My nostalgia over this past week rubbed off on Corey and he started rummaging around our childhood home (our mom still lives there; he waited for her to leave so she wouldn’t freak out because God forbid her kids might be curious about their family heritage). He texted some of these old photos to me the other night and they really made me smile so much.

A rare photo of my mom and me seemingly having a nice time together. This was either in Wildwood or at Kennywood, I’m not sure.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression: things weren’t really that terrible between the two of us back then. But she was always really weird about having her picture taken—way weirder than I am even, but this is certainly where I get my camera phobia. Most pictures of my mom, she looks like she’s frightened or she is trying to hide behind her thick flaxen hair curtain.

I always thought it was such a shame, because my mom was so pretty back then.

It’s scary how drastically unhappiness can change a person’s appearance.

Some of the greatest memories of my life took place on Sylvania Drive. (Also some of the scary flashbacks involving my birth dad, but gotta focus on the good or the bad will just eat away at you, right?). This photo is my friend Christy and me sitting on the back of my stepdad’s truck with my brother Ryan. When Ryan was born, I was the biggest brat about it. I didn’t want to not be an only child anymore, but mostly I didn’t want to share my Pappap! I was still in my I HATE RYAN phase when this photo was taken but don’t worry—we ended up being pretty cool with each other after awhile. (Even though I was accused of pushing him down the attic steps when we moved into our new house in Jefferson Hills, and to this day, I promise you that’s a lie. Unless I was having a rage blackout. Then it’s entirely possible.)

The first girl in this picture was a younger girl who lived across the street and Christy and I would always try to hide from her because she was so annoying and I feel like her mom used to yell at us a lot. Her last name was Mellon but Christy convinced me it was Watermelon.

And then this picture. The holy grail! I had never before in my life seen this, and Corey said Val (a/k/a our mom) had it stuffed in a drawer with a bunch of papers.

The man in the hat is my Pappap, and the woman behind him and to the left is my grandma. I think this was taken in the Bahamas, because I know they used to go there a lot when my mom was a kid. (I feel like there’s a story about Susie bringing home a boy from there when she was a teenager, so now I think Corey and I need to hound her for details.)

This picture is so surreal to me, like a still from some old French film. My Pappap looks so badass. I need a copy of this photo in the worst way, but that seems like an impossible task at this point in the family relations game. UNLESS COREY CAN “BORROW” IT LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET A GOOD SCAN.

I don’t know who the other people are, but I bet my mom and her sisters do and I really wish we could all get together sometime and look at pictures together and you know, keep our family history alive. There is so much I don’t know and, as a compulsive memory chronicler (or, you know, HOARDER), it makes me absolutely twitchy.

I had a much better story that I was going to write about today but CHOOCH is monopolizing the computer (he’s getting interviewed on some game he’s playing? I have no idea what he’s talking about) and I didn’t feel like doing any actual word-fashioning via my iPhone. Such blogging woes.

Coming tomorrow: more scintillating snippets of the Cleveland 2004 trip via my paper travel journal. TRY TO TONE DOWN THE ENTHUSIASM.

Right before Christmas, Henry had a bunch of my old 8mm tapes transferred to DVDs. It was pretty much the greatest/worst thing he could have done, because I am a sucker for nostalgia. And once it baits me, I’m tough to reel back in. He picked ten tapes at random, because he had a Groupon. One of those tapes happened to be the oldest one in the box, and it started with one of the Christmases from when I was in middle school. So, maybe 1991? 1992? Henry was dying because even with my back to the camera, my body language was a neon sign for This Girl is Pouting. “Oh good lord, were you kids spoiled,” he muttered while I smiled sweetly at the memories of these past Christmases. But then the video switched from my family’s house to my grandparent’s house, and for the first time in 15 years, I heard my Pappap’s voice and tears simultaneously sprung forth. Just seeing my parents, Susie and her then-husband Mark, my grandparents and my great-grandma sitting around the table, while Sharon supervised us kids opening more presents, and hearing everyone laugh at whatever hilarious joke my Pappap had made….it started out like a kick to the gut, but then, surprisingly, I was able to watch it without tears in my eyes, while making fun of my pre-teen self. For years and years, I clung to the past in a really unhealthy way, wishing that my Pappap hadn’t died (OK, I obviously still wish that; that hasn’t changed) and that our family hadn’t broken apart like Pangea, that we still all got together for holidays and I hadn’t been basically banned from my grandparent’s house.

So we’re watching these videos and Chooch is getting super pissed.

“I bet your Pappap gave you like, a lot of money for your birthday, didn’t he?” he asked angrily.

“Not really,” I answered casually. “But, we were usually in Europe for my birthday….”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” Chooch cried. “Like, really hate you.”

I’m not going to lie. While there was certainly dysfunction under my own roof, and my relationship with my grandma was strained at best, my Pappap did everything in his power to make sure that I had a charmed childhood. And I love him so much for that. He’s the reason why I try to give Chooch interesting/weird/cool experiences. I might not have a lot of money, and I certainly can’t take him to Europe every year for his birthday, but I will still do whatever I can to give him good memories.  My Pappap kept me from turning into a spoiled brat (OK, I have my snobby moments even as a poor person) by being a kind, humble man.

This was taken one of the last times I was over there, in 2010.

*****

Once my grandma’s health began to decline about 10 years ago, so did the house. It was just her and my aunt Sharon living there, in this house that could comfortably shelter multiple families, and they just couldn’t keep up. Occasionally, they would call Henry over to make minor repairs, but there were larger issues that weren’t being addressed, landscaping that had been overlooked for years, a pool that hadn’t been maintained since the late 90s. You get the picture. Just like our family, it was falling apart.

When my grandma died in 2011, we thought for sure the house was going to be taken. My mom and Sharon have been in a world of financial struggle for more than a decade, and I couldn’t imagine how they were going to afford to keep the house. But Sharon continued living there, alone, and it just seemed like they kept dodging bullet after bullet that the bank was firing at them. And even though I am so removed from them and the situation these days, I was secretly glad that they were somehow stealing more time. Because this house was all we had left of my grandparents and the memories of The Good Days. The BBQs and pool parties and sleepovers and Christmases on the porch where there was usually one person mad at another person, but it was still so much better than this, how it is now, this nothingness, where we’re no longer a family but basically just a bunch of strangers with chunks of matching DNA.

*****

Two days ago, I was at work when Corey texted me a Realtor.com listing.

Sharon finally did it. She put the house on the market.

I could taste the bile rising as I scrolled through the pictures of peeling wallpaper and dust-coated glass tables. I sat at my desk, willing myself not to cry. I will never be able to put into words how much this house means to me, how all of the best memories of my childhood were born under that roof, in that pool, among the woods in the backyard. It was my happy place. It was where I sought refuge in my teen years when my dad and I hated each other. It was where I would stop on my way home from school to sit at the kitchen counter and help my grandma with her puzzle while the Guiding Light theme song bleated out of the small kitchen television set. It was where my friends and I would hang out in high school, watching the hockey game and horror movies on that huge wraparound couch in the game room. Sometimes I think, if my memories of that house are this beautiful, it must be like looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for my mom and aunts.

I know. It’s a house. It’s just a house. No one died.

But…the memories. The nostalgia. The scents and the feels and the sights of that crazy velvet wallpaper and the gaudy opulence of the clown room — it’s not just a time capsule of my childhood, but also a veritable set design for the strange aesthetics of the 60s and 70s, like if you could walk into the word “Groovy” and pop a squat. Their interior decorator (yes, they had one; his name was Herbie) definitely went for Liberace Lite.

When I show people pictures of the house now, they’re like, “Are you fucking kidding?” But this was normal to me. This was real life. This was what I grew up in. I thought every house had hidden rooms under the steps where Pappaps kept a collection of Cameos brought back from the War, a house-wide intercom system, a master bathroom with Roman-esque pillars, a basement with three separate game rooms: one with a bar, one with a pool table and arcade games, one with a poker table and furniture made from barrels.

Corey said that he spoke with Sharon that day and that she seemed OK, like she had finally come back down  to earth and understood that this is what she needs to do, that it’s time. And even though it hurts so bad, like an entire limb is being taken from me, I know it’s the right thing, too. And I hope that once Sharon is out of there, she can finally let go and start living life again. Maybe this is what she needs to do to finally start healing. Because she hasn’t been the Sharon I used to know, not since that traumatic night in 1996.

******

Corey and I are trying to gently convince Sharon to let us come over for one last time. We just want to look around, run our fingers over the curios and crystals, take some pictures. I just want to breathe it in one last time before some asshole buys it and completely remodels it.

A few years ago, I posted the only pictures here I could find, taken from 2007-2008. It’s mind-blowing to me how a house that was once so open and inviting (it was surprisingly warm and cozy in there, like a sanctuary) turned into a bolted-up, secretive fortress. I haven’t been inside there since 2010, and that was for about 30 minutes before Sharon was shooing me out.

This painting was supposed to be mine. This was all I wanted, plus all the old photo albums. I don’t care about the money. I would rather continue living in pseudo-squalor than taking their handouts.

Chooch in the Clown Room, standing near a sharp-edged glass table, wooo parenting!

Master bathroom, one of my favorite rooms as a kid.

Someday I hope to have a house to cover in strange wallpaper.

Sharon wasn’t home one day so my grandma let us take pictures of Chooch in the gameroom. Sharon is real weird about me being in the house, like she expects me to start pocketing the Lalique and Lladro. (Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind giving all of those clowns a new home.)

His shoes were on the wrong feet—parental duties on lock.

My friend Evan always liked to play chess at this table back when we were in high school.

My grandma let Corey and I have a photoshoot in there one day until Sharon caught wind and made us feel so tense and nervous that we eventually just left.

Someday, before the house is gone, I want to break in and take more pictures and just get one good, long look at what seemed so normal to me as a kid. I spent some of the best days of my life at that house, watching “Golden Girls”, “Empty Nest” and “Hunter” during Saturday night sleepovers, eating grilled cheese, and playing PacMan in the game room while “She Bop” blared out of the jukebox. Until I convince Sharon to let me in, I’m going to tear through every last photo album I have for more pictures. I feel absolutely panicked about this.

Spending so much of my youth in that house stimulated my imagination and cultivated my eclectic tastes.  I owe so much of who I am today to that strange, magical place on Gillcrest. It was my refuge.

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

I came home from work the Day the House Was Put on the Market and was looking through an old tin of mixtapes, in hopes of finding the one I had just written about the other day. It’s been a good 10 years since I had rooted around through this tin, and  the first thing I saw when I removed the lid was this picture of my grandparents from 1991 and my heart split in two:

Sometimes I believe in signs, and this was one of those times. I feel like this was their way of saying it’s OK. That we don’t have to keep that house in the family to keep their memory alive.

On the way home from Chooch’s piano lesson on Saturday, some Queen song came on the radio (it was probably “Another One Bites the Dust,” but I can’t remember exactly right now).

Chooch is oddly interested in Queen. Not in a “LET’S BUY THEIR WHOLE DISCOGRAPHY!

” sense. But, he does like to ask questions about them. Once, I played him the “Radio Gaga” video, because I was OBSESSED with that song when I was around his age (there’s even a video of me dancing to with curlers in my hair years later—I think jerk Lisa filmed it in my mom’s family room when I wasn’t paying attention) and he was fascinated.

This time, he started asking us questions about Queen’s popularity and seemed kind of surprised when Henry and I told him that they had lots of big radio hits. We started naming some of them and I had a quick audio flashback of senior year of high school. I had never been a super big Queen fan, so I never really sunk into their deep cuts. But then I started dating Psycho Mike, and the one good quality about Psycho Mike among the layers of shitty attitude, rage disorders, and fiery jealousy was that he really loved music. None of my prior boyfriends really seemed to give a shit about music, let alone that all-important relationship token: The Mixtape. I would make them for people all the time: friends, penpals, unworthy boyfriends—but it wasn’t until I started dating Mike that I ever got one back from a boy.

And it was fucking legit.

It was through Mike that I learned about Billy Bragg (whom I finally got to see live at Riot Fest last September!), Neutral Milk Hotel, Syd Barrett, and Radiohead (Mike was going to see them back when they were opening for bands at tiny Pittsburgh clubs like Metropol), some of which were included on the mixtape he made for me during the winter of 1997. I spent so many nights laying on the beanbag in my bedroom, lit only by a ridiculous collection of neon water sculptures and Christmas lights bouncing off of my foiled wallpaper…it was just a few nudie posters short of being a home-version of Spencer’s, a headshop without the bongs and nose-pinching stench of patchouli. And this is how Mike’s mixtape was best experienced: half-devoured by a giant bag of beans, awash in psychedelic lights, absolutely nothing distracting from the words and music seeping into the system like some supreme cocktail of opiates.

During our Queen conversation on Saturday, I pulled up “You Don’t Fool Me” on my phone and, before it started playing, I explained that it was my favorite Queen song of all time.

“It was on this mixtape that Psycho Mike made me,” I mumbled.

I hadn’t listened to this song in at least 15 years, and as soon as I heard those opening notes, I was back in my old bedroom again, and I felt so calm and peaceful, even with Chooch’s mouth chattering away in the backseat of the car. Over the weekend, I listened to some more songs that I remembered from that tape, “Marooned” by Pink Floyd, “Bad As They Seem” by Hayden, even Pachelbel’s “Canon” was on there. Side B ended with a 10-second recording of one of our phone calls, unbeknownst to me at the time; I thought was incredibly adorable and romantic back then, me sounding all sleepy and him teasing me with a deranged lilt to his voice.

Listening to these songs made me feel warm, safe, comfortable: none of the things Psycho Mike ever made me feel.

Guys. When “we” were cleaning the house last month, I found one of my old vacation journals; specifically, there is a written account of when Henry and I went to Cleveland in 2004 to see the Cure (and also E.99 & St.Clair, an intersection made famous by the BEST RAP GROUP EVER: Bone Thugs-n-Harmony)  and I decided that I am going to transcribe it because somehow I was able to charm Henry into writing a few times and also because I have no idea how we are still together because I was way bitchier and he was way less tolerant. So here is part one.

———————————————————

Monday, August 2, 2004

(10:06am)

I’m sitting in the parking lot of PNC Bank while Henry is inside, dutifully cashing in $243 worth of rolled change. Otherwise, this trip would not be possible.

Originally, we were supposed to go to Chicago (how my heart bleeds for that City of Wind), but Henry threw a hissy fit yesterday about how it’s not worth a ten hour trip for me to find happiness. Oh OK.

(10:34am)

We’re on McKnight Road. My stomach feels acidic. I briefed Henry on my situation, explaining that vomiting is a possible conclusion. He said, “You’ll be OK” and continued reading his map. He’s such a big shot driver that he’s using a BOB EVANS map, no less.

We stopped at the Sky Bank in Northway Mall so I could continue sucking my savings account dry (Henry makes me do it). There was this big crane there because they’re working on the mall’s roof. Three ladies were standing in the middle of the road, gawking at it, and Henry had to drive around them. We parked and got to walk past them, so I said loudly, “WOW I’VE NEVER SEEN A CRANE BEFORE!” Henry said, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

I should note that a lot of times I re-word Henry’s quotes to either make it funnier or add some sense to it. Normally he only speaks gibberish and them I’m left to my own devices, trying in vain to translate. It’s a tedious job.

(11:06am)

We stopped at Sheetz in Wexford. Henry proclaimed that it was the same Sheetz he calls me from everyday during work, and that he’d make love to it if he could. It was touching until my first sip of their cheap, watered-down coffee. That, my friend’s, is poor man’s coffee.

I told Henry that I’m hungry and he’s turning it into a game. “Oh, I know! Let’s only eat at uncommercialized [sic] restaurants!” Meanwhile, we’re driving through a veritable oasis of eating establishments that don’t follow his moronic guidelines. What’s worse is that he’s singing along to A Perfect Circle and this coffee is completely unsatisfying! I can’t believe saving a few bucks is more important to him than satiating my hunger! I’m a growing girl! My anemia can grow worse any second now! But no, I have to sit here and wait until we enter a trailer park community and pray there’s a diner nearby. He’ll be sorry. Son of a bitch.

(11:50am)

We’re at Brown’s Country Kitchen in Portersville, being serenaded by Enrique Iglesias and sitting in a hard wooden booth. Henry likes it. He said he likes hard things pressing up against his ass.

Hopefully, sometime today we’ll make it out of Pennsylvania.

Holy Christ, he just ate coleslaw off the table. Do you know how many people masturbate while sacrificing livestock to the demon lord and then put their unwashed. seminated hands all over the table? Nasty.

It occurs to me that Henry didn’t want to go to Chicago because he doesn’t want to be too far away from his mommy.

There’s this really ugly boy that just came in. He has red hair. I started laughing and when I turned around to get a better look, I snorted. Henry said, “Don’t start. We’re still really close to home.” Ooh, a threat, and so early in the trip. But come on, this boy is repulsive!

(12:37pm)

The Bastard Redhead left the restaurant just as we got in the car. I excitedly readied the camera and had just gotten it to focus when Henry decided I’d had enough fun and pulled out of the parking lot! That picture could have been spectacular. It could have been all I’ve ever wanted. But HENRY fucked it up and he didn’t even apologize. He said he DOESN’T CARE and that it was “just a picture.” How will I remember that fucker now? The memory is so fleeting. This trip is officially ruined.

And our waitress was lazy. I don’t care t hat she was old.

(2:12pm)

We’re currently in the business district of Jefferson, OH. It’s  truly the working man’s town. I can see Henry living here. He looks like a lot of the men I see milling about: dirty, toothless, and tattooed.

(3:47pm)

I’m going to die in this goddamn un-air-conditioned car. I swear, I’m sweating to death and my skin feels like it’s burning. I’ve asked him countless times to please stop somewhere so we can get out of this sweatbox, yet he’s STILL driving along aimlessly.

We went to Geneva-on-the-Lake, which was a joke and drove for like 45 minutes after seeing a sign that said “Lake Erie Circle Tour.” Henry insists that the tour is really just the road that we’re on, but I know it’s not true and that he must have missed a turn somewhere.

God, I just want to go home.

(4:45pm)

Typical. Henry J is being all mushy now. “Oh, I am so sorry. I love you more than you’ll ever know and I just want to kill myself knowing that I’ve upset you.” I haven’t forgiven him, but we’re in Cleveland now. I can’t wait to find E.99 and St. Clair. Maybe Bone Thugs-n-Harmony will be there.

So we drove past the Marriott (on St. Clair) and the hotel looked like it was being evacuated. There were sheriffs that stopped traffic for all these kids to cross the street. The ATF and these news crews were there. The American Idol auditions are being held here on Wednesday, but something else is going on and I need to know. So I’m sending Henry back around.

Right now, the “E.” streets are in the low numbers. I said, “Wow, E.99 must be really far down there” and Henry J. said, “In the good part of town, I”m sure.” He’s SO FUNNY. He should go on “Last Comic Standing” and make us all proud.

I had a major realization that Henry J. confirmed: Cleveland hates people from Pittsburgh. Henry J. said, “So I”m from Harrisburg and you’re from Pittsburgh.” See? He’s so piss-your-pants funny.

Wow, Henry J. is actually inside a Holiday Inn inquiring about room availability. We never stay in real hotels. He left me in the car with the windows down because he hopes someone steals me.

(6:15pm) 

We scored a room at the Holiday Inn. Right now, we’re sitting in Willard Park. We’re walking around because if we take the car, we risk losing our free parking spot and then we’ll have to pay $15 to park in the hotel’s garage. That’s a crime!

So Henry J. confirmed that all the commotion was for the International Childrens Games. I said it’s stupid and Henry J. snapped, “No, it’s not! It’s for kids of different nationalities to meet so they won’t grow up like you, hating the world!” Oh snap.

(7:00pm)

We’re at the Winking Lizard Tavern after walking FOREVER because Henry J. is directionally WRONG. And lucky for us, Laura Ashley is sitting across from us.

And Henry J. is drinking a Coors Lite! Oh no, folks—an evening of drunken debauchery is surely in store for us! Or domestic violence. But really, isn’t it all the same?

(7:25pm)

I’m so happy! Not only did I have the best veggie burger (and it was HOMEMADE) I just saw CNBC that Kerry/Edwards are leading Bush/Cheney 49% to 42%! Of course, Henry Dubya Robbins is being a naysayer. “It’s not because of the convention <eye roll while gnawing on toothpicks>!”

(8:00pm)

We’re sitting near the lake now and Henry J. is wasting pictures. On our walk here, we encountered a homeless man who smelled so bad that people were crossing the street (I have a bad sense of smell though), a fat dude with an eye patch trying to give away a newspaper, a crazy guy rocking back and forth in front of the Catholic Diocese (he looked at me and said, “Heeeeeeeeheeeeee”) and a possible American Idol hopeful singing to a black homeless man.

I LOVE CLEVELAND! I want to move here and work for Alternative Press.

Oh, did I mention that Henry’s using a tan leather Puma “gym bag” that’s a “souvenir of the 70s”? It’s really a bowling bag from when he was in a league, OMG. They’d bowl and then go to the disco. Ooooh, disco delight!

(9:00pm)

Well, it’s my turn to tell the truth about the trip so far. I think this trip is a record to see how fast she could piss me off. I think it happened around 2pm. Almost came home. But as usual, she begged to stay. So the first 6 hours of the trip were not the best. So we are staying in the Holiday Inn, small room for a big price. But anything for my “sweetie.” Dinner was OK. Got lucky finding it, but seeing as how I’m the master of directions, I had no problem finding it. After dinner we walked down to the pier (so to speak). Got to see two lesbians kissing (Erin got excited). So now we’re gonna head down to the hotel bar and throw down some juice. Hopefully next time I write I’ll have more fun things to write about.

Wow. It took him nearly 15 minutes to write that. What an incredibly stimulating read.

On our walk back to the hotel, Henry J. told me a story about the last time he drank at a hotel bar. Apparently, he had such a wild time that he was too hungover to wake up for the maid the next morning. Oh my god, how exciting is that. And oh my god, it was when he was in THE SERVICE!! That was truly a story I’ll treasure always.

Yeah, so I want to hang out in the hotel bar and you know, meet some people, go home with a hot tourist, the usual.

————————————————-

OMG MORE NEXT SUNDAY CAN YOU STAND THE WAIT.

There were numerous reasons why I HAD to go to Philly to see Circa Survive:

• They just released a new album
• This was the first tour they were doing in support of that album, and it wasn’t coming to Pittsburgh
• The guys in Circa Survive are from Philly (or nearby), so this would a hometown show and everyone knows hometown shows are the best shows
• It’s Circa fucking Survive
• I would get to go with Terri and  Christian!

So I did that thing that I do when I really want something, which is tell Henry that it’s all I want for “x holiday.” This time, Christmas was the next holiday coming up, which is good because Christmas works better than Flag Day. So I was like, “OH PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE, HENRY CLAUS, I’LL DO ANYTHING!” I think he liked the idea that all he had to do was get me to Philly, and not have to go to the show.

Plus, we all got to hang out beforehand and the next morning, so it just made sense for us to all go and make a weekend of it. At least, that’s how I tried to sell my case. “We can have group hangs! Then you and Chooch can dick around town doing fuck all while I go to the show with Christian and Terri!” I cried excitedly, and Henry didn’t really say anything, which is better than when he gets all huffy and starts yelling at me about money. Not that that happens a lot.

The show was at Union Transfer, and it was a fantastic venue even before the show started. The line to get in was super quick, the staff was friendly, and there were numerous ciders to choose from at the bar. This is really all I ask for. Terri and I each got some cider and hung out at a table near the window,  and I know this is cheesy, but we text pretty much every day so it was super nice to actually talk like real people. Eventually, we could hear the opening notes of Pianos Become the Teeth so we ditched the bar and made our way to the stage. Christian was already in there with one of his friends, but I needed to be closer for Pianos so we were like, “Peace out” and wormed our way through the crowd.

Meanwhile, Henry and Chooch were going to hit up some diner down the street from the hotel and then go get ice cream.

Pianos Become the Teeth is a hard band for me to describe, for some reason. I had a moderate affinity for them for awhile, but when I saw United Nations last summer, my appreciation for them grew (two of them are in United Nations: the drummer and bassist) and I knew I had to see Pianos live sooner rather than later. Luckily, they were at Riot Fest and their short set in the rain on one of the smallest stages in Humboldt Park turned out to be one of the highlights for me, which probably doesn’t mean much since that entire weekend was one big, obese highlight.

Their music is akin to post-rock, think Mogwai. But with anguished vocals that aren’t quite a scream so you can’t call this screamo, but more like a cry: a gravel-throated anguished cry over top of beautiful music that ebbs and flows with intensity.

Henry dislikes them because he’s a moron.

But OK, OK, this isn’t a music blog. So I’ll just say that when they played “Repine,” my eyeballs burned with tears. Jesus, that song.

Next up was Title Fight, which was exciting because the first time I ever saw them was the first time I met Terri and Christian at the AP Show in Cleveland almost exactly three years ago! We were all there as guests of our mutual friend Jason from Alternative Press, and spent the whole day together, record shopping, grilled cheese eating, and AP back issue rummaging. Jason had to do some obligatory networking during the after party that night and was so afraid to leave us alone together, for fear of one of us instigating a fistfight (we are hockey fan rivals—Pens vs. Flyers). I had a feeling that night that we were going to stay in touch and likely become good friends. You can just sometimes tell these things! It didn’t feel awkward hanging out with them and we had a lot to talk about, too.

Title Fight is one of those bands that I am a casual fan of, but seeing them live is a whole new ballgame. Terri has definitely gotten me way more into this genre, and I’m so thankful for that because I need all the help I can get to keep me away from stupid Jonny Craig and his stupid music. Ugh.

And then finally, it was time for Circa Survive. This time, Terri and I secured a prime spot near the side of the stage and, with the exception of the couple behind us who talked the whole time (GO STAND IN THE BACK IF ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO IS TALK), it was a nearly flawless show, crowd-wise. Although Terri had some weird experience with some guy’s butt that I might try and talk her into guest-posting about.

Over the weekend, I went back in my blog and read about other Circa Survive shows I’ve gone to and really….what more can I say other than they are really something special. Even Henry, who doesn’t necessarily like their music, has admitted that they are entertaining. I’ve seen them in several different cities now: Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Chicago, Cincinnati….but I have to say that this Philly show was hands down the best Circa show I’ve seen to date. There was so much energy in the room that it was impossible to stand still, especially during “Child of the Desert,” when Anthony ordered everyone to stand as still as they could, holding all their wiggles in. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to let the wiggles out,” he promised. And when that time came, I grabbed Terri’s arm and we started jumping around like idiots because WHO CARES, WE’RE AT A CIRCA SHOW!? No offense to Henry, but it was like, next level amazingness. You have to understand that I don’t often go to shows with other people who love it as much as me! With Terri, it was like, “Fuck yes, let’s sing, high five our neighbors, and let our fucking wiggles out!”

THANK YOU, ANTHONY GREEN.

They played The Difference Between Medicine and Poison is the Dose, which ends with Anthony yelling, “Did you ever wish you were somebody else?!” After which, Anthony said to the crowd, “I used to wish I was somebody else. You know who I wished I was? James Brown! James motherfucking Brown!” and we all screamed of course because, James Brown. But the girl I hated behind me yelled to her boyfriend, “WHO’S JAMES BROWN?”

Kids!

Later, I would find out that while we were having religious experiences at Union Transfer, Henry and Chooch ended up just going to McDonald’s (Chooch’s choice) and Chooch spilled his drink in the car (“Daddy was pissed off,” Chooch wants me to  tell you) and then they went back to the hotel because the ice cream place apparently sells Christmas trees in December instead of frozen treats. So essentially, a pretty typical Henry and Chooch evening.

I’ve said this before, but there is something about Anthony Green that reminds me of Chooch. I honestly think that if Chooch was the frontman of a band, he’d have that same cult-like charisma and charm, and I was really excited when, after the show, Christian said that he was thinking the same thing. And again, I just know that Chooch is going to grow up and become something stupid just to spite me. Something stupid like a doctor. Ugh!

I bought this sick limited edition show poster (only 100 were made for this show!!) and treated it like a fucking Faberge egg until I finally got it home the next night. Still waiting for dumb Henry to frame it.

After we left the venue, I chimed in from the backseat to point out how happy I was to leave a show and have friends with me to completely analyze and dissect the night. I love Henry and I appreciated that he accompanies me to pretty much every single show I want to go to, but he doesn’t give a shit. And I wouldn’t want him to change. It’s our thing: I’m all hyper and wistful at once, and he’s just….”deep sigh.” It was just really fun and game-changing to be at this one, of all shows, with two people who are just as passionate about Circa Survive and music in general. It was such a great night and you know I don’t ever take these experiences for granted, but this one really made me extra appreciative.

Before taking me back to the hotel, Christian drove around the city for a little bit while we talked excitedly about the show and how on point all three bands were, and Terri pointed out noteworthy things and we saw a sick fight that briefly spilled out into the street. And, and, and! Even two weeks later, my mind is churning with minutiae that I don’t want to let go of.  I’ve watched YouTube videos of this show countless times since that night and Henry is like, “HOW MANY TIMES CAN YOU WATCH THESE.”

*****

Chooch was wide awake when I got back to the hotel after midnight, watching trashy TV and filling out MadLibs, but Henry was mostly asleep.  I shook him violently and, in my teenager vocal cadence, rapidly recounted all of the highlights for him and then shoved my phone in his face so he could see my Instagram videos.

“I know what Anthony looks like,” he mumbled, rolling over in bed and going back to sleep.

Ugh, shows like these make me feel better than a day at the spa.

We listened to Circa Survive for a good portion of the drive back to Pittsburgh the next day, and I cried a little while revisiting old memories and talking for the thousandth time about the first time we saw them at the Grog Shop over the summer of 2005, mostly because I like to tell that story. Henry of course knows that story well because he was there with me, so he just sighed a lot.

From: First Feet Productions

*If you’ve stumbled across this blog and aren’t familiar with Circa Survive, please please please do yourself a favor and check them out. They’re really something special.*

Today is my “oldest” friend Christy’s birthday! (She loves being referred to as my oldest friend.) Honestly though, we’ve been friends since we were, what—4? 5? At some point, she transitioned from best friend to sister. She practically lived at my house and was honestly nearly as crushed when my pappap died as I was, and without her standing next to me through it all, I’m not sure I would have been able to make it through the funeral home viewings. Barb loves to quote the line “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion” from Steel Magnolias, and there is one distinct moment in my life that I always immediately think of, and that is sitting with Christy at the kitchen counter in my pappap’s house after he died, picking through various fruit baskets, and being so slap-happy that my grandma finally was like, “OK, you two need to leave!”

I moved in second grade and the worst thing about it was that I was convinced I would never see Christy again. (We didn’t go to the same school, even when we were neighbors.) But luckily, the parentals were pretty amazing at carting our asses back and forth. I remember this one summer afternoon, swimming at my pappap’s house and being so surprised when he showed up with Christy in tow that I nearly cried of happiness.

We were junior bridesmaids in two weddings together: my aunt Susie’s and then my godfather Chris’s right after, because his fiancee thought we were so adorable in Susie’s wedding that she wanted us for hers too. I mean, duh. It’s weird to me that we never got anymore gigs together after that second one. I have a vague recollection of being in my grandma’s car after one of our fitting session and Christy and I were riotously singing “Pop Goes the Weasel” (the rap, not the nursery rhyme thing) over and over again that my grandma basically lost her mind.

l to r: Laurent, Christy, me, Corey, Ryan, and our dad’s godson Shawn a/k/a Bobo. This photo was taken at the “mountain trailer” my dad would occasionally drag us to. It was essentially one step up from camping and I hated it.

Poor Christy was the subject of love poems written by Laurent, our French foreign exchange student in 1992. We spent an entire summer (one of the ones that had an Olympics going on) heckling Bobo for having a crush on gymnast Shannon Miller when literally all he ever made was one offhand remark about her skill level. She’d go to the mall with me to stalk Scott Dambaugh in 8th grade and she tried really hard to save me from getting involved with Psycho Mike senior year. (Of course I didn’t listen.) She was my only friend who tried to talk me out of dropping out of high school and when I still did it anyway, she sent me information about various GED programs in the mail. I always felt like she was one of the few people who never judged me, because she is just an all-around awesome, supportive person and I feel #soblessed that we are still friends after all these years (ugh, decades!).

Which is a good thing, considering she is technically married to both of my brothers! She honeymooned with Ryan on the hammock in our backyard. He brought her snacks from the house and called her his “babe.”

And she’s Chooch’s godmother! He’s even shared chocolate “mouse” with her, and he HATES sharing desserts. (Or, “mousse” for those who like to properly pronounce desserts.)

I will forever associate her with TV Guides, Jaromir Jagr, and the MTV vjay Kennedy. From meeting each other on the greatest cul-de-sac in the world and publicly puking at a production of Annie, to cracking up in the middle of Saturday night mass and all of the Blue Flame burgers and secret Andre Agassi fanfic in between, if my life was a book, she’d be a main character in more than half of it. Happy birthday, my dear friend Christy “McGooGoo” a/k/a Crystal Lite. I hope we’re still wishing each other happy birthday when we’re old and gray, possibly through the power of holographic telegrams. Today, I will call a boy and hang up in your honor! (It will probably just be Henry, but still.)

Today as I was getting ready for work, I had a craving for Howard Jones so I put on his YouTube channel. I loved this man so much as a kid growing up in the 80s and he has been on my concert bucket list forever. I decided to check his upcoming tour dates and he’s coming to Cleveland in March! Usually, I find out about these things way after they happen, like when I’m scrolling through Instagram and I see one of my friends posting pictures of a Howard Jones show in Cleveland last year, so I’m taking this as a sign that I have to go. Plus, it’s on a Saturday, which makes the 2 hour drive there from Pittsburgh so much easier.

Howard must really like Cleveland if he was just there and is coming back less than a year later and it’s one of only 4 US cities listed on his tour. Thank god Cleveland is practically my neighbor.

I was about to call Henry 87 times in a row and then text him “911!!!! 187!!!!” but then Janna said she would go with me so Henry is like THANK GOD! I’m going to be in a good mood today, so everyone can thank Howard Jones, Cleveland, and Janna.

(Mike + the Mechanics is playing here in March too and if Henry doesn’t buy me tickets for Christmas, he is fucking dead to me.)

Who’s on YOUR concert bucket list? Tell me!

Throwback to that time in 2006 when I tortured Chooch with clowns at my grandma’s house on his first Christmas. MEMORIES! (Also: DROOL! He was teething pretty badly.)

Corey texted me this photo that he found at our mom’s a few weeks ago. I’m not sure what holiday this is, but let’s pretend it’s Thanksgiving….2002? I can’t remember my hair being that short but I guess it was. Or maybe that was the year I Britney Spears’d my scalp and took to wearing a wig.

Anyway, this picture made me laugh because my face looks like a melting ham and Henry appears to be auditioning for a spot on a romance novel cover. And then there’s my grandma. ;(

***
The only thing I remember from bartending school, aside from the fact that my partner’s name was Milt, was that Thanksgiving Eve is supposedly the busiest night for bars in our country. I only attempted to go to a bar once on Thanksgiving Eve and started to have a panic attack before I was even able to shove my way through all the assholes crowding around the door.

Needless to say, I’m at home right now watching the Penguins game. I finished my Cure wall and I guess we’re going to start re-hanging our pictures after the game is over. Major party time.

Haha, just kidding. Henry will be doing that himself while Chooch and I play Call of Duty—I AM GETTING REALLY GOOD AT IT!! I still need someone to start the game for me though because the menu is so confusing.

So…happy Wednesday night!

I have some kind of terrible restless brain syndrome, where if I’m not already doing something, then I’m thinking of 87 different things that I want to be doing / could be doing / should be doing. Usually it’s just small tasks, like “ATTEMPT TO MAKE SHIT WITH SCULPEY AND CRY!” or “TRANSCRIBE THAT CLEVELAND TRIP FROM ’04 ONTO THE BLOG*!” or “TAKE CHOOCH TO EXORCIST.”

*(I think I really am going to do this though because there are some choice Henry anecdotes up in that piece. EVEN A SERVICE STORY.)

But then last Thursday, I was sitting here at work and texted Henry, “LET’S PAINT THAT ONE WALL IN THE LIVING ROOM GRAY!” which turned into “AND ALSO LET’S PAINT THE INSIDE OF THE ARCHWAY AND SHELVING UNIT YELLOW!” and then by the time Friday rolled around, it had morphed into “FUCK IT LET’S KNOCK DOWN THE ENTIRE HOUSE AND REBUILD!!”

It is imperative that I stay busy during this time of the year. It’s my top survival tactic.

I worked from home on Friday while Henry diligently moved all of the furniture into the center of the room and then when I was on my break, I helped him take everything out of that shelving unit, which is super cute and built into the wall, but it admittedly is like a catch-all for shit that we shouldn’t even be keeping and by we I mean me and my ridiculous bottle collection.

“Really?” Henry asked, holding up a dusty, unopened Fiji water bottle.

“I didn’t know they were going to become so readily available!” I cried in defense, chucking it into the “GOODBYE CRAP” pile. Ugh. He tried to pitch a dusty, plastic bottle of Coke but I screeched, “THAT’S FROM GREECE, YOU ASSHOLE!” I’ll probably dust it off here at some point.

I also found one of my journals and the first page I flipped to was from June of 2006 where I was writing about a fight (pick one) that Henry and I were having and he stopped and said, “ANSWER THIS FOR ME: DO YOU EVEN STILL WANT TO BE IN THIS RELATIONSHIP” and I wrote all this self-absorbed shit about how I didn’t really care either way but how would I be able to pay my bills if we broke up?

(For the record, my answer today would be OMG HENRY DON’T LEAVE ME.)

And then Henry found a bunch of my old address labels from when I was HEAVY into penpalling.

“‘Ace‘?” Henry asked, holding them up for me to see.

“Yeah, that’s when I was a tennis player. Duh Henry.”

“‘No preps or posers‘?” he continued, ending with a mumbled “Oh my god.”

He’s just upset that he didn’t know me then, that’s all. And then he found a picture of a couple and read the back.

“Oksana and Bob? Who are they?” And before he even showed me the picture, I knew that it was my much-older pen pal Bob  (a 40-something-year-old man writing to a 13-year-old girl, nothing to see here) and his Russian mail order bride, Oksana. Bob was kind of dull so we didn’t write to each for very long. (He was no Eddy, that’s for sure.)

********

On Sunday, I was sitting on the couch pretending to rest because I was sick, when I started staring at one of the smaller walls that has always, almost for as long as I have lived here (since 1999, omg), held a large portrait of Robert Smith. It’s always bothered me because it’s so plain, but I didn’t want to paint it another color, because it’s adjacent to the gray accent wall that Henry just slaved over.

I chose gray because there are approximately 702374028375489023456 different colors in our living room alone. Sometimes Henry will mutter about all of the colors and have you been to my house? Someone once said it looked like a Crayola box had exploded in it. Thanks for the compliment, friend.

This is me in my bedroom in 1996. I have always loved to be surrounded by color! That room was like sleeping inside of a Spencer’s. I had strands of novelty lights and lava lamps everywhere, and my wallpaper was foiled. FOILED! 

Then it hit me: lyrics. I would paint lyrics to a Cure song on the wall and then hang Robert up like the God that he is, so his words would surround him.

“I’m going to paint lyrics on the wall,” I said casually to Henry.

“OK,” he hesitantly answered. “Which ones?”

“Same Deep Water As You,” I said in my DUH voice. Because DUH, Henry. That’s only like my favorite Cure song ever.

He shrugged and said OK and then went back to what he was doing. I forget what it was, other than it was something I told him to do.

“Well, you have to draw the lines for me!” I cried. Because I need lines. Otherwise, those words are going to slant right on up to the ceiling.

I guess he thought I meant, “Take your time, we don’t need to do this right now” but then he saw me standing there, tapping my foot and holding a pencil, so he sighed and came over with his level.

I wrote the lyrics, freehand, with a pencil and then went over with black paint and a brush. My hand felt AMAZING the next day, you guys. Like the hand of someone who just learned how to masturbate, ugh.

The lyrics start right below the ceiling and run all the way down to the floor. It’s all finished except for the last two lines, which I plan on doing tonight after work. (My right hand just spasmed as I typed that.) I will post again when it’s complete.

After that’s finished, we have approximately 58 other things to tackle and did I mention that I started all of these projects one week before people are coming over for a post-Thanksgiving game night? We are literally stepping over piles of furniture, paint cans and stuff. I DO LOVE A GOOD HUSTLE.

*******

Here is the song that’s on my wall, IN CASE YOU ARE INTERESTED.

Corey & Chooch putting ornaments on my mom’s Christmas tree. I miss Chooch’s curls! And you know, family holiday dinners. I hope when Chooch grows up, he marries someone who loves to cook and they have 8 kids. I want big holiday dinners.

When I asked Chooch if he would comply, he said, “Uh…no. I can’t handle kids.”

“Neither can your mom,” Henry mumbled.

You might know this about me, but I am a hoe for Swiss/Bavarian/German culture, especially when it involves American tourist traps. So it’s really no surprise that one of the biggest draws for me when it comes to Ohio Amish Country is definitely the small town of Sugarcreek. Henry, Chooch and I had briefly stopped there in 2010 after I insisted we take a detour on our way home from Michigan so that I could see the world’s largest cuckoo clock. Henry was PISSED because when we finally found it, it wasn’t even assembled; it had apparently been dismantled after the restaurant it was once attached to had closed, and now it was just sitting in an empty lot.

I had heard that it had finally been bought and moved to the center of town, so I had been begging Henry to take me back for the last two years now and he always has some stupid excuse like, “I don’t want to spend money” or “That place is dumb.”

So when Corey suggested we take a sibling trip to look at Amish people in Ohio and I found out that he was actually talking about THIS SAME AREA, it was on.

We arrived in Sugarcreek sometime after lunch at Der Dutchman but before visiting our dad’s beloved “hardware store.” The clock puts on its show every 30 minutes, so since we had about 15 minutes to kill, we asked some local jogger to take our picture. She was pretty much slowing her roll before we even asked because I’m sure we looked like idiots trying to take a selfie while capturing the entire clock in the background. The struggle was real.

People in Sugarcreek are super nice. Obviously. IT’S OHIO’S LITTLE SWITZERLAND!

Sitting on the bench (which Corey discovered flips over into a picnic table!), waiting for the 3:00PM edition of Swiss folk music to blare out of the barely-hidden speakers, I was revisited by all of my past lives where I was better known as Swiss Miss, Heidi, and Princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen.

(Whoever said this waste of Internet space wasn’t occasionally educational?)

I felt so excited and in touch with my inner Alps-frolicking, Ricola-sucking self at that moment, it was like someone stuffed a bouquet of edelweiss up my ass.

Very kitsch. Such creep. You just know those lederhosen-clad band members sneak off in the middle of the night and drag stray cats and severed human limbs back into the dark penetralia of the cuckoo clock.

Another family joined us for the highly anticipated 3pm viewing, and somehow Corey and I were able to act like civilized human beings through its entirety. We managed to get our fill of the cuckoo clock’s 2 minute presentation of robust Swiss folk music**, right before a tour bus, probably full of those impatient cheese-grubbing fuck lords at Heini’s, rolled up to clog the area with a coterie of obstructed bowels.

**(Seriously, click that link to watch exactly 15 seconds of the clock in action. It’ll take you to Instagram, because I just found out the hard way that I apparently can’t embed my Instagram videos here now.)

After sufficiently making fun of the tour bus, we decided that our next sibling adventure will definitely need to involve us booking one of those weekender tours.

“It’ll be us and old people,” Corey said dreamily. “They’ll love us!”

And they really will, too, because somehow old people are incapable of sniffing out our douchiness.

Next up: the shoo fly pie saga.

Last night, right as I was falling asleep, “Jackie Blue” came on the radio. Do you know this song? It’s old, like from the SEVENTIES OMG, and it’s by the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. I have been obsessed with this song since high school so as soon as it started playing, I cried, “JACKIE BLUE FUCK YEAH!” and started dancing in bed which is something that Henry totally LOVES when he’s already sleeping, but who cares.

“This song makes me think of when I was 17 and went through a phase where I wore shoelaces as headbands!” I laughed, but Henry just mumbled some sleep-stifled sentiment into his pillow, so since he didn’t care to listen to my stories, I am ready to shoot them from my fingertips like smoking words from a phalanges-cannon. His loss is your gain, Blog a/k/a My One True Friend.

• Back when I was 17 and wearing shoelaces in my hair, Lisa and I used to frequent a pool hall called Cue and Cushion. I’m really not sure how this all began, and for as much time as we spent there, we never really got good. Every time I would ever get a ball in the pocket, I would make an obnoxious gesture toward the pocket and say, “Skilllllllls” while every one else would groan, “Shit shot.” There was this one guy we befriended and I can’t remember his name but I can see him very clearly in my mind, especially how his face went from friendly to “You are dead to me” when he expressed interest and I was like, “I am dating a psychopathic fire-starter whom I love very much and will never betray!” Which was actually true. I never cheated on Mike once, yet he would constantly accuse me of. Also, I remember him being in his 20s and I was saving my cradle for Henry to rob at a later date, obviously. BUT I DIGRESS. I would ask Lisa if she remembers his name, but I’m lucky that she even remembers being friends with me back then, let alone some random pool shark’s name.
  • I have a photo of myself with this guy and I’m wearing a striped velour shirt that I bought from Contempo after it changed from Contempo Casuals but before it became Wet Seal. I’m wearing that shirt under overalls because that’s how I did it back in 1997, holla.
    • Speaking of photos, Lisa and I hung out at Cue and Cushion so often (and were probably the youngest people there on most nights), that we became friends with the proprietor, Lou, who hung our senior pictures up on her bulletin board.
• Thinking of Lou got me remembering all of the other mom-types that loved me and Lisa back in the day, like Maryann from Denny’s, who kept a picture of me on her key chain (Henry rolled his eyes at this) and then there was a broad who worked at a diner that we called Home Cookin’ because that’s the generic name that was on the outside of it (it was in a shopping center) but really it was called Russitano’s. We NEVER called it that but then when I met Henry, it turned out his mom knew a bunch of the waitresses there and he would correct me every time I called it Home Cookin’. Probably because he couldn’t stand that he wasn’t included in my antics back then and hearing me calling it Home Cookin’ forced him to think about me having a life that GOD FORBID didn’t include him. Anyway, I can’t remember that lady’s name, but she used to let us go behind the counter and get our own drink refills. God, I miss that. I think it eventually changed to the Plaza Cafe, back when I was 19 and getting grilled blueberry muffins and coleslaw with the aforementioned Psycho Mike and then it moved down the street and now it’s something else but it seems to rarely be open so why bother.
  • And then all of this made me think of the disgusting amount of time my friends and I spent at various diners but mostly Denny’s and how the hell did they never kick us out when all we were ordering was coffee and essentially loitering.
    • One of my favorite Denny’s memories was going there for dinner with Brian, Chooch’s godfather, when we were…20? 21? He saw someone he knew sitting at a booth across the restaurant, so he told our waitress to send that table the sampler platter and to put it on Brian’s check. Because that’s the Denny’s equivalent of sending over a bottle of champagne at a classy restaurant, I guess. Brian spent the rest of our time there waiting and waiting for some acknowledgement from his friend, but then later, some kid that we knew from high school stopped by on his way out and thanked Brian for the nice gesture. The waitress had delivered it to the wrong table and Brian was SO PISSED but I was dying. Then, when we were walking through the parking lot of my apartment complex afterward, Brian tripped over a speed bump and I cried, “THIS IS THE BEST NIGHT OF ALL TIME!” Probably we went inside and sent Janna fake emails from a fictional man named Tyree, because that’s what we did for funtimes back then. I mean, I would never anything like that now.
    • Speaking of coffee, it’s funny to think about how we would go to actual diners and restaurants (like Denny’s and Eat n Park) when we wanted to hang out and have coffee with friends. There were no Starbucks or really any other coffee houses in the suburbs where I grew up that I can think of, aside from Gloria Jean’s in the mall. Which leads me to my next topic…
• Ever since I had Dark Matter coffee at Riot Fest, I have been straight feenin’ for it. I finally buckled and bought a bag of the Mastodon-collaborated coffee, Black Blood. It’s a limited release and aged in Basil Hayden’s Bourbon Whiskey barrels. I’ve been in a Keurig rut for YEARS so this inspired me (Henry) to get off my (his) ass and buy a french press. My first cup of that steaming Black Blood reminded me that Keurig’s K-Cups are essentially the mp3s of the coffee scene, and I’ve gone back to vinyl, you guys. I’m just sorry that I was led astray for so long. Convenience, etc.
• Long-time readers might remember Eleanore, an older broad I used to work with at another job. I found her on Facebook about a year ago, but then I forget all about it until over the weekend, when I fell down the Old Job rabbit hole on Facebook. You know what I’m talking about: you find one person on FB that you used to work and then suddenly you’re scouring their friend list for other co-workers and then you accidentally send friend requests and it’s a whole big thing. Anyhow, I was reminded of Eleanore’s Facebook presence so I was scrolling through her shit and hearing her voice in my head reading all of her status updates out loud and then DYING at the amount of times TINA (OMG TINA HAHAHAHAHA) has posted to her wall saying “Hello dear friend, I miss” but in Tina-type, it’s more like “Hekjllo Dar friend i mis u.” Anyway…it turns out, and this is not funny at all, that Eleanore had a stroke two years and is no longer working. She seems to have bounced back, but that is still really sad and scary. I ended up having a dream last night that I went to visit her under the pretense of caring about her but in reality, I knew that she had three wheelchairs in her house and I wanted to buy one from her. OK, fine, I’ll tell you the truth: at first in my dream, my intent was to STEAL ONE. I have only stolen something once in my life and it was magnet made out of peanut shells that I took from Lechter’s, a home goods store that used to be in the mall. I was around 4 or 5 and I fucking swear to god, I was so racked with guilt after that, that I don’t even take pennies from Take a Penny trays at gas stations, even if I need one. OK, back to my dream. So I was going to steal one of these beautiful wheelchairs similar to the blue one I already have, but then I woke up in real life and forced myself to go back to sleep so that I could finish the dream by offering to buy one. I don’t know if I was successful, because then I was eating an ice cream cone that I didn’t like so my friend Jeannie let me have her ice cream cone, which was PEACH MELBA, so when I woke up this morning, my first thought was, “Wow, I forgot how much I used to love peach melba ice cream when I was a kid.”

And I will end this with a picture of me and Lisa at Denny’s (of which I have many).

(Pictures. Not Denny’s.)

The proposition of “Let’s go downstairs” seemed innocent enough. No, that’s a lie. I was actually quite taken aback and had visions of being knifed/blackmailed/tickled/forced to lick a shoe until I caught Alisha shaking her pack of cigarettes at me. We were at her friend Mark’s apartment, watching the Penguins game, eating pizza and quickly drankin’ our way through three bottles of wine.

“I’ll come too,” Mark decided, since the first period had just ended. He and Alisha grabbed their wine glasses. Not wanting to seem like some wino who can’t be without a glass in her hand for five minutes, I left mine on the table.

I had never met Mark before, but he was very affable from the get-go and had good vanilla handsoap in his bathroom. And even though I usually get annoyed with girls who watch sports for the eye-candy factor, it wasn’t annoying when Mark gushingly admitted to thinking Sidney Crosby is cute.

After Alisha and only Alisha finished her cigarette because she was the only one smoking, not me, I don’t smoke, Mark swung his keys in his hand and went to unlock the front door.

“Oh, shit,” he spat. Alisha and I stood there waiting for an explanation, but all he had to do was open his hand to expose my car keys dangling from his finger.

Mark lives with his brother, who conveniently was in Ohio for the weekend. And of course, Mark’s phone was in the apartment, watching the hockey game that had resumed by that point. His landlord’s number was in his phone, along with his brother’s, which he didn’t know off by heart.

Through a phone relay, Mark managed to acquire his landlord’s number, and it naturally went straight to voicemail.

And then a bunch of panicking happened. At one point, we found ourselves sitting in my car, where we at least learned that the score was 3-0 Penguins. I emitted a dialed-back, near-silent “yay….” accompanied by a watered-down roof-raise, because I had a feeling maybe Mark was a little bit too stressed for someone to be punching the roof of a car in jubilation.

“I can always ask one of my neighbors for a ladder,” Mark postulated. Moments before, we had scoped out the back of the house. He lives on the second floor, and there’s a small roof beneath his kitchen window, which he admitted to not locking. Standing on the sidewalk in front of his neighbor’s house, Mark turned to us and asked, “Before I go and ask for a ladder, will one of you actually climb it?”

My hand shot up to the sky. “Me! I’ll do it.” I could sense Alisha looking at me in surprise. But probably it was adoration.

“Hold my glass,” Mark said, shoving it at Alisha’s hand.
As he turned to walk to the neighbor’s house, I started jumping up and down in excitement.

“This is fantastic! I’m so excited!” I squealed.

But Alisha, turning somber, placed her hands on my shoulders. “I just want to say that, of all my friends, I am so glad that it’s you here tonight. You are the bravest person I know, and I feel safe in your presence. When this first happened, in fact, I thought to myself, ‘A-Prid, you need to calm yourself right down, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine. Erin’s here, and she’s like MacGyver. She will get us through this. And then you’ll have the rest of your life to bake her chocolate-covered rewards.’”

And then she thrust one of the empty wine glasses at me so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a drunken sidewalk-bound hobo.

Able to procure a ladder, Mark tramped around to the backyard. I followed, beginning to feel the onset of nerves manifesting as prickles in my fingertips. The ladder was sprawled out on the shadowed grass with Mark muttering, “How do you open this thing?” while I scoped out (with eyes stretched out to the size of porn-industry standardized tits) all the things I could potentially impale myself on. Like literal wooden stakes that were used to prop up flowers.

The ladder was opened to its fullest potential and propped against the back of the house. Making sure Alisha and Mark had firm grips on either side, I began my ascent. It was a wobbly ascent. The ground below seemed uneven and I can’t say I felt very secure. But I thought about some really awesome things to help me get through it and by the second rung I was already pretending I was on one of the Real World / Road Rules Challenges, about to win $10,000 for my team and a snowboard I’ll never use. And then I remembered my team was Mark and Alisha and I won’t lie – I considered throwing the challenge.

By the fourth rung, I began ruing the fact that I left my wine on the coffee table.

By the fifth rung, it occured to me that no one asked Mark why he wasn’t shimmying up to the roof to save us. I already knew why Alisha wasn’t – she’s not a team player. And also, I think she once told me she was abused by a ladder one time? Maybe I dreamt that? Oh right, I remember now what it was – she’s allergic to heroism.

I vaguely remember hearing forced and monotoned words of encouragement, in the style of “Bad Actor Reads From Cue Card.” Supportive gems such as “Oh yay. You are. Doing. A great. Job. Yay. Woo.” and “Don’t worry if the a/c unit falls on you! I don’t care about it!” and “I see that weather vane just plunged into your thigh. Can you try to not get any blood on the walls though? Thanks.”

Finally, I was at the top. The only thing left for me to do was turn to my right and swing my body onto the roof. And for the record, I’d like to point out that from the ground, the roof looked flat. But with it half a foot in front of my face, I was able to see that it had a slight peak to it. Awesome. But I had two people below counting on me, and without even swearing once (I KNOW RIGHT), I did a gentle dive over the gutter, where I then landed with the grace of a prima ballerina. And I won’t even remark on how the ladder simultaneously started sliding to the left, except that I just did.

Crab-walking to the kitchen window, it dawned on me that I never thought about what I’d do if I couldn’t get the window open. No way was I going back down that ladder. I once sat in a treehouse for hoursbecause I was too scared to come down the ladder. Granted, I was four. But I haven’t grown up much. I was able to slide up the screen with ease, but the window was more stubborn. Every time I would get a good grip on it with my palms, the top half of the window would jiggle, and I’ve watched enough Dario Argento movies to know that this is not a good sign. Finally, I held my breath and pushed up as hard as I could. The bottom window slid up high enough for me to drop my forearms under it and finally have something other than clammy palms to use as leverage.

And then something that had been hanging on the inside of the window fell and made a loud enough crash for Mark to scream from the ground, “Do NOT break my Fiestaware!” This was right as I was swinging a leg onto the ledge and kicked a bowl that had been placed decoratively on the sill. My arm shot out and grabbed it, which was probably enough of a talent-display to play for the STEELERS. Just as I set the bowl out of harm’s way, my other leg was en route though the gaping window and kicked another Fiesta piece.

I saved that one too. I may be clumsy, but ain’t no one ever said nothin’ about bad reflexes. Safely in the kitchen, I straightened up the Fiestaware collection and noticed that the first thing that fell was actually a stained glass window hanging. A quick examination learned me it was unscathed. A good thing, as I would later learn it was the first piece of stained glass Mark made.

There was two and a half minutes left to the second period. I got to see Max Talbot attempt a penalty shot as I poured another glass of wine.

“Hey Mark, you know what’s funny?” I said once he returned from taking back the ladder. “I’ve never climbed a ladder before.” And oh, how we laughed. This was when Mark admitted to not wanting to climb it because he was wearing slippers. And really I have to agree that my ballet flats are way better for house-scaling.

It’s crazy to think about what might have happened had I not succeeded. We’d probably have had to fashion an igloo from leaves and Alisha’s cigarette butts, catch some rats to cook with her lighter. Maybe we could have eventually started a brand new colony down by the river. Oh, the homeless have already done that? Shit.

The “how” isn’t important, but I found Alisha’s diary entry from that night.

With all the roof-raising I do, it was only natural that I would wind up on a roof someday.

[A note from Present Day Erin: This is one of my favorite memories of Alisha. I miss that broad a lot sometimes. Also, I haven’t climbed a ladder since.]

Yesterday was my Pappap’s birthday. Or, would have been. I did really well until right before bed and then I cried myself to sleep because sometimes you just need to let it all out. Just let it all out, it’s ok!

I woke up with a terrible headache.

I would say it’s gotten easier since he died in 1996, but that’s not entirely true. In a lot of ways, it’s gotten so much worse. But I can at least make it through entire days at a time without falling down the rabbit hole of ugly mourning.

Having a child makes it kind of harder to ignore that slow-burn, sinking sensation inside my chest. Because now when I watch Chooch attempt to hit targets at amusement park shooting galleries, it makes me think of how he will never know how much my Pappap loved those things. Or how my Pappap would always let me blow out the candles on his birthday cakes and would 100% let Chooch do the same.

Or how he was just the best guy I have ever known. I never thought I would meet a guy even half as great as he was, until I met Henry. I hate that my Pappap never got to meet Henry.

I have been in a really weird place lately, family-wise.

I just really miss him a lot, still. I miss my whole family.