Guys, the furries are coming back to Pittsburgh this week! I don’t think the beloved Walrus Royce is attending this year, but I wanted to repost this anyway because he’s awesome, furries are fun, and this was such a great experience for me last summer. 

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Weird Al’s version of “Born This Way” plays from an iPod attached to his chest—right next to a fish-shaped necktie—as Royce Cobblepot shuffles and flaps around the lobby of the Westin Hotel. It’s probably as close to dancing as one can achieve while having their hands and feet covered with plush flippers. “I just love Weird Al!” he shouts through a prosthetic snout.

Royce is the popular walrus attendee of Anthrocon, a furry convention held annually in Pittsburgh. In case you recently moved back to civilization from a secluded mountain cult, “furry” is, in the simplest sense, the pet name for a person who has an interest in anthropomorphic animals, which may also culminate in dressing up as a mascot-type animal.

Furries are also sometimes misunderstood, and, being a devoted fan of the (upcoming pun in 3…2…1) underdog, I wanted to spend some time getting to know one, and Royce was kind enough to oblige.

I didn’t register for the convention, so I couldn’t get all of the way inside to check out the panels and members-only events, but Royce was given the go-ahead to answer some of my questions in an effort to shed some positive light on this social subset that most people seem to think is synonymous with sex, like furrydom is the seedy underbelly of the cartoon porn industry; this is all thanks to media outlets like Vanity Fair portraying them on the whole as sex-obsessed. To be quite honest, I had never heard of the furry phenomenon until one fateful day in 2004 when I posted a picture of the Froggy radio station mascot and myself on my LiveJournal and jokingly wondered if there was such a thing as “mascot porn.” Someone commented and said, “Yeah, it’s called ‘being a furry.'” So this tête-à-tête with Royce Cobblepot was just as much to enlighten myself.

The fact is, there are always going to be people who can sexualize anything. It even happens with Harry Potter fandoms, yet people don’t automatically assume that someone who enjoys reading the Potter series must also be into writing fan fiction about Harry and Draco riding each other’s broomsticks during Nude Quidditch matches. And it’s OK to dress up as your favorite superhero and attend Comicon, but as soon as someone suits up as a purple fox and isn’t getting a paycheck for it from an amusement park or ballfield? Alert the sex police.

According to Wikipedia, the subculture is said to have originated at a science fiction convention, not the basement studio of some bored and desperate 1970s porn director looking for a new kink to sell some films. Growing up with a sci-fi novel obsession and love for cartoons with anthropomorphic characters are generally what seem to lure people into furry role-playing as adults. Royce himself credits cartoons and his love of stuffed animals as sparking his interest in anthropomorphism, but it wasn’t until he watched a documentary in 2004 on the The Learning Channel about the subject of animal impersonators that he decided to take his love of animals to the next level, thus seeking out a community where he could talk to other people who shared these interests.

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In a scene ranging from half-suits (people who choose to wear only ears and tails) to full-blown animal fursuits (foxes, cats, and bears being the most ubiquitous as far as I can tell), it’s rare to see something as unique as a walrus, which was one of the reasons Royce chose this animal as his animal persona, (or ‘fursona’, as they call it)”, after originally joining the furry community as a were-bear named Furio.

“Walruses are such wonderful creatures,” Royce explains proudly as we sit together on a bench in the lobby. “When we see them in movies, they’re always personified as older, dignified gentlemen.” In fact, he was inspired by Karl Malden’s portrayal of the Walrus in the 1985 version of “Alice in Wonderland,” which is my favorite Alice film, so my interest is really piqued at this point. Royce tells me that there is enough furry inspiration culled from Alice in Wonderland that at another furry convention, he headed an entire panel on the subject: Furries in Wonderland.

Another inspiration was Royce’s very own grandma, who has showered him with support. He was even given his grandfather’s cane to accessorize his costume. My grandma only ever supported my body image issues and wavering self-worth, so I’m impressed!

Royce’s walrus get-up was a labor of love, from the donation of the cane to his friends and neighbors assisting with fashioning flippers out of regular old bedroom slippers and oven mitts. Royce worked with a Canadian prosthetic company to create the mask, which fits the contour of his face and moves along with his jaw when he speaks. He only gets the opportunity to don it about four times a year, at various conventions and showings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show in his hometown in Virginia. Royce typically only attends Anthrocon every other year in order to keep his character fresh and novel.

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Our conversation is interrupted frequently as interested and curious people (even other furries who are presently disrobed of their fursuits) stop to compliment Royce on his get-up and ask for a picture, but I don’t mind because I enjoy watching Royce in his element. I’m also not surprised at the attention he garners, because of the furries I’ve seen around town, Royce is the most unique and eye-catching.

“Thank you so much!” he gushes when I tell him this. “But at the same time, that actually makes me sad.” He explains that while the attention is nice, he doesn’t want anyone to think that he’s better than anyone else out there, because they all work so hard on their personas, even if they only have ears and a tail to show for it. Royce stresses the fact that every furry has something unique about them, and that there is certainly no hierarchy in their community. “We all know that there is still a person under there,” Royce explains, and I find it kind of alluring how much love and respect flows freely within this community. “Everyone here has something to offer: one person is an amazing puppeteer, another person is a veteran. Many people here are involved with wonderful charities. One guy can play the most beautiful music spontaneously, without knowing how to read music, it’s the most incredible thing!” he gushes. So it’s a good thing that Anthrocon has a talent show, in which Royce and some of his friends participate.

Moments later, Royce blurts out, “Oh, wait until you see who’s coming—it’s my nemesis!” and together we watch the revolving door of the hotel as a slender fox in a tophat emerges. “Oh, he’s so dapper!” Royce gushes, and it’s clear that they’re not actually nemeses and that Royce has genuine admiration for the fox’s slick attire. It’s a shame that some people are too busy fixating on the negative aspects of furries instead of enjoying the artistry and ingenuity behind some of these costumes.

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We’re walking down Liberty Avenue to visit Fernando’s Café, the first furry-friendly establishment in Pittsburgh. Four days a year, you’ll find chalk paw prints leading up to the front door, furry-centric items on the menu, and food served in dog bowls. Their name even temporarily changes to Furnando’s. But that’s not what makes the owner a legend in the Book of Furry: During Anthrocon 2007, Fernando himself stepped up and defended Anthrocon attendees in his restaurant from getting harassed by a local Pittsburgh meathead and wound up taking a brick to the head for it. The furries thanked Fernando later by raising over $20,000 to help him keep his restaurant when he was in danger of losing it. It’s a pretty sweet love story, if you ask me, and Royce wants to stop in to thank them again for their hospitality and support.

En route, we pass a bar on the corner of Liberty Avenue called Tonic, which offers outside seating in the warmer months. “Oh, these people just love us!” Royce says, brandishing a flippered hand toward the presently-empty line of tables. “People sit out there with their drinks and cheer at us and just have so much fun!” I’ve seen it too during the times I’ve hung out in front of the hotel to engage in one of the newer Pittsburgh sports called “Furry-Spotting.” It’s almost become somewhat of a game for downtown professionals to collect photos of themselves engulfed in furry embraces, which inevitably wind up on Facebook. But this is a good thing! Because if my city can (mostly) ignore the naysayers and have fun with it, then that has got to give the furries hope that they can win over others, slowly but surely.

Just outside of the cafe, we run into one of Royce’s best friends, Comus, who has experience in the animation industry. He is on his way to one of the many Anthrocon events taking place in the Convention Center, but is kind enough to stop and briefly chat with us. When I tell Comus that I’m not a furry, he hands me the schedule of activities to peruse, and I’m surprised at how much they jam into these four-day conventions—it’s almost like flipping through a small college course guide. There’s everything from financing (have you seen some of these furry get-ups? they’re not cheap) to Native American totems to puppetry skills. And yes, there is even a panel for all you bronies out there—adult men and women who love and relate to the cartoon series My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic—which excites me because this is a whole other subculture that I find completely fascinating; I’m not shocked that there is a crossover between this phenomenon and furries.

I excitedly mention this to my fur-company, which leads into a brief discussion about the show’s cultural irony and clever adult-relatable storylines, so now I feel like I need to revisit My Little Pony. Because to me, these aren’t much more than plastic ponies I used to get in my Easter basket.

Inside Fernando’s, the walrus-sighting draws out employees from the kitchen. Everyone wants to either talk to Royce or take his picture, further exemplifying the appeal—to be just a regular person, working a regular job, but then have these moments every year when you’re such a hot commodity? I kind of want that. Especially when it quickly dawns on me that I am the only non-furry in this joint. The Fernando’s staff is actually looking at me strangely for not even at least sporting a tail and I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation—and also marvel at the progression that my city has made in these last eight years of being Furry Headquarters.

While furries are quick to dole out hugs, shrugs, and photo-ops, many choose not to interact verbally with their un-furred fans. Royce, however, gives his walrus a more approachable edge by speaking affably with anyone who stops him.

“I think it puts people at ease,” he explains, after thanking an admirer for his accolades. I think of horror movie icons like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees, mute behind their masks and communicating only through head tilts, chainsaws and machetes, and I’m suddenly very thankful that my new walrus friend isn’t answering my questions with blank stares.

While Royce’s avuncular voice perfectly complements his tail and top hat, touching his whiskers gets you a boisterously anthropomorphic “aarf,” which is a real crowd-pleaser!

Outside of Fernando’s, we encounter a furry in her human form who, like everyone else, is anxious to get her minute with Royce. She is here from Canada, and the two of them seamlessly fall into a conversation entirely in French. Afterward, Royce says to me, “Yes, I speak French—a little, and not very well!” So humble and self-deprecating.

Another reason some people might be drawn to anthropomorphism is the power and confidence that comes from shielding your insecurities beneath a mask. “Sometimes,” Royce explains, “finding an animal persona can bring out things in a person that they didn’t know existed.” I mention Robert Smith, the singer of my favorite band The Cure, and how I once read that the reason he wears lipstick and eyeliner is because he’s so painfully shy, and makeup is enough of a mask for him to be able to walk out onto the stage and perform. Royce agrees that there’s a correlation there. “I’m definitely a shy person,” Royce says, and admits that becoming a walrus has had a positive impact on his human side.

Royce is eager to talk about the oft-overlooked aspects of the furry fandom, the most important point being how it’s all about making people happy. He tells me about how his favorite moment of this year’s convention happened just the night before, when he danced with a disabled woman in a wheelchair. Her husband was even inspired to join in.

“How many people get to say they danced with a walrus?” Royce laughs, and I can see just enough of his eyes beneath the mask to tell that he’s tearing up a little at the idea of being able to leave some sort of imprint on someone’s life. That’s a pretty cool thing. And I think for a lot of Pittsburgh adults, it’s a chance for them to act like a kid again, running around on their lunch breaks, high-fiving neon bears and bunnies in bustiers. “I like the idea that I might be a special thing in someone’s life that they may never see again,” Royce muses. “At the end of the day, I’m tired and sweaty and my back hurts, but I’m laughing—I just love making people happy.”

When you break it down (and, if you’re a prude, ignore the “darker” side of the movement), furrydom doesn’t seem so “weird” or “creepy” after all. People dress up as zombies and gather in hordes because they like zombies. People volunteer at haunted houses because they like horror movies and scaring people. And no one says anything about them. And to all of the people out there who say things like, “I don’t want one of them hugging my child, knowing that they’re going to be having furry-sex”? Think about this: that broad who gave your kid a lollipop at the doctor’s office may have went home and banged her girlfriend later. Your kid’s third grade art teacher? She might have a closetful of whips and toys. Maybe your mailman goes to Revolutionary War Sex Parties. PEOPLE HAVE SEX. All kinds of it! Stop letting it affect you and go hug a fucking furry.

[These views & opinions do not reflect the furry community as a whole and should be regarded only as one individual’s experience as a furry. Thank you, Royce Tuxford Cobblepot, for your graciousness and time!]

One of the greatest things ever about the Internet is meeting new people, especially if those people aren’t psychopathic torture warriors greasing up the Iron Maiden for your visit.

Before I had this blog, I used this awesome blogging platform called LiveJournal and met some really incredible people, most of whom I have kept in touch with even after abandoning LJ in 2007 (I still miss it every day, though!). So on day 3 of our road trip, we had plans to meet two girls I have known for what seems like my entire adult life at this point, thanks to LJ.

After Indiana, we had plans to go to Michigan to hang out with Bill, Jessi and Tammy for the weekend. They were coming back from Tennesee that Friday night, so we had the whole day to make our pilgrimages to meet Michelle and Sarah, who thankfully all live within an hour’s drive from Bill and Jessi. And they were both available that day! All the stars were aligned, for once.

(Coincidentally, LJ is also how I know Bill! All hail, LJ. Some of my best friendships were forged from something that I had no idea what I was doing when I signed up.)

First up was Michelle in Royal Oak. I can’t even remember when she and I became friends, but it was definitely pre-Chooch, so probably around 2004/2005, would be my guess. I have wanted to meet her for quite some time and we even had plans to meet up last year at this Pee Wee’s Big Adventure festival that was supposed to happen in Louisville, KY, but then Pee Wee found out about the festival and pulled the whole cease and desist thing, so there went that.

Michelle and I both really like Pee Wee, obviously.

It was raining in Royal Oak when we pulled onto Michelle’s street. Henry passed her house and had to turn around but that was a good thing because it meant that I got to see her Little Free Library! Henry was like, “Oh she’s the one with the library thing?” TRY TO FOLLOW ALONG, HENRY.

Ugh.

Anyway, we finally parked in front of her house and Henry said hello to her mailman which cracked me up for unknown reasons. He just loves men in costumes, you guys.

Michelle opened the door and I immediately went into “dur dur dur now what??” mode because my social skills are missing a chromosome. My first impressions: her hair is awesome. She has purple walls! And some of my art is on them! OMG CUTE KIDS! OMG CUTE DOGS! Chooch pretended to be totally annoyed but then immediately ran off with her little girls, Delia and Kira, so Henry and I got to sit down and have grown-up conversations with someone which rarely happens!

It’s always surreal to meet someone in the flesh after they start out just being a user name (mshecubus!) but then advance to real pictures on Facebook and sending real life mail to each other. Michelle sent me my coveted blood-splattered coffee cup with the brass knuckle-shaped handle that made everyone at work shake their heads! I love that damn mug!

We passed a signed for 8 Mile on the way to Royal Oak, so of course I had to ask Michelle questions about Eminem. She wasn’t sure if he still lives in Michigan, but she said his daughter recently graduated from a high school close by and that he had to watch it from a TV somewhere inside the school so he wouldn’t get mobbed, which is kind of sad but then I remembered that I don’t like Eminem so what do I care.

Every once in awhile, Chooch would run back into the house to tattle on the girls, not one of his finer traits, and to cry about getting sand in his damn ankle wound. God, try to be a little more self-sufficient, kid.

As usual, we were behind schedule and had to leave after about an hour, plus we didn’t want to impose since it was such a poorly-planned meet-up because Henry sucks at mapping things out. Professional driver my ass.

The only good thing about leaving was watching Chooch writhe in horror and pain as Delia and Kira gang-hugged him, hahaha.

PROOF!

Then it was back in the car for more stupid driving, this time to meet Sarah. It took about 45 minutes to get to Flint and we were too stupid to find Sarah’s salon, so she took a picture of us standing on a street corner, looking lost, and texted it to me. And this is why we’re friends!

Sarah was one of my very first friends on LiveJournal, back when I didn’t believe in capitalization and the only punctuation I used were ellipses and groups of 18 exclamation points. We were pregnant at the same time (her daughter Alpha is two months older than Chooch) and she was one of the only people who knew the truth of my fucked up friendship with Christina; I still feel so grateful that she was there for me.

And now we were finally meeting! More surreal feelings.

Sarah had recently finished working at the salon for the day, but if I didn’t work at a Law Firm, I would have totally asked her to give me lavender hair. I dream of lavender hair. But instead she took us around the corner to the Flint Crepe Company, which was like walking into the 1920s.

A man in a suit said, “Hi Sarah!” and after greeting him, Sarah was like, “Oh that was the mayor of Flint.”

THE MAYOR KNOWS SARAH! She is so cool. (This made me really giddy too, for some reason. Mailmen and mayors just do it for me, I guess.)

OMG I got the Lemon Drop and it was just the right combination of lemon and drop. So good.

Who cares what Henry got, but he was actually kind of smiling!

Chooch got some chocolate strawberry special and ate it like we hadn’t been feeding him at all on this trip. Then he proceeded to lap his water out of the glass like a cat, because that was his new thing, as of that moment, pretending to be a cat who speaks like a toddler.

“Me a cat, meowmeowmeow,” he kept saying and I was kicking him under the table because it was creeping me out. I mean, it’s one thing if this was just his nervous tic, something that he does every now and then because he thinks he’s being cute, but aside from a casual and ironic “meow” here and there, he has never regressed like this before. I was kind of alarmed, like my kid was breaking.

I ended up chalking it up to the fact that he was acting stupid because he was crushing on Sarah.

After crepes, Sarah took us on a walking tour around Flint. Some of my friends were like, “Really? Flint?” because vacations are supposed to have beaches I guess, but it was really fun! I love exploring places and Flint had that gritty feel to it that I love.

Of course we had to ask Sarah about Eminem too. She told us this story about how she was at Warped Tour in 1998 (Chooch perked up at this part, because WARPED TOUR) and accidentally kicked a rock at the guy in front of her. He turned around and called her a fucking bitch and then later she heard all of this booing coming from one of the stages and the guy who called her a fucking bitch was on the stage and turned out to be Eminem, haha.

This is when Chooch was excited to trespass.

Sarah taught us about these berries, the most important fact being that we could eat them, so then Chooch and I had to stand there, pulling down branches and getting stains on ourselves. “I don’t even like these!” Chooch said, popping another into his mouth. Henry just sighed and kept walking.

I bet they sell Faygo in there!

Then Sarah took us to the river to see if there were any dead bodies and causally mentioned that there was a 1-in-45 chance that something violent would happen to us just by being in Flint. That was exciting!

I thought we saw a dead body for sure but Henry was like, “THAT IS A RUG AND BESIDES IT’S TOO SMALL FOR A BODY.”

Oh OK. Midgets or babies can’t be wrapped up and discarded in a rug? Appendages or severed heads? I forgot we live in a perfect world where midgets don’t get murdered and babies aren’t thrown away and not everyone eats their kill. That’s so 1990 Jeffrey Dahmer.

THIS POST JUST GOT TOO DARK. Or not dark enough, if you’re my kind of people.

We did see homeless people with a George Forman Grill, and that was the one thing that Henry  took away from him. When we met up later with Bill and Jessi, he couldn’t wait to tell them about that.

“A George Forman Grill! Where were they going to plug it in!?” he laughed. Oh, Henry.

Henry Crapo, HAHAHAHA!

Trying not to laugh at Henry Crapo.

Alleyway Photo Op.

Henry and Chooch had to stay outside while Sarah and I went inside Paul’s Pipe Hospital, which immediately made me think of my dad. I’m not sure if he still smokes pipes, but he did when I was growing up and I always loved that smell. One of my high school teachers owned a pipe shop in the mall called the Tinder Box and I used to love walking in there for the same reason.

Paul’s Pipe Hospital taught me that there are actual trophies to be won if you can continuously smoke the same pipe longer than anyone else in Pipe Competitions. Now I kind of want to acquire a taste for pipe tobacco so that I too can win a trophy. How popular would Chooch be at school once everyone finds out his mom is a competitive pipe smoking CHAMPION? And how long will it take before someone in his school realizes there are ways to make this into a euphemism for fellatio.

“OH YEAH, I HEARD SHE SMOKED YOUR DAD’S PIPE REAL COMPETIVELY.”

God, this is a fantastic idea. How do I get started? I want one of the pipes I saw there that come in a far-out array of 1970s afghan colors.

Look at what you’ve done to me, Sarah.

My outfit matched Sarah’s hair perfectly.

After about 2 hours, it was time to say goodbye and head back to Wayne so we could check into our hotel and grab a quick dinner before meeting up with Bill and Jessi.

Sarah and Michelle, thank you both so much for making  time for us and getting the awkward “first meet” out of the way. I already can’t wait to see you both again! Come to Pittsburgh!!

This is the first year that Chooch didn’t spend the entire time “wanting.”

“I want ice cream.”

“I want stuffed animals.”

“I want games.”

“I want the deed to Kennywood.”

Except, he did have a moment in line for Noah’s Ark where Henry was The Worst Dad He Ever Had because he wouldn’t buy Chooch lemonade at that exact moment.

THANK GOD he got his fucking lemonade afterward though and calmed down enough to take the 57th selfie of the day with me. Right after this photo, I ran into one of my old high school friends, Heather the Ken! I hadn’t seen her since 1998, so it was pretty awesome/awkward. “You ain’t kidding,” Henry drawled when I later said that it was kind of awkward. I suck at seeing people I know, but it was still cool.

Call it old age, but these last several years, I have felt SHEER TERROR every time I even just glance at the Phantom’s Revenge. And every year I make the conscious decision to not ride it. But then every year I somehow find myself in line, doing the pee jig. This year, it was just Henry, me, Chooch and Chris who rode it. Henry and I sat behind Chris and Chooch and I wasn’t aware that I was being loud enough for Chris to hear my panicked narration, but when we got off the ride, he said, “You are my new official soundtrack of the Phantom’s Revenge.”

It starts with the ascent up the inaugural hill, which is where I moan, “Oh, I forgot how much I hate this part…..oh god we’re going to die….WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG?!” and then after we reach that daunting daunting zenith, I am an emptying bag of battle cries. I also enjoy letting every one know each and every time I feel the slightest twinge of pain, like, “MY BACK JUST BROKE! I ALMOST LOST MY ARM!” And then I usually cap it off with a finale of Nancy Kerrigan-approved “WHYYYYYYYYYYYY”s.

And then the ride coasts back into the station and I’m all “Fuck yeah, Phantom!”

Afterward, the rest of my party turned into unfocused loiterers and I was getting so anxious! I even walked far away from where they were sitting at one point to see if they noticed that I was gone. I DON’T THINK THEY DID!!! I was in a BIG HURRY because I wanted to ride the Exterminator next and that’s basically the best ride in the whole park in case you don’t live here or just have bad taste in amusement park rides. I nearly pee my pants on it every year! (And sometimes you can scratch out the “nearly.” FULL DISCLOSURE UP IN HERE.)

While waiting for my group of Southern Meanderers, aka Careys, I stood and watched the Black Widow do its thing. When we were in line for Phantom’s Revenge, I caved and told Chooch I would ride it with him, but ONLY so that I would have leverage for the future because that’s my solid gold parenting style. Just watching it Jello-fied my legs, but a promise is a promise. However, I started imagining every last worst case scenario, so that really helped.

(NO IT DIDN’T HELP.)

Finally, everyone started walking toward the Exterminator and I was like, “YES YES YES!” and started to get in line, but then they all went and fussed with the lockers and in the meantime, approximately FIVE PEOPLE got in line in front of us.

THANKS A LOT, GROWN-UPS.

The line was kind of long and Henry kept trying to put me on blast by pointing out how whiny I was being when I really didn’t think I was being whiny just because I kept letting my body go limp against him and saying things like “WE HAVE BEEN STANDING IN LINE FOR-EVHAHAHAHA-ER.”

But whatever, the Exterminator is worth the wait. It’s basically like the Crazy Mouse but INSIDE A DARK BUILDING. It makes me choke on my own laughter every single time, like I have a disease.

Chris got in a car with Chooch and Katelyn, leaving me, Henry, Kari and Ricky to squish ourselves into the next one. Except that the car we picked was “sensitive,” whatever that means, and the bored Kennywood worker made us get into the next available car all the way at the end of the line. This meant that Chooch, Katelyn and Chris had returned to the station before our ride even started, since there were four cars in front of us.

“They’re going to think we perished when they see that we’re not behind them anymore,” I laughed. And we found out afterward that they sent our car through empty since it was malfunctioning, so when the kids saw an empty car return to the station, they got scared. HAHAHA.

Anyway, I managed to not pee my pants this time but fuck, I laughed so hard that my face hurt (I know, I know, it’s killing you guys too). It’s such a satisfying ride!

After that, I rode the Whip with Chooch and Katelyn, whose relief that we hadn’t actually perished on the Exterminator had worn off by then. It took us forever (read: 5 seconds) to get in line though because we couldn’t get around dumb Henry who was walking excruciatingly slow and totally Whip-blocking us. That motherfucker.

Every time our car would whip us around the bend, we would scream “WHIP SELFIE” because it’s imperative to be obnoxious at amusement parks. Also, because we had just taken a Whip selfie:

The next day, I noticed that my Facebook friend Kelly had checked into Kennywood on Sunday as well, and I commented to tell her that I wish I had seen her. She said that she saw me speed-walking by when she was getting on the Whip, so it must have been right around this time. It made me laugh so hard to know that someone witnessed me being an impatient maniac.

Right after this, Chris, Chooch and I convinced Katelyn to ride the Swing Shot and she basically hates us forever now. As soon as the ride started, I remembered how horrible it is and screamed, “MY TEARS ARE REAL!” at one point, which I’m sure did wonders to ease Katelyn’s nerves. Henry, Kari and Ricky were watching from a table and said that looked like an actual cartoon during the whole ride.

I mean, she didn’t cry, but she certainly was NOT happy.

Henry trying to escape.

Then it was time for ice cream!! This is my favorite part of the day, food-wise. Most people will tell you that Potato Patch fries are the creme de la creme of Kennywood cuisine, and I won’t argue there because those are the most perfect french fries in the entire world. But I rarely hear anyone mentioning how delightful the Golden Nugget square cones are! You guys can get soft serve anywhere. Gimme my square-edged chocolate-dipped delight.

Cone-dipping consternation.

Sprinkle carpet.

Henry and Chris were talking about how they used to think it was just a Klondike shoved into a cone until they saw the Golden Nugget workers actually cutting blocks of vanilla ice cream. It never occurred to me that it could have just been a Klondike, and Henry was like, “REALLY!? I THOUGHT IT WAS AN OBVIOUS ASSUMPTION SINCE KLONDIKE’S ARE FROM HERE!” in that belittling tone he loves to use on me, except I’m paraphrasing here because clearly “assumption” is too big of a word for him.

Fun Fact: Klondikes are apparently from Pittsburgh. I just learned this on Sunday because I’m seriously the worst Pittsburgher ever.

This was right before the hardcore amusement park riders ditched us for Kiddieland. They were gone for an hour! (Don’t worry: Chris went with them.) The rest of us hung back and found ourselves in a discussion about Mr. Big, Extreme, and Meatloaf which met Henry’s criteria of “Anyone but Jonny Craig.”

Ice Cream Brones.

Look! It’s a Henry in its natural, agitated state.

Gross, I know.

Chooch is finally tall enough to ride the Sky Rocket, which is Kennywood’s newest coaster. It’s nothing too spectacular, but it does go upside down. Henry, Chris and I had to beg Chooch to go on it. It wasn’t the upside down-ness that had him scared, it was the first hill, an inversion, that was freaking him out. (And he didn’t even know that it was one of those launching coasters.) At one point, he sat down and put his face in his hands, but then he turned around and started to twerk. Hey, do what you gotta do, right? Twerk it out son.

There was a guy in line with us who had an apple tattoo and I wanted to sow him mine so we could be apple ink bros but Henry stopped that from happening.

Spoiler alert: Chooch made it through his first Skyrocket ride alive. His reaction was, “That was it?” I just kept screaming, “IT TICKLES!” the whole time and Chooch was like, “Please stop embarrassing us.”

I asked Chooch for a quote expressing how he felt about riding the Bayern Curve with Katelyn and he said: “I’m a cat.”

So anyway, this was a hilarious moment for the rest of us because the Bayern Curve is one of those rides that pushes the front rider into the back rider so Chooch was like FML through the whole ride. It was incredibly rewarding to watch, as a parent who is verbally abused by her son on the daily. (His sass is off the charts these days.)

WHAT’S UP NOW, MOUTH?

Remember when I said that Chooch mostly made it through the day without tantrum? Well, that’s because he was waiting for the VERY END, when the park was closing, to project his exhaustion and hunger on the fact that Henry wouldn’t buy him Dippin’ Dots because Henry is a terrible person who doesn’t feed his children. He was outright CRYING about this and it was so annoying and disgusting, so I guess 8 is not the magic age where kids stop acting like spoiled assholes in amusement parks.

We left the park and Henry fed him a burger and miraculously, Chooch was fine.

“Ugh, he’s so much like you,” Henry muttered.

As always, it was wonderful spending a day with the Handa’s and Ricky being there was an added bonus even though he MADE FUN OF ME a lot and even when he was just saying regular things to me I think he was still making fun of me but sometimes I’m too dumb to realize.

I feel like I’m forgetting lots of things.

And now we get to do this all over again at a different park on Thursday, wooo!!!

P.S. We never made it on the Black Widow. Chooch and I were in line for approximately one minute before he said, “So….maybe I should just wait until I’m talk enough to ride ALL of the rides here*. And then I’ll ride the Black Widow.” Then he ducked under the railing and left me standing there alone.

*(There’s only one ride he can’t ride yet and it literally never running every time we’re there.)

SONOFABITCH. All that positive thinking I put myself through, for what.

MY BLOG IS BROKEN.

Or maybe just sprained. It’s been acting weird since yesterday and my nervous tic is blogging so I have been chewing on my fingers!

Ugh. I’m not even sure this will post.

I mean, it’s not like I have a ton that I need to say/type but…

compulsion. #blamehenry

Actually, I do have a ton I need to say/type because this is my Internet Diary, wah. I feel like if I had to, I could give up all social media (Facebook would be the easiest) but I think I would have a stroke after the first week of no blog.

Here is a picture of Chooch:

We still haven’t eaten dinner together since I switched to daylight because I keep forgetting we have no family values.

Tomorrow maybe my blog will work long enough for me to write about my brother’s birthday <3.

It was a relatively low-key Saturday night here at the Oh Honestly Household. Chooch had already gone up to bed (which means he went upstairs to watch YouTube videos on his phone for another 2 hours) and Henry and I were watching the Stanley Cup finals (GO KINGS!). Around 11:00PM, there was a hideous crash/boom/squeal right outside of our house.

Right away, we knew it was a car accident.

The street we live on is a pretty busy one and a lot of the houses here don’t have driveways (luckily, ours does). When I moved here back in 1999, one of the first things my then-neighbor said to me was, “Never park your car in front of the house.” Shit, was she ever right. I learned that this was especially sound advice to observe on weekends. There are a ton of drunks that drive on this street. I have seen so many accidents from my living room window, it’s insane. Recently, someone hit a parked car down the street from us so hard that they pushed it all the way into our front yard. I always tell my friends to park across the street in the church parking lot, because you just never know. I mean, we had the mirror ripped off of our car two days after we bought it because we stupidly left the car parked on the street for “just a second.”

Anyway, back to Saturday night. We heard that sickening crunch of car-against-car and Henry flew out the front door, forgetting that he was in his underwear, to see what had happened. Then other neighbors (i.e. The Hot Naybor Chris Family) began to emerge from their houses as well, so Henry ran back inside to put on his pants, but don’t worry, he was back out in time to take total control of the situation.

We quickly deduced that a car had been speeding down the street and plowed into a parked Lexus (sucks to be that car owner) next door and then tried to keep driving even though the entire wheel and tire of his car had broken. So he made it an additional two houses up the street before putting on his flashers and getting out of the car. He was drunkenly staggering around his car, running his hands through his hair, in total panic-mode.

Meanwhile, Tourette’s happened to be moseying along the sidewalk, coming back from wherever it is that people like him go to (poker night with Purple Pants in a pizza parlor basement?), and he totally paused to become a spectator! I was so excited, you have no idea!!! But oddly, of all the times where it would be appropriate for him to shake his fist and cry, “You motherfucker!” he blurted out no such obscenities and instead stood calmly at the end of our sidewalk, contributing to the community powwow.

Just then, the Perp began drunkenly pacing up and down the sidewalk and at one point, it looked like he was going to run before turning around, crouching on the sidewalk for a moment, and then getting back into his car.

“He’s going to run,” I observed, but one of the neighbor girls said, “He ain’t going nowhere with his wheel broken off!”

“No,” I argued. “He’s going to literally run. I can tell.”

So then Henry got to be a HERO and call the POLICE, who are basically his favorite people in the whole entire world second to those Air Force fellas and broads. And just as Henry was hanging up with the 911 dispatch person, the perp got out of his car and started to walk/run up the sidewalk, away from all of us. So Henry got to CALL THE POLICE AGAIN!

“Yeah, I just called,” he said, quickly reiterating the pertinent details. “Well, it’s a hit and run now,” Henry said excitedly, flashing his imaginary war medallions. “YES, HE’S ON FOOT AND FLEEING THE SCENE!” So then one of the neighbor girls decided she was going to follow him, barefoot, in spite of her mom’s protests. That was stupidly exciting, too.

It was at this point that I realized Henry and Tourette’s were hanging out with a bunch of pajama-clad, braless broads. I quickly crossed my arms over my chest.

“Where are the cops!?” Tourette’s cried. “I know for a fact that there are four of them down the street at the gas station parking lot right now, drinking coffee!” And then he made a series of unhappy grunts. Finally, a cop rolled up with the lights on and Henry practically shoved everyone out of the way to lean into the window and scream, “HE WENT THATTA WAY!” and then he completely gave an inaccurate description of the Perp. So the cop sped off in the direction of Henry’s finger and we all cheered because it was exciting, OK?

Soon, we were joined by my deceased cat Don’s grandma (her cat Teddy knocked Marcy up back in 2000 and that’s where Don and Willie came from) from four houses down. We compared horror stories of all the accidents we’ve collectively witnessed on this street, and then she decided to walk up to the Perp’s abandoned car and start rooting through it.

Logical.

“You drink and you drive and you drive and you drink and you drink and you drive,” Tourette’s began rambling to no one in particular.

I took this opportunity to fetch Chooch, who of course was still wide awake and watching lame videos in his room.

“I thought that noise was just Daddy breaking something in the kitchen as usual,” Chooch mumbled, hastily stepping into a pair of jeans so that he could join the growing throng of Nebby Debbies* outside in the lawn.

*(This is Pittsburghese for nosy motherfuckers.)

“Who owns that car?” our neighbor Ruth asked.

“It’s the guy visiting the blond lady who lives in that house down there,” Henry said with his chest sticking out. “He’s from Virginia.”

“How do you know?” I asked him, furrowing my eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” he stuttered. “I saw the guy pull up when I was cutting the grass. He’s Asian. And he has Virginia plates.”

“Cutting the grass,” you guys. I’M SO SURE. And not from the binoculars in the attic window.

“It could be a rental,” Neighbor Daughter said, recently returned from her citizen’s arrest mission. But Henry argued that it wasn’t a rental and told her all of the reasons he knows this, the number one reason being we’re basically Budget Rental’s best customers because our car is a piece of a shit. This was like the best night ever for Henry because he got to brag about knowing things that no one would typically give a shit about.

(And I still don’t.)

Just then, the cops came back and they had the Perp! I cheered with an overdose of faux-enthusiasm.

“He wasn’t going nowhere,” the main cop laughed. Even his laughter had a Yinzer-accent. “He’s piss ass drunk!”

Henry told the cop that he knocked on the car owner’s front door several times to no avail and then explained again that the car belongs to her visiting friend and we’re all like, “OK we get it, just put it in next month’s Brookline ‘zine, why don’t you.” Fuck, Henry. Maybe you should just move to Wisteria Lane.

“Maybe they’re busy,” the cop said with a sleazy wink and then laughed so hard, donut crumbs shot out of his mouth. And then he took Henry’s official statement! Talk about the best belated birthday gift of all time: Henry got to be a motherfucking witness to a hit and run. HOT DAMN.

Oh, you want to know what I was doing this whole time? Just the usual: getting in the way and giddily laughing alone the whole time. I even jumped and clapped a few times because sometimes living on this street rules. LOOK AT US ALL COMING TOGETHER IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE!

And then the tow truck arrived! OH WHAT A NIGHT! Henry loves talking to men of these sorts of vocations! While the cop went back to his vehicle to write up the report—-or Instagram his Styrofoam coffee cup, who knows—Henry and the tow truck driver got to stand around and make idle conversation about the damage done to the Lexus. I kept hearing Henry “hyuk hyuk hyuk’ing” so they must have been getting along pretty well. I just asked Henry what else they were talking about and he claims the tow truck driver was telling Henry about how busy of a night he had the night before. OK HENRY, SURE, WE BELIEVE YOU. You weren’t talking about car crash porn AT ALL.

The cop thanked us all and I over-zealously said you’re welcome! because standing around outside doing nothing other than not wearing a bra deserves appreciation, but no one could hear me over Henry’s bristling moustache and rippling ego; it was clear that no more excitement was going to evolve from this particular episode, so everyone started to wander off back to their homes and Tourette’s lumbered off into the horizon with whatever mysterious bag he had been clutching the whole time.

“Yinz have a good night!” the tow truck driver called out to us. I have never been called “yinz” so much in one night. God love Pittsburgh.

“True or false,” I demanded later when we were getting ready for bed. “This is the most excitement you’ve had since THE SERVICE.”

“It wasn’t that exciting,” Henry sighed.

Oh, but his weener told a different story.

This morning, we were on the way to Chooch’s piano lesson when he started cracking up from the backseat. I figured he was watching some lame YouTube video, which he is wont to do, but then, in the voice of a hick derelict, he blurted out, “These dead broads ain’t gon’ bury themselves!”

And that’s when I realized he was reading my blog.

OK, not technically my blog, but a photo book that I made a few years ago about one of our visits to the Westmoreland County Fair. A box full of some of the shit I brought home from work was in the backseat with Chooch, and he had pulled that book out of it and started reading it unbeknownst to me.

So this book is essentially my blog post from that fair, compiled with photos and additional commentary into a Shutterfly book. This was back when I was all gung-ho about turning all of my county fair posts into photo books (I made two and then gave up; I can’t sit still for that long). And now Chooch was reading it and honest to god laughing so hard, he was crying.

On one hand, I was like, “YES! THIS RULES! MY SON THINKS I’M FUNNY!” But on the other hand, I was like, “Oh fuck, did I put any fucked up things in that book?” OK, let me rephrase that: “WHAT KIND of fucked up things did I put in that book?” I mean, eventually, he is probably going to start reading my blog. It’s really weird and awkward to think about it, because I have quite literally accounted for his entire life thus far, right here on this blog and my old LiveJournal. I can only imagine how surreal that’s going to be for him, especially when he realizes that MOMMY HAD A LIFE BEFORE HIM.

But let’s face it: I’m kind of an asshole on here. I swear a lot. I use sex metaphors whenever possible. I write disparaging (THOUGH LOVING!

) sentiments about Henry. Maybe these are things that a kid shouldn’t read until adulthood?

Just putting my parenting cap on here for a sec.

However, it’s not like he currently has some glorified image of his mother. He knows mama ain’t no Donna Reed. We have real time banter with each other that’s not unlike the things I might write on here, it’s very uncensored and laid back here in our peasant shack,  so I don’t think he would be too shocked by very much. Obviously, this isn’t to say I’m going to coo, “Here, 8-year-old, let’s read aloud from Mommy’s disgusting blog before bedtime.” He’s got a few more years left before that becomes a reality.

But until that day, it’s nice to know he’s not only a fan, but he knows what “cacophony” means! Henry probably doesn’t.

This was his “I’m scared to know what you got me” face last night.

So today is Henry’s birthday and he’s FORTY-NINE, WHAT. I’m surprised he hasn’t already been playing the age card to get out of things like Warped Tour and amusement parks, but I will say that one of my gifts to him is that I’m going to see Circa Survive alone next month.

I figure that’s something he would want, a “Sit This One Out” coupon.

I mean, I’m not always heartless. Or a dick, which is why I put on my Sweetheart cap the other day and painted him something sentimental (ugh):

He didn’t cry, but he did do that weird mouth-twist thing that he does when he’s being overwhelmed by emotional sensations and is afraid of sacrificing whatever speck of masculinity he has left by expressing how his heart FEELS SO FULL OF LOVE RIGHT NOW. So instead, he hugged me and jokingly said, “I mean, it’s no blow job, but….”

We started dating when mixtapes were being phased out by mixed CDs, and he actually used to make me some of those before we lived together. They were filled with synthpop that he would download for me in an effort to show me how computer savvy he was. See? Even Henry once used music to win my heart.

Before we were dating and were just platonic co-workers, he made me a Cure screensaver, totally out of the blue, and that’s when I knew I had him by the weener.

I guess he liked it OK because he took it to work to put on his desk. (Or so he says.)

Happy birthday, Henry! I don’t care if you’re 70—you’re still going to Warped Tour.

For a brief moment on Friday, I freaked out and wondered if I made a mistake by accepting the new position at work because OMG change. I hate change. Henry can attest that change turns me into a crazy person. However, I do actually adapt to it pretty fast, so I know I will be fine.

And that is how I got to the point where I haven’t been able to stop smiling at work all week. I have been pretty unhappy here for awhile now and I’m excited to be moving over to a new group and learning new things instead of being under-utilized and left to rot in a fake office.

Also you guys? Guess where I’m moving? RIGHT IN FRONT OF GLENN, HAHAHAHA. Today he told me that he thinks this is a joke, like a social experiment or something and I’m like, “No, buddy. This is real life. WE’RE GOING TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN!” I want to wear a picture of my face on the back of my head so he has to look at it all day.

And on that note, here are some other things making me happy this week:

The new Emarosa single is finally available on iTunes and it is so goddamn good! Even Marcy is like, “Go download it now, motherfuckers.” Rise Records is still being all tight-lipped about the album release date, those assholes. I’m dying over here! Meanwhile, the Slaves album leaked, LOL. I don’t feel bad for them at all. /scene girl rant.

The weekend also made me happy! Chooch had a good piano lesson (I like his piano teacher so much, she’s the cutest) and then we did the roller rink party which was fantastic as well. Later that evening, I got to hang out at my friend Alex‘s house for the first official meeting with some local bloggers regarding a ‘zine we’re about to start churning out. I’m excited that I get to work with this awesome crew while stapling together paper and pretending it’s 1994. I sense some good times ahead. Even though “we have no idea what we’re doing.”

Thank you, Alex and Kelly, for providing us with cheese and pizza, and Katrina and Heidi for bringing the most amazing homemade chocolate brownie cupcakes and (not homemade) mango beer, respectively!

Chooch, in serious cupcake-eating mode the next morning. I think he is a fan of Katrina.

We spent Sunday morning at my cousin Danielle’s house while Henry donned his car mechanic hat, and then afterward we went to Frank & Shirley’s, which is awesome if you have a desire to eat somewhere that doesn’t take credit cards*. I always get a grilled cheese and it is good, because it’s Frank & Shirley’s, home to the cigarette machine that was my savior when I was an underaged smoker.

*(Barb, the resident Frank & Shirley’s expert, was quick to point out that F&S’s has been accepting credit cards for MONTHS now. SORRY BARB! God.)

Forced PDA.

I was obsessed with that old lady in the background. You can’t see it, but she was wearing a headband that matched her dress and I practically burped, “I WANT TO BE JUST LIKE HER WHEN I’M AN OLD LADY!” But let’s be real, I’ll probably be wearing rags and pushing a shopping cart full of cats. :(

Later that night, Blake and his girlfriend Shannon came over for an impromptu piano lesson and several non-riveting rounds of Pokemon. I knew Chooch have been moderately interested in Pokemon off and on over the years, but he is suddently like OMG PLZ SOMEONE PLAY THESE CARDS WITH ME! And I’m sorry, but no. Just no. I’m not falling into that trap. So his big brother obliged after Chooch facetimed and texted him all weekend.

At one point, Chooch decided that they needed some Pokemon music on in the background and that, along with an allergy-headache, was pretty much the only downside of the whole weekend.

Happy things. The end.

In 2009, I wrote a blog post that I had no idea would become the most-viewed thing I had written. It was called “Jonny Craig is a Piece of Shit.” Back then, I thought I was the only one who had shitty experiences with him in person. But it is consistently viewed to this day, do you know why? Because “why is Jonny Craig an asshole?” is a popular search term. Occasionally, someone will leave a comment on that post, too. Most of those comments are from ex-fans who want to share their own horror stories with me, but there are also the scathing ones from rabid supporters, telling me I’m pathetic, that he doesn’t owe me anything as a fan, and that I’m clearly butt-hurt.

Look. I’ve only been butt-hurt once in my entire life, and that was when I lost my footing on a pile of pumpkins at Trax Farm and wound up sitting on a stem. True fucking story for all of you pumpkin porn fanatics out there.

Anyway, the catalyst of that post was meeting him for the second time during the Dance Gavin Dance/Emarosa Squash the Beef tour. He was standing behind me at the bar in Mr. Small’s and literally all I wanted to do was tell him how much I enjoyed Emarosa and what an impact their music had on me emotionally, how it stimulated my creativity (back then, I had based some of my paintings off their lyrics), and how interwoven it had become with my life. I wasn’t trying to sit on his lap (let’s face it, I’m too fat, much ugly for him anyway) or make him sign shit. I wasn’t trying to pull him away from his alcohol for a photo session. I just wanted to say nice things to him for < 30 seconds, God forbid. It took every ounce of courage I could muster just to even say hello to him, after years of allowing his voice to be the personification of my dysfunctional friendship with my ex-BFF Christina.

But he just stood there and stared at me, making it clear that I was boring the shit out of him, so I mumbled, “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh” and walked away with my head down. It was humiliating and I know that he was making fun of me as soon as I walked away.

Because that’s what douchebags do.

When you put so much stock in a person like that, raising them up on some shaky pedestal, creating images of them in your mind, and then the reality of their personality shatters everything you had built up, it’s devastating. Maybe that sounds pathetic, but music has always been how I have coped with things. It enhances all of the good times and softens the bad. So now when the singer of a band that had made me feel so good has single-handedly made me feel AWFUL, well, it was a little emotionally traumatic.

It’s amazing how we deify these underserving people in the name of fandom.

He sounded like shit that night too. Drunk, stumbling, forgetting lyrics. It was my friend Alisha’s first time seeing Emarosa and her succinct review was: “They’re terrible!”

No, Jonny Craig is terrible.

I vowed to be done with him after that, and I was doing well until Emarosa released their next album in 2010 and I couldn’t resist. I still hated him. But I felt if I could separate my personal feelings for him from the music, I would be fine. Besides, wasn’t that what all of my detractors were telling me to do in certain harsh terms on my blog?

The problem is that as soon as I hear his dumb voice, I melt. It has nothing to do with him. I forget what a douchebag he is and all I can remember is how good it feels to be that into music. And it somehow kept me psychically connected to Christina, even when we were no longer speaking. It always goes back to that anyway.

Meanwhile, Henry was totally annoyed. He doesn’t get the whole “OMG JONNY CRAIG SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL!” argument, and it drove him nuts how I would turn into a 30-year-old fan girl at the mere mention of his stupid name. You know how I have pretty much based this entire blog on hassling Henry, right? I mean, unless this is your first time reading it. So if he hates Jonny Craig, then I am going to FUCKING BE OBSESSED with Jonny Craig.

My obsession can be broken down like this:

5% immaturity // 10% mental illness // 10% sincere love of his voice // 75% desire to drive Henry into an early grave.

(I triple-checked to make sure that added up, btw.)

And let’s face it: I thrive on being obnoxious.

I ran with it. Jonny Craig became my shtick. I made a Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper. I had my friend Maya make me a Jonny Craig doll. I hung up pictures of him around my office at work (if you go to the Law Firm and start questioning people on my floor who Jonny Craig is and they don’t know, then obviously I must never talk to that person, ever). This whole time, it was helping me cope with issues that Christina had left me with. I know, some people would just get therapy. But I’ll just sit over here and hug my Jonny Craig doll. Because projection is normal. Right?

The MacBook scam happened. The detox. The rehab. I was prepared for this to be the end of the Jonny Craig story, but then he started dating a girl who seemed to really change him, or at least, she was trying. And the crazy part was that she didn’t seem like a basic groupie. She seemed pretty intelligent, which one might argue about since she got involved with JC in the first place, but love is blind, you guys. I’m with Henry, aren’t I? Of course, I had to keep up my Crazy Jonny Craig Fangirl Persona and act like a nutcase when they got engaged (I think I might have even referred to her as Jonny’s penis-cozy in one of my faux-fits, what the fuck is wrong with me), but really–I hoped that she would save him.

Because as much of a loose cannon as he is, he really is a bright spot in a scene overflowing with generic, formulaic background noise.

All of these things I was willing to overlook because the music meant that much to me. I was so excited when Henry reluctantly agreed to drive five hours to Allentown last weekend so that I could see Jonny’s new band, Slaves. But then when I was going through his twitter feed to get screen shots of the nasty things he was saying about Emarosa (I wanted to have those as visual aids for my Emarosa blog post; can you stand how thorough I am?), I ended up seeing some terrible things.

Really awful things.

Jonny and his fiancée are currently going through a messy breakup, and he had a tweet that said if he saw her being raped, he wouldn’t stop to help.

He had another tweet saying that he never beat her when they were together but now he wishes he had. He deleted the original tweet but his retweet of this smart girl’s response still existed on Twitter:

This asshole seriously needs to have someone monitoring his social media accounts. Like, I don’t know, maybe his MOTHER?

“Really fucking nice guy, Erin,” Henry spat when I showed him.

(Even worse is that these asinine girls were tweeting things like, “Jonny Craig could have his hands around my neck and I would still love him.” Which of course he was retweeting because these are the things that make King Shit’s ego swell. Keep encouraging him, girls. Make your mamas proud.)

At this point, it was too late. We had already bought the tickets. Rented the car. Booked the hotel room. Whether we went to this show in Allentown or not, I had already inadvertently supported a misogynistic douchepig and it made me sick to my stomach. So sick that I had a mild panic attack standing outside of the venue that night and we almost didn’t go in. Henry had to take me back to the car so I could calm down.

Look, I don’t know his ex-fiancée, but as a woman, I can’t stand for shit like that and I will automatically have her back. This is the reason men run the fucking world, because they say shit like this and no one does anything. They’ll have tons of men cheering them on in between disgusting chugs of beer, wiping Hooters wing sauce off their lips with their unwashed football jerseys of rapist athletes.

There could be actual video footage of Jonny Craig beating a woman, and he will still have fans. I mean, Chris Brown still gets played on the radio, doesn’t he?

“I just feel like if I see him, I’m going to fucking punch him!” I kept saying over and over. I was so disgusted. I kind of wished that I had worn my Emarosa t-shirt, like I had joked about last week. I brought it with me and at the last minute, Henry agreed it was a bad idea because it wouldn’t be Jonny who noticed, it would be his legion of scantily-clad side broad hopefuls and I wasn’t trying to get clawed at by their nasty acrylics. Talk about a petri dish of I Don’t Wanna Know.

We went inside. I scowled at all of the meatheads in their Jonny Craig is My Homeboy shirts. I cringed at all the girls wearing barely nothing, knowing exactly why they left 89% of their clothes at home. I suddenly felt so protective of all these little girls.

Slaves took the stage and as expected, the crowd went nuts for Jonny. But for the first time ever, I felt nothing. I just stood there with my arms crossed, refusing to clap, refusing to do a single thing Jonny demanded. And then he dedicated the last song to his ex, Amanda. “Til death do us part, bitch!” he spat and everyone was like “Yay!” because that’s cool, right?

I looked at Henry and my eyes started to well up. I felt like such a traitor to women everywhere just by being there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to Henry afterward. “I can’t keep supporting this asshole.” And I think that was the happiest I have ever seen Henry in the thirteen years we’ve been together.

Meanwhile, King Shit was standing a few feet away from us, going through the motions of showing his fans what a “changed person” he is by posing for pictures with them. Two moms (like, I know I’m a mom, but these were MOMS wearing mom jeans with their mom purses slung across their mom boobs) ran over to him, took his picture, and then ran back giggling to show their respective daughters, who didn’t look more than 15-years-old. The daughters predictably squealed and were dragged back over to him by their moms.

“I guess these old broads don’t know he loves demoralizing under-aged scene girls,” I yelled to Henry. Oh, it was sickening to watch. And then afterward, I saw someone’s picture with him on Instagram and the caption said something about how Jonny was rushing everyone along because there was “quite a horde” of fans waiting. I didn’t know “roughly fifteen people” constituted a “horde,” but OK.

I’m not going to lie: I’ve always looked at fans of Ronnie Radke and wondered, “How could these kids love a guy who is such an asshole?” And duh, hello. Look at me. Blindly supporting a dreg of society since 2008.

More than anything, I feel like I owe it to my 8-year-old son to wash my hands of this guy. What kind of an example would I be setting for him if not? He already knows the guy is a drug addict (but the piss test! it was clean! blah blah!) and just a flat out mean person, but I definitely don’t want him to think that it’s OK to make those kinds of violent comments about women, publicly no less, and still have girls falling over you. “Hey, this guy acts like a douchebag and my mom loves him, so…..”

So maybe, if you’re a Jonny Craig avenger reading this, some girl with low self-esteem anxiously awaiting your chance with him, some bro who thinks it’s cool to treat people like dirt, then you might think this is a lame reason to throw in the towel. And that’s fine. Because one person writing a blog post like this is not in any way going to hurt his career, don’t worry JC afficionados. But I have too much respect for myself and at the end of the day, it’s all about girl power. I won’t stand for comments glorifying domestic violence, whether they were empty threats or not—-doesn’t matter. This guy clearly needs help, and I wish his new bandmembers luck with all of the future statements they’re going to need to release, swearing that their singer “has changed” and “is clean.” Seriously, good luck with that, and I hope he doesn’t destroy your careers.

I think I’m going to tell my kid, when in doubt, to ask himself “What would Jonny Craig do?” And then do the opposite.

Last week was a whirlwind. Never got a chance to go bullet-crazy up on here, so I JUST made Chooch give me the computer so I can do some kind of half-assed life summary thing. I’m sure Chooch has some sort of secret timer on the computer so if this post just ends abruptly, it’s probably because I’ve been electrocuted.

• In the last two weeks, I’ve been told “You’re my favorite mommy blogger!” and “I like you because you’re not a mommy blogger.” I don’t necessarily think of myself as a mommy blogger, but I guess I don’t care how you have me pigeon-holed, as long as you’re reading this. I will sit in a hole with your pigeons! Just read this fucking shit!
• The look on Henry’s face when I wrapped up a 60-minute workout with a 25-minute one was priceless. Fitness disgusts him.
• Racism came up a lot last week:
  • When Bill, Jessi and Tammy first got here last Friday, I was telling them about Marcy’s tumor and how we have to constantly spray it with this wound stuff from the vet. “Sometimes it starts to stink really bad, like the Oriental Market,” I explained. Realizing how terrible that sounded, I quickly tacked on, “That’s actually the name of the Asian market we go to all the time, I swear I’m not being racist!” Everyone was like, “Suuuuuuure” and then we all laughed uncomfortably.
  • Later that weekend, Chooch hilariously mispronounced some word that I forget now, and I said, “You guys should have heard how he pronounced Nigeria a little while ago.” Everyone laughed, and Bill joked, “Oh my god, what kind of racist household is this!?”
  • Some PSA commercial came on last Sunday night, wherein a little white girl gets invited to play with some black girls on the playground, but her mom stops her and nervously says, “Um…why don’t you go play over there instead?” and points to a group of white kids. I was like, “OMG WHAT A DUMB BITCH!” and Chooch said, in this totally patronizing tone that makes me want to punch him in the head (CYS, I’m joking!), “It’s called segregation, sweetie.” Ugh, that kid!!!
• The Pens shit the bed. Nothing to see here, you guys. Next news story, please.

• Henry has been playing with some annoying remote control helicopter that makes Marcy hate her life.
• I made a Spotify playlist yesterday for all of my mixed CD staples,. You know, the songs that you could hear every day for the rest of your life and not be mad about it? Anyway, if you want some new shit to listen to, go check it out! It has everything from El Debarge to the Refused.
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•  Ugh, VIP day at Chooch’s school, you guys. It was terrible. Basically, it’s where the kid gets to bring someone special to school with them. Henry went last year for some reason, and this year was my turn no matter how many excuses I threw out. I had to choose between three activities to do with Chooch that morning: gardening (fuck you, no), painting a bird house, or shadowing Chooch’s class. The latter is what I really wanted to do, but Chooch wanted to paint a stupid bird house, so that’s what I selected, because I guess being a VIP doesn’t mean getting to choose your own shit. Henry swore that it was just going to be the parents in Chooch’s grade, but as soon as I got there Friday morning, I quickly learned it was the WHOLE SCHOOL, K-8. FML.
  • Chooch ditched me as soon we walked into the school, so I had to stand in line ALONE. But then my neighbor was standing next to me and told me that we were allowed to take our kids with us to the cafeteria (where donuts and coffee were to be had) as long as our kids were eating breakfast. The school provides free breakfast every  morning but Chooch declines this 99% of the time, so after I signed myself in, I tried to summon him to come with me but that little bastard pointedly ignored me because he was being a big shot and sitting outside of his classroom with all his homies. So I had to walk over there and force him to come with me, despite his cries, “BUT I DON’T WANT BREAKFAST.” Too bad, fucker. You got me into this mess, you’re going to suffer with me.
  • The cafeteria: PARENTAL ARMEGEDDON. Motherfuck. It was so unorganized and crowded with kids who were eating breakfast and parents who were not selecting their donuts quick enough so the line was getting longer and slower. Chooch managed to grab his free breakfast  before me, and made finding a table seem effortless. “SAVE ME A SEAT!” I cried to him, and he was like, “Jesus Christ, I will, calm the fuck down.
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    ” I’m assuming that’s what was implied with his shitty eye roll, anyway.

  • A MILLION INTERACTIONS WITH MR. FINGERS. Humiliating and exhilarating, all at once.
  • Tons of donuts to choose from, and I took one with pink glaze even though my brain was like, “DO NOT TAKE THAT ONE.” Naturally, I didn’t like it very much, but my nerves prevented me from taking more than one bite anyway, so even I picked the perfect donut, that thing was still going to see limited mouth-time.
  • Got to sit next to Chooch for all of 5 minutes before he had to go back to class (the students had to be in their classrooms for morning announcements and things), leaving me to sit alone in a too-small, low-to-the-ground stool attached to a child-sized cafeteria table. I had to fill out some stupid survey for a raffle ticket with parents on both sides of me, trying to keep my elbows pinned to my sides while forgetting over and over again that the stirrer in my coffee cup WAS NOT A STRAW.
    • Hate when that happens.
  • Suffered through a few songs by the school band. Jesus, did I sound that bad back then? Of course I did.
  • All the parents who were gardening were escorted out a side door, but that only opened up a few seats because who the fuck chooses to garden? That just sounds awful. I was getting anxious for the principal to dismiss the shadowers next, so the cafeteria would be even more cleared out, but instead he was like, “All the bird house painters, start making your way up to the front here and find a table with paint.” Just as I was feeling relieved that I had a table, I realized I wasn’t at one of the ones set up for the activity.
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     Motherfucker.  Thought I found table on the stage, but no: Candy Cane and her fashion cane had claimed the entire table, and her stupid chainsmoking side kick was taking up the one next to hers, so then I was stuck on the stage with nowhere to sit because no one would fucking move so I could get back to the steps and I was honest to god considering walking backstage and finding a fire escape. I just can’t with people.  But just then, all the kids were coming back into the cafeteria with their blank bird houses and I could see Chooch waving to be excitedly from the back and I just sighed and pushed my way back down to the floor. You guys: People. SOS. Uncle.

    • Here is the comical scene where I kept telling Chooch to stay were he was, but we still ended up passing each other like ships in the night, constantly finding ourselves on opposite ends of the cafeteria. Finally I screamed, “STAY THERE OMG!!!” and was able to elbow my way through the sea of confused, displaced parents and children until I was close enough to grab him by the shirt and pull him to me. BEING.A.PARENT.BLOWS.SOMETIMES.
    • And then we couldn’t find a table. “Hi, is anyone sitting here?” over and over while parents purposely averted their eyes. It was like being in school again, for real.
    • Finally found the best table ever: WITH ALL DADS. DADS ARE NICER THAN MOMS. Particularly the one who was sitting across from me. He got us better paint and looked at me and smiled every time he made jokes and I would just giggle sweetly BECAUSE HE WAS KIND OF MY TYPE, OK? Not particularly bright-seeming and very blue-collared. Plus: NECK TATTOO. Later, I was telling Henry about him (because Henry is my BFF and I tell him about all my crushes, SO BUTT OUT) and I said, “I hope he thought I was Chooch’s sister. Like, I was considering calling Chooch ‘Baby Brother’ at one point.” Chooch actually SCOFFED and said, “There is no way anyone would think you were my sister.” STFU, boy.
    • Eventually, my 90 minute prison sentence was up and I got to take that fucking bird house home with me. Oh, and also Chooch. He got to come home too.

•  Yesterday, Corey and I revisited Gaby et Jules and made the excruciating difficult task of deciding what to order (we’re not made of money, y’all) and then took our foo-foo French  treats to the Homewood Cemetery, where we strolled leisurely while inhaling macarons. It was kind of The Life, to be honest. The macarons I picked* were poppy, lavender (because lavender), and the flavor of the month which was strawberry peppercorn. STRAWBERY PEPPERCORN IS AMAZING, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW. Because I didn’t know until yesterday. But now it’s strawberry peppercorn everything. First up: toothpaste.
  • *Picked. Like they grow on trees. I WISH THEY GREW ON TREES.
    • Not in noses, though.

•  That Slaves (Jonny Craig’s new band) show I desperately want to go to is officially one week away and Henry still hasn’t committed one way or the other. Last week, I was so desperate, that I posted his phone number on Facebook and asked everyone to simply text the word “Allentown.” His response was, “Nice to see you got your little friends to do your bidding.” And then as more texts came in later in the day: “Your posse doesn’t scare me.” I’m pretty much on my knees at this point.
  • Literally.
  • I WILL DO ANYTHING, UGHHHHHH.
• Got to paint a custom name thingie for my friend Carey last week. I love painting these so much! COME GET ONE!

• TOMORROW: CLEVELAND FOR CHIODOS AND EMAROSA! MY HEART IS EXPLODING!!!!

Chooch’s LOLCat Party Attendees:

• Bill, Jessi and Tammy (all the way from Michigan for the meowtivities!)
• Corey
• Chris and Monica
• John, Jenn, Abby and Gavin
• Kara, Harland and Theo
• Christy, Claire, Anthony and Julia
• Kristy and Sarah
• Danielle, Cory and Ean
• Lisa and Gigi
• My dad
• My sister Amy, Dick and Brooke
• Kari and Katelyn
• Patty, Tim, Tim’s mom Sue and sister Kaylie
• Angie and Rachel
• Wendy
• Judy
• Red Sticky Hand
• Missy, Jim, Jemma and James
• Janna
• Owen
• Liam
• Lucy
• Sharyn
• Sophia and Olivia

I’m going to try and keep this short and sweet since there are so many pictures, but Chooch’s 8th birthday party went off without a hitch! Well, mostly. It rained the entire time. And I don’t just mean a light drizzle. It poured, and there was the occasional clap of thunder too, which was fantastic. So, OK, I guess that counts as a hitch, whatever a hitch even is. But the kids gave no shits about the spring downpour and ran around like maniacs, getting all disgusting and muddy. Their moms didn’t seem to care, so I decided that I shouldn’t care either. Which is hard for me, relinquishing care.

Decorating was super easy this year because I have finally surrendered to streamers. We just don’t get along, and it’s OK. No one cares about streamers anyway. I would like to add though that Henry had absolutely no hand in decorating because he so conveniently took an entire hour to pick up the cake and grab “odds and ends” at the dollar store. I interpreted this to mean that he parked his Faygo van in an alley somewhere and listened to the Frozen soundtrack.

Thank the lord I had Jessi, Tammy and Bill here to help. They are heaven sent! (Or “Michigan sent.” Whichever.) I can’t believe I just used such a cheesy description, but I am just THAT thankful for their extra helping hands, I guess. Get off my back.

Bill blew up balloons, which Tammy and Jessi hung with great care and precision. They don’t fuck around with balloon-placement.

Tammy and Jessi helped me decorate cat cookies the night before the party. It was actually a lot of fun (there was wine involved)! The cookies didn’t last long though—they were a big hit with the kids and approximately zero were left over! Pretty damn happy about that. Even though Pillsbury actually made them.

Originally, I wanted to make Grumpy Cat donuts using bakery donuts and then decorating them the rest of the way on my own, but it ended up being so humid on Friday night that it was a failed effort from the start. All the icing was dripping down the sides plus Henry bought the wrong kinds of donuts and if we hadn’t had company in the house, I probably would have used one as a boxing glove and sucker punched Henry in the mouth.

So, that’s what’s up with the Grumpy Cat sign up there.

These were my idea! PB&J cat heads in the house! Henry made them though because what do I know about Rice Krispie treats? Not a damn thing. It was so hard not to put them all in my mouth though when I was helping Henry press them into cat heads Saturday morning, because they smelled so goddamn good!!

I just wanted a reason to have a Marcy lookalike saying “Balls!” The kids ate the shit out of this jug like they’ve never seen a damn cheese ball before, and it was nuts. At first, they were using a serving spoon to fill cups with cheesy crack balls, but after awhile, it became a snack-fisting free-for-all. There was a little bit left in the jug by the end of the party, but I made the executive decision to pitch it, because—gross.

Every year, I get all nervous about the kids from Chooch’s school because I suck at talking to parents. But Bill reassured me that I was doing a great job after I talked to Owen’s mom in a (what felt like) effortless fashion because thankfully Chooch had gotten stung by a bee the day before on his way home from school, so I had something to talk about. “Thankfully.” You know what I mean!

Anyway, three cheers for being relatable for once.

And just as people started to arrive, Henry decided that it was time to start grilling, which he impressively dragged out into a three-hour task. HOW CONVENIENT.

I know, Gigi. That’s how I feel when I look at Henry, too

Here is where I was too tired to use the real camera anymore and relied entirely on my phone.

Thank god we had the foresight to buy these stupid cat things and provide crayons and markers because this kept the smaller kids happy and the bigger kids occupied when the rain started to fall too hard.

Meanwhile, Henry was grilling.

I think the children responded well to my sarcasm all afternoon.

My old office-neighbor, Angie. I MISS HER!! :( Also, she just ran the Pittsburgh Marathon, you guys. THE WHOLE THING.  She’s a beast.

Where was Henry? Oh, yeah: grilling.

FAMILY! I was so excited to have so much of it there. Here’s Henry’s mom and my cousin Cory. Not shown: Cory’s mom Danielle and brother Ean, my brother Corey, my dad (yay!), my sister Amy and her family. I was bummed that Henry’s sister and her kids couldn’t make it. It was really weird not having them there! But even still, this might have been the most family I’ve had under one roof in more than a decade, I’m not even joking right now. I know Chooch was too busy splashing around in the rain with his posse to care, but someday when he’s older he’ll get to look back on this and see that there are lots of people who love him. And for me, it showed that there is still hope for my side of the family. Maybe we all didn’t get to grow up together, but we’re together now and that’s pretty fucking cool. SORRY TO GET ALL SERIOUS AND HALLMARK CHANNEL. I’ll add more swears to my next blog post.

Chris and Monica sat at the kids table and loved it.

No sign of Henry! Must be grilling! I didn’t realize we even bought that much to grill so if your burger tasted weird, perhaps it was one of the guests who mysteriously didn’t show up.

Or just a squirrel.

Squirrel, why do you have to be so challenging to spell? I want to type “squireel” every single time.

OMG the cake. The goddamn cake. Those kids WOULD NOT STOP TOUCHING IT. And then someone  closed the lid because they were tired of the cake collecting fingerprints and no one told that person that the box wasn’t supposed to be closed because the cake would get smashed. OK THAT PERSON WAS ME, GOD! Sorry for ruining the cake! (Also, this is the first time I’m admitting it so now I’m starting the countdown to when Henry finds out.) SORRY SORRY SORRY!!

Anyway, when we decided on the cat theme, I knew right away that we had to get the cheeseburger cake from Bethel Bakery. It’s pretty legendary, but I never had a use for it before. Especially because I’m a vegetarian. (Although I guess we could pretend it was supposed to be a Boca Burger?) My plan was to order the burger cake and then print out the I Can Has Cheezburger cat to stick into the top of the cake, and it seemed to be a pretty big hit, so thank you Bethel Bakery and your novelty cake offerings.

“I always wanted the cheeseburger cake for my birthday!” my brother Corey sighed.

“Aw,” I deadpanned. “I guess your parents didn’t love you enough.”

And then we laughed because it’s true!

So then we all sang Happy Birthday and I had to fight my way to the front like I was at a Jonny Craig show, wtf he’s my kid, MOVE OUT THE WAY! MOM WITH A CAMERA COMING THROUGH! Kids get so clingy and possessive at birthday parties!

Henry was there long enough to light the candles and then disappeared. So everyone was standing there, about to riot because they wanted cake and they wanted it now, but no one was there to cut it! I started to panic and made eye contact with Sharyn’s grandma, who started cracking up.

“Where did he go?!” I cried, and she pointed over to the grill. (AGAIN WITH THE GRILL!) He does this shit to me every year, I fucking swear to god. So I had to do the bottom lip-jut and ask my cousin Danielle to take the cake by the reins, and she did just that! Thank god for Danielle! My mom was such an astute cake cutter, but she never thought to pass those skills on to her dumb daughter, I guess. One time, I had a birthday party for Lisa and was so frustrated when it came to cutting the cake, that I threw down the knife and started plating fistfuls.

Meanwhile, Corey somehow fell into the role of a babysitter while Christy went to pull her car down closer to the pavilion and he was panicking about it because he’s about as fluent in childcare as I am. Then when she came back, one of her kids was sitting at an entirely different table and had a piece of cake. I think Corey should start a nanny service as a real estate side gig!

Kristy’s wrap-job was one of my favorite parts of the day! AND SHE BROUGHT ME A PACK OF PEE WEE’S PLAYHOUSE CARDS. Later the weekend, Henry saw them sitting on the table and asked, “Who got Chooch the Pee Wee—–”

“THOSE ARE MINE!” I snapped before he could finish.

Here’s Bill making sure no sticky red hands try to take off with Chooch’s presents. He had a lot of fun interactions with the under-10 set that day and I think he should dust off the ol’ LiveJournal to tell us all about it.  Meanwhile,  the gift opening segment of the day was basically the only time Henry stepped in so I could actually talk to my friends for a hot minute. Apparently, Lucy and one of the twins had Chooch flanked and were assisting him, because deciding which present to open next is apparently rocket science.

I wasn’t there when this happened, but Henry supposedly made some comment about how nice it must be to have TWO girlfriends to help when he can’t even get ONE girlfriend to help and then Monica said something that he didn’t hear and I’m willing to bet it was hilarious so Monica, if you’re reading this and you remember this part of Rain Fest 2014, please tell me!

Corey was so excited to tell me that Lisa’s baby threw up on Janna.

“See that wet spot on Janna’s leg? THAT’S WHERE THE PUKE WAS!” and then we just started laughing uncontrollably. I was so excited about it that I high-fived him. This was the highlight of the day for me and I didn’t even get to see it!

One of the girls started crying near the end of the party (not because of me! She was scared because her grandma left) and I honestly was so awkward and uncomfortable about it. Only I’m allowed to cry at parties, you guys, come on now. Unfortunately, “go go, maternal instincts!” is not something that actually works for icy broads like me.

I should have just told her to go sit with Corey.

We only had one game planned, because there’s a playground next to the pavilion and anytime we’ve had parties in the park, the kids seem fine with free-form play. Plus, I don’t know how to do the whole “structure” thing. Can you imagine me being all, “Children! Children, come now! Time for ring around the rosy!” No, you can’t. But then we decided that in lieu of a litter box cake, which is overdone and just disgusting anyway, that we should have a game involving a litter box. So we filled this pan thingie up with sand (Henry bought the wrong kind and it was damp and sooooo gross to touch, which I guess is a good thing in this case) and then numbered a bunch of Tootsie Roll poop.

I spent ALL WEEK painstakingly wrapping dollar prizes with corresponding numbers written inside of cat heads. Just like the rubber duck game that pretty much all carnivals do. PRIZE EVERY TIME. Just not good prizes. But one of the prizes was more annoying than the other prizes.

I almost forgot about the game, so some of the kids had already left by this point (again: structure what now?), but I hurried up and made the rest of them sift around for poop, and then of course they all fought over the prizes they won and some of them kept begging to go again and asking if they could trade. Finally, I was like, “DO WHAT YOU WANT I DON’T CARE OMG” because kids, amirite? I can actually still hear them hounding me. AND WHERE WAS HENRY? Where indeed.

I don’t think Wendy kept her stupid prize. How insulting!

Everyone started heading out around 5. Lisa asked me to throw away a napkin that she had wrapped in plastic. “Be careful, Gigi’s puke is on that,” she warned. As I was walking toward the garbage can, I saw Janna sitting at a picnic table with Henry’s mom and I COULD NOT RESIST, HAD TO DO IT, NEEDED TO OR I MIGHT HAVE DIED.

“Hey Janna,” I said sweetly. “WANT SOME MORE OF THIS!?” and then I pretended to shove the pukey wad of napkin in her face, but it FELL OUT OF THE THING LISA HAD WRAPPED IT IN AND LANDED ON JANNA’S CHEST!

Holy shit, new highlight of the day!

This is what Chooch looked like by the end of the party. So damn disgusting. Aside from Bill throwing one of the guests out, it was a pretty drama-free party! Can I retire now?

It’s crunch time. Totally stressed out trying to get everything done (piñata’s not gonna make it, guys). Decided that stuffing treat bags is its own ring of parental hell and Henry and I have already had 87 fights while Chooch does NOTHING to help! Oh my god, we get it—a bee stung you on your stomach today. God, cry about it some more, why don’t you?

OH AND IT’S SUPPOSED TO STORM TOMORROW, THANKS “GOD.”

Anyway, I’m so agitated that I had to put on the Never Shout Never YouTube channel to chill me the fuck out. How can you be mad when your house is full of twee-ness?

We still have a million cookies to decorate and donuts to turn into Grumpy Cats, FUCKMYLIFEEEEEEEEE.

If Henry and I ever break up, I’m putting some sort of birthday party clause in the custody agreement. It’s all yours, dear HenHen!

And now you know what’s going on. Go Pens.

Special? Not really. But I thought it would be fun to do a Dance Gavin Dance show edition of the bullet point posts which have somehow turned into a weekly thing. My apologies, Internet colleagues. But yes, it really does make more sense to write about the show in bullet points because my mind and emotions were all over the map Wednesday night. But I woke up the next day feeling more refreshed than I would have after a day at the spa, sorry I’m not sorry but I actually am sorry that I typed out “sorry I’m not sorry.” OK, onward, fat girl. (Points if you know that.)

Henry being unhappy standing in line to get in.

• This show was May 7th at Mr. Small’s, which is my favorite venue in Pittsburgh and I haven’t seen DGD play there since 2009 when Kurt Travis was their singer (I’ve seen them numerous times since then, but just in different places), so I was really excited. Henry? Not so much. See above picture again if you need a visual.

• I remembered my ID this time so once we got inside, we went right for the 21+ area. The bartender informed us that the balcony was open for the night and Henry was like YES and I was like NO. Old people sit in the balcony. :(
• Henry whined a lot about being up since 3AM while I giggled and smiled at all of my DGD brethren.

Frowns for DGD.

• I was trying to remind Henry of the time we saw DGD last year because these shows all blend together for him. “Were they with these same bands?” he asked. “No, they were with A Lot Like Birds, remember? You hated them.” “There’s a lot of bands I hate,” Henry said dryly. “And I have to go see all of them.”
• I randomly got angry at Henry for not being a sound guy.
• Something came over me and I decided we could sit in the dumb balcony since Henry was tired and there was a lot of shit I needed him to do over the next few days for Chooch’s upcoming birthday party. It was kind of cool though because we essentially had the whole balcony to ourselves and there were no moms up there writing out shopping lists or reading Better Homes & Garden. Plus, I could actually see now, yay!

SOME LOCAL BAND

• Some local band that wasn’t on the bill ended up coming out first and I’m not going to say that they sucked because, you know, kudos to them for getting up there and doing their thing, but my god the singer NEVER STOPPED TALKING. They might as well just be a spoken word band. I got the impression that this was the first time they played somewhere other than Aunt Jackie’s garage, because during sound check, they were taking pictures and filming the crowd, and their enthusiasm was kind of embarrassing. But then the mom in me came out and I remembered that these are someone’s kids so then I felt bad.
  • “It sounds like they’re all playing all different songs. Why did they come out like they’re the headlining band?” Henry asked with concern.
  • One of their choruses sounded like “Make a crump mess.”
  • During one of the singer’s many monologues, he asked the crowd if any of us have parents who (indecipherable hoo-haa), to clap. I did not clap because I had a feeling  that the indecipherable hoo-haa had something to do with parents being supportive, and…no.
  • UGH TALKSOMUCH!
  • I started clapping and cheering REALLY LOUD at one point, but it was only because I was following along with the Pens/Rangers game on my phone and MALKIN SCORED, MOTHERFUCKERS. (Got to see the replay later and holy shit, Geno.)
  • They dedicated the last song to the Pens so I love them now.

Here is a picture of Henry sleeping during the local band, something Project.

• Henry realized that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. NOT MY PROBLEM.
• The crowd would sporadically bust out into “Let’s Go Pens!” cheers between bands and it made my heart swell. I don’t often love that community feeling, but when I do it usually has something to do with hockey. (NEVER THE STEELERS THOUGH.)
• Even after I let Henry sit in the balcony, he had the audacity to complain that the seats were uncomfortable. I posted this on Facebook, because I wanted the 25/450 people who haven’t hidden me yet from their newsfeed to see that Henry is an ungrateful cockface. Sandy commented and said that she has a portable seat cushion he could borrow for next time. “There won’t be a next time,” Henry muttered.
• Bleach Blonde was the next band. They were good. The singer reminded me of Adam Lazarra. Henry fell asleep again.
• But then Palisades came on and WOKE HENRY THE FUCK UP. I got really excited because I started putting two and two together and I realized that I watched one of their videos a few months ago and loved them immediately but then forgot about them, probably because I got distracted by Jonny Craig again. Anyway, I’m in love.
  • By the second song, I had totally lost my fucking mind and kept beating on Henry’s arm and screaming.
  • “I FEEL LIKE TAKING MY SHIRT OFF!” I screamed in Henry’s face, which turned into the perfect expression of horror, disgust and “Grow the fuck up.”
  • OMG DID I INGEST MOLLY?! THIS BAND IS SO FUCKING GOOD I WANT TO SCREAM!
  • Made a note to add 30 minutes of Palisades-inspired cardio to my fitness challenge total for the day.
  • AND THE SUTTER GOT A SHORTY SO I THOUGHT I THREW MY ARM OUT SOCKET WHEN I SHOT IT UP WITH ALL OF THE FORCE.
  • The singer Lou (WHO I AM NOW IN LOVE WITH OK) yelled, “Have you ever been judged for the clothes you wear (etc etc)? Then put your motherfucking hands up!” I kept trying to get Henry to put his hands up but he wouldn’t budge. “Put your fucking hands up, Henry, I fucking judge you all the time!” I screamed.
  • I posted a video of them on Instagram and THE SINGER LIKED IT OMGGGGGG SOCIAL MEDIA MAKING ME FEEL IMPORTANT AGAIN.
  • Yesterday at work, Barb said she watched my Instagram video of Palisades and it made her feel stressed out, LOLOLOL.

• Capture the Crown was next and Henry was like “Y SO MANY BANDS UGH” and then immediately hated his life once the singer started screaming. And it was my favorite kind of screaming too! Th ekind that gets real high like a screaming eagle and then super low and guttural like SATAN. So, I loved the screaming parts of this band, but I was otherwise bored and besides, it was the third period by then so I was pretty much 100% invested in my phone.
• PENS WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Henry went to the bathroom so I decided to hide from him under a table. I waited until I saw him down below, getting ready to come back up to the balcony, before taking my place. As soon as I saw legs enter our empty section of the balcony, I jumped out only to see that it was some broad instead. OF COURSE someone would pick that moment to come to our area after it had been empty all night. Henry was right behind her and was like, “Good. Good for you.”
• Motherfucking DANCE GAVIN DANCE YOU GUYS UGHHHHH!!!! Henry was like “PLEASE STOP!” because I was losing my shit and doing these weird screams that I have no idea where they were coming from and I was just going completely spastic while he sat very calm and still next to me.
  • They opened with The Jiggler which was perfect. I love this song so much because it reminds me of a circus:
  • Obsessed with Jon Mess. (If anyone wants to buy me one of his paintings for absolutely no reason at all, I wouldn’t be mad about it.)
  • Several other people came up the balcony at this point and some drunk hippie dropped his beer bottle on Henry which I totally missed and didn’t find out about until later.
  • TILIAN WAS ON POINT. He was even singing the Jonny Craig-era DGD songs so much better than the last time, but he totally killed it on the songs from the new album.
  • LEMON MERINGUE TIE!!!!!!!! UNEASY HEARTS!!!! CARVE!!!!
  • Honey Revenge is a song from the perspective of a stalker and Tilian made it even creepier live by making these precious faces when he would sing the lines “Oh, can’t wait to get you all alone.” He can stalk me any fucking day, dear god.
  • Crying right now. This band is so entangled with memories and emotions from 2008 that sometimes it feels like my heart is on fire when I listen to them.
  • I have stuck with DGD through three singers, the departure and return of Jon Mess, and various other line-up changes. But after that night, I have decided that this current DGD is my new favorite DGD. They just sound so cohesive and smooth together now. They will always be in my Top 5. I’m just sorry that more people don’t get how talented they are. Matt Mingus and Will Swan are extraordinarily underrated musicians.
  • On the way home that night, Henry said the next best thing to a marriage proposal: THAT HE LIKES DANCE GAVIN DANCE AND HAD A GOOD TIME. What world am I living in!? After 9 years, he has finally accepted that he has to share my heart with a bunch of dudes from Sacramento, I guess.
  • HASHTAG BLESSED ALL THE WAY HOME.

Anyway, last night Henry and I stayed up late watching DGD videos (he willingly did this!). “You can tell Tilian is a lot more comfortable now. He isn’t trying to sing like Jonny Craig anymore, he’s singing all of those old songs like himself,” Henry said in full seriousness and I almost died. Henry is making Dance Gavin Dance observations? I am so in love.

“I don’t like how Tilian dances, though,” he went on to say, killing the mood.

STFU, Henry.

If you’ve been reading me (and by “me” I mean “my blog” and not the secret etchings I scratch behind my knees) for awhile now, you probably have picked up on the fact that I loathe my neighborhood. Technically, I live in the city of Pittsburgh, but it’s one of the more, god I can’t believe I’m about to use such a nice word on this place, SUBURBAN parts of Pittsburgh. But only in that the houses aren’t as sardine’d together as other areas, though. You still need to lock your front door. (Fun fact: I never locked my door until Henry moved in with me because I was so accustomed to growing up on a private line in an affluent area because burglaries NEVER HAPPEN out there, right guys?)

Being born and raised in the REAL suburbs, this is like extreme city-living for me. I moved to Brookline in 1999 when I was 19. I loved it because it was only about 15 minutes away from my home ‘burbs (read: close enough to go home to do laundry) and so conveniently located to all of the artsy urban areas that I felt like I had waited my entire life to be nearer to.

But then I had Chooch and suddenly I started thinking about grown-up things, like OMG THE CITY SCHOOL DISTRICT IS TERRIBLE. So Henry and I were determined to move out of the city before Chooch was school-age.

But then something crazy happened instead: I decided that I actually wanted to stay in my neighborhood. (Just…not in the same house. OMG I hate this house.) There’s a performing arts school downtown that we’ve been hoping to get Chooch into. City residents get free tuition and it was recently ranked #14 in the state. Chooch seems super gung-ho about it too, so hopefully he gets in. (He can audition in 5th grade to get into the middle school program.)

I was looking at their writing program awhile back and started crying.

Their mascot is a unicorn, for fuck’s sake. That school sounds like PARADISE.

So instead of fixating on all the shitty parts of this town, I have been trying to be more upbeat and appreciative (?) about this Yinzerville. Plus, I’ve grown so accustomed to being able to walk to so many places (CVS is only a few blocks away! I am never in need of nail polish anymore!).

(OK that’s a lie. I’m always in need of nail polish!)

For instance, if I want ice cream, THERE ARE TWO PLACES I CAN WALK TO GET ICE CREAM:

The first place is Scoops, which has the best hard ice cream and like 87 flavors, including the best birthday cake ice cream I’ve ever had (as seen in the picture above, crowning a scoop of banana cream pie). Also, they have red velvet ice cream. RED VELVET ICE CREAM. Sometimes I like to get that made into a milk shake and sometimes I cry when I’m done sucking it down. I used to hate them though because they took over a place called Boulevard Ice Cream or something equally generic, but that place was like an institution run by an affable old man who loved to chat and now it’s just a bunch of teenagers. (Although one of the guy-scoopers told me he liked my finger tattoos, so there’s that.)

(Speaking of tattoos, some broad who was the runner-up of that Dave Navarro tattoo show has a tattoo shop on the Boulevard.)

And now, in case I’m in the mood for soft serve, there’s Carnival Treats! It’s only like half a block further down from Scoops, but I’m scared that it won’t stay in business. So if you’re in Brookline ever, please go patronize Carnival Treats. You can buy a funnel cake without suffering exorbitant amusement park admissions!

Chooch and I were just there Sunday night and I have to say, their soft serve is delightful, but the sprinkles are too squishy, if that makes sense. However, the cake cones might be the best I’ve ever had! Like cinnamon is baked into them, OMG.

But maybe you don’t want ice cream or fried Oreos. Maybe you want olives and baklava. Thank god I got over my unfounded fear of Pitaland, because that place is a fucking babylon for fresh dates, holy shit. I love going there for a pound of them and also mysterious candy that Henry automatically insists I will hate. (And…sometimes I do.) Pitaland recently renovated and have a cafe now which is exciting.

If you don’t want to get yelled at for incorrectly pronouncing the National Breakfast Dish of Lebanon (I’m sorry, but “foul” looks like “foul” to me, not “fool.”), there are other more Yinzer-friendly places on the Boulevard, like Zippy’s (it’s a bar that LOVES THE STEELERS but they serve food too), some place called No Name Cafe or something that I honestly see like every day so you’d think I’d remember the name that they don’t have, a “coming soon” joint called Bama’s, and a cute little Greek spot called It’s Greek To Me. Henry and I used to go there a lot when we first started dating, but now we rarely go at all so I’m wondering if we experienced some sort of trauma there that is subconsciously keeping us at bay.

Or if you’re just in the mood for pink donuts with sprinkles (HENRY’S FAVORITE) or packzis (don’t ask), we have two bakeries on the Boulevard as well, OMG! DONUTS AND COOKIES, FUCK YES. Wash that shit down with coffee from Cannon Coffee down the street, you guys! God, I love that place. I wanted to stop there on the walk home from the park on Sunday but Henry had the biggest stick of all time penetrating his asshole, so instead of just going in without him, I decided instead to use this as an excuse to blame him for ruining my entire day.

And that’s exactly what I did, too. And that’s also why he cried like a bitch when Chooch and I went to get the aforementioned ice cream that night and Chooch also had a taco from the beloved Las Palmas taco cart because that’s what happens when daddies are being assholes. (They miss out on tacos, just in case you weren’t sure.)

(I was going to call Las Palmas “Brookline’s Best Kept Secret” but the hipsters already know about it, so….)

Some of the neighbors have nice flowers in their yards, if you’re the type that likes to pick them. In addition to free flora, there’s also a veritable bouquet of entertaining townies, too. Some days I wish I could just stay home and watch them walk past my house all day. (See also: Purple Pants; Tourette’s; Cheerleader Girl.)

If you smoke e-cigs, Brookline’s even got a vape shop classin’ up the Boulevard, so come on out.

And then when I have to take the TROLLEY TO WORK, UGH, my walk is only about 10 minutes long and it’s through a cute little neighboring town which has a froyo joint, a hot dog place that also serves veggie dogs (praise the vegan overlord), some diner that was inseminated with Guy Fieri’s hair gel & featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives (does not live up to its hype, IMHO), and an awesome old theater that plays fantastic B-movies, indie flicks & classics.

So sometimes I have to remind myself that, while there might be an occasional discarded hypodermic needle in my yard and I fucking hate the guido douchebag* up the street, sometimes it is necessary to stop and think about all of the things I sincerely enjoy about my dumb town, and fondly imagine turning into one of the scary old people who stand in the middle of the sidewalk, conversing in angry Polish.

You should all come visit me and I will take you on a tour of nothing interesting and then we can take the trolley somewhere more exciting, OMG!

*(Seriously though, if you want to be flashy with your Corvette, Hummer, stone lion statues guarding your steps and FRONT YARD FOUNTAIN ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THAT SHIT, move the fuck out of Brookline, maybe to Long Island? Just a suggestion. Henry said the guy is a city LIEUTENANT which is so fucking rich to me because that motherfucker was pretty much the WORST offender this past winter with literally never shoveling and salting his sidewalk, way to lead by example, asshole! (I have a real thing against authority, you guys.) I HATE HIM AND HIS CONSTANT LAWN-SPRINKLING and lavish, grown-up frat parties and Chinese lanterns hanging in his perfect trees. We saw him roll up the other day in his Corvette and when some broad got out of the passenger side, Chooch said, “God, how did that guy ever get a WIFE?” BY BEING A GUIDO DOUCHEBAG, SON. Try to keep up.)

I just stressed myself out so bad.

Here is a rare bullet point post on a Sunday because Chooch is playing video games and Henry is cooking and I’m bored.

• There was a Penguins game on last night and I was so nervous that I kept trying to find dumb ways to distract myself, which is how I found a Hungry, Hungry Hippo hair fascinator on Etsy. I was going to buy it, but then the Penguins won and I forgot about it. Maybe during tomorrow night’s game…
• Last week, Chooch was bitching about me being mean, so I yelled YOU ARE THE REASON I’M MEAN! To which he responded YOU ARE THE REASON I TWERK! I just can’t with that kid anymore! He’s too quick. Also, he has been saying “literally” in almost every sentence, and I know I too am an offender (one of the worst) of using this word incorrectly (and I DGAF), but Chooch has just been so excessive about it. So I am going to make him a blog called Chooch, Literally. Janna kept trying to be the Literally vs. Figuratively Cop at dinner last night and we were all like STFU Janna.
  • At least we know that if Chooch grows up to be a stripper, it’s my fault and not Henry’s.
  • And he’ll be stripping to this song:
  • And he will probably LITERALLY have more money than Janna.
• I have vacillated between OMGLOVINGHENRY to wanting to bury his rotting body in a Pittsburgh pot hole so many times this weekend that I feel like I have whiplash. And a personality disorder.

• Emarosa released their first single with their new singer Bradley Walden last week and it gave me goose bumps and then made me cry in my office-thing at work. LOOK AT HOW BEAUTIFUL HE IS! ^^^^^^ And his voice is the perfect complement to the rest of the band. It feels so good to be an Emarosa fan right now. This single was a sweet reward for not giving up on them these last few years and I have kind wanted to run around the office making everyone listen to it, but I refrained and stuck to just listening to it on repeat by myself.
  • Not a shocker, but Jonny Craig is being a royal poor sport about this because I guess Emarosa was never supposed to move on without him, even though he’s been doing his own thing for the last two years and has a new band of his own now. But still, I LOVE SCENE DRAMA!
• I had a couple of very stressful trolley experiences last week, so when I got to work, I immediately went to the CNN website to get me a little perspective, because somehow there are things happening in the world that, while hard to believe, might actually be worse than the trolley fare machine not working.
  • One of those stressful experiences was sitting across from this guy and his Mads Mikkelson-as-Hannibal mouth. I couldn’t look away! Mostly because I was afraid he’d turn my fat ass into a 10-person banquet:

• So, the Penguins are currently embroiled in a heated 1st round playoff match-up with the Columbus Blue Jackets and the one player I hate the most, Brandon Dubinsky, is from ALASKA. Of COURSE he’s from that disgusting hell-on-earth! So every time he’s on the ice, I get to unleash some of my pent-up Alaska disgust and it feels good but also like my heart is going to implode. It’s weird to have my stressful passion for hockey and dedicated hatred for glaciers collide.
• OMG I’m having so much fun planning Chooch’s LOLCat birthday party! And my long-distance friend Bill just confirmed that he, Jessi and Tammy will be coming out from Michigan for the entire weekend and I am giddy with excitement! I haven’t seen them in two years!

• OMG this employment opportunity was in the weekly school email last week and I was so tempted to apply, except that my shift at the Law Firm starts at 1:30. But can imagine how mediocre and complacent I would be as a playground monitor?! Ugh, what a failed opportunity. Also, I’m pretty sure I would pass all of those clearances.

• It’s 2014 and I still have no idea what goes on in Autocorrect’s head. Also, be a better housewife, Henry.
• Today, Chooch asked, “If you guys aren’t married, how was I born? Wait—was I adopted?” Have fun with that talk, Henry.
• I’m pretty sure my Internet presence has ensured that I will never get a boyfriend ever again.
• HENRY JUST WALKED PAST ME AND HIT ME FOR NO REASON I HATE HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

• On Chooch’s birthday, I got THIRTY DONUTS in the Mystery Box on Tapped Out! I was stoked but this was like the greatest affront to Chooch of all time. I thought he was going to try and murder me in my sleep.
• We went to Toys R Us last night and I ditched Henry and Chooch for the Tween aisle, because that’s where my jam’s at, and I found this disgustingly awesome grilled cheese & tomato soup lip balm pack! It was so sickening that I had to buy it, and I’m here now to tell you that it is just as gross and vile as your imagination probably immediately told you it would be as soon as you read the words “grilled cheese & tomato soup lip balm.” Actually, the grilled cheese one wasn’t TOO bad, and if we’re being honest here, it was kind of exciting to have the stench of my favorite meal wafting around below my nose. But today, I was on the way home from lunch with Wendy, Evonne, and Evonne’s friend Barbara, when I decided to be bold and put the grilled cheese one on my top lip and the tomato soup one on my bottom lip and then basically spent the next 20 minutes trying not to throw up in the backseat of Evonne’s car. I mean, sure it tasted like tomato soup….that has just been regurgitated. Just in case you’re a mental asshole: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. Let me be your example of what things should never be rubbed on the lips.
• 
• And then Chooch wanted this stupid robot dog and cried, “BUT IT’S SO COOL! YOU TELL IT WHAT TO DO AND IT DOES IT!” So I said, “That’s what Daddy is for.” BOOM, SON.
• Yesterday, I was out and about in the neighboring town of Dormont trying to rack up pedometer steps, when I stumbled across this interesting specimen strumming a guitar outside of someone’s window. He needs some more practice, I think:

• Today Henry cried actual tears because he had bleach on his hands and then touched his eyes. Instead of caring, I yelled at him for interrupting me. He is really so rude.
• Eight hours later and I’m still smelling that vile tomato soup lip balm, what have I done?
• If some of my words are missing letters, it’s less likely that I’m a spelling derelict and more so that Chooch has ruined yet another keyboard.