When my brother Corey was texting me pictures of the Amish guys working on our dad’s roof, it brought back fond memories of the time my other brother Ryan and I stalked the man who was building our back porch when we were kids. I knew I had written about it at some point, so I searched my LiveJournal archives and now I am sharing it here, because I think it’s kind of funny how I am still basically the same person as I was when I was a kid.

I have a different dad than Corey and Ryan, so clearly our penchant for stalking comes from our mom.

++++++++++++++++

What was the best summer ever? Could it be the summer of ’92 when we hosted a French exchange student (that deserves it’s own entry)? The summer of my nineteenth birthday party marathon? No, my friends. It’s the summer of 1994 that wins this title.

My parents were in the process of having a back porch built onto our house. This was a big deal for my brother Ryan and me, because stalking one of the workers became the sole reason we got out of bed each day. I mean really, who wants to swim and lay out in the sun when you can be violating someone’s privacy?

We would run from window to window, snapping pictures of him. One day, Ryan even chased his truck up the street. Those pictures turned out fabulously. I’ll never forget the day we discovered his name was Gary. We ran into the house, erupting into shrieks and giggles.

After a week of wasting film on this fine craftsman, we decided to incorporate a little more extremity to our game. More thrill, if you will. We needed a bigger adrenaline rush. The next obvious step was to collect Gary’s cigarette butts and beer cans. When you’re young, you want souvenirs for everything you do.

We would wait until he would go to his truck, then sprint out in the backyard like scavengers, picking through the grass in search of a butt or two. Once we accumulated enough to satiate our pursuant appetite, we brought our treasures in the house and stowed it underneath the couch in the family room.

Stalking Gary consumed so much of our summer. How much, you ask? So much that it infiltrated the summer of my friends, as well. Christy was in Atlanta (I believe) for some sort of academic camp. I wrote her a letter and enclosed one of Gary’s cigarettes butts for her to cherish as well. I just wanted her summer to be as rich as ours had become, thanks due to Gary. I wrote letters to every one of my pen pals, detailing Gary’s every action and movement. Everyone clung to the Summer of Gary with bated breath.

Unfortunately, the fun and games ended when my dad unearthed our stash of memorabilia under the couch. Now, any other dad would have rightfully accused us of smoking and drinking. Not my dad. Luckily for us, my dad recognized the extent of our weirdness long before this incident, so he believed our tale and we escaped punishment. The downside was that he forbade us to continue our game. Something about we were embarrassing him or something.

I often wonder what Gary is doing these days, and if he knew he was being stalked. Was he flattered? My mom says ‘nay.’

Today I’m going to tell you about some things I’m currently obsessed with, because don’t you all give so many shits about what I like? Obviously.

1. This version of PVRIS’s “St. Patrick” makes me feel like I’m being emotionally cuddled. (There’s no screaming in it, if that usually deters you from clicking “play” when I post YouTube videos, haha.

2. Cantaloupe! I know, such a small thing to obsess over, but usually cantaloupe is that one fruit I pick out of fruit salads because it’s always so over-ripe (under-ripe?) and tasteless. But Henry has won the cantaloupe (and watermelon!) lottery this summer and has been bringing home some of the sweetest, juiciest melons this side of 1990s porn.

3. Emarosa. Big surprise. But I can’t remember the last time I felt this much anticipation brewing inside my gut for a new album. I thought this band was never coming back, and now here they are, with a singer who is a million times better than Jonny Craig, and every single song and snippet I’ve heard thus far has felt like dynamite in my heart. I get to see them again in 2 weeks at Riot Fest and I’m so excited that I could just fucking SCREAM. They just released another single yesterday, and this is the one I’ve been craving ever since they played an acoustic version of it last May when I saw them on the Devils Dance tour. It is amazing. It is brilliant. It is so Emarosa and I must have listened to it 87 times last night after we came home from an ice cream date with Chris and Monica (or, Chronica). Here is Henry’s face during the Emarosa marathon:

Here’s the album version of “People Like Me…” even though I posted the live version last week. YOU SHOULD STILL LISTEN TO THIS ONE BECAUSE IT’S BOMB AND WHEN BRADLEY INTERRUPTS HIMSELF AND SAYS, “NAH, FUCK IT” I GET SO STOKED.

I fucking love you, Bradley Scott Walden. I’m ready for this fresh start, in so many fucking ways. #Goodbye2008

 4. Halloween Desk Planning! I came up with this year’s theme a few weeks ago and have already started collecting some key elements. I’m pretty excited for it, but also worried that it will be a huge failure because taking last year off kind of makes me feel like I’m off my game. Barb even said that I’ll never be able to out-do my Murder Desk from 2011 and believe me, don’t I know it. This year’s theme will be subtle (kind of) but also requires a lot of work and searching for things. (Luckily, these are all things that I have been wanting to add to my collection anyway, so acquiring them won’t be superfluous.) I can’t wait to tell you what I’m doing! Secrets are not  my strong-suit.

5. Painting faces. Actually, just painting in general. These last several months have not been the greatest for me (just inside my head; not anything serious, like job-related or with my home life). I feel like slowly, things are starting to come back to me, even after years of not practicing, even though some people still call my art “paint-by-numbers” and kind of roll their eyes when I try to show them things I’m working on, because they’d like me better if my “talents” were more of the culinary variety, I guess. So sorry. Juvenile art is the best you’ll get!

(ALERT! Jeannie was just over here and she said that she likes my art and that I have a very distinct style, so suck it, haters. Jeannie is hard to please!)

(OMG you guys, my family gave me such a complex, I apologize, lol.)

Anyway, I painted this one of Jesus yesterday, because why not:

Also, this beast that’s still in progress:

6. Henry In a Suit. OK, I haven’t written about Kaitlin’s wedding yet because I need to do that at home and not sporadically at work like most of my blog posts come into fruition, but can I just post this picture of Henry here and chirp about how much of a crush I have on him when he wears a suit? Heart-eyes for days.

A quick list of things I’m currently NOT obsessed with:

• CHRIS LEAVING THE LAW FIRM, BOOOO.
• Summer basically being over.
• Volatile mornings (a/k/a “Getting The Kid Ready For School”).
• Being strung along; luckily, strings can be cut.
• The neighbors.
• Not having all of the time in the world.

On July 12th, 2005, I was in the car with Henry on the way home from Cleveland, crying because I had just met Anthony Green of Circa Survive. I didn’t know how to tell him how much his band meant to me, and how it had helped to calm down the madness in my head, so instead I mumbled, “You guys were great tonight, will you sign my CD.” So goddamn lame.

I still remember that I was wearing my brother Ryan’s old blue soccer t-shirt that had the name of my Pappap’s drywall company on it. It’s weird what we remember during moments of emotional agony. Oh, haha.

I met a guy at that night at the Grog Shop who told me that Anthony actually gave him his phone number after the guy told him he was suicidal. “I called him one night and he talked me through it,” he told me. “He saved my life.” And if it weren’t for that guy taking me over to meet Anthony after the show that night, I probably would be telling you the story about how I’ve loved Circa Survive since 2005 but have never met Anthony Green.

2005 was a shit year for me: mentally, emotionally, and financially. That May, I experienced what I still to this day believe was a nervous breakdown. Things were just bad. I had nagging thoughts of driving my car off the road. I would go so psycho on Henry that I wouldn’t be surprised if he considered calling in a priest at some point. I actually called a church at one point to seek help, because I didn’t have health insurance and had no idea where else to turn. Janna even had to come and babysit one day after I bit myself, so be thankful if we weren’t friends in 2005, I guess.

But one of the shining points for me, as always, was music. Circa Survive’s debut album, Juturna, came out that June. I had been eagerly awaiting it, after having already been a fan of Saosin, the band that Anthony left to start Circa Survive.

Something about Anthony’s unconventional voice over top the most beautiful music that I had heard in quite some time just really did it for me. It sounded different from everything else that I was listening to back then. It was obsession, and I drove Henry crazy with it, making mix CDs of every single bootleg demo, live recording, B-side I could find of Saosin, Circa Survive, and Anthony’s solo work. It was the Year of Anthony Green and Henry wanted to slit his throat.

That music calmed me down. It helped me think straight. I would take it to the cemetery with me and cry, but they were good tears. And, after three months of not writing due to my nervous breakdown thing, I decided to start writing again.

Juturna reminds me of the beginning of my pregnancy. (Because, yes, let’s cap off one of the most tumultuous, bipolar summers of my life by having a planned pregnancy. Good old inpulsives.) Being so excited to have this child and play “Great Golden Baby” for him. That was my favorite Circa song for a really long time. There are still times when, out of the blue, I hear the line “This changes everything” in my head. If I’ve ever made you a mix CD anytime after 2005, there is a really good chance that there is at least one Circa Survive song on it. I wanted everyone to know them and to love them.

I know, I seem so melodramatic when it comes to this stuff, but this is Truth. This is honestly how I experience music. And I cry every time I write these blog posts, haha!

When Henry and I went to see The Sound of Animals Fighting last March in Philly, that was the first time I had seen Anthony since 2008. I still liked Circa Survive, and I kept up with all their subsequent releases, but if I’m being honest, none of their other albums ever fisted my heart the way Juturna had. But when I saw they were coming to Pittsburgh in July, something inside me said, “You need to go see them again.” So I bought a ticket without hesitating. This show was announced back when I still had my old evening shift at work, and normally I would always ask to work half-day or just take the whole day off before even buying the ticket, but this time, I was like, “I don’t care, I’ll deal with that part later.” Because this was important to me. I’ve been trying to find ways to let go of my 20s, because that was a really bad decade for me, for the most part. And I thought, maybe seeing them again after all this time will help me heal.

It just felt like more than just going to a show. It was something I needed.

Originally, I was going to go alone, but then Henry ended up going with me too because I panicked and didn’t want to be alone. I knew that I was going to cry and I didn’t want to be That Person standing alone and sobbing. So Henry went too and held my hand through most of it. And thank god for that because I felt like my heart was exploding from the moment Circa walked on stage all the way up to when we were in the car leaving.

The opening band was Ume, by the way, and if you love female-fronted bands that are actually fantastic, I suggest that you check them out. It was like the 90s all over again, in a good way. And then while we were waiting for Circa, I noticed a guy standing in front of me, and because I’m obsessed with the Dupree family (please see: Eisley), I thought to myself, “That looks like the back of Garron Dupree’s head.” And then I looked to the left and thought, “Huh.

That looks like Reed Murray. And that looks like Fred Maraschino.” And it turned out it WAS all of them, because they’re all currently in the band Say Anything, who was actually in town the night before, playing at the same venue. So I had a total fangirl moment and thank god Henry was there because he actually knows all of these names by default so I was able to squeal about it and have him understand what was going on.

Interestingly, Say Anything was supposed to be the headliner when I saw Circa Survive for the first time in 2005, but they dropped off the tour after their singer Max Bemis had a mental breakdown. (I can relate.) So it was kind of like this surreal full circle moment for me, knowing that Say Anything was there at Mr. Small’s that night, watching. It’s so awesome when bands support each other.

Then Henry pointed out that Anthony Green had walked right past me during Ume’s set but as usual, I had no idea. This happened like 57 times in Philly too. It’s hilarious to me that Henry, Mr.

I Don’t Give a Shit About These Bands, is always the first one to spot band members.

I don’t really know what words can do justice to the show itself, other than saying it was like a religious experience for me. Anthony Green is one of the great voices of my generation, and it always feels like an honor to be in his presence. And unlike Jonny Craig, he is a NICE GUY. Here’s a singer who kicked an addition, married a great girl and made two beautiful sons. He’s an inspiration, and an example that some singers can be charismatic without also having God complexes.

(Ahem, Craig Owens.)

All Anthony has to do is whisper “Come” into the mic while making a beckoning motion with his hands, and the room literally lurches toward the stage like a horde of Palestinians throwing themselves at Jesus’s feet.

I used to try to hold back tears at concerts, but then I finally realized that it feels so much better to just let it go. So…my face was pretty wet that night.

^^^This song. Me = gutted. The “Don’t stop talking to me, I haven’t been listening” part used to be what I used for my mom’s ringtone. You know, back when I had her number in my phone. When they played that part last week, my legs turned to Jello.

They played for about 2 hours and totally satisfied my Juturna cravings.

It was the perfect set list, the perfect night, and the perfect way to say goodbye to the ghosts of 2005.

I love this fucking band so much.

It might seem weird since I’m a vegetarian and all, but what I was most looking forward to in Frankenmuth was eating at one of their famous Bavarian chicken joints. There are two to choose from: Bavarian Inn and Zehnder’s, and they supposedly HATE each other. My friend Michelle told me that the two families basically built Frankenmuth so no matter which place we picked, it would be a big deal.

I mean, if you’re like me and give a shit about these things.

Zehnder’s and the Bavarian Inn really are right across from the street from each other, but there were no picketers or chicken dinner sabotage that I could see. No one was egging each other’s windows or passing out derogatory flyers. But since Roadside America mentions their rivalry, I know it must be true. I just wish it was more blatant and spectator sporty.

I personally wanted to eat at Bavarian Inn, because it just had more of a Black Forest aesthetic to me, but Bill kept piping up with the merits of Zehnder’s, which just looked like some dumb colonial slab and not at all lederhosen-y. Turns out Bill might have eaten there once sometime in his liftetime and I think he forgot to tell us the part about how a Zehnder’s busboy saved him from choking on their world famous chicken dinner so now he feel indebted to them.

But then Jessi mentioned that she has eaten at the Bavarian Inn before and liked it, so PRAISE JESSI, we settled on the Bavarian Inn because girls rule! There was no blantant anti-Zehnder’s propaganda inside the doors of the BavInn (my new, sweet pet name for it), but I should have at least wrote “for loose bowels, call Zehnder’s” in one of the bathroom stalls. Ah, hindsight.

Fuck you, Zehnder’s.

I want shutters like that on my imaginary never-house. 

I anticipated a long wait, since this  seemed like the type of place that was like the Disneyworld of Old Country Buffets* for elderly tourists, but we had a table within 15 minutes!  And even had a scantily-clad Bavarian beefcake entertaining us with an accordion. (I mean, he was showing a lot of thigh and calf, but not a lot of below-knee, because that was covered with a modest swath of wool.)

*BavInn isn’t even a buffet so I have no idea why I wrote that, other than the fact that it’s 150 degrees in my house.

I told Chooch that this place was going to be like the Hooter’s of Frankenmuth, with Bavarian boobs spilling out of corseted beer garden dresses. Partially because I was trying to get him stoked on eating there (he’s at that age, guys; boobs are everything), and also because that’s what it looked like in my hopes and dreams. Turns out the waitresses’ costumes were way more modest than the accordion player and his scandalous leg-skin.

There was no cleavage to be had. Not even of the accidental variety.

Back to being a vegetarian: I was pleasantly surprised that the Bavarian Inn had an entire vegetarian menu! Bill said he only asked for it because he overheard someone in front of him asking for it. It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind to ask because places like that usually don’t cater to my kind and I was fully prepared to just get some side dishes but instead I got to have vegan chili and BY GEORGE it was fucking great. It had quinoa and perfect little cubes of sweet potatoes and was just a true delight my tongue even though I can’t imagine a real Bavarian eating that on their lunch break at the cuckoo clock factory.

It didn’t matter, because I still ordered a side of SPAETZEL. You guys, spaetzel. That is my ultimate comfort food because my Pappap, whose family was from Austria, made a huge pot of these buttery Alpine dumplings every Christmas and they were just spectacular. After he died, my mom tried to carry the torch but they just never tasted quite right. And then I asked Henry to make them one year for Thanksgiving but his came out really small and pathetic because he doesn’t have any of the good European regions in his genes, I guess. I  mean, I still ate them of course because anything coated in that much butter is still going to taste rad. But I just haven’t had any as good as my Pappap’s, not since 1995.

And these noodleturds were by no means bad! Bavarian Inn has their shit together but these were just seasoned in a way that deviated from my Pappap’s spaetzel perfection. I still ate the ever-loving fuck out of them though. Why wouldn’t I?

Can we talk about our amazing waitress Kristi for a minute? Chooch spilled his lemonade all over the table so she swooped in and moved us to a clean table right next to us, all without making Chooch feel like a heel for being a normal 8-year-old who spills things in restaurants. And she brought us copious amounts of this delicious sweet bread (bread that’s sweet, not sweetbreads) which we enjoyed with ridiculously magical homemade strawberry jam. And our lunches were delayed so Kristi also brought us out bowls of German potato salad, coleslaw and something else that I forget now, but it was all perfect and made me want to book a Globus tour ASAP.

Chooch was really anxious to sayeth Prayers from the Psalms before he ateth his chickeneth. (Everyone at the table got chicken, because duh—Bavarian Inn is world famous for that shit. Maybe one day they’ll be renown for their faux-chicken too. Now I wish I had ordered the fake chicken patty on pretzel bun. Oh well, there’s always next summer when we go back and stay at the Bavarian Inn, because yes, they have a huge resort-y hotel too. WITH WATERSLIDES.)

My second favorite part of the experience (hello: Spaetzel #1) was when I mused out loud about the comfort of the waitresses’ dresses and then a few minutes later, upon Kristi’s return to our table with more iced tea for Henry, Bill asked her what might have been the creepiest thing she had been asked by a man all day:

“Excuse me, but is your dress comfortable?” he asked casually, like he works for Cotton and it’s his job to determine a woman’s comfort as research for the next commercial featuring some random blond actress who can also kind of sing alright.

The Fabric of Our Lives: Dirndl Edition.

“You know,” she said after thinking about it for a few seconds, “it really isn’t too bad. It’s the nylons that drive me nuts, though. I can never wait to get home and peel them off, you know?” And Bill nodded knowingly.

PSHHHHH. You wish, Zehnder’s. In your dreams.

This is the back of the glorious Bavarian Inn. Surely there’s a nook or cranny somewhere in which I can live undetected.

You know I must have been stuffed full of spaetzel when I declined dessert, and they obviously had streudel, you guys. Motherfuck, do I love streudel. My grandma’s side of the family always made some sick streudel.

Streudel and spaetzel. These will be served at my pretend wedding. By Bavarian beer maidens, all named Gretchen.

Jesus, is it any wonder I’m a slut for Bavarian things? My childhood memories practically reek of edelweiss.

When people ask me about why I became a vegetarian, I’m sure they’re braced for some PETA-scripted canned response about choosing not to eat anything with a face, or some granola manifesto about health benefits. But my vegetarianism story was born from sheer stubbornness.

My mom wasn’t a bad cook, but I hated her pork chops. Naturally, this was the meal she seemed to make the most when I was growing up. They were just so dry and worthless, and always laying on my plate in some hideous, mocking, splayed-out fashion; all the apple sauce in the world couldn’t make them go down any easier.

Finally, at age 16, I snapped. Maybe a regular kid would have faked a pork chop allergy, but I chose a different route to get out of choking down those hunks of dry rot: I just wasn’t going to eat meat at all. Ever. Not even Slim Jims or bacon bits.

My parents saw this as a huge joke, something new to heckle me about, to place bets upon. “Oh look, Erin wants attention from us again!” They were used to this behavior from me. Once, I vowed to eat nothing but Welch’s grape popsicles because I was trying to get a hospital admittance to avoid going on vacation with my Aunt Sharon (who is crazier than me). But I stopped after a few days because no one was paying attention, and I ran out of Welch’s grape popsicles.

My vegetarianism was basically just another Welch’s Grape Popsicle episode as far as my parents were concerned, and they egged me on in all of the worst possible ways. They gave me three days tops before I succumbed to meatloaf. (My mom really did make a fantastic meatloaf. So moist. So meaty. So topped with Ketchup.)

This is why, 18 years later, when people ask me how I became a vegetarian, my answer is a simple “I hated my mom’s pork chops.”

***

In 1996, getting into a vegetarian lifestyle was pretty rough. I lived in Pittsburgh, not Los Angeles. Denny’s didn’t have Gardenburgers on their menus yet, Giant Eagle’s frozen food aisle wasn’t exactly a Garden of Eden, and my mom refused to make separate dinners for me. So while my family gnawed on BBQ ribs in front of me, I would eat cheese sandwiches and cereal and act like it was a meal fit for Valhalla, because: STUBBORN. At school, I would pair a peanut butter cookie with a carton of iced tea and call that lunch. I was terrible at this, but determined.

Finally, I started buying Vegetarian Times magazine from the bookstore and kind of started learning about what it was I was doing exactly. I began collecting recipes but my mom was like, “Tofu? What the hell is that? Fuck you.” So one weekend when my family was out of town, I hosted my own vegetarian dinner for some friends, which was no small feat because there was no Internet, no Whole Foods that I had ever heard of way over here in my South Hills suburban wonderland. I had to use the YELLOW PAGES to find some weird health food store in Mt. Lebanon that sold kelp and tempeh and a package of tofu that I would wind up having a staring contest with later because what the hell do you do with tofu? I had to beg my friend Lisa to begrudgingly drive me out there so I could buy ingredients for a dinner that no one but me was going to enjoy. Because “Sea”sar salad doesn’t sound appetizing to meat-eaters, I guess.
That was my first and last attempt at “cooking,” by the way. Sorry to all of the boyfriends who came later, expecting a home cooked meal. Not on my watch.

***

As a kid constantly struggling with thunder thighs, weight loss was a perk I thought would go hand-in-hand cutting meat out of my life. Newsflash: replacing chicken and beef with cheese in 87 different forms is not conducive to losing weight. When I’d go out with friends in high school, I’d eat the shit out of grilled cheeses, dressing-drenched Caesar salads capped with veritable parmesan hats, fettuccine Alfredo, just give me all of the cheese. My friends and I would always go to this diner called Home Cookin’ and I went through a good long phase where all I would order was cole slaw and pie. One of the waitresses laughed as she scribbled down my order late one night and asked, “You pregnant?”

“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I replied somberly.

Once I moved out at 18, it got even worse. I had friends over constantly, so we would order out all of the time. Cheese pizza, cheese sticks, cheese-covered eggplant parmesan hoagies, cheese hoagies with extra cheese to replace the meat. It’s a wonder I didn’t spend most of my 20s in a state of perma-constipation.

The only vegetables I ever ate were breaded, fried and delivered to my house by a bored teenager driving an Omni. Not to mention all of the alcohol that was consumed. I was far from that “anemic vegetarian” that my grandma worried I was going to turn into.

But at least being a vegetarian would render fast food impossible, right? Four words: Taco Bell’s 7-layer burritos.

One time, a security guard at one of my jobs said he was surprised I was a vegetarian.

“Why?” I asked, wondering if my natural stench was eau de osso bucco and I just didn’t know it.

“You know,” he said, cutting an hour glass shape into the air with his hands.

Suffice it to say, I had gained some weight those first few years.

***

An important thing to know about me is that I am helpless; basically just a flailing flesh-sack in a scary meat-filled world.

When I started dating my current boyfriend Henry in 2001, he was horrified when he opened my refrigerator and found it full of alcohol, condiments and film. (Because photography was more important than nutrition.)

“Why don’t you have any food?” he asked incredulously.

So I showed him the box of rice and cans of Spaghetti O’s on the shelf, the only things that I could purchase from the gas station down the street that I actually could kind of cook OK on those off-nights when I wasn’t being fed by chain restaurants.

“How are you getting your protein?” he asked, and I swear this isn’t going in the sleazy direction you might have in mind.

I had no answer for him. I barely knew the food pyramid, and he was asking me about protein?

After that conversation, Henry started cooking real meals for me, dishes loaded with vegetables, chick peas and tofu, because he was man enough to not give a shit about cooking with tofu, and I slowly started learning things I had never known, like what a “root vegetable” was.

Henry was appalled that I was a vegetarian who didn’t eat vegetables. Or fruit, for that matter. He made me things like mock mashed potatoes (I never knew I liked cauliflower!) and rice-and-fake-meat stuffed peppers, taught me that I really liked melons, and even added COOKBOOKS to my library of horror novels and Alternative Press issues.

By this time, a lot of the chain restaurants in Pittsburgh started offering veggie burgers on their menus, but Henry took me to a lot of ethnic restaurants, where vegetable-laden dishes and meat-substitutions were prevalent; it was starting to feel like maybe I stood a chance at survival. I still didn’t understand tofu, but I sure liked to eat it. I was starting to see vegetarianism as something more than a bet with my parents. It had become a lifestyle, and I began to realize that somewhere along the way, I stopped missing meat. Now I was eating things that I never knew existed, like seitan and tempeh, and I loved it.

I guess my point here is, if you want to be a vegetarian but lack a lot of basic life skills such as “how to grocery shop”, “how to read a recipe” and “how to operate kitchen machinery”, get yourself a good girlfriend/boyfriend/butler. It could open up a whole new world that normal, self-sufficient people already know about.

I can only imagine how high my cholesterol was before Henry the Nutrionist came in and pumped me full of vegetables. (Not a sex analogy, unless you want it to be.)

***

A few months after I swore off meat, I was in the attic smoking pot out of a crushed can of Cherikee Red with my friend Melissa. Nothing to see here. The rest of my family had gone out without me as usual, and my mom had left out a pan of the Hamburger Helper she made all the “normals” for dinner that night.

Teenager + pot = me lying in a pan of Hamburger Helper like some pathetic human-Garfield.

I cried in my bed that night like I had just had shameful hobo sex, my flesh smelling like it had been rubbed down with raw meat.

Up until pretty much right now, Melissa was the only one who knew meat had touched my PETA-anointed tongue but she vowed to keep quiet. I felt terrible about it, like I was such a fraud. But slip-ups happen and I suspect it’s more normal than the staunchest vegetarians will admit, like it’s some dirty, bloody cow carcass of a secret. I still wonder if there’s some sort of code I should be following. Should self-flagellation happen the next time I accidentally eat chicken disguised as a biscuit at a Chinese buffet? What is my penance? Sneaking meat is the dark underbelly of vegetarianism, like nuns fapping to pictures of Justin Bieber. No one talks about it. But sometimes, meat happens, folks.

In 2006, I would occasionally eat fish while I was pregnant, but I was trying to grow a healthy baby then so it made me feel like I wasn’t really cheating. (Don’t worry, Henry and my doctor knew what kinds of fish were OK for preggos to eat; I wasn’t sitting around eating bonbons and mercury sandwiches.) I vowed to stop after the baby was born, and I was doing so well until a few months later on vacation and some “friends” tempted me with sushi. You guys. It was so amazing!

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone!” one of them said when I started crying at the table about feeling guilty. But that girl was such a snake, she probably went home and made a filtered LiveJournal post about it. (We are no longer friends, FYI.)

That was pretty much the gateway food for me. I resisted the urge for quite some time, but then I gave up and openly became a fish-eater and stopped calling myself a vegetarian because I ain’t no fraud.

Sushi, you guys. It is so good.

As of last week, I am back to eating “nothing that has a face.” I couldn’t take the guilt anymore, and the constant reminder that my mom would think she had won the war if she ever found out I was casually chewing sashimi like bubble gum. However, if you ask my son, he will tell you that Mommy eats meat when no one is home. Which could be true if I knew how to cook that shit. But I don’t. So, nice try, son.

***

I was a vegetarian for three years before someone asked me, “So are you ovo-lacto?”

“Ok,” I answered. Because I didn’t know there were different kinds of vegetarians! My three years of barely-passing Latin classes in high school at least helped me figure out that it meant I was a vegetarian who also ate dairy.

I was a vegetarian for six years before I found out that I wasn’t supposed to be eating food made from gelatin because it contains animal by-products. Two vegetarians actually had a shouting match about this at one of my game nights and I quietly shirked away because I didn’t want to get involved.

I was a vegetarian for ten years before I was finally able to accept that “vegetarianism” is not synonymous with “skinny.” We can still eat cake and cookies. And potato chips. And milk shakes . And Kit-Kats.

I’ve been a vegetarian for eighteen years and I still don’t know what to do with tofu. It just sits there in the package, looking all slimy and wet. And the “firm” and “extra firm” versions are just as jiggly, so whaddup, tofu? Explain yourself.

My friend Amber recently told me she wanted to add tofu to her diet and started asking me questions about it. Questions make me nervous because my response is usually “I don’t know.” Or just a shrug if I’m feeling like three words are just too much to muster. I’m conversationally ambivalent.

I had to text Henry and ask him what kind of tofu Amber should buy, because while I’ve come a long way in that I can now name more vegetables than peas and carrots, don’t ask me about tofu.

***

I worked in a butcher shop for 4 years. What kind of a vegetarian even looks at a butcher shop for a minute, let alone works inside one for 4 years?! Luckily, my office was upstairs from where all the disgusting shit was happening, but sometimes my boss thought it would be hilarious to send me downstairs to get the meat cutters’ lunch orders. I’d have to wear a USDA-approved hardhat, even.

Four years working in a butcher shop actually made it A LOT easier for me to stay true to my meatless lifestyle.

But then the Great American Bacon Explosion happened. Bacon sundaes. Bacon milkshakes. Maple bacon donuts. Maple bacon cupcakes. Chocolate-covered bacon. Candied bacon. Bacon-flavored condoms. Bacon breath mints. Bacon wigs. Bacon 4 President. Kitchen utensils to aid with the fashioning of bacon bowls to be filled with more bacon. I had no idea I even missed bacon that much until I was being tempted with bacon-wrapped apples in every garden. When I was a carnivore, bacon was just bacon. I mean, it was great, I loved it; but when did it become OMG BACON?

My tattoo guy is vegan. The last time I was at the shop, his consultation appointment brought him donuts, one of which was maple bacon. He quickly offered it to one of the other guys there. “Seriously, I might eat that if no one takes it. I think about bacon like, all of the time.”

“Me too!” I cried. And then I felt less alone in this small, meat-free community.

If I ever fall off the wagon for good, it will be because of bacon. Goddamn you, bacon.

***

***

There’s a stereotype for my kind: that obnoxious preachy person who sits across from you at dinner and judges you for ordering a steak. I was never that person. I don’t give a shit what you eat as long as you’re not dripping its blood on my plate. However, one time in 2003, I opened the refrigerator to see half of a Cryovac’d cow taking up an entire shelf. That might have been one of the most brutal fights Henry and I have ever had. He never brought shit like that into my house again.

It always bothered me though that I let people have their meat and eat it too, yet there were always those ones who just couldn’t wait to make fun of me for eating faux chicken nuggets and black bean burgers. Like the time my whole family erupted in exaggerated dry-heaves when Henry was nice enough to cook me a Tofurkey for Thanksgiving in 2004. I had to sit there while everyone pointed out how gross and disgusting I was, like I was hand-shoveling dog feces into my mouth. And then my mom would swear that she substituted cream of mushroom soup in her side dishes that called for cream of chicken, but then she would snicker, so God only knows what they were feeding me. I couldn’t eat anything my grandma made me because I was 95% convinced that she was pureeing beef into everything from soup to muffins so that I wouldn’t “catch anemia.”

Then there are the people who treat vegetarianism as a joke, refusing to order a plain pizza because they have zero respect for my dietary requirements. I got really good at picking pepperoni off pizza.

We can totally have a conversation without me thrusting a PETA petition at you (although I will sign the shit out of those at every single Warped Tour while Henry stands to the side, rolling his eyes up to the meat-filled heavens). I’m not going to tell you that you’re ruining your life by feasting on poor, defenseless animal flesh or hand you a pamphlet that illustrates what exactly is in that food court hot dog, because I don’t care what you do.

Moral: don’t judge me and my tofishy tacos and I won’t judge you and your KFC Double Down.

And don’t ask me about tofu.

I’ve been moderately sick all week. Allergies? Cold? Sinus infection? I can never tell & I’m straight stupid when it comes to taking medicine.

I wasn’t feeling particularly worse today than the other days, but I was definitely pretty sluggish. I was making some mistakes too which we all know is highly unusual for me. (Lol.) Also, my head felt…full…and everything sounded amplified to me. So when my office neighbor was eating some type of chips, it honestly sounded like he was lunching on glass. I had to walk away.

I asked my supervisor if I could just work through my break and leave a little early tonight.

She said that was fine and then she looked at me, like really looked at me, and cried, “Oh wow, you look awful! You are sick! Go home now!” And then she sent out an email to the department saying I was leaving early because I was sick so then other people, people I had spoken to multiple times already today, were like “OMG YOU DO LOOK SICK!”

And I’m like, thanks guys because I wasn’t even feeling THAT SICK and I didn’t think I looked that terrible?

So I left work at 5:30 (normal time for everyone else, but early for people resigned to working late shift for the rest of their lives) and felt totally weird about it because…I wasn’t that sick!

Except now it’s 9pm and you know what? I’M SICK. :(

I only meant to write 4 sentences tops explaining my current state but look at what happened. Anyway, the whole point is that I tried to get Henry to guest blog about the show in Allentown but he’s being a bitchkebob about it so here are two pictures of Marcy instead. (But raise your hand if you want a Henry Guest Post!)

Two years ago, I made a whole series of these little cards to help promote my dumb blog. Why? WHY NOT. Did it work? Probably not. But at least the same 3 people are still reading! Still, they’re fun to casually leave behind on the trolley and church confessionals, so I made some new ones. Besides, it’s a fun way to be pushy and whiny about wanting people to read my haphazardly-strewn words.

These reviews may or may not be based on real enemies/people and events.

If anyone would like a stack, email me at butgavincantdance@gmail.

com and I will hook you up like this is some half-assed street team or something.

Dude, I don’t think I’ve been tagged for anything blog-related since 2010, so when Kendahl tagged me to participate in this Friendship Blogger Award I got crazily excited because: Yay! I get to play! Someone picked me!

(It gets really lonely over here sometimes. That’s all I’m saying.)

So the rules are that I have to share 7 facts about me and then tag 7 of my blog friends, but the problem is that I don’t HAVE 7 blog friends. So instead, let’s do this: If you’re a reader and you feel like sharing 7 (or 2 or 15) facts with this dumb broad from Pittsburgh (me), then please do so in the comments! Let’s make friends. Open forum. Humor me.

1. Sometimes I start to get super frustrated with Henry, like am I wasting my time? But then this weird/creepy mind-reading thing happens that never ever happens between me and anyone else, and it makes me wonder if it ever even could. Like, is this the only sign I need that the asshole who has yet to marry me is my goddamn soul mate? For instance, when we were leaving the hockey game on Sunday, we were trying to think of somewhere to go to eat. When I get REALLY HUNGRY, I just can’t even care to be involved in these types of discussions. I mean, seriously, just pull into some food place’s parking lot and feed me. So we’re headed sort of in the direction of home when Henry took a quick right and I asked him where he was going. “You said you wanted to go to Mad Mex didn’t you?” he asked, and I fucking swear on every last ginger pube on Jonny Craig’s groin that I was only THINKING that we hadn’t gone to Mad Mex in awhile and please god don’t take me to Eat n Park. THINKING INSIDE MY HEAD QUIETLY. He was all, “I swear I heard you say it” but that’s clearly because he can hear my thoughts, how fucking lovely. Other examples:
   • The time we were playing Catchphrase at one of my game nights and it was Henry’s turn and all he said was “female singer” and I jokingly yet violently shouted CARLY SIMON and it was motherfucking CARLY SIMON, WTF.
   • The time we both dreamt of cabbages. And no, we hadn’t just eaten cabbages or watched a biography of the cabbage on the television.
2. When I was in elementary school and we were living in our first house in South Park (not the cartoon), I was in the backyard walking along a balance beam / path I had made out of the logs my stepdad had recently cut for firewood; they were still rounded on the bottom but flat on the top which made the logs rock from side to side as I steadily walked across. I eventually fell, because that’s what I do, and I got a pretty nasty splinter in my knee. I of course pretended that never happened because OMG SPLINTER REMOVAL, so I ended up having a scar on my knee for quite some time. It’s not there anymore though. I think now the only scar I have left is the chicken pock scar on my cheek (face not butt) and UGH MY C-SECTION INCISION which I’m actually not sure if there is a scar there since I’m too afraid to look closely.
3. Speaking of tagging people, any time I get a notification that someone tagged me on Facebook, I get all clenched up wondering what it could possibly be that I’m being tagged in, like was my European douche commercial finally discovered? And then, you know, it usually always ends up being nothing embarrassing, so calm the fuck down already E.Kel.
4. Bradley Cooper > Adam Levine.
5. I never, ever used to drink water. I hated it so bad and it would make me gag. But then back in 2001, one of my friends told me that my teeth were going to rot from all the Mountain Dew I would drink, so then I had to force myself to drink water. Nowadays, water and me are your basic bros.
6. I hate that my knee-jerk response to people is, “Really?” and they’re like “No, I just told you for that no reason just that when you ask ‘really?’ I can say ‘No, I just told you that for no reason.'” Like, way to drag out a conversation, stupid. (Me, not you.) Also, I’m really great at saying obvious things. Like the last few days we’ve been dealing with this polar vortex bullshit so the Law Firm was actually shut down yesterday which never happens. But of course, our department stayed open and like 90% of us worked from home. So in my work emails to co-workers, I kept saying shit like, “Stay warm!” like they were outside snow-shoeing in the -25 degree windchill and not all warm and cozy in their PJs like we all goddamn know we were.
7. I don’t have any really good talents, like playing the kazoo real well or being incredible at yo-yo’ing. So I don’t really go to very many parties because I have no good party tricks. Also because I rarely get invited to any. (Unless you count parties where people are trying to sell you shit; in that case, if anyone eyeballed my Facebook event notifications, they’d think I was a goddamn everlasting homecoming queen.)

That was really hard because what haven’t I already told the Internet?! It knows everrrrrrrrything.

YOUR TURN!!

(Seriously typed “you’re” at first. I’m awesome tonight.)

Hey guys, what do you want to talk about today? Bullshit? OK, that’s my favorite. Let’s do it in bulletpoints, though.

• Today, I was walking to the trolley and the air just felt like fall and I was washed over with these obscure memories of when I moved to Brookline in 1999, like how I had this job on the street I walk up every day to catch the trolley and it was going to be so perfect because I could just walk to work everyday and my mom wouldn’t have to pay my rent anymore. I was telemarketing, basically calling people and talking to them about coupons? I can’t remember, but I only lasted a week and the manager tried to withhold my $16 paycheck because I never returned the flimsy red plastic binder she gave me. That company is obviously not there anymore and my mom spent the next 8 months paying my rent until I finally got a real job. My mom was super nice back then. Kind of.
• Today, I had the good sense to be a parent and look at Chooch’s school calendar, which is how I learned that it is black and gold day, and has apparently been so the last two Fridays as well. Oops. So this morning, I was like, “Shit, does he even have anything black and gold?” because he hates the Penguins and I won’t let him like the Steelers, and we all have non-opinions for the Pirates but hey—good job, team! Keep it up! Then I remembered it was Friday the 13th, so I tossed a pair of gold pants at Chooch and said, “Here, happy black and gold day.” Andit’s a good thing I took his picture, because that was how I continued my streak of parenting (not even good parenting, just regular parenting) and noticed that his fly was down just in time. But even I hadn’t, the Facebook Fly Police ticketed me immediately after I posted this:

• As noted above, today is Friday the 13th. I was excited to wear my Jason Voorhees hair fascinator that everyone at work thinks is SO CUTE. Of course every non-Friday the 13th, I see that sonabitchin’ thing laying around. But today when I needed it, it was AWOL. I blame Henry for not finishing the coffee table yet, because I think it’s somewhere in all of that mess. So instead, I wore Chooch’s cat bowtie, because we’re supposed to be sharing it anyway:

• Sometime after thinking it was a good idea to put that Jason shirt on Chooch and then dropping him off at school, it occured to me that maybe not everyone there would think it was a good idea for me to have put that shirt on Chooch. Yeah, I know he’s not in Catholic school anymore but it only takes one person to get all offended at a tshirt taking a small, harmless jab at Jesus. But then I reminded myself that this is why I listed Henry as the primary contact, so what the fuck do I (or Jason) (or Jesus!!) care? I just texted Henry and he said he didn’t hear anything so it’s a good thing I didn’t waste any time caring.
• Guess what I’m doing this weekend!? Well, first I’m going to the dentist, and then Chooch and I are walking to the theater down the street to see “Labryinth” while Henry stays home and finishes all of the projects I’ve been doling out, but then you guys!! Then guess what!? I’m going to practice baking! I just feel very inspired and motivated and I really want to contribute to the pie party this year. And Henry said he thinks I can do it (he’s totally afraid to commit to an answer on that one) and he’ll be there to supervise, so I’m going for it. I also want to make Mexican caramel? I don’t even know what that is. I was reading too many food blogs this week, I guess.
  • I mean, I baked a cake that one time, so I can do this! ….Right? It’s just a matter of getting past the whole “reading a recipe” part. I hate reading recipes! I can’t follow that shit!!
• This has been a really depressing week as far as produce goes. Henry promised we can go to the Asian market this weekend though. If they don’t have persimmons, I might kill something.
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  Or eat Henry’s face. But then I’d have to pick beard-straws out of my teeth.

• I lost two pounds this week! I also rolled my ankle the other day doing one of my Jillian Michaels DVDs and tears instantaneously sprung from my eyeballs. I called Henry later to whine about it and he asked if I stopped exercising after that happened, and simulataneously we said, “No” except that Henry’s “no” was in a stupid mocking tone. But when I hurt my ankle, there was only one last abs segment after that so I was able to keep going since I didn’t have to use my feet, god Papa H!
• Haunted houses.
• I made amends with someone the other day and it felt really good. Scary, but good.
• I e-met this girl who lives in the area, is a year older than me and likes the same music as me. She took her daughter to Warped Tour and Pierce the Veil is one her favorite bands!
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  She seems really cool and I want to ask her if she wants to go get coffee or something, but I feel so ruined by last year’s shitshow with Psycho Seri that I am almost crippled when it comes to meeting people now. That’s not like me and it really sucks.

• Had a wonderful phone convo with my friend Rick today about writing and the possibility of getting a writing group together, which would be really awesome considering I don’t consider myself a writer. Maybe some sort of love will be rekindled? Because most days I feel donezo with this thing.
• I had to get my photo taken yesterday for my drivers license and I unintentionally wore a Cure t-shirt, which made me smile because of CURE WEEK, HOW APROPOS.
  • I don’t know when I started abusing the Caps Lock button but now I fear that I can’t quit it. It’s become a part of me. Although, I do shout a lot of my words in real life when I’m with people I’m the most comfortable with.
• My Philly friends Terri and Christian are coming to town next weekend for a show and I’m so excited to see them! I met them in 2011 at the AP Tour in Cleveland.
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  We were guests of our mutual friend Jason (editor-in-chief of Alternative Press/Boylan’s Root Beer suckler/all-around cool dude), and when he had to leave us alone together at the after party, he was worried there would be blood because hello, hockey rivals! Penguins and Flyers! But we got along really well, even when we talked about hockey, and have kept in touch online ever since. Christian is also the one who encouraged us to take Chooch to see Pierce the Veil last March in Lancaster, because he had been to that venue before and felt that it would be fine. And it totally was! So stoked to see them! (Hopefully Henry puts our living room back together before then.)

• Hold on. I have to make coffee before I fall asleep at my desk.
• I’m back with my coffee but then I remembered I have nothing left to say. Goodbye.

#27: 50 Cent Catch.

Took this at Brown’s Country Kitchen after I almost died at the county fair, which I think I’m finally ready to write about, haha. Tomorrow, maybe.

#28: Henry Hates Pigtails.

#29: Obligatory B&W

#30: DONEZO!!

Hey, Face, it’s been real. But let’s give the Internet a break for awhile!

But first, one more thing: My friend Heidi was kind enough to include some of my photos in a blog post she wrote today about the art of self portraiture. She’s awesome and you should go and check it out if you’re feeling particularly read-y right now.

K, bye.

Been a little disjointed this week, not really in a bad way, just in a jumbled-thought kind of way. So today’s blog post is going to be all bullets, bay-buh.

(Somewhere in California, Andrea is rejoicing with pee-vials in hand. She’s a sucker for bulletpoints, so if you want to woo her, send her some bulletpointed love poetry.)

• I’ve been getting so amped for autumn, you guys! I was just sitting here at my desk when I had a random flashforward to October and I got the giddiest twinge in my gut. PIE PARTY! HAUNTED HOUSES! PUMPKIN-FLAVORED PIGOUTS! HALLLLLLLOWWWWWWWEEEEEEENNNNNN!! Here I was, being all sad about summer’s upcoming demise when I shouldn’t be sad at all because fall fucking rules the world. (Sucks that shit-assed winter follows it though.)
• This weekend, Henry, Chooch and I will be working on oversized paper mache versions of our faces for a family portrait I would like to potentially do. I already agreed that Chooch’s can be a cat face, what the fuck do I care anymore. Cat it up, kid. Cat. It. Up.
• When I was little, my grandma’s friend, Jean Arseneaux, used to buy me purses and stuff them with all sorts of trinkets, Tinkerbell nailpolish, Bonne Bell bullshit. I loved opening up all of the compartments and finding tissue paper-swaddled presents tucked away. Unfortunately, this really spoiled me and made me expect ALL PURSES to come stuffed with presents. I’m telling you this because the other day, a gigantic box arrived from Andrea, full of birthday presents for me! A framed clown picture, makeup, jewelry, a mixtape wallet—it was like the neverending present! Kind of like Mary Poppins tapestry bag, which makes sense because Andrea is the Goth Mary Poppins, after all. She even included a bobcat puppet for Chooch, because he’s spoiled too. Chooch made me name him, so Bobcat’s name is Butt. This is basically a lot of words to say thank you to Andrea for making me feel like a 7-year-old again!
• I’m beginning to think I’ll never be able to do real push-ups.
• My co-worker Cheryl wants to have an employee of the week feature on our department’s wiki page and volunteered me to take candid pictures of everyone, so now Glenn is basically all clenched-up, wondering what I have planned for him. As expected, approximately 99% of the department hates this plan.
• I guess our baseball team has been doing really good. (Our baseball team is the PIRATES, for those of you who don’t know I live in PITTSBURGH, which most of the time I’d prefer you to not know, actually.)
• Yesterday, Chooch and I were driving to pick up Henry’s mom. We started talking about how he goes back to school on Monday and I was like, “You’re going to have so much to tell everyone!” He thought about it and then said, “Yeah, but we did so many fun things that it’s hard to even remember it all.” To which I responded, “And THAT is why I blog.” You could almost see the lightbulb go on as he finally understood why I do this shit.
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  • Which brings me to my next thought turd: This summer has kicked my blogging ass. I mean, I’m glad that I was able to document all the cool shit we did, but my brain is like, “Please don’t make me” every time I open up WordPress now. I have been doing this for 12 years, can you believe it? 12 motherfucking years. When does it end? I mean, I guess I could just stop and it’s not like my life would end. I think about it a lot. I enjoy blogging, but I miss writing and I really don’t think this is “writing” anymore. Most of the time I’m blogging from my fucking phone. What is discipline?! I don’t feel like I have it anymore. I remember back to my LiveJournal days when I was pretty much OCD about proof-reading every last entry before posting, and then I would read it 3 more times. Now, I never proofread! And when I do, it’s 6 months later. I’m a blogging slob, you guys, but I KNOW YOU WOULDN’T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY.
• Henry’s mom and Chooch have been fighting with each other every day. Like really, what could they possible have to argue about!? It’s probably best that we don’t know. But then it made me fight with Henry last night becaue he made some remark about how Chooch has inherited my “psycho laugh” that involuntarily rises up from my body seconds before I rage-break things around the house, so I was all, “OH I SEE IT’S MY FAULT THAT YOUR MOM DOESN’T GET ALONG WITH OUR SON” and then I put myself to bed at 9:30 because that’s what tired cry-babies do, you know. They go to bed early like it’s actually going to hurt anyone else. Henry was probably like, “Yay, now I can watch CSI.” I hate when Henry makes it sound like Chooch and I are such terrible little monsters! So what if we are?! It’s probably because ANDREA SPOILS US!
• Even Marcy has been fighting with Henry’s mom. I know it looks like, “Aw, Marcy wants to be close to her grandma!” But really it’s, “Marcy needs to sit close to her enemies at all times.” Sometimes, Judy will flip a page in Us Weekly, which angers Marcy. Marcy will hiss at her, to which Judy responds with, “Don’t hiss at me, cat.” This picture was taken right after Judy scolded Marcy, so Marcy repositioned herself so that her back was toward Judy.

• I have been reading “Tell The Wolves I’m Home” by Carol Rifka Brunt. It is really good, but also very sad. You have just read a book review by Erin R. Kelly. (I mostly only read it on the trolley because I don’t have much spare time these days. Oh, and I also read some last night when I put myself to bed at 9:30. Take that, Henry, you motherfucker.)
• SOMEONE STOLE MY LEAN CUISINE AT WORK THE OTHER NIGHT, YOU GUYS! I have never felt more betrayed. I still haven’t figured out who did it (GLENN, PROBABLY) but no one is taking my Smart Ones today, that’s for sure. I labeled it as poison. (My first choice was to wrap it in barbed wire, but I must have used all of my stock the last time I reenacted scenes from Suspiria.) Anyway, you can imagine how overly dramatized I made this situation, like I was the first person in the history of offices to have their food thieved. Amber1 and Bridget tried to offer me some snacks they had at their desk, but accepting would have meant I couldn’t sulk and carry on at such a grand scale, so I said NO and went back to walking around with my arm slung across my forehead.
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  I hope whoever dined on shitty Lean Cuisine that night took pleasure in knowing they stole it from the most helpless person in the department.

  • I guess this is karma from all those years I spent stealing candy at MSA.
• I haven’t done a giveaway thingie in a long while. WHO WANTS A GIVEAWAY!? Maybe I’ll have Chooch paint a cat for one lucky winner, who even knows. One of Henry’s old bandannas? Wacky Worm shirt? I want to make this blog happenin’ again and, besides actually putting some “quality” into what I post, this is the best I can do right now!  (Wait…was this joint ever happenin’? I’m picturing you guys dressed for a sock hop now.)
• Henry made a crucial error Sunday night by leaving his phone unattended. I’m pissed that I wasted valuable time sending a tweet to his 8 followers about how he just farted and it was awful, when I should have been asking me to marry him on Facebook. I’m losing my touch. He came downstairs just in time though, because Chooch was going to text Henry’s boss. That would have been interesting, as we’re standing in line at a soup kitchen.
• Chooch was talking about Warped Tour and mused, “I really like We Came As Romans and bands that scream, but I also like the peaceful stuff, too.” It’s good to be diverse, young child!
• There was an ice cream social at work today, except that it was forzen yogurt. I didn’t go because I don’t have time to be social. J/K. I didn’t want to be tempted. I save my ice cream consumption for the weekend. In fact, I’m already looking for a new ice cream place to try! I AM SO EXCITED! This is what happens when you’re pathetic—little things make you giddy. I’m OK with this.
• Chooch told us the other day that he is apparently terrified of butterflies. Ok…”I hate how they pop out of nowhere and fly into my face!” he cried. Where the fuck is this happening to my child? In Minecraft? Because the last time I checked, we don’t walk through any butterfly gardens in Brookline. Of all the things for Hardcore Chooch to fear: pwetty buttelfwies. Awww.
• Janna and I went to see a flower that smells like a rotting corpse and now I feel like I’m smelling it everywhere.
• I’m still on a borderline-stalkerish Eisley kick. I follow every last one of them on Instagram and every time Henry hears a baby crying or laughing on my phone, he sighs and asks, “Which Eisley baby is that, now?” (In case you don’t know anything about Eisley, the band is made up of three sisters, their brother, and a cousin. All three sisters and the brother’s wife were pregnant at the same time and now they all have the cutest fucking babies ever and post Instagram videos of them being cute fucking babies and it is nearly enough to make me want to have a baby. I’m not even joking. The other day I was looking at a picture that the girlfriend of the youngest brother (who is not in Eisley, but he and the youngest sister have their own band called Merriment CAN YOU EVEN STAND IT) posted and, as if this was some grand revelation, said out loud to no one and everyone, “I feel like I’m more obsessed with the DuPrees as people than I am with their music.” Henry was just like, “Yeah, no shit.” (Sherri replied to me TWICE on Instagram and I was like, “OMFG I WILL NEVER WASH MY INSTAGRAM AGAIN!” Which is definitely what Marsha Brady would have cried if Davy Jones had replied to her on Instagram.) Anyway, I guess I like “peaceful stuff” too sometimes, just like Chooch. (See below for: “peaceful music”)

• In TV news: there isn’t a single person on So You Think You Can Dance that I care to see win. Dexter is making me feel “meh” and I never, ever use the word “meh.” I miss Teen Wolf and The Killing so much already. I want to fight 75% of the girls on The Challenge, even Diem. (The only ones I like, really, are Emily and Cooke. Jemmye is not too bad but she’s hard to look at. I’d still bang CT though.) I can’t think of anything else that I watch. Oh, Master Chef. (Fuck that Philly bitch, Krissy, though. Someone give her some linguisitics lessons, please.) Oh wait, Pretty Little Liars, too! But I never know what’s going on with that one and always have to ask Henry, “What’s going on?”
• Chooch wants to go to Tonga because he watched some program with Judy about some Tongan axe murderer. “Just like Lizzie Borden,” Chooch explained with a casual shrug.
• God bless those of you who still read this shit. I mean, for Christ’s sake. What is going on with this blog anymore.

#13: Saturday with one of my favorite movies.

#14: Red ruffle.

#15: Waiting for the trolley. :(

#16: Listening to all of the music!

#17: Meeting of the Foot Fetishists

#18: This is my Thinking Face.

#19: Handsome tea-drinking face

I was at a Pierce the Veil concert last March in Lancaster, PA, when Wendy emailed me and said, “Don’t make plans for August 3rd.” She saw some vague advertisement for a movie screening called A Blood Red Sky and immediately bought tickets for us.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“I don’t know but it looks cool!” she replied. And that was good enough for me!

All we knew was that it was a film by some dude associated with Paranormal State. I don’t really watch those paranormal shows, so I still wasn’t sure who this Chad dude was. We figured it was some kind of compilation of paranormal evidence too intense for TV? So he turned it into a movie? I don’t know!

We didn’t find out until the day before where the screening was (the basement ballroom of the Omni William Penn downtown), or even what time we were supposed to show up.

I’m not good at guesstimating, but I want to say there were only chairs set up for about 150 people. No wonder all the cities were selling out! And it seemed like most of the people there were really into Paranormal State.

Like, there were a lot of people wearing Tap Out hoodies who probably had Disturbed’s complete discography out in their glove compartment. So you know, a lot of amateur ghost hunters up in that ballroom.

I was excited because we got there early enough to watch a short documentary Chad produced on exorcisms. Did you know that Pittsburgh has the most annual cases of demonic possession!? I DID NOT KNOW THIS. I’m not sure has fact-based this is, considering I can’t find anything in my trusty Information Tome a/k/a the Internet.

(OMG remember Encyclopedias? How weird were those.)

Whatever. We had to sit through an unbearably long and gushy speech by Chad, explaining his motives behind this multi-city screening (basically, he wants our monies so that he can try to get this movie in theaters), before he finally turned off the lights and played the damn thing.

And it ended up being totally not at all what we expected.

It wasn’t even scary.

And it wasn’t even really about the paranormal, even though it did center around a haunted castle in England.

How can I even explain this.

Chad thinks that all these crazy events that have been taking place over the last two years (birds falling dead from the sky in Arkansas, some Chinese river turning red, etc) were caused by the world’s population being so fixated on Armageddon in the months leading up to 12/21/12. Without going into great detail, because honestly I don’t even really know how to explain it, Chad decided to perform a series of experiments on his research team to prove that our minds can control more than we think, which brings us to the theme of A Blood Red Sky: if we all come together and think positively, our minds can change the motherfucking world, you guys. WE CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE. WE ARE THE WORLD! WE ARE THE CHILDREN!

I mean, OK. I get it. Kudos to this guy for having the balls to try and get a message like this out there. Do I think he’s going to change the world? No. Is this a new concept? No. (See: The Secret, which I still have not read.) Did it give me something to think about? Coincidentally, I already had been. In fact, I even had a draft blog post typed up which I wound up thinking was too corny to post.

A few years back, I started up what I have been calling the Proactive Happiness Project*. This was basically born when I finally woke up (in all aspects) and realized that sometimes you just can’t sit there and wait for fun and happiness to find you, you have to make it happen yourself. Again, not a new concept. Is my life perfect? Fuck no. But do I feel the need to whine and complain about every single thing that doesn’t go my way, like I used to? Fuck no. There are chunks of this blog that I can’t even bring myself to go back and read because I don’t want to get mired down with negativity and depression. My god, how did people even read this thing back then?!

*(Actually, I just totally made that up right now. What I actually call it is STOP BEING AN EEYORE, YOU STUPID BITCH.)

But then one day I caught myself as I was crying in bed for what I can only imagine was no reason. Chooch was still really little, and we were all supposed to go somewhere probably but I got into one of my moods and decided to make the day hell for all parties involved. And I realized, “This is Chooch’s life, too. This is his childhood I’m affecting. What a fucking asshole I am.” I started to think about Chooch becoming an adult and having all these memories of his mom fucking up his day, fucking up his summer, making him miss out on being a kid. So that is why we’re constantly doing stuff and going places and just basically being together. I don’t want to waste his time, too. I want him to look back on his childhood and sum it up with one resounding word: FUN.

I’ve noticed a trend where bloggers have been getting lambasted for “having perfect lives” and “being fake.” And it makes me wonder if anyone thinks that about me, but then I just laugh because, come on.

How perfect can my life be when the man for whom I bore a child won’t marry me? When the house I rent is just a nicer term for “Pit of Despair”? Body image issues. Low self esteem. Social anxiety. Crippling dependancy. I’m not perfect. You’re not perfect. We all have shit going on in our lives. There just comes a time when we need to choose the path we want to take: do you want to be one of those people who air all their laundry on the Internet or do you want to be the person giving people something to smile about? For years, I felt like I was that negative, air-sucking asshole who exhausted everyone around her. Because it was all about my problems and my drama and my unemployment and my money problems. 2012 was a shit year for me. I gained a ton of weight. I lost two cats. I had drama drama drama like you wouldn’t believe, some of which I did choose to write about, not because I wanted attention or sympathy, but because it was a part of my life and I don’t want to pretend like only good shit happens to me. So I wrote about it. But then I moved on. I never would have moved on in the past. I’d have sat here and dwelled and fixated and stewed until I made myself sick with rage and agrivated everyone around me.

I could do all of those things above, or I could stuff a unicorn mask on my kid and go take his picture. Or I can go spend the day at an amusement park or go roller skating or have a picnic in the cemetery with Henry. And why wouldn’t I choose one of those things!? Emotional bandaids? Maybe. But it’s not like I’m running away from my problems—I deal with them, I vent to Henry and my friends, I write about it in my diary, and then I let it go. That is the biggest lesson I’ve had to learn—how to let things go. Move on. Make peace. Whatever—just get it done. (I still haven’t mastered this yet when it comes to my family issues. But I’m trying.)

It took me years to understand that while we might not be in control of death or natural disasters or freak accidents, we are (mostly) in control of our happiness (barring any kind of major mental illness which might require a little more than just amateur reverse psychology). Am I a fucking ball of sunshine every goddamn day? No. I have bad days. I still mourn losses, feel anger when watching the news, stress-sob at work and want to stab people on the trolley. I still dislike talking to strangers and avoid eye contact at all costs. I’m certainly not sitting Indian-style on my office floor, making daisy-chain crowns for my preciously positive head every goddamn night, so don’t get it twisted. But I’m more willing to make an effort to turn my bad attitude around instead of feeding it chicken wings after midnight.

Making an effort to smile winds up feeling a lot better than sitting around scowling all the livelong day. Listening to “Call Me, Maybe” on repeat is a lot better than listening to suicidal thoughts. Making plans to get the fuck out of the house is a lot better than laying in bed feeling sorry for myself. I FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT YOU GUYS! Without having to sit in the dark with ghosts!! And if a huge douchebag like me can make little changes here and there, then probably you can too.

Does the negativity still creep up on me? For fucking sure. Especially at work. There are days when I try not to leave my office-thing because there are so many black clouds hanging over the department and those things are like fucking leeches. If enough people complain to me about how bad of a day they’re having, the next thing I know, I’m motherfucking my job up and down and I really have no idea why. It’s contagious. And I’m part of the problem, too.

Prior to A Blood Red Sky, I had already been thinking a lot about this whole positivity thing because my birthday was coming up. Birthdays used to bring out the WORST in me. I would be so depressed, I’d convince myself that no one gave a shit, I would push people away and just generally become the most difficult brat to be around. But then I realized I was wasting time.

And the thought of wasting time makes me panic. So maybe it seems a little weird that a grown ass broad goes so hog-wild for her birthday (I honestly try to extend the celebrating for as long as I can and I’m not ashamed to admit that–CELEBRATE MY LIFE WITH ME OK!?), but now you know why. I have years upon years to make up for.

And for the last three years, my new system has been working and now I don’t even think about my approaching birthday and cry anymore. I feel like I have reasons to get out of bed now, things to look forward to, music to listen to, a kid to laugh at. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to waste any more of my life. There’s a reason for all the Stay Posi t-shirts out there. Maybe if we all wear one, we can save the world. Or at the very least, look like scene kids.

(Pro Tip: The Stay Posi t-shirts may need layered with several WE WILL GET THRU THIS, HAND OVER THE RAZORBLADE sweatshirts during those long, dreary winter months.)

#6: Hand/Eye Coordination

#7: Me and my girl Mary.

#8: Mutual Admiration.

#9: Losing Steam

#10: 34! Woo!

#11: Peppermint Grill.

#12: Wet Hair, Don’t Care.

I’m not even halfway done with this, how can that even be possible?! Things are bound to get weird as I run out of ideas.

****

In other news, hope everyone has a great weekend! Tomorrow night, Wendy and I are going to see A Blood Red Sky but we don’t know where it’s at or what time, only that she bought the tickets last March and told me not to make plans on August 3rd. I still am not very clear on what this even is? (As I was typing this, she called me and it appears that this is being held at a legit location and not some dirty guy’s basement. Damn.)

And then I’m having a birthday dinner Sunday night at some Shakespeare joint which I thought was going to be a tacky establishment (because my goal is “tacky”) but some people at work have said, “No it’s actually pretty nice there.”

Bubble status: burst.

Oh well. At least I can satisfy Sunday’s self-portrait when I cozy up to a suit of armor before dinner.

This is going to be shocking, but OMG it’s a post not about Warped Tour/the county fair/our New England vacation! Whaaaat?! Seriously, I think I’m finally caught up! I can start posting about random bullshit again, like assholes on the trolley, my new plant (!!!) and I don’t know—what did I even used to write about!? It’s been so long.

And now, let’s proceed.

You probably wouldn’t peg me as a fan of the blog A Beautiful Mess, but I really actually love their brand (and they created the most adorable photo app of all time). Plus, they’re buds with Eisley, and I love that band/entire family. So when I saw that they were doing a 30 Day Self Portrait Challenge, I decided to try and play nice with others by joining. It’s been fun so far, I guess! But probably not for my Instagram and Facebook friends who have to see a new picture of my dumb face everyday. Don’t worry, I’ll try to think of ways to mix that shit up. I guess I’m going to post them here at the end of every week. Lucky you.

(This actually is a challenge because I’m not a fan of my face. I take 87,000 photos before finding ONE that is suitable to use as a Facebook profile picture. It’s pathetic. But I’m going to try and not be so particular and vain with this challenge. Maybe.)

#1: Obligatory Stupid Smirk

#2: My Standard Pout

#3: Law Firm Reflections, duh.

#4: Haunted Hand Mirror (no, really—I found this in my house when I moved in back in 1999; one side is all bashed in like it was used to MURDER SOMEONE.)

#5: Marcy & me in the morning, makeup-less. Marcy looks weird without mascara, right?

According to the rules on A Beautiful Mess, people can jump in and start the challenge at any time, so you should play too!