Henry and I checked out of the airport Sheraton early Saturday morning; as soon as we walked out into the parking lot, Henry inhaled deeply and said, “Mmmm, the smell of jet fuel in the morning. Reminds me of THE SERVICE.” I lost another one of my lives laughing so hard at him. God, I love it when he slips up and mentions his SERVICE days.

Our plans for the morning were to finally get to see our friends Terri and Christian after two failed attempts the previous two years. It’s funny, because in this day and age, most of the new friends I meet are online; but in this case, we actually met Terri and Christian in person first, back in the fall of 2011 when we were all in Cleveland for the AP Tour (and to eat at Melt, obviously). And since then, we have gotten to know each other better through Facebook and Twitter and I have been dying to hang out with them again!

Henry and I don’t need to be entertained, so when Terri suggested that we just eat breakfast at their place and hang out, I was all for it and Henry seemed relieved because he’s always tired and doesn’t like walking around looking at things. Terri even made three different kinds of breakfast casseroles! One had fake bacon in it and I was so happy! (They’re vegetarians too! I can call myself that again because I have re-eradicated seafood from my diet, so come at me bro.)

I was a little nervous on the way there because we had only ever spent that one day together three years ago and what if it was going to be totally awkward? Well, it wasn’t, so you can stop holding your breath. I mean, I was still at my usual level of awkward, of course, but at least Henry was there to ease my food-cutting anxiety. We hung out for three hours, talking about music, music, music and more music and I can’t tell you how fucking awesome that was! And we learned that Terri and Christian met while working at Tower Records, how apropros! We even had civil hockey discussions, even though our teams are huge rivals! And I found out that Christian was at the aforementioned Type O Negative show in 1998 that I couldn’t attend because some bitch named Your Druidess didn’t show up with the tickets! It’s funny how many times that memory was recalled last weekend.

I wish we could have spent more time with them, but Henry and I had plans to attend the Hollywood Theater’s “Twin Peaks” party that night, so we had to hit the road around noon. As soon as their door shut behind us, I said to Henry, “If we lived closer, I would hang out with them so much, they would get so sick of me.” (So basically, two times.) And Henry said, “Yes, I like them. They’re nice people.” THAT IS A BIG DEAL FOR HENRY TO HAVE AN OPINION! He is usually so neutral about everything. But I think what he was really thinking was, “I wish we did live closer because then Erin can just go to shows with them while I sit at home watcing NCIS in my underwear.” Seriously though, thank you for opening up your home to us and stuffing us with delicious breakfast foods! We owe you one next time you’re in our city! (Don’t worry, Henry will do the cooking.)

“I hate you,” I sighed as Henry drove around looking for a gas station.

“Why?” he mumbled with very little emotion.

“Because you weren’t working at a record store when we met!” I cried.

“Either were you!” he shot back. THAT’S NOT THE POINT, HENRY.

***

OMG, the ride home was so boring. There was a hockey game on, so that entertained us for a little while. We stopped at a rest area so Henry could finally get his stupid Auntie Em pretzel bites, but I threw a fit because he didn’t get mustard so I stormed out into the parking lot, because this is how you get what you want when you’re 34. (And also 3 and 4.)

Henry went back and got mustard.

Later, we stopped at another rest area for a late lunch/dinner situation, and he accidentally pulled into the “Trucks/RV” side of the parking lot which caused me to scream, “OMG YOU FUCKED UP NOW, HENRY ROBBINS!” while making all kinds of dramatic gasps. Naturally, he was annoyed. Especially when every hour after that, I would casually say, “Hey remember when you broke the law by USING THE TRUCKS AND RV ENTRANCE? God, you’re such a moron. You could have gotten us killed.”

“We would NOT have gotten killed,” he sighed.

***

We made it home with about 45 minutes to spare before we had to leave again. While I was upstairs changing clothes, I found out that Henry never told his mom about our Saturday night plans so she thought she was done babysitting Chooch as soon as we got home. Oh sorry, Judy, didn’t your son tell you? You’re stuck here for three more hours. Possibly even forever.

God Henry, you’re such an asshole.

Luckily, she’s a good grandma and didn’t give a shit about a few more hours with Chooch. (Who, by the way, didn’t even miss us.)

***

The Hollywood Theater is only a few blocks away from our house, but Henry has never been there because he is so lame. I’m actually surprised I was even able to get him to go Saturday night, but we do both equally love Twin Peaks, so there’s that. He refused to dress up, though. I tried to get him to go as Mike, the One-Armed Man, because literally all he would have to do was wear a black t-shirt and not put his stupid left arm through the sleeve, but even THAT was too costume-y for him. So he went as Henry.

The theater was playing a marathon of all the episodes starting that Thursday, culminating in a party Saturday night, which entailed a costume contest, raffles and the big draw: a live performance by Silencio, a local Pittsburgh band that plays music from Twin Peaks and other David Lynch movies. I can’t tell you how much I love that music, especially the music from Twin Peaks.

Also, we were promised damn good cherry pie, and if I told you I wasn’t thinking about it all last week, I would be lying. Cherry pie is actually my favorite kind of pie and it pisses me off that restaurants around here usually have every other kind of fucking fruit pie but cherry. Maybe it looks too menstrual?

Anyway, I’m a lousy dresser-upper. It’s very hard for me to commit to a costume and I usually wind up half-assing it in the end because I’m lazy and unmotivated. (See: Fatal Attraction.) I didn’t want to go the obvious plactic-wrapped-Laura Palmer route, so I opted instead for one of my favorite characters, the Sheriff’s secretary Lucy Moran. I picked her because she’s awesome, but also because all I had to do was get a 90s’ish sweater from Goodwill, pair it with a skirt and tights, and put my hair in a half-pony. Henry kept trying to cut my bangs to make it look more authentic but, no. I’m not ready to rejoin the bangs-having society*. (However, I did order a pair of clip-on bangs from eBay for $5 but they sent me a bleached blond pair instead of the ones that would actually match my shitty hair color, so thanks for ruining my already-destined-to-fail costume, stupid Taiwanese seller.)

*However, if and when I’m ready, Henry could probably give me good bangs. (BANGS, NOT BANG.) When I did have bangs, he was always super good at trimming them and my hair stylist would always be so impressed that his meat-hands could pull off such precise scissor-y. (SCISSOR-Y NOT SCISSORING.) Of course he could. Henry excels at girly things.

So 90s. So sweater-y. So wow.

When I looked at this picture of myself last weekend, I thought, “Hmm, I look familiar….” and then after awhile it occurred to me that I looked like 15-year-old Erin. So, what I learned from this is that I spent my entire 10th grade year accidentally emulating the Lucy Moran hairstyle. Also, I still have the same dopey smile.

We got to the Hollywood right around 7 and proceeded to stand around like social pariahs because god forbid we should make new friends, ever. Henry bought a can of PBR (lol) and I got some coffee from the place I made Janna walk to last October, because they had a table set up and the two guys behind it kept wanting to talk to me but I think I was in the middle of one of those social strokes I sometimes succumb to? Honestly, I just stood there and kept saying, “Oh, really?” I HATE MYSELF.

We grabbed seats near the front of the theater and I got comfortable with my damn fine cup of coffee and cherry pie, and yes, it was damn fine. (Homemade!)

Silencio came on around 8:00 and Henry promptly fell alseep. Not because they were boring, but their music is so smooth and those seats are really comfortble. (Not to mention Professional Driver had been driving for 6+ hours that day, and the day before.)

Scenes from various David Lynch works played on the screen behind them, complementing the sounds with a bit of creepiness.

In between sets, the Hollywood Theater people came out to do the raffle drawing and I REALLY wanted to win the log. Yes, it was just a log, but I wanted it. There was also a set of these amazing David Lynch movie posters that an artist donated, but I didn’t win those either. I HATE NOT WINNING.

I went through a brief stint senior year of high school where I was obsessed with Angelo Badalamenti because of the Lost Highway soundtrack. I keep telling Chooch that he was only 8 when he started piano lessons, but Chooch as usual does not give a fuck. BE THE NEXT BADALAMENTI, SON.

Anyway, if you have never seen Twin Peaks, both seasons are on Netflix and you should go and do that. Go get mono or something and then lay there and watch it all. It’s worth it.

On our way out, we snagged a “The Owls Are Not What They Seem” cupcake for Chooch as a consolation for leaving him parentless for two days. Again though, he honestly didn’t give a shit that we were gone. He’s at that age, I guess.

Silencio was pretty fantastic and even though I hated being in a rush all day, I was glad that we were able to work this into our itinerary. It was a fun way to cap off three nights of three very different bands. That should tide me over for awhile. (It won’t. But at least there’s Eisley on April 10th!)

P.S. That sweater is totally now a part of my regular wardrobe.

The closest I’d ever been to the Trocadero in Philadelphia was October of 1999, when my friend Cinn and I were stood up by some goth bitch who had our tickets for the Type O Negative show. Fourteen years later, I finally got to go inside.

****

When I saw in December that The Sound of Animals Fighting were reuniting for a very small, intimate tour and had added an extra Philly date (the first one had sold out lightning quick), I was stoked. But first I had to beg Henry. “It can be my Christmas present!” I pleaded. “You don’t have to get me anything else!” (Of course he got me other shit too because he knows better.) The thing with this band is that they’re a sort of supergroup, so touring is hard for them to pull off, logistically. They played like 4 shows I think, in 2006. 4 shows, ever. And they were in California and Las Vegas, so…while I played the FUCK out of the live DVD they released, I never got to see them live.

Until now!!

I remember when I first heard about them, and it was all still a mystery then. OMG who are these guys wearing animal masks?! But then it was pretty obvious, once I heard it, that one of the “Skunk” was definitely Anthony Green, because oh dear lord, do I love that man. Circa Survive pretty much got me through one extremely suicidal summer, and to be honest, it’s a miracle that Henry and I are even still together. I often wonder how much worse off I would have been through times like those if I didn’t have music to stave off a portion of the mania. I know that sometimes people will hear “screamo” (we’ll just call it that, even though it’s not what TSOAF is), they don’t understand the appeal. “How can you listen to something when you can’t understand the words?” Or “this music doesn’t make sense to me.” Right? I can’t speak for everyone who likes this sort of music, but for me, it’s always been about the way it makes me feel emotionally and mentally. The screaming mimics what I sometimes feel in my head, like a mental gang-banging, and it is extremely cathartic and exhilarating for me. And then the music itself is so chaotic and janky, it’s like it understands me. And I understand it. And really, that’s the best way I can explain it.

But then with a band like TSOAF, you get the beautiful, clean vocals as well, from Matthew Kelly, Rich Balling and Matt Embree, and it just ties the whole thing together into a pretty bi-polar package.

BUT I DIGRESS. You probably aren’t here from some boring post-hardcore lesson, so I will save the rest for my Dear Diary and just tell you about how miserable Henry was all night. Yay!

***

The drive there was very uneventful. It started snowing literally the moment we pulled out of our driveway, so the first hour or so of the trip was terrible.

I made Henry listen to all kinds of music that he hates, like Gem Club. He kept being totally dramatic about it, pretending to nod off. “Please make me more depressed than I already am,” he mumbled, so I tweeted all of this and then Gem Club favorited it. This is how I make connections on Twitter, you guys.

We ate lunch at a shitty rest area where Henry bitched about having to buy me Starbucks and the fact that Auntie Em’s was out of pretzel bites.

We were one of the first 10 people in line before the doors opened because I was in A Mad Hurry. Equal Vision announced on Instagram last week that each TSOAF show was going to get its own t-shirt design, but only 100 each would be printed. My TSOAF hoodie is one of my favorite pieces of merch ever, so I was determined to get one of these fucking shirts. So we stood in line with all the other die-hards, and I realized that I hadn’t been that close to the front of a concert line since 2001 when my friend Shawn and I got to Nick’s Fat City 3 hours early for a Cold show. When I told Henry this, he just rolled his eyes. Because he’s too old to give a fuck about these things. Don’t ever get old, you guys.

“There’s Anthony,” Henry said, elbowing me as Anthony Green and his wife Meredith walked down the sidewalk. HE IS SUCH A GOOD WINGMAN! Also, LOL forever at Henry unwittingly knowing so much about the scene.

The doors eventually opened a little after 7 and I made a beeline for the merch booth, where, for the first time in pretty much ever, I got to tell the merch girl that I needed a size small. (Only because it was boy sizes, though; don’t worry–I’m still semi-chubby.) Anyway, thank you Henry for not ruining my night by being a total tightwad! I love this shirt so much!

I’m learning how to smile naturally.

Perhaps at this time I should talk about how, in Henry’s eyes, I fucked up. In my haste to get the hell out of the house Friday morning and embark on our road trip, I left my wallet on the coffee table. I knew that I had the tickets, and that’s all that mattered to me. Forgot the hairbrush? Pfft, I’ll just send Henry out to buy a new one in the morning. Forgot the gift I was planning to give our Philly friends Terri and Christian the next day? That sucks, but I can just mail it when we get back. Forgot my wallet? NO OVER-21 ENTRY FOR ME.

<

This isn’t something that I give a shit about, but the thing is, that’s the trade-off for Henry going to these shows with me: I (sometimes) will abandon all of the action in an effort to make Mister Miserable a little more comfortable in the grown-up area. Like the one time we went to see Pierce the Veil at Mr. Small’s and Henry’s stupid stomach hurt him so I was like FINE WE CAN GO TO THE BALCONY and literally it was me and a bunch of motherfucking PARENTS. So lame.

The Trocadero has a beautiful balcony, but it’s off limits without an ID. I told Henry he was welcome to go up there once the show started, but he was all, “NO JUST FORGET IT” which tells me he was secretly having a nice time. Or just wanted something to bitch about later.

The opening band was Unwed Sailor. Henry hated them because god forbid, there is no singer, OMG. I thought they were nice and soothing, an appropriate precursor for what was to come.

We were standing near the door to the backstage area, so Anthony walked by us a few times and THEN HE AND HENRY EXCHANGED PLEASANTRIES AND I COULDN’T STOP LAUGHING. It is endlessly funny to me when Henry makes contact with people in bands that I like, because:

1. it’s Henry
2. it’s Henry saying hello to people way cooler than Henry
3. it’s Henry

And then he gets all embarrassed when I make a big deal about it and that just fuels the laughter.

After Unwed Sailor played, I said to Henry, “You know, I’m not saying I’m going to be one of those pushy moms, but if Chooch ever decided to be in a band, holy shit I would be the proudest mom of all time.” I paused for a second, mulling it over, and then added, “But just to spite me, he’ll probably be something dumb. Like a doctor.”

“I would be happy if he became a car mechanic,” Henry weighed in. “Something that’s useful to me.” Seriously? By the time Chooch is an adult, Henry’s not going to be driving anything but a Hoveround.

Around 9:30, the lights went out and the intro started playing while silhouettes of orange and yellow people were ushered onto the stage and place in various positions of worship around Matthew Kelly, who then sang one of my favorite TSOAF songs of all time, The Heretic. And here is where I began to openly weep. And I didn’t give a single fuck either because I knew every single person standing near me understood.

(I AM STARTING TO CRY ALL OVER AGAIN AS I TYPE THIS IN MY OFFICE-THING.)

So here is a video that some guy took from the sold-out show the night before. He recorded the entire intro, so it doesn’t really start until about the 3:30 mark, IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN WATCHING IT. (I do highly recommend that you do though, because it’s beautiful. However, be warned that it fades right into the next song which is scream-y. This was the point in the night where the crowd fucking EXPLODED and Henry was probably like, “Oh, how I love these shows.”)

Thank you for recording this, Guy at the March 20th Show.

After the final note of The Heretic, the rest of the band came out and Anthony Green vomited screams all over our faces and I wept even harder, because ANTHONY GREEN. I have a framed picture of him on my fucking wall, for Christ’s sake.

Please excuse my terrible pictures. I am not a concert photographer and was way too busy freaking the fuck out to worry about getting the perfect shot.

I didn’t get a chance to look at Henry’s melting face at all because we weren’t standing near each other by the time TSOAF came out. Some tall douchebag had planted himself right in front of me so I moved up some. I don’t think Henry gave a shit; for all I know, he had gone up to the balcony. THAT’S COOL, BRO.

It felt so good to hear Anthony scream, made me feel warm and safe like being hugged by a fat grandma. His stage presence is incredible. When I asked Henry later on if he agreed, he reluctantly said yes.

I’ll tell you one thing, there was some mad respect radiating from the crowd that night in the Trocadero. We all knew we were seeing something special.

The older I get, the more grateful I feel after I get to experience things, and this was definitely one for the “grateful” column. I appreciate so many bands on such a grand level that it is awe-inspiring at times to be so close to them. It means so much, but I will never be able to put it in words, not even if I made up my own language. I think I stopped making sense a long time ago.

****

Afterward, Professional Driver Henry didn’t know how to get out of the parking garage and a security guard had to come to his rescue. Listen to him hyuk’ing it up it this video, totally playing the “dumb blonde card” so a security guard can feel all strong and manly.

While Henry blindly navigated around downtown Philly and swore at the GPS, I cheerfully cried out things like, “THE REAL WORLD PEOPLE USED TO GO THERE!” to which he would spit, “I don’t give a FUCK about the Real World people!” Lost Driver Henry is mean.

We (eventually) checked into the Sheraton Four Points and crashed after a good hour of me relentlessly asking Henry what his favorite part of the show was. (No answer.) I can’t believe I got to see them, The Sound of Animals Fighting, right there in front of me. Oh my god, oh my god. What a great fucking night!

I was terribly excited last Thursday when Chooch brought home this prize-winning illustrated essay, but he completely brushed it off.

“It was supposed to be a joke,” he explained, rolling his eyes. I mean, clearly my child is not of the Ring Around the Rosey ilk, and he didn’t even really watch Max & Ruby when he was a BABY, let alone now. He said he even kept spelling Aidan’s name wrong on purpose. So basically my kid wins for being an asshole, which actually makes me pretty proud because GEE I WONDER WHERE HE GETS IT.

Henry and I were talking about this on the way to Philly last Friday, and I kept going on about how it makes me sad that he won’t draw very often because he thinks he sucks at it, but then he brings shit like that home and I’m like, “HE IS SO GOOD!! WHY DOES HE THINK HE SUCKS?”

“Yeah, I wonder where gets THAT from, too,” Henry mumbled. Shut up, Henry.

I think my favorite part is that he gave himself rotten teeth, presumably because I’m always harping on him to brush his teeth. Man, I love that kid, always having to get his jabs in where he can. GEE I WONDER WHERE HE GETS IT.

We did basically nothing today and I can’t believe I’m going to say this since I always bitch about it, but fuck it felt great. Sometimes you just need to take a day to catch up on Teen Wolf, am I right?Also, I think Henry might be dead.

And by chat I mean mostly post pictures. Sorry! I’m in a car on the way home from Philly & I have blog-posting compulsion but typing too much will make me puke in Henry’s lap, maybe.

We had time to kill before The Sound of Animals Fighting show last night, so we roamed around Chinatown long enough to eat dinner and for Henry to tell me NO!! a million times in the Sanrio store. I hate him. But they didn’t have green tea Kit Kats there and that was really all I wanted anyway.

I wanted to find somewhere creepy to eat, preferably someplace located in an alley & possibly underground, but Henry was like, “No. We’re eating at Penang because I just saw five people walk in, so…” I walked in predetermined to hate it since Henry picked it, so I bitched about the menu like the cry baby that I am because I recently decided to go back to being a strict ovo-lacto vegetarian (sayonara, seafood) and it seemed like even the vegetable portion of the menu had some sort of animal in it. I eventually ordered some noodle thing sans shrimp that was ok. Fine, it was good.

But you know what was fucking awesome? The lychee water I ordered, which cost almost as much as my dinner but it was worth it. (Henry was all, “YOU BETTER DRINK THAT” like I’m some picky child; OK, because I AM some picky child.) Those lychees were like giant bloated eyeballs and now I can’t imagine having to drink water without my glass clogged with those sons of bitches. If lychees actually were eyeballs, I’d have to put myself on my next serial killer greeting card, because I have a feeling me and my melon baller will be hitting the town on the regular.

Then I openly boasted about how great of a street-crosser I’ve become and Henry’s eyes were about to roll right out of his head.

After dinner, I wanted something sweet in the worst way and Chinatown was peppered with all kinds of Asian bakeries, but Henry was all, “When will you learn your lesson?! You don’t like Asian ‘desserts’!” God Henry, let me make my own poor choices every now and then, would ya?

There was some inviting Chinese emporium type place and I was desperate to get Chooch a souvenir.

“Why? We’re not actually in China, Erin. We can buy him this shit in our own city,” Henry sighed.

So we continued walking around and I was so busy craning my neck to ogle a bakery across the street that I straight tripped really hard, doing a modified swan dive through the air, while Henry shook his head and kept walking. YOU CAN’T TAKE THE FAT GIRL ANYWHERE.

Then I misheard Henry to say “That looks like a place where KD Lang would eat” and it was finally time to get in line outside of the Trocadero and for Henry’s night to start its slow decline.

OMG, it’s Friday and I have some shit to get off my chest. TGFB (thank God for blogging?).

FIVE:

My friend Alex is hosting another Pittsburgh Guest Blogging thingie on April 1st and I stupidly signed up for it and now I’m all stressed out because I have no idea what to write, as usual. What should I write about!? My hopes and dreams? Places in Brookline where you MIGHT not find a discarded hypodermic needle? That time I robbed graves? Who even knows. I looked at the list of participants and naturally I only know 1% of the list because I’m a blogging recluse, and that gives me this weird Internet stage fright. Part of me is saying, “Try to be a normal person, Erin. Write something without swearing, Erin. MAKE SENSE FOR ONCE, ERIN.”

So, I’m going to leave it up to you: what should I ramble on about for my guest post on some poor man’s blog? Please, someone tell me before I ask Craigslist or call a party line.

FOUR:

ANDREA had to go and get me all worked up the other night by instigating my hatred for Alaska. She might be the worst BFF I’ve ever had! Now I’m all stressed out again. I feel like the climax of my life is going to be where Henry drugs me and when I wake up, he finally proposes to me then and in the same breath he’s all like, “SURPRISE YOU’RE IN ALASKA!” and then I fall off some disgusting Alaskan cliff into a sea of sickening glaciers because, why wouldn’t I?  That’s my life.

THREE:

Something happened to Chooch’s finger at some point yesterday. I know this because as soon as I got in the car last night after work, Chooch was basically passed out on the backseat from loss of imaginary blood, whining, “OW MY FINGER” every time the car hit a pot hole. (Which is a lot. This is Pittsburgh.) I didn’t bother to ask what happened because HI I HAVE MY OWN PROBLEMS.

He came downstairs at 11:00PM while Henry and I were watching The Returned (which is a FRENCH TV show so there could be nudity at any given moment) and started whining about needing another Bandaid and I ignored him because Henry was there so…get the fuck up and bandage your son, motherfucker.

This morning, it was apparently still an issue? WTF happened to my kid’s finger?! Apparently not all that much. According to Henry, it’s only a hangnail wound. But you would have thought the entire thing had been blown off by a grenade the way he was carrying on every time his finger touched the water this morning! And then the whole way to school, he was making this anguished face and dry-crying, which is so annoying to me because obviously I’m the only person who can pull that off, and I kept begging him to stop looking like that in case god forbid someone sitting in traffic mistook it as abuse. So I kept trying to put my arm around him to comfort him (OVER A FUCKING HANG NAIL) and he was all, “OW! GET OFF ME! OW!” So I snapped and said, “For Christ’s sake, there is no way that hurts that bad! I get paper cuts almost everyday and I don’t run around acting like that….oh. Never mind.”

I gave him an extra maternal hug when we got to the school, making sure the principal saw, too, because I didn’t maim my kid’s fingertip, OK?!

A short reprieve from incessant bitching. Thank god for teeth to brush.

TWO:

My friend Wendy is a Stella & Dot…consultant? Stylist? She sells jewelry. It’s a pretty fun line—if not severely lacking in rings with teeth and Jonny Craig’s face beneath resin—and I’ve been promising her that I would host a party, so I’m finally doing that in two weeks. Today at work, we sat down in her office to create the Facebook event thing, which she wrote and I kept saying, “Please don’t write that…everyone is going to know I didn’t write this….”‘redefine her style sessions’? What does that even mean!?” At least the event name is “Henry’s Stella and Dot Trunk Show” and she listened to me when, after she typed the line “my friend Wendy,” I told her to put quotes around the word “friend.”

It was really hard for me to sit there and watch Wendy create this event on my behalf because I’m such a control freak (only over weird things though; nothing important). My style is just a little more biting and derisive than hers; the way she wrote it made it sound like I was actually being nice to my friends and excited to see them, like “come on by and share some laughs!” WTF. I don’t want to share my laughs. Those are mine. Get your own. I kept thinking, “OK, here’s where I would have said something terrible about Janna. And right here is where I would have used some outdated LOLspeak and an obscure pop culture reference. OK, she emasculated Henry at least.”

I kind of wanted to write the party info as a free-style gangsta rap about how there are 99 ways to wear a scarf and around a dead man’s dick might be one.

I’m afraid this could be the gateway into harder hostess parties, like I might wake up one day and crave crudités and Tupperware towers. And you know what comes next. Reading cookbooks. Gross.

ONE:

CARROT CAKE M&M’S. Big ups to my friends Monica and Chris for the hook-up. Henry and I couldn’t find them anywhere but then Monica was all, “They’re on my dining room table, duh.” She bought an extra bag and gave it to Chris to bring to work for me and I ate almost half the bag right away. IT TASTES JUST LIKE CARROT CAKE. The M&Ms. Not the bag. So now I’m desperate to buy all of the bags before they go away since they’re just an Easter novelty, waiting to go back to heaven with Jesus. :(

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when they’re gone, that’s how empty my life is right now.

Apologies for the capslock abuse, my people. I’m losing my mind. You know how I know for sure? I ALMOST TYPED “LOOSING.”

Here are three Instavids of Henry and Chooch, because I have nothing else to do right now and I guess because these videos make me smile.

Because I love them. There, I said it.

Trying to fake like he hates Emarosa in the car today, BUT LOOK AT HIM SMILING.

The jig is up, Henry. You like Emarosa and now everyone knows.

I got to work from home last night because we were supposed to get bad weather (were we, though? I just went home because that’s what I was told to do) and this is what I had to deal with. Yes Chooch, you’re beautiful. Now go lay down.

Olive Garden commercials make him shake it.

It’s been awhile since I barked DIY orders at Henry. In fact, I think the Beverage Buffet is the last thing he made (the half-finished jewelry armoire in the basement doesn’t count, sorry dear). So over the weekend, I decided that it was time to move the marquee sign from a dream to a reality. I saw it on some broad’s blog a few months ago, some marquee sign she made for Christmas, but it was all Pinterest-y and cute, and you know, Christmas-y. All of the things I dislike. But I liked the notion of having an obnoxious marquee sign in my house.

The steps looked easy (for Henry) and it seemed inexpensive. But I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that I don’t fully understand the value of a dollar sometimes, all of the time.

Like, maybe if I had chosen the phrase “Hi” or stuck with initials it would have been an inexpensive project. But instead, I chose my catchphrase “Get stoked” and when you consider that the letters cost $3 a piece and then the bulb-lights I wanted to use from Target are like $12 for a string and we’re probably going to need like 4 or 5 boxes, you have one clenched-up Henry.

We actually fought each other silently with just our eyes in the middle of the craft store on Saturday, which resulted in me breaking down first and hissing, “JUST FORGET IT!” and storming out. I could hear the pitter-patter of Chooch’s feet on the tile floor as he chased after me, god bless him; soon he will be immune to my tantrums and will refuse to give me attention, JUST LIKE HIS FATHER.

I sat in the car with my arms crossed, sighing heavily and dramatically, accusing Henry of ruining my life.

“I didn’t say we couldn’t buy the letters,” he calmly explained as he navigated the car through the parking lot. “You’re the one that ran out like a baby.”

“FINE THEN JUST GO BACK AND GET THEM!” I yelled.

“No,” he said defiantly. Oh, this is rich, I thought, and then started screaming some more until he yanked the steering wheel to the right and screeched back into the parking lot. He slammed the car door, stalked into Pat Catan’s, and returned in five minutes with a giant bag full of large letters. ERIN WINS AGAIN.

(No, those weren’t the letters. BUT MAYBE FOR THE NEXT SIGN…..)

I actually helped out a little and primed the letters! Now we just need to spraypaint them with my color of choice (and glitter, obviously; my Liberace gene always has to weigh in), find a piece of plywood large enough to hold the letters, and then take out a small home loan to buy the rest of the lights, haha, right Henry?

And then watch somberly as our house goes down in flames.

I will keep the Internet posted as Henry progresses. Marquee sign or GTFO, right Henry? (I’m sure we know which he would choose.)

———————-

And now I will act like a kindergartner and show you my latest art-things!

First, we have Tentacular:

These colors are therapeutic. So is striping tentacles with “The Following” on in the background.

This painting measures 12″x5.5″ and is perfect for people who love oceanic things, stripes, or are perhaps looking for immersion therapy to help cure a tentacle phobia. And it can be all yours for a one-time fee!

BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE!

Sorry. Wrong commercial.

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Snacks Part 2!

Remember that terrible Korn song from the 90s that taught us about how wearing ADIDAS
-brand attire meant that we were dreaming all day about sex?

Well, I think they misheard because it’s actually All Day I Dream About Snacks. I mean, who doesn’t? Like right now I might be eating an apple at work but I’m thinking about how I’m going to stick my face in a bag of freshly popped popcorn as soon as I get home tonight. And while I’m eating that, I’ll probably be thinking about PIE.

Because SNACKS.

Anyway. This painting is the second in the SNACKS series; it measures 5×7″ and it’s on canvas, not stretched skin. I will probably wrap it with a bow before mailing it to you. I mean, assuming you are buying it. You ARE buying it, aren’t you??

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Fudge Nipple Sundae!

The obvious dessert after a long, hot summer’s day of stalking victims. Hang this boob-capped sundae painting on your wall & channel the spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer.

#2 in the “From the Cannibal Kitchen” series.

(Clearly, I’m off my description-writing game.)

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Somnambulant Birds <---SOLD! Woo!

Because I just really love to paint odd birds.

This pastel piece of paint-thing is varnished and shipped by carrier pigeon. J/K. I use USPS, but sometimes I wonder if avian delivery would be more efficient.

Sorry, this can’t wait until tomorrow. Jonny Craig has a new band and they just posted and excuse me but now I need to go outside and run around in the 9 degree night with no coat on, bye.

Hopefully I’m not being too annoying with my painting updates; it’s such a fine line and sometimes I get too excited to share things like a Kindergartner to notice if I’m being ridiculous or not…I think I should probably just err on the side of caution and assume that I am.

Once all this horrendous winter weather subsides, I will probably be way less prolific, so there’s always hope for the future.

“Storming Calzones.” (This one is no longer available, but I wanted to share it because it makes me LOL.)

Custom “Bat Room” sign.

I can’t explain it, but making these little guys is extremely soothing for me.

Strangely, during the grand opening of this little boutique in Pittsburgh called Wildcard, all of my bathroom plaques sold out. I don’t know exactly why they’re so popular, but I really enjoy making them so it’s a good thing!

I also enjoy painting mixtapes.

The other night, I was going through all my inactive listings on Etsy, because there are a handful of pieces that I still have laying around. I saw some old favorites and decided to offer made-to-order versions of them, like Bunch O Balloons:

And Sigmund!

I’m on a “Raining [Objects]” kick, obvi.

Look, I know I’m not churning out masterpieces here, but it’s fun and it makes Chooch smile (well, depending on his mood). I like making colorful things (and then fucking it up with something gross, as Henry laments).

But these ones aren’t gross. For now, anyway. I’m still on my gross food kick.

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

In other news, I finally updated my “about” page after 7 years. Of course, it’s only public on the mobile site because I don’t know how to get the link on my sidebar, but you should be able to access it by clicking here.

This is kind of a weird Throwback Thursday for me because I’m not actually reposting anything, but finally posting something for the first time that has been mildewing in my drafts folder for almost a year.

Last April 15th, I went to a vegetarian dinner thingie with Janna, Kara and Chris. Usually, I would get around to writing about it within a week. But that happened to be the same day as the Boston Marathon bombing. And it just didn’t feel right to be all, “Yay, this is what I did several hours after a devastating situation rocked the nation!” I was so caught up in reading and watching everything I could about it for the next several weeks, obsessing over the whole boat situation (SERIOUSLY THAT WAS ALL SO FISHY TO ME) that I just quit caring about this dumb blog entry.

Does that make sense?

And then so much time passed that I started to forget a lot of what I wanted to say, and I lost the menu so then I was forgetting what I had even eaten. But I don’t like leaving things unfinished, so I went back and tried to fill in the blanks to the best of my ability.

It’s not that I’m some sort of epicurious, wannabe gourmand or even some pretentious food blogger who uses the words “epicurious” and “gourmand” (too many sex analogies), but ever since I attended one of Pittsburgh chef Kevin Sousa’s vegetarian dinners at Alchemy in 2007, that tattooed food whisperer has been on my radar.

Chef Kevin’s newest venture, Harvard and Highland, presents a vegetarian table once a month and seats only eight people.

At the same table.

JUST LIKE THE AMISH.

I really liked the intimacy of this, though I still chose a seat on the end, forcing Janna to sit next to a strange lady. However, I wasn’t interested in what the other two couples were talking about (running, running, running, marathons, running). That is, not until I overheard an older woman at the opposite end of the table talking about dragonfruit and it was all DUMBO EARS: ACTIVATE. Usually my skin burns at the mere idea of small talk, but I had to interject. I just had to, because that very day, do you know what I ate? FIRE DRAGON. You guys, it’s dragonfruit that is bright fuschia and utterly amazing. It’s like art fruit. So I had to tell the rest of the table this and they were like, “Ok” followed by a silent but implied “who cares?” and then the token Pan Asian at our table started bragging about all the exotic fruit he grew up on since his parents are from Thailand or somewhere else that I can’t locate on a map, and he went on to talk about durian while I quietly vomited in my mouth at the thought of that horrid fruit, and he was all, “But you can’t find that anywhere in the States” and I was like, “OMG you ignorant fruit fan, yes you can” and automatically counted off at least three places in Pittsburgh alone.

Except this part of the conversation happened inside my head because I hated that guy and didn’t want to waste my breath on him.

This was my least favorite. It was too salty. But it came with a flower, so I ate that.

To my delight, our plates were paired with craft cocktails instead of disgusting beer like the last vegetarian thing I went to. Every single cocktail was amazing and because of them, I forgot everything I wanted to write by the time I staggered back to Janna’s car. If I were a real food blogger, I’d have brought my dichtophone and notepad (and inflated sense of entitlement) with me.

Since Kara is pregnant, she only allowed herself petite sips of each cocktail and then Chris got to chug the rest of hers on top of his own. Lucky son of a bitch.

Men — find a way to make your semen taste like this creamy puddle of molten feta and you will have to knock people off your jocks all day long.

OMG I think this was the breakfast plate? It had fake egg things (nettle scramble, whatever the fuck) and some kind of French toast impersonator and more foam stuff because that must be really fun for Kevin to make so he just puts flavorful foam on everything. (Kind of like how I put wonky eyes on all of my paintings.) We all basically ate this in the fashion of having our wrists tied behind our backs.

Halfway through the night, I realized that the Durian Dick was friends (or maybe just in his own mind) with Chef Sousa and kept hinting around about wanting to go pick mushrooms with him or something and I wished I had a durian or two and the sock of a giant. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

(If you don’t, I mean that I wanted to fill the giant’s sock with the durians and beat the smugness out of him. But now you ruined it.)

And Kevin himself served every goddamn plate to Mrs. Durian Dick. Every single time! I kept hoping that the waitstaff would switch it up and maybe we would each get our turn with Kevin, but no. He catered specifically to her every time and that is how I know they’re having an affair.

A pond of molten Christ on wood, with mushrooms and stuff on top. It was such a religious experience that my tongue was involuntarily spelling out the rosary. Janna didn’t eat all of hers because it didn’t come with preservatives.

I was trying to get a photo of my chef crush but JANNA moved her stupid head. GOD, JANNA.

Ahhhhhh desssssert! It was stuff that tasted amazing in a truncated Mason jar! And there were more flowers to eat! It was paired with some creamy (the theme of the night, obvi) sarsparilla drink that I will be requesting by the jugfull if I ever go back.

The loud lady at the end of the table (next to Durian Dick) had a vegan version of the dessert and asked EVERYONE BUT ME AND CHRIS if they wanted a taste. Everyone said no and I actually really did want to taste it but I’m too proud to beg. (Sorry, TLC.)

Beverage aftermath.

After dinner, we all kind of sat around waiting for the go-ahead to leave and everyone seemed OK with continuing the strange act of Conversing with Strangers, but I wasn’t interested. I was becoming increasingly annoyed and anxious, because I lack the social wherewithal to successfully survive an evening of eating food and, as my friend Alyson would say, “expelling air” with people I do not know.

However, we didn’t eat until 9PM and I had gone there straight from dumb work, plus I’m on a diet and subsisting on leaves and carrots for the most part, so I was pretty irritable and ready to masticate the FU-HAHAHAHA-UCK out of some meatless spreads.

Or I’m just a people-hating asshole. Take your pick.

My favorite part of the night was how they filled us up with liquor and then made us walk down a dangerously steep staircase afterward. Surprisingly, there were no casualities.

What is an acceptable way to show a chef that you are in total appreciation and awe of the edible gifts he bestowed upon you that evening? Because I’m not above asking him to autograph my tongue.

If you’re friends with me on Facebook, you’re probably totally annoyed by all of this painting bullshit by now. Time to utilize the ol’ “hide” function, I guess? So, sorry if you’ve already seen these but I wanted to do some ‘splaining.

I started Somnambulant Art back in 2007 after accidentally falling back into the whole art thing thanks to Blogathon. I was reminded of how therapeutic and cathartic art is, so I kind of went with it, and surprisingly, some people seemed to actually like it and even asked to give me real life money for my paintings. So I opened my first Etsy shop, Somnambulant, and had so much fun making monsters and cute things with totally fucked-up stories. And I kind of even built up a following! But the best part was that this was how I met Andrea—we were (are) both members of the Etsy’s Dark Side team.

Then I was out of work for awhile. And the funny thing about being out of work is that you don’t have any money anymore. I mean, we had SOME money because Henry still had a job, but we kind of needed to eat and pay rent, so I couldn’t buy supplies anymore. And let’s face it, when I’m selling art for $10-$40 a painting, I’m not really making enough profit for that to be my actual day job. And that’s fine, because I liked where I was at. I was selling at a comfortable, realistic volume, and there was even a local shop (Wildcard) that was selling my pendants and bathroom plaques. It was really fun, until I couldn’t do it anymore, both financially and mentally. Shit went down in my personal life (Christina, obviously; it always goes back to Christina, lol) and then I got a new job (my current one) and instead of being all, “Yay now I can buy supplies again!” it was more like, “Fuck, I’m too emotionally drained for this garbage.” Christina was my #1 supporter and now I didn’t have her. At the time, I didn’t think I could do it without her constantly praising me like the quasi-invalid that I am.

And it went on and on like that for three years. Etsy even deactivated my shop because I couldn’t pay the bill. I was pretty resigned into thinking that this part of my life was over. Now I have the cash for supplies, but I also have a full-time job that has kind of made me lose a sense of who I am, while zapping every drop of creativity from me like a dog sucking the marrow out of a bone. One of those goddamn Catch-22s. I did that Crafts from the Crypt thing last year at Castle Blood and unloaded some of my old paintings, but when I tried to paint new ones, I was almost paralyzed, like I couldn’t remember how. But I ended up selling a lot of my paintings that day and people seemed to respond positively to them, way moreso than my pendants or serial killer cards. It kind of sparked something, but then that light went out just as quickly as it was lit. It’s hard to explain, but I was in this rut and actually even convinced myself that I hated painting.

But wow, this winter, you guys. This winter has been hazardous to my mental health. (And everyone else’s too I’m sure!) I just got tired of being snowed in on the weekends, unable to go out and do things, that I picked up a paint brush just for the hell of it. First, it was just supposed to be a one-off: I was making a custom painting for my friend Alyson. But then it was like something clicked, FINALLY. It felt fun again! And I want to start doing it as a side gig again, because I’m tired of Henry saying NO WE HAVE TO PAY BILLLLLZ when I want to buy weird Asian fruit and when I sold art, I had my own bank account just for that. I’m also trying to save up some money for a sort of pilgrimage that my brother and I want to go on, and I thought maybe this would be a good start. I suck at saving money.

Custom “just engaged” painting.

Until I get things squared away with Etsy (I don’t want to open a new shop with a different name; I’m forever-attached to Somnambulant), I’m going to post finished paintings on my blog and Facebook and whoever wants one can claim it and I will do the whole Paypal invoice thing like we did last year with my Crafts from the Crypt rejects.

“Eat Shit.”  12×5.5 I think? (I love this one but Henry hates it, which makes me love it more.)

“Tools.” 12×5.5 I think? (This one was inspired by Andrea. <3) SOLD!

I freehand my shit, no stencils or whatever.

“Drop Dead.” 5×7 (I’m really into cute things with mean messages.)

“Puke.” 5×7

“Brock” 5.5×5.5  — SOLD

“Snacks.” 5×7

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So, that’s what I have so far. I will try not to be too annoying about it, but until I find an alternative, this is the best I’ve got. And sorry if you think that because this isn’t “fine art,” that it’s just stupid finger painting. This is my style and it makes me happy.

If you DO like it and want anything, let me know! I’m going to do some customs again too, but nothing on a large-scale for now. Probably 10″x10″ and smaller, because I know realistically I don’t have the patience or time for anything bigger than that. I know how much I can handle (and it’s not much, haha)!

Two years ago, when I was trying to be friends with Christina again (I know, which time, right?) she came to visit and brought this mildly deformed doll that her sister found in a box of normal dolls she bought from the thrift shop and told Christina, “I don’t want this in my house. Give it to Erin.” Because people know me. You may remember Fetus Doll from this photo shoot a few years ago.

Anyway, Christina and I quit each other for the 87th time last year, but Fetus still hangs out in the family room with us, propped up on the chaise lounge thingie next to some weird jester thing and Alf. The fact that I didn’t melt him down into a barbed dildo and sent him back to Christina with 18 pages of death threats says a lot about how mature I am now. And also illustrates that I just don’t really care enough anymore.

Last Saturday, Chooch and Harland, long-since over their Storm Trooper feud, had a play date. We let Kara and Theo come over too. Kara and I were sitting on the couch talking and Kara, drifting asleep on the heels of another one of my horribly-relayed stories (that’s why I have a blog, ’cause I don’t speak good, you guyses), happened to glance over in the direction of the chair.

“What the fuck is that?!” she cried. I mean, god only knows in this house. But it ended up being Fetus.  Needing a better look, she walked over and picked it up, much to the delight of Theo:

Preeeeety sure that Theo and I are going to get along just fine.

Theo started crying later, which I’m positive is directly correlated with Henry’s return home.

Marcy, having flashbacks of another certain screaming half-person in her house.

So Henry tried to be all “goo goo ga ga” with Theo and Chooch started laughing hysterically. I mean, this was SHUT THE DOOR levels of hilarity for Chooch, and he cried out in a voice strangulated by laughter, “You’re the worst baby entertainer ever!” By this point, Chooch had gotten himself so worked up that his face was beet red from laughing and he was legitimately crying. It was funny/scary because I saw so much of my own bipolarity in him at that moment, and Kara took that as her cue to start bundling her kids up so they could leave before Chooch laughed himself sick.

Later that evening, Kristy came over with carefully selected beer for my picky palate (Lancaster Brewing Strawberry Wheat, FTW!

), and somewhere in between accidentally teaching Chooch the word “onomonapeia” and repeatedly chucking Henry with barbs about THE SERVICE, Kristy too noticed Fetus.

So Fetus came out to play again.

There was a lot of discussion about anatomy after that, so really it was a pretty educational day for all involved.

Fetus just wants to be loved.

Watching TV with his big brother, Chooch.

HUGS!!

Maybe I should let people come to my house more often. Fetus really flourishes around company.

Saw this list of 21 Songs To Help You Wake Up From Those Morning Snooze Marathons
circulating around this morning and while I’m mostly nodding in agreement, I can’t help but think they REALLY dropped the ball by not including this seminal Was Not Was hit:

(Yes, this is totally my current rise & shine go-to. WHAT’S YOURS?)

OK, so we had a poor roller skating experience this afternoon, which I will opine about at nauseating length later this week, OH DON’T YOU WORRY, and Philip Seymour Hoffman died and the weather was cold and rainy and everyone was all FOOTBALL. But in spite of all that, I’d rather spotlight the high point of the day because weekends should rule no matter what. Unless an emergency amputation is scheduled.

So anyway, we went to Dairy Queen after skating and holy fuck, no one told me they have red velvet Blizzards now. Well, they do.

Chooch and I do what we excel at and ditched Henry at the counter. We walked around to the side of the store and I spotted a table that only sat 2, so of course Chooch & I giggled like the motherfuckers we are and Henry had to sit alone.

He acted like he was only upset about having to sit elsewhere because it meant the Dairy Queen girl was going to have to deliver our Blizzards to two separate tables, like suddenly he gives a shit about people. Chooch and I were laughing so hard, we almost projectiled soft serve across the room.

That was definitely the best part of my Sunday. If you’re having a bad day, ostracize the Henry Figure in your life and eat ice cream. And might I add: Red velvet Blizzards are the SHIT. Now if I can only get Lays to seriously consider my entry for red velvet potato chips.