We’re having a Fathers Day* picnic at the cemetery and Chooch and I immediately started complaining about the sandwiches Henry packed for us. 

“Here’s an idea!” Henry started, and then I quit listening because I know he’s saying shit I don’t want to hear. Stuff about how we should just do it ourselves next time and he’ll stay home, la la la. 

*(This was my excuse to have a picnic but then Henry had to do all the labor lol. And then we had a huge fight in the car because I needed iced coffee and nearly died. #typicalsunday)

I just wiped watermelon on Henry’s leg and now he’s throwing cherry seeds at me. I swallowed one of those at work last week. Goodbye. 

I’ve never been one to have anything useful or profound to say in the face of adversity or in the aftermath of a tragedy. Typically, I sink into a pit of hopelessness and confusion, and do a lot of crying. #secretempath

But what I am good at is pushing music into people’s ears. A bunch of bands I really love have contributed songs to this pro-LGBTQ compilation, and promoting this here is my way of adding my small voice to the cause. Pay what you want, from $1 up, and all proceeds from this compilation will be donated to support the victims of the Pulse shooting as part of the OneOrlando Fund. 

So go on! Add some amazing music to your collection while also helping the victims of a senseless tragedy and their families. You can even buy it as a gift for someone else! 

I 100% endorse this compilation and yes, I purchased it myself. 49 songs, you guys! There’s bound to be something on it that agrees with you.  I’m listening to it right now and crying because when am I not listening to music and crying except for when I’m at work wearing my Normal Lady mask?

Let me know if you get it and if you love it or what! It’s full of beauty. And most importantly, you can listen to it and PRETEND TO BE ME! (Lol.)

CLICK HERE TO DONATE/PURCHASE!!

Plus, any compilation that features Anthony Green is bound to be lit AF. 

I haven’t been painting or anything at all lately because there has been so much going on in life and if only there was one extra hour in a day, you know. But after an emotional Friday night, I woke up the next day ready to paint my way through it.

I’ve been wanting to paint a portrait of my Pappap for some time now, and I found a really great picture of him from the late 70s / early 80s that I knew right away was the one I needed to recreate.

Chooch, my most honest and unapologetic critic, said with legit sincerity that this is my “best one yet.” Which I of course twisted around and cried, “OMG so you think all of my other ones suck then?!” And he just sighed and walked away.

Because life with a bipolar Leo, amirite?

(It honestly barely looks like him, but it’s still going on my wall.)

And then I took advantage of the fire under my ass and finally finished the third installment of the nursery paintings that Wendy requested. Slumps are no fun.

We were talking about the 2009 Penguins parade at work last week and I was going to repost my account of it, but then I worried it would jinx the Penguins. But now that they’ve successfully brought Lord Stanley back to Pittsburgh and the celebratory parade is officially set for Wednesday, I guess now is a good time!

Amber2 and I already declared weeks ago that if the Pens won, we were going to take a half-day and go to the damn parade. Hopefully she doesn’t lose me like Henry did.

*******

It wouldn’t have seemed right not to go, so Henry came home a little early on Monday and by 10:30am we were en route to the Penguins Victory Parade downtown. Now, I live a 5-minute’s drive from downtown, so I suggested that we just take the trolley, which is within a few blocks from our house. But Henry, good ol’ Henry, he’s all, “Oh no no no, we’ll drive and park at Station Square (which is right across from the river from town and has several parking lots) that way you can just drop me off at work after the parade.”

Immediately I was leery of this great plan.

We reached Station Square and, naturally, were met with gridlocked traffic because of course every fucking person outside of the city limits swarms en masse like fucking Syrian locusts looking for a parking spot to plague. (Just remember who suggested taking the trolley.)

We crawled ahead a few feet in five minutes, and it occured to me to ask, “You have money to park, right?”

“No.”

Let me reiterate that for the few people who might think Henry is actually smart: He said no.

OF COURSE HE DIDN’T BRING MONEY. Why should I have been surprised at all.

What happened next may seem like an accident but I’m convinced it was carefully plotted stratagem.

“Jump out and go to that ATM,” Henry ordered, pointing across the street. “No one’s going anywhere, so don’t worry about me leaving,” he laughed, sweeping his hand out the window at all the cars idling ahead of us.

Funny how in the ONE MINUTE it took me to take out money, he was GONE. I’m not kidding—our car was GONEZO. And where I had gotten out was right about where the road split, and then there were three different lot entrances he could have gone through.

I convinced myself not to panic and for the first minute I did really well. But after that, I sat on a retaining wall and cried behind my Mary-Kate sunglasses while throngs of excited Pens fans trampled past me, on their way to the parade that I just wasn’t destined to attend. I kept thinking I’d see Henry and Chooch amid one of these packs of fans, but they never emerged from any of the lots. I was four years old again, lost in the grocery store and all the faces looking down on me had the morphed and oblong faces of the kidnappers in my nightmares and I just knew the rest of my childhood was going to be spent in a moldy cellar eating stale crackers and Cheez-Whiz in front of a constant loop of American Gladiator reruns, if I was even that lucky.

Oh but I could just call Henry, IF ONLY I HAD MY PHONE. Which was in my purse. Which was in the car.

I WAS OMG LOST I’M GOING TO DIE. Lost and scared and dead. And pathetic. My future was looking grim, like I would never reunite with my family and, left to my own devices, how would I ever survive long enough to make it home? I had a twenty in my pocket but if I came upon a panhandler, you just know I’d be guilted into buying that bastard a Big Mac, Hustler, and a jug of Old Crow.

So I sat there, on that wall, hugging my knees to my chest and feeling desperate and completely sorry for myself, and I even heard myself whimper once or sixteen times. And then I thought, “Jesus Christ, did I just whimper in real life?”

It took me twenty-minutes to find someone willing to let me use their phone. His name was Tyrone and he was a janitor who literally LEANED BACK and slid his glasses down so he could ogle my tits while I was trying to locate Henry.

“Your man LEFT YOU?” he asked when I handed the phone back, clucking his tongue to illustrate just how appalling this was to him.

Look Tyrone, NOT ON THIS DAY, my friend. I thanked him, shook his hand (he held his grasp a little too long and I was honestly bouncing on the balls of my feet because hello, I was about to miss this fucking parade. I had to walk in the opposite direction to meet Henry and Chooch. They were relegated to a lot a good half mile away from where I was with Tyrone, and Henry needed the cash I took out so he could get his license back from the lot attendant who was leaving soon.

I ran as fast my boobs, sans sports bra, would allow me, and when I finally met up with those two assholes, I yelled, “Do you know how scary it is being lost???” to which Henry replied, “Um, you’re an ADULT.”

Yeah, adults go missing too, asshole. I was practically a sitting duck back there, any serial rapist could have dumped a burlap sack over me and THEN WHAT. My body becomes a penis cozy, that’s what.

To summarize what happened next – Chooch was being an asshole, Henry was being slow, and I lost my fucking temper on a walkway next to the RIVER, and I hate the RIVER. I hate a clusterfuck. I mean, who doesn’t. And it was about a second away from defeating me. I was ready to go home. I was sick of ambling around that fucking parking lot with no direction and I took this plastic snack bowl of Chooch’s and whaled it against the pavement, screamed “FUCK” in several different contexts, and demanded Henry take me home. Seriously, Henry had parked so far away that there wasn’t a soul around to hear my moment of crazy lady anguish. But Henry got that hissed tone of his and goes, “I am NOT going home after making it this far, we’re going to this fucking parade.”

We eventually caught up with the rest of the last-minute stragglers, walked across the Smithfield Street Bridge, which of course made me convulse and re-eat my breakfast, and somehow, someway, found a really nice spot right on the parade route that wasn’t clogged with gyrating and sweaty fans fifteen-heads deep.

And all the frustrating pratfalls of that morning became worth it as soon as the parade started and I found myself crying again, but in a good way this time.

Seriously. Mario Lemieux.

Typically, I’d have found 1,000 people to hate in one minute flat on any other day, but on Monday I loved everyone. (Not Henry, though.)

Hossa: Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

You guys! Billy Guerin, you guys! You guys OMG!

Three of my faves, one truck: ORPIK!!, Cooke, and Sykora. I cried.

Malkin was the only one I couldn’t get a good shot of, because every girl started boinging up and down with thrusted boobs, waving their ring fingers frantically. I may or may not have been apart of that.

Oh hello, best hockey player in the world.

Fleury was on the other side of him.

I want so badly for Jessi to have this shirt, and to always stand in that exact pose while she’s wearing it.

These were set off as we were making the long trek back to the car. Henry told Chooch they were day fireworks, but Chooch heard it as “gay” fireworks, so that’s all he’s been talking about. “Mommy, remember when we saw the gay fireworks?” And then I have so many things I want to say* to that but there’s only so much a three-year-old’s mind can handle.

*(Like, “You mean when Daddy and Hot Naybor Chris were tandem lawn-mowing?

“)

More pictures (and larger sizes) here.

We may be the “City of Champions,” but I still don’t like the Steelers. Except when they’re playing the Bengals.

HEAVY.BREATHING. 

They fucking did it! The Penguins won the Stanley Cup tonight, at the exact moment Pierce the Veil was singing King for a Day at the House of Blues in Cleveland. I was trying to divide my attention between both the show and the game via Penguins alerts on my phone and it turned out to be OK – I was sad at first that I wasn’t going to be able to watch; me! The girl who watches every regular season game except when I’m at a show, and even then I’m getting alerts on my phone because I can’t quit you, Penguins. The girl who starts sobbing out of the blue when thinking about them because I just really care about them, you guys. 

But it ended up being kind of amazing, after all the shitty news in the world and my own personal life, all the tragedy and sadness, here was a moment to come together with people through music and sports, at the same time. It made my heart feel so full. Henry didn’t go to the show with us, but after he was done “driving around” a/k/a looking for strip clubs, he parked across the street from House of Blues and said that when the Pens won, tons of screaming erupted in downtown Cleveland. So awesome. 

The best part is that Chooch was into it this time. He has finally, if not reluctantly, crossed over to the official Pens fan side of the house, and he was anxiously asking for game updates all night. And when there was only 3 minutes left in the 3rd, I kept maniacally refreshing my Pens app while he leaned over to look and we both sang, nay—SCREAMED, along to “King for a Day.”

What a fucking beautiful night. And, as we drive home from Cleveland, we just drove under a traffic alert sign on 79 that said “Bring Home the Cup.”

OH IT’S COMING. 

Today, I just want to close my eyes and wake up in 1976 in some fucking bright green magical Wonderland field, preferably next to a sparkling blue motherfucking brook in which my reflection looks like MAUREEN MCCORMICK.

(Then, not now.)

 I wasn’t alive in 1976 but I have WEIRD FLASHBACKS to that time when I listen to certain songs and this is one, please help me, send meds, everything is terrible. 

Super powerful urge to spend the night at my Pappap’s house and listen to Phil Collins until my eyes explode from all the crying. 

Here are some pictures of Drew and Penelope Ann Killer; even though they’re succulent serial killers, they’re too adorable for me to be mad at for long.

(Same thing Henry says about me, FYI.)

‘Bout that bug lyfe.

When Drew was so happy we were home from Michigan that she tried to crush me to death.

Bird alert.

Cats are so weird.

Technically Henry still says he’s not doing this. LOL. Yeah right. Take it away, big guy! (This may or may not be ghost-written by a 10-year-old version of Henry.)

11:11am: it’s 11:11 and I wished that a sweet big assed girl would walk past the car, and she did! Best short vacation ever! Also I stared till she walked away, she looked at me and I raised my eyebrows up and down!

11:26am: standing in this bitchin’ line and I fucking hate concerts. I dunno if my son’s mother told you that, but If not I did. Anyway there’s a lot of sexy big assed girls Here people keep looking at me like I’m a pervert. I wonder if people think I’m a dilf!

11:52: Just exited the stupid school to finally plan my escape. Some stupid people from Artifex Pereo said “nice shirt to my son. There are some sexy big boob broads in the school. I think they winked at me! Mission Accoplished! Also I can’t follow directions my son’s mother yelled at me to keep the v.

i.p bag but I threw it into our Lamborghini.

12:34pm: listening to shitty music while staring at big asses. Man, I wish I had a big ass I could squeeze it all day! mMmMmMm! Well I think my life is going a different direction! Pay 10$ for me to squeeze your ass as a massage!

12:55pm:

IM STARING AT SOME BAND ASSES LIKE A PERV AND AN OLD PERSON! Also “enjoying” music at “Bleeding from my ears fest”

1:15: I went to the V.I.P Lounge so I can escape Artifex Pereo. There were some Staff members with gigantic asses! More to squeeze. My new store is PERVs Ass Massages!

Hopefully the cop that comes to arrest me has a nice ass!

2:45pm: We met Artifex Pereo. And more asses! My store will be in Moon Township! Some sexy ass broad girl be havin dat nice ass yelled at my son’s mother’s son. I watched a band by myself! I was away from small ass girlfriend!

5:00pm:  I’m tired and I want to go home to mummy and my nipples. Everybody knows I can’t rub them here. I got meatballs on my shirt and my small ass girlfriend tried to take a picture of it for tinder.

6:05pm:

Dreaming about dem asses at Bled Fest. There was someone tea bagging their car in my dream. I thought the car was a big ass broad. There is a water tower as big as an ass I saw today in the merch room.

6:20pm: big kick ball hit me while I was sleeping. I thought I was getting accepted by the big ass girls! My company is getting customers!

8:00pm: Today I saw some hot broads twerking their fat big juicy asses off while I ordered a pizza. Man life’s good! My small ass girlfriend was watching The World Is a Beautiful Big Ass Place! To teach how to twerk her ass off.

******

9:31am: I forgot to write about the FINAL MINUTES! But my son’s mother found out and said that she will tell the police but I didn’t care I wanted that big ass cop to arrest me! Anyway small ass girlfriend was watching Superheavenhell with all the big ass girls. But it was hot in there and I didn’t want to get sweat all over dat girls big ass.

It’s been nearly two years since this douchenamic duo has joined forces, and god only knows what will happen this weekend when they reunite. Pond drownings?! Ceiling head bashings!?

Jesus-y jubilation?!

Time will tell. This week has been dragging on and on and on. I just want Friday to get here so we can be Michigan-bound! I’m so excited to see these fools again and hear all about Jessi’s RHPS acting gig!

Kind of sad that we’ll be missing the crappy Memorial Day parade that limps past our house every year though.

LOL, SIKE.

Chooch’s chorus concert was Thursday evening so we had to endure a few hours in a cafeteria with the cream of the crop of Yinzer ‘rents. Sorry Chooch, but that’s got the concert beat in entertainment value. I only go for the cookies though which we’re not allowed to eat until AFTER I guess so the dumb kids can have some too but who are the real MVPs of the night? The parents, that’s who. Or our ear drums if you want to focus on the specifics. 

There was also a Hot Naybor Chris (#HNC for those in the know, and if you’re in the know, then I’m sorry haha) sighting so I spent most of the excruciating band portion of the evening trying to take a picture of him. 

I really dislike the band instructor, by the way. He loves to hear the sound of his voice so he makes sure to pause after every excruciating “song” to regale us with an equally excruciating story. Then he had everyone sing the ABCs, Twinkle Twinkle, and Bas Baa Black Sheep to illustrate that each one uses the same melody and I refused to sing out of principle so Henry really sang with much exaggeration just to irritate me. 

It worked. 

The chorus is at least mostly ok. They sang Beauty & the Beast (Chooch was actually super into the show we saw at Holkywood Studios last month for this reason) and some lame Grease song, which Chooch got to announce and thank he didn’t fuck it up! The girl who announced Beauty and the Beast basically read the entire book to us up there from the podium and it’s like, come on. If anyone there didn’t know the premise to Beauty & the Beast, they’ve probably lived in a sewer for the last 40 years and have emerged on that special night just to mass murder us anyway so what does all this matter, just sing the fucking song and get it over with so we can either be murdered or eat cookies. 

Spoiler: we all survived and got to eat some fucking cookies. And Chooch managed to not fuck up his Grease solo. 

Afterward, we roamed around, harshly critiquing the student art on display, when Chooch casually pointed at some black-haired girl in a red flannel and said, “That’s the girl who told me I probably don’t even know who Pierce the Veil is.”

RECORD SCRATCH. 

This happened last year and I was way more pissed about it than Chooch was because Chooch has enough confidence in himself to not give a shit when his interests are questions.

But ERK, on the other hand? ERK can’t let shit go. 

“Let’s follow her and make passive-aggressive statements about our scene knowledge while being mildly disparaging,” I suggested. Chooch was just like, “Probably not a good idea, but sure.”

She disappeared down a stairwell with one of her equally-as-basic friends and Henry was like, “Guys what’s going on?” while blindly following us. 

I was so fired up. I planned on saying things like, “WOW I CANT WAIT UNTIL WE GO TO THAT SOLD OUT PTV SHOW NEXT MONTH IN CLEVELAND BECAUSE WE’RE LONG-TIME FANS AND GOT OUR TICKETS THE SECOND THEY WENT ON SALE. HEY REMEMBER WHEN YOUR FIRST CONCERT WAS PTV WHEN YOU WERE 6? WARPED TOUR. BLED FEST. WHADDUP.”

Seriously, don’t fuck with my kid and his knowledge of music because he will fucking school you all the way back to Hot Topic, you basic bitch. 

Meanwhile, Henry was still struggling to understand what was going on so Chooch snapped, “Mommy wants to harass that girl, ok? God!” And Henry was all, “What girl???” And then when he realized what was happening, he was like, “No. Time to take the kids home.” And then I got lectured the whole way home about how it’s illegal for a 36-year-old to bully a 13-year-old or something, I wasn’t listening. 

Whatever. I think she was already gone anyway. Dumb bitch. 

P.S. this wasn’t the concert that he had all those Saturday rehearsals for. That one was actually going to be a good, legit production, but the day Chooch was supposed to leave school and go downtown for an all-day dress rehearsal was the same day the guidance counselor poached him and made him make up the one day of PSSAs he missed on account of his shitty parents taking him to Disney World, so because of that, Chooch was unable to perform at the big show and believe me, I’m sure I will never hear the end of it. 

Tomorrow, we’re taking my mannequin Trudy to The House so she can model some hot 80s sweaters which will be listed sometime soon on Depop, Instagram, eBay….here. There. Everywhere. Trying to save up some money for some repairs that the house needs. 

Fine, Chooch. You can model some more too. God. 

Guys, it’s a fucking pizza sweater dress. If I didn’t have the physique of a linebacker, this would be all up on me right now. But my broad ass and thick waist butcher this couture. So it’s up for grabs! 

If you’re into super in-your-face, totally rad oversized sweaters (most with removable shoulder pads—keep them in, I won’t judge), stay tuned. 

(Ok fine I’m keeping that cat sweater up there for myself…probably.)

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

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

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

Never-ending Story vibes.

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

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

Like a tourist.

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

Not sure how that makes me feel.

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

You never know.

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

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

He gets that from Henry.

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

So many steins up in this house.

HOTTER THAN HELL.

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

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

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

Bled Fest is two weeks away! Our tickets arrived on Saturday and I shrieked accordingly, probably the same way Henry shrieks when he pulls out a successful load….

 …0f laundry. 

In lieu of buying the tickets directly from Fusion Shows, I snagged them from John of Amateur Eyes, one of the bands playing Bled Fest. 

I think Henry was secretly hoping John would ‘Jonny Craig’ us out of the tickets. And by that I do of course mean SCAM. 

But nope! The transaction had a happy ending. 

I did buy Chooch’s ticket directly through Fusion Shows though because we got him a VIP pass so he could have drinks and snacks all day long, God forbid. 

Henry is going to hate this day soooooo much. Oh god, maybe he should live blog it?! COMMENT IF YOU WANT THAT!!

I’m really excited to add Bled Fest to The Painting! And to absorb all the good vibes and therapeutic noise all day long. GIMME. 

And also to see Amateur Eyes! 

This blog post was brought to you by a strong desperation to take my eyes off this fucking hockey game. 

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

And he doesn’t answer. 

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

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

JOEY SCARBURY. And some broad. 

My Saturday evening, you guys. 

But also, there was ice cream!

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

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

“Pierce the Veil’s new album came out today and I’m nervous because the comments on Absolute Punk have been less than favorable,” I said to Henry as I brought it up on Spotify. And then 3 seconds into the first song, I ran into the kitchen and informed him, “WELL, I LOVE IT.”

Going on 10 years of being a staunch PTV supporter and they have yet to let me down. 2016 has been shitty for so many reasons, but music is NOT ONE OF THEM. 

Pierce the Veil makes me miss my ex-bff and reignites my penchant for LOLspeak but oh wellz0rz. Whatevlyn. 

ME AND VIC 4L.