciting.” BUT IT FELT LIKE I WAS PSYCHICALLY WILLING BOZ SCAGGS TO SURFACE!

And then, this is the weirdest part, that evening Henry and I put on Breaking Bad. We’re way behind and only on season two so DON’T TELL ME ANYTHING. But in this particular episode, Walt is having breakfast with his family, and he starts talking about music with his son, and is appalled that his son has never heard of Steely Dan. I started laughing, since I had been revisiting Steely Dan earlier that day. Henry was like, “Whatever, not that big of a deal.” OK, just watch this:

 MY HEAD NEARLY SHORT-CIRCUITED. I literally jumped off the couch and was shouting, “REALLY? REALLY?!” and Henry mumbled, “OK that’s kind of weird.”

Anyway, this is all a really long-winded way to tell you that after looking through Boz Scaggs albums all weekend, my new Glenn Defacing Project involves Glennifying RECORD ALBUMS!

IT’S ALMOST LIKE BOZ SCAGGS POSED FOR THIS PICTURE PURPOSELY KNOWING THAT GLENN’S HEAD WOULD ONE DAY SO PERFECTLY REPLACE HIS OWN!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have the day off work, which I am now going to fill with more dreamy yacht rock until later tonight when Pierce the Veil blows my heart out of my chest. Don’t judge.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Morning

Today I was looking for Chooch’s juice cup and thought perhaps he left it on the window sill. When I pulled back the curtains, something small and grayish in color hit the floor with a plop. I screamed and jumped back. A few seconds later, I saw it jump underneath the TV stand. I called Henry immediately and reported to him that we had in the house what I assumed was a toad. “It’s definitely something that makes a plopping sound when it hits the ground, so whatever that is, that’s what’s in the house.” Happy birthday, Henry!

Chooch stood by the TV for awhile, lining up some of his cars on the shelf. Looking at his bare legs and feet, I figured it was probably not the best idea for him to be standing so close to our house guest (whom I lost sight of). What if it wasn’t a toad at all? I entertained the idea of a brand new species hulking around back there in the corner, perhaps something with tentacles, venom, and red pubic hair. I pulled Chooch away from the TV and made him play somewhere safer, like near the basement steps, and continued flirting with that thought.

I kept my feet tucked underneath me on the couch for the rest of the morning.

Afternoon

Henry came home from work and pulled the TV back. “It’s a mouse, you retard.” Then he left to get sticky traps, because I was adamant about not killing it.

Evening

People at work have informed me that those sticky traps kill mice. “Sometimes a mouse will chew its own foot off to escape from those traps,” my boss said. I texted Henry: ABORT, ABORT. Henry says mouse removal is officially my responsibility.

“Tell me you’re not this worked up over a MOUSE,” Eleanore said disgustedly. I ate a good almond cookie.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Morning

Diary, it is 1:00 in the morning and the mouse is perched above the screen on the front window! He’s really cute; I’m talking to him and feeding him shredded cheese. I don’t know what his name is yet so I’m just calling him “Hey little buddy.”  It reminds me of when I was in elementary school and I taught a Praying Mantis how to count change. Henry said he’s a field mouse. “Like Secret of NIMH?” I asked. “Yeah, like Secret of NIMH,” he said, sounding a bit impatient. We’ve been watching it intently for fifteen minutes now. It just scratched himself and then stepped on the cheese I sprinkled. Every time Henry gets too close, the mouse tenses up and makes like he’s going to run — I’d get tense too if I saw a big bearded douchebag approaching me  — but when I approach, he is calm and we make casual eye contact.

I’m thinking of the cozy house I’m going to build for him, with a little chimney and fresh daisies in a tiny vase, but then Henry just tried to catch him with an empty iced tea canister, causing the mouse to attempt suicide by leaping to the floor. Look Diary, that mouse is cute and cuddly, sure, FROM AFAR. But I guarantee if that thing starts scampering around my feet, it’s going to get booted into the wall. Losing sight of it, I tug on Henry’s shirt and hug him from behind and I bet he wishes I was wearing a strap-on. Henry is mad now because he “could have had it” but he couldn’t bend down with me grabbing at him like that. He was all, “GO STAND OVER THERE,” and if he had it his way, “there” would be at the bottom of the ocean with a few cinder blocks and a chain.

The mouse ran back behind the TV.

Evening

Hey, I haven’t seen that mouse in awhile. I can only hope it’s off making hundreds of babies somewhere in my house.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Evening

A few minutes ago, I was treating my brain to some quality reality TV programming, as you do, when I heard a strangulated growl coming from the dining room. I looked up and saw Nicotina (aka Speck, Breakfast Nook, Pickles) with my little buddy IN HER MOUTH. At this point, I don’t know the mouse’s status (breathing, not breathing), but my rescue mode is activated and I start screaming bloody murder for Nicotina to release the damn mouse. Henry and Chooch are upstairs and probably think the house is on fire or there’s a hatchet lodged in my head with the way I’m flipping out. I yelled up to Henry what was going down and heard him mumble, “Jesus Christ.”

Cornering Nicotina on the back porch, I grabbed her just before Marcy came stalking through the kitchen to get a piece of the action. Marcy does NOT need to be involved in this. She scares me. Nicotina looked highly confused, her eyes said, “Is this not what I’m supposed to do?” I held my breath and snatched her, mouse and all, and keeping her at arm’s length, I ran with her to the front door. Before I had a chance to pull the door open, she spat the mouse out onto the couch and he scurried behind the pillows.

Henry and Chooch are downstairs at this point, and Chooch started crying; probably because he didn’t understand why Mommy was raving  with bugged-out eyes like a woman scorned. I ordered Henry to help and he reluctantly grabbed a diaper and held it open like a catcher’s mitt, muttering under his breath about how he should have just killed the fucker on Friday. I put aside my desire to donkey kick him and focus on making it through the night with no casualties. The mouse ran off the couch and fell into one of Chooch’s toy bins. “PICK IT UP AND TAKE IT OUTSIDE! WE STILL HAVE A CHANCE!” I screamed. Henry threw the bin on the front porch and said, “YOU go out there and YOU dump it out.”

So I did. And the mouse ran to freedom. Nicotina wouldn’t look at me for the rest of the night.

I was so amped up after that, that I couldn’t sit down. Fuck, Diary, I wish you could have seen it; it’s the most amazing feeling to save a life. I highly recommend it. I kept wanting to talk about it with Henry, but he was thoroughly unimpressed. “Normal people would have killed it, but not you.

You have to turn it into a Thing.” He won’t admit that I deserve to be knighted. I called Christina and she said the whole time I was telling her about it, she kept envisioning me as Dog the Bounty Hunter.

I think I want to do this for a living, this saving mice thing. I want to be on Animal Planet.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Evening

I’ve been telling everyone about my rescue success, about how valiant I am. Kim and Collin said something about me needing therapy, but I know they’re really just trying to downplay their awe.

I showed Kim the picture of Frederick (that’s the mouse) and she admitted he was really fucking cute.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008 TODAY

Morning

Chooch just pointed to the floor in the living room and innocently asked, “Whassat?” A dead mouse, that’s what. Shit, isn’t this chapter closed yet? I’m trying not to panic, trying not to wonder if it’s Frederick. Maybe he came back for more shredded cheese. All I know is that he wasn’t there five minutes ago when I walked across the room to the couch. I asked Chooch who put it there and he said Speck. That bitch.

I called Henry and yelled SOMETHING TERRIBLE JUST HAPPENED.

He told me to throw it outside, then hurried up and made sure I knew not to touch it with bare hands. So I wrapped it gingerly in a paper towel and placed it on the front porch.

Afternoon

THE MOUSE IS GONE. A FUCKING BIRD TOOK IT. I called Henry and, in quick-speak, relay to him the latest development. “….and so I had it on the porch so that you could bury it when you come home—” Henry interrupted me with genuine laughter. “–and now it’s GONE.” Henry gave me a talk about nature.

Evening

Bob told me there are probably a hundred more mice in my house.

I don’t want to do this for a living anymore.

————–

Today’s blog entry is brought to you by the numbers 2008 and the letters OLD, because I fear that if I try to write something new today, it will be in CAPSLOCK and possibly just the words “FUCK” and “DIE” typed in tandem with my twitching eyelids because HOW IS EVERYTHING SO ANNOYING TODAY? I got even less sleep than usual last night and now I am trapped inside my own self-created rage-vaccuum. G’day. 

In collecting old photos of my Pappap’s house, I found several that reminded me of how much music has always been a part of my life, and why so much of it naturally reminds me of that house.

I got my first damn cassette player from my grandparents for my third (fourth?) birthday. A year or two later, I upgraded to a Fisher Price tape recorder—it was taupe in color like all electronics were in the early 80s and came with a microphone, which I would hold up to TV speakers in my Pappap’s den, in order to record shit from Friday Night Videos. Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” was on my very first mixtape. That song came on in the car a few weeks ago and I tried to get Chooch stoked on it but he only thought it was just ok.

The above picture was taken on the porch of my Pappap’s house, and anytime I hear the song “Under the Boardwalk,” my mind automatically beams me back to that porch, sitting at the glass table, playing Monopoly and listening to the Bruce Willis version of that song over and over while my grandma babysat me and my brother Ryan in the late 80s. AND THAT WAS MY FUCKING JAM.

Here we have my grandma holding me in the kitchen, and you can just barely see a stereo system on a shelf to the left.

This is how I grew to love Phil Collins, Kenny Rogers, and Gino Vanelli and also grilled cheese sandwiches. SOFT ROCK 4 LYFE. NO SHAME.

(I made my Pappap order me the Time Life “Body Talk” CD collection, and literally every song reminds me of either sitting in that kitchen or my favorite childhood restaurant–the Blue Flame.)

This is my aunt Susie and me in the clown room. Inside the desk behind us was a record player, and this is how I heard Frank Zappa for the first time ever.

There was always music playing in that house back then. And today, there is always music playing in my house. Sometimes different music is playing in multiple rooms at once (soft rock radio in the bedroom, Spotify on the computer downstairs, music videos on TV); this drives Henry nuts. Especially if we’re watching something on TV and then I scream something unintelligible and clamber up the steps because some cherished song is playing on the bedroom radio and I want to pretend like this is a serendipitous moment, like I can’t just queue it up on my phone, and so I’ll flip down on the bed and listen to “In the Air Tonight” or “Eye in the Sky” like I haven’t heard it in 20 years, while Henry is downstairs mumbling, “How did you even HEAR that from down here?”

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some soft rock to Spotify.

Where Henry wines and dines me at Bob Evans and Olive Garden on our “vacation” two hours away from home. Part 1 is here.

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2004 (8:36am)

Haha, Henry walked to CVS to get me a new compact (he broke the cover off of my current one so I couldn’t bring it) and he came back with the wrong color. So he dejectedly turned around and headed back out into the jungle that is Cleveland. Are you crying for him yet?

We didn’t go to the bar last night because I looked exceptionally fat and ugly. Instead, we spent the evening with Carnie Wilson and her husband Rob, and then the Golden Girls stopped by.

It’s going to be 87 degrees and humid today. I can hardly wait. It’s going to be especially comfortable in the car.

Our big plans are to go on a boat tour at 12:00, but the paper said thunderstorms for today. It looks so nice out there now though.

Uh oh, Henry J. is back. Let’s see how he fared.

Haha, he bought the wrong shade again and now he’s sitting in the chair pouting. This is after he stomped around the room on a rampage, stuffing clothes into our bags. God, he’s a hothead.

Some religious show is on the WB and the host said, “Happy Happy Jesus day to everyone!” and now a choir is singing. I feel so enlightened by God’s love, like I kind of want to herd sheep.

(9:33am)
We checked out and are on our way to find somewhere to eat outside of Cleveland and Henry called me “fucking generic.”

Downtown Cleveland has no traffic at all. Henry said it’s “on the verge of being depressed.” It’s nice when he puts his economics degree to use.

Henry’s raging because he got a tree branch stuck under the car and he was going to try and dislodge it at a red light but a mini Cooper almost ran him over. God, he’s in such a pissy mood today. His name for today will be Crappy Pants.

(10:40am)
Crappy Pants started to lighten up for a bit but then he freaked out in the parking lot of Bob Evans [ed.note: It’s nice that Henry took me to a Bob Evans while on “vacation”] because I asked him to bring in the camera bag. You never know when you’re going to need the camera.

I simply cannot wait to indulge in my fruit and yogurt plate. I don’t want to eat too much before my highly-anticipated boat tour! Which BETTER NOT BE CANCELLED.

(11:57am)
Holy shit, we just made it onto the Goodtimes III boat. I had to suffer through yet another Crappy Pants hissy fit because the lot he wanted to park in was full. We had to drive around in a tireless effort for somewhere else to park, and unknowingly got caught up in the American Idol audition shuffle. It’s being held at the Browns stadium.

Oh god, we just had to watch a lesson in lifeguard vest fastening. I really hope we don’t need to use one.

Christ, there’s this grandma on our boat with two girls. She held up the ticket line with her asinine inquiries of senior discounts. Then she told the ticket guy, “I really am sixty, I swear!” God, I wanted to gag. Then she held up the ticket taker by asking him where she could get a drink. HOW ABOUT IN THE RIVER. She’s dumb and I hate her.

Henry J. is all, “Look, there’s the captain. That’s where he steers when he’s pulling out.” (LOL pulling out.) I thought he was in the AIRFORCE not the Navy? God, being in THE SERVICE sure turned little Henry J into a well-rounded man of knowledge. I’m lucky to call him my boyfriend.

(12:18pm)
So far, this is really boring. We’re listening to some stupid guy on a recording tell us about industrial crap. We’re on the Cuyahoga River, going past the Flats, whatever that means. Henry J’s so hardcore that he moved up a seat to take pictures. I didn’t want to sit with him anyway.

Oh Christ, he’s talking while he films. Just what everyone longs for: commentary by Henry J. Way to make it boring.

(1:05pm)
Thankfully, the boring river segment of the tour is over (the only thing I learned is Cleveland has weird bridges and mediocre graffiti). Now we’re finally going into Lake Erie, my bitches.

Oh God, Henry J’s trying to be funny again. He’s so funny he should be on “Blue Collar TV.”

I asked, “Why is the boat rocking?” Now, I wanted to hear an exciting answer like, “Because Godzilla and HR Pufnstuf are battling at the bottom of the lake” but instead Henry J says, “Well, it’s because the waves are going one way and then the wind is coming in from over that side…..” and I stopped listening.

I wonder if Henry J ever did whippets when he was younger. It would explain a lot. I should ask him. I lost him to the upper deck it seems. What the fuck is he taking pictures of? Oh shit — me. I’m hunching over to shield my ugly face but there’s no camouflaging my chub. Ew, I think he’s taking pictures of other peoples kids now. How perverse.

(1:50pm)
Oh God. We’re floating past this little business airport and a plane landed. Henry J was watching it with his mouth slightly agape and I swear I’m not kidding — a tear in his eye. I SAW IT! He gets so nostalgic when he sees airplanes. Oh, memories of his days in THE SERVICE.

[Ed.Note: This must have been the tour boat version of childbirth, because I somehow forgot how excruciating the tour was and insisted that we do it again the summer of 2013, where one of the bridges broke, resulting in us getting stuck on the river for something like 4 hours and Chooch and Henry tried to disown me.]

(2:30pm)
Amazingly, we’re en route to E. 99. [Ed.Note: I was obsessed with Bone Thugs-n-Harmony and had been trying to go to Cleveland since I was in high school specifically to see the intersection of E.99 and St. Clair, because it was on the cover of one of their albums (E.99 Eternal) and they had rapped about it. It was like a yo-girl’s version of Graceland, OK?] I’m sure Crappy Pants was hoping I’d forget. I admitted to him that I was afraid his bandanna would get us into trouble. His response was, “No, what’s going to get us into trouble is the white girl with the video camera.”

I sure hope I get to see Bone! Maybe they’re home, creepin’ on ah comeup, you know?

(2:33pm)
Leave it to Henry J to take a truly blessed and sacred moment and shit his runny diarrhea all over it. Instead of being grateful to aid me in my lifelong aspiration of seeing E.99 Street and St. Clair, he instead decided to lose his temper and berate me for making him drive into the ghetto and then turn around twice to ensure a proper photographical opportunity. You would think that the awestruck smile on my sweaty face would warm his heart one thousand times over. Wrong. NOTHING can warm that frigid rock of ice in his chest, except maybe some hardcore porn and a bucket of chicken.

Driving through these ghettos makes me reminisce to the point in my life when I was knee deep in this shit. I’m lucky to be alive right now, but you wouldn’t understand. Running from the popo in the middle of the night, your glock in your waistband and crackrocks stashed in your asshole. These are times I look back on in fond reflection but would never want to repeat.

In other words: I used to listen to a lot of gangsta rap.

Holy shit — Henry J just pulled over on the curb to consult his map. I can’t help but feel he could have picked a better area for that. He “thinks [he] knows where we’re going now.”

(4:27pm)
This entire afternoon has been spent in a dire search for cheap lodging. We just drove past a Clarion. but Crappy Pants said, “No, it looks too nice in front. We need something that looks like it’s falling down.” God, I can’t wait until that man marries me.

(6:24pm)
We’ve embarked on a journey for dinner. I’m sure I’ll pick this book back up at 8:00 to write of our progress and we will STILL be driving.

So, I was taking a shower (after we checked into our palatial Super 8 suite) and I somehow got conditioner up my nose and subsequently sneezed FOURTEEN TIMES in a row. It was orgasmic.

Then, with a towel securely wrapped around my wet head, I began my search for the ice machine. I walked all the way to the end of the hall, but there was NOTHING. Just a barren stairwell. Luckily, two Mexican boys just happened to emerge from their rooms and were quite efficient with their offers to help me in my quest. I walked down the remaining length of the hall with the older of the two while he informed me apologetically of his poor English skills. He even squeezed my shoulder at one point and I blushed.

He led me down the opposite stairwell and said, “There. In there.” He pointed to a door at the bottom of the steps and I immediately thought it was a trap. that I was getting raped and turned into a milkmaid.

It ended up being OK though. He opened the door for me and gestured excitedly toward the ice machine. I thanked him by slipping my tongue down his throat and we bid each other adieu. [Ed.Note: I read this out loud to Henry and said, “Wait…did this really happen?” and he mumbled, “Who knows with you.”]

(8:30pm)

We’re at Olive Garden. A brief rundown on what has transpired in the past two hours: Henry J drove us to Coventry. It’s like our Southside and home to the famous Grog Shop. Anyhow, our visit was not in the itinerary and this was a bit overwhelming for me, as I had not planned on walking since my foot is broken (it is, but Henry J doesn’t believe me). Then, Henry was mad at me because I didn’t want to visit any of the eateries that Coventry had to offer. He EXPLODED. It was tres embarrassing. He was all, “We’re going home!” Ooh, big words for a little man. Then he had the audacity to put the weight of this Hell Trip on ME!

We got back to the hotel at which point I’m subjected to more of Henry’s theatrics. “I’m going out by myself to find a bar!” I was like, “Good luck with that” and then he spazzed out because I didn’t cling to his ankles, begging him to stay. He blurted out, “Then you don’t love me!” through a stream of big gay tears. Meanwhile, he only walked next to our hotel to Olive Garden to get a menu for me.

Boy is he a sucker.

Now I’m enjoying a peach sangria and flagrant flirtations from our waiter. And Henry is trying to put two hours worth of tears behind him.

Oh goody, I just ate a stuffed mushroom with secret crabmeat. There’s nine years of vegetarianism down the drain.

Samuel. Our waiter’s name is Samuel.

I can’t stand the white asscake seated across from us with his friend. He’s attempting to design business cards for the friend (Shawn, to those who know him) and he’s being so obnoxious about it. Then he told some lame ass joke about Jeb Bush and unfair elections and it wasn’t even a joke!  When their meal was served, the waiter asked if he wanted any cheese on his pasta and he said, ” Yeah, a lot.” And he was hitting on the Asian hostess by telling her he adopts kids of other nationalities. He was like, “I have a black and I’m looking for an Asian” and the black woman in the next booth whipped her head back to look at him. He was a WEIRDO. He was talking about Jews, Ukranians, and Russians later, too.

(9:50pm)

OK so we finally got to eat after 3 hours of Hell, most of it from Erin. Needless to say dinner was interesting. I must admit the most annoying man I have ever the pleasure of sitting near was there. I think he mentioned every ethnicity there is in his conversation. For once, we had a good waiter. except for the mushroom episode, everything else was good. I feel bad she ate the little clam, I hope she doesn’t DIE! Well, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. I’m sure it will be another “Happy Happy Jesus Day” because I can sure use another one. I’m not sure my heart (old heart) can take it. So it’s off to watch the Amazing Race and explain all of the confusing things to her.

(10:48pm)

“Amazing Race” is pretty fascinating.

Anyway, I need to write about all the food that Crappy Pants shoved into his fat face: Three and a half breadsticks, a huge salad, the entire stuffed mushroom plate (after I found out about the crab), and three gigantic meat ravioli. ROAR.

OH! There’s some midget on Amazing Race and she just said, “Another one of my dreams came true!” because she got to see the pyramids and Henry said, “Another of her dreams is to have normal-sized legs.” I hope he goes to Hell. Midgets are people too.

I asked Crappy Pants what his favorite memory of me is, and he slapped me on the side of my head and said, “That.”

Asshole.

——————————–

Oh yes. There is a companion video. It’s called “How Are They Still Together?” P.S. The part where I call Henry “uneducated”? Don’t go crying rivers of pity for him just yet. That was my tip of the hat in reference to the time he and I had a political argument and he told me I was uneducated. I responded by breaking his glasses.

How happy are you  that I don’t vlog?